“Listen to me, Bee.” Slashex had rattled and wheezed in her ear. “I have granted you a weapon. Something we wield, but they cannot. Something these base creatures cannot even imagine. You must use it.”
The Eidolon waited at a remove by the entryway whilst Bee and Slashex still dwelled in the light of that wicked daystar. She watched with careful airs, even as the bell at the heart of Acetyn peeled, summoning her to her fate.
“Why should I trust you, now?” Bee asked, swallowing a lump in her throat, still feeling that thing stamped into her psyche that irritated her like a splinter in her mind’s eye.
“So there is still something left in that brain of yours, unspoiled,” Slashex whispered. “Simply said, if either Jhedothar or the Eidolon win this fight, the other will die, and their forces hence shall fall into infighting. They have no concept of temperance nor restraint in this matter. That will leave you and your cause greatly weakened.”
Slashex looked her over in his blind way, the broken servos in his neck grinding even as that faceplate clicked at her.
“I gave you this gift to use,” he continued. “When one takes the advantage, lay them both low with it. Show all who witness that you are the Vat-Mother’s daughter. Show them you are the real power here.”
“Will it kill them?” Bee’s voice was quiet.
“They are both strong enough to endure it.”
And silence hung between them until Bee spoke again.
“I know who you are,” her voice trembled. “I don’t know how you’ve done it, but I know who you are.”
“Good,” Slashex turned away.
The fires that once raged below had dwindled to smouldering embers, their ashen remains spiralling upward like forlorn spirits departing the realm for good. The Tower of Ymmngorad, though scarred, began to heal itself; the living architecture knitting together ruptured walls and sealing fissures with tendrils of new growth.
High above, spanning the chasm between the twin spires of Ymmngorad, a slender bridge stretched like a taut thread. Upon this precarious platform stood Jhedothar and the Eidolon, facing each other. The bridge was flanked on either side by the assembled warriors and servants of the ancient tower—anxious eyes fixed upon the two figures who held their fates in the balance. Golden-armoured Blades of the Rose stood beside Axiamati soldiers and motley crews of Jhedothar’s so-sworn, their usual enmity forgotten in the face of destiny.
Bee watched from a vantage point near the spire’s shattered entrance. Far below, she could see the sprawling expanse of Cruiros. The myriad inhabitants—freaks, chimaeras, and the forsaken peoples—had emerged from the shadows of the ruins. They gathered in clusters atop crumbling edifices and tangled vines, their gazes turned upward toward the distant spectacle.
A hush fell over the crowd as Jhedothar stepped forward. His exoskeletal form gleamed ominously, the dead augments in his limbs flexing as the might of his body beneath them moved in turn. The ruby spear he wielded pulsed with an inner light, casting a crimson hue across his distorted features. His bestial skull, adorned with metallic implants and that crown of antler, lent him an appearance both regal and monstrous.
The Eidolon stood opposite him, her posture proud and unyielding. Clad only in her ragged cloak, she exuded a calm that belied the lethal prowess that Bee knew she possessed. Her dozen eyes glowed softly, reflecting the ambient light like embers in the night. She held her starmetal blade in her hand—a weapon of stark simplicity, its edge keen and unadorned.
A sneer twisted across Jhedothar’s visage. “So, we meet again,” he called out, his voice amplified by the hollow resonance of the bridge. “Ever the silent spectre haunting my steps. Tell me, did you come all this way on the promise of slaughter or merely to fine the solace of oblivion at my hand?”
The Eidolon remained silent, her gaze fixed upon him without a hint of emotion. The wind tugged at the tattered edges of her cloak, but she stood as immovable as the ancient tower itself.
Jhedothar chuckled darkly. “Ah, so it is true,” he taunted. “Your erstwhile master took your voice as he took your name. Well, know this. I defeated you once before, and today I shall do so again—permanently.” He raised the ruby spear, its tip igniting with a fiery glow. “When I stand over your broken form, none will dare question my right to rule over Cruiros and beyond. I will rise to stand beside the old ones.”
A murmur rippled through the onlookers, the tension palpable. Bee clenched her fist, her nails digging into her palm. She glanced at Toshtta across the way, who stood nearby with the Blades of the Rose. The warrior’s expression was hidden beneath her helmet, but her posture was tense. Bee knew her well enough by now to know she was too afraid to intervene here.
Jhedothar continued, his voice dripping with contempt. “You have the audacity to stand here after your wanton slaughter of the innocent? In the name of the erstwhile Pilgrim, the profane Lord of Bones, and his heinous witch-wife, you commit atrocities and expect to continue?” He spat on the ground between them. “I will kill you. And it will be justice.”
The Eidolon tilted her head ever so slightly, the gesture almost imperceptible. Her silence was unnerving, a void that Jhedothar seemed desperate to fill with his own bluster. She slowly raised her blade, the movement fluid and deliberate. The crowd fell utterly silent, the weight of the moment pressing upon every soul present.
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The grand hall of the Ossein Basilica was a corpse from a bygone era. Ivory pillars carved with intricate reliefs soared toward a vaulted ceiling adorned with what were once frescoes; their pigments long ago faded into unrecognisable smears. The air was thick with the musty nature of the place, incense too burning to appease some unspoken esoterica—a testament to the archaic rituals that characterised the higher reaches of Acetyn.
The assembled nobility and champions of the realm stood in anticipation, their eyes fixed upon the centre of the chamber where two figures circled each other like predators. Representatives from the Pate Gardens stood beside envoys from the adjacent skull cavities, their armour reflecting the ambient light in shades of silver and steel. Whispered conversations took place as ancient things met here, brought together to witness the day’s brutal rite. They used it as an opportunity to decide the fate of lesser realms.
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At one end of the hall, the Lord of Bones reclined upon his filigreed throne, a construct of twisted metal and organic bone. His skeletal frame was draped in robes of heavy fabric that drowned his old body. Insipid hissing creatures lingered with him, their soft bodies and featureless faces revealing their nature as pleasure attendants. Streams of luminescent liquid flowed from fountains on either side of the throne, casting rippling patterns across the polished floor as they caught the light just so.
At the foot of the Lord of Bones’ dias, the serpentine form of the Hand of Zolgomere paced. Violent portent stirred him, and he would not allow any approach to his old, rotten Lord this day.
Nearby, Sir Enhash stood with a stoic expression, his armour etched with sigils denoting his numerous campaigns. Beside him was Sir Ohmax. Ohmax’s gaze was sharp, taking in every detail with a mix of curiosity and measured interest. His tall frame was clad in armour that bore the marks of recent battles, a testament to his prowess.
On the opposite side, Taneberr the Brute loomed like a mountain, his massive arms crossed over a barrel-like chest. Scars crisscrossed his exposed skin, each one a story of violence and survival. Beside him stood Llewtoll, his eyes distant and haunted, fingers absentmindedly tracing the hilt of his blade.
Menmarch and Marchemm, brothers carved from the same Vat-Born, stood shoulder to shoulder. Their identical features and synchronised movements were unsettling, a living reflection echoing between them.
Presiding over the duel was the Eidolon—then a craggy and ancient figure whose very being seemed a kinetic opposition to the exhausted Lord. His skin was hardened and fissured, resembling weathered stone more than flesh. Deep-set eyes, shadowed beneath a heavy brow, observed the combatants with an intensity that belied his stooped posture. Draped in ceremonial robes that had faded with age, he was a relic of an era long past, yet his authority was unquestioned.
For now.
The Wire-Witch stood apart from the crowd, her form both mesmerising and unsettling. She had come to the fore to witness this. Her bare skull, devoid of any flesh or expression, was adorned with a lattice of delicate wires that connected to the steely coils worn upon her otherwise naked body. Her hands, slender, rested lightly at her sides as she watched her newly anointed Dame, Vashante Tens, with an unreadable gaze.
Vashante, clad in the pale cloak of her order, faced off against Jhedothar. Her armour was unadorned but meticulously maintained. A great helm concealed her features entirely, save for the determined set of her jaw glimpsed beneath the visor.
Opposite her, Jhedothar exuded confidence bordering on arrogance. Dressed in the crimson regalia of the Vat-Mother of Acetyn’s Knights Tyrants, his armour was embellished with intricate patterns and symbols denoting his favoured status. His centaurian physique was imposing—taller and broader than Vashante, with a fluidity of movement that spoke of both augmented strength and the potential for impossible speed. His eyes gleamed with a predatory light as he twirled his ruby spear, the weapon humming softly with latent energy.
They circled each other, the ambient noise of the hall fading as all attention centred on the duel. Jhedothar struck first, lunging forward with a thrust aimed at Vashante’s shoulder. She parried deftly, the clash of metal against crystal ringing through the chamber. The exchange was left at that, each waiting for an opportunity to test the other’s defences.
From his throne, the Lord of Bones leaned forward slightly, the movement causing the filaments of his seat to ripple. His skirted attendants hissed softly, excited by the promise of blood, a chorus of unintelligible whispers that seemed to please him.
Jhedothar pressed the attack, utilising his superior reach and strength. He spun the spear in a dazzling arc before bringing it down in a powerful overhead strike. Vashante sidestepped, narrowly avoiding the blow, and countered with a swift slash aimed at his midsection. He deflected it with ease, the spear’s shaft meeting her blade with a resounding clang. With a turn of his mighty body, he sent her stumbling.
Sir Ohmax observed intently from the crowd. “She’s holding her own,” he commented to Sir Enhash.
“For now,” Sir Enhash replied. “But Jhedothar is toying with her.”
Taneberr grunted. Llewtoll shook his head.
On the duelling floor, Jhedothar’s movements became more aggressive. He feinted left, drawing Vashante into a defensive posture, then pivoted smoothly to strike her exposed side. The spear’s haft connected with her armour, the force of the impact reverberating through her body. She stumbled but recovered quickly, raising her blade just in time to block another incoming strike.
The Wire-Witch watched impassively, her unmoving skull offering no hint of her thoughts. Yet there was a subtle tension in the way her fingers tightened ever so slightly.
Jhedothar unleashed a flurry of strikes, each one pushing Vashante further back. She defended valiantly, but the strain began to show. A misstep caused her to falter, and Jhedothar seized the opportunity. With a flourish, he spun the ruby spear, its tip tracing a crimson arc before he drove the haft into her armoured abdomen.
The impact was brutal. Vashante was lifted off her feet, the breath forced from her lungs as she was propelled backwards. She crashed to the ground at the Wire-Witch’s feet, the clang of her armour against the stone floor echoing loudly.
A murmur rippled through the audience. Some looked on with concern; others smirked, anticipating the conclusion.
Jhedothar laughed, the sound rich with self-satisfaction. “Is this the best the pale has to offer?” he called out, his voice carrying across the hall. “A newly knighted Dame who can’t hold her ground?”
He strode forward confidently, the spear resting casually over his shoulder. “I expected more,” he continued, addressing the Wire-Witch directly. “Or perhaps you truly are the Least Lady, offering least in warriors, least in honour.”
The Wire-Witch’s head tilted slightly, the only indication that she had heard his insult. Her attendants shifted uneasily.
Vashante struggled to rise, her limbs heavy. The blow had rattled her but not broken her. Not yet. She planted her blade into the ground, using it to steady herself as she regained her footing.
Jhedothar shook his head mockingly. “Stay down,” he advised. “Save yourself further embarrassment.”
She lifted her gaze, the shadows obscuring her eyes but not the determination in her posture. She raised her sword without a word, signalling her readiness to continue.
A flicker of annoyance crossed Jhedothar’s face. “Very well,” he said coolly. “If you insist.”
He advanced once more, and she stepped forth to meet him.
In the crowd, Ohmax leaned forward. “She’s brave, at least,” he noted.
“This is already over,” Menmarch remarked, his brother Marchemm nodding in agreement.
Vashante managed to deflect a heavy strike and retaliated with a swift slash that grazed Jhedothar’s gauntlet. He glanced at the superficial damage, a scowl forming.
“Enough games,” he snarled.
He feinted a high strike, then shifted his grip to thrust low. Vashante anticipated the move, sidestepping and bringing her blade down toward his exposed wrist. But Jhedothar was faster; he twisted, the spear’s butt catching her behind the knee.
Her leg buckled, and she dropped to one knee. Before she could recover, he swung the spear in a broad arc, the flat of the ruby blade connecting with her shoulder and sending her sprawling once more.
The hall fell silent as Jhedothar stood over her. “This ends now,” he declared. “I didn’t come here to spar with novices.”
He turned his back on her, addressing the assembled nobility. “Is there none among you who can offer a true challenge?” he demanded. “Must I be subjected to this farce?”
The ancient Eidolon stirred, his gravelly voice cutting through the tension. “Let it be said, Jhedothar the Lance has proven himself this day, in these leaden halls,” he intoned.
And as Jhedothar cheered for himself and the assembled nobility and hangers-on joined him in polite applause, the Wire-Witch stepped forward. Her empty eyesockets peered down at Vashante, humiliated on her back. She said not a word.