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Caera Denoir
The mob shifted, recoiling like one great hand that had pressed against a branding iron. The setting sun cast Scythe Cylrit's shadow long and dark across the entire crowd, the darkness thick and oily as it weighed them down. Murmurs spread through the crowd as the knight of dark steel stood sentinel between me and what I might have been forced to do.
I belatedly sensed members of the Supervisory Offices approaching. Cylrit's mana signature had been too potent at first, stealing the breath from my lungs until I'd managed to adjust. Now I could sense other signatures closing in around this section of the rioters. The mob had been so focused on me, all grouped into one mass close to rupture, that they hadn't realized they'd been encircled in turn.
"Thank you," I whispered, releasing a breath I'd been bottling up deep in my heart. I slammed my great ruby blade into the ground, leaning on it for support as the adrenaline started to taper off.
Cylrit barely spared me a glance, but when he did, his red eyes flickered across my horns, unreadable. I swallowed, averting my eyes from his disheveled face. "Caera Denoir," he replied, low and measured. "That you're here… with your heritage manifested? It is no coincidence."
His gaze swiftly returned to the crowd. "Lay down your weapons," he asserted one more time, his voice terribly steady as he pulled his greatsword from the stones. "If you cooperate peacefully, you will not be harmed. This is my promise as Scythe."
I let out a weary breath as many of the rioters slowly complied, laying down their weapons with trembling hands. Others peered back fearfully at the armored Supervisory Officers as they approached like a tide. And for the first time, I spotted someone waiting on the roofs of the distant houses.
Sevren. Sevren was crouched up there, coiled like a shintcat ready to pounce, a dark cloak of his own shrouding his features. He'd followed me, and from the way his eyes gleamed behind a spider's mask, I knew he had been ready to intervene for me, had it been needed.
Thank Vritra that he didn't need to, I thought, watching the crowd's fire slowly disperse.
"Your promise as Scythe? What in Great Vritra's name is that worth?" a woman cried suddenly, disrupting the lull. The same caster with earthen hair. "You all promised my boys glory. I don't see any glory. I don't even get to see their bodies!"
Before, when she'd honed in on me with her earth spellform, she'd been a vessel of rage, wanting nothing more than blood and death. Now, the streaks of orange paint beneath her eyes didn't look like featherstems. They looked like burning tears.
Cylrit let out an exasperated breath, his aura bubbling slightly. "At your backs are armed soldiers, trained to quell actions such as this," he enunciated, his patience straining. "To your front is the sea and a Scythe. Lay. Down. Your. Weapons."
For a moment, I thought the newly appointed Scythe's words worked, that these people would at last do the smart thing. It was better to take what losses one could afford, live to fight another day.
But then the woman's face went slack, and I understood. I recognized the emptiness that spread there: the look of a person with no way out.
"Then I have no choice," she said, her body slackening as she stared at Cylrit. "Then none of us have one."
The crowd was silent as a tomb. Even the distant soldiers of the Supervisory Office, in their faceless masks, paused as the silent part was finally said aloud. And I could feel their sudden, terrible urge to throw themselves against their walls, to beat their fists until their skin split and their bones shattered.
Cylrit had made a mistake with his last sentence, and I could see it spreading through the crowd. He'd reminded these people that they had no way out, that in every aspect of their lives, to their backs were soldiers, and their fronts Scythes.
I stepped past Cylrit, my basilisk-blood blade clenched in my hand. "Why are you wearing that orange paint?" I demanded loudly, eyes narrowed.
Cylrit didn't react, but I could almost sense the Scythe's desire to push forward, shielding me once more from the rioters. Yet he stayed back, watching me with hooded eyes. I had hardly known the man before my mentor left for war, yet the trust he showed served to anchor me further.
The grieving wife, sister, and mother looked at me. Not at the sea, not at Cylrit, not at the soldiers closing in around the rioters. She focused on me. And in that focus, her anger returned. "And why the hell should I talk to you, Vritra?" she hissed, so full of rage once more.
I barked a caustic laugh, shaking my head. I thrust my ruby blade behind me, pointing it across the gorge where my family waited in the courtyard of Seris' estate. "Because I'm here in the first place because of that bastard," I snapped. "My name is Caera of Highblood Denoir, and my family is on the brink of destruction for supporting him. So I think I have every right to know."
The caster blinked, then narrowed her eyes angrily in turn. "They're saying he was the cause of the Second Dawn," she hissed. "Some whisper that Toren Daen sacrificed himself to stop a massacre, that he was the only good thing that happened in the war. And then the High Sovereign says he was a spy, and it was our fault for harboring him. But none of it is true. Nothing is true."
The crowd wasn't exactly resurging now, but it was clear that this woman had captured the sentiments of the people in her words. Eyes averted, shoulders slumped, and men gritted their teeth as they fought to find something to believe in.
These people didn't believe in Toren. Not really. They just wanted something other than the sea or the Scythe.
And what can I even afford to tell them? I thought, hyper-aware of Cylrit's stare on my back. I felt like I was being tested somehow, weighed by an unseen force. And as the Scythe stood silent, I knew that—as much as for these people—I needed to make the right impression on him, too.
And I knew what I should say: the very reason I'd arrived here in the first place with my family. Not just to reveal that Highblood Denoir had finally fostered a true Vritra-blooded; that wasn't enough to spare them what was coming. It wasn't enough to justify their survival and protection.
I found Sevren again, crouching atop the distant roof. And as I stared at his masked form, I knew he would hate this decision. He would hate what I was about to say, hate what it would mean. I mourned that truth, even as I gathered my resolve.
I opened my mouth to speak.
"Ah, the Denoirs," a bass voice laughed, deep as an avalanche. "I've been looking everywhere for you. Not in your Central Dominion Estate, not in your Relictombs Estate, and not scurrying about Cardigan City."
A second power descended from the sky, thick as the doors barring Taegrin Caelum. I shuddered, my knees trembling as the weight of black diamond manacles weighed on my neck. I suddenly felt as if I were submerged in slowly coagulating blood, my lungs, nostrils, everything filling up slowly with that oppression. It was sharp, like a blade designed to rip and tear rather than slice cleanly. I could almost feel the jagged sensation, chunks of metaphysical flesh scraping away.
The rioters fared far, far worse. While I fell to my knees, fighting to breathe air instead of power, the unadorned and mages both collapsed like reeds crushed by an avalanche, gaping like dying fish.
I finally managed to turn slightly, fighting against the pressure as I beheld the newcomer, and the blood drained from my face.
It was said that Scythe Dragoth Vritra was the most popular of his station. He was casual, boisterous, and quick to smile and laugh when asked a probing question. Throughout the years, he had almost become the public face of the Scythes among the people.
Dragoth Vritra was slow to anger, slow to violence. But when he was violent, there were none more destructive than the Hammer of Vechor. And as I gazed up at the brute, hovering in the sky like an anvil of doom, I thought I understood.
The Scythe of the most warlike Dominion was a titan of a man, wrapped in the fur of some slaughtered mana beast. His horns thrust from his bald head like those of an ox, and the bestial, dark beard along his chin made him look savage and brutal.
I realized belatedly that there was blood streaking through it. Bits of viscera and gore were stuck in the gruff like woodchips in a grinder. And as I traced the source of it… I saw his arms were covered up to his furred leather gauntlets in that same shade of red.
The Scythe of Vechor grinned jovially down at me, smiling like a butcher eying a cut of meat. "There you are. Seris' little protege… But I heard nothing about horns."
Belatedly, Cylrit's aura pressed against Dragoth's oppressive manacles, finally allowing me to breathe. But even as he did so, doing what he could to shelter the rioters far behind from a gruesome fate, I could tell by the sweat on his brow and the clenching of his teeth that it was not enough.
"Scythe Dragoth," Cylrit growled, rising slightly. "You are in my Dominion, threatening my—"
"Please, Cylrit," Dragoth interrupted, still smiling. "Look around you, friend! You're clearly failing to do anything worthwhile in quelling these traitors. I've only given you a helping hand."
Cylrit's eyes flicked to the blood coating Dragoth's arms, then to the distant fires raging across Aedelgard. "What have you done?"
As if to punctuate the dark knight's words, another mana signature approached from the sky, trailing little embers of soulfire across their glistening chainmail. Echeron, newly appointed Retainer of Vechor, drifted about like a leaf on the wind. His eyes were confident and cruel, matching his long, golden-blonde hair and sharp brows.
And in his hand was a rune-emblazoned glaive, its edge slick with blood.
"In Vechor, we never dealt with pests like these, running around and supporting traitors," Dragoth emphasized, his voice rumbling as his Retainer fell in behind him. His attention was solely on Cylrit, goading, testing, scraping. Like a pickaxe probing stalwart steel for cracks. "When the news came about the traitor your master took to her bed, we had no riots. No need for bloodshed! Because we know what it is to be war. But you, my dear 'brother,' haven't squashed the bugs nipping at your heels. But that's okay. You're still new."
The Scythe's eyes drifted languidly to me, and my core pulsed with rising terror in my chest. Even as Cylrit fought desperately to keep me sheltered from Dragoth's intent, I could feel his eyes peeling me away. He had no whites in his eyes. His sclera was entirely red, like a pool of blood with a dagger of obsidian drowning inside—and that knife was aimed toward me.
"We've even helped quell those nibbling mice for you. And finally, as our High Sovereign said… Those who are most at fault for all of this: the Denoirs. Right before us."
My heart pounded as I instinctively slid a foot back, my combat instincts yelling at me to run; to hide or flee from this brute of a man. Behind him, Echeron sneered, flicking his gleaming glaive free of blood.
"You will not harm those under my protection," Cylrit growled, wrenching his titanic greatsword from the ground and squaring off with the opposing Scythe. "Highblood Denoir has fostered a Vritra-blooded. That is enough to pardon them their—"
"A single Vritra-born?" Dragoth laughed, picking at his ear with a pinky the size of a sausage. His teeth were white as bone. "How many Vritra-blooded did Spellsong's treachery get killed, brother? As if only one is enough to make up for it."
His aura redoubled, and the rioters behind me finally broke, scrambling rabbits running from a korfox. "Are you really so quick to try and defend good old Daen's friends, Cylrit? I mean, really? After he took your little master from your bed? I don't think I've ever seen someone quite so whipped."
For a moment, I thought Cylrit would hurl himself at the burly brute, forgo any sort of safety. Dragoth thought so, too, if the widening of his grin was any indication. Behind Dragoth, even Echeron looked surprised by his master's blatant words.
The dark Scythe stood still as a statue. I could almost believe his armor had turned to stone, locking him inside a standing grave. I could not see his face, but something about his presence shifted.
And then he chuckled. It was the most disorienting sound I'd heard this entire afternoon, even between the screams of fleeing men as the Supervisory Officers tried their damndest to usher them away.
" 'Those fangs were not so sharp,' says the lamb," he whispered. The newly appointed Scythe tilted his head upward, like a sprocket on a rusty hinge. " 'Those claws would never have torn apart my hide,' says the lamb. 'I always knew how to break the wolf,' says the lamb.
"But the lamb only boasts to the others when the wolf is gone. You rusted your armor whenever Seris spoke to you. You could never hide the smell," Cylrit snarled, his grip tightening on his greatsword.
Dragoth blurred downward, his booted feet slamming into the stone street. The earth trembled and cracked, stones rising under eddies of power. I stumbled backward on the suddenly uneven pavement, flicking my blade out to cut away the rubble.
The Scythe of Vechor marched toward his Sehz-Clarian counterpart, that grin still painted on his face. As the barbarian finally loomed over the knight, their mana biting and clashing together, I knew once again what it was to be a snake beneath a boot.
I heaved for breath, suddenly remembering a time not long ago when I'd stood beneath a coming battle. When Toren Daen's star had burned against Mardeth's rot, I had delved deep into the ground, fleeing a battlefield that would leave nothing in its wake.
Now, there was nowhere to run.
Dragoth wants to see the death of my family, I thought, forcing mana through my limbs as I slowly backed away. My eyes flicked to Sevren, still lounging poised on a rooftop. I saw the same anger in his eyes.
"Still clinging to that silver Scythe, 'brother?' " Dragoth mocked, his eyes narrowing. "Give it up. You are alone. If you want to learn to be anything worthwhile to the High Sovereign, you should stop pining for a dead woman."
"Master Seris' body was never found, Dragoth. Only the axe of a dead god," Cylrit growled, tall even beneath his opponent's towering form. "When she returns, will you still bleat?"
Dragoth let out a low rumble. The stones beneath my feet quaked. "Echeron," he said, his body tensing. "Continue your earlier work. Our friend needs a lesson in what it means to be a Scythe."
The golden-haired man smirked, then hefted his glaive like a spear. The runes on it gleamed, and a moment later, the blade erupted in soulfire. "Of course. Just means I'll need to clean her later."
Cylrit realized his mistake too late. Behind us, men and women still ran from inevitable doom, stumbling away from the sea, fighting and flailing not to crumble to the stones—in perfect line of sight for Echeron's attack.
And if he turned away from Dragoth to save those people, took any ounce of his attention from the crouching predator…
Cylrit's gauntleted fists clenched, and Echeron threw his glaive—a streak of dark, heatless flames arcing toward a single woman: the mother who had already lost it all. She couldn't even see it coming.
I was already moving, my wind emblem propelling me forward. I blurred into existence before the streaking attack, my ruby blade flashing in a deft, upward cut.
I parried the glaive mid-air, sending it spinning with a resounding clang that rattled through my entire body. And as it spun, round and round and round, my perception seemed to slow.
I gathered all the anger I'd felt, all the stress, fear, and anxiety I'd harbored since the start of my mission, and condensed it into a shadowy fire that erased anything it touched. I leapt upward, snapping a soulfire-coated foot out like an axe ready to fell a mighty tree.
The toe of my boot connected with the haft of Echeron's glaive, and then I followed through with a whiplike crack. The Retainer's weapon blurred back toward him in a streak, poised perfectly to pierce him through.
Echeron drifted easily to the side, letting his harpoon-like weapon surge past him without effect. He watched it go, his long, golden hair ruffled by the wind of its passing. And then he looked back at me, his pale features suddenly serious.
I'd landed easily, feeling the strain in my body from such a simple action. Soulfire flickered around me, burning proof of my manifested heritage.
"You will kill no more today, Vechorians," I bit out, my words a rattling hiss as I gripped my blade. I felt the eyes of everyone on that seaside cliff, heard the waves slamming their million fists into the stones. At my back, the woman stumbled away, safe and unharmed. At my front, Dragoth watched me with dread interest. "And Cylrit Vritra is not alone."
With my free hand, I withdrew a single item from my dimension ring, before hurling it to the stones. A knife embedded into the shattered street, gleaming white. High above, Sevren's breath caught as he read the script etched into the metal.
"By decree of the late Seris Vritra, as her final will and testament, I will be his Second," I declared, glaring at the Vechorian Scythe. The gambit was finally revealed, my hand played on the table. "In the event of her death and my manifestation as a Vritra-blooded mage, I will take the place of Sehz-Clar's Retainer. By wartime appointment, with the seal of one who has passed, thus is my privilege."
Dragoth merely laughed, even as he saw he'd been outplayed. Because he was right about one thing: merely fostering a single manifested Vritra-blood would not save Highblood Denoir from eradication.
But presenting a Retainer as an offering to their putrid gods, a sacrifice on a silver platter? That was enough to save even the most treacherous of houses from collapse.
"Even from beyond the grave, she still thrusts her fingers into every pie," the Scythe muttered darkly. His aura flickered, and I thought I understood what Cylrit had meant. I saw the lamb. "A terrible genius, wasted on the likes of this Dominion."
The barbarian backed away, lumbering like a giant. "It seems your master has presented you with a funeral gift, Cylrit. As all the other candidates drop like flies, she hands you a sacrifice."
Cylrit let out a breath. "Go back to your warmongering, Dragoth," he ordered, a gauntleted finger pointed toward the distant teleportation gate. "Sehz-Clar can handle itself. We do not need your war and death here."
The other Scythe shook his head, rising into the air. "Sehz-Clar. Sehz-Clar. Cylrit, you are a neutered wolf. I saw the Victorious Black Tower so many decades ago back in Vechor, before that woman scooped you up and cut off what made you strong." Dragoth spat onto the ground. "We come from the same roots. But you've forgotten who you are."
The Hammer rose into the air, then drifted lazily toward the distant gate. "Retainer, with me. I grow bored of this place."
Echeron thrust out his hand behind him, eyes lingering on me. His glaive rose from the distant city, then whistled back into his grip. He didn't quite sneer at me, but it was a close thing. "Watch your brother, girl," he said slyly. "He's bound to get himself killed."
My eyes widened, then I glanced toward the building Sevren had been positioned on. Too late, I realized he was aiming that gauntleted arm toward the Retainer, waiting for a perfect shot.
Shit! I thought, worried that another fight might ensue. Damn it Sevren, can't you just keep your trigger finger to yourself for once?
Thankfully, Echeron didn't give Sevren another glance. He flew after his Scythe, quietly confident and utterly unfazed.
I hadn't realized my heart had stopped until it began to thunder once more in my ears, the events of the past few minutes catching up with me all at once. My legs trembled, and I felt the sudden urge to collapse like a bundle of sticks tied loosely together. I was a haphazard shelter made to withstand a storm, and now that the rain and lightning had passed, I wanted to just break.
No, I reminded myself, trembling. No. You will never break. You can't afford to ever, ever break. Not with what is ahead.
Cylrit wheeled around slowly, like some great industrial machine, unoiled for an age. I expected him to approach me and acknowledge what I'd said in some way, shape, or form. But in the now-empty, shattered street, he only walked to the dagger I'd hurled into the earth, a clunking, worn automaton.
He knelt before it, his disheveled hair masking his face as he read the words etched into the metal by a familiar hand. The tall, impenetrable man seemed suddenly very… small? Vulnerable, as his dark gauntlets cradled that knife.
"Caera," Sevren's voice said, both low and harsh all at once. "Caera, what did you do? Please, please tell me this isn't…"
I tore my gaze from Cylrit, looking toward my brother. "You saw what happened a minute ago, Sevren," I said quietly, sensing the devastation all around us. "If I don't do this, then our family will all be killed, ripped apart at the seams."
"Is that why you've chosen to do this?" he asked, his teal eyes dull. "You know what they'll do. You know what will happen to you in Taegrin Caelum. I don't… I don't want that for you."
Sevren was no fool. The moment that Scythe Dragoth had witnessed my horns, there had been no turning back. No covering up the truth. Either I would submit myself according to the plan, or we'd let our family be destroyed.
I swallowed back a lump in my throat. In him, I saw a kindred vulnerability to Cylrit's. Different, but oh-so-similar. "I don't want it either," I said honestly. Seris had told me much when we had planned this. She'd explained what she could of those depths, listed every technique she had to shield her secrets and thoughts. I would need them. "But there are things bigger than just us, now. I know what you're afraid of: that I'm being thrown away. Sacrificed by… her."
My eyes flicked back to Cylrit, who was still gingerly holding that knife. Some family had finally taken the chance to leap back over the gap now that the immediate danger had passed, and Corbett was kneeling before the dark Scythe, talking in hushed tones. No doubt explaining the circumstances and what our Highblood needed.
"But I have a mission, too." Seris had done her due diligence in giving each of the Menagerie a purpose, something they could do that would exemplify our talents. I didn't know what Sevren had been doing, nor Naereni. But my infiltration of the High Sovereign's fortress was not just to protect my family. "But if we want any chance to make it through this war alive, then you need to trust me. As ascenders do in the Tombs."
Sevren's shoulders slumped, his fists clenching. His soulmetal arm ground like wrought iron. "I've done nothing but try and be powerful enough to protect you. To make it so you can have a life where you would never have to do this."
I stepped forward, then wrapped my brother in a tight hug. He'd been the person to finally let me explore the world, taking me on ascents and showing me every one of his little secrets. Seris had allowed me to make my first choice so many years ago when I had manifested, but Sevren had let me step outside the cage of my family.
I didn't know when I would see him again. Part of me knew that, when I saw him next, I would not be the sister I was now. "I helped most of Toren's friends and allies evacuate to Darrin's Estate," I whispered into his ear. "I'm sorry that you can't help me, but maybe you can help them."
Sevren scoffed, some of his old nature returning as we separated. "Circe Milview is with them, isn't she? The crazy sentry? I don't want to talk to her if I can avoid it."
My brows quirked a little, recalling the events that had played out not long ago in the cathedral. It had only been because the East Fiachrans and all of Toren's allies were so close together that their evacuation had gone so smoothly. Circe's unnerving assertion that it was somehow Fated—meant to be, driven by a higher power somewhere—sent shivers down my spine.
"Yeah," I agreed, uncertain what to think. "I think it'll be worse when you next talk to her. But if anyone can convince someone about the principles of aether… I guess it'd be you."
Maybe the young sentry would listen to Sevren more, too. I knew she had a crush on him.
I sensed Cylrit finally turning away from my adoptive father, scrutinizing both me and my brother. Everyone else had fled the square by now, hopefully into the relatively safe arms of the Supervisory Officers, or back to their homes.
Sevren couldn't look his father in the eye. "Good luck, Caera," he said quietly. "I… trust you."
Then he ejected his soulmetal blade into the wall of a nearby building, trailing hairavant wire. And with a simple tug and use of his regalia, he blurred away.
I won't be the same person when I see him next, will I? I thought to myself, feeling weak in the knees once more. Memories of our time as children—when we were both so innocent, sparring with wooden swords in the depths of the estate—flashed in my mind. Would I ever be that girl again?
Great Vritra, Caera, I thought, wiping my eyes with my vambraces. Get a grip. Your Scythe is standing right there.
I turned to the new Scythe of Sehz-Clar, inspecting him once more as he stood there. He did the same to me, a strange, unreadable air about him as he measured me. And for the first time, I realized that I knew very, very little about Seris' Retainer, only that he had known all along that my blood had been manifested.
I'd planned with my mentor, going over plot after plot after plot as we ironed out what I would need to do in Taegrin Caelum to serve her rebellion. She'd told me what to expect from my captors and my gods, tutored me on what horrors I would need to steel myself against.
But she had told me very, very little about the man I had just sworn myself to. I traced his sharp features, noting the rugged stubble and the pinched brows. He had a face sculpted for thinking, as if it could never escape contemplation, no matter how he twisted his mouth or eyes. They'd always somehow slide into something from the old statues in the gardens of a Highblood's estate, grasped by the perpetual muse of the mind.
I blinked, realizing I'd been staring for a moment too long. "Scythe Cylrit Vritra," I said, forcing myself to a knee. I forced a flush of shame from my face as I pressed a single fist into the shattered earth. "My mentor left me that dagger. Told me to unsheathe it should I ever manifest my blood, and she was no longer here for me."
I looked up at the man, steel in my eyes, hoping to convey a silent message of support. "I… do not know what it means to be a Retainer. But I will serve you as best I can." For my family. For Alacrya. And for me.
Cylrit said very little, gazing down at me as if I were something utterly alien—impossible to understand, an aberrant anomaly in his perception. He raised the dagger to his eyes, tracing the script etched within. "This is indeed the hand of Scythe Seris Vritra," he said slowly. He had outwardly professed that he believed his master was still alive, and from this dagger it only added credence to his belief. "Yet I am certain… She would never send you to do this, Lady Caera. She never said as such to you, but you were far too precious to her."
I shifted uncomfortably. Because it was not her decision. "I cannot speak to my mentor's intentions, Lord Cylrit," I said respectfully. "But if she were to pass… I imagine that she would care for Alacrya as a whole over one simple student."
The Scythe considered me for a few heartbeats. His features had once again slotted into that mold of contemplation, some thought held in the back of his mind that wouldn't let him go.
"Follow me," he said, turning back toward the city. He'd become a wall of iron again, blocking out anything I tried to grasp from him. "The fires still burn, and you have shown yourself to be skilled with your words. If you wish to be my Retainer…"
Then prove yourself, went unspoken.
—
Many hours passed, and night had long since fallen by the time Cylrit had deemed we'd done what we could for the day. Now I walked through streets of rubble, trailing after the automaton of a man.
I'd seen so much violence, seen what Dragoth and Echeron had left behind. I'd spoken more, proclaiming myself the new Retainer of Sehz-Clar. It wasn't technically official yet, but it was a foregone conclusion if Cylrit personally approved.
And if the High Sovereign does, too.
In the end, I still didn't know if I'd gained the metal man's approval or not. He'd been silent throughout our trek through Aedelgard, even as we went from angry mob to angry mob, talking them down and convincing them to lay down their weapons for today.
And if that didn't work, subduing them with nonlethal force.
My core ached as we finally reached the chasm where it had all began, the waves crashing far below. The stars glimmered high above Seris' estate, so far out of our reach. Those stars… They made me think of the one who had somehow started all this, wherever he was. Alive, certainly… Circe Milview proved that.
Toren did things like this before, didn't he? I thought, remembering the terrible devastation in the aftermath of the Plaguefire Incursion.
"Was this what it was like after the Plaguefire Incursion?" I blurted out.
Cylrit looked over his shoulder again, and I felt foolish once more. His constant, utter silence these past few hours had left me feeling the urge to fill it, as if it were some sort of canvas he was neglecting to cover with paint. It had been easier when I could talk to the rioters, but now?
"You are not one for silence," he observed. Then he let it linger, his face morphing again. It took me a few moments to realize that he wasn't even doing it intentionally, just… thinking. "It was not the same, Lady Caera."
My brow wrinkled. "Well then, what was it like?"
Cylrit's dark armor clinked as he turned back toward the gap between the rocks. "When it was all done, the Fiachrans felt hope. This is… one of hopelessness." He strolled to the edge of the cliff, then rose into the air. "Do you have enough strength left to clear this jump, or would you like assistance?"
A wry smirk split my face as I imagined myself, disgruntled, being carried across the seventy-foot gap like a sack of potatoes by the utterly emotionless block of steel. It helped to push away the sorrow his response had caused.
"I think I've still got enough," I said, brushing my sweat-soaked navy hair out of my face. "I'll be right behind you."
The Scythe flew across the gap with ease, but I walked a few feet back, giving myself some leeway. Far below, the sea spat its foam upward, waiting to catch anything that might tumble toward the rocks below.
But you can't have me, I thought, starting to run with mana-enhanced strength. Only I can.
My legs pumped, my heartbeat accelerating as mana squeezed from my tired core. And when I hit the edge of the path, I jumped. I soared through the air, the wind stripping the sweat from my body. As I hung there in the sky for a few timeless moments, arcing before the stars with my horns absorbing what light they cast, I felt so strangely alive.
I'm still hiding, I thought, feeling the air caressing my skin. I've always, always been hiding who I am. What I am. But now, I move forward.
In the end, I didn't have enough strength in me to perfectly clear the gap, but a timely use of my wind emblem propelled me the rest of the way. I landed with a graceful roll, rising primly back to my feet. My hair had become mussed again, and I fixed it with a bit of a smirk on my face.
It was a moment later that I realized Cylrit's expression had changed, too. Just the subtlest, smallest quirk of his own lip, tipped upward in a display that cracked his apathetic projection. "You did not have enough mana," he commented after a moment.
I barked a laugh, squaring my shoulders. I felt freer than I had a moment earlier, the wind stripping away what reservations I had left. "I had enough to clear the gap," I corrected. "Couldn't jump as far, but that's not what mattered, is it?"
Cylrit's smirk widened a bit, before it fell away again. He turned back to Seris' estate and began to walk, beckoning for me to follow. As we crossed the boundaries to my mentor's seaside home, his aura shifted, becoming more serious.
A garden greeted us first, covered in myriad flowers. Flowers I couldn't name and didn't recognize bloomed in a rainbow of colors all around us, but they were muted, wilting without proper care. Weeds sprouted here and there amidst what must have once been a beautiful array of plant life.
I let out a noise of sadness as I passed one flower, which must have once been as vibrant as the stars above. Its petals were a lightless midnight black, speckled with stars all across its surface. It drooped like a man starving of thirst, fighting and failing to keep his shoulders square.
"A nightsky rose," Cylrit said quietly beside me. "One of the rarest in Seris' collection."
I spared him a glance, chewing on my lip. "What makes it rare?" I inquired. "Its beauty alone?"
I could certainly understand if that were the case. It was a wonderful flower. Imagining what it must have looked like in the past was enough to make a little part of me wilt, too.
The Scythe leaned over, brushing a gauntleted finger against the drooping petals. I saw something there in his eyes, something deeper than words. "It is simply a pretty flower," he said. "Nothing of consequence, even in this garden."
I shifted on my feet, looking about the garden, at the destitution present. "Can't you… I don't know, hire someone to help it thrive again? Seeing this… It's quite sad, isn't it?"
Cylrit straightened, then turned back to the doors of Seris' estate. "Perhaps," he allowed. "Perhaps. But there is not much time for tending a simple garden in times such as these."
My brow furrowed as I hurried off after the Scythe, thinking of his disheveled hair and gruff beard. Not much time to tend a simple garden in times like these?
He pushed open the doors without preamble, not giving me a moment to hesitate. I hurried after him. The Scythe loped into the grand antechamber of Seris' estate, and I momentarily marveled at the wealth on display. Not gaudy or overly ostentatious, but subtle in every expression. A central staircase of furnished clarwood stretched up to a distant balcony, before looping through the rest of the grand halls.
As I followed after the dark-haired man, I was reminded constantly of Seris' subtlety in expressing her power and station. From growing up in the Estate of Highblood Denoir, I'd learned to distinguish different types of money. New money was almost always glaringly obvious: up-and-coming Named Bloods and newly minted ascenders were almost belligerent in their displays of wealth, flaunting gaudy colors, expensive artifacts, and strutting like peacocks trying to convince everyone that they had always been eagles. They tried to paint over the poverty of their past in a tacky flutter of colored wings as if all that they had now could justify all that they didn't before.
That had been something that made Toren so strange, I thought, my eyes catching on the rug that I was currently striding over. How he simply didn't care for ostentation, even as a rising ascender. But even then, he wasn't… like this, either.
New money was explicit. Old money, however, was implicit. Their wealth was shown not in gaudy contrast, but in how they seemed to fit within their surroundings, like a hand meshing perfectly with a glove. Comfort was the precedent, and confidence was key.
Seris' state whispered that comfort, whispered that confidence. I was certain that every item I passed was worth entire Dicathian kingdoms, but some looked so simple and mundane that I would have suspected otherwise. Chairs, tables, paintings of war… all humbly downplaying their importance.
Cylrit led me to a specific room, one I immediately knew. I returned to myself, suddenly alert as I recognized the descriptions my mentor had given me. An ornate desk made of dark charwood stood prominently in the center of the room, a chaise lounge not far away. I could almost envision my mentor coiling leisurely about that sofa like a serpent.
And on the balcony overlooking the crashing sea, staring westward toward the horizon, I could most certainly imagine Cylrit staring out like some stoic icon. Through my sudden readiness, I suppressed another wry smirk at the image.
"This is Scythe Seris' study," Cylrit said sternly. "It is warded against all incursion, and any conversation we have will be as safe as possible. Anything said or done here will reach no ears. Not even the Sovereigns."
He looked at me inquisitively, and then his eyes drifted to the balcony. "Wait here for a time. I shall fetch the rest of your blood for what we shall discuss."
I strolled over to the chaise lounge, running my hand over the leather. I realized nearly immediately that the dark material was made with wyvern hide. "Okay," I said, my eyes tracing across the room. It looked so deceptively simple, all in black and purple shades. When Seris had been its occupant, she would have been the only spot of silver present at all. "I'll just be waiting here, I guess?"
I plopped into the sofa, propping myself up and watching Cylrit with a raised brow. "I don't think I pull this off quite as well. Do you?" I stretched out onto the sofa a little bit, emulating what I thought was a pretty solid interpretation of a Seris-like sprawl. I knew immediately I looked incredibly undignified, too: still quite dirty, in brutal combat leathers, and overall a mess.
It was enough to win another slight quirk of the Scythe's lips, at least, which I counted as a win.
"I shall return soon," he said in that even monotone, nodding respectfully, before leaving, shutting the door behind him.
If you feel weak, Caera, I remembered Seris say, feeling Cylrit's mana signature drift away, you can rely on him. There are few people in the world so loyal, so stalwart and ready to help you when you risk falling. You will have no friends or allies in Taegrin Caelum: none except Cylrit. Never forget that.
I slowly swung my feet off the sofa, wondering about my mentor's words as I strode to her desk, scanning the scattered papers left on the pristine dark wood. "I can imagine it, at least," I mused. "I think we can get along."
If I never got any smirk back, I wasn't certain if we could. But there was a person hidden underneath that armor somewhere.
"And if I'm not mistaken," I continued, tracing my eyes up to the ceiling above the desk, "he left me in here alone for a reason. Because he guessed I needed it."
Common convention had mages leave control panels for their wards on or around their desks. It allowed quick and easy access for emergencies when one needed to spring alarms or re-arm their defenses. That also made it easy for assassins and spies to find the central control point, should they wish to let others in.
So, of course, my mentor did not cling to convention.
I swept the papers a bit to the side, clearing a space. Then I hopped up onto the desk, wincing inside as my heels pressed against the priceless wood. I was sure Seris wouldn't mind if there were scuff marks.
Then I stood on my toes and pressed my hand to the ceiling, probing outward with my mana, looking, looking…
Sweat beaded along my temples as my tired mana core probed at the tiles, utterly focused. I felt as if more and more minutes ticked by, until…
Finally, there. My mana grasped a thread—and nearly immediately, I felt it begin to heat up, security protocols activating for the entire estate.
"12th of the moon, 1673," I quickly hissed, the secret password Seris had given me. My heart beat once. Twice…
And then heat subsided, granting me full control of the wards.
The silver Scythe wouldn't stick to convention, of course. She'd explained to me, a characteristic smile on her face, that she was a white core mage. She could fly easily enough, so what stopped her from etching her controls into her ceiling? And she'd given me that date with eyes strangely empty and full all at once.
I focused again, then honed my mind and slashed through a single portion of the protections. Immediately, a small, hyper-specific portion of the wards collapsed near the basement of my mentor's seaside villa.
What does Seris have stored there, in the basement of her estate? I wondered again, terribly curious as I extracted myself from the wards. And why am I breaking part of the shielding for—
I shook my head, squashing those questions. My curiosity could wait for another day. I wasn't meant to know what or who this was for, and if I even briefly let my mind travel along those paths, I risked every part of the plan.
I hastily dropped back down to the ground, then did a haphazard job of shuffling the papers across the desk in the best order I could remember. Then I zipped back to the chaise lounge, before dropping in like a queen reclaiming her place on her throne. It took a few seconds for my heartbeat to calm down as I did my utmost to look terribly awkward on the sofa.
There was a sort of rush to a heist, wasn't there? I could understand why Naereni had such an obsession with stealing. Though I still would never forgive Twitter-fingers for nabbing my allowance so many times.
When I'm a Retainer, I thought with a devious smirk, I can order her to do anything. Even to not call me Douboiur anymore.
I sensed Cylrit returning less than a minute later with Corbett and Lenora in tow. When he got to the door, however, he alone stepped through.
The shield quietly shut the door behind him, then looked at me with another one of his inscrutable expressions. At no point did he look toward the desk, or anywhere else in the room but me. I spared a glance back to the door, asking a silent question: Are you going to invite them in?
"Before this continues, I must be honest with you about what this will entail, Lady Caera," Cylrit said quietly. He walked a bit closer, standing just a ways out of reach.
I got the sense he had never sat in his life, so I did him the favor of standing so we were face to face once more. "I know what will happen," I said earnestly, forcing myself not to shudder. "Taegrin Caelum is the darkest part of this continent. I will be taken in, experimented on, and… molded into what they want me to be."
The Scythe watched me silently for a few moments, and this time, I did not know if it was to make me uncomfortable or if he was truly thinking.
"You are afraid," he said, a statement of fact. "But you are not afraid enough."
My brow wrinkled, but the man continued on.
"Every one of the Sovereigns is beholden to their craft. An obsession of their own. Lord Oludari Vritra wishes to understand what it means to travel to other worlds. Lord Kiros Vritra wants to create a place of perfect entertainment. Lord Khaernos Vritra desires to understand the depths of history. Lord Exeges Vritra wishes to look forward in time, to predict every future."
Against my will, my heart—which had finally calmed down a few minutes ago—began to pick up again, scraping against my ribs as the words poured from Cylrit's mouth like pus from a wound.
"And all of them are dangerous to us, Lady Caera. Incredibly dangerous. But they are not the ones that you must fear the most." The dark-haired man ground his teeth. "Do you know what it is that Lord Orlaeth Vritra wants, more than anything?"
I finally averted my eyes, cowed by the flare of intensity in the man's gaze. I traced the patterns on the floor, falling into myself. Remembering all that Seris had warned me about.
But this was my mission, in the end. The reason I stepped into the bonfire, risking everything. I had seen the hatred in my mentor's eyes—and the fear.
"Orlaeth Vritra," I said slowly, raising my gaze to meet Cylrit's one more time, my resolve steeled, "wishes to create the perfect being. And that is what makes him dangerous: because he will be the one to force my advancement. He is an empath of the highest order, capable of reading emotions on a level that approaches mind-reading. Capable of puppeteering you against your will."
It was night outside, but the sky seemed to darken further, all the light-giving stars abandoning their gleam. Cylrit watched me, nearly invisible if not for his pale skin.
"You know this, and will still continue on?"
I slowly nodded. Ultimately, Orlaeth was my goal, because he held crucial secrets—secrets not even my mentor ever managed to uncover. Secrets hidden deeper in Taegrin Caelum than any lesser had managed to trek before. Secrets that risked the destruction of all that Seris wanted to build.
How are the Wraiths created, I thought, clenching my fists, and how do we destroy them all?
"I will."