1,247 Years Later...

Three Powers, given by the Three Bladewielders.

Ever, power of the mind, to control our world.

Purity, power of the body, to shape ourselves.

Eternity, power of the soul, to harness that which lies beyond.

Between them, unity. Unity, gone, till the Endowed doth come…

-The Song of the Three Powers

They came in the night, as killers always do. E’vin Yaenke awoke to the whine of battlecruiser engines, the crackle of plasma bolts striking energy shields. The screams, the shrieks, the whispers of echoes crashing into his mind. The sounds were familiar — too familiar, so much so he almost didn’t wake. When you had lived through what he had, the nightmares and reality melted together.

But he opened his eyes, then sat up, slowly, tossing the rough blanket off his chest. Dreams full of pain still danced before him, but he stepped to the window, throwing open the shades.

Nightmares, reality. As he took in the sight before him, they blended more than ever.

He cursed. He’d told them. Thaus take it, but he’d told them war would come. That the Confederacy would not interfere. The signs were all too obvious. Larsh had claimed to be the Endowed. She’d breathed a thousand threats against Ethea, subtle, sometimes even in private, but threats nonetheless. Rion’s daughter was gaining popularity. The Church publicly denounced Rion, but did not denounce Larsh. The Talar were rumored to be gathering their forces near Xilia. He’d seen these warning signs before. He’d ignored them then. He hadn’t this time.

They’d called him a liar, a fearmonger. The Talar were neutral, they’d said. The Confederacy wouldn’t allow open conflict, they’d said.

War was impossible, they’d said. Well, now it was here.

Plasma ripped into the hulls of Ethean trade ships, tearing through their thin defensive shields like knives through flesh. The shrapnel fell from the sky, a rain of molten metal, shining an angry orange. Talar fighters, angular and small, glided between buildings, moving with expert precision, taking out guard posts, sending human-shaped silhouettes flying into the night. Other fighters, bulkier and more heavily armored, chased their enemies. They were less precise, often crashing into the very buildings they sought to defend. One would think the militia of a nation eons old could at least hold its ground. Alas, that was not so. Flames spread across the skyline. In the darkness, they almost looked beautiful, flickering beneath the stars. E’vin watched them for too long, numb.

So it has begun, just as Aiedra said it would.

For a moment, he was more afraid than he’d ever been. Then he straightened his uniform. The Governor. Where was the Governor? Why had no one alerted him of the attack, and how long had he been sleeping? He snatched a Surgeblade from the wall, then threw open the door to his bedroom.

The shouts grew louder. There were so many he could not make out specific words, or even specific voices. In the blue-lit hallway, people dashed by, cooks, servants, mechanics, soldiers. Yaenke recognized none of them. He did, however, recognize one sound.

Plasma fire.

He swore again, an Erak’sai profanity slipping involuntarily from his mouth. Normally, that would have drawn stares. But today was no day for prejudices.

He glanced at his Surgeblade. It was a long, elegant weapon, made of gleaming, chrome titrite metal, light as aluminum, more durable than a steel alloy. The blade was longer than most swords, two-edged, sharp enough to cut through most anything with ease.

The blade, though, was not the defining feature of the weapon. Its actual power came from the jewel embedded into the hilt, deep blue, like lapis lazuli, but glowing with lines of azure light – lines of Ever. The jewel was a Surge, a manifestation of the First Power in the physical world. Yaenke moved his thumb to touch that jewel. For a moment, his skin rested on its icy surface, but nothing happened.

Then Ever, ethereal energy from the Surge, rushed into his body, making his skin glow with bright sapphire light. Instantly, his mind focused, the initial confusion of the invasion turning starkly clear. The Talar were here. Some of their forces had likely slipped into the palace, judging by the sounds of gunfire nearby. The Governor was supposed to be in his bedchambers. Yaenke formed a route in his mind, then another route, in case the enemy had blocked off the first.

And if the Governor is already dead?

Well, he’d deal with that if it came to it. His feet leapt into action, dashing down the hallway.

Servants slowed their rush, stepping away as Yaenke ran by. Dressed in full uniform, for he always slept prepared, Yaenke’s glowing body was an intimidating sight, particularly with a four-foot longsword in his hand. Even when he encountered a pair of soldiers, who should have been trained to deal with a Surgewielder, they stopped as he approached, eyes widening.

“Sir,” one of them said, saluting with a hand to his chest. “General Krot ordered us to…”

“Follow his orders!” Yaenke snapped. “I’ll take care of the Governor.”

The soldiers nodded, rushing off in the opposite direction, toward the center of the palace, where General Rion Krot would undoubtedly be commanding the resistance effort. The gunfire was growing louder, and Yaenke swore he could feel vibrations underneath his feet as plasma continued to crackle outside. The Ethean palace had its own shield, but that wouldn’t hold long. In fact, from what Yaenke had seen in his brief look outside, it wouldn’t hold for longer than an hour.

When it falls, he realized, the only safe place for me is the Undercity.

He stopped at a fork, hesitating, choices dueling in his mind. He could bring the Governor to Rion, and help repel the invasion. That, of course, was what he was expected to do. Or, he could run. Escape, through the Undercity.

And protect his secret.

He stood at that fork for a long moment, alone in the corridor. Voices murmured in his ears; while wielding Ever, one could hear, and sometimes even see, the thoughts of people nearby. They shouldn’t have bothered him – he’d used Ever many times before – but today, they seemed to taunt him. Mocking the terrible choice he had to make. They flashed through his mind, driving him to his knees.

A Talar slave, one who had never even seen the green of a tree’s leaves, died to a spear through the neck.

An Ethean guard screamed as plasma struck his spine, leaving him paralyzed and bleeding on the ground.

A woman nearby fled, trying not to think of the child she’d left behind, yet knowing the infant’s cries would give her away.

Memories. Decisions. The terrible past, the unbearable future.

Did he leave, and protect the secret that could destroy the galaxy?

Did he stay, and die with those he loved? Die, and seal the fate of Delti anyway?

Either way, he lost. Finally, he forced himself onward. He could save the Governor. Get him to safety, before making his final decision, and keep Ethea from further chaos. His feet moved with uncharacteristic speed, pounding against the carpeted ground, almost as fast as the blood pounding through his head.

The secret.

And the boy.

A red blade, raised in the air…

The gunfire was even louder now. Yaenke pulled in more Ever; the Surge produced it at a constant rate, leaking energy from the Everrealm into the physical world. He rounded a corner, then stopped.

Here, the hallway expanded into a massive glass dome. Shops lined the edge of the structure, on multiple floors, with gleaming marble supports holding up terraces for the higher levels. A giant chandelier hung from the ceiling, secured by a thick, painted metal chain. The chandelier itself glowed with green, white, and blue jewels, one color for each of the Three Powers. Directly across the dome from Yaenke, a golden archway opened into the Governor’s quarters. It was a grand sight; even the carpet was beautiful.

Save, of course, for the blood and bodies that now lay strewn across it.

In the center of the dome, the Governor’s Guard, dressed in blue and silver uniforms, ducked behind furniture, firing blasters at the oncoming enemy. The Talar soldiers, their backs to Yaenke, were dressed in full battle armor, purple and gray, helms covering their faces perfectly. Though they were still human, their armor was vaguely insectoid, particularly the helmets, which had two black spots for eyes, and metal spikes jutting out near the mouth, like mandibles. There appeared to be about four dozen of them. More than Yaenke’s entire guard force – and that was excluding those who already lay dead.

It did not take long for the Talar to spot Yaenke’s glowing figure. Shouts echoed, and in unison, six of those fighting in the back turned. Immediately, they sheathed their blasters. Ever could manipulate energy, and plasma would do little good against a Surgewielder. Instead, they drew pikes from their backs, then began stalking toward Yaenke, forming a semicircle around him.

Yaenke forced himself to smile. He let them surround him, let them point their weapons at his chest. He brandished his sword, as if preparing for them to attack. Then, raising his hand, he burned his Ever, expending it to send a bolt of energy flying at the chain holding the chandelier.

The bolt connected, then exploded, and the chandelier began to fall. Yaenke waved his hand toward the Talar forces, burning more Ever to push the chandelier toward them. Though he could not see the Talar men’s expressions, he felt their thoughts. Felt their fear, as a wave of shards shot outward, stabbing into chinks in their armor, the heavier chunks crushing many of them. Yaenke snapped his sword upward, burning even more Ever as he directed the blast toward the Talar, and formed an energy shield around himself. A couple of shards still flew past that shield, digging through his padded uniform and into his back. He winced.

When the dust had settled, the Talar force was decimated. A few of the soldiers on the edges of the blast had survived, but Yaenke’s men quickly surged forward, finishing them. Yaenke stood for a moment, glancing at the carnage. At the white, blue, and green jewels shattered on the floor. Even in this, they represented the Three Powers. Broken, perhaps permanently.

You need to leave, he thought. If Larsh is here…

But first, the Governor. He’d have a better chance if he stuck with the Governor, and the rest of the guard.

His Ever was almost spent; directing the chandelier’s explosion toward the Talar had taken most of it. He Reached and pulled in more, though his Surge had hardly produced much in the few seconds of fighting. Careful to avoid bits of broken glass, he strode toward the other guards.

“Governor Lysh? Is he alive?”

A man with long, white hair saluted. Tyrin, his second in command. Though his hair was white, he was only in his thirties, Etheans’ hair was naturally white, even for children. “Alive, sir. Though…” He hesitated.

“Though what?”

“Best if you see for yourself.” He gestured toward the archway. Strangely, the hallway beyond was dark. Yaenke nodded, and they headed towards it. As they did, Yaenke’s eyes drifted toward the bodies on the ground. Thirteen of his men dead, as far as he could see. His breath caught in his throat, but he reminded himself to grieve later. He had no time now.

He hadn’t had time to grieve for centuries.

The glass dome, though not completely transparent, was see-through in parts. Through those parts, Yaenke could see the shield, still holding against the missiles bombarding it. His muscles tensed as the blue sheet of energy flickered briefly, then restored itself. Perhaps they had less time than they thought.

They arrived at the hallway. Tyrin stopped outside the arch. “Talk to him yourself,” he whispered. “He’s already said he doesn’t want to see me.”

Is he throwing a fit again? Blood-cursed vret. Yaenke frowned, but did as Tyrin said, stepping down the short hallway and through the door to the Governor’s chambers. As he did, he Reached for more Ever, mentally drawing it from the Surge and into his body. His blade was a strong one, and he was glowing as brightly as he had been before the skirmish by the time he arrived at the Governor’s door. It was open.

The lights were out in this room, too, though Yaenke’s glow illuminated it as he stepped inside. It was lavish. Paintings hung on all four walls. There were three dressers, all made of rare violet wood from Artensia. The bed was bigger than any Yaenke had seen, and he’d lived a long time.

The Governor waited on that bed, legs crossed beneath him. He was a fat man, balding, with pasty skin. The kind of man who had spent too much time with his wine. His eyes were closed.

For a moment, a long moment, Yaenke twisted the Surgeblade in his hand. This man had been nothing but a nuisance the past year. Taxing the people harder in the name of the cause, then spending it on himself, then impeding any legislature Rion tried to pass to stop him. He’d appointed corrupt Councilors, cut military funding, quietly spread rumors claiming Rion had developed a Soulcurse. This invasion was in no small part due to his incompetence.

It would be so, so easy to just kill him.

He raised his sword. Then the palace rumbled. Outside, someone shouted in surprise.

“Shield’s fallen!”

Yaenke paused, then pushed the thoughts of treason away. More chaos was not what Ethea needed right now. He lowered his Surgeblade.

“My liege. We need to move.”

The Governor twitched. Evidently he had not heard Yaenke enter the room. But he did not respond.

“My liege,” Yaenke repeated. “The shield has broken. We need to get you to safety.”

Still nothing. Yaenke restrained his anger. Heavens Above, it would be so easy…

“The Talar will be here soon, my liege.”

“I am aware.” The Governor still did not open his eyes. His voice was a rasp, clearly damaged by years of drugs. Drugs, funded by taxes that should have gone toward stopping this disaster.

“Then you know why we need to leave,” Yaenke said coolly.

The Governor snorted. “We will not be leaving, Captain E’vin.”

“This is not the time for drama.”

The Governor’s eyes opened. They were a sickly yellow. “I am not being dramatic, Captain. If I stay, Larsh will come for me. And I will sue her for peace.”

This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

Yaenke blinked, not even sure how to respond to the absolute stupidity of the plan. The Talar didn’t accept surrender. Everyone knew that. He would laugh, if the stunt wouldn’t cost so many lives.

“My liege, I don’t think that’s wise.”

“And I don’t care.” The Governor’s eyes closed again. “Leave me. Try not to get killed when Larsh arrives. Unless you don’t care about your life, like everyone else out there.”

Yaenke stood, stunned. The Governor grunted. “Well? Leave!”

Yaenke stepped back, cursing softly. This is not the time for this, thau it. Legally, he had to obey the Governor’s orders. So did his men. They wouldn’t leave, even if Yaenke told them to; he’d trained them for total obedience to authority.

But if he stayed, Larsh would get the secret. He shivered as memories flashed through his mind. Memories of darkness, devastation. Of an empty city, smoking and ruined, yet without a corpse in sight. It had been four thousand years, yet they were vivid as ever.

He decided in an instant.

“There can be no peace with darkness,” he recited. Raising his hand, he burned Ever and sent a single blast of concentrated plasma directly for the Governor’s chest. It struck home, sizzling as it burned through fat, then through muscle. The Governor’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to scream, but a second bolt took him in the throat. He fell slack on the bed, blood covering the white sheets.

Yaenke inhaled sharply, hands trembling, then forced himself to exhale. Why, after all these years, did killing still make him shiver? This man had deserved his death. Yaenke had simply administered justice that should have been dealt out months ago.

Yet, as he watched green mist pour from Governor Lysh’s mouth, he couldn’t help but tremble. The mist turned red, and he swore he could faintly hear screaming; the Governor was in Torment now, the realm of the dead. A place controlled by Oblivion, where everyone was condemned to endless pain.

The Void is the real enemy, Yaenke reminded himself. He lowered his hand. Beneath him, the ground rumbled again, accompanied by the thunder of a nearby explosion.

“Sir?”

Tyrin. He’d left the man standing outside Lysh’s quarters. He’d probably heard everything. Yaenke hesitated.

During his moment of hesitation, Tyrin stepped around the corner. Yaenke hastily closed the door, but not before Tyrin’s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to cry out, but Yaenke burned Ever, using it to stifle Tyrin’s shout, then burning more to freeze him in place. He stepped toward his friend, leaning in close.

“We both know he deserved it. Get your men out of here, while there’s still time. Leave the palace, leave your uniforms. Pretend you never had anything to do with this. They might spare you.”

He met the man’s eyes, pouring as much sincerity into his mournful expression as he could. He’d enjoyed his time here, even with the threats looming around every corner. These men didn’t deserve death, any more than Governor Lysh, as corrupt a man as he’d been, deserved eternal anguish. Hopefully, they would abandon their post. They wouldn’t, they were Etheans, but Yaenke could hope they would see past their honor.

He closed his eyes, Reaching and pulling as much Ever as he could from his Surge. Then, glowing blue, he released Tyrin.

Immediately, the man lashed out with his boot, trying to trip Yaenke. The captain reacted with blinding speed, sweeping the flat of his blade outward, blocking the blow and tripping Tyrin. He clattered to the ground, then rolled, shouting.

“Traitor! He killed the Governor! He is Worthless!”

Some of the men snapped into action instantly, but others hesitated. Infused with Ever, Yaenke could hear their thoughts. Their Captain, a traitor? A Worthless?

That hesitation gave him time. He burned all of his Ever at once, sending a shockwave rippling around him. There wasn’t much force behind it – he was aiming to stall them, not kill them – but it was enough to throw all of them to the floor. Tyrin slammed into the wall, and he grimaced. Yaenke met the man’s dazed eyes one last time.

“Run,” he said.

Then he followed his own advice, dashing out of the dome, sprinting away from the Governor’s wing, then into the black, smoke-filled night beyond.

***

Blood mixed with sweat and tears as it dripped down young Perelor Krot’s face, falling off his cheek and down to the dusty ground below. Most of that blood came from his right eye, which had been slashed across the iris. It stared, dead, at the floor, a scab slowly drying over the wound.

Perelor’s hands were above his head, locked together with magnetic cuffs. He and his sister, Eliel, slumped beside a broken wall, near a landing pad, heads hung low, waiting, presumably, for one of the cruisers on the pad to take them away. Unless Larsh killed them. She might. She’d already had an opportunity to finish them, yes, but people like her tended to enjoy cruelty.

Eliel was coughing – there was smoke everywhere, a thin haze that reduced everything around them to silhouettes. Perelor sat silent, cringing at every cough, but helpless to assist her. Helpless to assist anyone. He wished he could shut his ears the same way he could shut his eyes. Wished he could simply not listen to the rattle of gunfire, the rumble of explosions all around.

Two Talar guards watched the children. One had his helmet off, revealing a short beard and violet eyes that seemed to glow through the smog. The other kept his helmet on. With it, he looked like a mix between a spider and an ant, staring down at Perelor with sharp mandibles and solid black eyes.

Perelor closed his own eyes, spots dancing across the blackness of his left eyelid, a more pure blackness still dominating the right side of his vision. He felt drained. How long had it been, since he’d fallen unconscious the first time? How long had it been since… since…

Since his father had died.

Keep your sister safe, son. He’d seemed so confident, even as his hand had fallen slack in Perelor’s hand. Perelor had felt his thoughts. He’d believed in Perelor, even in that final moment.

In that, he’d been a fool.

Something rammed into his abdomen. Perelor gasped, eyes leaping back open. It was the butt of a lasertip – the guard without the helmet had smashed it into Perelor’s stomach.

“Hey! No Reaching!”

“I wasn’t Reaching,” Perelor spat. He hadn’t been – had he been Reaching, he would have started to glow. But, of course, the guard didn’t know that. It had been a thousand years since the powers Perelor wielded had been commonplace, and myths, rumors, and downright untruths about memory burning abounded.

The comment did, however, earn him another smack to the gut. Perelor wheezed, but hung his head, falling silent. His eyes drooped, but he kept them at least partially open. Blood continued to drip down his cheek.

The gunfire was growing quieter. Perelor couldn’t decide if that was good or not. On the one hand, it meant that the battle was close to over.

On the other hand, it meant she had won. And that meant he had failed.

You’ve already failed, a part of him whispered. Remember those ash-filled eyes. He did, and a tear dropped down his face. He didn’t think he would ever forget those eyes, staring upward. Accusing him.

The guards watched Perelor closely for several minutes, then stepped back, conversing among themselves. Perelor was surprised at how casual the conversation was. These weren’t evil men. They were just soldiers, doing their job.

And they’d killed his father in doing so.

His eyelids slid down farther. Sleep would give relief. Better not to exist, than to exist in this Torment.

“Perelor.” That was Eliel’s voice. It forced him from his stupor. Eliel. His sister.

She was still alive. It felt surreal that she wasn’t dead, and simultaneously, it still felt surreal that his father was dead. His memories were torn in two. His life before today, his life after today, they would likely never fully merge into one life in his mind.

“Perelor, we have to get out of here.”

He was silent.

“Perelor! You’re… better at this than I am. We have to try.”

More silence. He should have said something. He didn’t. The words simply wouldn’t come out.

“Perelor, please.”

Eliel’s voice was desperate. It broke as she spoke.

She’s hurting, too, he thought. She lost him too.

“Alright. We can try.” He forced his eyes back open, trying to think. It wasn’t easy, he’d lost a lot of blood. The thoughts he did manage didn’t amount to much.

I need Ever. Wielding the First Power, even a little of it, would sharpen his mind. Perhaps enough to figure out a plan. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to connect to it, to the Everrealm. For a moment, it worked. Voices flooded his mind, thoughts of the guards, of Eliel, of those fighting and dying nearby.

And then another voice. A voice he recognized, combined with the ring of boots striking metal. Fear overpowered him, and he lost his hold on the Power. He tensed involuntarily.

“Larsh,” he whispered.

The footsteps continued, and a moment later, Perelor looked up to see her, Jadis Larsh, commander of the Talar forces, memory burner and murderer, sweeping her eyes over them. Her face was sharp and angular, and though her eyes had faded back to their normal violet, they still seemed to pierce Perelor. She nodded, then turned to the guards.

“My cruiser will be here shortly. Unbind them, and move them inside. Leave some room. I have other prisoners to accommodate.” She glanced at Perelor. “You are conscious, I see. You’re resilient. It will be a good trait, I think, when you are properly broken.”

She didn’t let him reply, instead striding forward until she reached the end of the landing platform ahead, where a troupe of other guards waited. She folded her arms, staring out over the city. Perelor had to arch his neck painfully to see her from where he was, but he did so anyway, staring hatefully at her back.

She’d caused all this. And she’d cause more, if he didn’t stop her.

He turned back to Eliel, meeting her eyes, then nodding to the guards. She gave her own curt nod of understanding.

When the Talar soldiers untied them to move them, that would be their best chance. Perelor could memory burn, and Eliel could at least try to. Then they could fight Larsh, kill her, take her cruiser, and escape. Perelor didn’t know how to fly a ship, but it couldn’t be too hard. He’d figure it out.

If you make it that far, he noted. The plan was desperate, and not well fleshed out. Furthermore, there was Larsh to worry about. She’d likely kill them before they got the cuffs off. They’d try it anyway.

This is for you, father. For you, and the oath I swore today.

He closed his eyes, readying himself to Reach again. He’d have to keep doing so, even after the guard hit him. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was possible. He’d seen Yaenke do it.

To his surprise, though, even as he relived the memories around him, no spear to the gut came. Instead, a trickle of Ever began rushing through his veins. He smiled, confidence increasing as his mind quickened. If he had Ever, he could make it.

“He’s here.”

Larsh’s voice rang again in Perelor’s mind. He shouldn’t know it as well as he did – she’d hardly spoken to him as she’d cut through the Ethean guards, then thrown him aside, then killed his father. Yet, he felt as if he knew that voice better than his own.

And it terrified him.

His eyes flashed open, and the Ever fled as he failed to relive the memories, caving to his moment of weakness. He froze, realizing Larsh was staring down at him, her eyes now glowing with crimson Void. With the power of death itself.

“You almost managed that,” she breathed. She turned to the guards. “Beat him until he learns his lesson, though don’t kill him.” She straightened. “I have another prisoner to take. Stay at your stations, no matter what happens.” She shook her head. “Perelor Krot and E’vin Yaenke, all on the same day. A victory indeed.”

She strode away, moving with the same graceful speed Perelor had seen her use when she’d fought the Etheans earlier. As she faded from view, the two guards approached. The bearded guard slid his helmet back on.

“Now, kid,” he said, voice now metallic from the vocoder in his helm. Though it was designed to be intimidating, the way the man spoke, it almost felt… weary. “You get to know what it feels like to be Elekhai. Get used to pain. It’ll be quite familiar soon.”

The helmet lingered on Perelor for a long moment, expressionless. Then the guard reached for his belt, retrieving a slim, metal rod from it, pointed at the end. A shock rod. Perelor’s eyes widened. Eliel shouted, but the soldier thrust the weapon forward. Electricity blazed through Perelor’s body, and despite his loss of blood, despite his grief, despite the tiredness, he began to scream.

***

The palace courtyard was a chaotic field of flames, metal, and corpses. Some of those corpses still walked, lasertips in hand, but they were corpses all the same; battles like these did not end with survivors. Fire gulped down once-green gardens, turning color to ash, cracking the metal of intricate bronze statues. Ethean soldiers, some in blue uniforms, others wearing the clothes they’d slept in, fought against their Talar counterparts pouring through the gates. Though the palace shield had fallen, it seemed Larsh had no intention of destroying the building, at least not yet, for the enemy bombers had not descended upon it, and instead, a steady flow of purple-clad warriors pushed the Etheans back. Most of the fighting was hand-to-hand; both sides had Dispellers, making plasma guns useless. Though Yaenke could not see well in the dim light the flames provided, he felt his boot stick to patches of drying blood as he wove his way through dueling warriors, careful to avoid any packs of Talar.

His destination, the west armory, was in the center of the courtyard. Though the outside was made to look like an obsidian wedge, it had been cracked by explosives, revealing its cement interior. Most of the inside had been looted; hooks sat empty, and equally empty supply packs lay on the ground.

Yaenke had expected that. He leapt through a blasted-out hole in the wall, then moved to a specific rack on the east side of the building. Everything had been claimed, save for a few unused Adrellian shots. A body lay here, too, one eye staring lifelessly at the sky, the other stabbed out. Yaenke stepped over it, then pressed his hand to the cement underneath the rack. It was smooth and hard – this wasn’t cement, but a hidden patch of anthrenite. He Reached for Ever from his Surgeblade, then pushed that Ever into the stone.

The anthrenite glowed, then ground against the nearby rocks as it slid away, revealing a hidden compartment beneath. Inside it lay two more Surges, these without a corresponding blade. One glowed white, the other red. Yaenke set aside his Surgeblade, tucking both of the other Surges into his pockets. One of them, the white Surge, would give him access to Purity, the Second Power. The other would give him access to Void, the corrupted Third Power. He could only use one of the Three Powers at any given time, but it didn’t hurt to have options.

He rose, snatching his Ever Surgeblade from the ground. He moved behind the obsidian wall, looking outward from a hole at the battle. He couldn’t fight his way to the gates. Even if he succeeded, he’d expose himself as a threat, and the chase would not cease until he was dead. The Talar likely defended the other exits, too.

I’ll escape through the Undercity, then. Thau it. The nearest entrance to that was back in his apartment, sealed by a similar anthrenite device to the one that had hidden his Surges here.

For a moment, he hesitated, the screams of the dying Ethean men ringing in his ears. Their thoughts crowded his vision and hearing, desperate, hopeless.

Could he really leave them? Could he really betray them, as he had the Governor?

The secret, he reminded himself firmly. The secret so heinous he dared not even whisper it in his thoughts. He’d killed the Governor to protect it. As terrible as it was, these men’s deaths were a small price to pay to keep it hidden.

By that same logic, you should be dead, too. Killed by your own hand, to protect the secret.

Coward.

He cringed, but pushed the thought back. He’d fought that logic a thousand times, over several thousand years, and he knew how to defeat it. He ran back across the courtyard, ducking into a palace entrance nearby. He shut the door, then slid into a side passageway as a troupe of soldiers marched past. He did not want to hurt them, should they label him a traitor.

He took an obscure stairway up to his apartment, though he still passed several servants, all desperately searching for an exit unblocked by the Talar. They would find none. When the Ethean line fell, the civilians here could only pray Larsh was kind enough to spare them.

One of those servants, though, was a messenger. He wore a soldier’s uniform, though his included green stripes, indicating his duty. He shouted, loud enough Yaenke could actually hear him over the din of battle and panic.

“Rion is dead! And his second! Command has been changed to General Vyrik!”

Yaenke paused as the messenger passed. The man seemed too caught up in his job to realize that Yaenke, a Captain, was fleeing. But Rion… dead…

Perelor was supposed to be with him, Yaenke realized. And Eliel, too.

He hated himself for doing it, but, instinctively, he closed his eyes, Reaching for memories. The Surge could not assist him in this, and he was forced to use his own powers. The powers of a memory burner. Powers that, if others knew about, would put him in even more danger.

The Confederacy isn’t here, he chided himself. But Larsh is. Don’t be a coward. He Reached harder, mentally pulling with as much willpower as he could muster.

His mind expanded even more than it had when using the Surgeblade. Ten times more. Hundreds of streams of thought shot through his memory, and though his faculties were heightened by the Ever in his flesh, he still felt overwhelmed.

But, within that stream of thoughts, he detected the presence he’d been looking for. A young boy’s panicked cries, as he was beaten with a shock rod. Though Yaenke could not feel the pain of the beating, he saw the electricity leaping across the boy’s skin, saw the blood seeping from burns that hadn’t quite cauterized. Saw his sister, sitting beside him, crying.

He stopped Reaching. His mind slowed. He drew in Ever from his Surgeblade, but it helped little.

Did he protect the secret?

Or did he save the Endowed, the very hero prophesied to destroy his terrible creation?

He cursed. Then cursed again. Then slowed to a stop, making his decision.

Thau it, but I’ve come to like those children.

He turned and ran toward the source of Perelor’s thoughts.