********************

Abraham Ulren

My eyes open to the veiled light of the lantern beside me, arms shaking and fingers trembling. Again. The same nightmare. It never goes away. I attempt to move, to shift my frail form, but it refuses, my body quavering with such intensity I can only wait out the after-effects of my sleep.

"Fuck. Is this all I am?"

I ask a question aloud, not expecting an answer as beside me rests Bonfire and a sleeping Heath. These shakes typically take several minutes to fade, so I sit still and try to force the images out of my mind.

Mother's severed head, her removed fetus, my sister, and my father's horrifying grin. Every Councilmember in that room has the same smile except for two.

The first is the Warmaster, Ytern, the wielder of the Pale Cavity, the head of the High Table, and the second is Pytrian, the weakest Councilmember.

Pytrian stared at the grotesque sacrifice to nothing but a millennia-old ancestor with horror similar to mine. But that's not because he's kind. No, it's because he'd be next. Like all the others, he may be a 7th Sigil, an Angel, but he is weak, for he ascended without killing a single demon.

Those like him are labeled Lepers, those without courage. And, in most Decatorial ceremonies, the highest Leper is sacrificed to feed the Pale Cavity. But that day, Mother replaced Pytrian's spot, and it's coming again soon. The years have passed, yet I doubt there is a Leper to replace Pytrian.

I wonder... is he as scared as me? I'm thousands of miles away, yet he's only a few feet away from death at all times. But he doesn't run.

Why doesn't he run?

I--

Why's it so quiet?

My thoughts stop rambling the moment my fingers still as I force my body to rear my head out of the wagon, only to see no one, hear no one, and discern not a single mind with Allude. Of course, I can feel Heath and Bonfire's minds, both soft ripples of unconsciousness, but no one else's. Not even Wyatt's cracked yet undulating mind or Johnny's shimmering barricade of will. Virgil's tough-to-notice shadow is gone as well. Even Silas is not present.

I look back to Bonfire, the man sleeping soundly as Heath has been keeping him asleep to heal faster with his medical aid, then I glance at Heath.

Should I stay? I don't know what's happening, but it can't be good. Maybe everyone when into the Vault? No, that doesn't make any sense. I can understand the weaker Bado or Virgil's family as they need to defend themselves. But why would Esther or Dakota go into a Vault? Neither can use weapons.

"Sorry, buddy. I'll be back."

I lightly kick Bonfire's foot as I heave myself out of the wagon, my mind scanning for anyone nearby with Allude. The skill is simple, originally only meant to mentally talk to those I'm touching. Still, years of resorting to my 2nd Sigil's skill have forced me to evolve it far beyond what it should be. Like I have with many of my skills.

Now, it can differentiate minds within a radius of a thousand feet, transmit telepathic messages under a certain length, and feel vague emotions from a distance. If I really stretch it, I can even do minor damage to a mind. I practically rely on it for all my scouting and intelligence gathering. It's also how I see through illusions.

You can fool my senses, but you can't fool my mind.

My recovering legs move me forward through the forest as I catch a lingering will, the newest thing added to Allude. A footprint lies in the mud of the forest, a dark intention saturated into the grass. It's faint, almost imperceptible, but it's there. And above it, a shadow forms, one that I disregard as it looks similar to my father. It's merely an aftereffect of my sleep. Sometimes, they bleed into reality. Once I neglect it and focus on the dark intention in the footprint, I rely on another skill to gather more information.

For a moment, I Override my mind, bolstering its momentum as I think rapidly, for I realize that time is of the essence.

There must be a threat. But who? Darkstep? No. She'd come through like an assassin and leave in a bloody tornado. That's just how she is. My father, perhaps? He may have violated the Warmaster's orders, but I doubt it. He's too clever; at most, he sent an agent to gauge me.

Hmm... Outlaws maybe? But I can't think of any human bandits who could do this, making dozens of powerful people and an Angel disappear without a trace. I sleep deeply with my nightmares, but surely I'd wake up if there was a commotion. Perhaps the Blinded Man could, but he's way up northeast, unable to leave his prison made by the Prime.

Other than him, though, no one could, to my knowledge. Alone, that is. Guided by a Manipulator, however... ingredients become more than their tastes.

That must be it. A Manipulator has found us. I told Johnny that I found it hard to believe that my father would catch them all. He enjoys his ordered chaos far too much. I'd bet my right arm that he let one escape so that it cause more chaos for him to force order upon.

I look up, the sun is high in the sky, and I follow the traces discovered by Allude. My legs move faster and faster as I push my Ether into the limbs, Adrenaline Control invigorating my flesh with temporary strength. The comedown from this skill is far worse than its predecessor, but without it, I doubt I'll be quick or strong enough.

Forest disappears around me as I move, occasionally creating a short Nightmare of Sinlo to use his immense fan to give me some extra momentum. The conjurations take a toll on my body, but I can endure it. And so, I follow the remnants left behind, visible only to Allude's delicate sense. That is, until they suddenly disappear, ending out of nowhere in the middle of the forest, even the footprints disappearing. What? There has to be more. Even Virgil can't vanish like this from me.

But just as I search for another set of footprints, I hear a gunshot resound in the distance. Multiple, in fact. They are barely audible and far away, but bullets are unmistakable in the woods.

So, I run straight toward the noise, Sinlo again appearing to give me a boost, his fan waving to push me forward. I half wish my Nightmares were as intense as the originals, but Sinlo would have broken all my bones with his wind if they were. Rapidly, I breach the forest, unstopping and unslowing as I move to help. I owe Virgil my life, and I can't let him or his family die. Not to mention, I don't want to lose this semblance of a home. From what I've gathered, Johnny has plans in motion, and soon we will have a true place to stay. A haven to rest. Anything to have that arrive. He's let it slip many times that he wants to find a teacher for Wyatt, a place for the boy to grow without a blade at his neck, and I can only think of two. Either Ed Summers or Marshall Travis. Maybe... maybe even the Blinded Man. But for now, I just want to keep it all together for at least a tad bit longer.

Sure, laughs are rare, times are tough, and bloodshed is common, but this is heaven compared to where I was born. No infighting besides the common bickering with Bonfire. I don't have to worry about my throat getting slit at night. I don't have to worry about my father banishing me. I don't have to worry about the Warmaster deciding I shall fight on the frontlines.

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And so, as I break into an open field, with Virgil fighting a duo of Motherbound and Johnny fighting a foe that keeps even his might at bay, I pause, unsure how to help. But that insecurity fast turns resolute as another figure enters the field, this one cloaked with darkness.

A short figure, one only a bit shorter than me, with a face covered in shade, looks right at me. And she recognizes me from our time at the High Table.

"Ahbram Ulren?"

I grit my teeth, the molars grinding at the name. Ahbram. That is not me. I am Abraham. I am not an Ulren. Finally, I reply back to her loud enough for Johnny to realize what is happening. The gunslinger turns for a moment before returning to his fight. I wish I could read the expression of the woman in front of me to gauge what I should do, but even to Allude, there is a dark veil shielding her from inspection. She is a spy, after all, so who am I to think I could see through it?

"Lady Dakster, I see you have been well."

Her head twists, the tenebrous veil undulating with her movement. As she does so, I build up a Nightmare in my mind, Cirn, and his greatsword slowly forming to ambush her.

"What is the meaning of this? Does the Vice want to recall his bounty? Because even if he does, I'm taking my spoils. That human ruined my cover and your father's plans. So to put him in the grave before he grows any further is ideal."

My mind reels with significance as Override blasts once more into action to buy me some thinking time. Does she not know I'm on Johnny's side? I suppose she hadn't seen or heard of me besides when we were back at the High Table.

And Father put a bounty on Johnny? I knew it. He'd send an agent and one already invested in the goal, no less. What a Conman. But why would she show up alone like this? Is she confident in beating an Angel? I know Johnny hasn't had much time to learn his new gifts. The man still only relies on his Power, not on mastery of Ether beffiting that of an Angel, but he is no slouch.

Darkstep, or Lady Dakster, daughter of the Viceray, my father's equal and left hand of the Warmaster. She was sent years and years ago to be an undercover agent when she was just as young as I am now. Since then, she only returns for the Decatorial ceremony to be with her Mother.

For her to come here, confident of slaying an Angel, she must have arrived with preparations, and I highly doubt those Motherbound are part of her plan. She'd be exiled for even willingly sparing one enraptured by the Mother Below.

Instead, she must have come with company. And at the very least, she knew a battle here would be happening, or else she would wait for the perfect time to put a dagger in Johnny's back. Too many undercurrents flow for this simple field. I hastily grasp for the unconscious with Allude, but a veil bars my entry. It'll take me a few minutes to siege through that. Fuck. Wait... How could she possibly know Johnny was fighting an Angel here for her to fish in muddy waters?

My eyes shift to the trees, an unthought idea brimming to the top of my reason.

The Tree.

If you can see a tree, the Tree can see you.

As I conclude she isn't alone, that a human Angel must have supplied her info, and that she has come here to kill Johnny during the chaos, the slow-mo of reality that lets me think faster fading, I reply to her.

"No, Father only sent me here to guarantee the result. I will only join if I must."

She nods to me, and as she steps toward Johnny, looking to end the man even with the threats already besieging him, her legs swoon with shadows. Darkness curls up to her knees as he bends a bit, her body preparing to dash toward him. I cannot let her do it. Until Johnny wins his fight, I will hold her back.

But before Lady Dakster takes even one more step, my Nightmare of Cirn comes to life with a roar of steel. However, the woman known precisely for her speed reacts in time and dodges to the side of my ambush.

I curse as her attention turns to me, flickers of the abyss darker than dark in her veiled gaze. Dakster chuckles as daggers cloaked in an abyssal night appear in her hands.

"Your father said you're clever. But you can't trick someone who knows the ending. I could use the bounty he put on you as well. The price on both of your heads will give me enough to pay for the Warmaster's tutelage."

Frantically, I draw my sword from my hip, my Colt still out of ammo as I haven't had time to resupply. I planned on entering the Vault when I woke up, and it was deemed safe. However, the Nightmare of Cirn is not yet gone, for the effects of Override are unmissable on the Nightmares from my consciousness.

And so, I command it with my mind to swing once more at Dakster as I prepare another Nightmare. This time, I'm going for Urbin; his net and spear are a near-perfect match-up for her speed. I just need to survive long enough to get him out of my mind. But, unfortunately, Dakster doesn't seem accommodating.

A marionette-like being forms behind her as the strings fall to meet each of her joints, and as they do, a half dozen shadows crawl out from under her cloak, each standing up with white faces and the warpaint of Nahullo soldiers.

"Hold him down, boys. This bounty is mine."

****************

Wyatt Graves

Shadows sing, and the world warps before my gaze as I frantically try to invoke Daydream, Ether spiraling through my pupils. Still, even with its aid, things only continue to grow worse. The ground waves like the tide, and the sky sinks like a rock. The world confounds me as everything becomes impossible to discern.

Pain runs along my spine, similar to someone raking a dagger up the bone. I don't even bother to swing backward. Alexos wouldn't strike yet. Instead, agony blooms from my fingers as an invisible force rips out my nails before my eyes. The pain makes me scream aloud, but I force the whimper down as the nails aren't regenerating. It isn't real. The Bloody Palm would be healing its domain if it were.

But that invisible force grows even further toward a haunting melody of death.

Colors twist and meld together, distorting the reality before my eyes. The world becomes a kaleidoscope of shifting shapes and illusions until those shapes gain form. A cloaked figure, one with tattered cloth and visible breath as if in winter, stands before me. A scythe is held in one hand, and a bucket in the other is filled with blood. Its countenance is gaunt, devoid of sustenance, and the mouth opens as if to devour me.

My senses become heightened yet strangely dulled. Sounds echo strangely, distant yet hauntingly clear. The rustling of leaves morphs the inaudible moving limps of the figure into whispers swirling around me, their meaning illogical and unsettling.

"You would not bring death to me. So, I brought her to you."

Shadows dance on the corners of my vision, twisting and contorting like sinister apparitions. I try to move, but the second I do, the hands of the Death, illusioned by Alexos, grab my arm, holding it still. My eyes go wide at the authentic force. What? How?

But I realize what is behind that force as a dagger enters my neck, the blade sinking deep into the flesh. Blood seeps out as I reach up and grab the wound, my consciousness fast wobbling due to the lack of oxygen.

This fast? Am I really so weak? No. I'm not. I just advanced! I have to at least use the new ability! No! I need to breathe in! Strugglers Gasp! What am I thinking!? Is he? Oh...

Without allowing another thought to process, I breathe in a massive heave of Ether that fetches all the substance nearby straight into my lungs. But just the Ether enters my lungs, two blades enter them, being just a tad slow to stop the gasp entirely.

The world trembles and shakes before returning to normal. Alexos stands before me, still with that mask of many faces and a dagger in each hand that are deep into my chest. I swipe at him, Explosion, on the tip of my index finger in case I make contact, but the agile bastard jumps backward in time. But I am unwilling to let it go.

And so, the Ether starts to rebound at the tip of my finger, but I force it through, pushing it outward with as much strength as possible. Then, I hear a crack, and alongside that noise is a spurt of pain as the index finger is broken off my hand and shot straight into Alexos' chest.

He stumbles backward, a hole only a mere inch below his heart, as he tries to recover from the absurdity.

Seeing his face, I laugh, blood spurting up and out of my lungs from the bleeding organs. The pain urges me into action as Ether flows with vengeful intent. Strugglers Defiance and Breakneck enhance me in twain. I attempt a Daydream for my senses, but I fast realize it has no effect. Then, I take one step toward Alexos as the world starts shifting again, the Ether in the air reforming to the man's will.

Before it does entirely, though, I Release my lungs, the chains on the organs fading into obscurity as I realize that the skill can take more, and so I do. Simultaneously, my lungs and hand are released, the chains being removed from two things simultaneously. Organs that do the same thing, like lungs or ears, count as one, so being able to do two things at once is a massive boon, something likely possible due to my new Sigil.

And with the released lungs, I breathe in once more, the organs overpowering the stab wounds and gasping in another lungful of Ether. Strugglers Gasp reaves the Ether from Alexos he is attempting to manipulate back into his illusions as I dash at him, murder on my mind. All the while, my vision shakes, the lethal wound in my neck slowly sapping my strength. Yet, the ocean of raging Ether inside my form holds the weakness at bay.

Alexos backs up from me, drawing a Colt and a Claymore. He shoots the former at me, and I instinctively use Adumbral's Shadowed form, the bullets striking me but not entering my flesh with its defenses. Then, as I get near, he brandishes his Claymore, a shortsword that he swings at me.

Already lethally wounded and simply on the clock, I dart into the strike to get an opening, taking a blade into my shoulder as I swing at Alexos. But unlike all my other foes who have fallen to this mutual destruction trick, Alexos is... well, Alexos.

He gives up on his Claymore and waves at hand at my mind as he jerks to the side. Darkness covers my gaze for a split second as I push it off. I know the attack is only mental, but Alexos is swinging another dagger at my heel when I can see again. Spinning, I heave toward Madness, pleading for a new figment as I remove the current one on my knees. And as I demand the Bloody Palm's mind for aid, I receive it.

A man upon a cross sears an imprint into my mind, a close-up of the nails as a nail of shimmering Madness appears in my hand, weightless and brittle.

And as Alexos slices my heel, the tendon splitting with his strike, I fling the nail at him, the object moving with impossible speed due to its lack of weight. The man cannot dodge in time as the nail enters his right eye, blinding him as blood flows down his face.

He shifts backward, elusive footwork moving him away from me as I shamble toward him like an undying zombie. But again, unlike any others I've ever fought, Alexos doesn't even seem phased by the wound. As we stand opposed, I feel a bit of little respect growing. His will is strong, unbreakable, just as Dominus said. But so is mine. And I've been waiting for this. For far, far too long. Half a year of constant bloodshed and near-death encounters.

Should this be my end, I am satisfied as long as this man dies too.