Andreas crossed his arms.
He was seated within a tent, the colour of ageing oranges, in a rickety chair. His feet hung beneath him as dead weight, but he didn’t let the woes of injury sour his mood.
For Andreas was smiling more than he ever had.
Through the tent’s opening, it was a beautiful day. The blazing sun, a permanent fixture in the sky this deep into Summer, hurt the eyes slightly if one raised their head too much. The brisk energy of a busy day suffused the atmosphere, wonderfully reminiscent of the bustling movement of Leisure District. Carpentry clansmen carried great planks of oak, pushed crates stuffed with cobblestone, and all around smiled at the lustre of good, honest work.
After the last six Passings, they’d needed the opportunity dearly. And what stranger source could there be for this latest commission, than an obscure, rural clan smack-bang in the centre of Hybrid? Journeying through the Shifting had been a cumbersome process, sure enough, but Andreas supposed his people would willingly trek to hell and back, for all the real help this task was doing them.
Andreas couldn’t stop beaming. Even as he broke out into a coughing fit, a toothy grin persisted.
His granddaughter, Briella, and his assigned Vitality Sect nurse, Saige, were at his side in seconds. It took him a few reassuring gesticulations, until they were confident he was okay.
“Don’t you fuss.” He laid back in his chair. “Be happy! Rejoice! We’re earning profits. Profits to keep us afloat for the time being.”
Briella smiled, but Andreas could tell it was half-forced. It must have been hard for her to see him like this. When they’d shared a carriage together, hired from the Speed Sect, even then he had spotted the tears rolling down her cheek. Her eyes would flicker towards his immobile legs, bandaged and victim to Rot, and he would pretend not to have noticed. But each time he saw the pity expanding through the gateways of her eyes, his smile grew just a little harder to maintain.
Andrea’s nurse laid a hand on his broad shoulder. “That’s the spirit. Keep staying positive. Stress may accelerate the process. But you have time. The least you should do is enjoy it.”
He wasn't afraid of death. At over one-hundred-and-seventy, Andreas couldn’t complain. When it was time to go, it was time to go. Still, the prospect of one’s mortality was enough to sober up anybody. It took his grandchild's words to boot him back to a cheerful state of mind.
“I should go.” Andreas sensed divine energy rush off her, as Briella activated her Mark. “It’s not fair for Aiden and Damion-” She caught herself. “Force of habit. It's not fair for Aiden to work while I rest easy here. I’ll be back in a few hours, okay?”
Andreas nodded. “Don’t worry. Take as long as you need.”
For a long time, all was quiet. Saige read her book in the corner, running various tests on him once in a while, as Andreas simply let his own thoughts entertain him.
Finally, the nurse spoke up. “How is Damion, by the way?”
“Very well, from the last time I checked. The front lines are treating him well. Or, as well as they can.” He cackled, a string of memories of his own decades spent there resurfacing. He debated whether to let Saige in on a little piece of information. Of course, leaking your own plans to competing clans was never wise. But, after caring for him, helping to prolong his life through Durations of careful work, she had done more than enough to earn that right.
“You know, I don’t give out info like this to just about anyone, but for Damion to have achieved Foot-Soldier through the exact methods I had as a youth . . . I wonder if we could do the same with some of the younger clansmen.”
Saige cocked an eyebrow. “You mean using your Mark in that strange way you do, fighting like a mad man with a toolbox?”
Andreas bounced up in a fit of laughter. So hard, a spike of pain surged through him. After she rightfully chided him, Andreas continued.
“The front lines offer a lot of money. Now, I’m not a monetary man, but we’re talking about my clan's survival. If even a third of our youngsters were able to join Damion down there . . . we could have enough Inklings to rest easy. Maybe extend ourselves to a few other locations. After all, we all end up travelling to complete odd jobs like this, don’t we? We’d be far more efficient if spread out.”
Saige, nodded, opened her mouth, right as a burly man blocked out the sun’s rays. Andreas turned to the sect leader, grinning. Finally, a man with a few years on him.
Truth be told, if Andreas hadn’t opted to cut off all his hair, he’d be as grey as Brison. But the look fitted the Warlord, who was a tad older than himself. One of the few people Andreas knew to rival his age.
“I hope you’re faring well, Andreas.” Brison spoke. “Your people are really outdoing themselves. I cannot thank you enough.”
“No, I must thank you for this opportunity.” Andreas wasn’t trying to butter up the man. He truly meant each and every word. “Times have been hard, but this has all been a massive help.”
“No, no.” Brison shook his hand to the side gently. “You should be thanking yourselves. After all, it was one of your own that recommended your aid. He had quite the convincing sales pitch.”
Saige and he suddenly paused. A notion occurred to Andreas, but it was too extreme; too unlikely. “Who? I don’t recall any of our own travelling this far out.”
“One of your boys came here in search of our god’s Mark. Your own blood, I believe. Does Remus ring a bell?”
Andreas said nothing. Everyone in the tent simply stared at each other. Expressions so blank as to be comical. Humour drowning out the pain, Andreas slapped his knee, clutching himself, features scrunched.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
The poor Warlord at the tent’s flap harrumphed awkwardly. “Is everything okay Andreas? I understand you may take offence in your own great grandson pledging his allegiance to my clan, but I’m sure we can make things-”
“Oh, Remus!” Saige rushed to him, but Andreas spluttered out words through a throat hoarse from laughter. “Of course, of course! Has your Mark, you say? Good for him! Tell me, has he reached Enkindled — Emblazed? What abilities does he have? Hell, what is he up to? I don’t suppose Remus is hiding out here, or maybe he’s . . .”
The sound of his rambles resounded out of the tent, blaring through the entirety of the razzed clan.
Even mentally, Andreas prattled. What a funny thing fate is.
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“Kill him.”
Tushar struggled to settle his breathing. Staring at the portrait, it was hard to tell if he recognised the boy. They were young, late to mid teens, with dark ginger hair and a plain, unimpressive look.
He’d had to fork out quite the pretty penny to have this delivered from the Matter Clan. Photographs were expensive, but Tashar was more than willing to pay the needed sum. Especially if it meant wiping the saboteur, and anyone associated with him, off the map.
Being forced to push back from the front lines between his clan and Maris, was the greatest shame yet in his tenure as sect leader. The dark void on his otherwise perfect record. Something so disgraceful couldn’t go unpunished.
“And you’re sure it's him?” He raised his head to Lumi. She was a reliable girl, and, after the disaster, had quickly proved herself as a fast-thinker. He’d prompted her to adviser almost without thinking.
“There have been reports of a man matching the description of his blue flames, rushing through the woodlands between Hybrid and the Ravaged Lands. Juniper confirmed their identity.”
Tushar nodded. That made sense; Juniper, after all, was the natural enemy to Maris. She was sure to do anything within her power to assist them. Still, a comradery based on a shared enemy was a fickle one. Once Maris was out of the picture, if things ever progressed that far, the God-Graced wouldn’t hesitate to turn her armies towards him. It wouldn’t be wise to lean all in on the woman’s support. Owing a God-Graced a favour, regardless of who, was never a good idea.
“Here’s a report on all we know of the perpetrator. He’s an Emblazed, or so we think, heralding from the Carpentry Clan, but currently residing with the Ambition Sect to escape his status as Death-Marked.”
“Hmm.” Tushar perused the tiny text. “Quite the criminal repertoire he’s developing. Why is it always the seeds with the most promise that turn sour?”
“Why indeed.”
Inside their quaint chamber — a far cry from his great, spacious abode within the sunken glacier — the following silence seemed to have an echo of its own.
They’d retreated to a secret, centuries old series of passages, carved into a random patch of snow. It was miles away from their previous home, many of the buildings of which were still unharmed. But heading back was too risky. They’d given Maris one victory; the confidence that supplied you was dangerous. And, in the greatest consequence of this whole ordeal, she would no doubt have no trouble acquiring the crown.
The sight of his downsized home made Tashar’s blood boil, to levels not even the collective might of his own sect could cool.
He scribbled something down, not caring how spidery his handwriting was as a result. He handed it to Lumi. “Tell our clan a simple message. If Remus is ever seen, the man who hands me his skull is an immediate candidate for my successor. Tell them it's an Oath.”
The energy in the room fuzzled, as the self-bound promise was made.
His next words were molten. The desire to stay stoic and indifferent had long since burnt away. “One way or another, that man will pay.”
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Joshua walked with flawless strides, through the darkness.
No one, not even the God-Graced himself, knew the location of the Old One. His Mark was a genetic miracle, tempered by the winds of time. As a result, it was always active; always masking him in that shrouding shadow.
The exact extent of the foggy expanse was subject to much rumour and exaggeration. Some said miles, others just the length of a few chambers, and a few swore it had no end. Joshua knew this mattered little. However long the lightless void went on, he would have to trek through it regardless. There was no need to scrutinise over the details.
After marching through the lightless haze, he finally got into contact with something cushiony. It was too hard to see, but there was no mistake. It was the Old One. More specifically, their beard.
Immediately, in a movement so ingrained it was instinctual, Joshua got to one knee. “My Lord. I bring news.”
There was no difference through the dark, but a voice spoke. It carried the authority of a millennia behind it. “Who’s death?”
“Donovan’s, Sire.” For some reason, uttering that made Joshua croak. It was a trivial thought of course, but before, not saying the truth out loud almost made it unreal. But you couldn’t escape reality. It was an infantile thought. “Honour by blood?”
If Joshua could have seen the God-Graced, he got the feeling they would be nodding. The exchange had been so succinct, so precise, it was all methodical. Events like these always involved the same protocols. Communication was to the point, insofar as possible. Delaying time that could be spent on missions was a disgusting thought.
The next words, however predictable, were spoken in such a way, they inspired the darkest visions of bloodshed from Joshua’s inner-consciousness. Had it not been for his emotional training, his body would have no doubt shivered.
“Honour by blood.”
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Days went by, wounds healed, but Remus’ memory remained all the same. Survivor’s guilt didn’t quite articulate his thoughts. It was more like survivor’s disbelief.
He had never been that close to Elmore, and much less so to Donovan, having hardly known the Shadow Clansmen for more than an hour. Hell, the former had sliced off his ring finger, the same stump he was inspecting over and over again, even now. But their deaths — the Shadow Clansman’s head erupting, Elmore fighting as the wounds only stockpiled — they had been braver than anything Remus had ever done.
He sighed. Violet was out hunting. Neither of them really knew where they were going yet. They needed time to recuperate. Breathing room. Yes, that was what Remus needed.
But no matter how much he tried to process everything, his thoughts would only entangle. Like a thousand knots, enrapturing his mind.
Elmore, dead. The memory of his valiant attacks spun in his mind in a never-ending ferris wheel. How could this be reality, if someone as powerful, as promising, a hundred other things Remus wasn’t, died as somebody’s afterthought?
The sound of someone approaching, foretold by the rustling of branches, tore Remus out of the destrutctive reverie.
“Violet,” he called, “got anything we can cook?”
Silence. Remus frowned, walked forward, when someone who was definitely not Violet walked into view.
Koa stood with forced resolve, face split between boundless bravado and uncertainty. But an air of determination, meek but undeniably there, held it together.
Before Remus could utter a word, Koa cut him off.
He inhaled deeply. “I want to talk.”