[in-novel author's note: yes, this is the volume epilogue. I wasn't even sure if I wanted to combine a couple chapters, but well. this is it. hope you like it.]
----
It was dark in the Woods, and it was awkward. Novarra could handle awkwardness, though. And she was quite sure that if Evan opened up his mouth again, the awkwardness would turn into a fully fledged fight.
They were dressed in dark clothes, but Varra did realize that if Ace - apparently the Leader’s name - and his lieutenants had night vision they were all done for.
Well, Evan was done for.
Novarra could Air Shift with the extremely little magic she had left and leave him behind. He was going to be mad, for sure, but he could beat them. Or, at least, the Evan King in REBUILD could’ve, with the MC halo. But she was saving that particular plan for later. After she requested the munitions - likely delivered with the Lavers’ trace on the crates - Novarra had also asked Belluse to brew a familiar poison.
Pokeberry.
If worse came to worst, and the munitions didn’t work, Novarra would check the water supply and follow up on her seemingly mad suggestion. She had wanted a peaceful life - now, the only desire at the top of her list was to survive. The awkwardness became a tension, when they neared the edges of a tent-infested camp. Novarra had sent the winds ahead, using [Air Sensing] to determine the shapes of the land. Finding a location, and scouting - easy enough.
Evan had done the headcount, and the two had returned.
She had been in the world for five years, and Evan the same amount, but it was obvious that they had both adapted very differently.
To say the least, it was still awkward.
----
When Novarra’s head hit the bed, she didn’t close her eyes.
Mutiny.
She had overestimated her influence over the town of Rook by an extremely wide margin. An overstep. A mistake. Belluse’s report and briefing did much to quell the questions, but there they still remained. Stephanie, Cecilia, and Fred. They weren’t the only ones - there would be more, and already Novarra, Evan, and Belluse were spread thin. Novarra sighed.
She had sent Belluse as a messenger to Laver, to provide more manpower.
The three townspeople had been right.
She had been planning to frame the Lavers.
But now obviously the plan would fail, if they tattled. So…
Kerosene. A forest fire.
If Novarra could keep it controlled - no, she could, because fire needed oxygen to burn so if hypothetically she made a shield, and - no, she had no magic, right now. As she vetoed the possibilities as quickly as they came, she felt the aura of someone smiling.
Something.
“Souveraine?” she whispered.
No.
It was familiar. Very, very familiar. The sense of panic prickling up her spine, a jolt and a twitch and goosebumps prickling.
Again?
An overstep. A mistake.
Novarra made a mistake.
Suddenly, she couldn’t hear, and then a drone or a buzzing in her ears, a screech like feedback - her hands went to her ears, and to her throat, she couldn’t breathe - and her heartbeat sped up. Water. Drowning. Suffocation. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t breathe, Novarra choked. There, she clutched her neck for a long, long time. The oppressive substance was back, and it was as bad as ever. But this time, it wasn’t in her dreams - it was in real life, and she didn’t have medication. A mistake. A mistake. A mistake.
They were back. They had gone away, why were they back?
There, she clutched her neck until she could breathe.
The nightmares were back.
Mutiny.
An overstep, a mistake.
Novarra had made a mistake.
Y o u m a d e a m i s t a k e
----
Novarra couldn't sleep.
I need to do something. I need to do something.
I need to correct my mistake.
I need to survive.
I need to live.
y o u h a v e f a i l ed m e N o v a r r a y o u m a d e a m i s t a ke
Youmadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistake
Youmadeamistakeyoumadeamistake*@$&&(@)
n o o n e i s D i f f E r e n t T h e y a r e a l l l i k e t h e p e o p l e b a c k h o m e@E$&@*!(
Y o u m a d e a m i s t a k e
Her hands weren’t shaking. Her hands never shook. She stood, her eyes transfixed and her legs dangling over the edge of the bed. Evan was in the guest room, he wouldn’t hear her footsteps. A flick of the wrist with a knife - no, he was alert. And she couldn’t kill him.
Why couldn’t she?
Why couldn’t you?
Her eyes were glazed over, and she didn’t move a muscle.
She was just there, silent, still. She couldn’t move. Her eyes were fixed on the wall. How plain it was.
You should decorate it with his blood-
No, Novarra tried to push the thoughts out of her head - they should’ve gone away by now, they should’ve - but they kept coming, hammering into her skull as her hands went to her ears and she collapsed to the floor, rocking back and forth.
youmadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyou#&$^*@(#($*@#&$*(@(*$&&$ &&&(@**#*@((#*@()@)#(**&^%@$!$@$^#^$^^#%$%#^%%@%%#%@^@& madeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistakeyoumadeamistake#^@!*!()!(@#&&#*@(*#*
y o u m a d e a M I s T a K e
The oppressive substance made its way back, and she was suffocating again. Novarra’s normal impulse would’ve been to snatch her phone from her dresser, plug in her earphones, and force herself to stay still. Force herself to close her eyes. But her nightmares hadn’t kicked in for five years. Five years. Her medication wasn’t here either - Why can’t you kill him? #^#$%^&#^@&^^#&$^#&^$&#^$&*#&*$**#%#$%$%%#%%#%$%$%# Her thoughts persisted, why can’t you? - and Novarra blinked.
Why can’t you kill him?
w h y c a n ‘ t y o u k i l l h i m t h e n y o u c a n r e t u r n t o n o r m a l y o u c a n l i v e y o u c a n s u r v i ve y o u c a n b r e a t h e
w h y c a n ‘ t y o u k i l l h i m t h e n y o u c a n r e t u r n t o n o r m a l y o u c a n l i v e y o u c a n s u r v i ve y o u c a n b r e a t h e
whycantyoulkillhimthenyoucanreturntonormalyoucanliveyoucansurviveyoucanbreatheagainwhycantyoukillhimwhycan’tyoukillhimwhycantyoukillhimwhywhywhy
She had been forgetting to blink.
It was dark, and Novarra could barely see anything as she felt that presence, that suffocating, drowning presence, in the corner of her room. She slowly climbed out of the bed, and kicked the mattress on her legs off. Reaching under her bed, for the suitcase - why are you doing this? The rational part of Novarra asked herself, why? - she drew out her dark, shorn-off half cloak, and mask.
Y o u c a n t l i v e p e a c e f u l l y a n y m o r e y o u c a n ‘ t a n y m o re
n o o n e i s D i f f E r e n t T h e y a r e a l l l i k e t h e p e o p l e b a c k h o m e@E$&@*!(
Youcantanymoreyoucantanymoreyoucantanymore
#^#$%^&#^@&^^#&$^#&^$&#^$&*#&*$**#%#$%$%%#%%#%$%$%#
"Where's the music- where is it?!" she wanted to hiss, but she couldn't. The chords were back, the whispers, the drowning, the insufferable organ music.
She needed to hear something else.
NO YOU HAVE TO LISTEN.
wear it.
The thoughts guided her hands to the glistening mask, and with still, silent hands Novarra put it in. It felt comfortable. And so Novarra’s shoulders relaxed, transforming as the features underneath contorted and she became a new person.
The voices didn’t stop. They grew louder.
Y o u n e v e r t a k e i t o f f a n y w a y s w h o a r e y o u u n d e r n e a t h
Whoareyouwhoareyouwhoareyouwhoareyouwhoareyou
Takeoffthemasktakeitofftakeitofftakeitoff
P u t it o n p u t i t o n p u t i t o n p u t i t o n
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
W h o a r e y o u N o v a r r a U l t r a
Takeitofftakeitoffwhoareyouwhoareyouwhoareyouunderneath
Sword in her hand, Novarra didn’t know when she had strapped the scabbard to her belt. Almost as she was on autopilot, she grabbed one final thing and slid out the window.
----
The rooftops beneath her boots.
destroydestroydeE#*@)@$%#%%$%stroydestroydestroy@^#$%#^
The mask on her face.
whoareyouwhoareyouwhoareyou
WHAT ARE YOU?
Sword in her hand, unsheathed.
And the object, in her pocket.
Ru&naway&r&unawayrunawayrunaway.
----
She made it.
She made it.
Novarramadeitshemadeitshemadeitshemadeit
The damp leaves on her cheeks, the itchiness of the Elevyarian pine-needles against her skin. Novarra’s eyes were lit aglow, and she took the object out.
Y o u h a v e t o l i g h t i t y o u h a v e t o l i g h t i t y o u h a v e t o l i g h t i t
YOU HAVE TO LIGHT IT.
Ifyoucantkillhimyouhavetolightit
Youmadeamistakesoyouhavetolightit
----
She lit it.
Oh, how the flames danced in the night.
WATCH IT BURN.
----
Erina hissed, "You killed my Papa." Her hackles raised, she looked at the masked lady with the scar covered in blood with all the anger she felt. She saw the woman stand amongst the flames, eyes cold, as she massacred the nearby survivors with a bloody sword. The blade glistened with crimson, dripping with the remains of death. Everyone. Where were the leaders? She could hear the person Papa said was the leader, his shouts. Screams. "My Mama will take revenge, I know she will-"
The masked lady blinked.
Her eyes are scary, Erina shuddered as tears brimmed to her eyes. The camp was on fire, from the forest. They're scary. She heard screaming and saw people, burning, as the woman approached.
"G-g-get away from me." Erina flinched as she felt hands cover her eyes and part of her ears.
"I'm sorry." The lady's voice was close to her ears, now, and she sounded genuinely remorseful. "I didn't mean to, really- the voices, and- It was supposed to be a better plan." She stumbled lazily over the words, but she didn't sound scared. It was as if she just didn't have the time to find better words.
A pause.
"It was supposed to be many things, but...Revenge is always an option, I suppose. When you grow up, you can stab me just like I stabbed your father. It's no biggie - I have my Personal Attribute for a reason.” A pause. “I won't take it personally, I promise. After all, I'm immortal."
The lady was rambling, Erina realized, like a normal person.
But she murdered Papa, she added viciously in her head.
"You killed my Papa," Erina voiced.
Her words were trembling, scared.
"Yes, I stabbed your Papa," the woman replied. The woman looked half out of it, but she spoke. She talked.
She didn't sound very sorry about it - she just sounded very sorry about getting caught.
"Papa says bad people have to be punished," Erina accused, voice crackling, as she ignored the faraway growing fire.
The woman nodded. “They do. But that depends whether you believe in good or bad. Do you believe in good or bad?”
The camp's flames crackled as the smoke and light illuminated the masked woman's face, half of it in shadow and the other in an ember glow. Like two sides of a coin, light and dark mingling and the dark winning.
The dark was winning.
She looks almost like a ghost.
“There are good people,” Erina answered firmly, “and bad people. Killing people is bad.” Her papa taught her that.
"But I am a bad person? If I do not think I'm a bad person, then surely I am not."
A pause.
"Either way," the woman said casually, suddenly rising as if transforming into another person, "you weren't supposed to be here." Her gaze got even scarier as she let go of Erina's eyes and ears, her features shifting.
"Your people were going to take over my land, kill my family," the masked lady reminded. "I won't speak of fairness, for I don't like to judge, but such is life. But it isn't your fault, so I'll let you run."
Casual.
Her name. I need her name, I...
"Tell me your name before I run," Erina demanded, her face caked with soot and tears and her hands stained with blood. "So I can...So I can find you and kill you!"
A knife. Erina saw a knife, flashing as the lady chuckled, her hand on the blade.
Erina watched as the woman stabbed herself.
The woman hissed a bit in pain, and stumbled, but did not fall as the blade protruded from her abdomen. She stabbed herself-
"You're annoying me," she said. "The voices say you're annoying, too."
Voices?
A pause.
"My Personal Attribute is a joke if I can still feel pain," the woman thought aloud. "But this is the only form of retribution I'll pay. If you come after me again, I will murder you."
Erina shivered.
Another pause, and a snort of laughter as if the woman had thought of a very nice joke. Erina realized that the woman felt like the porcelain tea sets her father used to look at, the ones that cut when broken. And she was the ones that had fell, the fragments and the result.
The pretty, yet dangerous shards left behind.
"Death," the woman said simply, a knife still embedded in her body, a smile in her voice as if she were pulling Erina's leg. "My name is the Charlatan, of Death."
Charlatan, a word that Erina did not know.
But death she knew very well, in stories her papa used to tell her, Death was neither a villain nor a hero. But death was scary.
And so Erina ran, true to her word, bolting after the lady finished her sentence.
I'll let you run, the murderer had said. This is the only form of retribution I'll pay. If you come after me, I'll murder you.
And so, five-year-old Erina Ivanova Sommerling ran.
----
Novarra ran, after. She ran into the woods, knife in her stomach.
After, she kneeled.
"The voices, the voices, the voices-"
They need to go away. They need to go away-
{There you are.}
Another, emotionless voice.
{You did well, [Player Novarra Ultra].}
~
"They call her Death," Conquest mused.
Conquest was young, younger than young. He could be barely five, but he seemed older than old, a collection of eras of tragedy, eons in his eyes.
"Three of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, we named ourselves as," he grinned. "The Kingbreaker of Conquest, the Artist of War, and the Charlatan of Death. Funny, isn't it?"
Conquest. War. Death.
"We came from another world, you know," Conquest continued, "a world similar, yet different."
He bared his teeth. A small gesture, but it was threatening, for the gleam in his eyes foretold of a burning desire: to conquer, to claim, to break.
"She does not break, Death," he continued. "She runs, she hides, she whispers, she lies. She murders, she sleeps, and she loots, she reaps. She pretends; she is none yet all at once, Death, but she never breaks."
His gaze softened, looking into the sky.
"They say she carries a scythe, Death. That she is inevitable, everywhere, yet nowhere. But it isn't true."
Conquest paused, as if hearing a question out.
A chuckle.
"Then what is true about her, you ask? The fact remains that she calls herself a Charlatan, to add a humorous streak to her repertoire. Yet she carries as many secrets as rumors to the wind; but the beauty of death is that she is so very real."
A pause.
"Death is real, and she knows," he summarized simply. "If she is but a puppet on a stage, she does not fight the marionette strings, because she Knows."
Conquest smiled.
"Who is she?" he repeated. "Well…they call her-"
-
"-Conquest," answered War.
War was neither young nor old, an ageless entity of battle and flag, a library of history fought over, a moment where the pages went up in flames.
"They call him Conquest," War repeated, stoic.
War did not bare his teeth but looked into the distance.
"They say we go hand-in-hand, War and Conquest," he said, "but it is not true. Conquest is to claim, but whether I follow or not rests on the shoulders of the world."
The figure of War turned.
Fragments of torn capes, of leaders broken asunder, of bone and of carrion and of promises and of betrayal. Of screams and of wails, of war.
"Conquest does not give up," War responded. "True conquerors do not seek to fight. They seek to conquer, and destroy everything that gets in their way. That is Conquest in its essence."
A pause.
War barked in soft laughter, "Friends? Are we friends? I suppose you could say that. We are partners, bound together in holy life. But we will return, return to our world soon."
Another pause.
"Conquest binds, and Conquest claims, and Conquest hungers. It seeks, and it takes; It barks, and it bites, and it destroys kings and nations. That is the Kingbreaker's Will. Conquest topples thrones; it searches and snatches, and it does not give back."
War turned, yet again.
"It appears, and disappears, it is fleeting yet it is not. He does not give up, Conquest, if he cannot have it, he will steal it in all his thieving glory."
A beat, as another question is asked.
"Who is he? Well he is-"
-
"-War," Death responded.
She smiled, gracefully. In her knife-like actions, there is a sharp danger. Of time stopped, of fate, of a looming figure carrying an hourglass of shifting sand, of many masks and faces.
"An Artist, a creator. He paints with blood and ruin and glory; he writes history that is meant to be twisted; he is War."
Death wrinkled her nose.
"What do you mean, our explanations are too abstract? War is War, Conquest is Conquest, Death is Death. I've known him for quite a long time, War."
Death doesn't turn towards the horizon, or the sky, but rather looks straight towards the subject.
"They say winner is king, but where is the artist? The artist who draws with lines of conflict, who colors with rivers of ambition and greed, who sings of defeat yet flourishes in triumph. He who wins, and he who loses, and he who writes the future. Where is he?"
Her words linger.
She does not speak, for a while.
"We came apart, yet ended together, us three," she continued, "and we will return together. Fate is not written in the stars, or the heart; we cannot see the strings that bind us all, so why worry about the future?"
Another long pause.
"Leaders are crowned, knights fight in sorrow, and the people left behind linger for the call of the budgel, of the fury-song laurels of War. It runs in their veins, slaughter. And when the sun sets on the bodies of victims, War shall continue in the legacy of Death. Me."
Death grins.
"What will we do in the future, you ask? Well we-"
----
"-Shall," Conquest continued-
----
"-Return," War finished..
----
Death laughed.
"I bid you farewell, my curious friend."
~
A charlatan.
A girl, trapped in the cage of privilege and lies, whose true face rested behind so many masks that she had neither taken them off nor looked in the mirror for a long, long time. A girl who had neither a father nor mother nor friend, who relished in dreaming of freedom and goals that remained beyond her grasp. A girl who was a cynic of the foreign feeling of trust, a girl who had beliefs yet acted for her own benefit regardless of them, who wanted to do more than survive, but yet failed to.
An artist.
A boy, trapped in not a cage but his own ability, a tortured musician who hated his creations yet loved them regardless. A boy who denied the mightiness of the pen and sword and wielded a paintbrush instead, who bled passion although he thought he had none, the bearer of a curse he had inflicted upon himself. A melancholic soul, who remained stoic in the face of not despair, but an emptiness. A boy of no beliefs.
A kingbreaker.
Another boy, trapped under the weight of expectations, of crushing dreams that others dreamt for him, of might and power being pushed upon him when he wished for neither. A boy who thought he was mediocre yet knew deep down he was not, a boy who lost his everything, who tried to forge his own path and failed as the results disappointed him more than the cause did. A boy who wanted to make his own beliefs.
The Queen, the Creator, and the Thief-Hero.
Death, War, and Conquest.
And thus ends the start of their journey.
[END OF VOLUME I: ROOK]