The Grand Spire Incident

42nd Day of Ope in the Third Month of Snow's Fall

4372 A.G.G. (261 Years Ago)

The Municipality of Bastion, The Deep Cities

The Continent of Hesijua

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Samahdemn

I could feel chipped teeth pricking my tongue as I probed it about in my mouth.

The faint taste of blood in my mouth as it ran from what I assumed to be a broken nose.

There was too much pop and give in my left knee that shot sharp pain up my side.

This isn’t going to end well. I clearly remember looking all about myself over the bodies that lay about my feet; feeling the pain of every bruise I’d sustained in my struggle as I forcefully blew bloody mucus from an unblocked nostril.

A mere prelude to the plethora of contusions which were bespattered across my body underneath my plate armour.

Some stabbing, some dull, some throbbing…all disquieting. Their relentless discomfort a constant reminder to me of the shortsightedness of what I was doing.

In retrospect, I may not have fully thought through the repercussions of my violent actions.

Few people know what it's like to be shot, cut or stabbed. It's a complex thing. Many emotions and feelings swirling around at once. Hard to quantify. Sometimes you feel it immediately; the impact; the burn, the sharpness of the pain as your flesh or bone is torn asunder. Sometimes the adrenaline of the moment blocks it and you don't feel it until after the moment has passed.

I've had more than my fair share of encounters with the business end of a projectile. Even on occasion an edged weapon.

And today was no exception.

I'd caught more than what I felt was a reasonable number of incoming strikes and gunshots from the handful of Soldiers who'd been stationed within the Grand Spire's inner great hall to stop my advance. And to my surprise, they'd actually proven to be something, overall, in the way of a challenge. More so than I'd expected. Definitely a modest front. But still of little consequence.

I allowed my heavy caliber revolver to conduct the majority of my work. Resorting to only the most basic of close combat techniques for those who chose to come close. But then again, they knew what they were in for. That's why they came at me a dozen strong.

And that's why I wore my battle armour.

I'd been a Soldier for many years in the service of the Hesijuan Defense Ministry; recruited into the House of Soldiery years ago. A student of war in a profession of arms. And even one such as I could dodge only so many bullets.

I felt sorry that I had to kill them. That a part of me wanted to kill them. And it disgusted me how much deep down I enjoyed snatching the last breath from their lungs.

It excited me beyond measure to reduce them to blood and viscera.

You were fighting for the wrong cause. I justified to myself.

But how many of these men and women who stood in my way actually knew what they were trying to prevent me from doing? And how many were just trying to stop me from storming through the Grand Spire like a murderous madman? Did I even care at this point?

These Soldiers were all obviously trained and proficient at their given jobs. Such was a requisite for safeguarding one of the most important buildings in the country; the home of the Great Council and once, many long ages ago, the home of the all-powerful Drågons when they still walked the living world if you were so inclined to believe the legends.

Many of them seemed to have carried themselves with the air of a weapons or martial efficacy specialist with sufficient skills enough to support such. Some had to have had more than three decades of experience in their chosen fields before I ended their lives. I’d even known one or two of their faces; people who had in the past served as special liaison to the emperors of Hesijua; the vassals of Sovereign.

But at the end of all things, insofar as the men and women I'd confronted thus far, they were still very much unlike me. I was...something else.

The guardsmen that had thrown themselves at me in the hall had failed to dissuade me from continuing along my course. But the guards who stood watch as I approached the ornate stone doors that opened out onto the Grand Lake were, to my great surprise, cut of a different cloth. They were individuals who were more akin to my position. All three of them had been Iŀċgwővċ in the seldom spoken language of the Dråconic race; the Order Ordained - more commonly known as the Ordained Order of Sovereign's Royal Knights. Masters all.

I knew that what I'd been digging into had been a sinister thing. Insidious. That it had to have had support and funding of a certain caliber. But never would I have thought The Order compromised. Never. Yet here I was.

Men and women of our station were never seen violently confronting each other. It simply didn't happen. We trained for our enemies, not for one another. But then again, these were different times I suppose. I remember asking them to stand aside. Begging. I wasn't here for them. I didn't want their lives, yet they were offering them up to me anyway.

Our circle was a relatively small one. And we'd known each other well. They were my friends. They'd been in my home, ate my food, drank my spirits and vice versa. And apparently, they'd been lying to me the entire time.

It's always a sad thing when the job that a man must do conflicts violently with the life he's lived. Or tried to live.

I'm sorry my dear brothers. My sister. I thought to myself as I holstered my break-action pistol and draw my true weapon. One which up until that point had stayed sheathed at the small of my back; its umbilical releasing from its secured position so that I could insert it into the female connector on my sword hand's forearm.

Swords, staves, maces, staffs and ballistic weaponry were common enough among military professionals and, as a result, more than a few had been wielded by me in the Grand Spire's halls. But this particular bout was different.

Glaives aren't for the weak or the faint of heart after all and should never be wasted on the unworthy. Worthy were the Knights before me...but I deeply wish it hadn't have been the case.

As I fought my fellows, our weapons' charged blades flooded the immediate area of the expansive stone room we battled in with white light. And in the aftermath the hall's dark coloured walls were left peppered with scorch marks from the heat of their edges as they stabbed and cut. Its floors covered in broken glass, splintered wood and stone ruin from their devastating "triggers". Blotches of blood now decorated the area and fragments of bone and sinew were scattered about from the hectic fray.

The battle had reached such a fevered pitch that there came a moment during the encounter where the short haired femme fatale of the group landed a painful glancing blow and the proverbial lights started to dim for me. In this moment I thought that I was actually going to die; not that the thought of death bothered me. I simply didn't want to go until some form of justice had been done. I didn't want to pass into the mists of creation until I found satisfaction.

Our Knightly order had many facets which served a multitude of functions; most stemming of course from our primary function of waging war on behalf of the crown and raising up, training and maintaining her armies. We were wealthy and powerful. Trusted beyond question and held in confidence above all others. But that type of power and trust can be deceptively corrupting. And although we may have existed as a force for our country's protection, it had become pointedly apparent to me in this moment that we'd been secretly rotting from within. Bits and pieces. And long before my arrival parts of our order had been operating at yet another capacity. A capacity that would never be fully known or understood by me before I was forced to flee my home.

Needless to say, some of the business that I'd caught wind of were very far-removed from what would be considered chivalrous indeed. Killings. Profiteering. Black market dealing. Skin trade.

As the teachings of the Drågonkin go, "As the clouds descend, the blinded will seek clarity".

And I ended up learning many things as I looked to seek said clarity. For instance, I learned that back-alley dealings with shady characters is precarious at best and unreliable most of the time. And that connecting dots between seemingly unrelated conversations and more "borrowed" documents than you're able to count is time consuming and maddening to no end.

At the end of this education, once I saw what I needed to see, I found my fears legitimized. That actions I'd thought had been sanctioned by the crown were carried out by me under the guidance of people I'd considered my brothers and sisters supported by misappropriated coin taken from our Lady's coffers.

I’d been tricked into becoming the very thing I’d been trying desperately not to become. What I’d fled to the Order to escape being. The monster I'd spent my adult years sidestepping at every turn. And to this day I can't tell you if I was more furious at the fact that it all happened right in front of my eyes and I was too blind to notice it, or at the fact that maybe I did see it and I simply allowed myself to be blinded to it for so long.

...The old bad days visiting me all over again.

I can't overstate the fact that I was, and am, an absolute living contradiction. Loving yet hating the thing of violence that was constantly threatening to crawl from me; a thing that I had been working to keep repressed my entire life. Railing against the core of my own spirit. A thing of rage. Being, yet wanting not to be. Wallowing in all that I was yet resenting the way I was cutting a bloody swath to my target; lining the path behind me with the bodies of my compatriots. I'd found myself trapped in an internal whirlwind of anger, and it had transformed me into an unbridled instrument of unparalleled violence.

Within the Order's five disciplines, or "Ways", I was of the Way of the Sword; the arm of the Knights that wielded Sovereign's physical might against her enemies. The Way's philosophies of violence of action always suited me. And by my estimation they fit this situation perfectly. In fact, no other course of action would've sufficed for the predicament I found myself in other than the one I was following now.

"The Way of the Sword is one of precise yet immediate action, as it wouldn't do to ponder going about the business of life fearfully to the point of indecisiveness or failing at your stated or implied obligations. It's best to attack a problem directly, at the source. Without hesitation, mental reservation or evasion of mind."

This was but one of the one hundred and seven sutras of The Way that ran in and out of my mind...driving me onward along the crimson path that I was following to my destination.

None of the mantras of the other Ways would've cured this situation had I been a follower of them. Nor would any number of explanations on behalf of my victims have calmed the blood-drunkenness of my rage.

After all, I was only but what I was allowing myself to be.

I'd never fancied myself as I came up through the Order as being a member of the other Ways. The Way of the Scroll didn't hold sway in my mind and The Way of the Speakers never appealed to my visceral nature. The Way of Vision diluted itself with too much subterfuge. But The Ways of both the Shield and the Sword however... Well, between these two I'd found a calling.

But I digress.

As I slowly left the galleria-esque dwraven halls where I'd just recently deprived my former compatriots of their lives, I proceeded through now unguarded doors to stand before the gargantuan body of water known as the Great Lake which sat silently within a vast subterranean woodland; the forest of the Tree of Eternity. The oldest and largest naturally growing underground tree known to exist. It was here that I stopped tiredly to catch my breath; my short, dark locs falling heavy over my face, damp with sweat and other people's blood.

I knew in my heart of hearts that I would miss this place. I loved the under-gardens dearly. I knew that once I was done, I'd never again be a Knight and that I'd most likely never be able to return to the underground city once I fled. Even if I failed and died where I stood it would only be due to my family's money and influence that they'd not be persecuted in my stead. For I was now officially a killer of government officials; a rogue.

I couldn't help but wonder – What if I were not to die here? If I were to finish cutting out this cancer? Then what? Would they risk having me tried and executed publicly with the possibility of light being shed on their activities? Would I be kept alive and made an example of? Incarcerated for the rest of my life; having my tongue severed to prevent me from speaking what I know? Maybe they'd just quietly have the state confiscate all of my holdings and exile me in secret; forcing me to either withdraw my claims on all my family titles or forcing my family to disown me. And, once again, severing my tongue to ensure silence. Forced to live in poverty and obscurity for the rest of my days.

At best I'd probably never see Hesijua again and I'd be left destitute. My home would be forever behind me. And at worst, I'd not have to live with what I'd done for long.

The more it stewed in my head, the more I realized that the former was more likely than the latter. My family's status and considerable coin could stay the hand of execution; maybe even prison. And they would probably even be ecstatic about letting me go. I'd caused far too many problems for father and mother. And, for all of their "love", it wouldn't be as if they hadn't put their public image above my best interest before.

After all, what type of people bribe, lie and cheat to force an ill-advised Joining on their child? What type of people would risk a young life for the sake of other's perception?

Regardless, in any event it was too late to turn back now.

I was tired. Very tired...or weary from blood loss. It was difficult to tell.

I had to smile to myself despite my wounds. This wasn't the first time I had shaken hands with death. But it was the first time since I learned the finer arts of Craft Wielding that I hadn't made use of my ethereal knowledge and birthright in such an extreme circumstance. And the thought of that filled me with no small amount of pride.

I don't need heka to fell this lot.

I looked sleepily about myself at the sparkling waterfalls which fell from the cavernous ceiling within the Grand Spire's vast miles wide "courtyard-forest" into the clear lake which reflected everything about me brilliantly in its surface. From so high above did these waterfalls topple into it that their sources could scarcely be seen. Although, I believed, it was most likely man-made drainage from the mighty Hesijua River, which ran through the center of Hesijua City far above. Mammoth ornate cast iron lanterns hung about the area from giant chains that dangled securely from the cavern's ceiling; easily weighing dozens of tons each. Each holding a good amount of wicc; a Hesijuan stone with a remarkably high melting point that when superheated to different thresholds casts either a brilliant copper-like light or radiates a very cool teal colour.

Such was the aspect of day and night in the labyrinthine underground cities of the dwarves and sunset elves.

The current nighttime glow of the boulders was augmented by the semi-natural bioluminescence of the fire roses which had been carefully cultivated around the area. Birds which were created and raised within the depths of Bastion by the Guild of Ornithology flew about effortlessly over-head, moving toward any one of the numerous tree covered isles which sat upon the water. And what seemed to be millions of tiny fireflies representing all colours imaginable blinked on and off softly as they skirted over the lake's surface, the trees, the grass and filled the very air. It was all grand technology of the natural. Technology that seemed more like heka. It was a radiant beauty personified.

The under-garden and all of its awe-striking sights reminded me greatly of the heka that birthed the Elder Gardens of the Link; of the constant low rumbling sound of thunder from the sky over them and the sights of ever present lightning. There was always lightning somewhere over the Link.

My thoughts drifted to the smell of its air charged with heka. The feel of the Craft over my skin as I weaved. The beauty of my teacher, Lady Brigid...

In the midst of my reminiscing, a slender, metal cooling rod found itself being ejected violently from the gracefully curbed hilt of my glaive. Caused by a nearly unconscious reflex on my behalf. Training. I barely recognized that I'd done it; I was so lost in my thoughts of the past. I stared at the rod for a moment as it lay on the stone walkway in front of me. Steam was rising from it as if it had been recently removed from a pot of boiling water. It was a thin cylinder about as wide around as my thumb and nearly twice as long. Its glass viewing windows, which allowed for quick assessment of its viscous cooling fluid, were half empty. And what was there was a muddy brown colour.

The stinging smell of hot metal emanated from the sword. I watched as smoke rose slowly from the ejection port, the plasma emitters around the blade and the exhaust ports along the blade itself. I may have crinkled my nose at it slightly; snorting to clear my nostrils of the smell and I inadvertently breathed in a hint of blood.

I began feeling lightheaded.

How long had I been standing there lost in scattershot thoughts?

My vision blurred slightly and I found myself suddenly staggering. Stabbing my blade into the soft earth beside the stone walkway and used it momentarily as a cane to steady myself as the shakes overtook my hands. I was dumping adrenaline. I mentally conversed with my Amalgamate and it released the umbilical from my forearm ports that was attached to the sword's hilt. Using the un-gauntleted sword hand, I followed the trail of blood I'd snorted up the bridge of my nose and quickly identified its source; a deep gash reaching from above my eye and vanishing into the line of my locked up hair.

I probably had a concussion. There was also the matter of the acute discomfort in my off hand making itself present and my inability to properly manipulate its digits that hinted at a broken pinky finger. From the feel of things, my knee was likely enflamed under my armour, and my clavicle felt bruised. Not to mention that from the feel of the aching that was assaulting my side coupled with my difficulty breathing, I was probably also suffering from a bruised rib or two.

Son of a-

In my mind I could still see the images of the security feeds I'd...acquired during my snooping through Amari Abimbola's dirty laundry.

Emaciated bodies. I thought involuntarily as my mind suddenly slipped into the memory of it. Physically abused. Mangled. An old crone reaching out for help. A cold boot kicks her away roughly. She cries...

"No." I told myself as my mind struggled to hold onto its grip of the now. Railing against what I'd seen; what I was seeing. "Focus! I have to...have to-"

Butit was too late. My lips were moving oftheir own volition. Compulsory.

"A list of names. Monetary values. Children crying for their parents. 'Mommy! I want my mommy!'.

"NO DAMNIT! Stop! This...this isn't the time!" Balling my fists and gritting my teeth against the mental onslaught, I tried to will myself to calm my thoughts; to stop the words from spilling from my lips.

"A man, unconscious, laying on a table as a scalpel cuts into his back. His blood oozes darkly down his side as someone reaches inside of him. A hand covered in a blue glove. An Amalgamate ripped away from its owner, stained red and black from his insides...

"STOP!"

The images ceased. I ceased to speak my memories. I took control of my breathing. For once, my mind headed my pleas.

An inconvenient affliction it was. To uncontrollably fall into living memory. If I let myself lapse into rumination now, allow myself to be swept away by the living past, I was a dead man. I had to stay in the moment. I had to focus on the people I was trying to help...I had to try to do something right for once in my life.

It was all too easy for people like this to take advantage of the subjugated and put upon for their own benefit. It was easy to see them as commodities to be bought, sold, used and traded; regardless of whether they were slaves, freed or otherwise. It was easy not to care.

I didn't want to be that person anymore. In the name of Brŭmal, I didn't even want to be that person when I was that person...

I have to finish this. No matter what.

The bad feelings which foreshadowed my seemingly imminent unconscious state, luckily, were only momentary. Even as I was mentally pushing myself to keep moving, my Amalgamate was already producing acetaminophen for my head trauma and acetylsalicylic acid for my body aches and pains. It was also pumping me full of antibiotics to fight off infection from my open wounds.

It wasn't long before I was able to re-secure the sword's hilt and pull its bloodied blade from the ground; tilting it skyward as I continued to follow the stone path towards the lake. I reattached the glaive's flexible metal-sheathed umbilical to the two ports in my sword arm and once again silently accessed my Amalgamate. The mental connection displayed images before my vision and I saw data that outside observers would've been totally oblivious to...a sea of information added to my already busy visual field. Ghost images floated above and around my sword's hilt displaying the functionality of the weapon's systems sharing real estate with the topographic overlays and sporadic statistical details about the environment that were constantly being fed to me when in a fighting state.

I was shown, among other things, the obvious; that my glaive's cooling chamber was now empty.

More readouts melting across the length of the blade displayed its strength, sharpness and overall condition. It was still in excellent shape. There was some minor chipping and one or two of the exhaust ports were damaged but it wouldn't have any real effect on overall performance. All of the power transfer conduits were still in good shape. And I'd been fortunate enough during my sustained fight with the Knight Masters to have only clashed glaives edge to edge a precious few times so my cutting edge was still firmly intact.

As I commanded the sword's overlay to fade away from the rest of my overview, I reached down into the heavily reinforced, dark leather bandoleer which was strapped across my chest from left shoulder. From one of its many pouches, I pulled a replacement cooling rod. Its fresh green liquid dancing playfully behind the viewing windows. I slid it into place in the weapon, pushed the ejection port closed and the system softly whirred its acceptance.

I didn't have to summon the images along the hilt which would've displayed readouts of how many forced charges, or triggers, I had or how long the blade would conduct a charge. Neither did I need an update on the glaive's internal machinery. None of it was necessary. I knew it all from memory.

The violent rage that was in me was growing larger. It was being expelled with every swing of my glaive. It was given a voice with every pull of my trigger. And I was loving it. Despite the decades of struggling with my emotions and the use of subtle spell weaves placed by the talented Lady Brigid when I was still under her tutelage to quell the fire within my mind, I could never find a way to quiet my anger once it broke through the barriers. Living life from moment to moment was no way to live, yet I did.

Some moments were defiantly harder than others.

And here, now, as it tore through the walls of containment built of heka and discipline, there wasn't anything for it. It was like being in a ship scooped up by a tidal wave. I simply had to ride to its conclusion. And once it finally broke on its destined shores, only then could I observe what wreckage had been washed ashore and decide what to do with the remains.

There was already plenty of wreckage and my emotional wave had yet to reach land and ebb.

I stopped short of the under-garden lake's shore to observe a man who stood facing away from me, at the water's edge. He seemed transfixed on something in front of him. Something in his hands. This was a man who had been not only my brother within the order for the past twelve years of my life, but my mentor. On some levels, even once a friend.

His dark skin had the texture of rough leather and his short cropped hair was nearly white washed with age. He wore a nearly identical suit of Knight's armour to mine. A master craft. Light interconnected plate mail with weighty chainmail made of isilivere under it; hidden mostly underneath hefty ceremonial-looking garbs and thick leathers and cloths of the finest cuts. Complete with a bulky surcoat of such a length that it nearly touched the toes.

However, due to his higher status within the Order, his garb was far more ostentatious in the embroidery of its cloth and there were tribal designs embossed all over the exposed armour pieces. And whereas he was spotless and clean, I was dirty, beaten, and covered with sweat and blood. Underneath my armour's sporadic battle-damage I was sore and bruised. My white cloth robes were slashed and covered in burns and pieces of other people's bloody flesh. The chainmail that lay beneath exposed where it was not designed to be.

Happily for me though, my black and silver meditation beads which were ever wrapped around my sword arm remained undamaged and magickly unspoiled...

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In the thigh holster to the old man's left was his standard issue large caliber pistol; one identical to mine. Low across the small of his back, he wore his glaive folded within its rig. Its umbilical already inserted in his sword arm ports.

He seemed unaware of my presence at first. But that would've been a foolish thing to believe. He was a Knight of the Drågon. He was always well aware of his surroundings. This was a man who had nearly seventy five years' experience in The Way of Vision as a spymaster. Not to mention his time as a follower of The Way of the Sword. He was very aware of me. As was evident by the fact that he was in full battle dress.

He was supposed to be in the middle of his evening constitutional. I remember thinking to myself. Not standing here in full armour waiting for me. And where's his guard? There must be more than what I just ran through if he's here like this.

Apparently I'd failed to understand that regardless of what I thought of myself or my abilities, or how well I'd done up to this point, none of it meant anything when it came to assaulting a Knight of the Drågon. And even though I knew this man, it now begged the question "How well do you ever know anyone?" After all I'd discovered, what else had he kept from me? What had he not taught me that he still knew? Could I adequately predict his movements in a fight?

Too much experience. Too many factors. A frontal assault had seemed the best course of action at the time. Just rush in, in an attempt to catch him off guard, hoping for the best.

But this didn't feel right. And I should've realized it before then.

Even with my ability to slide through the majority of security checkpoints with my Order credentials, doing what I could preemptively to sabotage anything that could document my movements days prior and buying off the occasional guard here and there, there still wasn't nearly enough resistance to my upheaval. No sign of the spire's internal security forces moving about the halls. No reinforcements called by those I'd been forced to cleave my way through. No alarms. Nothing. Just a few dozen guards and 3 other Knights. I knew that there couldn't have been many of my peers partaking in this betrayal of our oaths. But there should have been more than this. There had to be. It shouldn't have been this easy to assault someone of such a grand status. It was utterly quiet.

Something inside me told me to meditate on my mantras. And for once, I listened to myself.

"Well, if it isn't the abomination." the old gentleman spoke.

"How's that?"

"That's what you are, aren't you old friend?" the man turned about as he asked the question. And I now saw that his gaze had been fixed on a fire rose that he had just recently picked. It glowed like a miniature sun in the palms of his dark hands. But the flower was slowly dying; its glow slowly fading. The raised veins in his arms spoke to his extreme years, but there was still an air of youth about his slender yet strong frame. "The 'prodigy with fire in his veins'?" He continued to move away from the water and stopped within a few arm lengths away from me.

The haze of my cranial injury was clearing up, but I still wasn't fully in the moment. I think I recall scoffing at his words. "Is this really your modus operandi for intimidation? Am I supposed to be wracked with nervousness now?" I asked.

"Yes. You should. You're only alive now because I wish it."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Tell me, did you have this rehearsed for when I found out what you'd been up to? Did you know I'd be coming for your head? Is this the part of this exercise where you think I'm supposed reconsider my course of action?"

"No. I don't suspect you would even if I asked you to. I know you too well."

"With all due respect 'old friend', I don't suspect you do. If you did-"

I mentally accessed the power distribution controls for my blade, and with a wine and a pop, hot white energy crackled and began to flow across its thin surface. Power barely contained that leaped at random moments from the polarized blade in static lightning-like arcs. Striking the ground or a nearby tree or even our armours with little pings of energy; landing with barely perceptible small showers of sparks.

"-you would've killed me instead of allowing me to train all of these years. Or did you really think I'd be ok with all this once I found out just because I was once your pupil?"

The old man drunk in the sight of the plasma that was haphazardly dancing across my glaive. And as he did I took long hard look at the slight cloudiness of his black irises. He was beginning to suffer the early stages of glaucoma; had been for a while. But it never really mattered or stood out before to me before. Now, I was wondering how much I could use this to my advantage. After all, I'd never seen him in a real fight.

"Maybe one or two of my fellow council members thought that your...talents could be of some short term use." he answered. "And they weren't wrong it seems. Look at how far you've come as one of us so fast. How much you've accomplished in our name. Because you were allowed to. I must admit that it was against my better judgment to allow you to advance and be Knighted, but I was overruled. You may have been born to a lower noble house, but other than that, what have you done? You were neither page nor squire. Never directly serviced a Knight in war or in tourney. And in my opinion, you're far too young and unpredictable to hold the position you currently have. But others thought better." He squinted; attempting to look deeper into my eyes. "I must admit, I think I'm starting to see what they saw in you. In point of fact, they'd likely think that you could still be of use behind all of this destruction you've wrought solely because you caused it all alone. It speaks to your raw innate skill.

"I'd sooner just kill you myself, of course. You're more trouble than you're worth."

I was nearly speechless at the thought of being little more than a pawn of the Order. Of realizing that all I am was the result of mendacities. A Knight born of lies and violence.

"What?" I could feel the anger swelling in my throat and the one word response was all that would come forth from my lips. And I could feel the vibrations of my weapon reflecting my ever destabilizing emotional state. Normally a soft throb, accented by a slight pulsing every few seconds, its pulses were now growing at a rapid pace. Looking down at it, I could see the readouts once again melt into view around the device. The accelerator was running hot. Not only that, but the coagulating blood and fleshy matter that was partially clogging the emitters near the hilt was hindering proper energy flow.

I struggled to not allow my anger to overcome me. I was failing miserably.

"I can tell by the powerful effort scrawled over your face Sir Samahdemn that you're doing your best to control yourself, but your blade's still running rich as normal. Richer than normal, actually. And I can see from the light pouring from your eyes that you're trying to suss it. Figure it out quickly. Your time is growing shorter the longer you stand before me."

The light of which he spoke swimming about my eyes was that of my Amalgamate feeding me as much information as possible. In addition to the feed from my glaive, The old man was emphasized as a threat by my mechanical passenger. Outlined faintly in carmine to my vision, I could see the most vulnerable points of his attire, an assessed state of his weaponry, his estimated vitals and by his stance, his most likely angles of attack in relation to the topography and more still.

The images about my blade melted into nothingness as my vision turned sharp and I reversed my grip on my glaive. I was determined to stare daggers into him; to kill his spirit to fight.

Or stoke it.

At least I knew where I stood. The deaths of the others didn't lay so heavy upon me as they did moments before. I now felt fully justified.

"How rich I'm running should be the least of your concerns."

"And that underhand grip of yours? I've told you time and time again that reversed grip of yours is inefficient in the extreme. And it'll get you killed."

"Hmm. My 'inefficient' technique has sufficed enough to get me this far."

"Well," he scoffed "we'll see how much farther you go slaver."

"You're a piece of shit old man! A traitor to your own people!"

"And you're a Craft User!"

I found myself hushed by this reveal of the truth. And suddenly it dawned on me what he'd said a few moments prior. "Well, if it isn't the abomination... The 'prodigy with fire in his veins'?" He knew I was a Magi, even though I'd never openly practiced or mentioned it outside the Link. I found myself wondering if the spymasters actually had access to Magi shards and records. Did their tendrils run that deep? Was their network so vast?

"Yeah. That's right. I told you, I knew you." he said; seemingly reading my thoughts from the look on my face. "We all know everything. You've been a member of the Order long enough now to know that information is the cornerstone of the spymaster's trade. You've tried to keep your gifts clenched close to your chest. Tried not to draw a lot of unwanted attention to yourself. I'd wager that it would be no small feat of willpower on the part of any non-Mer not to use such...power solely to satisfy their own primal instincts; further their own goals. It's nothing short of impressive that you've maintained such discipline with such gifts especially during your fight to get to me." A snicker escaped his mouth. "A valiant effort indeed. I must say, I'm rather proud."

I hope you're ready to be proud of something else today you bastard. I thought to myself. I was defiantly ready to "further my own goals" now. Every inch of me wanted to violently wipe the smile from his face.

...And I would. With fury and neka.

"You're a veritable shit storm if I've ever seen one." he continued. "Yet you never fail to amaze. People who hold stations far greater than that of your family have taken notice of you, you know. They've expressed a great interest in your development. Moved mountains to ensure that you progress. But now? With me?" His voice suddenly deepened with warning and barely restrained anger. "You've crossed a dangerous line. There's no amount of backpedalling that will save you from this regardless of what may come. In fact, I don't really think anyone would care if I buried you right here."

I increased my focus on the mantras running through my head. I could vaguely feel streams of the Flow about me. My mouth filled with the metallic taste of copper. I tried to be as inconspicuous as I possibly could as I attempted to weave my gauntlet covered fingers through the threads of creation. Nevertheless, I had to have looked slightly odd; my hand and fingers waving to and fro slightly beside me. So I took a step forward in an effort to further conceal my off-hand from his view.

Hopefully he'll take it for nervousness. I thought to myself as I continued my ethereal work.

And just as suddenly as it had come, the darkness in his voice lifted and he spoke calmly again. "So, now that you know that we all know, educate me. Why'd you hold back in the hallway? Fear of being hunted? Do you fear your shard? Fear being a science project for the unenlightened? Relegated to a lab for long term invasive, humiliating and painful study and examination? Or, even worse, being used as a weapon by your family to further their political ambitions at court? Maybe you're afraid of being seen as even more of a monster than you already are; the bogyman of a cautionary tale for children to keep them in line. 'Quiet child, or the Clockwork Magister will get you!'." The old man laughed deeply.

He was full of talk. I knew he was trying to put me off balance with all of this. Trying to distract me and create an opening for himself. Get me to lower my guard. But I was beyond that now. My anger and the need to kill him were starting to override almost every logical thought in my head. And the longer I stood there, the more disgusted with him I became. Even after all of his condemnation and preaching, he couldn't help but show himself as the hypocritical bastard that he was; just as much a monster as I.

The difference, however, is that I was always aware of the monster I was.

"Does any of this ring true with you?" he continued to poke.

"And who would stop me if I had exactly?" I challenged. "Who would want to stop me once I show them what cancer infests the Knighthood? The catchpoles? Sovereign? My cause is a blameless one and every swing of my glaive is justified!"

"Oh spare me disgraced nobleman! 'Reformed' psychopath! Do you really think that just because your anger was blunted with heka that it erases all of the evils you've perpetrated in your life? Some of which you've committed with us. Do you think that your good intentions will better frame the wrongs you've done in the past or the violence you're committing now? This will only ever be seen as little more than the blood bath that it is."

"Fuck you. You don't know me!" I spat. "I've never wished a reprieve from the crimes of my past because of the Mages' intervention. I'm well aware of what I've done and I don't shrink from it!"

I could feel a slight prickle of airborne energy swirl about me as I continued saying my mantras in my head. The tingle of my meditation beads made the hair on my arm stand on end.

"You call me a psychopath and try to shame me with my past, but what makes you so different?" I queried. "You don't serve anything save for the interest and causes of the overly privileged by slaving others. You feed the black market the Amalgamates that you rip from the backs of the innocent. You're a hypocrite."

"Don't pretend to know me or try to psychoanalyze me. My loyalties lay squarely with the people of Hesijua. And don't you dare question it. All we've done, you've done right along with us, however indirectly. So either you believe yourself to be a fully reformed and righteous soul, which we both know that you're far from with the days of your youth being right behind you, or you thought that the so-called evils of this world started and ended with me and my people within the Order. In which case, you're just naïve."

The light of the fire flower was now dying quickly in the old man's hands. "We're a necessary evil. We few who do what we do. And what we do to a few, we do to protect the masses."

"And to line your own pockets."

The old man snickered. "True. But the facts, however obfuscated, are still the facts. And regardless of how you feel about it, you've aided our cause from the moment you became one of us. You're an accomplice young Knight.

"Sadly, I've seen many men such as you." the old Knight taunted. "Men with a past they want to erase. Men who stupidly try to play the hero in some misguided attempt to atone for the transgressions of their troubled life. Many of them I've cut down myself. And here I stand once again. Forced to kill yet one more fool. Look where your search for redemption's led you. You've come no closer to being anything other than what you are. An unnaturally talented killer. You can't run from yourself. You come along sniffing at things you that you've no business like a dog running across a stray bone. You charge at us ready to bite the hand of your masters and trainers."

"What you think couldn't matter less. There's no other two ways about it. You're destroying the foundation of everything you're supposed to be forming a line against!" I said with much uncharacteristic patriotism. "Knights are supposed to HOLD THE FUCKING LINE!"

"Don't dare to patronize me. Did you ever stop to think that what we do is in the best interest of our countrymen? Did you ever wonder if we're doing what we have to do to secure the future of our people as a whole?"

"What kind of future do you think is served with these kind of back alley exchanges? When did we start compromising? When did we become so lopsided?" I asked. "What could possibly be worth selling girls who are barely two and ten name days old for their bodies, or polluting our people with drugs, or ripping their backs open for their Amalgamates?"

"You mean the way you did once? Lest we forget that slaving is something you know very well. Need I remind you of yourself?"

I can't lie; I didn't want to hear these things. Not right now. I was tired of being reminded of my sins.

As I finally completed my mental mantras, the energy I was pulling from the very air about me bundled itself into a small ball of warmth about my palm. The air was reacting to my Craft and distorted waves of heat were engulfing my hand. I hoped that the glare of my glaive combined with his hampered vision was preventing him from focusing on it...or that he was too ignorant of the nature of casting heka to understand what was happening if he could see it.

I adjusted my stance again to better mask it from view as a white arc of lightning-like plasma flashed upwards between us from my blade.

"How old was the youngest person you ever sold?" the old man asked. "Do you remember? Was it a child or still a babe? Was it still suckling from its mother's breast when you ripped it away for coin? Not that it matters. Born a slave, die a slave. It's not like it was really a person anyway. Right?"

I remembered all too well. There are some events in a man's life that he may choose to forget or that he might not be proud of. And there were things in my life that, in the aftermath, I wished I could've erased them from existence all together.

"I remember her. It was the largest slave vendue in the history of Hesijua at the time. Five hundred souls passed through the auction block over two days and the girl I’d offered up as my lot had seen no more than eight name days as I stood her before the auctioneer. Her face was dirty and her hair was matted, greasy and lice-ridden. She was under weight and covered in fleas. Bad teeth. I ended up receiving the lowest bid of the event; she was damaged goods. Not many interested parties. When the gavel finally fell, her hammer price was 249 riyal...on a day when the cleanest single person lot had sold at a premium of 1,760 riyal. I lost coin on that sale, but I had no use for her. She looked at me with silent tears in her eyes as she was removed from the block. A brilliant shade of blue shining from beneath the grime. I've never quite seen their like since. I've no idea the fate that awaited her. And I've never sought to find out. It didn't matter to me.

"I remember them all Sir Abimbola. In excruciating detail. Such is the consequence of developing a conscious. And what of you? Do you remember your sins?" I rebutted. "Does your conscious keep you awake with memory at night? I've seen them all; all of your sins. Shall I remind you of them? How old was the youngest woman you ever raped? Lest we forget, regardless of whether it was 'mutual' or not, statutory is still statutory. I don't think that she was even old enough to be considered a woman. Had she even started to show her femininity yet 'Knight of the Drågon'? If I'm a pretender, then you're twice the bastard I am. At least I've tried to change."

My grip had tightened to such an extent on my hilt that my knuckles could've turned white. The blade's pulses were so rapid that they were merging into a single throb; the energy reflecting my hate. Hate of myself as well as the old man as we read off each other's indignities as if each of our lives were open books.

"At the end of the day, what I've done doesn't change the truth. And there are some truths," the old man stated contemplatively after a few moments of considering what to say, "that no one's ready for. The people least of all."

I could see that he was holding back something. But it wasn't out of pride or selfishness. It seemed almost like selflessness. There was a ring of truth to his last statement. There was defiantly more going on here than I had originally gleaned. However, the ends, regardless of what they were, didn't justify these means. Not in my eyes. Not through the eyes of a man who knew this life.

"You believe yourself to be a savior young man, but you're not. Maybe none of us are. Slaver. Murderer."

I may have shaken my head vigorously at the accusations. I can't remember. But they were true nonetheless. And I knew it.

"I'm not that person anymore."

"Wrong. You are that person. And your false motivations fail you. Even the heka which submerged your emotions struggling to contain your true self. Look at how readily you slaughtered your own! None of this has anything to do with whatever redemption you perceive will arise. You just needed an excuse to justify letting the monster loose."

I hissed through clinched teeth.

"See? Deep down you know it's true." the old Knight said calmly; the nearly dead flower still in his hands. "Tell me young one, did you use your authority as a Knight Master to petition Sovereign to grant you this injunction on me? Or are you here killing your kinsmen to get to me of your own volition?"

Of course she didn't. I didn't dare approach Sovereign, the undisputed ruler of all Hesijua, with such a thing.

Or, should I say, that I dared not approach her royal counsel with such a thing.

It would've required an obscene amount of evidence and so far all I had was proof of crimes with no proof of who had actually committed them. Nor who even commissioned them in the first place. I had conjecture. No names of any consequence were on the bills of sale. No faces of any responsible parties were in photos or on holo. And all I had in my corner were witnesses who were unreliable at best and criminal at worst. I had evidence that was circumstantial under even superlative conditions that was obtained in a less-than-lawful manner. Accusing a Knight of the Drågon and his peers of such fundamentally evil acts was an unforgivable impasse if not properly supported. And the word of a single Knight Master was just not enough.

Even if my word had been enough and I'd been able to convince Sovereign of my suspicions, the ice and snow from the long months of Snow's Fall still had a long way to go before clearing on the surface and the Great Bonfire Festival celebrating the arrival of Life's Warmth was in full swing; had been for the last week. The majority of the Order were topside in the more rural areas of the city either worshiping the Goddess and the God in dance and song with the masses around massive open blazes or assisting the lion's share of the local lawmen with keeping the peace while others secreted away to make love with their significant others around smaller, more personal fires of their own. It wouldn't have been possible to pull enough people to act within a manner that I felt was...timely enough. And that was all assuming I'd been able to get the council to petition for Sovereign's hand immediately.

Not to mention that, although part of me thought it a stupid or premature fear, I had no idea if some of the royal council itself was involved in some of these doings. There was too much going on here for them to be completely blind to it all. These events touched too many things. And the more I heard of what the old man had to say, the more I thought that it may have been more possible that I at first believed.

"Don't bother to try to answer. I already know the truth. I know, for a fact, that either her councilmen were not the audience that you'd have hoped that they'd have been, or you didn't bother to go to them at all. And here you stand; a wayward Magi who's out of his league."

"Pride comes before every fall." I said; the final walls about my anger finally collapsing. "I'm a monster. I've no illusions about that. Never have. And I may deserve to die here, but so do you. You've a lot to answer for. You stand accountable to me now and your death will send a message to everyone who supports you."

The spiral of my overwrought anger was pulling far too much of my attention from controlling the output of my weapon and my blade was starting to drain an excessive amount of coolant as a result. Had my displays been visible, I'm sure that my charge count would've been dropping at an alarming rate.

"And who will you be accountable to? Even if you make it out of here...of which your chances are slim at best, you'll be found and executed for the murders you've committed here. You do know that don't you?"

"Then I'll see you in Brŭmal if there's such a place. And there we can dance with the Dæmöns together."

"Are you sure?"

Something in the old man's tone filled me with anxiety.

Getting here had been far too easy.

Just as the thought crossed my mind, my Amalgamate started alerting me to sudden movement. Several silhouettes began to make themselves present from the darker recesses of the area approaching from all directions opposite the lake. And as they approached, they began igniting their many glaives; their faces and armour reflecting the light produced by them. All of the colours representing all of the levels of Knighthood of the Order were visible.

There was nowhere for me to run.

Well, there's no need for subtlety any more. They all know what I am anyway. And if I fight conventionally, I'm dead. I won't be able to take them all without casting.

The elderly man laughed lightly, and turned his gaze back to the fire rose. Its internal light had gone out. "You know the problem with the fires that burn the brightest? It's that they die so quickly."

His movements were so fast that I barely had time to register what he was doing. He deftly dropped the flower and reached for his holster with his gun arm. The revolver which was sheathed there was out in a flash and raised. There was a loud clap and a muzzle flash and had I been one of the untrained masses, that would have been the moment I'd died. That would have been the story of me....but I was far from untrained. We all were. And my Amalgamate had already worked out the probabilities; calculated the most likely trajectories and speed of the bullet, and had given me alternatives that would allow me confident movement despite my injured side.

The weapon was being aimed slightly off center and it would most likely have been a shoulder shot had I allowed it to be. Whether it was due to his glaucoma or his standing position was unclear, but he wasn't properly aiming center mass. Regardless, I'd already begun to shift my body to the side to maneuver around the projectile and I simultaneously attempted to lunge forward in an attempt to close distance by throwing myself into an airborne spin. Twisting my hips, it was my intention to bring my leg down on his head like a hammer. Instead, I felt my leg impact his blocking forearm. And as soon as my feet touched the earth, I spun low as I attempted a high roundhouse to his head followed by a butterfly kick-like somersault; both of which failed to make any meaningful contact as he dodged me effortlessly. Continuing to flow with the acrobatic twisting of this deadly dance, I swung my sword almost blindly and to my dismay, the old man avoided that as well. I, however, continued to allow my momentum to spin me around one final time. As I did, I triggered my glaive mid spin and the entire length of my blade exploded in smoky white light. The force of it propelled me through the technique with excessive speed and power and I came around to cleave the elderly fighter much more quickly, only to have my cross slice intercepted by the old man's armoured arm; only serving to disrupt his grounded stance ever so slightly despite the force of the impact.

A solid forward kick to my chest ended my bladed ballet and sent me reeling backwards. There was a strength in the old man that beguiled his apparent age.

I heard the explosive sound of several glaive triggers I quickly raised my blade in an almost wild defense. Luckily my blind block paid off and the tint of blue-ish coloured superheated plasma spewed forth by the old man's blade splashed off of my guard.

My first instinct was to pull my revolver and return fire, but I fought the urge. I knew that his training would've likewise already put him in a position to move aside. Besides, I didn't want to drop the weave of heka I was struggling to hold onto in favor of drawing down on him. So I stayed my hand, and prepped myself to counter the next incoming attack.

But it didn't come.

Sure enough, he was prepped for a dodge and another shot. If I'd followed my first mind and pulled my sidearm, it may have very well cost me my life. Looking beyond my blade, I spied the old man in a bladed stance with his glaive extended forward from his body along his sword arm pointing at me like a gun; smoke pouring lightly out of its heated barrel. His off-hand was crossed in front of his chest; his pistol held tightly and pointed in my direction.

The sound of charging energy cut through the sounds of silence around us. Within moments, plasma shot forth from the accelerators within his handguard and coated his blade like electric water. The blue energies dancing calmly across the metal without the lightning show mine produced were a mirror of the elderly Knight's calmness. This was in stark contradiction with his scowling face.

Strangely, I noticed briefly that the blue light exaggerated the shadows about his face and caused him to take on an incredibly menacing countenance.

"You're fast." I complimented. The old Knight simply responded with a smirk. Sporadic information in tell-tale bright green visibly scrolled, flashed and danced across the surface of his irises as I addressed him. Haunting visual digital noise; lending to his black eyes an otherworldly look.

The same effect he'd noted in my eyes previously.

Given that I hadn't been shot in the back yet by one of the betrayer Knights around me, I allowed myself to look cautiously about within my immediate field of vision and noticed that the other coloured blades hadn't made a move.

They're waiting for him.

"Don't worry about them just yet." the old man said tauntingly; seemingly reading my thoughts and worries from my face. "They'll come for you shortly. When they're needed."

"I'd start whistling." I retorted defiantly. Lamely.

"While always interesting to see, the erratic nature of your flashy dance-like fighting won't save you here. Not as you are. Your glaive's damaged and running rich. And your ability to fight's obviously diminished. You're favoring your left side and your head's bleeding. Either your weapon won't make the length and breadth of this fight, or you won't. Care to wager which?"

I cast what I can only describe as a smoldering glance about the area. "All these men are going to die needlessly for you. For that, I'm truly sorry." I said. "But you...I promise you that you'll die ingloriously for it. And behind that, I'll sleep soundly tonight."

It was at this moment I made the worst, and most haunting mistake of my long life.

I found myself deactivating and folding my blade; sheathing the now compacted sword across the small of my back, and laying my arms down limply to my side with no care for my continued wellbeing. Focusing my inner spirit, I began to re-channel my gifts. I released all my restraint and I entangled them with all of the hatred and anger that flowed venomously through me through my enchanted meditation beads.

Now that neither my glaive's white light, the fog of combat or my body's positioning obscured his vision and my arms were exposed, the old man's attention was drawn to the beads wrapped around my arm. With a look that I can only describe as a mix of interest, awe and wariness, he gawked as ghost characters in a dead tongue unknown to many melted into existence and moved in a serpentine manner, entangling themselves about the ornament; the language of the ether. Of the Dįvįnë.

I can only imagine that the old man had long secretly wished to test himself against one of the Magisters of the Link. A common desire among warriors really. Many often wondered if we were really what stories painted us to be.

"So this is the legendary power of the Magisterium." the old man sighed in amazement. "The beads-"

"-Are my focus." I said as I completed his sentence.

In the background, of the handful of men and women who surrounded us, one or two had begun to slowly slip away. Most likely out of fear. Others were planted firm; shocked into inaction by that same fear.

Almost silently, I whispered in Drågon-speak a spellweave."

"Úŀwőb iődi nv dkv zisvŀx ij dkv jiŀbiddvő, dkv xdŀvőbdk ij dkv xzwŀwd, goċ dkv swċċ ij dkv cŀgbiő-fwőċ. Jwŀv úv pŀvgdvċ úq dkv vővŀbwvx ij nq kgőċ."

Far, far above our heads in the vast darkness of the cavern's impossibly high ceiling, unbeknownst to my soon-to-be victims, the heat of the world seemed to be reacting to my chant as the mighty chains which held aloft the wicc cradling lanterns began to glow an intense red.

I'm not quite sure what he expected to happen or expected to see in my actions in the midst of his curiosity. But as the realization that he was standing by readily as an attack brewed that he couldn't possibly predict dawned on him, panic began to replace the awe on the old Knight's face. He realized that maybe he shouldn't be just watching me so intently and should actually be doing something. But what exactly should he do? He could scarcely understand what he was seeing let alone what I was doing and how to defend against it.

"What in the Goddess' name...?" he asked to no one in particular.

"Úŀwőb iődi nv dkv zisvŀx ij dkv jiŀbiddvő, dkv xdŀvőbdk ij dkv xzwŀwd, goċ dkv swċċ ij dkv cŀgbiő-fwőċ. Jwŀv úv pŀvgdvċ úq dkv vővŀbwvx ij nq kgőċ." As I spoke, the ethereal-script about my arm began to glow far more brightly. And I held my opposing hand, palm outward, before me, releasing the ball of heat I'd withheld and allowed it to swirl about me angrily.

"Stop!" he yelled at me.

"Úŀwőb iődi nv dkv zisvŀx ij dkv jiŀbiddvő, dkv xdŀvőbdk ij dkv xzwŀwd, goċ dkv swċċ ij dkv cŀgbiő-fwőċ. Jwŀv úv pŀvgdvċ úq dkv vővŀbwvx ij nq kgőċ." I spoke loudly now. Sweat caressed my brow. The chains above all of our heads were beginning to liquefy. I could feel it. I could feel the essence of the heat bleeding continuously form my open hand; distorting the air about my body.

"Úŀwőb iődi nv dkv zisvŀx ij dkv jiŀbiddvő, dkv xdŀvőbdk ij dkv xzwŀwd, goċ dkv swċċ ij dkv cŀgbiő-fwőċ. Jwŀv úv pŀvgdvċ úq dkv vővŀbwvx ij nq kgőċ."

"Fuck all! I should've had you killed in your sleep years ago!"

The old man fired his glaive, but the plasma exploded harmlessly about me after impacting the wall of protective heat and energy that now surrounded me.

It was fortunate for me that barriers were easy to produce and took only a fraction of the incantation time as higher level weaving.

"Too little, too late." I spat venomously. "I promised you that you'd die, Knight of the Drågon. It seems you were right; the heka of the Link wasn't enough to hold my violence at bay for long."

"KILL HIM!" the old man yelled. "KILL! HIM!"

Bolts of plasma of all the colours of authority within the Order struck all about me and splashed off of my protective spellcraft. The overwhelming fire was almost enough to drag me down, but as fate would have it, my weave was already complete; my will was done. And my hastily devised plan was coming to fruition faster than the rate at which my protection was failing me. Lapsing into common speech, I screamed out my chant over the sound of the multicoloured destruction about me.

"Bring onto me the powers of the forgotten, the strength of the spirits, and the will of the Drågon-kind. Fire be created by energies of my hands!"

A terrible whine could be heard from high above as the great stone cradling lanterns tore downward through the air; it was the whine of thousands of metal chains melting and ripping away from their supports. It was the sound of thousands of tons of superheated stone plummeting to the ground like stars from the heavens.

It was the sound of death, screaming.