Chapter 12: Changing Man
Sevren Denoir
The cool marble beneath me was a shock after the sucking mud and psychic dread of the Fog Zone, as I started to subconsciously name.
My eyes fluttered open, vision swimming, then focused with jarring clarity. Inches from my face, filling my entire field of view, were two sharp, black horns curving upwards from a grey-skinned temple.
Vritra Horns.
The indoctrination hammered into every Alacryan from birth—the reverence, the primal fear, the absolute subservience—slammed through me like a physical hammer against a wall. My breath hitched, a cold wave of terror washing away the lingering haze of unconsciousness.
Instinct screamed: prostrate! Submit! This is divinity made manifest! My muscles locked, preparing to scramble back, to lower my gaze, to offer the formal gestures of obeisance ingrained since childhood.
Before I could move, arms encircled me. Not the crushing grip of a Retainer enforcing discipline, nor the cold, indifferent touch of an Awakened Vritra Blood.
These arms were divinely strong, sculpted like the idealized statues of the High Sovereign himself that adorned every major plaza in Cargidan and Alacrya whole, yet their embrace was… firm. Secure. Warm. They pulled me not down, but in, against a solid chest that thrummed with a strange, quiet energy.
"Iskander!" The name boomed, filled with unfeigned, almost boyish relief. The arms tightened fractionally, a brief, fierce pressure.
"You're back!" He shouted.
The dissonance was staggering. The horns, the undeniable physical markers of Vritra lineage, mere inches away. The raw power radiating from the grey-skinned form.
Yet the voice… the embrace… it belonged to the reckless, strangely vulnerable, horned demigod who'd fought beside me, panicked for me, and dragged me from the clutches of the Being form the Fog. Iskander.
My… friend? The concept felt alien and dangerous applied to one of them which I have always needed to be wary of, even my sister if I had to follow my parents' orders.
No... the concept felt alien in itself. I never had a friend, at least not a friend who wasn't my sister. No matter how hard I tried.
"Iskander," I managed, my voice raspy but deliberately level, drawing on generations of Highblood composure.
"You are too close." It wasn't rejection, merely the necessary buffer my soul demanded—I never liked contact. "But… thanks. For saving me. I was very…" The word felt inadequate, yet obligatory. "Lucky to meet—"
His finger pressed gently but firmly against my lips, silencing me. The touch was electric, shocking in its casual intimacy. No one touched a Highblood heir's face so freely, least of all a Vritra Blood. His amethyst eyes, usually sparkling with manic energy or unnerving focus, held mine with an unexpected intensity.
They were mesmerizing pools of captured twilight, ancient and alien, yet in this moment, filled with a fierce, almost scolding sincerity that was profoundly unsettling.
"Don't." His voice was quiet, but brooked no argument. That single word vibrated with a conviction that silenced the reflexive protests rising in my throat. "You are not lucky, Sevren."
"You did this all on your own. It's our fight. Against Misfortune. Not luck." He emphasized the last word like it was a curse, a fundamental misunderstanding of reality.
I stared, momentarily speechless. A philosopher sprouting from the chaos? In the scant hours I'd been unconscious, had he wrestled with cosmic truths while I bled out? Or was this another facet of his inherent, terrifying strangeness?
This Vritra Blood defied every category, every expectation. Reverence warred with bewildered exasperation inside me.
Just what kind of divine experiment are you Iskander? I asked in my head.
The practical part of my mind, the Ascender trained to assess resources and threats, surfaced.
"Iskander," I asked, pushing myself more upright, testing my healed torso with cautious wonder. The wound was gone, sealed as if it had never existed. Even the most potent Instiller potions couldn't achieve such perfection.
"Where is the Relic? The heart-shaped stone?" My eyes scanned the serene sanctuary—the white marble, the gently splashing fountain, the pearlescent light. No sign of the obsidian artifact pulsing with ancient power.
His face lit up with pure, unadulterated excitement, the philosopher momentarily replaced by the eager scholar.
"I studied it!" he exclaimed, practically vibrating. "Gained incredible insight over aether! Sevren, it literally opened my mind!" He spun around with startling speed, presenting his back. "Look!"
My breath caught. Emblazoned between his shoulder blades, stark against the smooth grey skin, was a rune. But it was like no rune I had ever seen, not in the Denoir library, not at Central Academy, not in whispered descriptions of legendary Regalias.
Around Alacrya certain places, through a bestowment ritual, gave Marks, Crests, Emblems and even Regalias—intricate, powerful, but ultimately granted symbols, fueled by the Sovereigns' own fake gift: magic. This… this was different. It wasn't etched; it seemed born from his very skin, radiating an inner, pale golden light.
The design was fluid, complex, organic—less a symbol and more a living diagram of impossible concepts. It pulsed faintly, not with the familiar thrum of mana, but with a profound, silent energy that resonated in my bones, not my core.
Power, yes, but power claimed, not bestowed.
Gold. The color slammed into my mind. Caera's voice, hushed and intense after a rare audience with Scythe Seris about the Indrath dragons. Gods opposed to the Vritra. The enemies whispered about in terrified reverence. This couldn't be…
"It's gold, right?" Iskander twisted his head, trying to see his own back, his voice brimming with childlike curiosity. "Sylvia says it's probably because her body was used to make mine, but also because of my own insight over aether! I don't see it purple anymore, Sevren! Everything's pale gold now, just like my core!"
Sylvia. Again. The spectral companion, the unseen advisor. Was solitude in the Relictombs truly this corrosive, forcing him to invent a dragon-shaped confidante? It would explain the desperate affection, the "first friend" declaration.
But… the core. The impossible aether core he claimed. That demanded answers, delusion or not. The rune was tangible proof something monumental had happened.
"The core," I said, my voice carefully neutral, masking the whirlwind of suspicion, awe, and burgeoning scientific fascination. "We were a bit preoccupied before, fighting a fog-monster playing with our sanity. But I'm… deeply interested."
Iskander needed no further prompting. He dropped cross-legged onto the cool marble floor before the fountain, radiating eagerness. He launched into his explanation—the brutal self-surgery in the Office Zone, the talon carving channels through his own flesh, the agonizing process of forcing raw aether into those wounds, guiding it, forging it into a core.
He described the pain with chilling detachment, the risk with reckless nonchalance, and the resulting power with pure, unvarnished wonder. He spoke of Sylvia's skepticism, her eventual guidance, the terrifying beauty of the aether knitting him back together. It was a narrative of madness, brilliance, and excruciating willpower.
When he finished, the sanctuary was silent save for the fountain's gentle splash. I stared at him, the weight of his words settling like stones in my gut. The sheer, suicidal audacity. The terrifying implications if it were true. The undeniable fact that he had punched fog apart and healed a sword through the heart.
"Okay," I said slowly, deliberately. "I was only suspecting it before, but now I am certain." I met his amethyst gaze. "You are utterly, completely, certifiably crazy."
A wide, genuine grin split his face, utterly devoid of offense. "Says the guy wandering the Relictombs all alone," he shot back, the challenge laced with unexpected warmth.
We both laughed, the sound echoing strangely in the serene chamber—a Highblood heir and a possibly divine, definitely unhinged experiment, sharing a moment of absurd camaraderie forged in shared terror. The tension eased, fractionally.
Stretching, I felt the miraculous solidity of my healed torso. "I am tired of the Relictombs," I admitted, the weariness bone-deep. "For some time."
"Oh, right!" Iskander sprang up with his unnerving energy. "You didn't want the Heart Relic as a gift. Which," he added, pointing a finger with mock seriousness, "turned out to be an optimal choice on your part. See? No luck involved. Pure strategic foresight."
"So," he continued, rummaging near the bench and producing the longsword. The white blade gleamed like captured moonlight, impossibly sharp. The golden hilt felt cold and heavy, the white pommel with its single, dark eye-jewel seeming to watch me.
"I looted this for you. From the Being from the Fog. You dealt the final blows. You earned it, Sevren Denoir. No complaints allowed." He held it out, the challenge back in his smirk.
I hesitated, my Ascender's pragmatism warring with Highblood caution. "Iskander… I appreciate the gesture, truly. But…" I gestured with my bone-white dagger. "I'm a dagger and magic man. My sister, Caera…" I pictured her, tall and fierce, wielding her greatsword with lethal grace. "This would suit her far better. And besides," I added, the reality sinking in, "the Ascenders' Association would confiscate it the moment we surfaced. Anything remotely resembling a relic…"
"That's the beauty of it!" Iskander interrupted, his eyes gleaming. "It's not a relic. Not anymore. I stripped the aether right out of it. See?" He tapped the blade. "Just a supremely well-forged sword now. No aether signature. Nothing for that Association to covet." He offered it again, insistently.
I frowned, suspicion flaring. "Iskander, are you attempting some elaborate ruse to make me accept this?"
"Ruse? Me?" He placed a hand over his heart, feigning offense, though his eyes danced. "Perish the thought! I just… removed the aetheric essence. So," he added, a sly note entering his voice as he whistled a nonchalant tune, "if you ever want to unlock its true potential… well, you'd have to find me again, wouldn't you? A perfectly logical incentive for future collaboration."
He was essentially holding the sword's soul hostage to ensure our paths crossed again. It was impulsive, arrogant… and strangely endearing in its transparency. He wanted to see me again.
Shaking my head, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips, I finally accepted the heavy blade. The balance was extraordinary, the craftsmanship beyond anything I'd seen outside the Relictombs.
"Fine. I will take this for my sister. And for… future collaboration," I conceded, the words feeling oddly significant.
"Iskander," I began, sheathing the white blade carefully beside my dagger, "you said you woke in the Relictombs. But where are you from? Which Dominion? What Blood fostered you?"
Even if he'd fled, knowing his origin might help navigate the treacherous waters of Alacryan politics if… when… he surfaced.
He tilted his head, considering. "I was crafted," he stated bluntly, the word landing like a physical blow. "By Agriculture. An experiment. Basilisk and Dragon… stitched together. Voilà!" He spread his arms, a grotesque parody of a presentation.
"The Monster of Frankenstein! Or perhaps… Agronastein?" He chuckled darkly at his own blasphemous wordplay.
A chill deeper than any Fog Zone dread slithered down my spine. Frankenstein? The casual mockery of the High Sovereign's name was treason of the highest order.
"Taegrin Caelum? Are you from Taegrin Caelum?" I breathed, the name of the High Sovereign's impregnable fortress-city carrying its own weight of dread and reverence. It made a horrifying kind of sense.
A being literally made there, isolated, subjected to Vritra knew what… it explained everything—the strangeness, the lack of social graces, the terrifying power coupled with profound vulnerability.
"Taeg-what?" Iskander frowned, his eyes momentarily distant, as if listening to that unseen presence.
"Taegrin Caelum?" he repeated, unfamiliarity clear in his tone.
"The High Sovereign's fortress," I clarified. "At the continent's heart. His seat of power."
His eyes widened with sudden, startling comprehension, followed by a flash of… amusement?
"You're telling me Agrona has a Fortress of Solitude? Seriously?" He rubbed his chin, a thoughtful, almost irreverent expression crossing his face. "No, scratch that. Considering the guy, it's probably more like… Castle Doom."
Castle Doom? Fortress of Solitude? The nonsensical names tumbling from his lips confirmed it. He'd spent too long in the Relictombs. The isolation, the trauma of his creation, the constant near-death experiences… they had fractured something fundamental.
"Let's go, Iskander," I said firmly, standing and shouldering my pack. "You need fresh air. A lot of it. We need to find a Descension Chamber."
"Ah," he said, his earlier energy dimming. He looked… disappointed? "Are you leaving already?" He scuffed his bare foot on the marble, a strangely childlike gesture.
"You're coming too, aren't you?" The thought of leaving him here, this powerful, unstable enigma, alone with his dragon-voice and his self-sustaining aether, sent a fresh wave of unease through me.
Madness wasn't uncommon between Ascenders. Actually, after death, it was the most common way to end an Ascender's career: complete shattering of one's own mind.
Iskander looked away, his gaze drifting towards the pearlescent dome high above. "I… don't want to leave this place."
The words were quiet, laced with something I hadn't heard before: fear. Not the fear of the monsters and creatures, but a deeper, more existential dread.
It struck me then, piercing the layers of his bravado and strangeness. He'd been frantic for me in the fog, but his own fear was reserved for the world outside the Relictombs. What horrors did thr High Sovereign represent to him? What fate awaited the failed experiment who'd not only survived but surpassed expectations?
"Iskander, you can't stay here," I insisted, my voice hardening with concern that overrode protocol. "You'll get yourself killed by something worse than fog-beings, or starve eventually, aether or no aether."
"I can sustain myself with aether," he countered stubbornly, though his eyes remained troubled. "As long as I'm not obliterated instantly, I'll manage. But…" He met my gaze, the fear naked now. "I don't want Agrona to find me. And I really don't want him finding me with you."
The implication was clear. My presence wasn't just companionship; it was a death sentence for me if the High Sovereign came looking.
The selflessness of it, buried under layers of madness and power, was staggering. He was willing to condemn himself to eternal wandering in this deathtrap to protect me, his "first friend." The responsibility settled heavily on my shoulders. I couldn't leave him. Not like this.
"How much does the High Sovereign know about you?" I asked, my mind racing through possibilities, political ramifications, the vast resources of House Denoir. "Specifically? What was his plan?"
"I don't know…" He ran a hand through his wavy black hair, a gesture of genuine frustration. "I don't know anything about what I am, Sevren. Only that I have a dragon talking in my head," he gestured vaguely beside him, "guiding me. And if she doesn't trust going outside…"
He shrugged, the unspoken I won't hanging heavy in the air. His faith in this unseen Sylvia was absolute, delusion or not.
"Sylvia is a dragon?" I asked, unable to keep the sheer incredulity from my voice. A real dragon? Guiding him?
"Yes," he nodded simply, as if confirming the weather. "Her guidance was what made the aether core possible. Even though she thought I was insane for trying it."
Insane. The word resonated. Yet, here he stood, healed, bearing a golden rune of impossible origin, holding a sword stripped of aether by his own will. Insane or not, he was a walking, talking revolution.
And he'd saved my life. Twice. Highblood Denoir owed debts, and we paid them. More importantly, I owed him. Not just my life, but… understanding? Protection? The chance to see where this impossible path led?
No, more than that. I was speaking my mind aloud, for once I wasn't putting on a mask, for once I wasn't overthinking. For once I was being genuine.
"I have an idea," I said, stepping closer, lowering my voice instinctively despite the empty chamber. "The second level of the Relictombs. It's freely accessible. Ascenders use it as a base camp, a trading hub and also as a real functioning city. The Association maintains one of their headquarters. Nobility… some Highbloods… maintain private estates there."
I saw the spark of interest in his amethyst eyes.
"It's still within the Relictombs. The ambient aether is thick, likely sustaining you. Crucially," I emphasized, "it's rare for the Sovereigns' direct agents to patrol deeply there. And the Sovereigns themselves…"
I let the implication hang. They couldn't enter.
"Damn," Iskander breathed, his eyes widening with genuine surprise. "That's… useful. Even Sylvia didn't know that." He glanced sideways, as if sharing the news with his unseen companion.
"Then come with me," I offered, extending the invitation not just as repayment, but as a lifeline. "Highblood Denoir has an estate on the second level—Relictombs City. Let me… let me offer you sanctuary. Repay my debt. Give you a place to rest, recuperate… think. Safely."
He stared at me for a long moment, the fear warring with a desperate, almost painful yearning. Then, like the sun breaking through storm clouds, his face transformed. A brilliant, unrestrained smile lit up his features, chasing away the shadows.
"Of course!" he exclaimed, the earlier energy flooding back. "I can't wait to sleep on a real bed!" He practically bounced on the balls of his bare feet. "Without feeling half-dead for the first time in my life! I can have a bath!" The word was uttered with near-religious reverence.
"A proper soak! Without worrying about slipping and shattering every bone in my body! A shower!" He threw his arms wide, embracing the very concept of plumbing.
"A SHOWER!"
I gaped. The sheer, unadulterated joy radiating from this terrifyingly powerful human-dragon-basilisk hybrid over the prospect of a bed and a shower was profoundly absurd and unexpectedly heartbreaking. What unimaginable deprivation had he endured in that "Castle Doom"? What did "crafted" truly entail?
The casual revelation took on a darker, more visceral meaning. His theatrics weren't just eccentricity; they were the raw outburst of someone who'd never known simple comfort.
More than that... from how he talked, how he acted and behaved. That body of his was new, not only his core. Whatever happened in Taegrin Caelum he was fresh out of a laboratory after being through horrors beyond common understanding.
And that could be what awaits Caera too if my gamble with the traitorous Scythe goes wrong.
"So?" Iskander was already bouncing towards one of the arched exits leading deeper into the Relictombs' structure, radiating impatient energy. "Are we going?"
I watched him, this impossible puzzle of divinity, madness, terrifying power, and childlike yearning. My world, carefully ordered by Blood, runes, and Sovereign decree, had tilted irrevocably.
"Right behind you," I murmured, rolling my eyes with a mixture of exasperation and a dawning, bewildered sense of responsibility.
A Vritra Blood obsessed with plumbing. Truly, the Relictombs held wonders beyond imagining. And I, Sevren Denoir, was now the reluctant keeper of its strangest secret.
I adjusted the unfamiliar weight of the white sword at my hip and followed the barefoot demigod