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Seris Vritra

When I finally ended the call with my Truacian counterpart, there was a long, long silence that seemed to deaden the room.

Viessa Vritra was open. Though she proclaimed success in her assault on the elven forest and stated she’d taken the Commander down, the underlying tension in her voice and anger told me that there were more losses she hadn’t spoken of.

Retainers Mawar, Bilal, and Bivran, I thought. Something has happened to them. Something she doesn’t wish me to know. That was why she was so ready to tell me of Commander Virion Eralith’s coma.

Something like the Commander of the entire Triunion being sent into a coma couldn’t be hidden for long, if at all—especially if the nature of the attacks were public. I’d played a gambit to divest Viessa of more information, and it had both confirmed Toren’s speculation of Tessia Eralith’s importance, but also made everything all the more dangerous.

Viessa is being given orders different from mine, I thought, standing slowly. Distantly, I was aware that Toren was looking at the dark crystal floor, his face marred by a complicated expression. Probably conversing with his bond. Orders directly from the High Sovereign. Is Agrona playing us against each other intentionally? Or is he going for something else?

At the start of this war, Agrona had stated he required the Dicathian populace alive and healthy for his needs, but the massacres and genocides flooding across Sapin said otherwise. Had he changed his modus operandi? Or had the Lord of the Vritra always planned for such bloodshed?

I sighed, recognizing the rabbit hole that those thoughts would lead down. One couldn’t predict Agrona Vritra. It was fundamentally impossible.

Not impossible, my blood whispered. You can. If you are willing to take that step.

It had been resurging lately. More and more, as I let my masks fall. As Toren wore away the protections I’d layered to keep the song of my blood contained, so too did that monster rise—like bubbles of rot in the flesh of a corpse.

I spared a glance toward Cylrit, watching the stern face of my stalwart Retainer. Using it to give me strength: the strength to resist. He met my eyes, sensing the need. And as I traced the lines of Kelagon’s old features, as I saw in my Retainer all that I once had been and fought against, I found the strength to quell that rising tumult in my veins.

Thank you, Cylrit, I thought, but did not say. For keeping the worst of me contained.

Cylrit didn’t hear me, of course. But in a way not unlike Toren, but also so very different, he seemed to be able to sense the intention behind my eyes. He nodded slowly, the barest twitch of his lips acknowledging how he’d helped me.

No, I couldn’t predict Agrona. But I could adapt.

And then Toren spoke up, his voice serious. “This war is going to end soon,” he said. “Without Commander Virion keeping the Triunion Council together, they’ll tear each other apart. Brick by bloody brick, they’ll become a mirror of what we’ve seen in Darv.”

I turned slowly, taking the time to drink in the features of the only other person I allowed close to my heart. He bore an expression so deeply complicated that I fought back the urge to chuckle with mirth.

The news rattled him in a different way than I’d suspected, however. The sadness I saw there wasn’t entirely what I expected. I knew Toren sympathized with the Dicathian struggle, their futile resistance against their inevitable domination by our Sovereign. But what I saw in his features seemed too personal. As if the news of Virion Eralith’s fall were not the news of an enemy combatant’s defeat—one you respected, but needed to break regardless. No, it was as if it were the news of a personal friend being hurt.

He said he was able to heal Tessia Eralith through some connection to her soul, I mused. But all of Toren’s aetheric magics require some level of harmony with his target. How can he know a Princess he’s never met? Or a Commander of another continent?

More delectable questions in the neverending puzzle that was my lover. For now, though, I pushed those thoughts aside.

“You are right, Toren. Our intel says that Commander Virion Eralith was all that kept the Council from tearing itself apart. Without him, they shall fall like… dominoes,” I said, testing the word Toren had taught me. I thought it fitting. “There is more that Viessa did not tell me, however, despite what I drew from her lips. I have the sense she feels like she lost more than she gained, and even as this short war draws to a close, there are things we must attend to.”

Toren perked up at that, and I saw a glimmer of that vindictive, wry emotion burn behind his irises. “The sentry-chain through the elven forest, where they tried to pierce the mists,” he said after a moment. “It failed.”

I blinked in genuine surprise at that, wondering how Toren had deduced such a fact. As I thought about it more, however, I found that it was plausible. The plans to thread a needle through the heart of Elshire were meticulous and carefully laid. Had been for months. But as far as I was aware, Toren had never been explicitly informed of the operation, nor how it worked.

So why is he so certain that it failed? Does he have some sort of knowledge I don’t?

Yet as I remembered my conversation with him not long ago, where he explained the earthen concept of dominoes, I remembered that same flash in his eyes. That same self-satisfied expression, though far more prominent.

A smile finally graced my lips as I put it together. “Because you sabotaged it, then?” I said, tilting my head as I stared at Toren. “You didn’t tell me you did this during your trip to the Beast Glades, Toren. You should have.”

Toren simply scoffed. “I didn’t do anything to sabotage the sentries during my time here on Dicathen,” he countered easily. “And if I did, I would have told you.”

I focused in on his strange wording, no doubt intentional. He didn’t do anything to sabotage them on Dicathen. I felt my satisfaction at piecing something together rise slightly. More puzzles. Always more puzzles. But that is what makes it fun.

I shook my head. “Regardless, we know too little as of now. More information will come soon, I have no doubt, but this only reaffirms our planned push into Vildorial. With the Council on its deathbed and my troops ready, taking the Darvish capital, and by extension, the entire land of the dwarves–should prove far easier. It will only serve to drive the nails of crucifixion deeper into this continent’s morale.”

The High Sovereign’s terror attacks on the people of Sapin were making my task of integration more difficult–but I’d already started threading the narrative through my spies that there were two separate Alacryan leaders. One benevolent and merciful; one cruel and vindictive. I could use these deaths to my advantage. If Agrona would make Viessa Vritra a reaping Scythe that harvested all the lives in her path, then I could present myself as the savior. The benevolent enemy.

He makes a stick of her, so I shall be the carrot, I thought darkly. I must adapt. Always adapt.

And with the upcoming capture of Vildorial, I wondered how long the Council could truly remain together. They would be setting out in less than a day’s time to complete their mission, and each successive blow would be like the ringing of a hangman’s bell. I would capitalize on Viessa’s momentum.

But there was more that needed to be done. As I cycled through plan after plan after plan, I finally turned to observe Toren in full. Sensing my attention, he straightened slightly, still wearing eyes that cared far too much for an enemy to be logical.

“You said that Elder Rahdeas bore a message from Mordain Asclepius related to the deaths,” I finally said. “Does this mean the Hearth is ready to enter this war? To intervene to stop our advance?”

If there was one thing that could throw my plans into disarray, it was the phoenixes of the Asclepius Clan, deep in the Beast Glades. But also…

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Toren shook his head slowly. “No, I do not think so,” he said. “Mordain is an isolationist. Has been for centuries. The message he sent to me was… personal. But–”

Toren’s head turned to the door, his stance shifting perceptibly to one of a threatened predator. Belatedly, I sensed the thrum of mana as well as it approached.

A familiar signature.

A solid, heavy knock echoed on the doors. A single stroke that made Toren tense.

“I have news, Lord Spellsong,” Elder Rahdeas’ voice called. “I think y’all would like to hear it.”

I shared a glance with Toren. He nodded slowly.

At a wordless gesture to Cylrit, I gave the Retainer my permission. Cylrit moved toward the door, before opening it with a stiff, intimidating pull.

Elder Rahdeas stood at the entrance of my doorway, staring emptily inward. He didn’t focus on me, instead looking at Toren. Past and through him, in a way that reminded me of the broken things in the depths of Taegrin Caelum. “I have a message, Toren Daen,” he said, completely ignoring the wall of dark metal that was Cylrit.

“Is it the same message you gave me last time, Elder?” Toren said back, his voice calmer by force of will. “Because that wasn’t a message. That was a knife.”

Rahdeas chuckled, then sauntered into my rooms without care. I was quietly fascinated by the dwarf’s utter lack of survival instinct as Cylrit’s aura flared behind him, suffocating enough to break nearly any mage on this continent. But Rahdeas wasn’t really there to even feel it. He was flesh and bone, to be certain, but his mind was elsewhere.

“You know, there was a time when the voices never made sense,” Rahdeas said. “When they all rambled and spoke of shadows on the wall. That told me of illusions I could see but also couldn’t. Of breaks in my perception.”

Rahdeas set himself down slowly on the edge of my chaise lounge, which served to heighten my irritation. But I restrained myself, watching the exchange between the man I called my own and the addled dwarf.

“But then one of the voices… It started makin’ sense, ya see. Started saying things that were too clear. Too consistent, ya understand? And all the others would change and grow and warp, but this one was always warm. Tellin’ me secrets. I didn’t listen to the others. But I gave this one a chance.”

Toren’s gaze sharpened. “And this voice told you to print those pictures? Told you to write that final message at the back?”

Rahdeas only chortled. “It’s a voice in my head, Spellsong,” he said back. “Followin’ it would be what a madman does. But regardless, what do you think of it? It was an interesting statement, to be certain. Are ya willin’ to pay those prices? There will be more numbers.”

Toren’s hands clenched, and his aura warped. “I’ve resolved myself to do what I need to change this world,” he countered heatedly. “I have the power to do so, Rahdeas. It is the burden of that knowledge to use it.”

“I thought the same, young fire,” Rahdeas said sadly. “Before I saw the truth. That doin’ what ya think needs to be done only breaks you.”

“If I break, Rahdeas,” Toren said after a moment, “I won’t look like you. I won’t become you.”

Rahdeas laughed. It was an empty, maddened sound. The sound of the inmate who thought he knew all in the world, but nobody else could see. “The Lost Prince beckons for you, Toren Daen of the Asclepius,” he said after he quieted down. “The Hearth calls you home.”

I watched, perplexed, as the addled dwarf pushed himself to his swaying feet. He gave Toren a meager salute, then turned around, stumbling back the way he’d come as if he had never seen me or Cylrit at all–only Toren. As Rahdeas went, he whistled a tune I distantly recognized.

And Toren? He watched Rahdeas go with hard, hard eyes, fire sputtering around his fingers.

“It appears that there is more to the madman than meets the eye,” I eventually said. “And you have finally received your summons, Toren. Summons to the Hearth.”

Toren didn’t respond. Only stared at the door as Cylrit closed it, unwilling to answer me.

“Toren,” I started.

He turned to look at me, and I felt the distinctive urge to take a step back. I hadn’t been able to see it—not in full, as he faced the dwarven elder. But there was a churning, raging wildfire buried deep in his soul that felt hot. That felt like it would burn me, too, if I stared too long. Inadvertently, I flinched backward, feeling as if I’d touched something I shouldn’t have. And at the same time, his intent was suffocatingly hot. Choking and cloying, like the heat of a desert sun. His heartbeat pulsed almost audibly through the waves of mana he was letting off.

The look on my face must have been particularly dire, because I could sense the effect of Toren’s mana in the air as it shriveled inward. He took a deep, calming breath as he forced himself not to glare.

I do not believe I have ever seen him so… so angry, I thought with surprise. Toren was a star, to be sure, but he was always the morning star. The cozy light of dawn as it misted through the trees. But for the first time, I saw the supernova as it churned beneath the surface.

What did Rahdeas say, I thought, feeling my reservations at approaching Toren, that could push him to such anger?

“I’m sorry, Seris,” Toren finally said. “I lost control. Again.”

I kept my distance for a moment, fearing that I might get burned should I approach. But I forced myself to think rationally.

I approached, maintaining a scance few feet between us. “The Hearth has called for you, Toren,” I said slowly. “Will you answer the call?”

Toren looked between me and Cylrit, his jaw working. “I need to, Seris,” he finally said. “I have a brother there–another one. One who will gladly fight against the injustices of the world. And I need to know more of my powers. Of the Soul and what Heartfire truly is. And Mordain… Mordain has a gift, Seris. A gift that can’t be ignored. I don’t dare ignore his call.”

I worked this through my mind. I could probably afford Toren’s absence for a time, though some plans would have to be put on hold. But more importantly…

I watched out of the side of my eye as the clockwork relic that contained Lady Dawn’s mind slowly unfurled from Toren’s breast. It glowed white hot for a moment, before settling into the shape and form of a sparrow.

“We will go to the Hearth, Scythe of Sehz-Clar,” Aurora Asclepius’ mechanical container said. “Know this shall happen regardless of your wishes. But we will not go without purpose.”

I stared at the burning eyes of the little construct for a time. I knew that Toren’s bond, Aurora Asclepius, disliked how I saw her family as tools to further my agenda. Another piece on the board. But regardless of the dead phoenix’s thoughts, I needed to voice my questions.

“Can you call the phoenixes to banner?” I finally pressed, looking between Toren and his clockwork puppet. “Can you influence them, Aurora Asclepius? Can you draw them into this war?”

Aurora’s eyes narrowed. “For what purpose must I bring my family into harm’s way, Scythe?” she said sharply. “If you wish to push and prod at all those I hold dear within my clan, Seris Vritra, I demand a reason.”

My expression settled into something impassive as I stared down at the bird. It stared back.

“Aurora,” Toren said slowly, looking to his side where the true manifestation of the phoenix no doubt stood, “we know what she plans to do. We know the cause she works toward; the purpose she needs to fulfill. I cannot think of a reason why the Hearth should not be brought into it. To help better this world.”

“I wish to hear her speak the words, Toren,” the phoenix who haunted my lover’s steps replied. “She is of Agrona’s blood. She speaks in half-truths and riddles. She wishes for us to put my family in more mortal danger than they have experienced in millennia.” The clockwork sparrow’s eyes flashed, and I sensed Cylrit as he slowly shifted to stand at my back in silent support. “I will have her word. Her oath on what their blood is worth.”

Whatever reply Toren had on his lips, it died as the whirring of dawnlight steam echoed into the still air.

Indeed, the ghost wished for the lives of her clanmates to have a purpose, to have meaning.

And as I quietly deliberated in the still room, I found myself flashing back to the first time I had truly understood the breadth of Agrona’s plans. When I had battled with my blood inside, and found my humanity triumphed. Where I’d recognized what would become of this world should Agrona and Kezess have their way.

My endgame had always been to let the two tyrants throw themselves at each other. They would annihilate each other in mutually assured destruction, for no lesser being could match blades with an asura.

But these past few weeks, as the truth of the Hearth had settled into my blood, I’d found another, brilliant flare of hope in Toren.

There was a chance–however slim–that the lessers of Alacrya could field warriors capable of snuffing out the Vritra clan. Maybe not entirely, and there would always be dangers. But the very prospect of a clan of asura capable of fighting the basilisks–willing to fight the basilisks, and not from under Kezess Indrath’s tyrannical boot–was more captivating than nearly anything else.

But all it would take… All it would take was for me to say the words. I’d promised as much to Toren, if in spirit. But as I stared down at the phoenix, I felt it strangely difficult to muster the courage.

I worked my jaw, my eyes flicking to Toren’s, then away. I opened my mouth, then closed it again as I failed to find the right thing to say.

Toren reached out a hand, laying it comfortingly on my shoulder as he no doubt sensed my inner turmoil. The warmth of it helped. Helped center me.

You released your shackles during the Aurora Constellate, I reminded myself. You are as free as you can be, this far from your gods. It is only a few words.

I exhaled, then stared at the location where I knew Aurora Asclepius’ haunting form stood. “I wish to draw your family into the bloodiest conflict the asura have seen for an age,” I said honestly. Such searing honesty. “If you do as I wish, they will die and be torn apart by Wraith and by Sovereign–all in the service of something many would call worthless. Because one day, I will bring war to the Vritra, Aurora Asclepius. I bring them war for the atrocities they have committed, and the lives they snuff under their boots.”

I took Toren’s hand, then gently removed it from my shoulder as I found the strength to stand taller. Saying the words I’d kept leashed for so many decades left me feeling oddly weightless, yet when I checked once more, my boots still kissed the ground. “I ask your clan to die fighting the Vritra. I beg their aid, Lady Dawn, because no other will give our people succor.”