The sun slanted through the open entrance of the barn in lambent rays, and the only thing to deny Violet of her deep slumber was a furry presence.
Drowsily, she opened her eyes with lethargic slowness. It had become quite apparent that no, Unbounded still required an ample amount of sleep. Or whatever you would classify Violet as. Whether she could still refer to herself as that mortal name was a matter that troubled her greatly. Using it felt viscerally wrong; it had belonged to an innocent girl from the Chaos Sect, and no matter how vivid her memories of that past were, they weren’t hers.
But then again, it somehow sounded equally as bizarre to replace it after all this time.
What is my Unbounded name, in their tongue, anyway? The idea intrigued her, but the memories of that past — arguably her true one — eluded her endlessly. There were still countless questions to be answered. Namely, why she and her target’s memories had been so muddled in the first place. Her own life had been replaced by a stranger’s, one she likely had no feasible connection with.
A scary realisation occurred to Violet then: what would happen when the extent of both her pasts surfaced? Would the duality have no palpable effect on her personality, or would a darker self arise? Merely biding its time, to bear its devilish head when the time was right.
Violet could have spent all morning terrifying herself, but the fuzzy bundle pecking away at her forehead had other ideas. Opening her eyes, Violet’s ire dispersed before she could lash out.
“Pippin!” She cried, shooting up in a burst of hay.
The sparrow had quite the shock, flapping through the air and cawing violently. Finally, Violet settled, taking a breath, and stroking the bird to calm it. Nevertheless, it took much self-restraint not to squeal in sheer surprise. If Pippin is here, does that mean-
One flicker to his talons, and Violet saw what she had been looking for.
A letter.
Petting Pippin half-a-dozen times as reward for his service — how he’d managed to locate her was a marvel — she examined the parchment with a sceptical eye.
Meet me at the City Proper. You'll know where to find me.
* Veida
Violet put down the letter, reread it several times, before sitting idly; not entirely sure how to react. In the distance, the yelps of Remus and his new pal Aziel filled the morning sky, the heat of summoned sparks offering Violet no respite from the hollow chill she now found herself with. It seeped through the fibres of her muscles, into the marrow of her bones, and then deeper, through the tissue of her churning organs. Rendering her all together at a loss.
As she got up, heading to locate some food for Pippin in a simple excuse for movement, Violet’s thoughts never quite untangled. When she had first sent that message off to the researcher, it had never crossed her mind that the woman would see to it to respond.
Veida. That name held a thousand connotations to it now; none of them particularly pleasant.
What in the gods’ names did she want?
----------------------------------------
Remus strolled along the table of candles at the slowest gait imaginable, each step careful and precise, as to not let the wick of blue upon his fingertip dwindle.
Twenty-two candles, he counted, reaching the twenty-third and hovering a patient finger above it. He watched as the tower of wax took light, his humble sea of already lit articles diffusing through the air, in an odd mixture of fruity scents.
“That’s it,” Aziel advised, watching off to the side, “you’re almost a quarter of the way through. Maintain your focus.”
The number shook Remus. Only a fourth? He wanted to cry out, merely sustaining his own flicker of blue taking as much effort as holding his breath, or refraining from blinking.
Moving his index finger in a steady drift through the air, Remus kept his head full of bold proclamations.
I will reach Emblazed.
The next candle was mere centimetres away, the spiral of mahogany brown likely carrying some sort of woodland scent.
I will protect the Ambition and Carpentry Sects.
The black strip protruding out of the wax’s tip blazed a fierce blue, and Remus beamed as he made for his twenty-fifth.
I will gain full mastery over my Mark.
A pungent odour of rose-petals infested his nostrils, sickly sweet.
I will-!
In a rush of excitement, Remus lost his stream of thought. And with it, he found his finger spotless. All speck of fire gone.
“Damn.” He chomped down on his teeth, strangely drained.
Aziel stepped forth. “Hey, that wasn’t so bad. Better than your last five attempts.”
“That isn’t saying much.”
The boy confronted him with those diamond eyes, grinning knowingly. “You won't have to concentrate so much on your aspirations in the future. For now, you need to actively keep a connection to your Mark, but sooner than you think, this’ll be as easy as breathing.”
Remus winced, somehow doubting the words. “Alright, let’s blow them out and try again-”
Aziel blocked his path with a hand. “Actually, that’s it for now.”
“But I’m just a little tired, I can still go on. Watch.”
Yet Aziel didn't budge, waving his hands dismissively. “No, you misunderstand. Weren’t you listening yesterday?”
For a pause, Remus suited a befuddled look, before memories of last night slotted into place. What was it that Brison had mentioned? Oh yes, the-
“Gallery!” Remus shouted. “Right.”
Understanding passed between them. “Come, the ceremony shouldn’t take too long. Who knows, you might even find it interesting.”
His words rang true, for Remus undeniably held interest in a museum specifically curated for the Earnest Trials. There, individuals who too prevailed through the nightmare he had just forced himself through would have housed the fruits of their labour. So much Infirnite, so many severed off monster limbs . . . how would it all fit in there?
Keen to find out, Remus followed at Aziel’s tail, walking past hut after hut, as he noted that they were headed well past the clan’s housing facilities.
Towards the mountains.
It was on his way to a depression carved into one — metres deep, with a locked door of stone guarded by a figure shrouded in shadow — that Remus saw Brison once more.
He was seated upon a throne that crested a rising wall at the end of the valley, deep-cut blocks stacked upon each other to form a robust staircase. Leaning against one of the throne’s arms, the Warlord’s chin rested upon his palm with nonchalant grace. Remus supposed that if you spent so long overseeing a sect, you’d eventually lose any trickle of care for maintaining a regal front. He had to respect the sheer disregard for vanity that was such a fundamental part of Brison’s appearance, whether or not others claimed it to be sloppy. But the Warlord gave no impression of dirtiness at shall, simply a pragmatic attitude to get straight to the point.
“You likely won’t hear from Brison much,” Aziel snapped Remus back into focus, “some joke he barely mutters more than a sentence a day.”
This sounded precisely the opposite of every other sect leader Remus had met. Which, bizarrely, was quite a number of them, now that he thought of it. “How come?”
“Oh you know,” Aziel stopped directly before the tunnel into the mountainside, “he mainly spends his energy on clan matters, or when there’s no work to attend to, sleeping. Some speculate it's the cause of his longevity. One hundred and eighty seven is quite the age for a Warlord. Unless he advances to another Divine Rank in the coming decade . . .”
He stopped himself. Aziel shook his head, before signalling to a guard. They came to an agreement, and Remus watched in quiet anticipation as the door creaked open.
Aziel took the plunge first. “Come in.” He laughed. “It's not as scary as it looks.”
Taking his word for it, Remus hurried in before a ruddy complexion could claim his cheeks as theirs.
The sheer scale of the place was what struck Remus immediately.
A pale white material made up the flooring and walls, as rows upon rows of identical cabinets stretched out for a considerable distance. Remus examined the first of these, looking past the transparent glass to observe a shimmering feather of spotless gold. He was about to enquire on where the Infirnite was being kept, before Remus realised where the blood-red glow filtering over everything was originating from.
Up above, in a cluster that’s utter size put even the most overgrown burrows of the Infernal Bays to shame, was the largest collection of any raw material Remus had ever seen.
He must have let out some sort of amazed mutter amidst his awe, for Aziel allowed himself a vicarious grin. “Pretty neat, right?”
“I’d say.” Remus murmured, entranced by the alien beauty of the crimson glow. In a motion that required a surprising amount of effort, he wrenched his eyes away from the upended hill of stark red. “Does it have any function? Apart from providing light, of course.”
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
Even before Aziel answered, Remus had already noticed the subtle currents of flame weaving around the gigantic shard, providing a faint smokiness to the air.
“Marks with control over heat, or the equivalent, are strengthened in its presence.”
A sidelong glance was exchanged between the two. Remus tilted his head, does that mean . . . ?”
Aziel stepped aside. “You’re free to try.”
In a rush of adrenaline, Remus extended a hand. Within seconds, blue coils of flame had wormed their way up his tunic, setting every fibre aflame. Instinctively, Remus yelped as his entire body was consumed, a wall of sparkling blue obscuring his vision. Rolling to the floor in frantic movements, only Aziel’s booming chuckles brought him back to earth.
Shakily, he placed one leg beneath him, then the other, before getting upright. Remus’ eyes scanned the two of his outstretched hands as he did so, blurry through his blazing obstruction. It was here that the very curious state of being that was his uncharred flesh struck him. And then he recalled Hansley’s words, or at least the gist of them: you can’t be harmed directly by your own Ambition.
During his journey, Remus had learnt much the opposite. But in this context, he could take relief in the fact he wasn’t being grilled alive.
Aziel, sniffling away the last of his boisterous laughter, placed a hand just above Remus’ blinding corona. Slowly, but surely, Remus felt the fires withdrawing.
Taking deep breaths, his first thought, amid the sea of embarrassment, was that of bewilderment. “You can control other people’s flames? How does that work?”
“It's only really doable when someone is allowing you to, or is incapacitated beyond the ability to fight back.” Aziel explained, reverting to his typical mien of casualty. “Anyhow, I would abstain from Mark-usage within these walls for now, or at least until you have a better grip on your capabilities. You’ll either set yourself eternally aflame, or gain the motivation to challenge Tanish, if you try anything rash again.”
Remus slowly nodded, acutely aware of the inflation his ego had received after that outburst. It was a kind of arrogant nonchalance that pervaded through the network of his mind, egging him on to indulge in yet another split-second decision. Try again, it urged, surely he must be exaggerating. Concentrating on his breathing, Remus waited for the sensation to wash over, only reopening his eyes to confront the Gallery once he was in a level-headed state of mind.
“Like a double-edged sword, this Mark.” He commented, as the two picked up a comfortable gait. “All the willpower to take over the world, but never the wisdom needed to control oneself.”
Nodding, Aziel only stopped his advance once he noticed Remus’ absence. Swivelling round, he spotted Remus staring in awe at yet another cabinet — this one positioned on a stand of marble, accompanied by decorative items of ivory.
Through the glass pane, a severed head stared lifelessly. It would have passed for human, if not for the puffiness of the cheeks, and the dangling light extending from the forehead that wouldn’t have looked out of place on an anglerfish. It had obviously been quite the powerful Unbounded, its final expression of furious agony preserved as a perpetual rictus, for all to see.
Below, inscribed in a rectangular golden plate, were the words:
Prize of Brison of the Ambition Sect. Severed head of the River-King. High Foot-Soldier to Splintered Rank equivalent.
Remus reread the final phrase over and over again, not quite believing that last bit.
. . . to Splintered Rank equivalent.
“If Brison beat this thing as an Engorged, just how powerful is he?”
“Strong indeed. He had assistance, of course — being one of the last members of the Doom sect before they were wiped off the map. This thing reportedly killed a number of that clan, before it was enough of a bloody pulp for Brison to finish off the job. Not to discredit his power.”
“If that was the case, wouldn’t he have already had a Mark? That of the Doom sect’s goddess, obviously. Hel’s.”
Aziel merely looked at him for a moment, not uttering a word. “A lot of our members joining through the trials already had a Mark. Tanish just replaces it.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Were you-?”
“Yeah, Death-Marked.”
Remus spoke without shame. That title was one he had long since overcome, or at least it felt that way; there was no need to harbour grievances with its reference any longer.
“We have a few of those ourselves.” He replied, a distant look in his eyes. “I think my own bloodline originated from a Death-Marked. I can’t imagine how much you must have endured.”
“Hey,” Remus put a hand on Aziel’s shoulder, his smile not quite reaching his eyes, “it worked out okay in the end. Mostly.”
“Yeah,” he grinned, “you’ve got me as your mentor now — I couldn’t think of a greater honour. Though, maybe in a way, you were fortunate to be a Death-Marked. I’ve heard throwing away one’s Mark for another doesn’t make your first deity very happy. Brison once claimed the removal of Hel’s Mark was the most painful experience of his life.”
Unsure whether to find such a comment horrific or somewhat amusing, Remus supposed the same could be said for all of Brison's past. But the former greatly outweighed the latter
The thought of a sect being so weakened, brought so low that the remnants of that clan would scatter to join another, before its complete and utter demise, caused an odd tightness in Remus’ throat. His fingers began to fidget, imagining a younger Brison ploughing towards the Flame Territory. He saw Brison’s bloody hands carrying an Unbounded’s head, one that refused to dissolve, the entire way there.
He only fidgeted more, as it dawned on Remus that in a way, he had been doing precisely the same thing. Fleeing his own clan the second danger had bared its ugly head.
I’ll be back for the Carpentry Clan, he vowed to himself. I just need time.
And that was the one resource he couldn’t get enough of. Nine Passings, and Andreas . . . Andreas would succumb to his Rot, leaving behind an empty throne to an already crippled sect.
Remus began to move faster, the urgency of his mission returning to chill his bones. “Let’s get this over with and go back to training,” he said to Aziel, “I need to advance to Emblazed as quickly as possible.”
“Uh? Oh, alright then.”
Near the end of the Gallery, the cabinets made way for a quaint clearing, a table of mahogany contrasting the pearly white. Upon the table, under yet another layer of glass, a dusty piece of parchment sat.
“Looks like it hasn’t been touched in centuries,” Remus commented, to which Aziel nodded.
“Likely hasn’t.”
You could have obliterated half of Remus’ brain cells, and he would have still recognised what the papyrus was depicting: a map of the Mortal Realms. Any speck of ocean restrained to the very boundaries of the yellowing paper. The pangea housed all major cities, the divided landmass of First Rite a few inches away from their current residence of Hybrid, which even through the ageing parchment was an explosion of colour.
Ignoring the ominous stretch of land above this, designated for the ever-frantic front lines, the Ravaged Lands was a calloused scar, further burdened by the ugly splurge of Hell’s Floor, deeper within. This blur of ruddy maroons made up the extreme south-east of the map, the airborne city of Eclipse not too great a distance above.
Remus could have spent all day admiring the map, with Great Oasis and Heaven’s Pinnacle, the respective cities of the Lawful and Virtuous gods, catching his eye, with the two sharing an almost joint structure. The entire thing could be simplified to a relatively flat plain — the gods’ perfect battlefield, immaculately sculpted for their disciples to beat each other senseless.
At the bottom of the parchment, below the key, the words Mortal Realms and Descent were written in cursive lettering. The two most common names for the wider world; the earth all mortals must wander.
To reach the height of this world’s power, Remus knew with an almost terrifying certainty that all of this land mass, every single one of the illustrated cities, and their unique cultures, would have to be explored. It was a herculean task, but one he was already in the process of completing.
Remus was on the verge of moving away from the display, when something he had never before noticed caught his eye. Off the coast of the Ravaged Lands, a small island lay. A few other isles were dotted around the map, but these were all small, seemingly depicted as if to look insignificant. But this initial island — whoever had created the map had evidently put in effort to direct the observer’s eye. Drawn upon the tiny stretch of land, the shade of it a fading sepia from the passing of time, was a curving flame.
Aziel must have noticed the direction of Remus’ gaze, for he strolled over. “Ah, West Ember. Where the Ambition Sect originated.”
“Really?”
“Uh-huh. See, it’s sort of dangerous for a god to only allow someone to join their clan if they complete a series of trials, especially when that deity's life hinges on his clansmen surviving. Very dangerous, in fact.”
This, Remus could understand completely. The Divine Oath had made it so the gods were free to destroy any hostless deity, the second their clan was destroyed; absent of any living ambassadors. Remus had seen how panicked the Carpentry god Acrus had grown, when his clansmen were put under a little danger. Tanish had truly been playing a dangerous game, so many centuries ago. It was a miracle to think the Ambition clan had survived in any sort of state.
“It was on West Ember where Tanish handed out his first few Marks to a very limited group, before they spread out. Whilst I’m sure he would have loved to force them through the challenges of the Earnest Trials, it would have only been possible for Tanish to do so once he had at least a few members living out on Descent. Enrique is our earliest known member, and according to the remnants of our history . . . that man — and practically the entire clan at the time — was of a greater strength than anything the Ambition Sect has known for years.”
The overbearing silence gathering around the two supplied Remus with the space needed to digest this. The Ambition Clan had been losing power; losing their old ways, and was now the subject to relentless attack. A cloudy, disconcerting line of thought threatened to crush his otherwise swell mood, when Aziel’s voice snapped him out of it.
“Remus.” He called, staring at a cabinet off to the side. “Look here.”
Curious, Remus obeyed, waltzing over to spot . . . Styrmir’s finger.
Somehow, compared to the abominations of flesh the other exhibits were displaying, his own spoil of war felt rather lacklustre. Leaning over, Remus read his own platter.
Prize of Remus of the Ambition Sect. Severed finger of the Wind Giant, Styrmir. Engorged Equivalent at time of death, Foot-Soldier otherwise.
Aziel then proceeded to pose a very uncomfortable question. “Hey, what does this mean by Engorged at the time of death?
Remus coughed into his hand. “I may have, ahem, starved the giant to death.”
Sapphire eyes gazed blankly at Remus. “You what?”
“Look, there’s no way I could have killed a Foot-Soldier equivalent at Engorged, regardless of Violet’s help. I’m not Brison. Cut me some slack, okay?”
His expression not revealing a shred of his thought process, Aziel looked back and forth between Remus’ expectant frown, and the Unbounded’s detached appendage. Then Aziel learned dangerously back, gripping his stomach as he chuckled most heartily. “You have the strangest past, Remus.”
“Don’t I know it.” Remus exhaled. “One last thing before we leave,”
“Yeah?”
“Who organises all this stuff? Or what? When I arrived, I felt my prizes from the trials leaving my bag, as if some greater force had whisked them away. What's the deal?”
Remus purposefully made his suspicions of divine interference obvious. Gods couldn’t directly interfere with humanity in most situations, save for under certain allowances the Oaths offered, but Remus couldn't see any other possibility.
“Oaths are a powerful thing,” Aziel began, “and an Oath between gods is even stronger. A thing to be feared in most cases. When Ashbel and Tanish agreed to set these trials up, certain things like these were automated in the process. Now I just need to find a means to automate Mother’s farm . . .”
Throughout all the danger the last season had merited, Remus had never known himself to crack up so much. “Come, let’s reset those candles before we return to an overflood of wax.”
As the two of them strolled out of the Gallery, Remus finally thought, for once, that things were starting to look up. The imminent danger was still rife, of course. Denying such would be lunacy. But here, amongst people who could understand his woes, emphasise with his struggles, he had acquired more than just a Mark.
He had acquired hope.