Alyss heaved.
She took a sharp, frantic, panicked breath, whipping back in abrupt shock as a feeling of deep, unsettling, nausea coursed violently through her body.
She jerked back her hand as if scalded, and watched Taiven similarly recoil from in front of her, clutching his head in apparent pain.
“Oh G–Gods above, what,” she stammered, shivering, waving a hand awkwardly, blindly, in front of her whilst her shadows thrashed about disorientedly. “w–what did you–”
“What the fuck was that?” Taiven spat, his eyes fierce and flashing, his sudden anger causing her to flinch. And yet, as her anxious eyes flitted about the man, taking in his bizarre demeanor, Alyss realized that she’d been mistaken. He didn’t actually look angry. Not really.
He looked uneasy. Unsettled. Nervous.
“That is not a Minor Shard,” he said to her, dead seriously, an unusual gravity to his tone.
“That’s not a Minor Shard,” he repeated, stabbing a finger her way, shaking his head in a mixture of tension and outright disbelief. “I don’t understand. This shouldn’t be…I mean, I’ve never…never seen anything like this before. It says it is, it looks like one in your soul, Hells, even your Grimoire calls it Minor, but–but what I heard, it–”
“W–wait, wait,” Alyss pleaded, still stammering as she strove desperately to cut off the swordsman’s babble. “M–my soul? So, it worked? You, actually–you managed it? You managed to get in? How–”
“Summon your Grimoire.” Taiven interrupted her, in no mood for questions, the look in his eyes deadly grave. “Right now, Alyss. You should summon your Grimoire, right now. And you should read it.”
Her throat dry, her mind spinning, Alyss did so.
And gasped.
“What…what is this?” she whispered, her eyes growing wider and wider with each passing phrase, with each inexplicable word she beheld.
This was unbelievable.
Simply, patently, entirely unbelievable.
Gone without a trace were the vagaries and obtuse stanzas, those subtle, largely unhelpful, hints that had prior filled her Grimoire. Instead, writ in mundane, unassuming Common, were the precise details of both her Blessing and her Gifts. Their every aspect was explained, their myriad functions were listed, exactly.
How…how could this be?
Blessings, and Gifts, were enigmatic by design. Why, it was their nature! Just one more test, one further measure undertaken to ensure that Blessed who wielded them might truly be worthy of their magnificent power. It had to be so, it had to be, elsewise everything would be too easy, too–
“This is…,” Alyss drew breath sharply, once more.
She was awestruck, her thoughts coming too fast and too frenzied to articulate aloud. This explained everything, everything! Every thought she’d ever wondered about the nuances of her power, every question she’d ever wished answered by the Gods. Priest, it even gave her a precise count of each shade and Nightmare she controlled!
It felt like forbidden knowledge. Like looking behind the curtain. Like seeing something she was never, never meant to see.
“Incredible…,” Alyss whispered, for there was simply no other word that might do this situation justice, and though she felt afraid, she felt exhilaration in equal measure.
Then, she frowned.
“Wha…what’s that?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she turned back to Taiven. “Tha–Thanatokinesis? Why does it say that? Why does it call my Blessing that? Why has its name changed? And what, by all the Gods, does Mi mean?”
“I don’t know,” Taiven replied, at once, his deep frown mirroring hers. “I’ve no idea, no idea at all. My Grimoire shares that same level of detail, but–”
Of course it does, Alyss thought. Why am I surprised?
The young man grit his teeth, almost snarling as he spoke, beset by frustration and rage.
“But why would yours change? How? How can this be? Grimoires are not powers, they can’t be manipulated, even by Sovereign, even by me, they…” Taiven paused for a moment, his eyes roving about wildly, his mind clearly racing even as he sat still.
“There’s something wrong with your Blessing, Alyss.”
His words, though spoken more softly than before, chilled her to the bone.
“It should be Minor,” Taiven went on, teeth still grit tight, “ I know it should. I know it should. That’s what Mi means; Minor. That’s what it stands for. But, somehow, it’s not. There’s just…no way…”
He shook his head, vehemently.
“Not with that name. Not with that description. It’s too–too powerful. Mark my words, Thanatokinesis is not a Minor Shard.”
Alyss paused, for a moment afraid to even speak, fearing what next answer she might receive.
“Then…then what is it?” she asked, finally.
“I don’t know,” Taiven repeated, angrily, still frustrated. “I don’t know why it’s doing this. I don’t know what’s doing this. Something’s not right, here, I think–I think your power might be broken. It should be Major, at least, bu–”
“What’s all the commotion?” A powerful voice boomed up above them.
From on high, the Immolator descended, landing in a rather unnecessarily, yet quite characteristically, ostentatious comet of scalding heat and brilliant, white-yellow light. A hesitant, cautious scowl had marred his face, growing deeper as he beheld their collective distress.
“Is…is everything alright?” he asked, at a more normal volume. “What’s going on here?”
Both she and Taiven spoke at once, their tense words and high-strung voices overlapping one another, ultimately producing naught but an incomprehensible cacophony of meaningless noise, arrested only when the Immolator held out both his palms before him, pleadingly.
“Please. One at a time, please,” he begged, worried and confused.
“Taiven, ah, he, well,” Alyss spluttered ineffectually, internally cursing her loss of composure, which, of course, only made her lose yet more. “That is to say, I wished for him to examine my Blessing, you see, and–”
“And her Shard’s all fucked,” Taiven finished for her, producing an uncommon curse. “It’s all fucked, Caleb,” he repeated. “Something’s wrong. I can’t understand it. And that’s not even the half of it.”
Before Alyss could get a word in edgewise, he looked right at her, and made one last request.
“Read what’s at the bottom of the page,” he said, dead-serious and still angry, though not, it seemed, at her. “Read it aloud. Read it for all of us, Glare included.”
Alyss frowned, confused.
“What do you mean?” She asked, glancing back to the offending book which she alone could see. “What do you mean, there’s nothi–”
Alyss froze.
She swallowed.
Slowly, numbly, she complied with his request.
Alyss recited each line and every passage that had been compressed haphazardly into the bottom corner of her Grimoire, perpendicular to the tome’s main passage, writ so small and erratically, so fundamentally out of place, she wondered if they were ever meant to be there. She skipped nothing, despite how the words stuttered and floundered about the page, dictating even the bewildering alphanumeric strings that speckled its breadth, lending a distorted, malfunctioning tonality to the message.
Eventually, she finished, and a pregnant silence hung in the air.
Broken only by Taiven’s laughter.
“It’s fucking, it’s fucking crazy, right?” He laughed. “Right? You agree, right?” There was a sickly sort of desperation to his mirth. Frightened, Alyss nodded, and Glare did, too.
“Right. Fucking crazy. Fucking insane,” Taiven repeated, as his laughter slowly ebbed away, replaced by something more hollow. His smile disappeared.
“And yet.”
“And yet, familiar,” he whispered, gravely. “I recognize those words. I recognize that name.”
He jabbed a finger at Alyss, or perhaps at her Grimoire, accusatorily.
“Akashic,” Taiven said.
He spoke the word softly, almost tremulously, as if invoking some forbidden ritual, or the name of an ancient demon. His eyes burned with a mixture of frustration, desperation, and fear.
“Or…or Calvin, I guess. If that’s even his name. If they’re even the same person. My Grimoire mentions him, too. Fucking…fucking Akashic.” He cursed once more, quietly, miserably.
Then, shakily, he continued.
“Your glossary.” He jabbed a finger at Alyss, again, babbling. “It mentions a glossary. Your glossary. It mentions it, but you can’t find it, can you? It doesn’t–it mentions it, but it doesn’t really exist. It’s not there?”
Numbly, dutifully, at a loss for words, Alyss scoured the pages of her Grimoire. Sure enough, they were all empty. Just as Taiven prophesied. Just as they always had been. Looking up, she nodded. The swordsman mirrored her gesture.
“Of course,” he said, a small, no doubt unintentional giggle escaping him again. “Of course. Of course it’s broken. Why wouldn’t it be? Why–” About to let loose another bout of hysterics, the young man, with great apparent effort, stopped himself, and took a deep breath.
“Right,” he said, nodding and ventilating, closing his eyes, “right, right. Fine. Well, mine’s not.” He re-opened them.
“My glossary. It’s–not entirely, at least. I can read it–parts of it–just fine.” Taiven glanced towards Glare, smiling again in that shaky way that made Alyss a good deal nervous.
“It’s how I learned about Shards, Inquisitor,” he drawled. “The ultimate blasphemic doctrine, that glossary. More or less everything I know about them, it all came from that. Some of the things it says…”
Taiven’s voice quavered for a moment, and he trailed off, once more shutting his eyes, shaking his head.
The prodigy didn’t seem quite so Godlike, anymore.
Distantly, and for perhaps the first real time, Alyss considered what Taiven’s position must have been, until now. What his life must have been, until now. Tavien came from no nobility, she knew that much. He’d told them that much. Priest above, he came from the damned villages. A Trigger from the wilds, alone, and hunted by those he knew not. Cursed with knowledge, plagued by truths he didn’t fully understand, truths even she struggled to understand.
“Even in mine,” the young man continued, eventually, his voice a good deal quieter now, “the entries are…corrupted. Like yours. Some–no, most, perhaps, are corrupted. I can’t know for sure. I can only assume, but…” He paused, biting his bottom lip.
“But everything in there,” he said, “everything I’ve read, everything I can test, has, so far, proven to be true.”
He pointed at Alyss, or perhaps the space that signified her Grimoire, for a third time.
“And it was written by Akashic,” he declared, softly, shaking his head. “Whoever he is. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I think…I think he may have created Grimoires.”
“Impossible,” Glare replied instantly, almost reflexively, denying just as he had weeks before. This time, though, Alyss could detect a fair measure of self-doubt in his expression.
Even more worryingly, Taiven didn’t argue with him this time. Instead, he just laughed. As if, as if his thoughts, and suppositions were beyond such petty reproach. After all, taken on his own, he might have merely been mad. But now, she was his accomplice.
Two people were not like to hallucinate the same thing.
“Welcome to my world,” Taiven chuckled, emptily, humorlessly, as if reading her mind. “It’s been–”
“No,” Glare interrupted, again. “No, I do not believe this. This…this simply cannot be.” He crouched, bent over low, drawing near to Taiven, pleading with the man.
“My friend, please!” he begged, “Think–think, for but a moment. Think what you are saying! You must be mistaken, you…you must be!”
But Taiven made no reply. He wouldn’t even look the Immolator in the eye. He just kept shaking his head, and staring at the ground, and so Glare turned to her, instead.
“Alyss, this is madness,” he tried again, wringing his hands. “You, at least, must agree. The talk of Shards was implausible enough, but this…this is something else entirely. At no point, not once in all of human history has there been someone capable of manipulating a Grimoire! It’s just, it’s just not possible, it–”
“The Warrior could do it,” Alyss pointed out. “Couldn’t he?”
Glare stopped cold.
“Couldn’t he?” she maintained. “In theory?” She shrugged. “And the High Priest, well, he was responsible for their creation, was he not?”
The Immolator remained silent.
“If it could be done, once,” Alyss suggested, honestly unsure whether or not even she believed what she was currently saying, “then it is possible, at least.”
“This is madness,” Glare repeated, muttering, unwilling to answer her directly. But his denial, this time, seemed more meant to assuage himself than any of them. “Madness, madness…”
He went on like that for a while, just muttering to himself. Taiven, similarly, yet for the first time she’d seen, looked…inconsolate. Lost. His gaze was distracted, his mind unfocused. He couldn’t keep them together, this time. He had no more answers to give.
Of course, Alyss thought idly. After all, he’s from the wilds.
Taiven knew nothing of Blessings, nothing of Blessed. Educated perhaps in the arts, and the sciences, but not the ways or rhythms of the empowered world. He’d triggered mere months ago. In a way, it was a miracle he’d survived, on his own, until now.
But he wasn’t alone anymore.
A series of thoughts, realizations, and epiphanies surged abruptly through Alyss’s brain, and ran like lightning down her spine. She glanced between her two companions, eyes wide with recognition, with inspiration.
Suddenly, everything made sense.
Alyss wasn’t a weathered soldier, like Glare. She wasn’t a fearless prodigy, like Taiven. That wasn’t her role, and it didn’t need to be. It wasn’t what they needed, the three of them. It wasn’t what they lacked.
Alyss hadn’t delved the depths of the Dungeon, nor warred upon the ravaged Frontlines. She’d delved into the intrigues of court. She’d warred upon a field of information. She’d done it since childhood, all her life. She’d learned how to process, to prioritize. How to plot, to plan, to scheme.
She’d learned how to keep secrets. From powerful Blessed, most of all. Alyss was a leader and, she decided, it was time for her to start acting like one.
“I think we should focus on what we know,” Alyss declared, suddenly and confidently, breaking the miserable quiet.
As one, her companions turned to face her. Glare looked wary, angry, and unsure. Taiven still looked lost. Alyss felt her habitual anxiety rise up once more, but squashed it mercilessly down. There was no more room for it.
“Clearly,” she gestured mildly at Taiven, “this Akashic fellow, or Calvin, or whomever or whatever he might be, is important. Perhaps he is the High Priest–” Glare bristled at her for a moment “–and perhaps not,” she said, holding up a hand forestallingly in his direction.
“We don’t know for sure, so let’s focus on what we do know about him,” she repeated, evenly, then shrugged.
“We might understand little of it, now, it’s true. But perhaps we are not quite–not quite so ignorant as we might imagine.” She directed a meaningful gaze towards the Immolator.
“There is a story here. There is. I, I can sense it. And perhaps,” she suggested, “these two narratives, of the Faith, and of Akashic, are not so self-exclusive as they might appear.”
Glare, mollified somewhat, eyed Alyss with a significantly more open, and considering, demeanor. Taiven, though still somewhat subdued, at least appeared engaged in the current conversation. Good.
There was a story here, somewhere, but she wouldn’t find it without him.
“We can confidently assume, I would say,” Alyss hypothesized, “that Akashic boasts a significant knowledge of Blessings–er, of Shards–their mechanics, and their culture,” she finished, slipping up only once.
“Is there a chance he could be a Shard, himself?” She asked, looking at Taiven, not-so-subtly egging the young swordsman on to recapitulate his more intellectual persuasion. She knew he was a curious, outgoing sort. She learned that well, over the near month they’d spent together. Much as Alyss might guide the conversation, only he truly understood Shards.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
She needed him focused. She needed him back.
“It’s…unlikely…” the young man muttered, eventually.
“In my glossary,” he went on, speaking contemplatively as he tapped his chin, looking a measure less distressed as he considered fact, and fact alone, “Akashic’s understanding of Shards is, indeed, quite vast. Vastly superior to our own,” he admitted.
Then he shook his head.
“Yet, ultimately, his perspective seems, to me, that of an outsider looking in,” Taiven explained. “Akashic describes the Shards as objects of study, treating all non-Minor Shards with a good deal of caution. Moreover, his speech is that of a scholar, not a Shard,” He tapped his chin again. “A human. A Thinker, perhaps?”
“Perhaps,” Alyss accepted, noncommittally, working hard to hide the relief she felt within. “But, in my view, a Tinker seems more likely. He does speak of creating this ‘System’ of ours, after all.”
Taiven nodded slowly, his surety increasing with each word the two of them exchanged.
“Yes,” he nodded, again, “yes, you’re right. A Tinker, with…,” he looked off, into the distance. “With the ability to manipulate Shards, themselves, perhaps,” he muttered. “Or something adjacent to it. The song? If–”
“Perhaps,” Alyss repeated, interrupting the young man, forcing him to remain focused on the subject at hand, rather than those deviations of which they knew precious little. “Regardless, he claims to be the System’s creator. So, what does that mean? What is this Blessed System, precisely? Is the System Blessings, themselves? Grimoires?”
Taiven just shook his head, stumped for now, and so Alyss turned to Glare. Suddenly, the eyes of both his companions were upon the Immolator, and he shifted, uncomfortably, defensively.
“High Inquisitor,” Alyss began, lightly, “are there any, throughout history, of whom the Faith teaches of, that might fit this bill? Any with the power to manipulate not just Blessings, but Grimoires? Any, other than the High Priest, himself?”
Glare considered her inquiry for a moment, before slowly shaking his head.
“No,” he replied, though his brow furrowed deeply as he did so. “No, there’s…there’s nothing. There’s no one. Aside from the Warrior, I suppose, as you say. Alexandria and Legend did not share the High Priest’s power, and…” He frowned.
“And Eidolon wasn’t a Tinker or a Thinker, he–” All of a sudden, the Immortal paused, tilting his head to the side.
“Though, now that you mention it,” he murmured, half to himself. “Now that you mention it, there is…something.”
“Not someone?” Taiven asked, quickly.
“Not someone,” Glare replied, readily. “Something. Something…pertinent to this subject, perhaps. A theory, of sorts.”
His gaze snapped up, sharply, warily.
“Only a theory,” Glare maintained, reluctantly. “A rumor. Not canon. I cannot vouch for its accuracy.”
Alyss gestured for him to continue.
The Immolator sighed, and rubbed his flawless forehead. “Well, you see,” he began, tentatively, “Blessings come from the Priest. Everyone knows that.” Taiven frowned, but Alyss gestured, again, for Glare to continue.
“Blessings come from the Priest,” he repeated, “but Grimoires…”
He hesitated.
“Grimoires are a somewhat more disputed prospect,” Glare hedged. “Even, even amongst the Faith. Many, obviously–most, even–claim they, too, are beneficence of the Priest…”
Taiven rolled his eyes. Fortunately, the Immolator didn’t seem to notice.
“But…,” he went on, “whilst Blessings most certainly existed before the Collapse,” he explained, hesitantly, “no definitive records exist proving the presence of Grimoires, or Gifts, for that matter, prior to 51 AC.”
Taiven snapped to attention instantly, suddenly interested in his companion’s words.
“There was a time before Gifts?” he asked, excitedly. “Before Grimoires? How did Blessings even work, then, did–”
“I don’t know!” Glare snapped, angrily, causing his companion to quickly quiet. “I don’t know! How would I know?! I just said, there are no records! I don’t even know this to be true!”
Glare stopped, apparently realizing his outburst, took a deep breath, and continued.
“There are many that dispute this claim,” he insisted, firmly. “Many. Most, in fact. One contradictory theory suggests such records, like countless others, simply did not survive the Collapse. Another contends that such things represented the final, fading embers of the High Priest’s power, sent to us from afar, whilst he kept eternal watch.”
He shook his head, and stared the both of them down, challengingly.
“Regardless,” Glare equivocated, “near all agree. Both Gifts, and Grimoires are, undeniably, the work of the Priest.” He raised his eyebrows, and adopted a more teaching demeanor. “Hence, the name. His very last, parting, Gift to us.”
“But,” Taiven began, as soon as Glare finished speaking, “supposing that that’s not the case…” he looked towards Alyss.
“It’s possible that, while Blessings may be born of the Priest, Grimoires are the work of Akashic, instead,” she finished for him.
“I don’t know,” Glare reiterated, suddenly tired and still unsure. “I don’t know. Yes, I suppose it’s possible. What does it matter? Clearly, this Akashic fellow is long dead.” He looked at the both of them, challengingly, once more.
Reluctantly, Taiven nodded.
“It does seem so,” he admitted, sadly. “My Grimoire states that Akashic lacked the requisite time to implement certain features, likely those same features your–,” he pointed at Alyss, “–passage also mentions, intended to be standard in all Blessed.”
He nodded again.
“And besides,” he sighed, “surely, if such a magnificently potent Tinker walked among us, at least one of us would know his name. Even Grimnir’s might is not sufficient to manipulate Shards, themselves, let alone do something so monumental as to create Grimoires.”
“So, it is more like than not, that Akashic died,” Taiven muttered, the beginnings of disconsolacy gripping into him once more. “And with him, our answers. Except…except, only, who, or what could have killed such a–”
“It matters not,” Glare interrupted him, firmly. “Any number of things. The Titans, perhaps, if he truly is so powerful as he claims. The Lord of Lies, rising up from the pits of Hell. Perhaps another Blessed, eager for power and knowledge.”
Glare waved his hand, dismissively.
“Such speculation is meaningless,” he declared. “The inner workings of Grimoires have not changed since their inception. I say, it’s best we just–”
“Until now,” Alyss interrupted. Glare frowned at her.
“They haven’t changed, until now,” she repeated, looking at Taiven. “Which brings us to the heart of the issue,” she said, excitedly. “The critical question.” She narrowed her eyes at the young swordsman.
“What’s so special about yours?”
“Mine?” Taiven asked, confused.
“Yes, yours,” Alyss confirmed. “You claimed it to be the cause of my upgrades, and I find myself inclined to agree. So, what’s so special about it?”
Alyss paused for a moment, chewing absently on a nail as she thought. “You said…you said it mentions Akashic,” she recalled, eyeing him in askance. Taiven nodded.
“Well?” She prompted. “What does it say, precisely?”
Taiven frowned, and his focus darted away from her, instead directed towards a point in space she couldn’t see, doubtless reading from his own Grimoire.
“Due to ADMINISTRATION’s involvement in the creation of the Blessed System,” Taiven recited, “the Host’s Grimoire is upgraded. These upgrades grant access to some features originally intended to be standard in each Blessed, which Akashic did not have time to implement.”
“Administration,” Alyss realized, drawing herself up, sharply. “Sovereign. Your Blessing. That makes sense…some sort of memetic effect, perhaps? So, then, everything you interact with spiritually is–”
“No.”
Alyss looked up. Taiven was still dead-focused on the pages of his Grimoire, his brow furrowed furiously, his eyes flashing with that unnerving, sea-green light he used when he was looking at your soul.
“…no?” She asked, hesitantly. “What–what do you mean, no?”
Taiven straightened, and something behind his eyes changed.
They darted in multiple different directions at once, widening with each one as they did so, as if a myriad of connections, of conclusions, were finally, inevitably realized all at once. Alyss found herself suddenly uneasy. She glanced towards Glare, and saw her tension mirrored on his face. Clearly, they were both thinking the same thing.
Just what had their companion learned?
“Taiven?” She asked, snapping her fingers in front of him, “Hello–”
“That’s not Sovereign,” her fellow delver whispered, finally looking up to meet her gaze with a look that unsettled her far more than rage, far more than misery. A look that, despite all they’d been through, all they’d suffered through together, she realized she’d never once before seen him wear.
It was fear.
Taiven was afraid.
Alyss had never seen him look afraid, before.
Never.
Apprehensive, perhaps, tense, but never afraid. Not faced off against Vox, nor the first floor’s Champion. Even when recalling being in the throes of his sadistic Blessing, his bloodthirsty Sovereign, Taiven had never once looked fearful, only furious.
But he did now.
“It’s written differently,” he breathed, his gaze still locked tight onto the invisible pages of his Grimoire with a frightful intensity. “Differently than all the others, I’m sure of it, I’m sure of it, that’s–that’s not Sovereign, it’s–”
Taiven’s voice trembled as he finally wrenched himself from his Grimoire and turned to face her. The terror in his eyes made Alyss shudder.
“Oh…oh, Gods,” he quavered, wrapping his hands tight about his chest. “I understand.” An unnerving madness danced behind his glowing, sea-green eyes. Glare and Alyss exchanged fearful glances. Taiven’s voice shook mightily.
“My–my trigger vision.”
But his words only left Alyss more confused.
“Trigger vision?” She asked. “What’s a trigger vis–” She was stopped by, of all people, Glare. The Immolator held out an arm towards her, forestallingly. Gently, softly, he spoke to the shaking swordsman.
“Yes,” Glare breathed, just as tense as Taiven. “The vision. I remember.” Alyss’s eyes widened, but she said nothing else. “Go on.”
“You remember–,” Taiven shivered. “You–you remember the, the two monsters? Those Godlike, alien…worms?” He gnashed his teeth, and gripped his arms so tightly that his knuckles whitened, as if the memory of what he’d seen alone was almost too great to bear.
“You remember the way they,” Taiven lurched, snarling through the nausea, “they coiled about one another? The way they twisted around, and around, and around, and–”
“Yes, yes,” Glare replied, quickly, nervously. Hesitantly, he crept to his companion’s side, leaning over next to Taiven, as if to offer some measure of warmth, some facsimile of support, no matter how small.
“I remember,” he said, still softly, laying a hand lightly upon his brother-in-arms’ shoulder. “I remember, my friend. Go on.”
Taiven looked up at him.
“And,” he rasped, “do you remember what came next?”
Glare frowned, suddenly unsure.
“…next?” He muttered, confused. “Nothing…nothing came next. Next, the vision ended. Next, I woke up, to–to,” But Glare’s face paled, and he shut his eyes tight, unwilling to speak another word.
Taiven chuckled, again, more emptily than ever.
“Of course you did,” he laughed, shakily. “No, that makes sense. That makes sense, I suppose. That would be how it ends. Well, mine wasn’t like that.”
“Mine, it…it broke, halfway through,” Taiven stammered, facing the ground.
“Mine was co-opted,” he snarled.
“Corrupted,” he growled.
“Cursed,” he lamented.
“Overridden,” he shivered, “by a giant, golden centipede.”
Taiven’s gaze rose to face them dead-on, that glimmer of madness somewhere inside it, and he took a deep, deep breath.
“By ADMINISTRATION//THE HIGH QUEEN.”
Once more, just as they had before, Taiven’s words struck Alyss like a physical blow.
A spiritual blow, mighty in a way that transcended description, conveying ancient power and eldritch knowledge never meant for mortal minds to bear. The sounds he uttered, however, the mundane letters and phonetics, were different than before, distinct from the last time he’d mentioned his Blessing’s name.
Where once they had been a thoroughly wretched noise, a creeping, crawling, scuttling swarm, a bloodthirsty, savage metaphysical attack that overwhelmed the senses, wormed its way into the mind, and feasted festively upon fatty grey matter…now they were something else entirely.
They were a holy gong. A divine choir.
Terrible, but…beautiful. Simple.
They pierced her mind plainly, short and sharp and surgical, and, though far from pleasant, were equally far from the horror of Sovereign’s true name. And though Alyss swooned in her seat, and she saw Glare stagger back, the both of them recovered far more quickly than before.
Not that such things mattered to Taiven, now.
Her maddened Hero stabbed his finger upwards, into the empty air, eyes darting about in that eclectic manner, gibbering as he quoted things unknown to her.
“It–it all makes sense. Oh Gods, it all makes sense, now, of course it does,” Taiven raved, chanting. “The Warrior has gone mad, the Cycle is broken, eat of my flesh, and be reborn. It was leading me, guiding me, shepherding me all this time, and I never believed, I never thought, I never saw, I never saw–”
“Lord Hero, control yourself!” Glare bellowed, in a fearful desperation, clutching their companion by the shoulders, gripping him so tightly his knuckles whitened. Alyss rose from her seat, reaching out to touch the man–but hesitated.
Just what might happen, if the two of them made physical contact whilst Taiven was ensconced in his current state of mind? Might he invade her soul, again? Without even meaning to? What fresh changes, what next havoc, might he unwittingly unleash? Alyss didn’t fear Taiven, but his power…
It frightened her mightily.
Yet even the proximity of her touch drove Taiven’s shivers to calm a measure, caused him to arrest his babbling, and lock eyes with her, lost and afraid.
Speak!
Alyss willed herself.
Say something! Calm him!
But she knew not what to say. A decade of tutelage could never have prepared her for this.
“Taiven,” she attempted, voice wavering despite her best efforts. “P–perhaps, you might…you might speak more slowly. You might start again, from, from the beginning.” She gestured at herself, and Glare.
“Help us understand,” she beseeched.
“The High Queen…,” Taiven recited, dazedly, as if in a trance. “Is the paramount Noble Shard. The absolute authority, within the Gestalt. The collective’s brain.” He glanced down at his trembling, white-knuckled hands. “I–it was the one that created Sovereign, and placed it in me. Raised me up. Granted me Blessing.”
Glare shot her a concerned glance, one with which she empathized. A Shard, capable of creating Shards? A Shard, possessed of the power and agency necessary to interfere directly with the material world? If true, such things troubled her greatly.
But not nearly so much as the monologue’s finale.
Taiven looked at Glare, and at Alyss, and smiled emptily.
“In return, it wants me to slay the Warrior.”
As one, they froze.
“The Warrior…,” Glare stammered, first to break the silence with a voice quiet as a mouse, “i–is gone. Defeated, centuries ago. Imprisoned. Locked away, for all time. How are you meant to–”
“The Plan,” Alyss breathed, an involuntary shiver worming down her spine. “Vox’s Plan, the Devoted’s Plan, the one he spoke of, when…” She turned to face the Immolator, her eyes, though neither white-yellow nor shining, just as wide as his.
“The Warrior’s freedom draws near,” she whispered to him, “that’s what he said. The Warrior’s freedom draws near.”
“That’s impossible,” Glare denied, though he looked terribly uncertain. “The Devoted cannot free the Warrior. No one can. His prison is not of this earthly realm, none even know where–”
“Doesn’t matter,” Taiven cut the both of them off, dully, still smiling emptily at them. “You’re right, of course, but it doesn’t matter.” He chuckled in that humorless way, shaking his head at Glare as if he, too, wished the latter to be right.
“The High Queen says the Warrior will be free,” he declared, as if stating a matter of fact, as if merely describing the weather, “So he will be free.” Taiven nodded once. “His rage will consume all.”
Glare’s face drained of color.
“And I must defeat him,” Taiven said, barking out another hollow, humorless laugh. “Defeat him, and complete the Source. Whatever the fuck that means. I have to do it. Me. Why, why in all the Gods’ names would it choose me?”
He said it desperately, almost pleading with them, as if hoping one of them might possess the answer.
Needless to say, neither of them replied.
“I, I was born in the villages,” Taiven laughed, cradling his head in his hands. “The fucking wilds. I’ve no pedigree. No accolades. No vaunted education. I never wanted this, I never wanted any of this. I only ever wanted to be Blessed, to…to…”
He shook his head, and laughed once more, into his hands.
“It’s–why, it’s ridiculous!” he cried. “I know nothing of this world, nothing! How am I to fight the Warrior? I don’t even know where to begin, but I have to do it anyway, I have to try, to do it or die, all alone, an–”
“You’re not alone,” Alyss blurted out, so quickly and abruptly she caught even herself by surprise.
Glare and Taiven both looked at her.
“R–right now,” she doubled down, stammering slightly. “You’re not alone right now, are you? Well, are you?”
Taiven gave her a look of utter, patent incredulity.
“Milady,” he said, sarcastically, “are you seriously suggesting you intend to help me defeat the Warrior?” He directed a pointer finger at her chest. “Why, you yourself said it, simply being around me is life-threatening, let alone–”
“That is precisely what I suggest.”
Even as the rash, likely imprudent words departed her mouth, Alyss felt herself overwhelmed by a sudden, ice-cold certainty. It swept through her body miraculously, like manna from the Heavens, driving away the last vestiges of her anxiety.
Alyss stared down the white-haired swordsman coolly for a moment, leaving him stupefied.
Then, she spoke.
“You help me kill my Father,” Alyss Nycta offered, with absolute conviction, “and I’ll help you kill the Warrior.”
She paused for a moment, considering, then shrugged. “Or, I suppose, at least I’ll die trying. I fail to see how such a future might possibly rival the suffering lain in waiting for me, upon my return.”
“You saw how my Blessing works,” she went on, seriously. “I may not be as strong as you just yet, but all I need are souls, and time. Souls, and time.” She pointed right back at him, a queer, quivering smile worming its way across her face.
“You keep me from my Father’s grasp long enough for me to gather them,” Alyss promised, clenching her outstretched hand into a fist, “and together we’ll give the Warrior the fight of his life.”
Taiven’s jaw had dropped open. He was just staring at her, completely and totally flabbergasted. Alyss, by contrast, felt positively giddy and so, still smiling, she turned to face her other companion.
“High Inquisitor,” she began, mildly, “Unlikely as you may find this scenario to be, I don’t suppose someone of your conviction would be at all opposed to doing battle with the Warrior?” Her grin sharpened. “He is something of your arch-nemesis, after all.”
Glare stared at her blankly, equally as dumbfounded as Taiven. He shook his head.
“You’re mad,” he muttered, “the both of you. Absolutely, positively mad.” The Immolator curled his hands up into fists, and looked down at them, clearly fighting with himself.
“I–,” he bit his lip, then drew himself up tall.
“Oh, fuck it,” he swore.
“No matter what the two of you may think of me,” he said, looking particularly at Taiven, “I am not merely some dog of the Faith. I believe in the doctrine, I do, but…but the institution…” He grit his teeth hard.
“There is something rotten in it,” Glare cursed, his eyes flashing darkly. “What it is, I do not know. Father Ian would not tell me, and this…this worries me.” He grimaced.
“I worry for the Coterie, as well. I do not know if they can be trusted,” he admitted. “That Vox was allowed entry, that he passed by all their barriers without detection…to me, this speaks volumes.”
Glare closed his eyes, sighing, and seemed impossibly weary for a moment, a boy given the responsibilities of a man.
“I do not know whom to trust,” he lamented. “All around me, I see naught but enemies. Yet, I know not if I shall have the strength requisite to weather the coming storm, alone. Perhaps, I shall become mighty. Perhaps not. ”
He directed his gaze towards Taiven.
“But you will,” he uttered, lowly, his eyes flaring with prophetic light. “You will. I can feel it in my bones. In my very Core. You already have. Rarely have I met one such as you, one so well-suited to war…”
He closed his eyes, again.
“I would not ask that you take up my Faith, of course” Glare intoned, his eyes still shut tight. “I would not ask that of you. Only, that you help me to protect those countless innocents who follow it. Blessed and Mundane, alike.”
“Do this,” Glare said, opening his eyes. “Do this for me, help me to seek out this corruption, and excise it, and I shall make your crusade mine, as well.”
Taiven looked between the both of them, unknowable emotions flitting across his face.
“I…I don’t even know what to tell you,” he admitted, finally, quietly. “Where to begin–”
“Begin with us,” Alyss suggested, smiling strangely at him, thrusting a now–unshaking hand out towards him, palm facing upwards. “Begin with this.” She nodded at the Immolator, who swiftly added his palm to the pile.
Taiven stretched out his own, hesitantly, tentatively, and placed it at the very top.
This would be the ideal time for a speech, Alyss recognized. A speech, to cement her leadership, their companionship. She licked her lips, cleared her throat, and made to do just so.
Instead, as she opened her mouth, a bizarre, unprompted giggle escaped from in-between Alyss’s lips. Taiven’s gaze flickered up, meeting hers, shock spelt plainly across his face.
Then he started to laugh, as well.
Soon enough, Glare’s rumbling basso joined them.
Their mirth was nothing healthy. Nothing holy. It was shaky, unsteady, little more than a desperate defense mechanism in the face of certain defeat. Theirs was not the laughter of righteous crusaders, but of the crazed, the doomed, and the damned.
And yet, that was what they were, were they not?
But at least they were doomed together, now. Doomed, but no longer alone. Together, trapped deep in the bowels of the World Titan, they laughed up at stormy skies.
“A fellowship, then,” Taiven declared, grinning, a hint of madness still dancing behind his eyes.
“A pact,” Alyss replied, directing a similarly unsteady smile at Glare.
“Of the New Triumvirate, perhaps,” she quipped. “To succeed, where the one of old failed?”
“Gods, I should hope not,” the Immolator returned her mirth with an expression that was half-grin, half-grimace, pointing sarcastically at Taiven. “We’ve our High Priest already, no doubt, and you, Milady, match the Grey Knight in sex, at least, but…”
Glare’s mouth twisted as he chuckled.
“But that would make me the Lord of Lies, would it not?”
“Indeed,” Taiven retorted, grinning. “Need we be wary of betrayal, lord Legend?”
Caleb’s smile dimmed, and his eyes flared slightly with a light that looked, for some reason, more blue than white-yellow, this time.
“No,” he said, mirthlessly. “You need not.”
She didn’t doubt him.