Cyra laughed. “Got me for a second there,” he shook his head, Qave walking past him. “Living books.”

“Only moments past, you were making every piece of metal in the vicinity tremble without actually touching them,” Hann said. “Every piece but the chandelier.”

“Yes. But living books, Hann.”

Ten feet away from the table, the Green Orc strode closer. “Qatha, let him explain,” Deqa said.

“I will… after he tells us who he works for,” Seven feet.

“He isn’t a double agent. You aren’t, are you?”

Four feet. “Was simply giving a warning!” Hann said. Two feet from the table and Qave blanched as if attacked, backing a step. She shook her head and focused her eyes on you, snarling. She raised her hand, pointing a finger, and where she’d looked like she’d hit her head, pressed the finger upon it. The light-green surface of her fingertip flattened against some sort of silver glass. She pressed even harder. Silver lines began to form from the point of contact, as if etched into the air, creating complex symbols which Hann didn’t understand, around the table from the dusty, marble ground below to the chandelier’s edges above. Runes. The book’s cover started to grow warmer. He closed it. The art at its front which had originally piqued his interest and made him open the slumbering thing had vanished. Only a symbol stood on the dark-red leather now. A silver rune.

“Stay where you are!” Qave yelled, and Hann, despite still being seated, froze in place.

“Why? Looks like magic, and I happen to be the only mage in the group,” Cyra said, a few ways off, and the Sky-Elf realized the Warrior hadn’t been talking to him.

Raising his head from the book, Hann took stock of the hall. Everyone had been gravitating toward the central table before Qave’s warning had kept them from going further, even Gabrilore and his broken leg.

“This has nothing to do with magic, Cyra.”

“What are we dealing with?” Deqa asked, halfway down the steps.

“The Silver shimmer. A rare skill among my people. Only for the ancient and the exceptional.”

“What does it do?” Cyra asked.

“Your people?” Gabrilore asked at the same time, wooden crutches rapping on the floor as he walked back to his seat.

Head tilting a bit toward the Geomancer’s position, Her finger’s pressure on the invisible wall decreased, and the brightness of the many silver runes started to fade. She let her hand fall back, eyes finding the Order-Head again. The silver was all but gone now. The Orc—the System-borne—grinned, hand clenching, rising, and punching at the air, runes coming back in full force, brighter than they’d been before. Another punch. Another flash. Even brighter. She breathed in, pulled back her fist in a charge, and groaning, let forth a final blow. The air tore itself, runes resisting and falling even faster as a result. Screaming out. A septillion bell-tolls in a microsecond. Hann’s ears never had a chance, breaking on impact; a single ring before all was silent.

All but a distant laugh.

W-What… He was on the ground, legs trapped under something heavy, a wing groaning in pain beside him with the slightest of stretches. No chandelier hang above him, silver or otherwise. A slight rise of his head, eyes darting forward, finding the giant, silver lighter shattered and fallen… dozens of feet away from him and the broken table above his legs. The same laugh, but closer; beside him—toward the paining wing. A slight turn of his head, eyes darting forward toward the gray wing, and the red, leather-bound book lodged deep into it, its silver rune nowhere to be seen. He cried out. Hann was sure he’d cried out, but his ears had heard none of it. Continued to hear none of it. Only a laugh.

His left hand reached over for the book, but thinking better of it, he let the hand retreat. Let the one closest to the wing take over and stretched it out. His hand brushed along the radius, ulna and metacarpus, reaching its limit at the Basal phalanx, and moving down the outer-edge of the mid-wing till a sore pain started to echo his every touch. Till the tips of his fingers reached the wound and the book, but only the tips. Whatever demon this book held continued to laugh. Pushing the table away, he rolled over, crying out, legs and knees gaining purchase on the marble floor, sweat and green dripping from his head and ears onto the gray as he established a grip and pulled. He uttered an unheard curse and punched at the ground, wing stretching on reflex and causing him more pain. The book didn’t move a single inch however. Bracing himself, the Sky-Elf added a second hand to the struggle, gripping on two of the book’s corners before he pulled again.

Movement, both gladdening and excruciating. Levetheka’s Flight! He stopped, breathing hard, his hold on the book loosening. Trying not to let his more negative thoughts bring him down, he focused on the positive. His wing was no longer nailed to the slumbering ground. He could lift it again, though it would still hurt. The demon book was halfway out, green blood marking the inches already pulled out. Just a few more to go. I can do it. Except he couldn’t. He was too exhausted. It was too daunting. The end would be worth it, but the pain would come first.

I could pull the book out for you, Johann Avendari.

“Who are you?” He asked.

Not a demon, I know that for sure. Do you want me to help?

More pain. He nodded. Focused on the positive. It would be out. He would be free. Despite getting help from someone else in order for it to happen.

No shame in leaning in on others for support. I’m just gonna need permission first. Detailed. In wording.

Permission? Why would someone who’d been laughing at my pain a second ago need permission to help?

I wasn’t laughing at you. I was just happy. It’s been a while since I’ve had access to your little Sol-M Server.

Solemn Ser-- Why would you need permission from me, demo-- “SLUMBERING MOTHER!!!” The Book started to tremble.

Already told you, boy. I was ancient when demons were young. I was ancient when Techno-Mana itself was made. I am Geja’Tulunrai Munetha of the Faytt-weavers, and I need your permission, so LET ME OUT!!!

It slammed back down into Hann’s wings, into the ground, ripping out a scream from the Pebble.

Give me what I seek, and you’ll feel no more pain.

Tears mingling with Hann’s sweat, he tried to think. Why would a… Faytt-Weaver need his permission? What did he know about the situation? She’d been trapped; or her vessel had been trapped. The Silver Runes. Hann had chosen to sit on the central table because it had looked newer than the rest. The area had been warded by someone powerful. Someone like Qave. A System-borne. Probably for a long time. How had no one found it? What else did he know about System-borne? They needed to turn Energy Artifica into matter in order to use it. Liquid Energy. Solid or Gaseous Runes. What else?

The Red Shimmer.

A glamour skill. With it, one could hide whatever they wanted in plain sight, provided someone who was looking for it was less powerful than them; and someone powerful enough to trap some ancient Faytt-Weaver was also powerful enough to keep them hidden for years. Explained why the Asadu’Mevenathe building was so run-down. For years, he’d thought it’d been a consequence of the School wanting to humiliate their troublemakers, but there were other prisons in the Harubridgium, and they all looked pristine. What if the skill had simply made them ignore this one? The perfect prison. Till Qave had broken it. Till Geja’Tulunrai’s vessel had been trapped in him instead.

Figured it out, have you? My dirty little secret.

Hann could feel them. His friends. He spared a glance behind him, expecting to find them watching. What he saw instead left him breathless. Qave and Cyra were the closest to him, engaged in combat with a woman in blue, metal armor, a helmet and two translucent, ghostly wings behind her, fully unfurled as she glided at them, a sword raised high. There were two others. One threw an axe at Gabrilore that he managed to catch with a stone covered hand while Lita flew up from their table at the red armored menace with her own crimson-spotted wings. The last, dressed in all black with matching wings, as translucent and smoky like his companion’s, punched Fame in the beak and threw him down the steps before Deqa barreled into him and threw him onto the banquet table. Cyra was yelling something at the Sky-Elf that he couldn’t discern while Qave leaped into the air and grabbed Blue-Armor’s neck, gravity reclaiming her and him both a moment later.

He says you need to hurry. That he can’t connect to the Captain’s Sword. Small surprise that one. Some metals are out of a mage’s reach, even one such as him, low-leveled or not.

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

“Who are they?”

[Fate-Weavers]. A secret order I cooked up in your Server while no one was looking. Couldn’t communicate with them while I was in Asad’s cell but your body isn’t half as impregnable when it comes to messages.

“You can make people like you.”

No. Well yes; most people can, but they aren’t like me. I am a Faytt-Weaver. A born God-System. They are [Fate-Weavers]. Mere Humans with a class. One is vastly more powerful than the other. I think you can guess which. Ooh, look. She’s about to skewer you.

Hann turned his head again, just in time to fold his uninjured wing in front of him and block the sword headed his way. It cluttered onto the table-head, bouncing off it onto the ground. Punching the helmet off the Captain, Qave locked gazes with him, said something he couldn’t hear, and then leapt away toward her wife and the Black-Armor she was fighting. A few feet away, Cyra lied next to the Blue-Armor, both unconscious.

“What did she say, Faytt-Weaver?”

Do not let her out. Do not recommend. Have you ever seen what happens to a plastic cup when you pour molten stone into it? Cause if you heed her, no more cup.

‘Her’ out. Qave knew who the vessel belonged to. Either that or the Faytt-Weaver had altered the statement. “Thought you needed me alive?”

What gave you that idea? Corpses can’t give out permission, yes, but they also make for terrible prisons, unless they were sacrificed for the sole-purpose, that is.

They were speaking about his death like it was the most normal thing in the world. Breaths coming in quick, Hann tried to move away from it, turning his head to look for his friends. Qave had the Red-Armor’s ax now and was wielding it as she would her War-hammer, smashing it at the Black Fate-Weaver’s breastplate again and again, to the point that the Sky-Elf, could see the dents from where he was. Below the steps, Deqa inspected a lying eagle who was just coming to, and near the window, Gabrilore and Lita—one wing covered in green—stood over two halves of Red’s corpse and the puddle forming about them, wings of crimson smoke duller for his death, but still present. Black-Armor swiped at the Orc with his own wing. She backed a step. Another swipe, this time at her legs. Qave jumped, head—and ax—coming into contact with his other smoking wing. The man had jolted when it had happened, like her head had been lightning. No. Like the ax had been. She’d noticed it too, dangling at the edge of the elevated ground, hand leveling the ax before she threw it at the wing folded in front of him and let the steps have her. He moved his appendage out of the way like he was avoiding a plague, only realizing what he’d done after the ax had pierced through the damaged breastplate into his chest. He fell, a second before Qave met the ground below and rolled onto her feet. Her eyes went first to her dead opponent above, finding Hann and the book trapping him afterward, and finally leaving for the Half-Orc who was helping Fame up on his feet. She moved toward the two, and the Order-Head wondered if he should laugh, tit for tat, before Geja’Tulunrai beat him to the punch.

His own jolt upended him. Quick breaths catching speed as the blade next to him rose, stabbing through the air till they found a proffered hand. The Captain’s wings flapped once, letting her rise, even as she leveled her dark-blue blade at the downed Mage next to her. The Faytt-Weaver’s laugh turned louder.

“There are so few of us, unshrouded. Let my mistress go, or we’ll be one man fewer.” He could hear her, but the voice was familiar.

You can’t hear anything. Your facet is damaged, will probably never recover. I merely… mimicked what my Captain said. I heard you and yours talking. Know you’re ready to die for them. To keep my vessel caged. But are you ready to let him die? Because if you do not Permit me my exit, dearest Cyra’Lasidius will pay the price.

The others had noticed her awakening, were walking toward Hann. The captain yelled something out that Geja’Tulunrai wasn’t willing to sound out and they stopped, with exception of Qave who continued moving till Deqa convinced her to halt, right next to the chandelier. She gazed at you. Her mouth moved. The Sky-Elf didn’t need an interpreter this time round to know what she’d said.

Do not let her out.

She let me out first, Johann. Why would she do that if she thought I was dangerous? Of course, maybe she did think that. Maybe she knew the runes would have given out eventually. Maybe she was willing to let you be the Sacrificial Lamb. Oh, but she’d voted in your stead. Had wanted you to stay with them. Had it been another lie? Free me, so we might make her regret her treachery. Her deceit. Together.

Qatha’Vereta was her own person, who made her own choices, and had her own mind. A mind he was willing to wager the Faytt-Weaver did not inhabit and therefore could not know after a moment’s meet. But Hann knew his friend. Had known her for lifetime, though they were Sky-Elves out there who’d lived far longer than a couple of decades. He knew there might have been truth to Geja’Tulunrai’s words. That the Green Orc was capable of sacrificing him in a moment’s notice if a situation called for it. And a part of him did feel betrayed by the prospect; did want to rage against it. But he knew it would hurt her too. Knew it was just as probable that she’d expected the vessel to be trapped in her instead. Knew she would sacrifice herself in a moment’s notice too. And that knowledge gave him the necessary push he needed to make a decision. If Qave believed the God-System couldn’t be released, so did he. Turning back, he let his hands touch the book, form tight grips on the corners, and crying out, he pulled as hard as he could. The journal left the stone, left his wing, and the Faytt-Weaver did not laugh.

Breathing heavy, Hann held it with trembling hand, liberated wing fold back behind him, bleeding opening and all. “I’ll never let you out.”

Then suffer. Captain!

A blade rose again in his periphery, and began his descent. “Wait!” He yelled, unheard by him, but not unheard by all as it seemed.

He turned, struggling to stand, wounded wing making its protests known. Blooded coated the Captain’s sword, but only the tip as it stood above a cut on the Mage’s neck. A chuckle.

Knew you’d change your mind.

“I haven’t. Merely want to make a bargain.”

Well you’re all out of luck. The only deal I could care for requires my vessel’s freedom. Capt--

“This one might!” The tip was already at the skin again, gathering more green, but it stayed in place.

Explain.

“The Last [Hero]. Asadu. What were there relationships to you.”

One was merely acquaintance, a potential recruit in truth, who betrayed. The other was a brother. He found the book. Took a Solemn Bond. He helped me see the world, and in exchange, I helped him fight the Jerethagian Curses. When the book eventually took enough of a toll, he died and his corpse too became my vessel. I got to see the world through my own eyes for once, his eyes but mine, until his descendants decided they wanted him buried. I was willing, but only if one of them bonded themselves to the book again. Asadu. She betrayed me instead. I’ll stick to my Fate-Weavers from now on. No more bargain. No more Solemn bonds. Just give my vessel over to the captain.

Toll. “Why doesn’t Qave want you out, then?”

Some Prophecy. The First Condition for the seventh coming of the Demon-System, Nehe’Ruchula. A daughter of Jarathaga. The only curse my book couldn’t kill, but only because she just kept coming back. Till she eventually evolve. Has nothing to do with me, in truth. If I roam your Server with only one solemn bond, She might return... according to some [witch.doctor]. Your friend is just too superstitious.

“What toll?”

No bargains. I want out.

“What toll?”

Removing a curse requires sacrifice. Requires you to read the book. To know one of your coming ill-fortunes. If you open it, and find that you suddenly have no ill-fortunes left; Your life is cut short—and I take over.

Hann almost chuckle. He was a Sky-Elf. Felt like he would live a thousand years before death ever became a worry. He heard voice, his mother’s, chiding him for thinking that. Some sky-elves died young, not all, but some. Nic had only been a century old. Death could come for him too. But the chances were low. All he had to heighten his chances was not opening the book. He could do it. Simple.

“I’ll do it. Be your second Solemn Bond. Keep the Prophetic condition from being fulfilled.”

Or I could just let me go, otherwise your Mage gets it.

“I’m not letting you out. Whether he dies or not. We’re stuck with each other. Might as well make it more accomodating.”

Being a [Sky-Elf] won’t protect you from the toll, you know. Near-Immortality is nothing compared to a covenant.

“I’ll just not open it.”

You have to open it for the Bond to take in the first. Know something vile that will happen to you, and if you’re the luckiest person in all of existence, and there is only happiness to be had if you continue your life, the book will end it, swiftly. Do you still want to do it?

Mother’s Slumber! He had to open the book. The Captain was watching him, the scar running along her face from hairline to eye to chin wrinkling with her cheek when she smiled. Could she hear them? Qave was pacing beyond the chandelier, yelling something out.

Do not let her out!

But he wasn’t letting her out. He was negotiating. Sharing his skin instead of using it as a prison. Another solemn bond, and Qave’s demon-system isn’t closer in her returning. His eyes found the mage, next. Still unconscious. Probably snoring. The friend he’d failed. He could save him now. Pay the price for what he did. Even if it did kill him.

“I’ll slumbering do it. I’ll open the book. If I die, you get the body anyway. You still get to roam, with two bonds.”

Another thing. Half and half. I get control every other day while you’re still alive

“Deal.”

The book grew warmer in an instant, trembling again.

Bond attained: Soul-Mind to Soul-Mind. Class attained: [Fate-Weaver] Level 1. Item attained: [Book of Curses]. Title attained: [Champion of the Faytt-Weaver Geja’Tulunrai]. Skill attained: [Silver Shimmer], 7/7 uses left. To accept, open the book, and read your ill-fortune.

It was done. It was almost done. All he had to do was accept it, now. Despite his reservations, he looked back at them. His family. Expected them to be disappointed. Didn’t know if they were, but Qave had stopped yelling. Hann waited. She glanced at Cyra and gave a nod before walking back to Deqa. The Sky-Elf took a breath and opened the book just as the double doors a few feet to his right began to open.

The first page.

‘You will try to save her from him; from what he will do. You will fail.’

In his periphery, a black projectile flew at the Captain’s Shoulder, and a figure dressed in a green cloak followed, attacking her with speed. The captain fell and he felt his Facets changing. Becoming broader. Growing more complex, so they could support, not Techno-Mana, but something else. A sister-energy that started filling his Soul-Mind and building a bridge between him and her. The book transformed into white smoke, and started drifting toward his injured wing, healing it, turning it into smoke. Hann fell to his knees, locking gazes with the Ranger as she took the beak she’d thrown at the Fate-Weaver and tossed it behind her at the Black Eagle she’d broken it off of. She knelt at Cyra’s side, examining him, while more people entered the hall. Some winged. Some blue-skinned. And some in [World-Royal] Garb. One of the last sort walked over to Deqa and Qave, bowed in supplication before the Fate-Weaver Champion fell into darkness.

Understood.