“My realm may absorb surrounding aether more efficiently than most, but you are slowing that process by designing facilities for your minions to take it.” The dead man proceeded to lecture Cira, “Do it on too large a scale or for too long without respite, and Paradise as you know it will shrink.”
“I figured as much.” Cira again pulled the pendant from a waist pouch. “I can’t feel it yet, but that’s only logical. Once it drains to some degree, I will be able to find out how difficult it is to restore, however.”
“You think you’re being smart, but have you already forgotten how much mana it took you just to get here?” The old man had a point there. Cira would have to specifically try to expend as much mana in any one spell as it took to teleport with the anchors about as close as they will ever get to each other. Easily half of her pool, which was not small these days.
“Yeah, it would have been easier without a ship, I admit.” Cira shrugged.
“Let me be clear,” He, the man who died long ago, was not in nearly as light-hearted of a mood as Cira, “You are painfully weak as you are now. One doesn’t have to be anywhere close to my level to turn you to ash. As my successor, your state worries me greatly, especially given your general demeanor and reckless nature.”
Cira scoffed, momentarily in a daze at the unexpected criticism, “So says the man who let people weaker than me kill him? Your wife’s aura was laughable and the man with the horns didn’t strike me as anything to write home about. What gives? How the hell did you even die, Mr. High and Mighty Chancellor? Trapped by an itty-bitty array?”
“For your information,” Cira enjoyed his irritated tone, “Ventra was home to the greatest artificer these skies have ever known—”
“Pfft… Sure…” It was a safe bet her dad wasn’t Ventran.
The old man seemed to have at least tuned into these tendencies of Cira’s and glossed over it with extended grumbling, “Don’t be an idiot. I’m talking about the forefather of all artificers. The fallen forge master, Daedalus. Don’t tell me you’ve never even heard the name.”
“Oh…” But where have I heard it…? I don’t think it was an academic tome, but… “The crackpot from those children stories? Didn’t he build a staircase from below the sea to above the sky?”
“…what kind of stories were you told as a child? That is a gross oversimplification of the Transheavenly Warren, and no one in their right mind would speak of it to the young and impressionable.”
“What’s the big deal? Was your final gift to not only ridicule me, but my father? Shouldn’t all souls have a shot at redemption? If they were undeserving, they would have burned up long before getting the chance to climb the stairs anyway, no?”
“What… That’s not even—no. I am not going there with you today, stupid girl.” Exasperation rolled across the land, “Though you decided to abandon the presentation I spent a millennium crafting in anticipation of your arrival, you already saw my method of death. That ‘itty-bitty’ trap, was neither itty nor bitty. As I mentioned, Daedalus worked for Lord Zephyr for one reason or the other. Probably resources and experimental freedoms. I guarantee the old bastard is alive and well, but he never held loyalty or spent more than a few centuries in one place. I doubt you will have to worry about him. You recall the gift granted by a god that petulant boy wielded, yes?”
“Mhm.” Cira nodded, “The primordial curse.”
“You…? As I thought… Yes, that power is what I’m referring to. At this point all I can figure is that my darling Kreya procured some of my blood, and it was used as a binding catalyst with one of Daedalus’ artifacts and infused with that blasted curse. Each word I spoke and inch I crawled brought me closer to complete destruction. Even the beating of my heart. The moment it activated, my fate was sealed.
“A portion of the seat you saw me in during the meeting still remains in the center of this island, though you burned most of it away when you got upset and destroyed my gold for no reason.” Cira shrunk back a little to remember her minor outburst when she woke up, but it was more or less justified. “Long have I pondered what it means to ‘perfect the flesh’. To this day I have no answer, but left alone, the curse spreads through excitement of the corporea. The moment I heard my voice mimicked for all of Heritos to hear, I knew what was going to happen. My so-called wife disappeared from the spatial plane completely at a point, and I gave up, incinerating my form and wagering it all on this realm.”
“Ohoho, I see…” Cira put a hand to her chin, “I guess that makes you some kind of lich, or perhaps the forbidden archive holds a more accurate term for when a pocket realm acts as a phylactery—”
“Will you not? I am trying to tell you of the single most important moment of my incredibly long life, you impertinent child. If I tell you that I fall under the formerly theoretical spirit classification of realmbound djinn, but of transitive origin will you shut up and listen for a moment?”
“…Yes.”
“Good.” Cira realized that while she wasn’t paying attention, the surrounding gold had apparently rose from the island and formed a shroud around her, isolating her from the rest of the island. “I always wondered if it was a primordial curse, but you seem confident enough about it.” Colors drifted and gathered together in spotty patterns, eventually forming scenery. Cira recognized it as the coastline of Heritos, before fire and disaster claimed it. Calm sands sat shaded under swaying palms while sunset turned the sky into a portrait. “That explains everything, really. The way it refused to leave even after forfeiting my body and reconstituting my soul here. Nothing like standard curses, but it’s difficult to form defenses against something you only read about in books. Make’s me curious, really…”
Cira felt a narrowed gaze fall upon her, but she was quite curious herself, “Forgive me, but I’m going to force you to manifest. Do your best not to return to the cycle.”
“Wha—” Cira threw one of the test daggers she made for the exorcists at the highest point of spatial focus exuded by the ancient sorcerer, “AHHHHH!!!!”
“Let me just say,” Cira bent down and picked up a handful of fine blue dust at the feet of her solidifying predecessor, “You are an excellent source of aetherium.”
“Why would you do that?!” The man that yelled at her in that meeting stood before her now, though his features were vaguely defined. Almost like that world of the past lit by the myriad flame, or a watercolor painting. “Stupid girl, not even the greatest sorcerers can resist the pull of the cycle!”
“You did it, didn’t you? You would be unworthy of calling me your successor if you couldn’t do that much.” Cira crossed her arms and looked at the undefined man with a cheeky grin. She knew it took a significantly greater caliber of either power or will to resist the cycle than she could muster. Nothing on Fount Salt could do it, though I never got around to investigating the Dark Stratum, but Cira knew this guy would manage. Not that she could, but… that wasn’t the point.
“Idiot. You better make good use of that aetherium, or I’ll become your pocket wraith.”
“…Do those exist—”
“Why did you do this?!” He took the opportunity to bop her on the head and she shrunk away.
“Please forgive me, High Chancellor!” He did not appreciate the dramatics, and just then noticed his beautiful Heritos scenery had faded, and a violent looking crowd was watching Cira cower before him.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Ultimate death!” An old man with a beard that reached his waist waved a string woven through six skulls around and a thick beam of ghastly white ruptured the air, knocking spectators away.
“Gah!” The old dead man possessed more detail as me moved and leaned out of the way to sway the death beam off course. “You have death mages?!”
Cira was half knelt, looking up at him with her face stretched back in shock, “First I’ve heard of it!”
She looked over and saw the bearded man restraining a smile at her gaze, cheeks blushing. The others cocked their pistols or formed fireballs and the like.
“Everyone, stand down.” She straightened up and projected her voice. “You stand before the Paradise Mage.”
They did not stand down, but they refrained from attacking.
“It’s—It’s him!” Tawny was the first to let her staff down. “What did you do?”
Everyone but her was utterly confused, but quickly stiffened up when Cira explained.
“What was with all those tremors?” James asked, still mostly irritated than scared, “And what is this place supposed to be?”
They stood before the plains dotted in monuments to represent each primary element.
“This is the Sorcerous Quarter of Paradise. Something I am preparing for tomorrow’s lessons, now do you mind?” Cira looked at them somewhat impatiently.
“B-but… are you okay?! I don’t know this guy, but he doesn’t got a good look in his eyes…” Captain Shores stared at him aggressively, “Let me stay with you at least.”
“No. None of you need to see this.” In an instant, everything was much darker. Teleporting was child’s play within her own realm, but there was something to be said about transferring from above ground to a few hundred feet beneath the sea. This was a good exercise for her undine powers. A void was created so she didn’t have to bother being directly underwater. That would have been more comfortable, but conversation was easier with a bit of wiggle room. “It appears you still bear that curse. I would like to examine it. When your essence was spread out across the entire realm, this would have been impossible.”
The ancient man looked around in surprise to find himself deep underwater, but that strangely turned to fear when Cira held out her hand and a dried up branch appeared in her grasp.
“Oh?” Her eyes flitted downcast, “Even one ancient and prolific as you gazes upon my Auld Sprig with such a look in your eyes?”
“Your memories within my mind are hazy… but seeing it up close… Do you even know what it means to hold something like that?” Old people were often knowledgeable. This had always been the case. Maybe he knew a thing or two about something or other.
“What it means to hold this in my hand is nothing that can be determined by you. Just shut up and watch.”
Cira wasted no time in channeling the curse with her staff. The old man writhed in pain and curled up to such an extent Cira was worried his spine would snap, then mana older than he would ever be poured from every orifice.
At first it seemed he was bleeding from every pore, but the sanguine energy settled between him and the Auld Sprig. Soon the rosey smoke that caught Cira’s eye was before them.
“This… this is—” The sorcerer recovered from his pain quickly and gawked at the vibrant curse. While it thrummed, he patted himself up and down as if trying to feel it, “Y-you removed it! How?!”
Handling something like this was a delicate matter. No matter how experienced she was with whatever curse she knew so intimately, this was an entirely different beast. Still, she could not help a sly grin, “Impressed, hm? Are you sure you’re qualified to call me your successor?”
“Y-you should not be proud of this!” His face contorted in disgust.
“Fuck you. I am. This is what makes a sorcerer.” Cira felt deep shame at her past actions, but wielding great amounts of power was not something to weigh her down. Just as necromancy had more unethical applications than not, statistically speaking. The primordial curse this girl bore was akin to a human being born with a third eye or antlers. Sure, if unguided, the possessor could topple civilizations or incite mass murder, but in the hands of one knowledgeable and wary in equal measure, it was but another tool hung from Cira’s belt.
This unruly power seemed to resist her dominion, but it could not escape the control she commanded with the Sprig in her hands. The problem was that she kept thinking about it like her own curse. It behaved violent and caustic. Livelier than smoke but heavier than lead. Cira had to open her mind to wield the flame of perfected flesh.
Counterintuitively, it did not sink, but rise. Nor did it fester, but bloom brilliantly. Looking at it now, Cira almost couldn’t believe that this could be considered a curse, or that it was the same thing she had seen before. That said, the unchecked power here was significant.
“Chrysalis… does that mean anything to you?” Cira asked, profoundly distracted.
“Obviously, worms endure chrysalis to become—”
“No. Shut up again.” Cira’s hands turned in strange formations while her fingers curled in pattern. Not even the ancient one knew what she was doing, let alone the sorcerer herself. This was no smoke, but a novel flame. Its tenacity belied a vitality not seen in death.
This power holds no authority over life, yet life conforms to it. This was evident in that Cira could feel it actively attempting to scramble her flesh. Just what is it? I haven’t spoken the word ‘chrysalis’ since I last studied butterflies, so why say it now? It just came to me. No, hold on—
“Chrysalis.” Cira continued as the comforting pressure of the sea enclosed on her pocket of air, “Have you not just endured one? Far be it from me to call on fate, but you may be a victim of it. I can’t think of a more accurate analog for the entire sequence of your downfall other than this exact curse. Think about it…”
Wait… is that what this curse is? The curse of chrysalis? Putting aside what that means, what does that make my own?
“Treachery, and other such environmental pressures have forced you into the cocoon we know as Paradise.” Rather than a sun blasting heat in a thousand directions, Cira had tamed the embodiment of fleshy combustion to such a degree that it burned like a torch above her palm. “How can you interpret this in any other way? Like a butterfly, you have taken on new form—”
“Fool.” Her predecessor’s voice echoed, vibrating the sea all the way to the surface. “Paradise may be a chrysalis, sure, but it is my tomb. At this point, nothing shall arise from this cocoon but the sorcerer known as Cira.”
She started to get concerned as her ocean only shook more violently. Fish smaller than her hand were dying of stress in droves.
“You do not yet understand what this means.” Cira couldn’t respond as she felt a hundred years of shores batter against her soul as the surrounding sea evaporated. She was left in the open air and the eye of a maelstrom as the manifestation of the Paradise Mage gazed down at her with glowing eyes. Cira knew energy could not be destroyed, and watched the evaporative refuse rise to the sky and form a sphere of blinding mana at the crux of the storm, dwarfing any semblance of undine or spring she ever assumed, “Have a mere taste. You will need it.”
Cira felt her soul shatter time and time again, like she were forced to take the shape of a ragged beach to witness countless sunsets. Fissures grew in the sand, but they turned to mud and reformed. Cira realized this was a display crafted with her constitution in mind, and she would never have had a hope of surviving were it not for her encounter in Archaeum.
“But—” Cira coughed blood through her clenched teeth, “What is this—”
She stopped dead in her tracks as her aura topped out and continued bulging. Like a gluttonous crane whose belly never filled in the weeks foretelling summer, Cira’s aura expanded so much she thought she was an island again. Fount Cira, Cirrus Cloud, Breeze Haven and Aquon. These all paled in comparison to the sea of mana Cira guzzled down like a whale at the surface expecting krill and only receiving a mouthful of fat birds.
It hurt.
Oh, gods did it hurt.
“GAHHH!!” Cira cried in torment, “MAKE IT STOPPPPP—”
“It is done.” The ancient sorcerer spoke, “My apologies. Given what I’ve heard of your father I didn’t think it would be so bad—”
“Shut up—again.” Cira’s muscles felt like someone else’s, and she flexed them in sequence to scratch the itch of unfamiliarity.
She thought it was wildly irresponsible of the guy to dump that on her while she was trying to control an ancient flame, but it actually helped refine her control. Now it sat peacefully as if she contained it within a lantern, but every time this old bastard distracted her, it lashed out in different directions.
He at least gave her a few minutes to catch her breath, “Just what are you trying to do?” It was a reasonable question.
“Conquer the unknown.” Cira’s fist curled around the Auld Sprig, but her knuckles hadn’t turned white like any other day. “And I am inclined to declare that which the horned man wielded belongs to me. It’s better in my hands than a stranger’s, no?”
Looking at this flame was a different kind of uncomfortable than the curse she knew, more like agitation that couldn’t be quelled. Like something was constantly wrong even though she knew everything was fine. Cira was no stranger to burdens on her shoulder, but each one took a period of adjustment.
“You might be pleased to know, however.” Cira did her best to absorb it into the Sprig for now, “That this curious flame will dwindle on its own. There is the option to curse myself to keep it alive, but I don’t really want to. Regardless, further study is necessary when I have the time.”
“Though you may exceed my expectation in some areas,” The old man’s voice carried gravitas, each word painfully adding to her already bursting aura, “Don’t think for a second you are ready to take on a fraction of the burdens you are owed. The man you met was probably no more than a double. A clone of perfected flesh, as it were. If you had to size him up to determine if you could take him, it only goes to show how weak you are. Even though Lord Zephyr was still a young man on my final day, he possessed at least as much mana as you. I don’t think I need to tell you again how long he’s had to catch up.”