“This should be enough,” the clansman dropped a bag of Tyrants into Violet’s open palm. “Thank you for your service.”
Violet nodded, frowned at the light contents of the bundle, and forced herself through a polite farewell. Yet again, she was being cut short.
A few Durations had come and gone, and whilst Violet may have crossed a considerable distance in that time, she hadn’t warmed up to the endless deserts of the Ravaged Lands. Not at all.
In the first drizzle of rain she’d experienced throughout her travels in this wasteland of a city, Violet did her best to ignore the moisture slapping against her cloak. Descending a few creaky stairs, and ignoring the abundant laughter of drunkards keeping the night alive, she opened up the bag.
After thorough inspection, she came to the careful conclusion that the Tyrants were indeed real. This was a village under the rule of the Trickey Clan, and it wouldn’t be the first time she’d been put under a hallucination. Imagine Violet’s surprise after breaking her back in the kitchens all day, only to realise she’d been paid in pebbles. Violet had returned to that establishment to share a piece of her mind, of course, in a raging blaze of purple. Turns out chefs weren’t the best of fighters.
The only reason she’d been staying in this rural hamlet in the first place was because of what lay ahead. They were on the very outskirts of Hell’s Floor now — the worst battlefield this planet had ever seen, save for the hellhole that was, and always will be, the front lines. Approaching before they were fully committed to the idea would be a disaster. Plus, her opinions on the quaint village put to the wayside, Violet had unfinished business here.
Remus was in another outpost closer to the shores of Descent. Looking for a means to West Ember, by the sounds of it, and had secured a promising string of jobs repairing the broken furniture of the locals. Seeing how the place was an offshooting vassal of the Fury Clan, Violet could see the root of the problem clearly. Nevertheless, work was work, and she wasn’t going to sabotage their earnings. Least of all by recommending anger management classes to the townsfolk
Materialising outside the largest building in the village by far, Violet had to look up to admire the true size of the place. It was a manor alright, fitted with towering windows cutting into ageing mahogany. Red carpets, chandeliers, and all the fancy miscellany the most vain of people could desire. This she saw, and a few masked individuals crossing the corridors. One veiled soul saw her, eyes filling with irritation as they recognised her as an outsider. Curtains were briskly drawn, cutting her view short.
How welcoming, Violet snarled.
Nevertheless, she understood the need to keep oneself masked by shadow. Strolling up to the front, double doors, Violet rapped her knuckles on the entrance. A slit of stone was moved out the way, and two beady eyes met hers.
“State your business.” A woman’s voice commanded.
“I want to utilise your area of expertise. I’m willing to pay the fee.” She jangled the bag for emphasis. “This is the Clan of Two doors, correct?”
The moniker was another name for the Trickery Clan. The reason for which was about to be reinforced for Violet.
The slit was closed without a word, and Violet was left twiddling her thumbs for a few dragging minutes. Finally, right as she was beginning to suspect she was being stood up, the door opened. A hand snatched her in, and Violet barely caught herself as the doors closed with a deafening clang.
The individual didn’t bother taking off her mask. It was plain, with the words truth and fallacy inscribed to the side of both eyes. Grasping Violet’s arm once again, she pulled her closer, placing a familiar, white dot on the extended limb. Violet almost didn’t recognise the contraption for a second. It was a Progress Calibrator; the same device the Flame Sect trainees had been using. A tiny pang from the device sent her arm flinching.
“It's a little faulty.” The woman spoke, not apologising for any of her brash behaviour. “But it’ll shine up to challenge a star’s light if you so much as activate your Mark.”
Violet got the message. “Wasn’t planning to. I’m here to conduct business, not start a brawl.”
For some reason, despite the mask, Violet got the impression the woman was smiling at that. “Come with me and keep quiet. I’ll find us a quiet booth to discuss business in.”
Violet followed the woman, staring daggers into her back. Besides from literal deranged murderers, and inhuman beasts birthed into this universe solely to eradicate humanity, she couldn’t recall a person she hated so intensely. First impressions were important after all. And her escort obviously spared no effort in making hers a good one
The other clansmen paid her no mind, as if seeing nothing but the wall behind her as Violet passed by. Suffice to say, this was not what Violet had been expecting when she heard the term ‘’Trickery’ Sect. Maybe a circus with red-nosed clowns mulling about would have been too on the nose, but nevertheless, Violet was bummed out by the lack of practical jokes. Not even a banana peel to pretend not to notice.
Finally, she let herself be dragged into a smaller chamber, offshotting from a hallway seemingly brimming with similar rooms. A red, cushioned stretch of seating lined the walls, and taking a seat, Violet examined the room. It was sound-proofed, based on the solid appearance of the walls, and a standard, but large table sat ahead of her.
The veiled woman sat opposite, with the velvet cushioning forming a ‘U’ shape. It reminded her, eerily, of the hut she and Remus had discovered not long ago in the trenches. There was a forced silence from the woman. Right as things grew too awkward to bear, she spoke.
She really loves playing with her guests, doesn’t she?
“Based on what you said earlier, I presume you know how things work here.”
As if conjured out of nowhere, a stack of paper was placed onto the table. “Here are our terms and conditions. I want you to carefully read through, and form an Oath with me. Promising that you fully agree, and will not approach the Clan of Two Doors with an itch for vengeance — should things turn sour.”
She pushed the contract towards Violet. Even though Violet already had an extensive knowledge on just how the Trickery Sect operated, she read through the contents, slowly, and with care. Then she read it a second time, though perused slightly.
One line struck her. Information, whether true or false, may take time to gather. Especially if exceedingly valuable.
Violet lifted her head. “How long would it take you to collect information on the Chaos Clan? Namely, their base in Hell’s Floor — who is stationed there right now, a map of the manor’s standard structure, defences, et cetera.”
Something in the woman’s voice approached mockery. “Planning a siege, are you?”
“What’s it to you?” Violet snapped back, too vexed to be nice.
“You’re right, none of my business if you want to get yourself killed.” Violet was one second away from setting off alarms at that comment. “I’m not willing to say too many details until you’ve agreed to the Oath, but likely, no wait at all. Let’s just say, my sect has paid personal interest into the Chaos Clan for a while now.”
With Nova’s growing influence, the reason behind that was obvious. All sects within the ‘alliance’ of the Anarchy Syndicate would be jumping at the chance to overtake the upstart clan.
With a sigh, Violet decided to bite the bullet. “Okay, fine. Let’s do it.”
Violet handed over the funds, and a little extra so her own information wouldn't be up for sale. Who knew how many enemies she was to gain if her true identity was revealed, and a little precaution in exchange for a tad more ease of sleep was well worth it.
At last, the woman spoke. “As a rightful Ambassador of the Clan of Two Doors, I see to it that you will agree to everything stated within the pages of the contract I have set forth.”
Inhaling, Violet tensed. A strange, mystical air infested the space between them. “I, Violet, the rightful ambassador of the Chaos Clan, accept this Oath and all of its intricacies.”
Violet couldn’t tell who was more surprised, the clanswoman, or her.
So the universe does recognise me by that name . . .
Oaths, and divine agreements to duel both operated through the collective divine force of the gods. The orderly nature of the energy saw to it that all arrangements were fair, largely without loopholes, without being purposefully planted into the Oath itself, by one of the parties, or by stark negligence. Whilst gods’ could look into any Oaths or duels being made, there were far too many of them at any given time, and other matters to preoccupy the beings. They wouldn’t catch something as unimportant as a deal made with Foot-Soldiers at most. Or at least the woman before Violet didn’t strike her as much more powerful than herself, if at all..
But if she was recognised by a human name, and not whatever her Unbounded past-self was called . . . that, with the fact her Mark still functioned . . .
A thud from two hands slamming down on the table caught Violet off guard. “A Chaos Clan member going against their own! If you weren't paying us so handsomely, I might have even been tempted to offer you this information for free. You know, just to stir the pot.”
Violet cocked an eyebrow at the sudden change in demeanour. “The opportunity is still available, if you want to return those Tyrants.”
The woman laughed, as if Violet had just said something completely ridiculous. “No, no. So what exactly is it you're pulling here? Some sort of civil war?”
Opening her mouth to speak, Violet found she couldn’t utter a word.
“Oh right,” the masked clanswoman sounded disappointed. “The Oath. I forgot you’re not allowed to reveal what you’re going to do with the information. Helps us to narrowly avoid any proper conflict with any clans hurt by the info we offer. Nevertheless, you intrigue me Violet. And guesses aren't too hard to make.”
“Enough small talk. Where is the information I paid for?”
“We regularly send oracles to examine the opposing clans in the Anarchy Syndicate. I can’t confirm how accurate it is, but I’ll get it to you in a moment.”
Violet watched silently as the woman headed away from the chamber, and then exhaled. Unveiling her arm out of a rift she had created, sparks flew from the mangled Calibrator. Soil sifted through her fingertips, the result of transporting her arm metres underground. She looked at the destroyed contraption in dismay.
Unbounded detected. It read, before guttering out in a perpetual blackness.
Destroying the device had been the cost of muffling the sounds of its alarm. Violet silently thanked her prior self for putting on a cloak this morning, for otherwise, she wouldn’t have been able to disguise the missing limb under a mass of cloth. Hiding a glowing vortex under a table was difficult too, especially when agreeing to an Oath simultaneously.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Nevertheless, she had managed it, but the implications of what the Calibrator had recognised troubled her.
So divine energy recognised her as the human Violet, but this complex piece of machinery — the most complex Violet had ever seen — saw her as an Unbounded. What kind of a middle-ground was that? It was beyond frustrating. Every recent clue she had gathered seemed to contradict the last, all unifying in a nonsensical mess that led her nowhere. And how was she going to explain the broken Calibrator? Looking back and forth, Violet finally mustered up the courage to open up yet another rift.
Tossing the fractured disc inside the magenta portal, Violet half expected a gang of clansmen to leap on her, blades drawn. They never did, and the broken article was disposed of efficiently. Reappearing in a random patch of dirt deep underground. Alas, she had no way to explain herself if the clanswoman questioned her, or if she sensed the energy her active Mark was omitting. It was a dangerous game to play.
Before she could think up some kind of feasible explanation, especially one that wouldn’t trigger a brawl, the woman returned. She slid a file across the table. Immediately, Violet opened it, scrutinising its contents like a ravenous beast acquiring food for the first time in Durations. This was where things turned difficult.
The Clan of Two Doors is widely known as one of the, if not the best, source of gaining difficult to come across information. Throughout several points in history, the tide of battle has altered drastically in favour of any clan successfully cooperating with the clan. However success was one of two pathways: reality, and fallacy.
When the clansmen cultivated information through their Marks, it was a miraculous, but long-winded process. And then there was a fifty-fifty chance the information wouldn’t be accurate at all. But Violet was willing to take her chances. It wasn’t like she had any other source of leaked info at the ready.
“Everything looks reasonable . . . the layout will be mostly useless, with the manor constantly altering, but everything else . . .”
Violet shivered at two listed occupants. The Pet-Keeper, and his monstrous companion, Daisy. However, the pressure lifted from her heart at the writing near it. Yet, both were recently seen in Hybrid. Low probability.
“Why the glum face?” The woman asked. “You can tell me, if it doesn't reveal any of your own plans. The Oath isn’t too restrictive.”
“There are some familiar faces around there, powerful people.” Violet said carefully. “But most clansmen are busy on errands.”
Violet was beginning to read the contents with growing dread. If the Trickery Clan did extensive research on the Chaos Sect as they stated to, wouldn’t their divine insight reveal their Unbounded status? She glanced at the masked woman sceptically. Or perhaps, that was proof this was all false information . . .
Mysteries within mysteries. Violet gritted her teeth, clenching her fists to stop them from shaking.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” she said, abruptly getting up, “I’m afraid your Calibrator malfunctioned.”
She slung another pouch of Tyrants onto the desk, documents bundled up under her arm. “Hopefully this will cover it.”
Before the woman could respond, purple engulfed the room, and Violet was nowhere to be seen.
----------------------------------------
Remus swung his legs over the end of a jetty extending out from the shore, counting five Tyrants in his palm. The kite-shaped articles were oddly translucent in shade from certain angles, but from others, as opaque as snow.
He had come to know, over the last few Durations of hopping from outpost to outpost, doing all sorts of odd jobs, that these equated to twenty Tyrants each. The highest value they could come in.
It was also, despite his days full of nothing but drudgery, not nearly enough to cross this accursed ocean. Remus poised his arm to toss the trinkets into the gentle waters, before forcing his arm down. Wasting the little money he did have was beyond stupid, no matter how gratifying it might feel in the moment. His new shoes dangled a few feet above the crashing waves. They were second-hand, likely wouldn't see the end of the Rebirth, but it was all Remus was willing to spend. Upon enquiring with the local fishermen, he’d been informed that a trip to West Ember and back would cost every last Tyrant he had gathered, and more. Apparently the waters were perilous, and no sailor would be persuaded without a hefty handful of coinage involved.
Fighting off the urge to kick the waters like a stubborn child, Remus swallowed back a curse. “The Ambition Clan are under constant subjugation, and I’m here failing to arrange a boat.”
There was no time. This plan had been flawed from the offset. Remus had no option but to watch his hopes slowly crash and burn, every clan he was a part of destined for devestation. Remus closed his eyes, trying to focus on his breathing.
There’ll be a way. He told himself. There always is.
“Am I interrupting?” A voice spoke.
Scrambling back, Remus activated his Mark, jumping to a stand. “Who are you?” He asked, and upon swivelling round to no avail: “where are you?”
A sloshing sound from beneath the jetty grasped his attention. “Down here Remus! Come over, you have nothing to fear.”
Real convincing, he inwardly scoffed, a sense of aquatic power washing over him. Whoever was here, they were generously placed in the Divine Ranks. With undisguised reluctance, Remus peered down.
A humanoid mass of water looked up at him, transparent features smiley wryly. Her form was only visible up from the shoulders, which were plated with decorative strands of seaweed. The rest was fully submerged, with no shape more defined than the liquid she basked in. She looked innocent enough, but the same could be said about the most seductive of predators. And plus, her identity terrified Remus.
“Maris,” he recognised the God-Graced of the Water Sect instantly, “to what do I owe the honour?”
Remus kneeled. Sure, maybe a little extreme, but his mind was going a hundred miles an hour. Was she here to arrest him; to finally cleanse Descent of one more criminal? He couldn’t see any other reason why someone with as much influence as Maris would speak to him. Especially out of the blue like this. Quite literally.
As if having read his mind, she suited a placating smile, and repeated herself. “Do not fear. I’m not here to personally arrest you. You’re not worthy of that treatment yet, no offence.”
“None taken.”
“And, as improper as it is for me to admit this, observing your antics from afar has amused me greatly. Any irritant to Juniper is a source of laughter for me, and a constant thorn in her side? Even better.”
Swallowing, Remus was taken aback by that. Any more startling surprises, and he would topple over this pier. Presumably, through Perpetual Sight, Maris had been watching his misadventures. The thought caused him to cringe. So many mistakes. Plus, if she was privy to some secrets . . . no, you would need much more extensive knowledge on him and Violet than the occasional glance, to comprehend everything that was occurring. Maris likely thought Violet was simply an angsty teen going against her father. There was no reason to suspect she knew better.
The next thing he recalled struck Remus like a disciplinary slap across the face. According to the cycle of Hybrid’s monarchs, going anti-clockwise through the territories, Territory Four’s most prominent sect would be taking the crown.
And there was a very good chance Maris would be sitting on the Silver Throne. As of this moment, Remus might have been conversing with the next Queen of Hybrid.
“I’m glad to have pleased you, Maris. How exactly may I assist you?”
The God-Graced beamed, all her shiny whites glittering, as if in a dental hygiene advertisement. They were far too reminiscent to the open jaws of a shark for Remus’ liking. Being the only physical part of her made it all the more unnerving. Likely, this had to do with her God-Graced abilities. He wasn’t completely knowledgeable on the topic, but something called soul-scribing was involved. Remus would have to read up on that later.
“Up for a story?” She asked, still grinning eerily. “Or, more realistically, a long-winded, but entertaining tangent?”
Remus shrugged. It wasn’t like he could deny a God-Graced. Not in his right mind, anyhow. “I’m all ears.”
Despite how out in the open this place was, unless they had an eagle’s sight, none of the villagers would be able to spot Maris. Remus might appear a little strange, talking to what would look like a mini-whirlpool, but he couldn’t care less what the Fury Sect thought of him personally. Leaning in closer, Remus paid rapt attention as Maris cleared her throat.
“Territory Four has been strife with inter-sect conflict for centuries now. The Frost, Aquatic, and, yours truly, the Water Sect, have waged a constant power struggle for as far as any history book bothers to remember. And now, with the clan’s turn to inherit the crown creeping closer and closer, battles have turned downright barbaric. Even for our standards.”
True, that all sounded horrific, but Remus wasn’t following. “I can sympathise with your struggle . . . but what exactly does this have to do with me? I’m only Enkindled, remember. I don’t really have the power — nor the right, really — to do anything about it.”
“Yes, yes, I’m getting to that,” Remus felt trepidation course through his system at those stern words, but Maris continued without strangling him underwater. Thankfully. “The Water Sect has always prevailed in the three-way war, for the most part, our area of power being the most easy to generalise. The Aquatic Clan manipulates undersea creatures, the Frost Clan is self-explanatory, but Water is just water. You’ll find that the stronger the sect, the more broad their divine subject.”
Remus would have checked his watch if he had one.
“And yet, with our rise to power becoming more certain as we deliver the final push for the throne, we find both clans have temporarily unified for a fierce push black. Abominations of Aquatic life rush for our bases, and a town of ice aims their weaponised icicles our way. My forces have been able to fend them off, but I’m forced to think — how long? How long until the sheer force of numbers gets the better of us?”
Maris exhaled, light ripples generated by her every move. Then she opened one eyelid, a demonic eye winking at Remus. “This is where you, my favourite pyromaniac, come in handy.”
“Look,” Remus couldn’t bear to keep this up any longer. “I don’t want any trouble. I have enough excitement in my life as it is.”
The God-Graced pouted. “Come on . . . you haven’t even heard my proposal yet. You’ll have an ally in my sect, instead of burning bridges for once. And, most importantly, I can help you out with your little predicament.”
Remus’ neck shot towards her so fast it popped. How did she know? And if she was aware of his qualms, could Maris actually help him out? Maybe for a God-Graced, such petty inconveniences as transport became non-existent.
“I’ve seen you staring at these boats all day, everyday since you’ve arrived here. Apart from when you’re working, I assume, for a chance to buy one.”
“Very attentive of you.” He replied, not liking the manipulative direction this was all taking.
Maris clanged her teeth, the very same ivory spears worthy of a white shark. “You’d be surprised at how destructive fire can be for certain sects. It’s destroyed on sight if even a spark appears in Territory Four, and the Flame Clan is prohibited from trespassing. With force. So you can imagine why no fiery incidents have occurred for quite some time now.”
Remus struggled to stand his ground as the shore splashed madly, seemingly intune to the woman’s excitable mood.
Not wanting to cause a scene, and interest piqued, Remus let his guard loosen a little. “Fine, what is it? What’s this grand scheme that I’m a vital piece of?”
If Maris was offended, she didn’t show it. “If I secretly transport you to the Frost Clan’s town of ice, you could send the glaciers melting with as little as a touch of fire. Well okay, obvious exaggeration, but still. The damage a little heat could cause, from a man with no powerful clan behind him to muddle things up . . . it’s the perfect, artificial disaster. And you’ll be out of there before any of the clansmen knew what was happening.”
She spread her hands, clearly pleased with herself for that masterful piece of persuasion. “So, what do you say? Wherever you wish to go, I can take you there and back with as little as a click of the finger. Anywhere else your heart may desire too! It’s a win-win for the both of us.”
Remus wasn’t convinced. “Why me? Why hire an Enkindled when you could probably pay some Flame Sect clansman to get the job done for you?”
Maris gave him a disgruntled look. “First off, that’s terribly boring. Secondly, the Flame Sect is in a spot of trouble right now, using up all their forces. Not to mention the fact everyone in Territory Four has the scent of Ashbel’s Mark memorised. Or, more accurately, the feeling of the energy it transmits. Every sect would obliterate them the second they activated their Mark; it isn’t just Frost in our territory with a phobia for fire. But you? Ambition? Far more obscure. Hardly anyone will notice.”
Aside from that first point, all good reasoning. It killed Remus to lose a possible friendship with a possible monarch, but he saw no other option. “I’m sorry; I just can’t. This deal has been very generous, and I'm eternally grateful for it, but I have enough enemies holding a knife to my back as it is. Attacking a sect when they have done nothing to personally begrudge me simply doesn’t sit right.”
Maris said nought for an awkward pause, both literally and figuratively downcast. Then, out of nowhere, shot him a cheery grin. It was so forcefully upbeat it tasted sour merely to look at.
“Well. The offer is still on the table. This was only one plan I had in mind, of course. Always smart to keep yourself open to several avenues of action.”
The God-Graced’s form began to sway rapidly, as if tectonic plates were struggling directly below her.
“Just remember Remus: every pool, you see, every drizzle of rain, each tankard drowning with liquor — any drab of water at all — are my eyes. If you have second thoughts, you need but call. I’ll be waiting. ”
With that chilling note, Maris dispersed in a tsunami’s worth of water. Dropped to the jetty’s boards, Remus tasted nothing but salt water, was sent flying by the liquid’s crusade, and choked as he came to a clumsy stand at last. Spitting out what felt like an entire ocean, ignoring how flimsy the pier now felt beneath his feet, Remus pulled a strip of seaweed from his soaked hair.
Oh come on. Now that’s petty.