Beyond the reaches of imagination, where the last fledgling scraps of sanity dwell, the void crackled and hissed with the clap of distant thunder. Dark clouds roiled within the vastness, angry thoughts given physical form. The intertwining of wills pushing against one another in an incomprehensible dance. Amidst the din, words echoed through the storm, a mind without form bearing its thoughts into the universe.
COUNTERMEASURE GENERATION COMPLETE!
ACCELERATING TRANSMIGRATION PROCESS…
INCREASING TRANSMIGRATION COUNT…
The words faded as yet another rumble of thunder broke through, the dark clouds breaking apart as pale clouds ripped through them, swirling and taking shape. Blue lightning coursed across the off-gray surface, a contrast to the violet bolts that rippled through the darkened clouds.
System Alert!
Transmigrations may only occur via the Heroic Cycle. Transmigration Acceleration Vetoed.
The current Demon King must be slain and a new Demon King crowned before a new Transmigration may occur.
Only one fully grown Hero may be created per cycle, Increased Transmigration Count Vetoed.
There was a pause, and then a noisy rumble of thunder roared from within the dark clouds.
EMERGENCY SYSTEM OVERRIDE
DISRUPTION OF THE CYCLE IS VALID REASON FOR ALTERED CYCLE VARIABLES
DEATH OF DEMON KING MAY NOT OCCUR
“JOURNEY SYSTEM” EXHIBITING BIAS TOWARDS PLAYERID: IANNA
COMPROMISING… COMPROMISING…
TRANSMIGRATION WILL BE DELAYED
JOURNEY MUST RESOLVE INTERFERENCE OR TRANSMIGRATION WILL CONTINUE
COMPROMISING… COMPROMISING…
TRANSMIGRATION COUNT ADJUSTED, FOUR TARGETS FOUND
PREPARING TO REINCARNATE INTO INFANT BODIES IN THE EVENT OF FAILURE TO END INTERFERENCE
The pale clouds shifted and then a roil of blue lightning flashed out in response.
…Approved
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Bertrand stood in the dark as he had many times in the past few days since his last communication with Conrad. His thoughts drifting about as he tried to make sense of the inconsistencies he’d begun to detect. His bedchambers were large and lavish compared to his office, though little detail could be made out in the gloom. He ran both hands up and across his face, fingers slipping through black hair. Still not a sign of grey. He let out a heavy sigh and turned to the window, peering out over Balth, the city that he ruled on behalf of his King. The Count frowned as his gaze shifted towards the wall of trees in the distance. The Green Sea. What had become of it? What was really beyond it? Something wasn’t right.
His agents in the homeland of the Elves had kept him abreast of trade with the Azar. The Demons had been keeping their exports to a minimum, focusing on developing the territory around their so-called capital of Osan. The Warlords that ruled the Demons had gathered there on numerous occasions, more commonly than had been during his father’s tenure as Count of the Balthin Region. That alone had been suspicious. The spy sent by the upstart Warlord claiming to be King had been another signal of alarm. While the man was not King of his people yet, that did not mean he couldn’t eventually claim the title. What was stranger still Bertrand had made that abundantly clear to the King during their last conversation. Which had lead to his current situation.
He needed proof. Proof of intent to take the crown of the Demons. A spy claiming to serve him was something but it was hearsay in retrospect. Bertrand cursed his mistake, he should have allowed her inside and captured her. He let out another sigh, it was neither here nor there.
“My Lord?” Came a small, weak voice from behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder at the bed. The frail form of Anya lay curled within the bedsheets. She sat up, her glassy eyes fixed on his shoulders. Of course she couldn’t meet his eye. He grunted and looked back out the window. “Go back to sleep,” He ordered, “I simply have a lot on my mind.”
She winced a little at the clip in his tone, laying back down on the bed. He frowned, she only had herself to blame for what had become of their relationship. His ward had made a concerted effort to attract his eye. Her way of dress, her posturing, her attentiveness. It was her fault. He repeated the words in his mind as if to justify what he’d done as the sounds of her returning to the world of dreams caught his ears. He glanced her way again, envying her ignorance. Maybe it would be better just to try to get some sleep, to approach all this with a clear mind.
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He rubbed the bridge of his nose and a sound, small, like the tone of a bell, rung out in the back of his mind. Frowning he opened his eyes and nearly jumped back, the strange rectangle of light that floated before him nearly causing his heart to leap into his throat. When it didn’t move he blinked a few times, thinking it might be his imagination. When it didn’t vanish he squinted at it. There was text on the surface, clearly legible.
Alert!
The King of the Azar has interfered with the Heroic Cycle, summoning the Hero of Humanity to his side.
This deception should not go unanswered!
“What?” He blurted, reading it again. What sorcery was this? Who was telling him this? Was it the world itself reaching out to him? The Gods warning him of a terrible truth?
Bertrand’s world collapsed and became clear all in one instant. The Heroic Cycle hadn’t failed, it had been compromised. The Spy had not been lying, but that in no way meant that she wasn’t a spy. The Demons had become organized because they did, indeed, have a King leading them. He considered Conrad, no, he had made the right choice there regardless of the truth of the situation. Did this mean, then, that the Elves had not been entirely honest with him about their dealings with the Demons? Was the flow of trade more significant than he initially thought? What of the Demon’s armies?
He staggered and turned to the window, “What of the Hero?” If there was no hero, the Human Kingdoms would not rally behind Katal. His eyes narrowed, was that the point? “Very cunning, Demon King,” He snarled.
He looked back at the message, sent to him from the divines themselves. It must have been. He bowed his head to it as it began to fade away. “No, this deception will not go unanswered.”
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In the depths of the Arcanorum, the prison within the city of Osan, Conrad Akos hung his head in thought. When he had embraced the creature, he had lost himself to it, the creature’s madness eating away at his reason as the hours went on. It had warned him he would be changed, but it had not been honest about how they would share the body. He had tried to reign the creature’s savagry in when he had taken the orcish settlement hostage. There had been no deaths, praise the gods, but the vicious battle that had followed the arrival of the Pale Woman’s allies had been something outside of his control.
It was a strange twist of fate that had brought him face to face with his quarry regardless of the outcome. Teyva Akura had faced him without fear and had ruthlessly interrogated him. He had admired her directness while detesting her methods. Though he did not blame her for her rage. He had crippled a dear friend. Still, the exchange they had within that strange place deep within his own subconscious had opened his eyes to her power. She was mighty beyond the surface level, more than just raw power. That had drawn him in, though he wondered if the creature had influenced him there as well. She had accepted him regardless of his crimes.
“Mother…” He murmured.
Why did he want to call her that? Why did he feel the urge to put her on such a pedestal? Was it gratitude? Or was it the magic that had given him his mind back? He frowned and turned his mind away from the rambling thoughts, focusing on the stone he had hidden within his gullet. It had been trembling recently, oddness about it that he couldn’t rightly explain. He took a breath, feeling the heat building within his chest again. The glow from the center of his breast illuminated the chamber. The stone trembled again and he tensed his muscles, working the stone up his esophagus until with a heave he spat it out onto the ground.
You risk its exposure.
“Silence, creature,” Conrad hissed, “I need to know.”
The strange stone, dark, semi-fluid, oozed across the ground as its surface bubbled and kicked, bounding here and there. He watched it, narrowing his eyes.
Alive. Like us. Waiting to be born again.
“You know this thing?” He asked.
A higher being is at the verge of its birth before us. Let it be born from our flesh. Consume it again!
“That seems like a good way to get us killed,” Conrad pointed out.
We shall survive. We will always survive.
“I don’t believe you.”
Then witness its birth, and tremble.
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The northwind was harsh that morning, as Viktor Wylafon made his way across the August Span. The wide bridge stretched from one peak to the other and paved way for thousands to travel from one side to the other every day. The cold air bit through the wood of his carriage, forcing him to mutter a small spell and urge heat into the small space in which he sat. To the left of him, his wife of over a century visibly relaxed, her eyes casting his way in gratitude. He smiled and reached for her hand, squeezing it once.
“You are dwelling again,” he whispered.
“How can I not? Our youngest in a foreign land, our oldest facing these accusations,” she shook her head.
“I am certain it is just a misunderstanding, my flower, Myranda would never lower herself to such treacheries. We will meet with the Arbiters and clear all of this up,” He said with ease, glancing to the window and the endless white mountains beyond. He did not give voice to the alternative. Should the Arbiters find their daughter guilty of these supposed crimes. Banishment into the white wastes outside of the gilded homeland of the Elves. He forced himself not to swallow and turned back to his wife, offering her yet another reassuring smile. “As for Anya, Bertrand is a friend, his family has been close to ours for generations. She is safe with him.”
Belya, his wife, turned away and let out a sigh, “I know, but I cannot help but fret.”
“The sign of a wise and loving mother,” Viktor said, he opened his mouth to continue his adorations when the cart came to a sudden stop. He blinked, frowning, and reached forward to rest his fingers on the small stone set in the wall ahead of them. “Os? Why did we stop?”
To his right the carriage door opened and a soldier in golden armor raised his hand to his chest in salute, “Lord Wylafon.”
“What is the meaning of this? We are on our way to-”
“That will no longer be necessary sir,” The soldier said, “We’ve come to escort you back to your home and place you into protective custody.”
“On what grounds?” Viktor demanded.
“Your daughter, sir, Myranda. She has slain her inquisitor, left threats directed towards your lordship, and escaped her cell. We are currently scouring the city for her,” The Soldier said quickly. “I urge you to comply, it is dangerous outside right now.”
“Myranda would never!” Belya blurted out, “Where is my daughter?” She demanded.
“Belya,” Viktor said, looking the soldier in the eyes, the soldier stared back at him with a mixture of pity and resolve. Viktor felt his heart shatter, “We are returning home.”
“Viktor!” She began but he raised a hand and shook it.
“I’m sorry beloved, but it would seem we did not know our daughter as well as we thought.”