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Seris Vritra

I rarely slept. As a white core mage with the blood of the Vritra strong in my veins, the needs of the common person were well beyond me. I could forgo the draw of slumber for days on end without negative repercussions, only requiring a mental reset after significant stressors.

But beyond the physiological reasons why I avoided sleep, there was one that superseded them all. When one slept, they were at their weakest. Their most truly vulnerable; where any attempt on their person would be met with nothing but success. I’d slain more than a few of my enemies as they slumbered in their beds, thinking themselves safe from all retribution in their dreams. But a simple drip of poison in their veins as they dreamt would herald the end of all dreams.

And so as I gradually awoke, I found myself momentarily confused and disoriented. I had been… sleeping? My thoughts flowed exceptionally slowly for some reason, which garnered quiet ire in my gut. As far as I could recall, tonight was not supposed to be a night where I slept–I kept to a strict alternating schedule of sleep that would look random and chaotic from the outside, and as far as I was aware, my next date should have been in three days.

The second thing I noticed was the sensation of someone’s arm around my body, clutching me and holding me tight. In any other circumstance, my reaction would be violent. I’d tear the offender’s arm from their socket for daring to touch a Scythe as she slept, for violating the sanctity of her rest.

But for some reason… for some reason, I didn’t do such. My slowly moving thoughts struggled to formulate a reason why I was so…. content.

I finally opened my eyes.

Toren Daen lay beside me in his own stupor of slumber, his head leaning against the back of the chaise lounge in my private rooms. His golden-red hair had escaped its tail, leaving it to splay across the back of the couch like a stream of honey. His breathing was remarkably steady as he slept, both of his arms wrapping me in a protective embrace.

And I remembered.

The events of last night flowed back into my mind as if a dam had broken. Knowledge of the Legacy, of Toren’s secret bond. Of another world and all that it contained. I remembered his story of what a world without asura could look like. I remembered what it could bring to humanity.

And I remembered pressing my lips to his, claiming him twice over. The impossibly sweet taste of his flesh and rush of his heart as his pulse raced beneath my hands. How the moment had stretched into infinity as if touched by a dragon’s aevum arts.

I needed to move. To get on with the myriad tasks that were part of my duties as Scythe. I needed to appraise the situation with Wolfrum. I had a meeting with the Triunion Council alongside Olfred Warend, and then I needed to shift my plans to account for Toren’s revelations. The reality of these anchor points weighed heavily on my mind.

But no matter how much I told myself these things, I could not find the will to move. The room was still dim, and Toren’s steady breathing and strong arms made part of me unravel in quiet bliss. I imagined this was what a razor grimalkin felt as they nestled around a fire, their claws retracted. If I weren’t careful, I would fall right back to sleep.

You have ruined me, my Spellsong, I thought, not unhappily. Soon, I will forgo all my duties just to feel the warmth of your touch. Nearly a century of precedent was overturned in less than a year.

I sighed, the sound deep and resigned. Then I pushed against Toren’s arms, gently extracting myself from him. My movements were careful, recognizing the man’s need for slumber. I ran my fingers along the scars on the backs of his hands as I crossed them over his lap.

His fingers twitched and tensed, the last scion of Named Blood Daen seeming to sense the lack of my presence. His face twisted slightly, an expression of what I could almost call worry creasing there.

“So honest,” I said in a low whisper, running my fingers over his cheek, “even as you sleep.”

I floated away from the sofa, watching Toren sleep with a fond eye as I finally resolved myself to take care of my duties.

His aether arts would be useful, I thought absently. I don’t understand them. Not yet, of course–but with enough time to pick him apart, like I had been–

I halted in the air, my brows furrowing as they snagged on this strange thought. I shouldn’t think such things. Why was I thinking it?

The answer was easy enough to find. It was insidious, the way it slithered out without my attention, but my basilisk blood had managed to unravel the mental prison I’d made for it. Usually, it would be more subtle in how it influenced my mind and thoughts. But there was something about Toren’s blood; his light that made it easier to sense and dissect.

It didn’t take long for me to mentally reassert full control. I exhaled a breath, still looking down at Toren as I crossed my arms over my stomach.

Always wanting to push and prod for more knowledge, I thought with annoyance and repressed memories. At whatever means necessary.

In the wake of my disastrous attempt to shut… this between Toren and me down, I’d realized something important. I’d realized how obvious those mental influences became under his presence. Like a spot of deep, black ink on a pale canvas, it was simple to find the place I had slipped.

I’d been treating this as a bad thing. A detriment that would lead to my downfall. But as I thought about it more, I realized that this was an opportunity.

You are the secret, Toren, I thought, still watching him. You will be what finally breaks the song of my blood. I can destroy it.

“He trusts you,” a melodic voice said from behind me, “more than nearly any other. But I do not.”

I turned slowly in the air, feeling my throat clench at the familiar tone. The relic of the ancient mages stared back at me, perched on a nearby dresser as its burning eyes peeled apart my layers.

Unconsciously, my eyes darted toward where Toren still rested, wondering if–

“Toren will not wake for anything less than a thunderclap, Scythe,” the phoenix said, its bronze beak moving slightly. “His body is barely past a state of breakdown from the efforts of his fights.”

The phoenix. I’d almost let this kernel of knowledge slip from the recesses of my mind, the gravity of everything else crowding out this not-insubstantial truth.

“Lady Dawn,” I said, bowing respectfully as I internally recounted everything I’d learned of this phoenix in my own research. She had been part of a renegade faction of asura based somewhere in the depths of the Beast Glades. A wild card against both Epheotus and Alacrya. “I did not anticipate your intervention in this war.”

And as I remembered the interactions of last night, I had initially treated the existence of this phoenix as a detriment. A dangerous variable that could ruin everything I worked to achieve, just like how my blood resurged in Toren’s presence. I’d thought of my contingencies against the asura: namely, a project deep in the bowels of my estate in Sandaerene commissioned by Sovereign Orlaeth himself, and a prototype hidden deep in my dimension ring. But in truth, this was an opportunity, just like Toren was. If I could work them into my plans as some sort of ally, with her connections to–

“Your eyes,” the phoenix said, cocking its head. “They are Agrona’s.”

My thoughts stuttered, then ground to a halt as I shifted in the air. I felt my composure crack at the words uttered by the relic.

“I saw such the moment you met Toren, Scythe. The darkness you carry; the lessons you’ve learned,” Lady Dawn said. “I warned him against courting you as a mate many times. As you shifted him like a pawn across Alacrya, I was at his shoulder, telling him of the dangers you represented. And I could see it again not a moment ago. When you laid eyes on me, you schemed. You wondered how I could be of use to you.” Those knowing eyes brightened, banishing the darkness in the room.

I felt small. Exposed, just as I had been so many years ago as a young girl in the depths of Taegrin Caelum. I ground my teeth as I stared silently down at the relic, contemplating my next move.

“But I know now that such is not the full picture, Lady Seris,” the construct of ancient bronze said. “Toren saw something in you that I could not. He pierced your darkness, unearthed the gold beneath it all. He understood a part of you that I could not fathom. And now his heart is bound to you such that I can have no say in what actions he takes.”

The little relic turned its burning eyes towards the sleeping mage once more. “It was I who pushed my bond to reveal my existence to you in the wake of what he saw within that dimension ring. Because we both know you can never, ever afford to hurt him now. Not with what I offer.” The phoenix glared silent suns at me. “I know how you think, Scythe.”

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I forced a slight smile onto my face, looking through the phoenix’s words for some sort of anchoring presence so that I could tear them down. “Oh? And how do I think?”

The relic fluttered its wings, intentionally drawing out the silence as it looked me up and down.

“Toren is your avenue to something greater in your little resistance, beyond what you want to make of him in Darv and Sehz-Clar,” the relic said darkly. “Because I am an avenue to something greater. And if you do anything to hurt him, then you will never see that path open to you.”

The Asclepius Clan, I thought, unnerved by how much the phoenix saw of me. She is cunning.

I exhaled, my eyes drifting to Toren’s unconscious body as I considered my words. “You care for him,” I said at last. “Truly. Deeply.”

“He is my son,” the construct said. “And in turn, I am his mother. Do you know what this means, Lady Seris?”

My face dipped into an expression of confusion. The idea that an asura could care for a lesser–that they would call a human mage son–made something in my core shift. The asura were brash, arrogant monsters. Yet this Lady Dawn seemed to be the exact opposite. It was an interesting experience.

“You will have to enlighten me on what you imply.”

“You have taught Toren the necessity of sacrifice, Seris Vritra,” Lady Dawn said, ruffling those metallic feathers. “And because of this, he has dedicated his heart to you and your cause. But make no mistake: there are limits to what can–what should–be sacrificed. And should any of your machinations and schemes put Toren in harm’s way, know that no plan, stratagem, or idea will keep my talons from your throat.”

There are limits to what should be sacrificed.

I exhaled through my nose, my posture ironing out as the phoenix’s threat washed over me. “Do not assume me so shallow, Lady Dawn,” I found myself replying with surprising vigor, a grasping anger fighting its way into my voice. “I do not give up what is mine so easily. I do not sacrifice needlessly. I do not taint the minds of those beneath me because I can. I do not look upon the lives under my care and call them lesser.”

I took a deep breath, staring down the presumptuous asura. “I am not Agrona.”

Perhaps one day, I would believe those words.

—

I strode from my personal chambers not long after, my sense of earlier contentment coated in a bronze, burning hue and lurking shadow. The phoenix had opted to watch over Toren’s body like a sentinel, but no more words had been shared between us.

My personal study was much brighter than my bedroom. Sconces along the walls cast the jagged rock in shadows that writhed and twisted with my passing. I strode directly toward the central desk, which was actually a slab of molten stone that had been molded into the shape of a table before finally cooling.

And as I had demanded, an ordered report laid neatly on top of the desk. The ink title announced it as a summation of all my intelligence forces knew of Wolfrum’s actions in the past few weeks.

I pulled back my seat, sinking into the leather as I scanned over the document. I aimed to use this familiar action to ground myself more, to settle my nerves. Yet what was reported to me unnerved me even more.

It appeared that Wolfrum’s actions had been more spur-of-the-moment. He’d visited Toren in his cell moments before departing to meet with Jordan Redwater and stealing away the tempus warp I’d been assigned. It was simple to connect the dots of what happened after. Toren had broken free of his shackles, then pursued Wolfrum right to the spot I’d found him.

And Wolfrum had escaped. Presumably into the Beast Glades, but he’d been deprived of–

My thoughts were interrupted by a ringing from one of my communication artifacts. I set the papers down on my desk, then withdrew the spherical object from my dimension ring.

The priority was marked as urgent, and from the incoming line, I knew it must be Cylrit on the other end.

My mind immediately jumped to the Bastards Victorious and what trouble they could have caused my Retainer. I felt a swell of additional anger and irritation as I realized that my problems may not yet be over.

I imbued a sliver of mana into the device, answering the communication. Cylrit’s rich baritone radiated out not a moment later.

“My Scythe,” he said, ever respectful of my station. “I have urgent news to report.”

I exhaled through my nose. “Speak, Cylrit. I believe I may know some of what ails you already.”

Cylrit paused, then continued on. The spherical orb in my palm glowed slightly as his words trickled out. “The Bastards Victorious have abandoned their post. As they were one of the linchpins of the assault team’s cohesion in the Beast Glades, their desertion nearly destroyed what semblance of order existed in the wake of Uto’s capture. I have spent the past several hours working to pull everything back together, as you would no doubt desire, but I wished to inform you of this as soon as possible.”

“You did not manage to capture the escaping Bastards Victorious?” I queried, feeling no small knot of anger in my stomach. If Wolfrum Redwater had informed them of anything, their very existence served as an existential threat to my plans. Even if there was no physical proof to back his words, the very attention and accusation of disloyalty could threaten everything.

Cylrit must have sensed something in my words, for his tone grew quiet and reserved. “I failed you in this, my Scythe,” he said, sounding almost ashamed. “Their flight was too quick and too chaotic to track into the vast expanse of forest. I chose to reestablish order and ensure our operations were still hidden from the native Dicathians rather than risk pursuit.” He paused. “What has happened?”

I took time to catalog my thoughts and ensure my next words were crisp and even. “I have been betrayed,” I said, and I could almost feel Cylrit’s attention sharpen even over the communication artifact. “A traitor of the highest order attempted to steal information and documents that would serve disastrous to our cause were they to be leaked.”

I left my words open-ended, as always. I knew not if Agrona could access our communication artifacts, but I dared not utter the full truth out loud. Better it be that any potential eavesdroppers believed I spoke of the war with Dicathen.

But Cylrit knew the true implications of my words.

“Attempted?” he questioned, his voice tense like a bowstring. “No, it could not be… It does not make sense. Spellsong? But–”

“It was not Spellsong,” I said quickly. Cylrit knew of Toren’s recent imprisonment, of course. It made sense that his first avenue of thought would be the last scion of Blood Daen. “In fact, it was only because of Toren that the situation became salvageable at all. Wolfrum Redwater attempted to steal away with confidential information, but it was Spellsong who stole back such evidence. Though Wolfrum likely escaped into the Beast Glades, which lines up with the flight of the Bastards Victorious.”

The line was quiet for a long time. I had the sense that my steadfast Retainer was attempting to pull all the pieces together, much as I had taught him.

“I have failed you, my Scythe,” he said at last, his voice notably somber. “In allowing Wolfrum Redwater to reach the Beast Glades and run loose past our net, I have endangered everything. I find solace, at least, in the fact that… that Spellsong did not fail.”

There was an almost palpable grief that suffused the words he uttered last, a grief I didn’t understand. Part of me felt it was connected to the strange tension always present between the men closest to me in my life, but…

My brow furrowed as I tried to think of what I could say to alleviate my Retainer’s worries. He had always been a sturdy pillar of unwavering support, and though I rarely expressed such, now I recognized that perhaps I should have.

What would Toren say? I asked myself. How does one assuage grief?

“You did not fail me, Cylrit,” I finally said. “Wolfrum and the remaining Bastards Victorious cannot skulk in the Beast Glades much longer. They will run low on supplies eventually, and if they desire any chance of escaping this continent alive, then they must slip past not just Dicathians but their own kin,” I said, trying to work from this angle logically.

My words seemed to buoy my Retainer’s mood at least. “I will make finding them a top priority.”

I nodded, my thoughts already shifting. “It will be made known soon that Toren’s original imprisonment was a result of Wolfrum’s betrayal,” I said, seeing how I could twist this situation to my advantage. “Our troops will be informed that Toren’s breach of protocol was from a perceived order from me passed down by ‘Xander.’ Wolfrum likely did this as an attempt to remove a troublesome variable that might interfere in his eventual plans,“ I said, an amused smile splitting my face. “He was right, after all.”

Cylrit’s response was tentative. “In confidence, my Scythe,” he started, formal as ever, “was Spellsong’s incursion toward Lance Godspell instigated by Wolfrum in truth?”

“The truth can be whatever we need it to be,” I said, feeling a bit of that simmering warmth return to my veins as I thought of Toren. Like honey left to warm in the golden rays of summer, my blood flowed at a paradoxically fast and slow pace all at once as the memory of his lips flitted through my thoughts. “But Spellsong will be released, Cylrit. He has become…”

I trailed off as I struggled to put a word to what Toren truly was. I’d long since determined him invaluable to my plans, especially in the wake of the Plaguefire Incursion, but…

“He has become close to your heart. Beyond just your designs,” Cylrit’s voice echoed from the communication artifact.

As my Retainer’s words reached my ear, I recognized the truth of them. The hope Toren had instilled in my core–that priceless hope–colored my vision in shades of purple and orange. And now, everywhere I looked, I could not help but find my thoughts drifting back to him.

“Why do you assume such?” I asked instead, savoring Cylrit’s voice. It served to focus me, to help me think in the ways necessary of my station. While I found myself relaxed and free in Toren’s embrace, my Retainer’s firm resolve cemented my status as Scythe.

“I can hear it in your voice, Seris,” Cylrit said at last, his air of protocol cracking under some unseen burden. “When you speak of Spellsong, you are graceful; free in a way I have not seen–like a songbird that has finally remembered to sing. And such emotions only appear to grow as time passes.”

I blinked, opening my mouth in surprise. Was I that transparent? Did my masks fall that much that they were discernible?

A silence stretched in the wake of Cylrit’s words, a silence cold as seawater and expansive as the ocean. I struggled to find a response, my analytical thoughts spinning uselessly in my mind.

“I am glad that you are able to express yourself with him,” Cylrit continued. “It is in my opinion, my Scythe, that you have suppressed yourself for far too long, burning yourself away for the sake of your plans. It is good that you have found a way to be free of your chains. He is good for you.”

I swallowed. What did one say in response to such things? How was a Scythe supposed to respond?

No, I realized, that spark of dawn in my chest reasserting itself. No, how should Seris respond?

“Thank you, Cylrit,” I said, the words far from foreign, but the emotion held within was deeper than any sky. “It means more than you could know.”

“It is my duty to serve,” Cylrit said, his formal manner of speech slowly sealing back over his cracks of vulnerability. “And it always shall be.”