Remus had been half-expecting to awake in a prison cell, or to never see the light of day at all, for that matter.
So when he found himself sprawled across a basement floor, disoriented, but very much so alive, his initial reaction was one of surprise. His chest was bandaged, though clumsily, and several parts of his body ached when he dragged himself into a sitting position. Blinking groggily, the crudeness of the cuboid chamber he found himself in revealed itself to Remus, along with the half-a-dozen men and women, most of which he didn’t recognise. They stared at him, and his vision snapping into focus, he identified Brison and Aziel amongst the group.
He had caught them in the midst of a heated discussion, one Remus wasn’t keen to interrupt.
“. . . we can’t even hold a funeral service. What are they doing with the bodies of the dead up there?” Remus noticed that Aziel’s arm was set into a cast, and yet this didn’t disturb the man’s ability to converse feverishly. “They deserve a proper farewell!”
Reality shot back to Remus in one horrific rush of memories, that would be better left forgotten. Had The Wild Sect captured them — was this some temporary place of holding? One quick swerve of the dusty room, and a recollection of Aziel’s fiery complaints, and that foolish notion was quickly disproven. Not even Aziel would be so blind-sighted as to spout such words of lOathing under his captors’ watch. But then again, the absolute rage Remus had seen propel him mere hours ago was not a sight to be quickly forgotten.
Remus was almost shocked that Aziel wasn’t out there, looking to break some Wild Sect heads, and ravenously revenge-hungry.
“Of course they deserve a proper burial!” Brison spoke up, as a few unfamiliar strangers assented to Aziel’s complaint. “But direct your anger on forming a plan. That energy will be wasted if you don’t channel it to-”
He stopped, noticing Remus out of the corner of his eye. The man didn’t smile, but his mood seemed to have lifted a little. “Ah, Remus.”
A woman at the back shot Remus an undisguised leer. “This is the fella Aziel insisted on dragging here?”
“It is indeed.” Aziel crossed his arms. “Got a problem with that?”
“It was your choice, I guess.” The woman glanced to the side. “But when our supplies are run into the ground, don’t come crying to me when you're savouring your last meal.”
Harrumphing, Remus couldn’t help but feel extraordinarily out of place. “Thank you Aziel, for taking me to . . .” he paused. “Where exactly are we?”
Brison answered, “the basement of one of our houses. The Wild Sect must be looking for us by now; our escape wasn’t exactly discreet. The top of this building was on its last legs when we slipped in here. I wouldn’t be surprised if a pile of rubble has collapsed above us.” He rubbed his chin. “Would explain all the bangs we heard earlier.”
Eyes glossing over them all, Remus took in the injuries of every single clansman present in the claustrophobic space. None of them had gotten off scot free — bandages draping everyone to varying extents. Finally, he glanced back at Aziel’s splinted limb.
“You carried me here with a broken arm?”
Aziel sniffled, not quite meeting his eye. “Adrenaline numbed the pain, and our Marks have effects indicative of a weak painkiller. Plus, I saw how fiercely you thought the two monsters that-” the words refused to surface. “I couldn’t leave you to bleed out. Or worse: be taken away by The Wild Sect. Didn’t you say it was those bastards that severed your finger?”
Suddenly insecure, Remus hid the hand along his back. “I can’t say it was undeserved, but yeah.”
All faces, save for Brison, turned to Remus at that moment. They were obviously keen to see the maiming in question, but never went so far as to ask. “So,” Remus coughed into his palm, “what’s the plan of action?”
Crickets.
“That’s the thing,” a man whose head was encircled by a damp piece of cloth spoke up. “There is none.”
“There’s nothing we can do, for now.” The same woman as before sighed. “We were lucky to find food down here in the first place. The best we can do is wait out the days, until we either starve,” she nodded upwards. “Or they find us.”
“Absolutely enthralling possibilities.” Aziel’s chin sat upon his hand, and Remus could hear the undertones of his surely-boundless enthusiasm kept at bay. “Is dancing around naked and waiting for the dark forces of the underworld to save us also an option?”
Brison clapped his hands. A movement so simple, yet with unfathomable strength behind it. The thunderclap resounded all around, and Remus too found himself glancing upwards anxiously. How they hadn’t been discovered by now, was a miracle. “Since when did the Ambition Sect lose their resolve? What would your forefathers think, those brave men and women who fought tooth and claw just to be here?”
Every head turned downcast.
“Activate your Marks.” Brison demanded. “Activate your Marks and think properly! Think with Ambition!”
“Our Marks are activated.” An annoyed voice rose. “This is the only pain-number we can get our hands on, as our injuries slowly sap away at us, and you think we are so useless as to neglect even that basic advantage? Have you no faith?”
“I have hopes for each and every one of my clansmen, but I need more.” Brison demanded. “Activate your godsent gifts until you feel as if you’re drowning in the will to act! Then, you may turn to me and sob that there is nothing to be done.”
Of course, as he had made a habit of doing, Remus’ Mark had been activated since the nanosecond he’d reawakened in this gloomy chamber. Nevertheless, he, along with the rest of this unfortunate lot, closed their eyelids. Luminesce artworks flooded the place, tripling the power of their only operational light source in this glum prison: their Marks. Instantly, those dark inclinations Remus had been fighting a silent war against for Passings on end grew louder.
And they were screaming.
Blast your way out of here. His inner self instructed — no, ordered. Render this place alight with your flames, and fan the fire until every speck of green is no more. We will sweep the earth to ash.
He dimmed the might of his Mark for a moment, and in doing so, silence devoured the voices. That motivation dispersed, reforming as an all-engulfing presence, and though it was now wordless, Remus still felt the urge to be crowned king of the world. After that, supreme champion of the cosmos didn’t sound half bad. Not bad at all . . .
Eyes opening, Remus found himself surrounded by a group of fidgeting clansmen. It wouldn’t be irrational to fear that someone would succumb to their inner wills; that this entire place was a ticking time bomb waiting to erupt. A few seconds finally passed, and the stone panels of the basement not obscured by a ring of withering blue, Remus could take a breath.
Aziel’s eyes may have taken on a stronger azure, and several of the alterations on the others intensified, but the man found it within himself to reign all that justified ire under control.
“So . . .” Brison raised the tip of his mouth ever-so-slightly, in a lopsided curve. It was the most smug expression Remus could fathom. “Shall we surrender?”
Silence.
“No? No-one vouches to simply lay down and let the hunger kill us?”
Multiple moans. “Get to the planning Brison, you’ve made your point.” Aziel was the one who had spoken. “But no matter how much I want to burst out of here, Marks blazing, we still have a ways to go before that idea becomes any less suicidal.”
“We need to sabotage The Wild Sect,” the suggestion was thrown about, “if we can somehow worm our way out of here in small numbers, perhaps we could put up some sort of resistance.”
“But getting out of here, unnoticed . . .” Doubt dripped from Remus’ words, and he slid a finger across the dusty flagstones at his feet. “Additionally, keeping this place secret won’t be the easiest of tasks. It's probable that a search party has already been formed up above, and the Ambition Sect doesn’t cover much range.”
You could practically hear the frantic sounds of people thinking, brains speculating like the din of clockwork. “I believe it would be a safe bet to assume rubble is covering us up from above.” Clansmen turned to their leader. “I hammered away on the foundations on the way down. Disagree with my assessment if you wish, but I believe making it hard for us to get out is well worth it, if it keeps us concealed.”
Minutes flew by. Ideas were thrown at the wall, but very few stuck. There were no hidden exits built into the structure’s design; no secret, miraculous abilities any of them were carrying that could flatten the invading forces. All they had were their wits about them, and Tanish’s power.
So, left with no other choice, they put it to use.
Brison lined them up against the furthest wall of the chamber, a knowing twinkle hidden behind his bushy brows. At his command, all present set their hands aflame, poised before the ageing brick of their surroundings. Between Remus and Aziel, stood the man with the wounded head, and that loud-mouthed woman from earlier. Gideon and Sibyl. They may not have been on friendly terms with Remus, but if they were ever going to work their way out of this ordeal, none of them could be picky with their companions.
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Gideon had a mound of dark hazel hair beneath his scarfing bandages, a rectangular scheme to his build, and a finalising get to work attitude Remus had to grudgingly respect. Remus didn’t get a feel for sibyl, before Brison’s next words took hold of his focus, but it had become increasingly apparent that her earlier rudeness was spawned out of momentary distress, and — seemingly — not out of a characteristic discourtesy.
“As we’ve discussed,” Brison loomed behind them all, his mere shadow a menacing presence, “you all need to be careful when we form these tunnels. The plan is great in theory, but if any of you accidentally surface in the middle of a camping group of Wild Sect clansmen . . . we’re screwed.”
After much discussion, the group had stumbled upon a plan they could all agree on. They were to dig their way out of this quaint expanse, creating a series of tunnels that carved through the entire area of the Ambition Sect — popping up into other basements much like this, where hopefully, they had a far greater chance of running amuck, and generally ruining The Wild Sect’s day without notice.
“There are issues with the scheme.” Brision admitted. “And I’ll be the first to accept that truth. Navigation will be risky, and no one is to emerge upwards without consulting the entire group.”
With thorough estimation, and careful plotting out of the Ambition Clan’s original, undestroyed layout, they knew their rough whereabouts. The utterly altered landscape above increased the challenge of all this a tenfold, but the task ahead was all they had. The group couldn’t risk losing hope now.
Within minutes, they were off. Flames enveloped Remus’ hands, and he utilised the appendages like the tools they were, dirt nothing to his smouldering power. His world was pinpointed to this one, fragile moment of destruction. Such mirth filled Remus, as finally his target was one as fickle as dust. Such relief at his enemy not being one of unfathomable strength, but simply standard old, uninteresting soil. Ever reliable soil that would disperse at his touch.
Time quickly lost its meaning. Seconds to minutes, to hours, in an unstoppable domino-chain. The group had two options: to sulk and await for death’s delivering swipe, or to fight. For a clan with Ambition literally channelling through their veins, there was no choice in the matter.
Designated breaks were arranged, and Remus’ group was called to rest. There was no sense in burning through their energy reserves, and dying from exhaustion before their valiant stand could truly begin would be beyond anti-climatic.
Smoke drifting off both his palms, and an equal amount from his overdriven Mark, Remus went to join the others. A burning sensation had started to spread in the illustration of Tanish’s own unstoppable stand against Ashbel. It had expanded considerably by now, showcasing a strange, alien planet, burnt to shreds in the twos’ wake The power of the gods’ was still something that Remus failed to fathom. So much destruction, and for what? The Celestial War had no foreseeable end, and now Infinity itself was striking back with its own vengeful brethren: the Unbounded.
For a split second, Remus reactivated his Mark. The boost to his will was precisely what he needed.
Do not concern yourself with matters so far above you, his slightly inflated ego advised something useful for once, not until you can make the gods themselves tremble.
Remus shook his head, exhaling. “Aziel?” He called over a shoulder. “Rest up, before you-”
He abruptly stopped.
Aziel was still raging his own private bout against the earth itself, the corona of stunning sapphire encompassing him was a frightening sight to behold. He didn’t dig, he punched through the soil, each connection a shattering collision. The handicap of one functional arm didn't seem like a disadvantage at that moment, or at least Aziel didn’t let it affect him. Dirt draped down the man from above, sizzling to nothing, and the entire chamber shook, as if with any oncoming blow, the walls would cave in. Remus called out his name again, but Aziel didn’t stop. Nothing could get in the way of his devastating campaign.
Taking a step forward, most of Remus’ vision of the man was obscured by dancing, hazy fires. But even so, he could have sworn an Oath on what he saw. Despite the raging fumes, despite the mystifying flames, and despite the unchanging neon of his eyes, Aziel’s tears could not be concealed.
----------------------------------------
Ever since he was young, Elmore had considered the twilight hours to hold an unreal, ethereal quality to them. It was especially apparent tonight, as the group waded through a stretch of overgrown greenery that would have been a gardener’s worst nightmare.
As strange as it was to say, the number of footsteps troubled Elmore. The last time three pairs of feet had trodden across the land beside him . . . suffice to say, never before had he suffered through a night quite so disastrous. It was as if he and his cousins were all perfectly positioned on a three-way scale. Any extra weight, and the natural order of things went out of balance. But this Donovan individual hardly seemed to hold any presence to his person at all.
No heat seemed to emit from his person when Elmore found himself in close quarters with the man; he somehow held the inexplicable ability to silence the subtlest sounds of his body, whenever they suspected prey was near; and he spoke so sparsely, it was like he wasn’t there at all. At the very least, Elmore had to admit, the Shadow Clan had perfected creating the ultimate predator.
It was almost as though the man were a shadow himself.
After much searching, the group had stumbled upon a reasonably safe clearing, and began to set up camp without so much as a word. The process had become methodical at this point, a self-completing process that only required the party to forgo their active minds for muscle memory. Soon, Elmore found himself staring at the flickering embers of a campfire, eyes following the paths of the individual sparks. It was oddly therapeutic, his void state of mind only interrupted when Ash opened his mouth.
“I’m bored.” He complained, in much the same manner as a child ten years his junior. “How about a ghost story?”
Koa shook his head. “I’m not losing sleep for a few minutes of entertainment.”
“Oh, come off it,” Ash waved a hand, as if dismissing his brother entirely. “Just because you get frightened easily, doesn’t mean we have to ruin the fun for everyone else.” He turned to Elmore, sporting puppy-dog eyes. “Pleeease, Elmore? You’re like five hundred and thirty, so surely you have a ghost story or two?”
“Hey!” Elmore scoffed. “I doubt if anyone living but the gods’ are that old.”
“No.”
Elmore flickered his head between his two cousins, trying to work out who had spoken. When realising the two were searching just as frantically as he was, surprise dawned on him, as all three heads turned to Donovan.
“The God-Graced of my sect,” that odd voice of his spoke, “he’s the only sect-leader the Shadow Clan have ever seen.”
The implications of that sent Elmore through several mental rabbit-holes. The most troubling thing was that the deeper he dug, the true depth of each only became progressively more apparent. Shaking, he pulled himself out of those impossible reaches.
“. . . How old?” Ash prompted, uttering the questions the others hadn’t dared.
Donovan didn’t reply immediately. “Old.”
“Yeah. But how old?”
Their plain expression revealed no change. “I doubt even he knows that.”
As the silence returned — a more palpable veil than ever — Elmore still failed to get his mind around Donovan, and all of his delicate idiosyncrasies. Even as he listened to them converse, as untalkative as ever, the man was seated at a slight tilt. It was like he was expecting to be jumped at from any angle, at any passing moment, and the thought of that alone was enough to drive Elmore’s wandering mind into a paranoid spiral.
Thankfully, Elmore had adept control over his psyche, and quickly snapped back into the present.
“If only that guy was here with us.” Ash continued to speak at his own accord, referring to Donovan’s sect leader. “He must have a good campfire story.”
In his most adventurous move all day, Donovan allowed a smile. It was subtle, but an unmistakable curving of the lips. Elmore blinked, expecting the mind-made apparition to disappear, but reality held true. “A scary story . . .” he began delicately. “I may have a few.”
Koa frowned, but didn’t complain for their sake. Ash was practically bouncing up and down in anticipation, urging Donovan on, and Elmore himself wouldn’t decline a good tale. They could push you through the dullest of nights — if the storyteller was capable, he had come to learn.
Met with a series of nods, Donovan began, shifting subtly as if preparing to be tackled from a slightly different direction this time. “Once, there was a man whom the people called Draven. He was the love of his clan. Strong, but caring. Boisterous, but not rude. Witty, but never mocking. One day, after gathering power over the course of his early life, Draven set out for the battlefield of the great War, keen to serve humanity just as he had his clan.”
“Where are the ghosts, or headless monsters?” Ash broke Elmore out of his intrigued rapture, “at least include some sort of haunted building; there’s always a haunted house.”
An aggressive nudge by Koa, and Ash sealed his lips, rubbing his shoulder.
“There, Draven quickly built quite the reputation for himself. Myths were spun from his heroic feats in the depths of the battlefield, reportedly returning from skirmishes where he was outflanked by hundreds, without so much as a scratch to his name. Soon, Draven was known far and wide throughout every corner of Descent, but, inevitably, his name caught the attention of people not so keen to revel in his glory.”
Donovan paused for dramatic effect, and Elmore felt the urge to pounce at the man and force him to continue. Ash held onto his breath, and if the Shadow Sect clansman hadn’t continued right that moment, he probably would have fainted.
“Draven was found killed at the bottom of a trench, choking on his own blood, and his back split clean open. In multiple places.”
Based on Ash’s reaction to those words, every suspenseful second posed a risk of toppling him over, but for reasons unattached to his oxygen intake. Koa shifted a foot away, wrinkling his nose at his brother’s sickly expression.
“Draven’s clan were a highly loyal people, and none of their men were wronged without vast repercussions. They tracked down who Draven’s murderer was. Then his family, and, from there, his sect. By a Passing's time, the entire clan were found dead in their homes, seated within their houses, their bodies acting out typical activities, as if nothing had occurred.”
Donovan leaned in, giving none of them a chance to process the bombshell. Forgoing his constant vigilance, he dropped something exponentially worse.
“That destroyed clan was the Sect of Defeat. And Draven . . . Draven was one of the most ancient members of the Shadow Clan.”
Those words were the verbal equivalent of tossing a grenade in between them all, before proceeding to pull out a good book, leaning back in a comfortable armchair, and enquiring upon how everyone’s day was.
After swallowing, Koa craned back to where he’d been previously seated, before he had jolted backwards a metre away. He may have flinched in a somewhat melodramatic fashion, but Ash, with his face turning green, was much worse for wear. Nevertheless, you wouldn’t have known it from how tremulous Koa’s next words were.
“Nice story. That’s what it is right? Just a story?”
Donovan took a sip from his waterskin. They all waited for an answer. And to this they were left waiting, for Donovan muttered not a word more.
“Get some sleep.” He advised simply. “I’ll do the first shift of the night.”
Elmore doubted there would be many threats roaming about out here, but that was besides the point. The Clan of Defeat . . . hadn’t that been the old man’s sect? Tal’s?
The breadth of the Shadow Clan, and its roots seemingly as old as time, sent Elmore’s body aquiver. For tomorrow’s stretch of the journey, he would be running short on energy, or so it would seem.