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Seris Vritra
Toren’s body felt warm in my arms. Always, always warm. Yet as comforting as the heat radiating from his breast usually was, tonight it wasn’t enough to banish the chill grasping my bones.
I allowed myself to contemplate the dimension ring wrapped around my finger like the coil of a constricting serpent. The kind that slowly choked off the breath from the lungs of a prey animal. I couldn’t allow myself to think too deeply on why. After all, not even my thoughts were safe from the touch of those so far above.
The air around this section of Burim stunk of fear and paranoia as the remnants of spellfire cloyed in the atmosphere. The workers and common dwarves of the city shied back as I slowly rose into the air.
“Lady Seris,” a man called, bullying his way to the front of the contingent of mages who had armed themselves and surrounded Lord Daen. I recognized him quickly–the dark-skinned son of Named Blood Hercross whom I’d assigned to be under Toren’s command. As my eyes focused on him from within the crater, he fell to a quick knee amidst the uncertain guards. “Pardon my presumptuous words, my Scythe,” he said, “but might I know what is to become of Lord Daen?”
I thought I caught a hint of a protective gleam in the Hercross boy’s gaze as he stared at Toren’s limp form.
Such loyalty, I thought, sparing Toren’s body a glance. You have inspired more in your time on this continent, haven’t you, Spellsong?
“I will make a statement of an official capacity in the near future,” I said, still internally cursing myself for Wolfrum’s flight. The dimension ring on my finger was certainly his, and from the body of Jordan Redwater–one of Wolfrum’s distant cousins–it painted a very dark picture of what had nearly happened. “Expect news of your commander to reach you by the next morning, Lieutenant Hercross.”
The pink-eyed man swallowed, bowing deeply as the men around him shuffled nervously.
“You are to disperse immediately,” I commanded, flexing my killing intent for the barest instant as my fingers clutched Toren’s shoulders. “And I will have an official report of the incidents that led to this outbreak delivered to me within the next hour. Are we clear?” I said to the crowd of mages, a mix of both Alacryan and dwarven.
Hercross was the first to acquiesce. “Of course, Scythe Seris,” he said sharply. “It will be done.”
At his words, I allowed myself to drift away from the scene of the battle. I’d rushed here after sensing the disturbance in the mana–the familiar disturbance–but what I’d arrived upon had been far different than my expectations.
For Wolfrum to try and act against my interests… Part of me had recognized the buildup of anger and resentment in the young man, but I had attributed it to the stressors of war and the shifting circumstances. I had planned to address his increasingly aberrant behavior as soon as my position within Burim had been cemented more thoroughly, but once again, it appeared I was too late.
It appears you have spared me from another disaster, White Flame of Fiachra, I thought, remembering my miscalculations before the Plaguefire Incursion. I’d expected Mardeth to act at a later date as well: to act on reason and logic rather than emotion.
It appeared I was a poor predictor of that part of people, I realized with an internally somber note. I floated toward my private quarters in the Divot, the highest point in Burim that protected the many nobles from the encroaching lavatides.
The eyes of many followed me as I cradled Toren close, but for once, I did not feel the tingling itch to distance myself.
Let them see, I thought, allowing that spike of rebellious emotion to drive me upward. They can draw their conclusions.
It wasn’t long before I reached my quarters, the insides dark and ominous. The only light was from half a dozen candles placed all about. The center of the room was made of a type of quartz entirely unique to Burim. The onyx-colored obsidian was normally opaque and shadowed, but when imbued with mana, lightened to a startling translucency. The material itself was rare and had been produced only once in the history of Burim: on the first lavatide, when the swell of magma had erupted from the side of the room.
I took a deep breath as the shadowed room enveloped me. Here, I could think for the barest of instants. I couldn’t dwell on the truth of what had nearly happened, of course, for I could not allow such thoughts to even grace my mind. But as I stepped into the shadowed darkness, I allowed myself the barest ounce of treasonous fear.
I trembled with Toren in my arms. He was a life preserver, and I clung to him like a drowning woman, my breath shaking as flashes of darkness–flashes of those deep, deep cells within the pits of Taegrin Caelum–lurked in my mind.
I couldn’t even truly think of anything else. My thoughts were no haven as they usually were, no sacrosanct hovel that would protect me from the outside world. No, he could know my thoughts if he truly wanted to. He could pick them apart like a puzzle. And I dared not even think his name.
I set Toren down on the large king-size bed that had once been the property of a prodigious dwarven noble. As I did so, I noticed the many cuts and scrapes across Toren’s hands and chest. I hadn’t even noticed how his blood had stained my dress.
You must center yourself, Seris Vritra, I thought, taking a deep breath as I brushed a lock of Toren’s hair from his face. I didn’t wish to leave him here just yet, even for an instant. My eyes traced to the scars on the back of his hands where I had marked him, scarred him as mine.
I took a deep breath, and then I turned around, striding toward a chaise lounge sofa near the center of the room. The floor just before it was made entirely of that mana-attuned obsidian, and if I were so inclined, I might have imbued it with mana to give myself a glimpse of the city below.
But as I collapsed into the long chair, I knew that I needed the darkness. I was a thing of the night, after all, and my analytical mind needed that surety.
I withdrew a single item from the dimension ring on my finger. The bronze feathered brooch settled neatly into my hand, reflecting the barest light in the room from the distant sconces. I beheld its intricate ridges and curves, admiring the brilliant elegance in such a slim piece of attire.
When I had found Toren in the aftermath of his excursion to the Beast Glades, it had not been by sheer luck. Acting in a panic after discovering the completed dwarven puzzle, I’d used a hidden function of my communication artifact to track down his location.
And when I’d found him, he had barely been conscious, the brooch in his hand melted to near ruin. Except as time went on, the relic gradually repaired itself. And not a speck of mana could be sensed as it had done so.
I’d entrusted Xander with the safekeeping of Toren’s belongings, not suspecting that he’d known the true origins of the brooch. That had nearly proven a fatal mistake, because…
I tried to give them another path. Those whose blood would burn their loves away… I wanted them to have the choice that I–
I shook my head, forcibly banishing such thoughts. I could contemplate the hows and whys of Wolfrum’s betrayal later–right now, I needed more fundamental answers.
“I told you before that what I did would help your cause,” Toren’s voice echoed in my mind, his eyes burning with triumph.
I didn’t know how long I spent lounging bonelessly on the sofa. It could have been minutes, or perhaps hours. I took that time to sort out my thoughts, make connections, and try and put it all together.
I withdrew something else from a dimension ring–this time from my personal storage. A bottle of vintage Sandaerene Red settled into my fingers, the bottle of wine unopened even after half a millennium of aging.
I’d been saving this for a special occasion. I didn’t know exactly when I’d allow myself to indulge in this rare concoction, but I knew I needed a touch of such drink to center myself.
I popped the cork, the scent immediately invading my nostrils. Sandaerene wines were of the sweeter variety. Etril made the best wines, of course, but theirs were more bitter and harsh. We Souths appreciated the sweetness of grapes more than most.
I withdrew a glass from my dimension ring, the clear crystal goblet matching the bottle I held perfectly. With a trembling breath, I poured the drink into the cup, the flow of red not unlike an artery leaking blood.
“I must commend you again, Toren,” I said quietly, setting the bottle down on the crystal floor. “There are very, very few people who have ever vexed me to the point of alcohol. You should count yourself privileged to have reached such a station.”
Toren’s eyes seemed to glow like hot coals from where he watched me quietly. He shifted wordlessly on the bed, seemingly attempting to move, then groaned in pain.
“I… thought it was tea at first,” he said, clearly only half-conscious. “But the smell was wrong.”
I tilted my head, inspecting Toren as he tried in vain to prop himself up against the cushions.
“Don’t try so hard to sit up straight,” I asked with a sigh. “You’re getting blood over the silk.”
Toren paused in his limp attempts to move, seeming to belatedly realize that yes, he was getting blood all over the nice sheets. If there were enough light in the room, I was sure I would’ve seen him blush.
“Oh,” he said a bit numbly, appearing to center himself a bit more. “I apologize. It… uh, wasn’t my intent.”
Against my will, I let out the barest laugh at the mage’s amusing awkwardness. “I put you there, Toren,” I said, covering my mouth with a hand. “I should have expected you would have some sort of wound on your body after all the times you’ve thrown yourself into a thresher.”
That was one of the things I liked about Toren. He feared many things, but bleeding was not among them.
A grim silence settled over us, however, as I prepared to ask my questions. I looked at the goblet in my hand, admiring the swirl of red liquid within.
Then I took a liberal sip, allowing the taste to caress my palette like the edge of a knife. The wine washed down my throat, a sharp yet simultaneously cool aftertaste flaring in its wake. The mana imbued into the alcohol churned in my stomach, concentrating the effects of the toxin in an attempt to push past the accelerated metabolism of my physique.
It didn’t work, of course. At my level of strength, I’d need more than a sip.
Full-bodied and powerful in its initial flavor, I thought, appreciating the subtleties of the drink. Few beverages are worthy of a Scythe, yet I must count this brew among them.
“Tell me, Toren,” I said, the aftertaste of the Sandaerene Red still sweet on the edges of my tongue, “why did you seek out Arthur Leywin?”
Toren didn’t immediately respond to my inquiries. Instead, I watched as he grunted in pain, forcing himself to sit up fully on the bed.
“Could you pour me a glass of whatever that is?” he asked somberly. “I think I’m going to need it.”
I raised a brow, before withdrawing another goblet from the depths of my dimension ring. I poured a liberal helping of the wine, recognizing the weight in Toren’s tone. If I wanted his tongue to be truly loose, a serving of alcohol would only help.
I watched as the glass was outlined in a shaky flare of white, Toren engaging his spellform with gritted teeth. When the goblet finally settled into his hand, it barely shook.
And he started off by taking a full-on gulp of the wine. I watched with mild amusement as the mage immediately broke down into ragged coughs as the alcohol hit his stomach.
“Damn, that’s strong,” he said, before coughing again.
“This is Sandaerene Red,” I said absently. “This vintage began its journey in the year 1214 in a mana distillery on the outskirts of what would become Sandaerene using mana-imbibed grapes. Since then, it fermented and aged for the past half a millennium.” I smiled as I watched Toren’s face drain of color. So stark was the difference that I could see it even in the dark, his eyes darting to the goblet in his hand as he recognized the true worth of what he’d guzzled. “I’ve been saving this bottle in particular for the past seventy-five years, waiting for an occasion momentous enough to warrant its consumption.”
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Toren’s expression slowly became more serious as he regarded me. I swirled my wine, meeting the depths of his burning eyes. He visibly hesitated as I provoked him with the silence of my stare.
“The relic,” he said, his eyes failing to hold my own as they darted for the brooch I’d been absently stroking with my other hand, “may I have it?”
I relaxed my hand over the metallic feather, giving a silent signal to the mage across from me. He read it, of course, and the feathered brooch became outlined in white as it charted a wobbly path in the air toward Toren’s waiting hand.
“Before I start,” he said, “why do you think I did what I did?”
“I am not the one supposed to be answering questions here, Toren,” I chided sharply. “You are. You’ve kept your secrets long enough. Your relic won’t let you escape from my clutches this time.”
Toren sighed weakly, brushing a lock of hair from his eyes. “I’m asking because I want to know where I’ll need to start in my explanation,” he said somberly. “You’re… good at seeing through me. And I don’t know how much you’ve seen.”
I tapped my fingers along the edges of the chaise lounge nervously. I commanded them to stop.
How much to reveal, hmmm? Toren was a creature of reciprocity. If I wanted his honesty, I needed him to believe I was being honest with him. A few seconds passed as I contemplated my words–and gave time for the alcohol in Toren’s system to loosen his tongue just a bit more.
“I have long suspected you bore some sort of vendetta against the reincarnates,” I allowed. “You have shown yourself to be remarkably invested in them and their beings beyond what would be normally expected.”
I watched Toren like a hawk as he slowly nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. I left out the part where I believed him to be a reincarnate himself from the very same land as Arthur Leywin and Nico Sever. I didn’t need to reveal those cards yet.
Yet the ease with which Toren received my words–the nonchalance and clear understanding he displayed regarding the reincarnates–cemented my suspicions further. The mere existence of reincarnates was a heavily kept secret even within Taegrin Caelum, and the fact that Toren didn’t immediately question me on what a reincarnate was spoke volumes.
“Though why you hold this grudge or for what purpose you hope it to serve,” I continued, taking another sip of my wine, “I cannot fathom. I suppose that is for you to answer now, hmmm?”
Inadvertently, I felt my heart rate pick up as Toren shifted on the bed. I found my eyes tracing his broad shoulders as he forced himself to face me fully, swinging his legs off the side and clasping his arms over his knees.
I’m close to the finale of another puzzle, I thought, allowing myself just a hint of giddiness. For all that Wolfrum’s betrayal had shaken me, I felt anticipation swell in my chest as I waited for Toren to speak.
“If I want you to understand my focus on the reincarnates,” Toren started, his eyes flashing with the light of a bonfire, “then I’m going to need to tell you a story, but it might take a bit of time.”
I shifted, stretching myself out more comfortably on the sofa as I stared at the mage. My fingers tightened imperceptibly around the goblet in my hand. “I assure you, Lord Spellsong,” I said slyly, “there is more than enough time in the night for such simple things between us.”
Toren shook his head slowly, a mournful cast to his features. “I assure you, it’s all very… far from simple. You’re going to need to learn the source of my knowledge, though,” he said with a suffering sigh. “Agrona Vritra kept many, many prisoners in the depths of his vaults. I’m sure you know of this.”
I nodded slowly, taking another small sip of my wine. Unfortunately, I had yet to feel any effect from the brew. I was intentionally taking a measured pace of consumption.
Toren held the relic to the side, imbuing it with that strange purple-orange aether light of his. I watched curiously as the relic shifted and morphed, taking on the form of a small clockwork bird. Its eyes blazed with frightening intensity as they centered on me.
“And we both know that there was one prisoner who stood out among them all. One that was unique and special in both her origin and being.”
I felt a spike of adrenaline course through my veins as I refocused entirely on Toren. “The phoenix,” I said, hoping my voice did not sound as breathy as it did to me. “The one who granted you your Beast Will, yes?”
Toren nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said solemnly. “Lady Dawn of the Asclepius Clan. Sister to the Lost Prince and eminent phoenix among the asura of Epheotus.” Toren tilted his head in a surprisingly avian way. ”Do you know what happened to her, Seris?”
“She destroyed herself,” I found myself saying, the puzzle pieces aligning. “She threw her soul to the wind. And though she failed to possess your body, Toren, she left something else behind as she died.”
After all, Agrona’s words within the unholy sanctum of the High Cathedral said as much: Lady Dawn had failed to possess a “lesser’s body from the slums.” Yet there was another kernel of information here. Toren had certainly spoken with this phoenix before her passing, of that I was certain. I suspected the asura’s spell had brought another soul along for the trip: perhaps as a contingency, or maybe as cover to avoid detection from the High Sovereign’s all-seeing eye.
I waited for Toren to confirm my long-held suspicion; to verify the truth of my assumption from months past. The same sort of high that I used to feel during the apex of a battle slowly rose to a crescendo as I fought to contain myself, waiting on Toren’s next words as a starving woman hovered near a table.
“That’s all true,” Toren said, his shoulders drooping. “Except there’s one thing you’re missing.”
“And what would that be, Toren?” I asked, feeling my lips twitch as I struggled to restrain a sly smile.
Toren looked up at me, his burning pupils locking with my own. “Why do you assume she is dead?”
The buildup of momentum in my mind cracked.
“Pardon?” I asked, not expecting this avenue. My lips pursed uncertainly.
It was Toren’s turn to smile. His annoying, self-satisfied kind that I always felt the urge to wipe from his face with the back of my hand. “Why do you think that Lady Dawn perished, Seris?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. I recognized that very twinkle. It was the same spark I always cultivated in my soul whenever I managed to swindle someone from a grand secret. “She was a phoenix, was she not? A master of life and death. Harbinger of rebirth and artist of the soul.”
I blinked, utterly thrown by this direction of questioning. “I assumed so because the High Sovereign himself said–”
My eyes widened to the size of moons as my jaw snapped shut. My breath hitched as a single possibility made itself known.
It clicked.
I turned my head slowly, mechanically, toward where that relic watched me with judging suns for eyes. I’d always believed those eyes to be too piercing, too intelligent. But the most likely explanation was surely the one I should’ve chosen. After all, it would be simply… simply absurd if the phoenix had managed to just… to just… all along…
“I believe you have broken her, Contractor,” the relic–the asura–said in a melodic, stern tone. “I must acknowledge that it is amusing to watch, but I suspect this was not your intent.”
Toren simply snorted in clear amusement as my thoughts stumbled. Outwardly, all I could do was stare at the… at the phoenix as I gaped like an unad witnessing her first mage.
But internally, I was refactoring everything I knew–and I suddenly could not fathom how I had missed this reality. Toren Daen was always exceptional in his spellwork, despite having no tutor in the Dicathian method of forming mana arts. His blade work and martial forms were exquisite, as if molded by a master dancer in the art of combat.
And then the relic itself: it had led me to Toren in the wake of the recent battle. In an effort to… to insist I comfort him.
“I should have seen it,” I said absently, restraining the urge to crush the goblet of wine held in my grip as I stared emptily at the relic. “It makes everything make so much more sense.”
Toren wasn’t a reincarnate. No, he simply had been told of them by the very being who had facilitated their induction into the world, that knew of other worlds beyond ours. If I were to face this information logically, then my fanciful theory of Toren’s reincarnation fell away like dust in my fingers.
Yet instead of the surge of accomplishment and adrenaline I felt whenever I completed a puzzle, this revelation tasted like ashes in my mouth. The truth had been handed to me, and while fantastical, it felt less so than my previous assumption. I had gambled wrong, guessed wrong. And that painted everything in a slightly bitter tinge.
And then I felt another wave of uncertainty. If an asura were here–in my rooms…
I rose slowly to my feet, feeling as my mana churned beneath the surface. I locked eyes with the relic, feeling a familiar fear surge in my stomach.
The same that clutched me whenever I was in the presence of the Sovereigns.
I opened my mouth to speak. Perhaps to ask what this asura wished of me. What she desired of my resources. If I wanted to, could I afford to refuse? It–
“I will have no bowing and scraping from you,” the phoenix said with a whirring hiss. It flared its relic wings, a sound like a hundred knives scraping together echoing out. “You are not one to do so, are you, Scythe of Sehz-Clar?”
My eyes hardened as I ran through several contingency plans in my head, still maintaining eye contact with the phoenix. “Then I shall not bow, Lady Dawn,” I tried. I gathered my thoughts more under control, noting how Toren watched our interaction tensely. “But it has been a long time since I have been in the presence of your kind.”
I would have to question him later. And what this meant from him, for him…
“Do you think me like your High Sovereign, young fledgling?” the phoenix asked, the words echoing out like sweet fire, “Prone to bouts of cruel humors and malevolent torture?”
I remained silent.
“I know your experience with the asura of your continent has been drawn from the deepest depths of the hells, where every thought and emotion held dear is but another weakness to be stolen,” the relic said, its eyes boring into mine. “Know that in this, we are the same.”
I exhaled a steady breath, my eyes shaking. Then I sat back down on the sofa.
But I did not relax.
“Only one other person in this world knows of this secret,” Toren said, drawing my attention back to him. “Sevren Denoir granted the relic to Aurora on the condition that she convey any insight into its function to him that she could.”
I took a deep breath, then took several gulps of the wine in my goblet. This time, when it hit my stomach, I did feel its effects on my physique ever-so-slightly. How Toren did not show any, I could not fathom.
“Have you always followed this phoenix’s orders,” I asked, feeling dread pooling in my stomach as I voiced the question, “listening to her commands from the shadows? Following her silent directives?”
Toren’s face softened as he stared at me. “No, Seris, I—” he sighed, running his hands through his hair. “You know of Arthur Leywin and his dragon bond, yes?”
I nodded mutely, not trusting myself to speak.
Toren stood on shaky legs. The relic-phoenix hopped off his shoulder, sitting mutely on the bed as the mage trundled over to me. He stared at the empty spot on the chaise lounge next to me, his eyes asking a silent question.
I turned away.
Toren sighed, then sat down on the chaise lounge beside me anyway. Internally, I felt a spike of irritation. The gall of the man–to so simply invade my personal space?
“We are similar in that manner, Aurora and I,” Toren said slowly. “She can speak to me over a mental link, and I to her. But she has never ordered me to do anything. Every plan I have enacted–every action I have taken–they have been my own.”
I found myself inspecting the lines of Toren’s face. I knew his tells for when he lied to me, when he hid the truth and obscured what I wished to know. He showed none of those now. I guessed I should assume him truthful.
But what is a man before an asura? I wondered, my eyes tracking over the shape of Toren’s face. He was handsome. But was that crafted by a deity, too? A falsehood of some sort? What is his perception of reality to one who has bent it to their whims?
“I made a vow unto myself and my Clan,” the phoenix suddenly said from across the room. “To never control the mind of another being. ‘Lesser,’ or otherwise. To never invade their sanctum or intrude upon the depths of their souls. For I know better than all before me what it is like to be ripped apart, piece by piece.”
I blinked in surprise, feeling the foreign emotion of understanding as I stared at the somber little clockwork bird.
“You have cared for my Contractor–my son–well. Especially when I could not,” the little relic said in a notably morose tone. “I would not have agreed to reveal myself had you not proven yourself wise and compassionate, Scythe of Alacrya. Had you not shown yourself someone my bond can put his trust in.”
I worked my mouth, feeling… feeling lost. I wasn’t used to feeling so much at all in the first place. I’d called this meeting with clear expectations of the outcome, but all of this… I didn’t know how to process all I felt.
Because you suppress all of that emotion in every other place, I silently acknowledged. You banish it, except when in the presence of Toren Daen. And then it erupts, like the lavatides the folk of Burim have weathered for an age.
“I… see,” I said, my usual grace utterly defunct. And part of me thought that I actually did see. That I did understand. I’d seen care and compassion in the relic’s eyes before–when Toren lay mourning the loss of his innocence in the wake of the Battle of Burim.
It was a strange thing to acknowledge. This asura appeared to care for Toren–to truly desire his well-being.
A point of control.
“But this just brings us back to the crux of the matter,” Toren said sadly, his voice piercing through the muddled gloom of my thoughts. “Because you asked me why I confronted Lance Godspell, Seris, but that isn’t the question that you should be asking.”
He turned to look at me, his eyes hard and serious. “I need to know, Seris. What do you know of the Legacy?”