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Toren Daen

The musty scent of pipe smoke and fire salts stung my nose, each inhale saturated with the heart of the underground. The fire mana twisted and churned of its own accord, palpable across my skin in a way I’d never experienced before.

The drumsticks in my hands were solid and sure–after a week of practice, I’d managed to achieve a level of comfort with them resting in my hands, and now they felt almost natural.

“Begin, you louts!” a full-bodied voice bellowed. “I want to see no hair out of line! You’re earning your drinks tonight, you fools, so ya better play to impress!”

And as if a bomb had been set off, the music started. A concentrated mix of resonant horns, shuffling lutes, and intermittent drum beats resonated through the small cavern. In an almost tactile way, I felt the intent of the dwarves around me weave through the air. The excitement, hope, and at the deepest depths, an undercurrent of fear.

I struck the drum in front of me in tune with the rhythm, a deep bass echoing out that made the sound mana itself tremble. I honed in on the steady beat of my own heart as a centering force. The sound of deep singing filled the air as one of the band members–an exceptionally thin dwarf named Talgar–began to call from the depths of his throat.

It was my task to assimilate with the dwarves of Dicathen, to act as a bridge between Alacrya and Darv. And as part of that task, I’d approached the problem from an avenue I was most familiar with: music.

“Keep up that pace!” the first voice yelled over the chorus. “That’s the way, lads! You’ll earn a wagon-full of ale with this one, I guarantee!” they cried with pride.

Korsted was a balding dwarf with black hair streaked back at his sides. He had eyes that peered a little too far in opposite directions, but it was hard to notice with the laugh lines around his face and his bulbous cheeks. And he was a stickler for music.

I’d been working up a rapport with the dwarf for a while, slowly learning aspects of dwarven music and traditions. Writing it all down had become a habit–something that truly calmed me. And only recently did I finally feel I’d made enough headway to ask if I could be taught the craft itself.

I’d been handed a pair of drumsticks, a drum the size of my torso, and been told to “figure it out.” I had a feeling this was Korsted’s subtle way of pushing back against the Alacryans that occupied Burim—there were notably few compared to the dwarven rebels—yet he’d finally relented as he’d seen my earnest desire to learn of his culture.

And right now, the motley collection of dwarves all around me—who were barely kept together and organized at all—were doing a loose imitation of “practice” for the Aurora Constellate celebrations coming up soon. Every culture across Dicathen, be they humans, elves, or dwarves, attached ritual significance to the Aurora Borealis that stretched across the entirety of the continent for a few days at a time.

I still wasn’t entirely sure how the Aurora Constellate worked. As far as I was aware, it was a similar phenomenon to the Northern Lights in my previous world, where the gravity at the poles captured charged particles from a solar storm. Except the Constellate was visible all across the continent, and while Dicathen–as far as I was aware–was situated in the northern hemisphere, it wasn’t far north enough to even kiss the poles.

Probably some sort of interaction with mana, I thought absently as I continued to strike out a rhythm on the drums. But that doesn’t really narrow down why.

Soon enough, the song ended on a final echoing note. I raised my drumstick, then brought it down hard on the leather-wrapped surface. As a little extra trick, I flexed my control over the ambient mana, making the note that rumbled out resonate slightly more.

The dwarves around me predictably cheered as the song ended, patting each other on the back and talking about how they looked forward to the coming feast. Word across Burim was that their oldest brands of Magmabound Whiskey would be uncorked for this night.

I listened with half an ear as I observed the drumsticks in my hand contemplatively. The art of percussion certainly shared a great deal with that of the strings, and I certainly was learning more and more every day about music as I practiced this new avenue, but something about the violin just felt more… right. Intrinsic. Natural.

A meaty hand clapped me on the shoulder with enough force a normal person would’ve been bowled entirely over. “Solid playing, Toren,” Korsted complimented gruffly. His rough hands were larger than anywhere else on his body, his wrists and forearms beefy beyond belief. “Always wondered why they called ya Spellsong. Guess you had a thing for music back home, eh?”

I smiled slightly, twirling the drumsticks in my hands before handing them back to the dwarf who’d lent them to me. “Truthfully, I haven’t shown any of you why I’m called Spellsong. I’m quite talented in my own instrument.”

“Oh, and what might that be?” Korsted asked. “You’ve got a musician’s rhythm, boy, that’s for certain. I’m curious now.”

My lips twisted into a slightly sad smile. I hadn’t touched my violin since my hands had shaken in the aftermath of the Battle of Burim. Since I’d failed to play a single even note for Seris.

Sensing my quiet solemnity, Aurora’s invisible hand brushed against my shoulder as memories of that painful moment trickled underneath my skin like wrenching knives.

“I play the violin,” I said. “Made something of a reputation for myself back in Alacrya for it.”

Korsted’s brows furrowed slightly as I mentioned my home continent, his hand withdrawing nervously from my back.

Korsted himself wasn’t part of the rebellion that had taken over Burim. Like most dwarves, he didn’t particularly care about who was ruling, so long as he could continue to live his way of life and just survive. But the topic of Alacrya was a sore one.

There were actually very few Alacryans occupying Burim. Most of Seris’ contingent was stationed on an island nearby called the Earthmother’s Isle, alongside many of our steamships. Because of this, the reputation of Alacryans from the dwarves had become a bit more positive–we weren’t entirely viewed as the conquering imperialists we truly were.

But that didn’t mean it wasn’t an uncomfortable thing to stare in the face.

Korsted opened his mouth, hesitant to meet my eyes. “Well, uh,” he said awkwardly, “that sounds fun. Was it just a hobby? Or did you play professionally?”

I stood slowly, stretching. I ignored how the dwarves around me shied away a bit as I moved, treating me as if I were a live wire. It hurt something in me, the way they treated me like I was a bomb ready to go off.

It was a strange dichotomy. Among the rebellion, we Alacryans were hailed as heroes. Liberators.

“A bit of both, to be honest,” I said with a sigh. “But it’s been a while since I’ve actually played. I should find a time to do so.”

“Yeah,” Korsted said uncertainly.

I sighed, not feeling welcome with these people anymore. I could respect that. When we played music, we weren’t Alacryan and Darvish anymore. All the divides between us fell away; the troublesome illusions and markers of identity and division blurred like Karsien’s mist.

But as everyone’s sense of self and identity re-emerged, so too did the division.

“I’ll get out of your hair,” I said with a respectful nod. “Thanks for teaching me your craft, Korsted. It’s been an enlightening experience.”

And it had been. Dwarven music tended to use deep, sonorous rhythms that made me think of hammer blows striking iron deep beneath the ground, of somber and lilting airs that felt like the song of the earth itself. I truly believed that my understanding of the dwarves had increased through practicing their music.

Their music evoked the sense of the tireless worker; of unending will in the face of struggle. The dwarves themselves embodied the very stones they lived beneath: stubborn, soulful, and resolute in the face of anything attempting to strike them down.

Here was a people that would break before they bent.

I left the arena with a heavy feeling in my chest. I had to restrain my aura as I walked–for if I was not careful, the very flames in the sconces that lined the stone pathways would flicker and dim in tune with my emotions.

That was something I’d quickly realized about being white core. The ambient mana moved and bent to my whims with fluid ease I’d never experienced before, almost as if the world itself knew my thoughts before I did.

And my sense of intent and heartfire had grown exponentially. Where before I might struggle to pick out an individual’s emotions within a crowd, now I could do so with ease. I could almost taste a mage’s thoughts and desires on my very tongue as the barest inflections of the mana around them whispered their secrets.

But that went both ways. I needed to be beyond careful with my own emotions, lest I press them into the air with the weight of my white core will. I’d spent a long time in the past week just learning to regulate my effects on the ambient mana–enough that I hadn’t had time to test out my new regalia or push my new limits.

“You’ll get the chance to fly,” Aurora thought to me helpfully. “There will be time.”

I know, I thought back, my shoulders slumping as I strode through the twisting underground. Now that I was unburdened by gravity and could simply fly whenever I wished, the dwarven tunnels became constricted and cramped. The air itself seemed weighted with the tons upon tons of stone above my head.

Being this far underground made me nervous, now. I felt a pulsing desire to just leave the caves again and soar in the air for hours on end, basking in the cool breeze of the coming spring.

But I could not leave. Not yet.

I strolled out of the tunnel, emerging from the side of an immense stalactite that hung from the ceiling like a massive bat, curled around itself in slumber as it tried to block out the bouncing lights.

The atmosphere around the Hanging City of Burim was infectious as I strolled absently through the arching bridges and sturdy streets. Everywhere I looked, people were preparing in some way for the coming celebration of the Aurora Constellate. Children worked with their parents to set up streamers of shimmering scarlet, lilting green, and sky blues along the many hanging lights. When they were adjusted in just the right way, the cloth appeared like ribbons of the Aurora Constellate themselves as they snaked across the underground. Even the lavaducts seemed to participate in the delicate dance of tapestry and light.

I noticed an over-laden dwarf stumbling with the many stacks of wood that sat in his burly arms. He looked like the kind of man who spent his entire life swinging a hammer, came home for a single drink, then went back out to swing some more. Yet despite that, there was a tired hunch to those burly shoulders that told me he couldn’t continue on much longer. I halted in my tracks, hurrying my step as the man nearly tumbled.

“Would you like some help with that?” I offered, holding out my arms and preparing to engage my regalia.

The dwarf peered from behind his stack of firewood. His brows furrowed slightly, and I could feel the reluctance in his intent.

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“Do what you want, Alacryan,” he muttered with a wheeze.

Discomforted by his hostility, I still engaged my regalia. Half a dozen of the chopped logs hovered in the air in nimbuses of white around me as I relieved the dwarf from his burdens. He exhaled a breath of relief, his mustaches quivering slightly.

“Where to?” I asked, my hands in my pockets.

The dwarf looked at me out of the side of his eye, clearly nervous. My appearance was well-known in Burim as one of the prominent Alacryans, and though I kept my aura and power expertly contained, rumors of my strength and abilities abounded. As was my purpose, I was also one of the most publicly active Alacryans out and about.

“Follow me, Spellsong,” the dwarf grunted, trundling in the direction he’d been going.

I followed after him at a leisurely pace. Eventually, we reached a small depot where a large fire was being stoked. After dropping the firewood where the dwarf directed, I was brusquely waved off without a nod of thanks.

I didn’t know how to feel about that. Part of me felt hurt and dejected by the brusque response. Another part of me recognized it was what I deserved.

As I strolled through the network of bridges and stalactites, the responses I received from the people were notably mixed. Some opted to shift to the side of the road as I trotted along. I noticed an elf’s nose twitch slightly in distaste as they glared at me, sheltering their lover from my sight. A stocky dwarven woman restrained the urge to spit in my path, her intent radiating quiet defiance.

And still, others watched me with an air of companionship and respect. The guards patrolling the city–arrayed in heavy plate armor and marked with the rising symbol of the rebellion–gave me salutes and nods of acknowledgment. A few even clapped me on the shoulder as I passed. One man I recognized from way back in the first cavern I’d entered gave me a covert fist bump, a smile stretching beneath his helmet.

Burim was divided. The Darvish rebels had warmed up to Alacryan assistance, namely because Seris had kept us very “hands off.” The new leadership in Burim was allowed the illusion of control as my Scythe kept the majority of her forces off the coast in our fleet of steamships and occupied surrounding islands. The families of those defenders we had slain, however…

Their hurt suffused the air like a wet, smothering blanket. The echoes of pain and loss still lingered weeks later–not just in the intent radiating through the air, but the remnants of the battle that still lingered here and there. Though the streamers and ribbons cast everything in a merry glow, there was no doubt that the smoke of battle still cast the massive cavern in shades of gray.

Yet the utter majority simply ignored my presence. Many dwarves gave me only a passing glance, dismissing me out of hand even as I strolled.

But as I walked, my enhanced ears caught a familiar sound. The sound of a violin—muffled by walls and stone—brushed against my ears, coasting on the currents of nostalgic tunes. Familiar music.

Familiar because I’d composed the music myself.

Curious and drawn to the tempting sound, I altered my course: after all, I was going to no place in particular originally. I found my path sloping ever-so-slightly downward, gradually edging toward the depths of the caverns of Burim.

I’d never entered the Undercrofts—what the dwarves called the makeshift shacks and hovels deep in the stalagmites below. But as I slowly strode lower and lower on massive stalactites towards that haunting sound, I caught glimpses of firelight and smoke in the depths. With my enhanced eyes and ears, I could just barely make out the sounds of life.

I’d have to drop by there before the day was out to talk to a certain someone, but not just yet.

And I finally arrived at the source of the music.

I’d stumbled across an almost hidden alcove nestled in the walls of one of the deepest hanging spikes of rock. Vines crisscrossed the stones, twisting like a figure skater on ice as they created masses of green in a chasm otherwise utterly dark.

Peering inside the nestled alcove, I spotted a very familiar person lounging on a stone bench. Lusul Hercross played his violin slowly and sonorously, his ebony skin reflectionless in the low light. He played like a master as his arm dipped and weaved with his bow, sweet sound brushing against my ears.

And not far from him, on the very same bench, was a young woman. She had short, curly brown hair the color of chestnuts, and her aquamarine eyes danced with each swell of Lusul’s music. Her hands were clasped demurely in her lap, and she seemed to gravitate toward the young Named Blood man.

Unbidden, I felt a smile stretch across my face as I watched Lusul weave a tapestry of emotion with his lover. I stepped back from the alcove, leaning against the edge and crossing my arms.

The Unseen World crossed my vision as I waited, savoring the music. I’d played this very song to the waiting crowd at Central Academy months ago. I found myself humming along to the tune in quiet melancholy.

“Love finds a way,” Aurora thought to me fondly, standing beside me as she stared up at the many crisscrossing lavaducts and bridges above us. “The question is what you’re going to do about it, Toren.”

Relations between Alacryans and Dicathians were prohibited by Agrona himself. The people of the Sovereigns were expressly forbidden from “tainting” their Vritra blood with the touch of “lessers.” The official punishments varied based on how far a relationship might have progressed, but the bare minimum was a dishonorable discharge from the military.

Lusul was playing a dangerous game.

We’ll see what I need to do, I responded, listening to the song end. It depends on how the man responds, I suppose.

After a few minutes, I watched from the shadows as the chestnut-haired girl skittered from the room on quick steps. She sent a longing look back to the hidden alcove, her hands–each covered in calluses and bearing the marks of long work–fidgeting slightly.

She didn’t see me, of course. I was hovering just a ways above.

Finally, she strode away from her forbidden rendezvous, her chin held high and her hands still fidgeting.

I settled back down onto the hanging stalactite, watching the girl as she did her best to look inconspicuous as she walked. Part of me wondered how safe it was to wander these streets alone without escort. Considering this girl wasn’t a mage, it must have been even more dangerous.

Wanting to make certain, I grabbed Aurora’s relic. Mind making sure she gets wherever she’s going safely, Aurora? I thought, preparing to imbue the feather with a bit of lifeforce.

“I’ll be an eye in the sky, my bond,” Lady Dawn affirmed. “She will meet no harm under my watch.”

Feeling reassured by the phoenix shade’s words, I imbued a barest sliver of heartfire into the bronze brooch, before tossing it into the air. Aurora took control in Puppet Form, before soaring covertly after the retreating young woman.

I exhaled through my nose, returning to quietly lounging against the side of the alcove. From what I could hear, Lusul was almost done.

It took a few minutes more, but the dark-skinned second son of Named Blood Hercross finally stepped from his hideaway, his violin case clutched in his hands. Unlike his anxious lover, Lusul didn’t do a full nervous swivel as he left–just strode confidently along the path as he passed me by without a note of realization.

“Interesting song you played,” I said leisurely, my arms crossed in front of my chest, “how long did it take you to perfect?”

Lusul froze in place as if he’d been struck head-on by Lance Zero’s ice. His intent dipped from quiet contentment into a deeper fear as he slowly turned, his almost-pink eyes the size of pinpricks as they locked with mine.

“Spellsong, I was just–” he started, his eyes darting in the direction his lover had just gone.

I raised a hand, halting his words. “I know what you were doing, Lieutenant,” I said evenly. I spared a glance toward where the Hercross boy’s lover had left. “What is her name?”

There was a tense silence between us that could have been cut with a knife. Lusul’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, and from how his heart beat, I knew he was in the throes of fight or flight.

“Lia,” he finally said, the words creaking from his lips. “Her name is Lia. She is a maid in the Divot.”

I tilted my head, focusing fully on the young man in front of me. Because from the depths of his intent and the skipping beats of his heart, I knew he had just lied to me on both claims.

I pressed off from the wall, striding past Lusul. “Follow me, Lusul,” I said in a tone of quiet command.

Lusul gulped nervously, but he knew he couldn’t run. He followed behind me like a prisoner on death row.

—

This time as I walked, I did have a destination in mind. Higher and higher we crested as I strolled leisurely, the Lieutenant behind me strung as tight as a godbow. From the way he walked, I suspected he believed he was being marched towards his execution.

Yet still, he followed behind me obediently.

It took us around ten minutes to finally reach the destination I searched for. The platform we reached still bore signs of devastation and damage from when I’d last been here, fighting for my life and for Seris’ cause.

I took a deep, shuddering breath as I stood stock-still on the broken stone. Memories resurfaced, skittering over the edges of my perception like the legs of a centipede in the dark. I saw flashes of blood. Death. The mourning intent of people as they slowly died ignoble deaths around me.

Here was where I’d executed Skarn and Hornfels Earthborn. Where I had truly lost my innocence.

Lusul stood nervously behind me, his intent radiating quiet fear. That dread had slowly grown as we’d weaved toward this abandoned location, leaving just the two of us alone. His heartbeat was exceptionally audible to my ears.

“You lied to me earlier,” I said, staring at a spot on the stones. “When you told me the name of your lover. And where she worked.”

I thought Lusul couldn’t feel any more fear. It appeared I was wrong.

“I would never lie, Spellsong,” he said after a long moment, his voice trembling. “I am duty-bound to–”

“She works to process fire salts in the fifth division of Burim’s navy yards.”

Through Aurora’s relic, I could see where Lusul’s lover scurried off to–and besides, her hands were far too rough, calloused, and scarred to be a maid. The lie was easy to pick apart.

Lusul took a step back, sputtering slightly. “No, you’re wrong. That’s not where she’s from,” he said, a new kind of terror thrumming through the mana around me. Not terror for himself–but fear for another.

I turned around slowly, and from Lusul’s stance and wild eyes, it appeared he was just about ready to throw himself at me. He looked on the verge of snapping, sweat beading across his skin and dripping to the floor beneath him.

He’s willing to fight a futile battle against me, I thought, feeling a smile creep along my face, for his lover. For a Dicathian woman.

“I didn’t bring you here to punish you, Lusul,” I said, observing the young man’s state. “Just to give you some advice, and to teach you something valuable.”

The dark-skinned Hercross blinked uncertainly at my words. It must have sounded absurd to him–after all, I served directly under a Scythe. I should be the true arbiter of rules.

“You should invest in a sound-dampening artifact,” I said casually, “preferably something pretty strong. My ears are better than most, which was why I was able to track you down. But music has a way of drawing people in. Don’t count on your out-of-the-way rendezvous locations to keep your tryst secret.”

If before Lusul looked like an animal backed against the wall and ready to lash out at a nearing predator, now he just seemed inordinately confused.

“What?” he asked slowly. “What do you mean, you won’t punish me?”

I sighed. “Why do you care for her, Lusul?” I asked next, ignoring his question. “And don’t give me some half-baked answer. You were willing to lie to your direct superior for her. I want to understand why. What makes her so valuable to you?”

Lusul licked his lips, glancing covertly back the way we’d come. I waited for whatever thoughts that ran through his head to run their course. He’d calmed down slightly as I’d questioned him, but he was still wondering if this was some sort of trap.

“She shakes,” he finally said. “She was hurt when she was a girl in a fire salt explosion. And she has tremors because of that. But… But when she hears my music…” Lusul stared at me with eyes I recognized: those of a boy in love. “She can rest. She doesn’t tremble when I play my violin. It started just as that, Toren, I promise. She told me that my music helped her, so I just offered to play it for her.”

My smile was soft as I watched the man stumble over his words. I wondered if I ever looked like this when I spoke of Seris. And when he’d finished his words, I finally reached a decision.

I moved toward a chunk of rubble, then slowly set myself down on the dusty ground. I crossed my legs, staring at the still-nervous Lusul. I pointed at a spot not far from me. “Sit there, Lusul.”

He swallowed, then sat himself down like a jittery mouse still faced with a cat.

I had an inkling of what I would do with Lusul when I’d first spotted him with his lover. And that idea had only cemented itself when he faced me head-on and lied for the sake of his beau. And as the young man told me why he loved the young Dicathian woman, I’d made my choice.

I’d asked Lusul once how he could continue to play his music when his hands were weak and his mind tired. He’d told me of the power of the orchestra, how those beside him could carry the notes when he was too weak to do so.

I remembered sitting in this exact place barely a few weeks ago, my hands trembling as I failed to play even a single clean note on my violin. I wouldn’t always be able to profess my views, to push my perspective to others. I needed to let someone else carry that same torch.

I rested my palms face-up on my knees as I stared at the nervous man in front of me as he reluctantly mirrored my position. “You’re a man of music, Lusul, just as I am. And considering your recent actions, you’ve proven your strength of character.”

The pink-eyed man blinked in utter surprise as I uttered the words, but I wasn’t done. “Many, many people have asked me for the secrets to my intent-based music. I’ve given hints and directions to all who asked, because music should be for everyone. It is the purest expression of the soul. But never have I tried to teach anyone the specifics of my craft.”

I took a deep breath. “That changes now, Lusul. I’m going to show you how to weave true emotion into every note you play.”