Damion read over Remus’ letter over and over again, until the words seemed permanently etched onto the back of his retinas. After his tenth reread, he glanced over nervously towards a door leading into an adjacent chamber. It was the largest room the Caprently Sect had to offer, even after their recent expansion following their newfound alliance with Remus’ Ambition Clan.
There, the entirety of the Carpentry Sect awaited their new sect leader, waiting to be inspired by words of confidence.
Words Damion wasn’t sure he could provide.
Sect leader.
A title like that being forced upon Damion, when he was hardly a Foot-Soldier. Even now, days after receiving the news, he shook his head in disbelief. Yet he was the strongest Ranked individual in the entire clan, and while many of the boys he’d been training were beginning to near his level, the leadership position had fallen into his lap.
His mother and father were always there to support him, Aiden and Briella making up the best parents in the world. But this was new territory even for them. He had to navigate all of this by himself.
One more time, for good measure, he read over his brother’s messy handwriting. Part of Damion lamented the fact he was yet to respond to any of Remus’ letters. It wasn’t as if he didn’t wish to — it seemed to Damion like the most relaxing pastime imaginable. Yet he was so swamped with work that he could hardly find the time, especially with the pandemonium that had enveloped First Rite.
Most days, Damion thought it was a miracle any of their clan was still alive.
The windows of the sect had been bordered up, all candles put out so that Damion could only see by the faint glowing of his Mark. It made it seem like nobody at the Carpentry Clan was home. That meant, Damion hoped, that none of Damosh’s lackeys would come running in. There would be more obvious victims to rush to first.
But once all of those targets had been dealt with, searching would begin. Damosh wasn’t in his right mind, likely never had been, but he would devise any excuse to execute someone. In his eyes, all of First Rite was conspiring against him.
Which, if things were to continue as they were, he wasn’t totally wrong about.
Mutiny on the streets. A deranged King deadset against his own people, and, if the recent news was right, a mysterious cloaked figure, ushering people into some kind of cult; destruction following him everywhere.
Rumours said that last figure was the newest Right-bearer. Enos’ final generation. It was worldwide news by now. He hadn’t exactly been keeping himself secret, but his behaviour had been utterly at odds with how every other Right-bearer acted. How Unbounded acted.
Instead of simply killing every mortal he came across — though they did much of that — they were enlisting people. Some kind of pro-Unbounded force was being formed, and Damion didn’t like that one bit. It didn’t help that First Rite seemed to be some kind of hotspot for collecting members.
With a deep breath, Damion swallowed down his pride, and passed through the door.
Expectant eyes stared at him, even as he walked over to a dais. Gathered in this room, a couple hundred clansmen, was his entire sect gathered in one place.
Andreas could not have left larger shoes to fill.
“I’m going to cut to the chase.” Damion wasn’t going to be the kind of ruler that wasted time with pleasantries and platitudes. “We need to leave. Now.”
Immediately, a wave of voices slapped Damion. In the crowd, he found his mother and father listening intently. He pretended that they were the only ones in the room, speaking solely to them.
“One problem with that: Divine Ground.” Damosh had already made it clear that he would chase anyone who dared to leave the city to the ends of the Earth. But there was the issue of leaving in the first place. “We’re hardly a combat-oriented sect, and those of you that have trained under me are hardly a large percentage. Even if we could fight, Damosh’s manipulation of Divine Ground would ensure we never could. So where does that leave us?”
Damion answered his own question before anyone else could. “We sneak out.”
Voices cut through the air, an endless swarm of panicked questions, weary inquiries, and other quarrels all overwhelming Damion. He looked at the crowd suspiciously. He was a very paranoid individual, hence why he could easily imagine a Wealth Clansmen listening in. A spy. But looking over the faces of his sect, all Damion saw were people he cared about. People he would have to protect, even if it would be the death of him.
“I’ve sent letters to the Ambition Sect. It seems like Damosh hasn’t been able to tap into our mail system yet. The Scholar Clan will fight until their last breath, until they let their services be corrupted. They’ve agreed to help us escape.”
A voice slipped through the cacophony of voices. Damion found its origin, and immediately recognised Levi. Even after a year, he was still a young boy.
And still Remus’ most adoring fan.
“Does that your brother is going to come to save us? I heard he was forming a rebellion against Damosh.”
A unanimous cheer.
“I can’t speak on Remus’ behalf, and I have as much insight regarding those rumours as you all do. I don’t entirely know what my brother is doing.”
That wasn’t a complete lie. Remus had mentioned it briefly in letters, but he kept the details vague. Probably because he knew Damion wouldn’t approve. But after growing up with the boy so long, Damion had become a little desensitised to his brother’s bad habit of constantly putting himself in mortal danger. At this point, a crusade against the king wouldn't be out of the question for Remus. In fact, now that Damion took a moment to reflect on it . . wasn’t this the original intention Remus had, when departing from First Rite all those years ago? To end Damosh’s tyranny?
Damion supposed this was simply par for the course.
“The Ambition Clan will be providing the transport,” he continued. “And we’ll be leaving under the guise of business errands. Some trivial technicaltes, something that sounds complicated enough to be believable to the Wealth Clan. But, obviously, Damosh isn’t going to buy that an entire clan suddenly is required for a business excursion. That is why-”
He pulled back a curtain behind him. It showed a map of a series of tunnels, nondescript enough that you wouldn't recognise what it was depicting at first sight.
“This is the route through the sewers some of us will be taking to leave. More likely than not, they’ll be Wealth clansmen on post, but we’ll be deep enough under the earth to be out of range of Divine Ground. I’ve tested this route myself to confirm that fact.”
Everyone fell silent, listening intently to every word he had to say. So this is what it felt like to have an entire sect relying on you.
How had Andreas maintained his position for so many decades? Gods, how had the man been able to rise to Warlord Rank? It should have been impossible for their sect. But if that man could do it, with his blood flowing through Damion, he could grow in power too. He’d have to become strong enough that he could look upon this entire room, filled to the brim with people, and with honest faith in his heart, be able to say that he’ll protect them.
But right now, he couldn’t. “Anyone who takes this route will be escorted by a few Ambition Clansmen and our combat-trained squadrons. I promise that we’ll do the utmost to protect you, but I cannot understate the great risk involved.”
Damion took a deep breath. “It’s a risky plan, but it’s all we’ve got. If enough of you agree to proceed, I’ll start putting plans into motion. We could be out of here as soon as next Duration.”
And, with that, Damion left without another word. He tried to channel out the millions of questions, praise, and jibes being flung his way.
He sure hoped this ruling thing would get easier.
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Edmar stood passively in the corner of Damosh’s throne room. He brought the third elixir of the day to his lips, savouring every last drop. Edmar felt bundles of power flow into every crevice of his body, instilling it with new rejuvenated strength, power, and Infinity. It was quite a pleasant experience.
Especially with his view of Damosh. The man was clutching at his head, legs up to his chest, as he sat like a distressed child, on his golden throne. He rocked back and forth neurotically.
If only the world could see their king now. How far the mighty Damosh had fallen.
“E-Edmar,” he spluttered. A purple liquid streaked down his cheek. “My medicine. I need my medicine!”
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A current of coins circulated around Damosh, poised to clobber Edmar if he did so much as disobey his King. Without raising an eyebrow at the threat, Edmar walked nonchalantly towards a tray on a small table. He picked it up, stirred the contents of his concoction together, before preparing to serve the King.
There was a pitcher of his ‘medicine’, containing an entire Duration’s worth of the mad king’s cure. Instead of waiting for Edmar to pour out a serving into reasonably sized cups, Damosh grasped the pitcher, pouring the entire thing down his throat.
By the time he was done, a look of euphoria possessed the Wealth Sect leader. The pitcher slipped from suddenly lazy fingers, smashing against the floor below. Edmar didn’t bother picking up the pieces.
“Kill them all . . .” Damosh said, eyelids flickering closed. “They all want to take my gold . . . they all want what they can’t have.”
Edmar remained where he stood, knowing the king wouldn’t fall asleep yet. When he had first given Damosh the medication, he’d been stricken with anxiety for the rest of the day, throwing chairs around the room, and killing anyone who approached with so much as an unbecoming frown. Servants were still trying to wash the Ichor out of the floorboards after that incident, even now.
In reality, Edmar had been feeding Damosh poison for Passings now. But this wasn’t a toxin of the body — no, no, no. This was a toxin of the mind.
He began by simply slipping a few droplets into the man’s drink, or cooking it into his food when the chefs weren’t looking. It was just enough that Damosh would feel himself slipping, but still retain enough sanity to know there was a problem. Then Edmar began serving his King with a medicine to his ailments. Which was, in reality, a full dose of the stuff.
Had Damosh retained any logic at all, it should have been so obvious that his right-hand man was behind this all. But his mind had decayed away under the influence of his daily serving of venom.
Damosh suddenly awoke, teeth chattering as if he was deathly cold. For the next ten minutes, Edmar remained silent as the man repeated utter nonsense to himself.
Then, the king finally said something of interest. “Who could have let out my secret of Divine Ground Edmar? Who!” He shook back and forth on his throne frantically. “Everyone hates me! Everyone wants to tear me limb from limb! But I won’t let them!”
To be perfectly honest, Edmar had never expected things to work out as well as they had. He thought that Damosh would simply become too incompetent to rule, so that a gang of God-Graced would kill him without trial.
It wasn’t a personal revenge, or the kind that Edmar most desired. But after his entire family had been slaves for hundreds of years, ever since Maso had been betrayed by his own brother, perhaps it was time for the downfall of the Wealth Clan.
But this reality was nothing Edmar could have ever anticipated. First Rite was becoming just as bad as Hell’s Floor, perhaps even worse. At least in that city, you could fight back against the pandemonium. Here, with Damosh’s ironclad hold over Divine Ground, thousands were already dead, without even the free-will to defend themselves.
Edmar was almost frightened of the monster he’d created.
“You’re the only one I can trust, Edmar. I think I’m going-” he reached for another sip of medicine. “Insane. If I die from this somehow-”
“Don’t plague yourself with such terrible thoughts, my liege.” Edmar refilled the pitcher with more of the purple medicine. “You still have a long and prosperous life ahead of you. Once we stamp the reeds out of First Rite, things will return to how they should be.”
Damosh appeared consoled by Edmar’s words, his eyes swooping down again as sleep befell him. The last thing he said before snoozing off made the hairs on Edmar’s neck stand up: “If I die . . . you’ll be my successor.”
Edmar had known this to be likely, ever since Damosh’s demise became a growing possibility. With how many elixirs he had been downing, day in day out, using the finances of the Wealth Sect to fund his shortcut to power, Warlord wasn’t far off. That would make Edmar the strongest in the clan, save for Damosh himself.
King of First Rite. He took a moment to process that possibility. His bloodline of slaves would be transformed into royalty. It would be the greatest rags to riches story history had ever seen.
Edmar exited the chambers, too deep in thought to take notice of the winding passages he took, into the heart of the Wealth Clan’s tower. One side effect he’d noticed from bingeing on elixirs was that he was starting to crave the stuff. Perhaps he was becoming addicted.
It seemed like a small cost for power.
After opening three locked doors, moving through an unlit passage he knew the way through by touch alone, and finally fumbling in the dark with one last lock, Edmar entered his most private room.
It was no larger than a carriage, or a storage cupboard. The latter was a fitting description, with crates upon crates of poison and elixirs stacked to the ceiling. With a flare of his Mark, he summoned a golden wrench, prying open the nearest crate.
From there, he retrieved a bottle of flowing, pink liquid. Popping off the cork, he downed the thing in three seconds flat. Sloppily, he wiped away the last drops, before letting out a sigh of relief. He’d been getting the shivers. Two days without his fix seemed like the most he could bear — any longer, and Edmar feared he may become just as manic as Damosh. He went to grasp a second bottle, for good measure, of course, before something caused him to jump.
A shadowy figure was leaning against the door. The only exit out of this very small, claustrophobic room. As Edmar’s eyes adjusted, he saw a cloaked man resting lazily, regarding him with interest. Was that a smile he saw on those lips?
“Oh, sorry.” They said abruptly. “Am I interrupting?”
Edmar screamed. He extended both hands, and with all the power of his Mark, unleashed a whirlpool of summoned gold at the man. He wasn’t exactly sure what happened next.
His attack vanished, his gold nowhere to be seen, and with this intruder completely unscathed.
The man was definitely smiling. Then Edmar recognised him.
“You?”
“Oh?” Ash raised an eyebrow. “You know me?”
“I’ve seen you around.” With the threat identified, at least, Edmar could breathe a little easier. Yet he was still feeling twitchy. Perhaps another sip of an elixir was in order . . .
“I’ll get to the point, Edmar. I think you know I didn’t come here for a quick tea and chat.” Ash pushed off against the door, and despite being a head shorter than Edmar, gave off an aura that did not match his age. There were no pupils in those eyes of his. He carried himself differently. Of course, Edmar had only caught glimpses of the boy occasionally, as he did his rounds across the city, and that had been years ago at this point. But Edmar had an excellent memory.
He looked familiar enough to be recognised, but everything about Ash had been utterly altered. Down to the most minute details.
“So why did you come here?” Edmar asked. “The aura I’m getting off you,” his eyes widened as the pieces slid into place. “Don’t tell me you’re the Unbounded that’s been recruiting people?”
Ash shrugged in resignation. Gods, the way this man could do the sublest action, and somehow convey murderous intent: it made even Edmar’s palms clammy. Ash wanted Edmar to know he could kill him at any time. It was a constant game of intimidation. “You’re quick to catch on, aren’t you? You know, I could use someone as sharp as you.”
Edmar took a step back. Even in the face of danger, he couldn’t help but laugh. “So that’s what this is about? You want to recruit me? Sorry kid,” another tempest of gold coins spawned around Edmar, ready to be unleashed at any passing whim. “You’re starting to get on my nerves.”
Why on earth Edmar had allowed a child to string him along so long, he had no clue. One more dead body on his conscience wouldn’t mean a thing.
“I didn’t know you were so willing to die, Edmar. Shame. Enos has shown me the strings of your fate. You’d really throw away your future kingship?”
Edmar froze in place. “What did you say?.”
Ash cocked his head. “Interested now?”
After a moment’s consideration, Edmar called back his golden attack. He didn’t dismiss it, however. If at any moment, the urge to crush Ash returned, he could send this whole room tumbling down. It would likely destroy all of his poisons and elixirs, but with the entire vault of the Wealth Clan at his fingertips, the worst consequence would be a few withdrawal symptoms. He’d only have to suffer for a couple days, before another bundle would be sent, via the black markets of the Trade Sect.
“So what’s in it for me?” Edmar enquired. “What, I become a lifeless drudge, existing only to serve you?”
Ash placed a hand to his heart, as if Edmar’s words had deeply hurt him. “Is that what you think of me? All I’m offering you Edmar is power! Power that will mean your ascent to the throne is virtually ensured. You’d become one of my favourite paladins. You’d receive more strength than any of my other men and women.”
“And in exchange?”
“. . . once you ascend to the throne, you agree to help the Paladins, any way you can.”
“And what’s the goal of this little organisation of yours? The destruction of humanity, the death of the gods?
Ash’s silence was answer enough.
Edmar’s mind was reeling from this whole situation, and with the rush of adrenaline from an elixir added into the mix, he couldn’t trust his own judgement. Not without a grain of salt, anyway. But if what Ash was promising was true, and if he really was in dealings with Enos, then there was no doubt about it.
Edmar would become King.
He could already feel Ash’s influence pricking at his mind. Like pincers pressing into the grey matter of his brain. It was a sensation that planted seeds of caution within him. But even now, he could resist it. Perhaps it was the fact he was nearing Warlord, but maybe, just maybe, Edmar would be able to ignore the pull of Ash’s influence. It was a risk., and he was entering Enos’ domain by playing into his hand, but there was a very real chance he would be able to reject his status as one of Ash’s — what was it again? — Paladins? When the time came, he could exploit Ash for his strength, and desert him during his last hour.
It wasn’t like the Paladins ever had a chance of fulfilling their desires. It was a fool’s errand.
Edmar gave one last weary glance towards Ash, part of him wondering if that was really a good idea. Maybe it was the thrill of becoming monarch, or the adrenaline pulsing through his bloodstream, or maybe even the fear that things might turn out wrong. Maybe it was all of those reasons and more, but whatever the case, Edmar extended out his arm.
“You have yourself a deal.” He donned his most affable smile.
When Ash took his hand, Edmar steadied himself. A potent energy flooded through his body from their hold, and the world turned green.