Grey
The transition from the familiar weight of Dicathen's air to the oppressive, mana-saturated atmosphere of Epheotus was like stepping from a dim room into a forge. Windsom, his expression perpetually hovering between disdain and detached duty, wasted no time. He ushered Sylvie towards a presence that dominated the realm long before we saw its source.
Kezess Indrath.
He sat upon a throne that seemed carved from pure starlight and glacial ice, radiating an aura that pressed down like a hammer. Authority wasn't just wielded here; it was the air, thick and demanding submission. Power crackled around him, not the volatile energy of a storm, but the deep, terrifying hum of a continental plate shifting. He embodied rulership distilled to its most absolute, terrifying form. Corvis's comparison felt laughably inadequate now. He wasn't like Agrona Vritra.
He was Agrona Vritra.
The recognition slammed into me with the force of a train. It wasn't just the overwhelming power, the casual assumption of godhood. It was the chilling familiarity. Standing before Kezess, I was instantly transported back to Taegrin Caelum, newly reborn and terrified, standing beside my former best friend: Nico.
Back then, rows of figures knelt before the High Sovereign, their foreheads pressed to the floor. Agrona, smiling that serpent's smile, had waved a dismissive hand. 'No need for that, boys. Call me Uncle Agrona.' The false warmth, the calculated charisma masking the fathomless ambition and cruelty beneath.
Kezess offered no such mask. His gaze, ancient and devoid of warmth, swept over me like a glacier assessing a pebble. There was no pretense of welcome, no veneer of avuncular concern. Only cold assessment. Sylvie pressed closer to my leg, a low, instinctive whimper escaping her. Her discomfort wasn't just fear of the unknown; it was a primal revulsion resonating through our bond, a reflection of the icy malice radiating from the figure claiming her blood.
He confirmed it moments later, his voice resonating with the finality of a tomb sealing shut. My life was a temporary concession, spared solely because of his granddaughter clinging to me and the potential usefulness of my body and bond in their celestial chess game against his rival. A tool. A weapon. A hostage. Nothing more.
Then came the worst part. With a gesture that brooked no argument, Kezess summoned Sylvie. Her frightened chirp tore at me. She looked back, her large, intelligent eyes wide with confusion and fear. Every fiber of my being screamed to intervene, to shield her from this cold, ancient predator who called himself her grandfather.
But the calculating part of me, the King Grey part honed in a lifetime full of regrets, locked down the instinct. Hostility here wouldn't save her. It would doom us both, and likely cascade into disaster for Tessia, for Corvis, for everyone I'd left behind in Dicathen.
I forced my expression into impassive stone, met Kezess's indifferent gaze, and gave the barest, coldest nod of acquiescence. The emptiness where Sylvie's warm presence had pressed against my leg felt like an amputation.
Windsom's curt gesture pulled me away from the throne room, the oppressive weight of Kezess's presence lingering like frostbite on the soul. My destination: my first instructor. Time, I quickly learned, was a malleable concept here. Thanks to the aether realm's temporal distortion, what stretched into two long, arduous years for me was a mere flicker in Epheotus.
My teacher: Kordri of the Thyestes Clan.
Expecting another Windsom, another embodiment of asuran arrogance, I was braced for hostility. Kordri defied expectations. He wasn't friendly, but he possessed a blunt honesty and a focus that bordered on respect. He didn't waste time on disdain or lectures about lesser beings. He saw a vessel to be honed, a weapon to be sharpened, and he set about his task with terrifying efficiency.
My training under him was a descent into brutal simplicity stripped of all artifice. Kordri drilled me in the absolute fundamentals: mana control refined to a razor's edge, and unarmed combat elevated to an art form bordering on the divine. He broke down every movement, every breath, every twitch of muscle fiber, rebuilding my fighting style from the ground up. Pain was the constant instructor, Kordri's fists and feet delivering lessons my body wouldn't forget.
The most humbling, yet strangely illuminating, sessions were when he pitted me against the children of the Thyestes Clan. Even young, their natural physicality was daunting. But Kordri's rule was absolute: no mana. On a level playing field of flesh, bone, and technique, the disparity became terrifyingly clear.
Their movements were fluid, instinctive, born of generations of perfected combat lineage. I was the clumsy novice, relying on honed human reflexes that felt sluggish in comparison. Yet, Kordri pushed. He corrected. He demonstrated with patience. And slowly, painfully, I adapted. I learned to anticipate their asuran grace, to exploit the micro-moments of imbalance, to leverage my own hard-won human cunning and endurance.
The victories, when they finally came against the youngest, were not triumphs of power, but of relentless perseverance and absorbed technique. They tasted different. Cleaner.
Leaving Kordri's training ground after what felt like a lifetime of sweat, blood, and recalibrated instincts, I carried a complex feeling. It was a hard-earned, deeply grudging respect. He hadn't pretended I was his equal, but he hadn't treated me as worthless scum either.
He was a craftsman, and for a time, I was his project. He'd done his job well. I turned towards my next master, the name settling like a lead weight in my gut: Riven of the Kothan Clan, the successors of the Vritra in Epheotus' politics.
———
The air in the Kothan territory hung thick and heavy, smelling faintly of ozone and something older, drier—like old parchment left to rot. Windsom deposited me with all the ceremony of discarding rubbish. Before me stood Riven Kothan, heir to the basilisk Kothan Clan. His eyes, slit-pupiled and the colour of gold, raked over me with undisguised revulsion.
"Training a Vritra abomination," he hissed, the words slithering out, cold and venomous, "wasn't what I expected to spend my time on."
The hatred was palpable, a great pressure in the dense air. It wasn't personal, not truly. I was merely a symbol, a walking insult—the bastard offspring of Agrona's line, tainted with the very blood they despised. His contempt was for the Vritra name, a brand I wore through no fault of my own, yet one that marked me as inherently foul in this place.
His participation, I sensed, was a reluctant duty, a bid to salvage some shred of honour for the Basilisk race after Agrona's monumental betrayal. He would teach me, but he would not suffer my presence gladly.
My decay affinities—blood iron, sharp and metallic, and soulfire, cold and consuming—were familiar tools, extensions of the ruthless efficiency Agrona had drilled into his creations. But under Riven's disdainful gaze, I quickly realized the Kothan Clan's decay was a different beast entirely.
Where Agrona's methods were surgical, precise, focused on targeted annihilation of life or structure, the Kothan's decay felt… primal. Chaotic. It wasn't pure decay mana; it was entropy incarnate. It wasn't about destroying this or that; it was about inducing a fundamental, messy unraveling.
It was like forcing disparate elements into a volatile reaction and accelerating their inherent tendency towards dissolution, towards base chaos. It felt less like wielding a scalpel and more like hurling a vial of universal acid.
When Riven demanded a demonstration, I conjured a shard of blood iron, sharp and deadly, dissolving a target stone with chilling efficiency. His lip curled, revealing a flash of fang.
"Disgusting, mutt," he spat, the insult landing with the casual cruelty only deep-seated prejudice allows. "A butcher's work. Crude." He offered no alternative demonstration, no correction beyond the scorn. The following months were an exercise in profound isolation.
Riven spoke rarely, and only in curt commands or insults. Any attempt to understand the chaotic entropy he represented was met with stony silence or a dismissive flick of his wrist. Tips were scarce, grudgingly given crumbs.
It became starkly clear: this wasn't training. This was containment. A deliberate stalling tactic. The Asuras, or at least the Kothan faction, were fulfilling the letter of Kezess's command—housing me, ostensibly instructing me—while ensuring no real progress was made.
They wanted a weapon, yes, but one kept blunt, contained, utterly dependent. The hypocrisy was galling, yet amidst the simmering resentment, a cold understanding took root. If our positions were reversed, if I faced the living embodiment of Agrona's legacy, the architect of my people's shame… would I act differently?
My own hatred for Agrona was a black star in my chest, brighter and hotter than any sun. In Riven's icy disdain, I saw a distorted mirror of my own consuming fury.
This enforced solitude, punctuated only by Riven's contempt and futile attempts to grasp a decay I wasn't truly being taught, became an unexpected crucible. With no external stimulus but hostility, I turned inward. The long, silent hours forced a confrontation not with Riven, but with myself—with Grey, and the specter of King Grey I had tried so hard to bury.
I had vowed in this new life to shed the cold, calculating and detached shell of the king. To be just Grey. But when had that truly died? Not in the training chambers of Taegrin Caelum, not even with Sylvia's sacrifice. It died earlier, in a quieter, more profound way.
It died with Headmaster Wilbeck. She wasn't just a teacher; she was the closest thing to a mother I'd ever known. Her loss wasn't just grief; it was the snapping of the last tether to simple humanity. After that, Grey vanished, consumed entirely by King Grey—a machine built for power, victory. And in that relentless pursuit, I had lost sight of everything else. Especially them.
Nico. Cecilia.
Finding Nico here, bound to me by Agrona's cruel design, had been a shock that reverberated through my locked-away memories. Even fragmented, I'd recognized him. Yet, arriving in Dicathen, meeting Cynthia, Tessia, Corvis… I'd grasped at those new connections with a desperate hunger, subconsciously trying to fill the void left by the friends I'd discarded.
I had judged Nico harshly, seeing only his manipulated rage, his loyalty twisted by Agrona's lies. I had forgotten the shared history, the bond forged before ambition and loss twisted us both.
Nico wasn't just an enemy. He was a victim, just like me. Agrona had played us both, puppets in his grand design to capture the Legacy, Cecilia. When his plan with us failed, we were cast aside, broken tools. Nico's memories were violated, his love for Cecilia weaponized against him.
From his perspective… I had killed Cecilia on purpose. The guilt of that realization was a ache in my heart, a cold stone settling in my gut. I had failed him long before Agrona ever touched him. I had failed Cecilia.
Alone in the oppressive silence of the Kothan territory, with only Riven's hatred and the chaotic whisper of entropy for company, I made a silent vow. This time, I wouldn't be King Grey.
That persona, forged in grief and wielded like a weapon, had brought only isolation and loss. To protect Tessia, Corvis, Dicathen… to even have a chance at saving Nico… I had to be something else. Softer, perhaps. More open. Definitely less guarded with those I cared about. The constant vigilance, the emotional armor—it had to come down.
And Nico… I owed him more than judgment. I owed him freedom. Freedom from Agrona's manipulations, freedom from the prison of his own violated memories and burning hatred. Even if he killed me for it, I had to try.
Saving him wasn't just about redemption for past failures; it was about finally laying King Grey to rest and becoming the person Headmaster Wilbeck, Grandma Sylvia might have hoped I could be.
The oppressive atmosphere of the Kothan lands, thick with disdain and ancient power, became the unlikely backdrop for a quiet, internal revolution. The weapon Epheotus was trying to stall was sharpening itself, not in decay, but in resolve.
———
The sterile, cavernous canyon of Wren Kain IV hummed with latent power, a stark contrast to the primal hostility of the Kothan territory or the brutal discipline of Kordri's grounds.
My final instructor, at least, approached his task with a gruff, pragmatic efficiency. He hadn't wasted time on insults or disdain, simply assessing my capabilities, pushing my understanding of mana manipulation beyond anything I'd known in Dicathen.
And he'd delivered: the Acclorite, a rhomboid shard of resonant stone now fused seamlessly in my palm, thrumming with contained power—the Asuran weapon Corvis had desperately tried to reverse-engineer. Proof that tangible progress was possible here.
Wren, hunched over a pulsating core of blue crystal, didn't look up as his gravelly voice cut through the workshop's hum. "How is your elven friend doing?"
"Good," I replied automatically, my thoughts immediately flickering to Corvis. His relentless drive, his unsettling foresight, the quiet burden he carried… I needed to get back. Dicathen needed every edge.
"I don't mean it that way," Wren clarified, finally straightening and wiping greasy hands on a rag that seemed perpetually stained. His tired eyes, deep-set in a face lined with concentration rather than malice, met mine. There was a spark of genuine curiosity there, rare amongst the Asuras.
"I'm intrigued by that kid's inventions. From what Windsom lets slip, he's been preparing Dicathen… well for the war. Fortifications, supply lines, integrating adventurers… resourceful."
"Has been?" The past tense snagged my attention like a barbed hook. A cold prickle of unease traced my spine. Corvis didn't stop preparing. He was a vortex of activity, constantly layering plan upon contingency plan. "What do you mean?"
Wren sighed, the sound like stones grinding together. "Grey," he said, his voice dropping, losing its usual gruffness for something heavier, more final. "Although the full might of Alacrya hasn't yet crashed upon your shores… the war has already begun. Skirmishes. Dungeon incursions. Entire patrols vanished."
The words landed like physical blows. The air rushed from my lungs. Already? The carefully measured timeline Corvis had agonized over, the buffer I thought we had… shattered. A cold wave washed over me, the familiar icy grip of urgency turning to dread. I'd been here, training, while Dicathen bled. My fists clenched, mana flickering involuntarily around the Acclorite.
"Before you think of doing anything monumentally stupid," Wren cut in sharply, his gaze piercing. He took a step closer, the aura of the master craftsman replaced by that of a seasoned warrior assessing raw material.
"As of now, you are stronger, yes. You might survive a Retainer. You might even wound one. But a Scythe?" He shook his head, the motion definitive, crushing. "They would dismantle you. Utterly. You know their capabilities better than most here."
I did. The memory of Cadell's casual, terrifying power, the sheer weight of a Scythe's presence, was seared into my soul. The flickering mana around me died. He was brutally, undeniably right. Charging back now wouldn't save Dicathen; it would just be a faster suicide, removing a potential asset.
"Give me a year, Grey," Wren stated, his voice regaining its gravelly firmness. He conjured a simple chair of compacted earth and sank into it, the picture of weary resolve. "One year. Train with me, seriously. Push the limits of what this," he tapped his own chest, indicating the Acclorite within me, "and you can become. With my help, focused and uninterrupted, you can forge yourself into something that gives Dicathen a real fighting chance. Not a pawn, but a force."
I studied him, this gruff, enigmatic Asura. "You're being… surprisingly honest. More than the others." There was no hidden agenda I could detect, no Windsom's condescension or Riven's hatred. Just blunt pragmatism.
Wren snorted, a dry, humorless sound. "Couldn't care less if you're a lessuran, a lesser, or Agrona's second cousin. When I take on a project, I see it through. I started training you. I intend to finish the job properly." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze intense. "I'll tell you a secret, Grey. One Windsom wouldn't whisper even under torture."
The air in the workshop seemed to still further. "What?"
"Lord Indrath," Wren said, the name devoid of reverence, laced instead with a weary cynicism, "gave up on you before your feet even touched Epheotan soil."
The words hit with the force of a physical blow. Gave up? After ripping Sylvie away? After the charade of training? "What do you mean?" The question came out tighter than I intended.
"The real piece the Indrath Clan is moving on their board," Wren explained, his voice low and matter-of-fact, "is your friend. Corvis Eralith. Windsom sings his praises—the 'perfect messenger', the 'pliable tool'. Lord Indrath pours resources into shaping him, molding Dicathen through him. You?"
Wren met my eyes squarely. "You're here as a courtesy to Lady Sylvie. A contained variable. Kezess doesn't truly believe you'll be decisive. He doesn't need you to be. Corvis is his pawn."
That manipulative, scaled bastard. The icy rage that flooded me was absolute. He'd taken Sylvie, not for her sake or mine, but as leverage. He'd dismissed me as irrelevant while exploiting Corvis, turning a kid—turning my friend—into a puppet dancing on Epheotan strings. The sheer, cold calculation of it was breathtakingly vile.
"Then…" I managed, the fury making my voice rough, "what am I supposed to do? Just play along with being a sidelined spare part?"
Wren Kain IV actually cracked a faint, grim smile. It was the first I'd ever seen on him. "No. You get stronger. Seriously stronger. Push harder than you ever have. I will help you, not for Lord Indrath, but because I see the potential he's blind to. You will make a difference, Grey. Whether Lord Indrath wills it or not."
He held my gaze, an unspoken challenge and an unexpected offer of alliance in his tired eyes. "The question is, will you waste time raging at the dragon, or will you use this year to forge a blade sharp enough to cut through his plans?"
The revelation was a poison, but also a perverse liberation. Kezess saw me as discarded. Wren saw… something else. Something worth investing in, despite the politics. The path was clear, brutal, and utterly necessary. The fire of defiance, hotter than any forge in his workshop, ignited within me.
"Alright, Wren," I said, my voice steady now, cold steel replacing the initial shock and rage. I met his gaze squarely, the Acclorite humming in resonance with my resolve. "Let's do it."