He ignored his father at first, glancing behind him to see a dozen or so relatives milling about to the side of the throne room, their voices hushed and their gazes shadowed. He spotted Aunt Julia staring daggers at him while she clutched Maxina and Marcus to her hip and he sent her back a smile.
His aunt’s presence brought his mind back to the rose pricking into his chest through his jacket and he put a hand to it as he looked back at his father.
“I’m ready.”
The gesture must have looked strange, as if he were placing his hand over his heart as he answered. But he didn’t care and James didn’t question him. He simply nodded and started walking. Terry turned back, his eyes tracking over Whipvine’s steady gaze, Mesmer’s encouraging nod, and the Emperor’s piercing green eyes. Then he looked at War Crimes and the man’s sickly charming smile twisted, like he knew something Terry didn’t. The memory of Whipvine’s statement from the night before played in his mind.
He’s a black-hearted baby killer.
Seeing his twisted smile now, he believed it. Underneath that charming facade, Terry caught a glimpse of the man who had once held an entire airport hostage with explosives. He understood now why his mother had always kept him away from the super.
He forced himself to lock eyes with the man for another beat, then turned away. This was the kind of man he had pledged to stop. This was the purpose he wanted to re-solidify as he went into his Awakening.
Please, System, give me the power to fight evil like that…
When he turned to leave, his father was there, watching the two of them with narrowed eyes behind his mask. Terry walked past the man, not interested in explaining the enmity. A moment later, he heard his father’s footsteps behind him.
They walked in silence for a minute before James cleared his throat. Terry glanced over to see his father casting him hesitant glances, obviously struggling with something, but he didn’t feel the need to ease the man’s trepidation. So he waited for his father to break the heavy silence between them. A moment later, he did.
“How…how have you been?”
How have I been? Really?
“Fine.” His tone was sharp, not caring if he cut the man. He felt his father falter behind him, but he continued walking.
“Terry?” his father called after him. “Terry!”
He stopped, steeling himself, forcing his heart rate down. His aura tried to buck out of his grip, but he held the leash firm, tamping it down viciously.
“Yes?” he called back, not daring to turn.
“I’m just asking you a simple question.”
His eyelid twitched as he stared forward, his gaze lasered into the empty hallway before him.
“And I’ve given you an answer. I’m fine.”
The silence reigned once more and Terry had had enough. He started walking again, heading for the nearest Catacomb entrance, when a rush of movement sounded at his back and an iron grip latched onto his shoulder, spinning him around. He now stood face-to-face with his father, his most recent growth spurt putting him at a similar height. The man’s green eyes burned as he stared at Terry.
“Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you.”
The strength disparity between them was a great chasm. If his father wanted to bend Terry over his knee and spank him right there in the hallway, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. All the same, he brushed his father’s hand off his shoulder with a vicious swipe.
James stared in open fury and Terry wondered if the man might strike him. But he found he didn’t care—six months of resentment finally found their outlet.
“You asked a question and I answered. If you wanted more from me, you should have been there—”
“I had my duties—”
“NO!” He was shouting now. “DON’T!” His father’s eyes widened beneath his bone mask. “You don’t get to blame duty or your father or the Topekan war. Screw that! You left me. You cut me off. It was you who couldn’t even give me a hug after mother’s death. You who fled the city to drown your grief in blood and violence. I’ve been here, putting my life back together, dealing with the pain of losing two parents in a single week.” He could see the shock and pain in the man’s eyes, but his face was completely hidden. “Look at you. You can’t even face me without your mask. You’re a coward—”
“Careful,” James growled.
Terry spoke over him, letting out all the words that had run through his mind during months of sleepless nights. All the things he wished he could say to his father that he hadn’t been able to.
“You ran away when mom died and you never came back.” He indicated the mask with a wave. “You’re still not back, still hiding. I don’t know from what…” No, I do know from what. “Maybe you’ve been hiding from the fact that mom’s still alive—” James’ eyes bugged out beneath his bone mask and Terry felt a thrill knowing he’d hit a nerve. “—knowing that she’s still alive and you failed her!”
“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
His voice was low, dangerous. It would have scared Terry at any other time, but he wouldn’t let himself feel the fear, not in this moment, not from his father.
“I’ve seen the feeds, Commander.” He spat the word, pleased when the man flinched. “You stomped on the Siren’s neck rather than save mom from Sol. I don’t blame her for fleeing. She must have finally recognized what a monster you—”
“ENOUGH!”
Aura slammed into him, shredding his control, warping his emotions and thoughts, killing the fire raging inside of him. He staggered back, his legs going to jelly from the sheer force of the attack. Because that’s what it was, an attack. Only sheer willpower and obstinance kept him on his feet.
James pulled his mask off, desummoning it. His expression was tight, his eyes wild as he stared at Terry. Heaving breaths shook the man and Terry wondered if he would continue pressing his aura. But a moment later, it recoiled in on itself, leaving him shaken but unharmed.
The animal look in his father’s eyes dimmed, the man seeming to come to from a fugue state. Regret played across his face and he held out a hand.
“Terry, I’m so—”
He cut off as Terry turned away. He didn’t want his father to see how much that had affected him. A quick swipe at his eyes to wipe the tears was all Terry allowed himself before he kept walking.
“Come on,” he said over his shoulder. “Let’s not keep everyone waiting.”
They walked in silence, Terry’s aura pulled in tight, bruised, vulnerable. James' aura flickered in his senses, but he didn’t try to read it—couldn’t, not without opening himself up. It had been a mistake to do that, to engage with the man. That wasn’t his father; hadn’t been for six months now.
Why did I think things would be different in person?
When they reached the Catacombs, Terry let James lead, too frazzled to try to find his way. Before he knew it, they were pulling up to two ornate doors where two liches waited. The doors were made of shaped bone, painted images depicted the Emperor arriving in the Underworld, leading the Bonesplinter clan to Earth. In the Emperor’s hands were his now-familiar bone mask and his blackwood scythe—rewards for his Midmark and Capstone Quests respectively.
As they approached the doors, the liches’ hoods turned toward each other, the disrupted auras impossible for creatures so attuned to miss. Terry thought he recognized the lich on the right and allowed his aura to seep out, tight, guarded, reaching gingerly toward the lich. The aura was familiar and he was pleased to have been correct.
“Hello, Hoping Tree,” Terry said.
“Welcome to the Awakening Chamber, Prince Terry.” He turned to James. “And welcome home, Commander.”
James inclined his head, but didn’t reply, his eyes flicking to Terry before turning back to the doors. He moved past the liches, pulling the large doors open and stepping to the side. Beyond them, a simple chamber stood, dug out from dirt rather than stone. It was circular and not overly large, barely fifty feet in diameter. Against one wall was an array of medical equipment on battery power and against the other wall, an innocuous wooden cabinet that seemed to contain some curios.
But as soon as Terry entered the chamber, he felt the power roiling off the items inside the cabinet like a wave. The combined aura of its contents were at least as powerful as the draugr, but had no harmony—like walking into an orchestra performance where everyone was reading different music.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
He regarded the cabinet for a moment, then found his eyes drawn to the center of the room. There, a large pile of dirt stood poised next to a hole. The hole was dug longer in one direction than the other.
The perfect size to fit a coffin.
This is the second grave I’m to climb inside in under a day.
The thought amused him and he felt his sour mood improving. He approached the grave and stared down into its depths. Lying at the bottom was a coffin made entirely of blackwood, matching the texture and coloring of his grandfather’s scythe. He could feel an aura emanating from the coffin that spoke of death and he was forced to swallow the saliva pooling in his mouth.
This was it. The moment he had been dreaming of for most of his life.
But first, he felt Hoping Tree approaching and he turned to look. The lich drew his attention toward the cabinet with a bony hand.
His sibilant voice hissed from the depths of his cowl. “Prince Terry, will you come to the cabinet please?”
Terry turned to regard the coffin for a moment longer, then followed the lich.
“Extend your aura,” Hoping Tree instructed. “Find the object of power that best attunes to you.”
As he approached the cabinets, he did as the lich instructed, opening himself to the surrounding aura of the room. He felt Hoping Tree at his side, a calming energy being pushed through his aura. The second lich standing over the grave, his skeletal hands held up as his aura extended down into the hole. His father standing by the pile of dirt, his eyes unfocused, his aura erratic.
Finally, he turned his attention to the cabinet and the objects of power began resonating.
The cabinet was separated into quadrants, each section marked with a rune denoting the four elements of the Underworld—Blood, Bone, Ice, and Spirit. The first rune was Ice and he examined the objects before him—both visually and with his aura. First, he reached out to a necklace that seemed to be made of frozen pearls and—
Razor-ice sheared his skin. Rime forming around his eyes, blinding him. His limbs growing heavy. The draugr coming for—
He instantly recoiled, taking three involuntary steps back.
“My prince!” Hoping Tree hissed. “Are you well?”
His chest heaved and he glanced around, realizing that he wasn’t in the frozen depths of the Underworld. No draugr approached with its aura flared bright and evil. He was safe…
“Terry?” a voice asked from behind him, questing and soft.
That snapped him out of his terror more than anything.
“I’m fine…it just…reminded me of—” He shook his head, suppressing the memory. “I’m fine.”
“Not the ice-attuned items, it would appear,” the second lich suggested.
Terry nodded, sliding over to the second quadrant marked with a rune depicting a blood-red drop. This rune was the sigil of the sanguine—vampires, as they were called colloquially. Unlike the other undead of Wichita, the sanguine weren’t the Emperor’s thralls. Instead, they were more like business partners. Mesmer had explained it to him after the first of them arrived.
“The Emperor of the Long Night is a title your grandfather earned in the Underworld. A bargain he struck decades ago. By summoning the night that defeated Sol, he has also given the sanguine passage to our world.”
Which is why he can’t bring back the sun. Mesmer hadn’t said the words, but the implication was clear. Night was here to stay in Wichita.
He flicked his aura out once more, delicate, hesitant, expecting another backlash to sear his mind. A knife stood propped on a pedestal, flaking specks of rust-colored blood marred its blade. Its edge was chipped as if it had been smashed against stone or armor over and over again. His aura made contact and the smell of ferric blood invaded his nostrils. A woman’s scream sounded from behind him and he clenched his teeth to keep from whirling around. He withdrew his aura, the scream echoing in his mind as he moved along the cabinet.
The next quadrant had the Bone rune and he knew from previous coaching that this was the element they expected him to resonate with. Another knife was displayed here, longer and thinner than the blood object. It seemed to be made entirely of bone and red, stringy sinew was wrapped around the base to form a crude grip. The texture of the blade itself was pockmarked, as if bugs had burrowed all along its surface. Despite its appearance, as Terry’s aura wrapped around the blade, he knew instinctively that it was sturdier even than modern steel blades and could cut both flesh or spirit depending on the user’s intention.
And unlike the necklace or blood-caked blade, he didn’t immediately recoil from this object. Images formed in his mind, a ghoul holding a piece of bone as long as a forearm. He propped it against a large stone and began shaving it down, crafting the blade from the rough shape. He felt the entire process unwind in his mind in an instant, the shaping, the delicate wrapping of the hilt, and finally, the weathering as it lay abandoned after the wielder’s death. Centuries passed, imbuing the bone blade with the energy of its environment. He felt it resonate, the familiarity with the ghoulish creator, the medium that was the bone, and the place where it had laid discarded for so long.
Hoping Tree hissed at his side, his aura shifting into a pleased shape.
“Excellent, my prince. Excellent! The Emperor will approve.”
Terry bit his lip, his thoughts conflicted. He didn’t want to be a Summoner—not anymore. Would finding this perfect match bias the Awakening toward the same Class as his family? He released the blade from his aura and wrapped it around the rose pricking into his flesh through his jacket. Hoping Tree had been talking and he’d missed it.
“Hm?” he asked, turning toward the lich. “What was that?”
“I said you should try the Spirit objects, just in case there is a stronger attunement.”
“Oh, right,” he replied absentmindedly, turning to the final quadrant of the cabinet.
There were three objects here but they were smaller and he could tell their energies were less saturated. Lying next to each other were a brooch, a comb, and a whistle. He played his aura across each of the items, catching glimpses of their owners, but never that same connection he had felt with the bone blade. The brooch and comb were a set, both belonging to a creature who had been given the items by a spirit. The whistle had belonged to a humanoid thing that Terry couldn’t quite call human. It had red skin and warped horns, the whistle clutched between its fingers. As it blew the whistle, a spirit climbed from the earth, waiting to be given instructions.
He pulled back his aura, not caring to witness the rest. Hoping Tree was already reaching into the cabinet, drawing forth the blade of bone.
“Resonate on this powerful object as you Awaken, my prince,” Hoping Tree said. “It will help shape your intent and guide your choices.”
Terry reached for the relic reluctantly, holding the sinew-wrapped hilt with the tips of his fingers. He could feel the aura leaking from the blade but kept his own aura pulled in tight.
“A very poignant choice, my prince,” the other lich said. “Would you please climb into the grave and we will begin.”
Terry followed the two liches to the edge of the grave, peering down at the blackwood coffin waiting below. He hadn’t noticed before, but there were wires snaking from the medical devices down into holes cut out of the side of the coffin, along with a thick plastic tube connected to tanks against the wall. He felt his heart rate spike as reality became unavoidable.
I’m about to be buried alive…again.
“When the prince is settled, please attach the diodes and pulse oximeter,” Hoping Tree said at his side.
Terry nodded, feeling his father approach from the other side. James put his hand on Terry’s shoulder and though he might have shook it off any other time, his thoughts were too fixated on that coffin to bother.
“Terry, I…” the man hesitated and Terry glanced up to see his father’s face—unmasked, open worry naked in his eyes. He seemed to want to say a million things, his eyes searching his son’s face as if looking for the words he needed to mend the divide between them. Two words could bridge that chasm. Three words could begin the healing.
But I’m sorry and I love you were not what James said. Instead, he looked away, his jaw visibly clenching.
“Good luck,” he said, his voice tight.
Terry wasn’t disappointed—he had known the man didn’t have it in him to say the things he knew had to be said. He simply nodded as he climbed down, a small cascade of soil followed him into the hole, raining upon the blackwood casket and onto his head. His feet landed upon the wood with a thud and he gave his head a shake to dislodge the dirt from his hair. When he looked up, James was standing near the pile of dirt, a shovel in his hands.
Terry looked away, opening his jacket and lifting his shirt to attach the sensors Hoping Tree had indicated. When that was done, he took a deep breathe and lay down in the coffin. The breathing tube poked through a hole by his head, the sensor wires beside it.
With a final look up at his father, he reached his hand up and pulled the coffin lid closed. Darkness enveloped him, but he shut that out of his mind, focusing on steadying his breaths.
When he felt like he had a grip on his emotions, that the terror wouldn’t slip its reins and take charge, he hefted the bone blade in his hand…and flung it to the other end of the coffin. It clattered at his feet and he finally felt his aura sense relax. His hand went to the rose at his chest, fumbling over the zipper as he tried to extract it.
There was no warning to signal the first pile of dirt—just a thud making him jump as it collided with the lid. He pulled the zipper down, his fingers reaching into the breast pocket of his windbreaker. He pricked himself against a thorn, finding the safe spot to grip through touch. The smell of his own blood invaded his senses and he had to force himself not to think of the blood relic and that woman’s scream.
The rose snagged against the pocket edge and he reached his other hand up to slowly free it. He couldn’t see the rose, but he prayed he hadn’t smashed it in his pocket. He reached his aura outward and was relieved to feel the rose’s was strong as ever. It reminded him of his mother and that eased his anxiety a bit.
“What next?” he wondered to himself.
The dirt had been piling on the whole time, the sound of it thudding against wood now lost as his father worked quickly to bury him fully.
“What a ridiculous ritual,” he muttered, his eyes casting about blankly in the dark. He focused his attention on the white rose and its aura, desperately hoping he could receive some images like he had from the relics of the Underworld. But just as he’d discovered the night before, no images came. There was a definite sensation to the rose’s aura, almost like a fingerprint that he recognized as his mother’s, but no visions.
His mind flashed to the memory of the throne room minutes earlier. His Aunt Julia’s hate; the Emperor’s cold indifference; War Crime’s smug surety.
He used the image of that man’s face to anchor his thoughts. Men like him were the enemy, true villains. Black-hearted baby killers, as Whipvine had said.
He remembered the thought that had resonated so powerfully as he left the throne room:
Please, System, give me the power to fight evil like that…
As he repeated that phrase over and over, he focused his aura on the rose clutched in his hands. Time passed, seconds or minutes, he couldn’t tell. But then his mantra was broken as he noticed the air seemed to grow stagnant. He leaned toward the hose that was near his head. With a start, he realized that even when he put his skin right next to it, there was no soft breeze, no brush of fresh air entering the coffin.
Then, the realization hit him and his heart flipped. There was only one tube! You can’t circulate air with one tube! There’s nothing to draw the bad air out!
It was right around that moment that he started asphyxiating.
His head felt light, his lungs straining. He started hyperventilating, the pitch black of the coffin only amplifying the fear and panic.
He slammed his fist against the lid, screamed for help with what little air he did have. The pulse oximeter should have alerted them that something was wrong. Was his father pulling the dirt off to get to his son? Or was he still piling it on top, burying him further as he suffocated to death?
There was no air to scream with now. Surrounded on all sides, he kicked and punched until his limbs went heavy, his brain drowning in the carbon dioxide.
Strangely enough, the blackness of his vision receded. White slipped in from the edges. A sound whispered in his ear—the rushing of blood?
No, he realized, it’s a voice.
“Hello, Terry.”
“…mom?”