The woman’s face was human and somewhat beautiful, and adorned with pieces of red steel that seamlessly flowed to her hair. The torso was also normal and mostly bare. There was naked flesh and red steel intertwined into one whole – transitioning from soft pink to metallic red. All below the waist was just a misshapen and jagged undulating mass of the strange material that draped in a circle around the dirt floor like a gown.
The eyes were the worst though. They were dead, not like those of Riya, deep like a midnight sea and promising intelligence and intrigue, or the black abyssal orbs of Kallus, which somehow managed to be expressive despite their nature.
Those were the eyes of someone whose soul was dying or already dead. Sunday had seen a similar look in those whose past weighed too heavy, those who had lost the war against drugs, and mostly in those too sick to move and eat, forgotten by their closest and left to rot. All three kinds could be found in the gutters, if one looked hard enough. Hints of that look had been present in the eyes of Elora’s friend. For all his faults Old Rud had never let one of the orphans suffer such a fate.
The being— the woman, moved. It was like watching steel flow in sharp pointed waves, like a myriad of needles grabbing at the dirt. She not so much walked as she glided on the floor.
Sunday took a step back and felt his essence come to life. He felt a danger larger than any so far, perhaps only comparable to the feeling he got from the hound and the darkness its maw promised. This fear, however, was more natural. It was like standing before an apex predator, a killer whose sole purpose was to end and consume you.
He felt the wight’s hand on his shoulder – an unmovable cold limb, and he pivoted on his heel without thinking. The slap found the wight’s face with a sound as if the flesh was simply breaking wind and not striking flesh. Nevertheless, the sensation was unmistakable, and the force was large.
Kallus seemed to not have expected that and hit the wall behind with a gasp. His eyes were surprised and somewhat horrified.
“Sunday—!” Riya began and reached, but her hand stopped almost immediately as two white moths manifested and brought white light into the underground world. She gasped and stepped back and Sunday held the moths close, using them as a shield, rather than a weapon.
Is this a trap? Are they trying to kill me? Why? Why after all of this? His mind was going a million miles per second, trying to figure out what was happening and why. The monster continued its approach, unbothered about his reaction in the slightest. There was a hint of curiosity on her face, but the eyes remained dead and unexpressive.
Sunday wanted to threaten them, to curse, to do his usual dance of words and distract, but nothing came. Could he run? The path was twisting and difficult and the wight would catch up to him without issue if anything of what Sunday assumed about his abilities was true.
And the monster…
“So, it’s true. A killer of gods walks this earth,” a metallic but unmistakably feminine voice said. “Do not be afraid, I shall not harm you.”
Sunday felt some of his fear retract. Speaking was good. He could do speaking. He was not sure about fighting the thing though.
“What are you?” he asked. His voice trembled.
The woman shook her head with sadness. “I’m a remnant of an age long past. One of those sacrificed for the good of all, and one unfortunate enough to have become… this.”
“Sunday, please.” Riya pled from the side distracting him. She had never sounded like that before. There was genuine terror in her voice.
His head snapped to the girl and he noticed an expression of panic and terror. She’s afraid of me? Her burns popped out in the strange light that was a mix of his moths and the few lamps strewn around. On his other side, Kallus was wide-eyed, muttering something under his breath and Sunday strained his ears to catch the words.
“—hit me. He hit me. He hit me!” the wight repeated like a mantra.
I… fuck. The moths disappeared unused and some essence came back to him. “Sorry. I… I got worried you were trying to kill me. I’m sorry, Riya.”
The girl nodded and hugged herself with her arms making Sunday flinch. Guilt was not an emotion he felt often, but now it hit heavy. What had me so scared?
“Those of your kind are sensitive,” the woman of living steel said. “And I present a danger unlike any you will find in this small piece of the world, apart from the servants of the wicked gods. I don’t blame you for acting out, and you two shouldn’t either. Sunday is our guest.”
Riya nodded and took a deep breath before letting her arms fall to her sides. At the same time, Kallus looked up to Sunday like a kicked puppy. “Big brother,” he said, “I’ve never been hit before. How did you do it? Can you do it again? Is it possible? I… I’ve never been hit before!”
Whatever guilt Sunday had felt vanished without a trace as he looked at Kallus with bewilderment and disgust. Did I just awaken something wrong in him? What the fuck is going on?
“To strike a wight such as Kallus is indeed extraordinary. While I could certainly… punish him should the need arise, physically touching him enough to affect him is not something I can do. You’re so wonderfully twisted in your uniqueness,” the woman smiled as if that was an amazing compliment.
“What is your name?” Sunday asked. Names were important.
“Ah, of course. I so seldom use it; I’ve outgrown the habit of introducing myself. My name is, for simplicity’s sake, just Mera, or Mesmer for those not close to me. And to continue the answer to your first question, I am possibly one of the oldest spell-fused in existence. Beings such as us seldom live more than a few years; perhaps a decade at most, after all.”
Spell-fused? He had heard of that before. Someone had mentioned it. There were just so many questions to ask, and so few he could ask safely. Perhaps, this was his time? Fear gave way to hope.
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“What is a spell-fused… and how old are you?”
“You truly lack some very common knowledge. A spell-fused is just as the name suggests – a human that has become one with a spell through a simple ritual and alchemical processes that involve the use of inferni blood. It strips the soul bare into the smallest of fragments of existence and does the same with the spell before combining the two. From that union stems the change to the body, which in some cases can be extreme. It is only due to my age that I’ve reached this stage. And I might be about a thousand years old at this point. Who’s counting?” Mera smiled.
It would’ve been polite to return the smile she gave, but the sheer weight of the knowledge she had just dropped made him forget good manners. He had a vial of inferni blood. Even now it was safely wrapped with leathers, and hidden in his room upstairs in the tavern. Did that mean Arten’s plan was that? To become that?
“Come, I’ll tell you more. About myself, and yourself. Let’s not do it at the entrance though,” Mera said. She shifted and it seemed like the cave shifted with her. Metal made of countless small spikes and needles wrapped around objects and moved them until the whole contents of the hall were walking around as if they had grown legs. Sunday followed her reluctantly, looking wide-eyed at the spectacle of magic around him.
“Spell-fused gain the ability of only one spell for life, but they also become the spell. There is no need to study it, to spend countless hours trying to learn its intricacies and its behavior, if there is such. There is no need to grow our soul space or even awaken one. We’re not magi,” she explained as she led them toward the far corner, where a large table of dark wood was being placed. Her lower half transformed into legs and she stepped on the ground gracefully. “We hold power. We hold a spell’s essence. And we suffer for it. I’ve been lucky to not have crippling side effects, be they mental or physical, despite what appearances may lead you to believe. Some of us turn into monsters, and some lose themselves in madness not better than that offered by the fallen.”
“The first of us were created as warriors when magi were not enough to face the divine hordes alone, long before the time of the Emperor of Mankind and the Corpse Kings. We were also used as weapons against magi themselves, and some say that it might be many spell-fused’s specialty. A fallen mage is, after all, one of the worst things that can happen to this world. We were made to be expendable, and we’re part of the reason why inferni are almost gone, with the surviving ones having to hide from plain sight lest they be drained of each drop of blood.”
Sunday listened like someone dying of thirst being offered water. She was offering him a lot and each word nested itself into his mind. The world was vast and filled with wonder and for the first time, he realized how much he had missed. Perhaps reading some of the autobiographies in the Arcanum’s library would’ve shed some light, or perhaps not being so stingy with his questions would’ve helped. However, this was better. A millennia-old being of unfathomable power stood before him and was willing to share.
They all followed her lead and sat down on strange metal chairs. They were not made of Mesmer Steel, but regular old iron, without even a cushion. It was uncomfortable, but Sunday didn’t care. Mera’s body seemed to ooze red steel that turned into a chair of her own.
“As I said, most spell-fused die quickly. We burn bright and we fall fast.”
“So only humans can become spell-fused?”
She nodded, “Yes. Only living flesh. Magi too, can follow that fate although it is mostly those who have only half-awakened, crippling their future potential, or those who find the road too difficult. A spell-fused, although very powerful, is also limited. We grow fast, but it still takes years to reach our full potential. Most peak at the equivalent at Rank Three or Four when it comes to power, with very rare exceptions. The spell used is very important.”
“How strong are you?” Sunday asked. He didn’t find the question rude or insensitive. He needed to know what had terrified him so.
“At my strongest, I could rival a Rank Five for a time. Now? Weaker Rank Four at best. My degeneration is slow, but it has progressed. I don’t know how much time is left for me. I’ve been lucky to live as long as I have.”
Sunday looked at Riya and Kallus but both were staring at Mera with something bordering on reverence and love. It was a strange sight that reminded him of a certain period, when he had been young and impressionable, and when Old Rud had been his hero. It didn’t take long for the bastard to shatter the illusion, but… Riya and Kallus were not kids.
“Why are you here? This place? This city?”
Mera raised an eyebrow. “Because it was my first home and it will be my last. I returned here a long time ago when I had first started losing my human form. I made the Wayward Rat on a whim, inspired by a kid’s story I heard once upon a time.”
And perhaps because you’re probably the strongest being around here. Sunday didn’t voice his thoughts. They had no place in front of the woman. He couldn’t fathom someone so much older and experienced than him. Jishu had been the same, and he had played with Sunday each step of the way. Even now the hermit was managing to send reminders of his existence and make Sunday question if he had truly died.
It was time for another question though. A question that burned on his lips like poison.
“What am I?”
Mera smiled, while Riya and Kallus shifted. They looked curious too, but it was strange to think she hadn’t shared what she knew of him with them. “It took you longer than I expected to ask that. To tell you the truth, what you are is the subject of many theories. Old books and fables mentioned heroes sent to kill the mad gods. Warriors and magi from foreign worlds, offering their souls to save us. The slayers, the godkillers, the scourges. Blessed with many talents and the ability to conquer spells and arts unlike anyone else, they were instrumental in reclaiming the lands we enjoy, as shattered and separated as they are.”
“Other writings call you abominations, thieves of what is rightfully ours, lost souls looking for a new home. Those are in the minority though. What is certain is that there is never only one of you and that when you appear, change follows. A third theory is that…” she paused and looked at him strangely, “You’re the seeds of the new gods, sent to cleanse the world and take the place of the fallen.”
Sunday remained silent, each word echoing in his mind again and again. Her words made sense. He could sense the touch of the divine, and his slaps could apparently exorcise it from people. His talent for fame had amazing potential, and while his other talents were still a mystery, they were equally terrifying.
“I see,” Sunday eventually said. “Thank you for telling me all of this.”
“It is my duty. I’ve opposed the madness of the gods and their servants all my life, and now one sent to end their reign stands before me. It is an honor.”
Sunday almost cringed but stopped himself. He didn’t want to fight gods, nor did he want others to be honored by his presence. He briefly wondered if he should ask about the strange city he had woken up in, but shelved the idea. Mera had given him theories, which meant even she was not sure of the exact reason. Maybe it was a little bit of everything? Or something else entirely.
Nevertheless, this was the greatest opportunity Sunday had run into.
“Why did you meet with me now?” he asked.
“Shortly before your appearance, one of the so-called Divine – I despise that title – touched Blumwin. A prophet walks the streets and the pathways, and seeds madness in the minds of simple people. And he knows of you, and through him, so does his god. However, the touch of madness is still weak and opposable.”
Ah, shit.
“And so, Sunday, we wish to aid you in your quest to slay a God.”
All gazes were on him. Riya’s and Kallus’ eyes were glowing with admiration and enthusiasm, all previous grievances were forgotten, and even Mera’s gave out a hint of emotion.
I just wanted to sell healing booze and cast cool spells…