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

Wyatt Graves

Light pries open my eyes, the setting sun stabbing into the gap between my eyelids. Physically fine but mentally drained, I force myself to my knees and give the two corpses a gander. The dead Manipulator and Alexos. Part of me wishes I was more forgiving; the other wishes I was more ruthless.

I wonder which deserves my focus.

We should have given Alexos the lantern way back when, but only I found even a modicum of trustworthiness in Alexos. It made sense the choice Johnny made, keeping Death's Lantern from the Phantom Pain. Who knows the tragedies he could inflict with that? The Death's Lantern requires permission to put one's heart in, but Alexos could simply fake that and possess anyone's heart to force them to do his bidding. But I wish Johnny hadn't. It would have been one less enemy and more tools at our disposal.

Sighing, I move over Alexos' body and take the Philiam from his pocket, the empty vial already refilling with blood. Barely five drops have regenerated, but those five drops, from a 6th Sigiled artifact, are likely to heal any minor wound and aid major ones. I'll wait until it refills all the way to try and get my arm back, not that I have much hope in that regard. If Heath can't, for one, because of the time since I lost it and secondly, because of how it was scorched shut, I figure this thing probably can't. An Angel like Birdie is probably needed as it has been gone for so long. In truth, this artifact will probably be used to heal others more than me.

"Poor Heath. He might just be put out of a job."

I can't help but speak aloud as the stillness is deafening and uncomfortable. Yet I get no reply from my surroundings, the forest preferring to echo my voice back to me than to speak. This fight left some lasting wounds, not on my body but on my soul. Some things don't feel right internally, and I'm unsure if that's from the siege of the Darklight or Alexos' death.

But at least I finally got what Edmund left behind.

I rub the glass with my thumb before pocketing the vial and proceeding over to Dominus' body. The Bado, despite being able to transform and take over other forms, never did. He preferred to stay in his birdman build, even if it was ill-suited for the woods. His want for the survival of his race must have persisted even after his corruption. Another Bado is gone, I suppose. Their numbers only continue to wilt.

My eyes move to the Bloody Palm after the thought, Lily's words coming to mind.

The palm did save me. Even if it was only because of its innate hatred for mind control and all the associated things, I can't not acknowledge it. I have to give credit where it is due.

"Thank you, Bloody Palm. I know you aren't sentient, but even beasts understand gratitude. And so do humans. I have a gift for you, a peace treaty if you will. Perhaps, in the future, we can set aside our grudges and become allies."

A humming purr that radiates from my wrist is my response, like that of a dangerous beast. The sensation is odd but not unpleasant. I smile back at the palm as I bring my hand to Dominus' body, and with a short Insight, I find his Ether's origin almost entirely dissipated. Then, without waiting a moment, I surge forward and shove the Bloody Palm through Dominus' fragile remains, allowing the artifact to take what it wants without any interference.

"Go on."

Another purr roars as a tendril of flesh protrudes from my index finger and wraps around the Sigil. Then without any indication, my vision distorts and shifts into a wholly different scene.

A familiar cathedral fills my eyes, ears, and nose. Tapping sounds surround me, dozens of inhuman and grotesque creatures roving around me. Distant howls and shrieks lightly caress the air as a monstrous spider lies upon a similarly sized church organ at the end of the aisle.

I stand amongst the pews of the Cathedral Of Unseen Horrors.

Clamping down on any movement and sound not to alert anything, I realize that my right arm is missing, and my left is replaced by a constantly shifting mound of flesh. I sense a waking will from my left arm as I realize the Bloody Palm brought me here.

I was unaware this was possible, but some rules are tossed out the window regarding the Mother Below. As I attempt to rationalize and plan, Darklight striking the church's stained glass outside like lightning is the only light in the building. The scene is ominous and threatening, creatures constantly shifting in the shadows around me as my own arm refuses to be an arm.

You need to think, Wyatt. Ignore the abnormal shit with your arm.

The last time I was here, I made a bunch of noise and got every creature here after me. I can't afford to do that again as I have no help. There is no one to save me. Perhaps the Bloody Palm can help, but Ether doesn't work here. I'm lost as to how the flesh is even shifting without being able to use Ether.

So, I must be subdued and noiseless as I make my way to the tome. No straying off the path or getting distracted. This is all about stealth. I can't fight my way out of this.

Slowly breathing in a lungful of air, I get low, careful not to touch anything. And once I get into a crouch, I lower further, placing my body on the cathedral floor. Then on the floor, I delicately creep along the aisle, doing my best to not make even a single sound.

Every second I move, my ears are primed, listening for anything that might get close. Several times, I pause and wait for something to cross or step over me so I'm not revealed. After almost ten full minutes of crawling, I reach the end of the aisle, the giant spider with eyes on the tips of each of its legs directly above me.

I waver, the echo of its noticeably labored breathing warning me. Then, unsure, I glance up at it to see if it notices me, but it doesn't react to my gaze. And so, I gaze at the door, the thing of wood wholly repaired from whatever happened the last time.

Odd, but it doesn't matter. I could try to drag myself to the door, yet something tells me the spider will notice me. So I'll just have to get as close as I can before sprinting for it.

And so, I silently kick myself forward. Every inch of movement fought to be void of sound. But as I get five feet from the door, a rumble comes from behind me, and without even peeking back, I dash for the door. Once I get to it, though, I have a dilemma that makes me pause at the door.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

The Bloody Palm doesn't have fingers to pull the handle---

Oh, never mind. Now it doesn't matter. The flesh of my hand shifts to fit the door handle, and without skipping a beat, I twist the door open. A crash resounds behind me as I slip into the door and close it.

I move back from the door into the hallway before retracing my steps to the chamber with the tome. Now that far less is chasing me, this trip is almost peaceful as I walk through the halls and corridors of the cathedral.

Without any turmoil, utterly opposed to the last time, I traverse the halls, returning to the passageway with the tome. I step through the room where that odd humanoid thing was last time, his presence missing. I continue, reaching the spiraling staircase in no time and creep down it while watching out for threats. Simply because nothing has shown itself yet does not mean nothing will.

But after minutes of mindful movement, I reach that door that held the tome behind it and gingerly push it open. Contrary to before, because of my hurried pace, I hear it creak as it opens. And as it does, I go still, eyes sprawling over the whole room that bears the tome upon the pedestal. Yet, nothing emerges to rid me of life.

My shoulders relax only as I step up to the pedestal and look at the incomprehensible words on the page. I half expect to see information about the Bloody Palm, but the paper refuses to impart the knowledge to me.

However, as I stand at the pedestal, the Bloody Palm shifts and pulls me forward as it attaches to the tome. The bizarre limb of flesh expands like a film of canvas to cover the whole book before my vision distorts again, returning me to the forest.

A bit nauseous and lightheaded, I stumble before I regain my composure. My vision swims as the Bloody Palm transitions from that expanded flesh into a hand. Flexing my fingers, it feels back to normal, except for one thing. As I look at the Bloody Palm with a doze of Insight, I sense another Occultist within its confines. And with that comes an odd sensation of my blood flowing faster, my heart speeding up unconsciously to meet the pace.

What the artifact is doing is weird, but I sense no malice. On the contrary, a fragile truce has been made. My hand feels more responsive than ever, clenching and moving with strength I never thought possible.

A smile appears on my lips as I talk to the artifact, acknowledging it.

"Y'know, together, nothing can stop us."

A low hum from my flesh is my only reply as I feel better than ever. Then, giving the two bodies beside me a glance, I tread away. That fight is likely over, but maybe not.

"Let's go see if we can help; how about that?"

Another hum, this one approving. I think the Bloody Palm likes being asked for permission. Makes sense with how much it hates control. I wish I could know more about it besides the brief glimpses I've been granted.

But that's alright. I'll learn over time. The shadow looming over me is gone; now, I can unwind.

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

Dakster "Darkstep" Yorn

It's all hazy. As I shamble through the forest, my thoughts are interlaced with pangs of mind-numbing pain. I can only see through the seventh marionette I keep, a small bird that hovers above. And, even with my training, I can't help but feel morose at my condition.

I planned it all out. It was to be the perfect assassination. I've stalked this damned sharpshooter and his group for days, finding the ideal time to strike while I observed, learned, and prepared. The attack of a Manipulator was unexpected, yet a perfect opportunity. Of course, Johnny might be an Angel while I am only a 6th Sigil, but still, I am a Yorn, birthed by the Viceray and a powerful human that was captured. The only Nahullo given more responsibility and training than me is Sequester, the nascent Warmaster. With my training, the distractions, and the wounds, I could kill him. Earn my place upon that table, finally. But no.

But then, I got distracted by the taste of an even loftier prize, a damned half-breed slowing me down. So the plan formed to fit killing both as the Vice asked, and that was my hubris. My downfall. If only I turned down that reward... but who could? Who doesn't want a Lumen? Yet it is over, for should I strike at my current strength without my puppets, I'd only be put down like a dog. Ahh! I was so close!

Everything was so perfect! If only... if only that damned pyromaniac hadn't come out of nowhere! No, I handled that just fine. Thinking on your feet is an essential part of being a spy. It was that gun... that Colt that Johnny had.

Where did he get it?! What was it!? If he had that in Rustbank, why didn't he use it? I could have taken a shot to the head and recovered if it hadn't also messed with my Ether flow. Agh... I suppose I'm just going to die now. Lucky bastard.

I'm ruined. My head is nothing but an eighth of my skull, and most of my brain and spine are missing. My body is gradually building toward Ether saturation as I use my soul to tether myself with Soulthread, an offshoot of Abyssal Marionettist.

My body, or more accurately, my still-moving corpse, has built up a hefty resistance to the substance over the many years, but no one is immune. Perhaps the Lords are, as the two demons are more aged than any architecture or system in the known world. All that time should give them the power to crush any foe, yet they cower before humanity's eldest man. Pathetic.

I can help but grind my teeth at the thought of him.

As a child, I was trained at the Table for a sole purpose; get close to the Prime, keep tabs on him, and kill his apprentice should he have one. Only one problem; after decades as a renowned Hunter, I've never seen the man, let alone an apprentice. He comes and goes as he pleases, and not a soul but those he wills knows of his location.

All I've learned over these years is his name, the whispers of Vincent Harvey impossible to ignore among the oh-so noble Estates. Most Primes appear at their height out of nowhere, secretly trained either by the former one or the wielder of Demonsbane. Sometimes it's one and the same; sometimes, it's not.

Yet none of it matters anymore. I will die, and all my grand ambitions will fade along with them. Nothing will save me. I am to die in the woods alone.

I don't stop walking, however. Movement, whether running, jumping, fighting, or walking, has always been a natural piece of me. None soothes me as feeling the wind brush past me or the surprised faces of those who can't even grace my speed with their eyes. It has always been so... perfect.

And if I'm to die, I will do so running, moving with the wind, and attempting to do what all those rumors I can do.

One last time, I would like to try to catch my shadow.

From the bird's eye view from above, I move, my Ether forcing my body to move beyond its limitations. Muscles strain and break as I burst through the forest, the setting sun bathing me in its shadows. Yet, I welcome them and move even quicker, rapidly looming onto the edge of my Ether. Only seconds remain if I act like this, but it feels so freeing.

The responsibilities are gone.

The pressure of endless expectations is gone.

The omnipresent weight of the coming future is gone.

Even the threat of death is gone, for it's already guaranteed.

It feels lovely, even as I come across two cooled and disfigured corpses. And as I collapse beside them, my body refuses to intake any Ether. Soulthread begins to unravel as my mind slows.

But as it does, one of the corpses beside me shimmers with a dull light. It stretches bizarrely out as my raven perches on a tree and peers down at me. The light is tinged with dark motes while it waves in the air as if searching for something. Pushing my body to its limit, my Ether breaking down my flesh as I move, I lift a finger to the curious light.

What's going on? Is it? Oh... I know what it is...

The instant my finger touches the light, I'm greeted by a warm presence that isolates me from the horrors of the world. No words are said. They don't have to be. The embrace is... otherworldly and irresistible. It promises happiness, joy, and eternity without a lie spoken while delivering heaven.

I... If I had known it was so relaxing... I would have given up long ago.

The Mother Below's adoption is paradise on land. So why would anyone fight this?

A thousand, no, an innumerable number of minds connect to mine. It might not be her voice directly speaking to me, but the others, the many, the Legion, give me strength. Perfection flows through my veins as from the bird above my skull, brain, and head reform. The sensation is immaculate, wrestling a moan from me the moment my vocal cords return.

And when I'm fully recovered, lying in the gore in the grass, a distant voice reaches me.

"Another sibling. I welcome you to our Legion. What would you like to be called, dear?"

I take a moment to think before sputtering out an answer; the thing I wish was my given name.

"Darkstep."

A rumbling laughter reaches my ears from some faraway beyond.

"Perfect. Perfect! You are Darkstep! I am Eldest, birthed before there were moons in the sky or vitality in the land. The Mother is... indisposed, for now, her slumber gradually ceasing. But for now, your task is rudimentary, Darkstep. Spread her light, manipulate, contort, and compel the world to obey her. As you do so, the light within you will grow, bestowing gifts as a Sigil would, allowing you to further your assignment. For one day, the Mother will rouse, and we don't desire her choleric, do we?"

I roll over and push myself to my knees as child-like giggles rend their way from my throat to the outside. Mother should always be happy. But unfortunately, people refuse her embrace because they are either ignorant, unworthy, or stubborn. The first can be fixed simply, and the second with enough penance. The third? Those are rare, but even they, too, shift over time. Only when the whole world bows to her will her willpower be satiated upon her next awakening.

"No. No, we don't want Mother angry."

A final phrase reaches my mind from the beyond before I feel the powerful soul divorce from mine, returning to whatever realm it is from after giving me aid.

"Indeed, Manipulator."