Librarian Construct, Library of Fates, Fate.
“Was that really necessary, my love?” Tyranilade said her form materialising into the chair their guest had just vacated. Wiry gold hair framed a pale, beautiful, and angular face unnaturally devoid of imperfections, including asymmetries, pores, or hairs of any kind, above the hair that fell over bare shoulders like spun gold was a nest of golden horns, arranged like antlers but more compact and thorny in aspect.
“What’s the point of transcendence if not to toy with my nemesis?” Thraxis grunted.
“We’re dragons; such pettiness should be beneath us, no?” Tyranilade said, her natural slinkiness applying itself effortlessly as she draped herself across the armchair, her hanging feet kicking off a strapless high heel that disappeared into mist before it touched the imaginary floor of the Library of Fates.
“Oh, I’ve long made peace with my inner… and outer pettiness. Besides, he’ll thank me later for not dealing with that curse. Probably.”
“Oh, Thraxis.” She scoffed.
“Don’t ‘Oh Thraxis’ me. I remember a certain dragoness’s campaign of petty slights and insults to our beloved Phoenix, hmm?” The dark-haired dragon in humanoid form said his voice both playful and accusatory as he summoned a silver goblet to hand.
“That was then, and this is now,” Tyranilade waved her hands in dismissal, annoyed at the reminder of that which happened so long ago most would have consigned the memories to time, but as she cast her mind back in reminiscence, her expression grew rueful. “Aeons and aeons ago.”
“Well, as you should know, time is a little different for one such as I. He’ll be fine, and if he considers this deviation from the plan a slight, then I suppose we can finally settle accounts.” Thraxis’s inhumanly wide grin flashed predatory teeth, the glint of something bright and sharp shining in his eyes. It was a look she knew all too well, even to her, an ancient entity by any measure, the depth of her lover's existence was on a scale she could scarcely fathom and when he set his mind upon some outcome... “Either way, it's done.”
“Do you think he’ll save our daughter?” Tyranilade asked, her mind thinking back to her tiny ball of chaos, and how the wild and unprecedented union of her and her husband's powers conspired to send their unborn daughter across fate.
Thraxis laughed. “That brat? If there’s one thing I can count on him to do, is save someone in need of a good saving. As you’ve already foreseen, at some point and despite how stridently she walks the Path, our little Merin will need saving.” Despite his dismissive tone, she could sense the anxiety and mind-eating desire to more directly intervene. It was a desire she shared just as, if not more deeply than he did. And yet, she sighed, agreeing, as well as hoping that her husband was right. “His course is already set. No, if I were to worry about anyone, it would be his humans. He’s a leader that can’t lead, a member of a scattered race that won’t follow. United, they would become a plague across fate; divided, they will fall, first to infighting and sabotage and then to the horrors of the next age. There is a balance to be found, a narrow one at that, but it’s up to him to find it. My interest ends with the fate of our kin.”
Tyranilade knew for certain that his last statement wasn’t true.
City of Erinsborough, Nation of Inswich, Sable Realm, Material Demiplane, Fate.
“Balin, did the signal lights just go out?”
In the bitter midnight, Balin squinted against the dark searching for an answer to that question. He stood in finely polished plate, a grizzled old man in the middle of his years despite having as fine a constitution as any for a warrior, mastering Breath, his accolades and sixty-seven levels of progress. He squinted against the wind as an unnatural light bloomed from beyond the valley's shadow. Every mile, a basket of burning coals lit up the valley's ridge, their orange lights a warning from another town, one that now seemed unnecessary as Balin's mind caught up to the reason for the brightness sky.
“No,” Balin said aghast, his gravelly voice barely audible under the howl of the wind atop the stone wall. A wall two hundred feet tall that had stood as bastion to his city for over two thousand generations. And as he saw the shadows that had just eclipsed the signal lights against the distant orange haze take flight, it would be a wall, its stone and enchantments all, to be soon tested. “So many,” he whispered, his voice completely lost to the wind. Wild terror settled into a fearful resolve, and the old watchman found his wits.
“SOUND THE ALARM! DRAGON FALL!!” Balin roared. He turned, catching the wide eyes of the boy frozen solid by the call. “DRAGON FALL, GO, LADDIE, GO!”
The boy ran.
Balin turned back to see the hundreds of shadows rising into the distant sky. Like slow, distant sharks, they circled the burning town of Berwick, less than fifteen miles over the valley, unseen to the watchman beyond the orange lights of its burning. His mouth was dry as he thought of his wife and two young boys in the city behind him. He thought of running back, ahead of the panic and dying but knew that even if he considered himself a coward, he’d never get home and them out in time as for to a dragon, ten miles was just a neighbourly stroll.
It was then he heard confirming shouts up and down the wall, the bat-like wings of hundreds now flapping and gliding their nightmare forms towards his city. His family. As he pondered why now and why so many, Balin remembered the joyous news of Inswich’s newest Immortal Warlord, another Dragon Slayer they had called him. One who could easily slay a High Dragon in single combat.
He was not a well-travelled, old-learned man, but he knew enough of the rumours about human Immortals and Draconic Chimerica, to add cause and effect.
In the howling winds of the night, he wondered where this Immortal Warlord was now. At the capital of Inswich hundreds of miles away from his city? Not that one Immortal would do much against hundreds.
In the seconds it had taken him to ponder these thoughts, they had come close enough for their dread auras to envelop him. The world turned silent as shouts and alarms were snuffed out by the pressure of four hundred Immortal Rank dragons. Balin found himself on his knees, unable to breathe. As someone at the Greater Rank, a warrior with a body built strong and resilient, he could only silently curse the misery and chaos this act alone would cause to the mortal population.
And then Balin’s ears began to bleed as draconic roars ripped apart the sky. “No!” Balin wailed as he wondered if the wall’s enchantments had protected the millions from the weaponised battle cry. Fury boiled in his chest, his breath reacting, raging against the apocalypse of dragons. Breath cycled through his chest, mana through his mind, his limbs lighter, his hand now resting upon his sword pommel, his legs straight and head unbowed, his bloodshot eyes staring at the sky.
A Sovereign Ranking Grace Knight’s shout rippled across the beleaguered soldiers, a shout calling for honour and satisfaction. Knights began to flood the battlements as Dragonfall descended. He could hear the wet flapping of massive wings, their draconic bodies black beyond liquid, glinting reflections upon their many scales.
“Hold!”
“Form up atop the wall! Protect the ballistae!” He heard himself shout.
“Spell union!”
“Brace!”
More voices shouted as the dragons dived, their wings folding inwards as they fell out of the night.
“Fire!”
The dragons’ dive was met by far too few ballista shots and spells. All but one shot crashed harmlessly off the apex predators of fate. A good hit against one dragon on a normal night would have been something to cheer. But as the sheer presence of so many high-ranking awakened descended, Balin had already worked out the truth. They were doomed, and soon.
Draconic breath and claws of force blasted out of dragon after dragon, lancing towards the exposed top of the wall before a ripple of Greater Barrier, ones enchanted into the wall, ones that would have lasted months against a normal siege or attack, intercepted the roiling wave of fire and certain death.
The dragons wheeled away, the Barrier resisting the first onslaught, barely, and unlikely to resist the next.
Balin raced towards the barrier as a small dragon climbed the wall, its claws seeking purchase in the weak spots and edges between overlapping barriers. Its multi-tonne mass doing as much damage as a Greater Ranker on its own before claw extensions of force raked the Greater Barrier with a spray of screeching sparks.
Unimpeded by the one-way barrier, Balin and a few other brave souls darted towards the enemy, swords and spears in hand. Breath infused his muscles and sword as he drew it, a horizontal slash carrying an extension of his own breath and comprehension of the blade. The attack struck scale, shattering them like ceramic tiles, and was joined by many more, his success emboldening them as a Yellow Mage joined the melee, their barriers blocking dragon fire with timely intervention.
However, Balin knew it was only a matter of moments before the next volley of dragon fire. The young dragon savagely swiped with claws, its force affinity extensions ripping the man beside him in half. It was almost too fast; with only the spray of blood that coated the side of his face and right eye enough to allow him to register the man’s fate. Looking back, Balin saw a breastplate peeled apart like a tin can in poor contest to the vicious, brutal attack which was more than what could be said of the bloody ruin of a man within. A heavy downdraft nearly flattened him as his target took off, its now ragged wings still enough to send it away from the worst of the fighting.
This was it, he thought to himself as he tightened his grip on his sword, the next volley of dragon fire would come, and it would be their last.
Except it never came.
Looking around, Balin saw many, especially the youngest and least experienced of the army, staring off into space, their mouths slack-jawed. Annoyed, he glanced up only to find his expectations of hundreds of dragons bearing down to torch the wall subverted, the city, and everyone he cared about would be safe for at least a time it seemed.
Instead, the dragons circled in that slow, fish-like cyclone high above and to the side of the city. Just as he was about to call out, the sensation of a pressing notification from the Library of Fates entered his awareness. As a more seasoned warrior than most, Balin had long since learned to have such distracting messages automatically minimised to avoid having his head chopped off mid-battle due to an ill-timed accolade.
Confused as he started to hear growing cheers gathering in the background, Balin silently read the notification and gasped in shock at what he saw.
Hark!
Let it be known throughout all Realms and Demiplanes of Fate that a momentous event has transpired. An Awakened has achieved the feat of evolving to become the first High Human. Through the pathways of Quintarchy and the mastery of Aethermancy, a human male has transcended human limitations, ascending to a rank that surpasses his peers. Henceforth, he shall be recognised as the Progenitor of High Humanity and Human Aethermancy. Mark this day as the commencement of a new age and a reminder that even across the entirety of Fate, the accomplishments of individuals can irrevocably alter the status quo.
----------------------------------------
Summons Guild Headquarters, City of Cruxn, Nation of Cruxis, Enterra Realm, Elemental Demiplane, Fate
“Why today of all days?” Remco van der Meer, Pinnacle Rank founder and head of the Summons Guild, groaned as he was dragged by his assistant from one crisis to the next. He was a tall man with pale skin and a finely waxed blonde coiffure whose style matched a general appearance that was opulently rounder and larger than most. Reflecting his more administrative role, it was a tool he had often used to misdirect, downplay, pressure or intimidate. Now though, his finely crafted bulk was a hindrance as he raced from one building to the next. First, it had been the Gatekeepers; their summons had come with an edge of panic as sequential misalignments shattered gate after gate of their vital network of Demiplanar travel.
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
So much disrespect.
He recalled how the questions had drifted into accusations and outright insults by the end. He and the leader of the Couriers Guild had originally arrived to provide support and assistance, but given the prickly personalities and long-standing grudges involved, he was ultimately unsurprised by the outcome given the nature of the events.
Besides, it was understandable having their peers around during the moment of their greatest crisis would inflame an already combustible situation. While the Courier Guild head had confirmed no such issues on her end, the lack of any specificity or elaboration from the peevish, though generally talkative, old woman was eye-opening, to say the least.
And now this.
“It started about the same time the first gates came down,” Alana, his hyper-competent, fate-gifted, Greater Elemental of Wind assistant said as he followed in her wake to the tenth underground level beneath the headquarters. She was tall for a woman, her sharp features contrasted by her wavy green hair that floated in unseen currents, and a generally bookish appearance, standing with her trademark artefact, an enchanted wax tablet.
Remco found himself standing in a large, windowless hall. Here were the remnant of the blind, the unseeing seers, and today, for some inexplicable reason, they were all screaming.
“What are they saying?” Remco said, his voice tight as she shouted above the noise, he winced at the sight and sounds of over a hundred women wailing, eyes rolled back to show only the whites as they screamed. He saw guild members looking after the women, others taking notes and writing details onto parchment. There was the stink of fresh vomit, while several women bled from their eyes.
“Here’s a transcript of some of their most repeated lines.” Alana handed over a piece of parchment to the founder.
‘A schism on Earth will be mirrored in heaven.
The tenth.
Unmoored now are the ghosts.
Twilight of blindness.
schism dawns.’
“Does this mean… Is this the end of blindness? The gates? It must be connected.” Remco said to himself as he tried to parse out meaning from the madness. While the terms blindness and schism stood out for him, the rest seemed too vague even though this was precisely how oracles and seers gave their forecasts before the age of blindness.
“Is there anything else?” he asked, his eyes darting from one old woman to the next. “Are any still lucid?”
“There’s Patricia, here at the back.” Alana gestured to an ancient woman whose eyes tracked him as he approached. Her pupils were dark orbs that seemed even more shocking given the paleness of the rest of her face.
Patricia smiled. “Hello, young man.”
Remco chuckled, wondering for the first time if that might be relatively true. Most of these women were at the top end of the Sovereign rank, hired before the age of blindness in preparation for an expansion that never came. “Hello yourself, young lady,” he replied, his Pinnacle ranker constitution giving him the appearance of someone a hundredth of his age.
She chuckled in return. “I will have only one attempt at a fortune reading in me.” She inhaled, her eyes closing as Remco froze in bafflement at the odd turn.
“Patricia, a fortune reading? That won’t be necessary.”
“Oh, but it will be.” She exhaled, her expression was one of peace, her genial smile disconcerting as much as it tried to be reassuring. “This is for saving my godson, all those many seasons ago.” With a final inhale, her eyes rolled back into their sockets. Before she spoke, a message from the Library of Fates appeared in his, and apparently everyone’s, mind's eye.
Hark!
Let it be known throughout all Realms and Demiplanes of Fate that a momentous event has transpired. An Awakened has achieved the feat of evolving to become the first High Human. Through the pathways of Quintarchy and the mastery of Aethermancy, a human male has transcended human limitations, ascending to a rank that surpasses his peers. Henceforth, he shall be recognised as the Progenitor of High Humanity and Human Aethermancy. Mark this day as the commencement of a new age and a reminder that even across the entirety of Fate, the accomplishments of individuals can irrevocably alter the status quo.
Remco’s mind drifted back to the present after reading the momentous message over and over, his heart hammering and his mind spinning with the possibilities and consequences. It was then that he noticed Patricia still smiling, the whites of her irises turned gold. As if sensing his returning awareness, she spoke, repeating the same word, a name or a place, over and over again as tears of blood ran from the corners of her eyes.
“Patricia, it’s okay, you can stop now,” Remco said, more unnerved by this than by any conflict he’d ever been a part of, his voice scratchy as he came to terms with the enormity of her gift and sacrifice. She seemed to hear him, as her fading voice, repeating the same word over and over, ceased. With it, the strength seemed to seep from her body as she sagged into her chair. The guild head waited a moment before closing the eyelids of the dead oracle. He exhaled, turning his attention to the normally unflappable assistant who seemed just as shaken as he felt.
“Sir, what just happened?”
"I suspect the Gatekeepers might have a clue as to why their gates came down.” Remco answered.
“And High human?”
Remco sighed even deeper than before. “Lana, get in contact with the Assassins Guild, place a blocker on assassination attempts on the high human, any high humans, and a ‘res on kill’ bounty. Tell them we’ll owe them half of the usual price if he ends up joining them, which we won’t block. We need to find him, find out who he is, what he wants and how he did it before anyone else can.”
“On it. But, I don't understand what happened here. That was a fortune-telling with golden eyes and the timing? Was it significant??”
“Ha, you don’t know the half of it. What you just witnessed was the most supreme demonstration of skill and sacrifice by a Seer I’ve ever known. A perfect gift.” Remco laughed mirthlessly as he wiped his face.
“So, you know the meaning of the word she repeated?”
“Yes, it’s where we’ll be basing ourselves for the foreseeable future. Get everything in order for our move to the Vespasian office.”
----------------------------------------
Luinilathar Palace, Cresita City, Lunaesidhe Realm, Elemental Demiplane, Fate
Princess Elara, the second daughter to Prince Protector Irbron, was often, unfairly in her opinion, compared with her aunt, an incomprehensible force, fae-like in her attentions and adherence to conventions. No, her aunt was so much more than she was, but that was understandable; she was the High Queen.
Like all of the Lóthaniel-Luinilthar line, Elara was a slender woman of pale skin and navy blue hair with almost all the grace and physical poise one would expect from a noblewoman of high elven society.
Almost.
She wasn’t as pretty as her elder sister, nor was her inherent affinity and talent as high-ranking. Often, she was called gawky and ‘all shoulders, no neck’ by the vicious community of nobles she most frequently, to her displeasure, schooled and interacted with.
She had learned that, by her father's orders, she was to be courted and wed, against her will, and despite her elder sister being chosen as heir by her aunt. While still young, she was soon approaching the age her aunt had been when she became Queen. Given the tense political situation, she well understood, given how often it had been drilled into her by her closest family, marriage now, and to someone she likely despised, was untenable given her existing goals. And now here she was, storming down the corridors of the palace in search of the one woman who could put an end to this farce and restore her autonomy.
“Come in,” a familiar voice said after she knocked, announcing her presence.
“Hello, Auntie.”
“My dearest niece,” Queen Harriet the First of Lunaesidhe said, her voice and smile warm, her presence that of an oceanic tide, engulfing and inescapable. Out of all the Immortal Rankers she had met, her aunt's presence dwarfed them all by a factor of ten. If she didn’t know any better, she might have guessed her rank to be approaching Pinnacle; however, in reality, the truth was far more intimidating.
Most nobles gained power through Grace, inflating their rank through the structural adoration and obedience of their subjects. This was even more true of royals, who, in addition to the populace, could also call upon the Divine Grace of the elven Guardian Spirits. In contrast, instead of cultivating that grace, growing her following and connection to the elven ancestral magic, her aunt had spent the last century becoming a true Immortal—an immortal who didn’t need inherited power to attain her rank, one unfettered by the normal restrictions of elven traditions and their reward structures. It was an achievement few outside of her family knew about, one that terrified and inspired her.
She entered the large drawing room and caught sight of a presence she had not seen in some time.
“Oh, Lady Poppy, it is nice to see you again.” It had been a while since she had last seen the effervescent and bubbly personality she had considered a second aunt in her youth. Lady Poppy stood, her genial smile brightening at the sight of her, and dashed in far too quickly for Elara to avoid the crushing hug.
“Oh, Elara, look at you. When your father sent you to that stuffy old finishing school, well, part of me thought that would be the end of that bright spark that always joined me on the floor for the dances. And here you are, that spark brighter than ever. I’m so glad.” Poppy said, spinning her around in the spacious room as Harriet looked on with barely suppressed mirth.
“Oh, put the poor lady down. I have been informed that it is uncouth for such ladies in this age to be handled so… roughly.”
“No, Auntie, it’s fine.” Elara laughed, regaining her bearings after the surprise spin by another Immortal Ranker.
It was always odd meeting her aunts; unlike her parents who almost looked their ages, with hints of scars, or wrinkles and the ever so slight change in skin texture, Harriet and Poppy looked, and sometimes in the presence of few but their closest family and confidants, acted as old as she was.
“So, how was school? Sad that it is over? Missing your friends?” Harriet offered.
Elara scoffed. “Hardly. My perfect elder sister was a tough example to follow, and I fear I stumbled under the weight of the pressure.”
“Oh, I had been keeping tabs—glowing reports, the highest values of will they had seen, with hints of taking your first steps upon The Path?” Harriet countered as Poppy took her customary seat on the floor. Elara joined her, fiddling with her dress as she rearranged the fabric around her calf.
“We both know that dear sister is the truly talented one, else you wouldn’t have chosen her as heir,” Elara griped, her discontent over her general situation seeping into her tone.
“She was chosen as my heir based on her temperament, and for the fact it would have truly made both of you miserable had I chosen you. Or has something changed?”
Elara sighed. “No, it’s just… Daddy is forcing me to court. To court, to be wed, to be bred. It is not something I want, it is not something I’m ready for, and frankly, I despise every single one of them—vapid bullies, the lot of them.” Elara huffed, finishing with a pout that did nothing to help her appear mature and worthy of the autonomy she was seeking.
“That silly little man,” Poppy scowled.
“Now hush, Poppy. Perhaps that was a bit unfair. I’ve put Irbron under a lot of pressure by not extending our house’s line, so perhaps this is mostly my fault.”
“No, Auntie—”
“Elara, I’ve always valued your independent spirit, but know that your father is doing his best,” Harriet said, punctuating her statement with an uncommon sternness that demanded acknowledgement.
“Yes, Auntie,” Elara said, as a wave of dread and defeat consumed her heart.
“Now, now. One of the things I most admire about you and desire to cultivate is your will and curiosity. Yes, marriage and children can stifle this in the near term, but we high elves are very long-lived.”
“That’s easy for an immortal to say.” Elara shot back.
“An immortal that married at an age not too far off from your own,” Poppy added.
“So, what, are you suggesting I perform the same summoning ritual you did and have fate find me the perfect suitor?”
“Oh no, spirits no. No need for a summoning ritual such as that for only as much as you are looking for. No… Just… what were your alternative plans now that your schooling is over?”
“I had wanted to continue my studies into my Craft. I plan to become the first High Elven Arch Orbweaver before my one-hundredth season. I had planned to go to Celestum Priori on Cruxn, or The Collegium Deo at Vespasian in aid of this goal.”
As she was looking for any hints of a reaction to her plans, for the briefest moment, Elara caught Harriet’s normally unflappable expression shift, her eyes widening fractionally in surprise, before rapid blinking brought her countenance back under control.
“I see. Well then, I believe all that is needed is a slight shift in tactics. Tell your father you aim to go afield to seek possible matches after deeming the current crop of suitors unworthy. Framing your excursion this way will gain his support, and perhaps, with some luck, end up becoming the truth.” Harriet smiled. They continued their conversation on such topics for over an hour until they all received the same awareness from the Library of Fates.
Hark!
Let it be known throughout all Realms and Demiplanes of Fate that a momentous event has transpired. An Awakened has achieved the feat of evolving to become the first High Human. Through the pathways of Quintarchy and the mastery of Aethermancy, a human male has transcended human limitations, ascending to a rank that surpasses his peers. Henceforth, he shall be recognised as the Progenitor of High Humanity and Human Aethermancy. Mark this day as the commencement of a new age and a reminder that even across the entirety of Fate, the accomplishments of individuals can irrevocably alter the status quo.
High Human? The concept was as far-fetched and farcical as it was terrifying. She had little knowledge of the races beyond elven society, with only the basest of rumours and caricatures to go by. However, to all elves, humanity was known as barely tolerable inferiors whose apparent weakness was the only thing keeping relations in check. And now there was a High Human, a High Human practising Aethermancy, yet another concept she couldn’t comprehend. She shuddered at the thought of High Human armies burning elven realms.
As Elara turned towards her aunt, she was startled as she saw not looks of astonishment, but of glee.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Poppy said with the ghost of a smile, her eyes distant as she absentmindedly touched her wedding band, one she had never acknowledged the bearer of.
“I’m almost certain,” Harriet said, her glee unrestrained. “Check your page.”
Poppy gasped.
“Who’s him? Is… is the Bondweaver the High Human?” Elara started, full of consternation as she connected the dots, but then trailed off as the magnitude of the secret she had stumbled into became apparent.
Harriet looked at Poppy, sighed, and spoke softly. “No one who knows this can speak freely of it. Do you understand, dearest?” Harriet said gently as Elara nodded. The Queen sang a song that hit Elara like a sack of grain, its power compelling her to follow it into song, her soul bound by the promise of their shared harmonies. Elara was left bewildered by the strange effect on her soul, the impression of her aunt's unfathomable nature growing even wider by this brief example of her craft.
“Now then, what I shall tell you are known only by those under compulsion, and your father, and even he is under soul oath not to reveal any of this to anybody.” Harriet sighed after her song as Poppy drew near, her earlier expression of joy and wonder no less subdued by the gravity of their upcoming discussion. Meanwhile, Elara’s heart raced, her throat suddenly dry.
“Auntie,” she said in a voice that sounded small, even for her. “Is your consort… The Bondweaver. Is he the High Human Progenitor?”
Harriet smiled and answered with certainty. “Yes.”