Alyss groaned, lain prostrate upon the cold, wet, concrete ground of what she could only guess was the Dungeon’s second floor. That all-white Android had somehow teleported them here, but who knew where ‘here’ was, precisely.
She hoped her companions were safe.
But, then, hope was the enemy.
Alyss knew that well. She’d known it for years now. She’d learned it, had it beat relentlessly into her over a lifetime of mental and physical torture.
Hope was the enemy, because hope lied.
It sung to her, sung her sweet siren songs. Songs of love, and of freedom, and of adventure. Of the power to decide one’s own fate. Of a life that didn’t so closely resemble Hell. She’d heard them, plenty of times. At the few balls and galas she’d been permitted to attend. She’d even enjoyed them.
At first.
At first, she’d imagined herself a damsel in distress, a darling young Lady imprisoned in a horrible, terrible oubliette. Surely, she’d thought, it couldn’t be long before her hero arrived, slaying her captors and sweeping her off her feet to a life of romance and luxury.
Of course, that hadn’t happened.
But, when time passed, and her hero failed to materialize, she’d then imagined herself as the hero. Except, Alyss hadn’t gotten a hero’s Blessing. She wasn’t like Valour, or Wergar, or even the Divine Dragon. No. She was a Nycta, and her power reflected nothing less than her own soiled heritage. A lord of shadows. A damned Master.
Even then, her hopes had prevailed, though turning darker and darker by the day. Festering and becoming rotten, just like herself. She’d fantasized of breaking her own chains, stabbing Father right through the heart and twisting until he screamed. And when he finally drew his last, gasping, breath, she’d turn him, too, into one of her shades. A fitting end.
But that hadn’t happened, either.
And eventually, as time went on, she began to see the songs, the dreams, the hopes for what they truly were. Deception. Mockery. Misery was bad, but nothing was worse than false hope.
And yet.
And yet, she’d been a fool once more. She’d allowed herself to hope, just, just one last time.
Really, who could blame her? This was the farthest she’d ever strayed from home, the closest she’d ever come to escaping Soultaker’s all-encompassing grasp. Despite what she’d said, Alyss didn’t really think her leave was temporary. Not entirely. No, a tiny part of her, buried deep, deep down, wanted, yearned to be free. And thought this really might be her chance.
Him.
He was the problem. He was the great deceiver, damn him to all the Hells. The source of her false hope.
Hero.
What a ridiculous name. She’d had to stop herself from laughing, the first time she’d heard it. Back when she’d first met her delving companions. She remembered the moment well.
The indomitable Glare lived up to his reputation wholly and entirely, in many ways exactly the kind of Blessed Alyss so wished to become. He was strong, experienced, confident, and decisive. His shade exemplified his character; a great yellow sun with just a hint of blue at its core, shining proudly from above his form. Ironically, the opposite of the Therian who so idolized him. Rover’s half-moon shade lay hidden behind the lycan, almost seeming ashamed of itself.
Quarrel’s took on a conceptual form, which was quite rare, for a shade. It was intangible, invisible, only audible, a series of clicking, snapping POPs that echoed erratically around and about her. It gave Alyss a splitting headache, one of the many reasons she found herself so on-edge around the woman. But she didn’t hate Quarrel, not really.
We are Nycta, my girl. Our words are Death and Dominion. We rule, or we die. Must I teach you this lesson again?
No.
Never again.
Alyss was a Nycta, and so she would rule. Father would accept no less. Quarrel threatened her command, threatened it time and again, undermined it, and so they were at odds. It wasn’t personal.
Except, leading was nothing like she’d imagined. She wasn’t ready for it. She didn’t know how. All the theoretical instruction in the world still wasn’t enough. In retrospect, she should have expected as much. All her life, all she’d spoken to were slaves, or Masters. Was there a single time she’d ever interacted with an equal? With someone whom she didn’t have absolute power over, or who didn’t have it, over her?
She didn’t understand people, not well, and she didn’t understand the Dungeon. She was out of her depth, floundering. Destined for failure. She knew it. It was only a matter of time.
Hero.
What a ridiculous name. And yet, she’d come to believe it. Not at first, of course. When first they’d met, he hadn’t looked like nothing special, at all. Fair, but not overwhelmingly so. Nothing compared to Glare. He was young, that much was clear, and well-spoken. Well-educated. Again, none too surprising, for an Aristocrat.
No, it was his shade that first drew Alyss’s attention.
Hero’s shade was…bizarre. Nebulous. Almost amorphous. One moment, it appeared as an obsidian volcano, belching wrothfully at tumultuous skies. But then, ever so often, the volcano would ripple, and thick walls of polished, shining onyx would recede, making way for shards of silver fur, a dense coat of glimmering, glittering steel. A silver wolf, with streaks of blood-red here and there, ever-pacing, ever-alert.
But then, shades were myriad. They took all manner of flesh and form. So, Alyss hadn’t given it a second thought.
And besides, Hero didn’t exude the power, or aura of a wizened, experienced, Immortal Blessed. He didn’t give off the impression of being a Cell Heir. Brutes were tough, always handy, and made for an essential part of a delving team. But while Brute primaries were always good, they were rarely great. Without power, survivability was useless. And despite his name, Hero certainly didn’t strike Alyss as having a particularly powerful Blessing. If anything, it was his heirloom blade that made him exceptional.
But then, slowly, she’d begun to see.
Nothing could have prepared Alyss for the conditions of the delve. Not even her upbringing in Nycta. The heat, the humidity, the nauseating stench of the decaying jungle. The pervasive darkness brought back horrific memories of her childhood. Even before the first attack, she’d felt constantly on edge, eternally alert and searching for foes that might be hiding anywhere.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
None of them handled it well, and after the ruinous attack during their first night, even Glare’s composure broke. To be honest, she thought they’d fall apart then and there. She’d thought they’d fall upon one another. She’d even readied her Nightmares.
Except, him.
Hero never lost his temper. Not once. Not even after the wasps attacked. Hells, she’d never heard him so much as raise his voice, certainly not at her. Much unlike her other companions. And, much as Alyss hated to admit it, herself. Each time, when tempers rose, he interceded. He reconciled. When they’d been pushed to the breaking point, he was the one who came up with a plan. Who offered to keep watch, even all night long.
And then, the very, very first time they’d spoken alone, true to form, she’d nearly gutted the young man. Her, the leader! And he didn’t care! He didn’t even flinch. He’d, he’d…apologized. She’d scarcely believed it, at the time.
And then they spoke.
She’d been nervous at first, but Hero was just as calm as ever. A strong and steadfast rock, in the swirling chaos that was this delve. That was her life. He’d treated her kindly. Respectfully. Never mind the fact that she’d abjectly failed as a leader, that she’d failed entirely, he didn’t castigate or criticize.
And then, she’d understood.
This was what it meant, to be a Hero. This was why his Blessing had named him so. Not overwhelming power. Not strength of arm, but of character. Not the potential to take life, but the ability to nurture it. To maintain it.
And so, Alyss had allowed herself to trust him. Just a little bit. And with that little morsel of trust, her hope had begun to grow, once more.
Hero was an Aristocrat. An Aristocrat somewhat estranged from his family, but an Aristocrat nevertheless. Perhaps…perhaps, come the end of the delve, he might be amenable to remaining together. Perhaps he might be willing to join her in the journey to Great Bern, to the Institute. Perhaps they might be able to grow in strength, together. And then, if she told him of her heritage, and of her future, perhaps, just perhaps…
He might prove true to his name. He might help her.
And so, when the first floor’s Champion had attacked, she hadn’t used one of her two Nightmares to escape. Instead, she’d sacrificed it, forfeiting the equivalent of one hundred shades in one maneuver to ensure her companions’ survival. And in doing so, weakening herself. And she’d felt afraid, and unsure.
And then he’d made it all worth it.
Like a true Hero, he’d pledged himself to her, sanctified her leadership for all to see. When he’d stood before her, firm and noble, a single fist placed across his chest, Alyss had finally felt like the songs were coming true. And when he’d smiled at her, she’d forgotten her promise, and smiled right back. It felt good. It felt so good. To hope.
Must I teach you this lesson again, daughter?
How many times? How many times would it take her to learn? How many times would she allow her hope to grow, and thrive, only to be dashed away in the end?
“Rise.”
With a groan, Alyss rose to her feet.
She stood stock-still, unnaturally so. Her limbs felt filled to the brim with hot coals, that tingled terribly, that brought tears to her eyes. There were worms crawling between her ears, scratching and scuttling at the sides of her skull.
Her shades squirmed vengefully from within her soul, their emotions awash with anger and sorrow, desperate to help but incapable of doing so without her express command.
From the left-hand side of her frozen field of view, a well-dressed figure sauntered over. His golden eyes twinkled beautifully, contrasted by onyx skin. Creeping, crouching, slouching over his shoulders and head, his dreadful shade rose up gangly and grotesque.
It was a grey, sickly, skinny figure, all bones and barely flesh, its skin stretched too-tight across its asymmetric frame. It was a decapitated man, and a ring of staples around its sinuous neck was all that connected its lower body to a massive, rusted, bloodied bullhorn.
A humanoid Blessing. Telltale sign of a Master. Yet another hint she’d ignored.
The shade inhaled lightly, its ethereal form seething with malice and power, its voiceless whispers causing the worms infesting her mind to writhe.
Alyss whimpered.
Vox smiled understandingly.
“Ah, no doubt you’re uncomfortable, yes?”
Alyss couldn’t nod, her body just as petrified as ever. She screamed her answer out into her paralyzed skull.
“My deepest apologies, milady,” the Master chuckled. “My dear Broadcast does tend to err a trifle brutish when it assumes direct control. Of course, I’ll alleviate your discomfort posthaste…”
Vox paused, tapping a single digit against his own chin thoughtfully, though theatrically. Clearly, he was in no rush to end her suffering.
“Of course, I do assume you’ll treat me courteously after I do so? You wouldn’t, say, attempt to engage me in something as barbaric as combat after I release you from my grasp? Do I have your word, my Lady Nycta?”
So, he knew who she was.
Hardly a surprise. Father had insisted she wear the family colors, after all. Another way to test her. Alyss’s expression remained fixed, but she glared at the gold-eyed man, cursing him in her mind. If he thought something like this would be enough to make her squirm, if he thought she’d break so easily, he was mistaken. She’d had a lifetime to prepare for this moment.
As if he could hear her very thoughts, Vox laughed. Strangely, she didn’t detect any malice in his mirth.
“Fair enough, milady. I’ll dispense, with the…” he gestured broadly, to nothing in particular. Then, he shrugged. “Well, with everything, I suppose. Your torment doesn’t really serve much of a purpose anymore.”
Vox cleared his throat, his shade reared back, and Alyss braced herself.
“You may conduct yourself entirely normally, so long as you obey my every command from this moment onwards, unless I inform you otherwise. Additionally, no matter the circumstances, you may engage in no combative moves against myself or my interests, or attempts to escape my person, even should you believe I myself am commanding you to do so.”
The words slammed into her brain like brutal sledgehammers and, once there, seared themselves deep within, a hot-iron brand upon her white matter. It was a different manner of control entirely to the soul manipulation her family employed, less practiced and precise, and left her feeling dizzy and disoriented. As Alyss staggered back, now free to move and think and speak, her eyes darted to the right.
From afar, blending in with the shadows in the corner of the room, half-phased into the wall, her Nightmare observed all.
Even to her, it was a ghastly creature. Her second Gift, the spoilt 10th-Attunement fruit of her rotten Blessing. Her own shades were bad enough, little eldritch things of deformed darkness, all squirming limbs, sharp teeth, and crawling flesh. A Nightmare was exactly what the name implied; bigger, meaner, and more terrifying in every way.
Most of all because, unlike her shades, a Nightmare could think for itself, operating without her explicit say so.
It was a Blessing and a curse, giving the servant far and away more utility and power, yet making it all the more fearful to Alyss, herself. She could feel it doing so at this very moment, warily considering her situation, examining her adversary, and weighing odds. The fact that it hadn’t run away gave her some measure of faith, as the thing was likely her only chance against Vox’s control.
The Master’s directives affected her, and by extension, her shades, but did nothing to stymie the efforts of a summon that could act independently. She’d deliberately concealed their existence from all of her teammates for this express reason, the only smart decision she’d made this entire cursed delve. Vox would hold no sway over them.
A Nightmare, like her other servants, could fly and traverse physical barriers. Like them, it could use its demi-physical body to attack, shifting its limbs to swords and spears and lashes. Unlike them, it had one more capability.
It could possess humans.
Blessed or mundane. Nightmares did not discriminate. They took Alyss firmly from the category of summoning Masters, and put her into the one she hated, the one she dreaded, the loathsome enslaving Masters.
The look in Father’s eyes when she’d told him about them had made her want to vomit.
But right now, it could serve as her only salvation. The only question was, would its abilities work on another Master? And, if they did, would the creature actually help her of its own accord?
Eyes widening, Alyss realized she’d been quiet for far too long. Vox was approaching her buckled-double form curiously, brow beginning to furrow. Desperately, she choked out a question.
“What…what do you want?”