Violet stared at the fireworks through the obscuring lens of her window, positively miserable.
She paced back and forth across her private chambers in the Chaos Sect, restlessly reading a letter repeatedly, until her head ached with the continued monotony of the words. In a huff, she scrunched the page up, shoved it into a pocket of her leather trousers, and triple-checked her luggage bags.
It was all there: a few changes of clothes, enough smuggled rations to last a Passing or two if eaten scarcely, and other basic necessities needed to survive out of the comfort of First Rite. It was only now sinking in, the weight of all the luxuries she’d taken for granted. The Chaos Sect, whilst not particularly high on the totem pole of sect standing — a mere eleventh place, virtually smack bang in the centre of the top twenty, and far from the heights of Ruling District — was successful enough to earn a residence in Leisure. Violet had always regarded the place as home. For her entire life, she’d known its lively beauty, its certain aura of joy that pervaded all the flagstones, every market stall, and didn’t neglect a single street corner in all its encompassing mystique.
Now soon, depending on how the night went, she may never see it again.
Violet was wincing at the Emblazed mark trailing down her forearm when her sister, Verity arrived.
The twenty-something year old stood with immaculate posture, as stiff as pole, and fully clad in chainmail armour that she never seemed to take off, despite being hundreds of miles away from the front lines. Her hair was of the same hazel shade as Violet’s, but instead of falling well past her shoulders like her younger sibling, it was curly, and of a medium length.
“Father requires you.” She said simply, eyes strangely distant despite the fact they were looking straight at Violet.
“What for?” Violet questioned, standing in such a way that her travelling bags were hidden from view. “I thought he was busy speaking with Teival?”
Verity blinked robotically. “I’m not privy to what exactly he wishes to discuss, only that he has requested for me to collect you.”
Staring hard into Verity's eyes, a pang of wistful regret sprang its face before Violet’s inner consciousness. Her eyes darted to the floor, and the moody air quickly dispersed. “Be there in a moment.”
Verity left wordlessly, the resounding clink of her armour exaggerated with each heavy step. When the sound of her footsteps could be heard no more, Violet exhaled as deeply as she could without rupturing her lungs. Even with the fact that her sister was heading off to the front lines soon, having officially received a vision from the god of Havoc himself, almost a year ago now, bestowing her with articles of even greater power, Violet couldn’t help but want to spend as little time as possible with Verity. It wasn’t that she harboured any ill will for her sister, far from it. It was just that the methodical, orderly manner in which she completed all tasks was almost too organised. As if she was merely running through orders like some artificial machine, designed by the clan to conduct their drudgery and other juvenile tasks.
Whatever it was that had triggered the obsessive perfectionism that defined Verity, Violet attempted to accept the personality shift the last few years had sprang with a passive indifference . . . and that was the root of the metaphorical wall between the two — you could try all you wanted, but when it truly got down to it, and Violet was overtly honest with herself, it was almost like a substantial chunk of her sister had perished. A chunk consisting of all the loveable charm and joy that had characterised Verity prior. A chunk whose playful wit Violet would die to catch a line from, a least one more time.
Her hand placed tightly onto the slip of paper inside her pocket, Violet wandered out of the room, wishing with a familiar longing that she could just be left alone in the chambers to attend to her own endeavours, without any chafing interruptions.
The Chaos Sect wasn’t the most sprawling of manors by a long shot, but what it lacked in size, it made up for a hundredfold in absurdity. The locations of halls and rooms rearranged constantly, as if by the fleeting whims of some bored god, to the extent that traversing from one side to the other could either take passing through a singular doorway, or hiking through a mountain range. Violet wished she could have made that last comment in jest, but there truly had been times when she’d gone up a flight of stairs, and only resurfaced to a gathering of concerned clansmen after surviving in the wilderness for two Durations. That was when she was young however, and now as an Emblazed teetering on Foot-Soldier Rank, she could revert the crazed crossings of her lifelong home with a casual activation of her Mark.
Housing so many sown in the fabric of Chaos was enough to send any environment spiralling. But by subduing that Chaotic energy momentarily herself — as one would take a full breath — she could absorb that energy, allowing the manor to return to its original, much more logical layout. In the same manner, though it required some precision, she could bend the corridors to lead straight towards her father’s office, free from obstruction. At least, when considered in theory, and ignoring all the intricate skill doing so would require.
Despite her Mark being fully grown, warping reality to such an extent was a one way ticket into dispersing your body’s energy reserves and fainting promptly. Maybe one day, if she ever achieved a Splintered Rank or higher, doing so would be much less of a strenuous task. As of now, Violet limited herself to only snipping a few shortcuts through the mansion’s larger sections, and arrived at a foreboding doorway with minutes to spare.
The material of the double door was ebony in shade, adorned with the magenta banners of the clan, these being outlined with a cloudy blue. Violet fixated on the charming secondary pigment that so often reminded her of warm summer days spent mindlessly cloud-watching in her youth. The innocent joys of such past times she hadn’t been able to appreciate for some many a year. Latching onto the warmth the memories provided like a safety rope, she pushed open the doors.
There was a creak, followed by a radiating aura of purple light, the sort you’d imagine to be emitted by crystal within an underground cavern.
“Violet.” Nova boomed upon his throne, his massive musculature barely contained upon his frame. “There is much we must tackle in the current Passing. Particularly, I believe your placing in the upcoming inter-sect tournament is of vital importance.”
The room was spacious, with paintings of past clan leaders hung up proudly along each front and back wall. To the side, a table of considerable size was veiled by a map of the known world, with wooden figures placed at certain locales. Indicating what, Violet could never be sure.
At the very front, Nova, her father, sat upon his throne rigidly, clapping a leather-bound tomb shut with a hand bulging in size. The man’s dirty blonde hair was set into a neat man bun, and his features were reminiscent of one of nature’s wild predators, who wouldn’t hesitate to destroy you if the opportunity arose.
Violet had almost forgotten about the ‘friendly’ tournament that occurred each Descension. The popular excuse for its occurrence being to create a spectacle for the gods as tribute. But anybody with the littlest tinge of wisdom orbiting their noggin was well aware that saying so was merely a front. Its true, much more nefarious reason for existence was for each sect to gauge their combative progress in comparison to one another. In the safe havens bustling cities like First Rite supplied, it was sometimes easy to forget that despite the smiley fronts most clans would put up inside their barriers, the second you exited Divine Ground, was also the precise moment they wouldn’t hesitate to pull a cold blade against your throat.
“I’m competing?” She asked with a perplexed frown.
“Indeed you are.” Nova said a split second after, as if it was obvious. “A woman like you is old enough to represent the clan in official matters.”
“But I’m only seventee-”
“Only?” Nova scorned. “I was already out there battling for my life on the front lines when I was half that age.”
For some reason, Violet struggled to imagine a nine year old wielding a spear without it looking immensely humorous. She also failed miserably, at the futile task of envisaging someone achieving Foot-Soldier Rank below the age of ten. “Sure you were Father, sure you were. And then all the gods clapped and you were crowned supreme ruler of the cosmos.”
Nova’s scowl hardened, but he didn’t react. “But I can trust you will be participating, correct?”
“If you can answer a question of mine, then sure, I’ll go brawling until my knuckles turn purple, then continue until they’ve proficiently fallen off. If it would please you.”
The man did not appear amused, but his eyebrow arched in evident intrigue. “Go on. Ask away whatever is troubling you.”
Violet swallowed as her throat cried out for the littlest moisture. She became very aware of the crumpled letter hastily slid into her pocket.
“Who is Akuji, and what have you done with him?”
Watching as her father sank back into his throne, Violet could easily identify that something in the man had shifted. For a split second, she was greeted by Nova with no noble facade, no stoic mien behind which to hide his true ulterior motives. There was a ferocity there, a venomous ire that seemed to seethe through his every nerve, accumulating in a network of fury so innate, it stemmed from the first chemical reaction, the first lashing of anger to occur within the earliest few of man. And, just like that. It was gone.
“Akuji?” He enquired. “If memory serves, that would be the Life Clan Warlord you’re referring to?”
Violet nodded. “The one who just happened to go missing around the time you took the throne.”
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
“A peculiar coincidence.”
“Is it? I find him being mentioned quite a few times within this message.”
Holding aloft the letter like it was the formula sustaining the universe’s equilibrium, Violet was sure she had caught her father red-handed. Nova only chewed the inside of his mouth, an irked look bringing a surfacing bloodlust to his eyes. “Why are you snooping through my mail? It’s your sister’s job to collect it.”
“Verity was busy with Descension preparations. The letter-carrier gave it to me in her stead. Now, no changing the subject. What have you done with Akuji?”
“What have I done to him?” The man repeated to himself, stroking his trimmed facial hair. “Nothing at all.”
“The letter says otherwise. Its sender’s name is nowhere to be seen, but they do repeat the phrase ‘Akuji’s location’ bizarrely often. Care to explain why?”
Nova appeared to have trouble swallowing, like an orb of stone was lodged deep into his throat. He coughed into a hand, before suiting a perfected smile. “Oh? I think you’re misunderstanding the letter’s nature, Violet. To keep the sect’s name clean and shiny, I fund as many good causes as I can afford out of my own pocket. That’s thanks for funding another search-party for the man.” An expression of melodramatic sorrow eradicated any beam of joy in the sect leader’s exterior. “Though, I must admit, I’m beginning to suspect the Life Sect’s coinage is better spent elsewhere. A man lost for so many Rebirths on end is not likely to be found in a sound state.”
“So you’re a humanitarian at heart?” The description felt wrong for the short moment it lingered on Violet’s vocal cords. “I find that hard to believe. And nowhere on this page does it mention anything remotely related to a search-party. They write more like he’s being moved himself. Somewhere in Hell’s Floor.”
Nova said nothing. His eyes were as hard as pebbles.
“That’s not the only peculiar thing I’ve come to address,” Violet found herself spewing hurriedly. It wasn’t like such a prime opportunity to speak her mind was going to pop-up again. Through the last years of silent inaction, she’d built up quite the repertoire of irking questions. It was time to go hogwild. “My irises have been crimson for as long as I can remember, but unnatural shades like that shouldn't be possible until early Emblazed Rank; the Mark on my arm is unreadable, as if purposely stained by a splashing of sooty ink to prevent its depiction from being seen. Not to mention how weirdly you’ve all been acting as of late, and by that, I should say the last decade or so! You’re all gaunt, the entire sect I mean, never seem to care about anything other than the sect’s priorities, and are devoid of any drab of personality.”
The words left her in a tidal wave the equivalent of verbal vomit, each point projected with fiery accusation. Yet, no matter how furiously she pointed or cried out her points, her father remained fixed in place, in a fairly convincing impression of a statue.
“Well?” Violet questioned, voice resounding across the spacious room in a magnified echo. As if the exclamation mark at the end of her rambling rant. “Have no flimsy argument left to defend yourself with?”
Still, Nova kept his lips sealed. Slowly, in the most drawn-out movement the Mortal Realms had ever witnessed, he angled his head towards a side door. A second later, as if she had been standing on the other side awaiting command all this time, Verity stepped out.
Equally engrossed in Nova’s silence, Verity stood completely still, unblinking.
“What are you doing?”
Ignoring her, Verity turned her head to match her father’s gaze. “It's time, is it?”
“I’m afraid so. She’s dysfunctional.”
Violet stomped her foot. She hated not being in the know of things almost as much as she hated having to navigate the manor when several people were magically reconstructing it at once. “Will you two listen! What are you talking about?”
Finally, for the first time in minutes, Nova faced her head-on. “I didn’t want it to be this way Violet, believe me.”
Verity continued towards Violet, hand placed on the sheath at her waist. She could hardly process what her optic nerve was signalling to her brain, when Verity drew the full length of the dagger. There was a pulsing vibration riddling through the room, and the Foot-Soldier’s own fiery eyes darkened to the deepest inferno. A sickly churning sent Violet’s intestines upside-down, and the very ground beneath her feet betrayed her, as every object in the room became atremble. The counters on the world map tipped off, clanging up and down on a floor that failed to remain stationary.
“Verity?” A tiny squeak escaped Violet’s lips.
The scene grew exponentially less understandable than the jumble of nonsense it already was, as the sect leader stood up from his throne, a lion in man’s clothing. “I’m sure you can handle this on your own well enough.”
His hand literally slipping through the wall before him as if it didn’t exist — like a false projection set upon reality itself — he began to phase out of the room. At the last moment, he tilted his head to stare over his shoulder. “I can trust you, can’t I?
A crack appeared in the room’s throne. Violet put two tremulous hands to her mouth. She remembered sitting on that very same chair when the rest of the sect higher-ups were out on errands, and she was left to watch over. It was hard as bedrock.
“Of course you can. You think I’d lose to someone a Rank below myself?” Verity glared at Nova with astonishing bravery. Or maybe stupidity, Violet couldn’t decide.
“Obviously not.” Nova said with a parting smile, the last of his head vanishing from view. “Forget I said anything.”
Verity turned to her, as tears widened on every surface in sight. Dust sprinkled from an abused ceiling, carpeting everything in a suffocating layer of debris. Verity trudged through regardless, spinning her dagger rakishly in one hand, and in the other squeezing her fist, as if it were her own hand enclosed around the room itself, crushing it from the outside-in.
“I care little for emotional attachment,” she began pensively. “But for some reason, killing you leaves a sickly taste in my mouth.”
“Because you don’t want to.” Violet managed to choke, stepping haphazardly towards her sister, and gripping her blade hand. “I don’t know exactly what Father’s done to you, but you don’t have to do this. I have bags already packed. We can leave. You have a choice.”
Empty eyes bore into hers, and Verity gritted her teeth, as if some distant sensation was paining her. “Don’t struggle. If you don’t struggle . . . perhaps I won’t feel so bad about this next part.”
Verity took one careful foot forwards, as if the motion itself was unsure, and Violet sank to her knees, her innards seeming to turn on one another in a fiery self-sabotage. Her hands instantly went to her throat, the windpipe within it housing no air, as if it was being compressed by the second.
“St . . . op.” She managed, as her sister slowly but surely began to grow more confident in her advancing stride. By some primal urge to survive, the Mark on Violet's forearm throbbed with power. Her own projected Chaotic energy mingled with the mountain load diffusing through the atmosphere already, a meek cry in the face of a lion’s sky-tearing roar.
Verity observed the air around her, the thin line of her lips far from pleasant. “Is this you? Why, I knew I was stronger, but were you really always this meek?”
Gritting her teeth to the extent that her gums were threatening to bleed, a wave of disheartenment sent Violet spiralling, as she realised the contrast of her own power to Verity’s. Her willpower and manipulative ability was but a drop in her sister’s screeching tides of frothing strength. Tensing to release more power proved an exponential struggle — her emotions weren’t behind it, the outpour of energy clinging to only a tiny fragment of her mind, screaming with all its minute might to fight back; to swallow her feelings about confronting her own flesh and blood, and live by any means necessary.
Though a vocal minority, it was nevertheless only a tiny quarter of a much larger whole, a whole whose vast majority was dead-set on silencing it.
Her body seized up and popped uncomfortably in a multitude of locations. Simultaneously, a window to the side shattered, the glass whirling around at a snail’s pace, before accumulating enough velocity to become a speed demon of its own. The razored tornado collected a myriad of other orbiting objects, varying from the arms of a grandfather clock Violet, in her pained haze, had forgotten to be there in the first place, and an entire armchair, the legs of which were in the steady process of being torn off.
The Chaos swirling around the pair was too much. The room wouldn't be able to take it.
Violet screamed, the veins popping in her forehead as she fought terribly for every centimeter back she could drag herself. The hurricane was growing closer, and Verity, nonchalantly ordaining the assembled contents of the room to draw near, was the precise image of cruel difference.
As the first bits of shrapnel dug against her flesh, eliciting both a terrified wail and several beads of incarnadine to escape her, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Violet’s own nagged a tiny percentile of her brain’s attention. Is this how I die? Whimpering pitifully as I let my own sister strip the life from my body?
She only allowed herself to deliberate on that point for a passing moment, for her familial adulation smited it before the rest of her mind contracted any pesky ideas.
So soon. So soon, and I already laid down my arms.
The cyclone was a mere foot away now. Another indecisive second or two, and the choice of what happened next wouldn’t be hers to make.
She’s only a recently advanced Foot-Soldier, and you’re a high-tier-Emblazed. You have a chance here.
Forgoing all any embedded compassion for but a minute, Violet pushed her Mark to its absolute limit. Not a single muscle fibre within her being was free from the oncoming tide of agony doing so would invoke, only slightly minegated by the knowledge that it was either this, or being mauled to death.
The ravaging cyclone stubbornly withdrew a little under a foot, giving a bleeding Violet enough space to get up shakily. Verity narrowed her eyes, and the tempest quickly regained an inch or two of lost territory. There the two stood, too engrossed in their mental bout to spare the smidge of effort it would waste to conjure words. It was obvious that Verity was the superior combatant of the two, the Boundless Bank she had moulded into a Vault a divine blessing. It was a resource acquired exclusively at Foot-Soldier, one Violet hadn’t accounted for. Verity’s aura of Chaos was soaking in the reinforcing effects of Infinity she funnelled out, and this — through the lashing currents of frenzied wind — only appeared to exert Verity moderately.
“Why?” Verity said. “I don’t understand.”
The syllables entered and left Violet’s ears, with her too preoccupied with side-stepping plummeting portions of the roof, whilst maintaining her guard, to properly process them.
Her sister spat, teeth snapping shut in a reverberating bite. “Why must you persist so-”
The dynamic of the fight turned on its head, as Violet focused all her resources on tearing apart the wall to her side. A rushing gale flooded the room through a smashed crater, reacting with the overflow of Chaotic energy; becoming monstrously aggressive. It whipped all facets of the interior, slicing a number of other sizable gaps across the floor and adjacent walls. The previously collapsed window frames fell away, a tremulous wind billowing through. It was a bombardment from either side — air currents swooping inwards from the crumpled wall, and more from the thrashed window. The tornado was caught in between the crossfire; not fully interrupted, but greatly impeded.
Before her sister could compose herself and prevent her frantic escape, Violet sank through the floor, rearranging the manor as to form a straight passage out of there. She was descending in a straight fall, the air whipping at her cut cheeks. There was a howl from up above, and the drop began to bend, as if tempted to toss her back into that hellish room. Violet yelled in a final eruption of her exhausted body’s energy, retaining the manor’s structure as if her life depended on it, which it very much did. A trap door slid open to the side, and her luggage shooting out, she grasped it.
The building converged into a single upwards curve, mounds of energy defying gravity. As if the manor itself was only now realising that it had digested something foul, Violet’s unconscious body was spat out.