Of course, both Saige and Andreas had been accurate in their predictions; Aiden and Briella did indeed commission Remus to help out in Leisure District, with Damion tagging along to give a helping hand.
The morning was young, the sun applying a diluted yellow filter over everything. Not that the District required any extra layer of embellishment — the last few Passings’ worth of bonus decoration was enough for the cobbled streets to undergo a true evolution. Anywhere the eye wondered, some form of colour marvelled it. Be it supplied by energetic advertisements, bombastic posters with endless promises of unseen wonders, and a myriad of patterned awnings protruding from each building. A general bubble of noise exuded from every street corner, the pathways positively soaked in the scent of imported spices and homegrown goods. You couldn’t walk two paces without running into a cheery face. The contrast to Labour District was enough to give Remus a disorienting episode of whiplash. He wasn't sure whether to be joyous at the fresh environs, or furious at the difference in treatment. Eventually, doing his best to temper himself, Remus settled on grudgingly enjoying the jovial surroundings.
It was a spectacle, and Remus had to pause for a second to take the scene, and all of its fine intricacies, in.
“It looked beautiful from overhead, but this is something else all together.”
Damion scowled softly. “What do you mean overhead?”
Remus let out a day’s delayed groan. “Long story.”
The two worked their way up to the upper end of the district’s central street, slipping through the adjacent alleyways that were by themselves a labyrinth to manoeuvre through. As they passed by, Remus spotted a cluster of loitering Flame-Marked, the second highest sect in all of First Rite. They seemed to be setting up a long banner reaching all the way across the avenue's right wall like an unrolled scroll. Illustrated in fine, intricate drabs of ink, was a series of images depicting Ashbel, their patron god, and Divine Ambassador of the Elemental Pact.
The deity himself would be representing the alliance during council sessions, offering guidance alongside Chantal, the goddess of The Wild, to ensure they weren’t cut short in any agreements.
Remus and Damion were largely ignored as they passed by, and Remus’ attention was already swayed to the plastered characters printed across the ally’s floor.
“The Poetry Sect is using poetry passages to style paths now?” Damion smirked. “Such a fine verse, but I can’t help but think that a backstreet tunnel is a little strange of a choice for location.”
“These aren’t Labour alleys, Damion.” Remus recited the obvious. “You could spit on a sewer drain here and, within a second, a mop attached to an obedient cleaner would conveniently materialise before your very eyes!”
He didn’t bother to mention that the cleaners in question were, yet again, lowly positioned Labour District workers.
“Blood may be shed, or future crisis averted. On the Day of Descension, let conflict be skirted, or by the Infinity that binds us all, the gods will be alerted.” His brother read, holding back laughter. “Sounds like a long-winded way to remind us all that we’re on Divine Ground.”
“Also a long-winded way to remind us why the Poetry Sect is not in the top twenty.”
“Like we needed one. Now, come on. We have to sort out preparations up ahead, before Andreas decides to carry us there himself.”
Remus shivered. “Never again.”
Into central street they strolled, all together overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle that encompassed every nook and cranny of the expanse. Wagons waded through flocks of First Rite natives and newcomers arriving for the big day, and instruments appeared to be playing on their own, with trumpets bobbing up and down with no mortal hands to hold them aloft. They had the Music Clan to thank for that.
“So, what exactly were we asked to do?” Remus asked, absent-mindedly.
Damion shrugged. “Something to do with our sect’s display, or offering, if you like, to Arcus.”
“Which is?”
“The most elaborate collection of abandoned projects you’ll ever witness. There, you can see it poking out overhead.”
Sure enough, there it was. A collection of unfinished chairs, tables, and other miscellaneous furniture, jutting over the rows of buildings as if trying to take a peek at what lay beyond.
The rest of the street was just as extravagant, if not more so. Virtually every sect who had taken so much as a step into Leisure had some variety of intricate exhibit on display to flaunt their successes. In all, they were too numerous to name, but Remus was particularly moved by an expansive garden. Its base was created by The Wild Sect, a miniature forest that took up a quarter of the entire thoroughfare alone. Its ground was the hue of a rain-beaten moor, this grassy surface sprouting broad oaks, which in turn bore a series of nests. These housed birds of breeds utterly foreign to this fraction of the world, only brought here by the power of the deity of Birds and Flight, Avel.
“That’s weird.” Damion commented. “I thought Avel, his followers, and the Elemental Pact still carried bad blood.”
Sharing in his brother's befuddlement, Remus picked apart his memory to see if any resolution between the two parties had been met. Avel had withdrawn from the Elemental Pact in a controversial move over . . . Remus couldn’t remember what, exactly. Something to do with how the elemental gods ran things. Then the most powerful bird in all of existence had joined another godly union, the Empyrean Alliance, to rub further salt into the wound. So, taking all of that political play into consideration, you could understand the nature of the twos’ confusion.
“I wouldn’t put it past Avel to have added his own personal flair to the structure. If his intention is to deliver one last trick on his past alliance, he’s most definitely succeeding. Though I must say, aggravating Chantal, a literal queen, is quite bold indeed.” Damion assessed, before the two of them entered an open space, where the mountain of discarded projects was surrounded by other members of their clan, all peering towards it with vast concentration.
Out of seemingly nowhere, Arlen walked into view. “Just the two I’ve been looking for. We need you to set up a few stands for some of our more special pieces. Understood?”
Damion’s features suddenly stiffened. “Yes.”
Arlen frowned slightly, as if not quite understanding what the matter was. “Alright, good luck. You’ll probably be expected to set up the displays as well, though—” he quietened, putting a hand to his mouth conspiratorially “—if any pieces fall off, feel free to lump them into the pile. But be discreet about it, K?”
With that, Arlen returned to a table surrounded at every angle by other members of the clan, presumably planning out the rest of their exhibit. Or merely putting up a front of hard work, Remus couldn’t tell.
“Alright, alright, let’s get this over with. If we’re quick about it, we could be back by midday.”
With that prospect setting their motivations ablaze, the pair worked diligently. Whilst Remus rubbed sandpaper across a large plank of wood which would serve as one item’s display, his brother merely activated his Mark. Located upon his nape, the area was a radiant gold, with a crawling, fiery sensation waving over it like dancing sand dunes. The fully-grown, Emblazed Mark depicted Acrus slicing through a tree of unfathomable size. Leaving its creator, the deity of The Wild, Chantal, understandably vexed. Damion had to merely touch the slab, and its many faces would become extraordinarily smooth — not a speck of its existence out of line.
Not gifted with divine attributes, Remus couldn’t help but feel his efforts useless. Especially when in contrast to his brother, who, over his shoulder, was completing a task which would ordinarily take him well over twenty minutes, with only a dramatic tap of the fingers.
There was much to do however, and Remus felt time drag to a slog, his insecurities left to rot in a deep, forgone crevice of his mind. He had never gotten so many splinters.
“Remus.” A familiar voice swept him out of his tunnel-visioned reverie. “Seems you’ve recovered! Took you long enough, but then again, hotheaded Death-Marked don’t have the ability to heal too fast, do they?”
Remus turned, and standing before him, somehow more smug and condescending than ever, was Edmar.
Damion placed a hasty hand upon his shoulder. “Remus-”
Remus took a defiant step away from his brother’s grip, meeting Edmar’s glare head-on without reacting, expression unreadable. “Greetings.”
The tax collector looked him up and down, with the same utmost respect only reserved for the most artfully grotesque pieces of roadkill. “Decided to play nice now? How selfless you are. How indescribably noble. And how idiotic, for even thinking of leaving your manor after the wave of second-hand embarrassment you inflicted upon all of First Rite.”
Fighting his every impulse in a savage, internal war, Remus focused on any detail but the man in front of him. The low murmur of chat that pervaded the scene around him, the air sweeping against billowing advertisements in a low whistle, and the sound of his heart beating like the gong at death’s door. It was difficult, but the boy had made a promise, and he intended on keeping to it.
Bowing the upper part of his body so far down he almost smacked his forehead against his own kneecaps, Remus began, ensuring his voice was loud enough for all to hear. “Apologies Edmar, I don’t know what possessed me back there. Please, accept my humble plea for forgiveness. I only wish to make amends for my own immaturity. My sect shouldn’t have to face any penance because of my own foolish actions. If you could find it in your heart to accept my attempt at a peaceful resolution, I would be most grateful.”
A tormenting silence engulfed the street, and all voices ceased to nought but the occasional brave whisper. Remus had attracted the attention of dozens, for better, or for worse.
Edmar’s face was hard, not revealing a slither of his mindset.
At last, the briefest words left his rigid lips. “Nice speech. Very touching, may I add. Top marks for effort. But, my dear Death-Marked, sometimes words aren’t enough.”
Remus felt as the moisture vanished from the walls of his throat.
“Did you expect to just storm over here, retch out hollow words, and receive my forgiveness after the stunt you pulled?” Edmar turned to the assembly of onlookers, gesticulating feverishly with his hands like a promising future dictator. “Surely some of you in the crowd must have witnessed Remus’ insanity? No?”
The onlookers only whispered under their breaths, not meeting the Damosh lackey square in the eye. None of them actively condoned Remus’ actions per se, but for most of the crowd, a large majority heralding from the Poverty District, anyone willing to throw a fist at a tax-collector was an ally. Not that they would publicly state so, oh gods no, that sort of reckless warmongering was reserved for the positively insane.
Not a glamorous label, but hey, Remus would take anything other than the famed ‘Death-Marked’. The familiar title was beginning to chafe against him, rubbing him dangerously raw.
“Come on!” Edmar cried, circling around the street. “I know for a fact that at least half of you were present.”
The tax-collector's eyes shot to a distinctive face within the crowd. “You! Yes, the one in the blue cloak. By the name of the King, I command you to come forth.”
Slowly, a bearded man stepped before them. He had a bronzed complexion, tight lips, and a certain gleam in his eyes that suggested much irritation. When Edmar looked at him expectantly, he said nothing.
“One of you Sight Sect lot was watching the fight from far off — I know you were! Was it you behind that hovering eyeball?”
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
“Perhaps.” The man replied curtly, glancing occasionally at his previous position in the crowd, evidently itching to remove the spotlight off himself.
Edmar clapped his hands, chuckling. “Good, good! Now tell me; describe the boy behind us. How he attacked me, how he made a mockery of First Rite’s good name.”
He glowered. “Must I?
Edmar nodded insistently.
“Very well then.” He sighed. “There’s not much to detail, you two seemed to argue, an agreement was made to duel in accordance with the Moratorium Pact, and then you two fought.”
“Yes, yes. Carry on now.”
“Carry on?” The Sight Sect member raised an eyebrow. “That’s all there was to it.”
Edmar’s voice suddenly grew a tad tentative. “No it isn’t! You didn’t mention the fight itself, Remus’ unjustified savagery!”
“Oh . . . the fight? I don’t believe Remus managed a single hit in, let alone something remotely ‘savage’. Must have been the angle I was watching from, it is possible my view was obstructed. A lot of birds around, nowadays.”
“You didn’t see him fight back due to his incompetence.” Edmar spat, cheeks getting progressively more ruddy as the talk went on. “Enough of your account, begone!”
Cracking the ghost of a smile — Remus wasn’t sure if he was imagining it or not — the man walked off, his image lost in the bodies of the crowd.
Slowly but surely, the people of Leisure District began to return to past tasks, moving to whatever destination they were headed for, or otherwise minding their own business. The tax-collector watched the crowd around him, open-mouthed, with a few stuttering syllables leaving the wretched confines of his mouth.
“Come on,” Damion muttered to him, leaning in. “That seems to have gone rather well. I must admit, I’m somewhat prou-”
His brother was abruptly cut off, and Remus found himself inches apart from Edmar’s face, his shoulders grasped. He cried out in pain, the crunching grip enough to dislocate both bodily parts. Edmar was only seconds away from having broken the non-combat rules of Divine Ground, though Remus was getting the hunch that the man was well aware of this, but had evidently decided to test his luck.
“You think to humiliate me?” Edmar whispered almost inaudibly into his ears, ignoring the boy’s squirms, as the intoxicating effects of his ire took hold. “Damn Death-Marked, damn Death-Marked . . . I’ll cleave you alive! But if I must obey a higher authority, so be it. Your clan's taxes? You want me to drop the rates? I’ll drain your sect of every Inkling I can until even the Labour District is too good for you. You are nothing. A dead god’s posthumous oversight. If I can’t kill you, I’ll make your life a living misery. Don’t ever dream of leaving these borders, for they'll be no overseeing divinity there to protect you.”
Remus simultaneously felt and heard something pop in his shoulder. The world seemed to be crumbling around him, and the faces of the passing citizens were a distorted blur, the street’s backdrop reduced to a splodge of indistinct colour.
“Let him go!” Damion demanded, rushing forth, and gripping Edmar’s arm. Watching as his brother defended him, Remus saw the teen’s eyes widening, as if registering for the first time just how powerful the average Foot-Soldier like Edmar was.
“You keep holding onto me like that, and I may just get the inclination to toss you into that nearest wall. Shall we see how many bones a casual flick of my wrist can break?”
“You’re ludicrous.” Damion grunted. “Wait until I report this to the counsel during the Descension. Then you’ll have more problems to deal with than just one irrational Death-Marked.”
His vision rearranging into clarity like an insufferably slow jigsaw puzzle, Remus saw Edmar falter, his fuming fires of anger dousing at last. He wanted to punch the man, and likely would have, if not for the blazing aching sensation rendering both his arms utterly numb.
Taxes increased . . . drain the sect of every Inkling, Edmar’s repulsive promises eradicated every logical thought within him. Remus’ life was reduced to a pinpointed moment; he solely existed to enact his fury at this fiend, to cleanse the Mortal Realms of the pests invading it — and the leader of their hive, always so distant, yet nevertheless spoiling his life at every turn, Damosh.
“Take him away.” Edmar yielded, noticing the stern pairs of eyes shooting lasers into his back. “But in a few Passings’ time, when your clan is on its last legs, remember who's to blame. Remember well.”
With that, Edmar dropped Remus, who lay gasping for air on the street floor, hoping beyond hope that he would be the one to dig the tax collector's grave.
----------------------------------------
“He’ll be fine.” Saige exhaled wearily, looking over Remus. “I’d say lay off the heavy lifting for the rest of the day, but Edmar was careful not to cause any real damage.”
“So to avoid attracting the attention of the gods.” Briella finished, voice testy. “This isn’t right. That was a clear, unagreed-to fight between an unconsenting party. We need to report this.”
In their private chambers, Damion gritted his teeth, his back to the rest of the family. “To who? The Wealth Sect? To Damosh? Do you think our King cares? His own men, true and loyal, did this!”
Consoling his son, Aiden’s meaty hand patted Damion. “You’re right in that regard, but there are more people than just the Ruling District we can report to. The Descension is almost upon us, complaints like these are exactly what the people rivalling even Damosh’s power are after to land a blow into First Rite’s reputation.”
The words washed over Remus. Here he was again, in these crumpled sheets; encased by this imprisoning room, filled with people distressing for him. Deja Vu didn’t cut it — this endless loop of failing miserably, awakening here, and heading off to trigger the next mistake had no end. And this time, he had done everything right. Yet still, fate had to ensnare him with its unsympathetic misery. It had long since bound him to this ruthless cycle, and any disposition to leave was as hopeless as a child’s pipe dream.
“I’m only now starting to gain the respect of First Rite.” Remus spoke up. “I do not intend to stab them in the back by giving the other kingdoms a chance to one-up us, be it a small advantage or not. Most of them only hold a base here because it's the expected thing to do for the largest city throughout the Mortal Realms. Any chance to usurp the capital will be taken in a second.”
Contrary to the current mood, Saige rolled her head back and laughed. “One complaint isn’t going to give Hybrid, Hell’s Floor, or any other city the leeway needed to achieve number one city status. And besides, I thought any blow to Damosh, regardless of the consequences, was a win to you.”
Remus scoffed. “Why would you think that? I don’t just despise Damosh for the sake of it. I dislike him, most definitely — and that alone is an understatement — but I hate the Ichor that runs through his ashy heart because of the things he inflicts on the people dearest to me.” The words felt lame on his own lips, but Remus persevered. “And yes Saige, I may have been carried away there, but still, First Rite isn’t to blame for all this, Damosh is. I wouldn’t want to put dirt on my home’s name, even if it's but a speck.”
There was a moment devoid of all sound, where all four of them took a breath, and paused.
“I’m starting to think more and more that Remus was on to something when he took a swing at Edmar.” Damion was the first to interrupt the silence. “You know what? I may just have a go at him myself.”
He rose up, only for both Remus and Aiden to hold him in place — Aiden taking the bulk of his weight. Saige and Briella went to join them in restricting his brother, but Damion’s arms quickly slackened.
“I wasn’t going to actually do anything, don’t concern yourselves anymore than needed.” He said softly. “But I will still be heading out; I just need a walk to cool off. Don’t follow me, I’ll be fine. I promise.”
They let him go, the silence returning, though more deafening than ever. One by one, the rest of Remus’ relatives left with a few passing remarks, leaving only a tongue-tied Saige left to complete her final day of work. An endless stream of nonsensical thoughts drowned out Remus' mind, as if blocking a plughole. If it lingered for as much as another second here, he was sure to go mad.
“May I leave?” He asked Saige, who was busy packing up her supplies.
“Yes, some fresh air might do you some good actually. But be relaxed about it, you don't need any extra stress.”
“The last few minutes of your commissioned work, and you're still a worrywart at heart.” Remus commented, smiling appreciatively.
The medic turned away from her luggage. “I haven’t fulfilled my part of the deal until I’ve completed every paid second of your treatment.”
“That’s . . . commendable. Though, I guess now I can be as irresponsible as I desire, without your watchful eye guarding over me.”
“Oh, don’t you jest.” Saige groaned. “That’s exactly what’s worrying me the most.”
Soon, after exchanging a few parting words with Saige, Remus went about strolling through the Carpentry Sect’s manor. Ignoring the curious looks shot by both his elders and juniors alike, the homely scent of wood mulch infiltrating his nostrils, the day’s events wearied his mind. Remus had thought keeping on his feet would keep the nauseating thoughts at bay, but even that was evidently a fruitless hope. His brain was a cog that hadn’t felt the sweet release of oil in aeons, and he was looking for something — anything — to set his mind back into motion again. To be relieved of this perpetual state of paralysed disarray.
That was when he heard it. Murmured words; muttered, broken sentences practically seeking an eavesdropper. They sounded as if birthed from rock and magma, only escaping from their cavernous confines at the centre of the earth to now be translated into the human tongue. Remus only knew one person with a voice so flinty. Andreas. But that was not all. There were also two other voices, the two he had heard more than any other throughout his life, and were the first to rebound against his newborn eardrums when the blinding light of life had first graced him with all its raging chaos.
Creeping just as he did all those years ago, though this time, to the sect’s meeting room, Remus was stumped to find Arlen guarding the room’s door. The man was so proficient at his post apparently, that he could accomplish the job at an astonishingly high standard, while in a state of unconsciousness. Remus tiptoed up to the man, urgently muffled the sound of his frantic giggles, and patted his sleeping shoulder haphazardly. A spot of luck in a Passing drowning in misfortune. A strip of light streaked through a door an inch ajar, and carefully, Remus hunched down by it — listening in to his mother, father, great grandfather, and a table crowded with sect representatives.
Their voices were tense, and Remus could only catch bits and pieces.
“. . . I just don’t know how we can . . . taxes . . . especially after Edmar . . .” Aiden’s distinct voice was laced with worry.
“We’ll have to, somehow.” Briella responded clearly, mere feet away from the door. “Exactly how, I don’t know. That’s what we have to work out.”
Remus caught sight of his mother turning to a towering Andreas, whose arms, one of them bandaged, were crossed.
“Do you think it's worth complaining at the Descension?” Briella asked, and, bewilderingly, the Warlord actually shifted uncomfortably.
“. . . wouldn’t advise it . . . wouldn’t do . . . good . . .”
More voices, originating from the table.
“Complain to Damosh himself?”
“No.” Someone seated opposite cut him off. “Don’t . . . ridiculous.”
“Then . . . to do?”
The conversation hit an impasse before it could get anywhere, and even with the bits and pieces he had to wrap his head around the situation, Remus knew it to be severe from the room’s tentative air alone. As it were, it was only one bad comment away from crumbling upon itself. Eyes turned expectantly to Andreas, like children scrambling for advice from the nearest adult.
“Before we discuss matters further . . . something you should know.”
Putting his palm to his mouth, Remus watched as his grandfather unwrapped his arm. The man’s face was solemn, devoid of any hint of a smile. Aghast cries shot up across the room, and Remus had to force himself to look.
Along Andreas’ arm, the man’s skin was attributed with a sickly grey, every vein prominent in the most unhealthy of fashions. The flesh was withered and distorted, crawling its way up from the top of his shoulder to the fingertips of his left hand, which appeared to be on the verge of sliding off.
As Remus felt his last meal rising up his oesophagus, Briella was the first to speak. The words sounded pierced with razors, tremulous and painful to speak.
“What happened?”
Remus was leaning in alarmingly close, but he didn’t care. He would catch every word if it was the death of him.
“It happened a few Passings ago, in the Silver Cavities — a network of mines choking with Supreme Steel under the frontlines. As you know, the resource is the highest concentration of Infinity that can be found within the Human Realms, aside from the gods themselves. An Unbounded wandered in one day . . . and devoured everything. The Supreme Fiend was born at that moment, a golem the equivalent of a God-Graced rank, and vastly stronger than even I.”
“The Supreme Fiend?” Aiden repeated, holding himself together as best he could. “I’ve heard old men’s tales, but I thought-”
“It to be a myth?” Andreas inferred. “I wish. We’ve been trying to slay it for centuries, but whenever we manage to commission someone of equal Rank to dispose of the Unbounded — an agonising task, I must assure you — he delves so deep into the Cavities that it would be suicidal to venture after him.”
“So they threw you at it in their stead.” A man upon the table slammed his first, eliciting a quake from the desk. “Cowardice!”
“You’re not precisely right, but neither fully wrong.” Andreas attempted to console him. “We arranged a team of Warlords, me and two others. We delved into the Cavities and . . .”
“And?” Aiden urged.
“We faced vast repercussions for that decision. One died, and the rest of us . . . “ A cruel laugh choked the man up. “Were infected with this. Supreme Rot. More Infinity than we could handle is slowly working its way through our abused bodies from the points of contact. Crippling us from the inside out.”
Benumbed, Remus was detached from the wider world around him. If even a titan like Andreas could be hindered so drastically, what hope did he have as a Death-Marked? Like watching a fire blazing its way through a city, he couldn’t take his eyes off, and the next words were enough to crush him like the fist of a god.
“Is there a cure?” Briella inquired hastily. “Is it lethal?”
The Warlord’s false smile vanished from existence. “The other contaminated Warlord received the brunt of the Unbounded’s barrage. The infected areas quickly lost their utility. Once they reached his brain . . . well, I think you can imagine. I’ve already lost feeling in my arm, and my shoulder is up next.”
“How long until that happens?”
Andreas couldn’t meet his granddaughter in the eyes. “I didn’t only return to the sect for the Descension only. If I wish to delay the rot’s effect as long as possible, I’ll need constant treatment. That’s why I’ve returned. The Vitality Sect will be overseeing me.”
“You’re not answering the question.” Briella accused. “You’re dodging it.”
“I . . .” Andreas struggled. “The Carpentry Sect has as long as one year, and then a new sect leader, I’m afraid, will have to be found.”