Chapter 14: Woman of Tomorrow
Seris Vritra
The command hung in my mind on repeat as I sat in my private sanctum within my Aedelgard's villa, colder than the water of the Vritra's Maw Sea.
'Maintain a close look for an unknown Vritra Blooded Ascender.' Agrona's directives, delivered through the mocking and chilling, resonant silence of his psychic will, were never requests.
They were tectonic plates shifting, heralding unseen tremors. This one felt… different. Ominously vague. An unknown Vritra Blood? In Alacrya, Bloodlines were meticulously documented, tracked, paraded.
An unknown was an impossibility, a paradox Agrona himself had made sure wouldn't occur.
Cadell knew more, of course. The Scythe of Central Dominion always swam in the deepest, darkest currents of Agrona's machinations. His silence was its own confirmation of something monumental brewing.
The pieces clicked together with chilling clarity: the hushed, frantic activity in Taegrin Caelum's forbidden wings over the past months, the unsettling absence of Sovereign Orlaeth from his own nightmarish palace in Sandaerene.
By observing Scythe Melzri I managed to discover even Sovereign Exeges excused himself from his own experiments to be in Taegrin Caelum.
What surprised me even more was the presence of Sovereign Oludari. He was the most isolationist of the Vritras—so paranoid that, unlike the other Sovereigns with their arrogant capital cities or Agrona with the fortress in the heart of Alacrya, he had never even established a seat of power.
Yet, even he had shown himself in Taegrin Caelum.
That left only Sovereign Kiros remaining in his Dominion, plotting and tending to his damned Court
And the whispers… whispers of a vessel. Not just any vessel. An asuran body. Crafted not merely with stolen dragon bone and sinew—Cadell's grim trophy from a decade past, the former wife of the High Sovereign's himself turned trophy, the same gentle dragon I was tasked with being guard of for many decades—but woven with arts plumbed from the Relictombs' abyssal secrets, layered with magic so mysterious I couldn't even understand.
This wasn't just another Ascender. This was Agrona attempting to sculpt a god-killer from the bodies of other asuras and forbidden knowledge. A project he considered as important as the mysterious pursuit of the Legacy he'd tried to reincarnate.
He used the bodies of Lady Sylvia and the basilisk Kromer Kothan, killed by the Vritras in a skirmish against the basilisk Kothan Clan millennia ago.
The Legacy was potential, raw mana needing shaping, or so I knew. This… this felt like a weapon already forged in the darkest furnace, its edge honed on realities mortals weren't meant to perceive. And it was loose.
The implications were a vice tightening around my spine. A reincarnate, like Nico Sever? But housed in a vessel designed to channel aether? The Indrath Clan jealously guarded that cosmic birthright.
Agrona possessing a basilisk and a dragon corpse was one thing; the Vritra's wars had secured that. But imbuing a new consciousness, a reincarnated soul, into a body potentially capable of wielding that power as easily as mana?
It was a blasphemy against the natural order, a gambit so audacious it bordered on suicidal madness. And its purpose? The war against Epheotus loomed, a storm cloud darkening the horizon.
This was meant for the dragons. For Kezess Indrath himself. To show them how high and mighty Agrona Vritra was, it was more of a mockery than a weapon, but it remained one.
Fear, cold and razor-sharp, was a luxury I couldn't afford. A luxury I could never afford myself to have. But the chill seeped into my bones regardless.
If Agrona succeeded in reclaiming this… entity… before I could find them, the fragile ember of resistance I nurtured would be extinguished under the heel of his perfected weapon.
Dicathen would burn with the upcoming war, yes, but Alacrya would be the anvil upon which Agrona hammered his ambition, its people the fuel for a war that served only his vendetta against beings who saw us all as insects.
My decades of careful subversion—hiding awakened Vritra Bloods like precious, dangerous secrets, only to be forced to extinguish their defiant sparks myself when the risk of discovery grew too great—would crumble to ash.
The numbers I sought, the proof that the Vritra's Sovereignty was tyranny, not divinity, would be rendered meaningless before the spectacle of Agrona's ultimate creation.
Something went wrong. That was the only sliver of hope. The vessel lived, but Agrona didn't hold its leash. He'd lost control of his monster. Yet, he knew it lived.
There would be a tether, a trace—some signature woven into the body, a psychic resonance keyed to his will, something. His command to us Scythes proved he was hunting, but hunting blind, casting a net. He wanted it back.
Or perhaps, given Agrona's capricious, fathomless intellect, he merely wanted to observe it in the wild before recapturing it. His motivations were often as inscrutable as the depths of the Relictombs.
Finding it first wasn't just desirable; it was imperative. But to what end? Capture them before they became a threat? Could I contain something born of dragonflesh and Relictombs horrors crafted by Agrona Vritra?
Reason with it? A reincarnate soul, yes, but housed in Agrona's abomination, potentially steeped in his influence and molded by him… brainwashed and manipulated just like I have been before Lady Sylvia broke the chains binding my memories and personality.
Destroy it? The sheer power implied… my mana arts were refined, deadly, honed by Agrona himself. But aether? It was the universe's fundamental thread, indifferent to mortal or even asuran will.
Countering it directly… that was impossible even to me. My contingency—the audacious plan involving Sovereign Orlaeth's own power as a battery to shield Sehz-Clar—suddenly felt terrifyingly inadequate against this new, unknown variable.
This creature represented a paradigm shift, a wild card Agrona himself seemed somewhat wary of.
Which brought me here. To the pulsing, teeming underbelly of Agrona's domain: the second level of the Relictombs—Relictombs City.
Logically, it was the last place a lost, unique Ascender would surface. They should have stumbled into a Descension Chamber somewhere in the other Domains, triggering alarms that would have brought the local Scythe or Retainer or one of their servants down upon them instantly. Agrona's net would have closed.
Unless they were smart. Or too scared. Or guided. Unless they understood, instinctively or otherwise, that surfacing in Alacrya proper was a death sentence.
The second level… it was a liminal space. Still within Agrona's reach, technically, but vast, anonymous, teeming with the desperate, the ambitious, the hidden.
A place other Scythes, bound by pride and Agrona's hierarchy, would never deign to set foot in. Cadell wouldn't scrape the mud from his boots here.
And if my primary plan failed, this lost weapon might be the only counterweight left against the Legacy and against Agrona himself. A terrifying prospect, wielding fire against fire, but sometimes only ash remained as an option.
My presence was a stone cast into a stagnant pond. The bustle of the city street froze as I passed. Ascenders hauling looted crystals halted mid-stride, their faces draining of color. Merchants haggating over shimmering shards fell silent, eyes wide with primal fear.
The air crackled with suppressed mana, not from threat, but from sheer, instinctive terror. The grey and violet of my robes, the palpable aura of restrained power that clung to me like frost—it was a brand, a reminder of absolute, unanswerable authority.
It marked me as one of Agrona's hands. It marked me as an enforcer of his cruelty and authority stripping me bare of any individuality.
The anonymity I sought was impossible. My very existence here screamed that something was profoundly wrong.
I ignored the terrified stillness, the bowed heads, the palpable wave of dread rolling ahead of me. My destination was clear, a nexus of information in this chaotic sprawl, however distasteful: the local Ascenders' Association outpost.
Its utilitarian, reinforced structure loomed ahead, a stark contrast to the more organic architecture around it.
Someone, somewhere in this teeming, frightened hive, might have seen the ghost I needed to find.
Iskander
The twentieth cookie dissolved on my tongue, a symphony of butter, sugar, and sheer, unadulterated bliss. The delicate porcelain plate felt impossibly light in my hand, a stark contrast to the profound weight of satisfaction settling in my stomach.
Light from some artifacts illuminated the Denoir library, dust motes dancing in golden beams, illuminating shelves laden with leather-bound tomes that whispered of histories I didn't yet know.
"Child, aren't you exaggerating with those cookies?" Sylvia's voice was a warm chuckle in my mind, her spectral form shimmering with amusement beside the window. Her lavender eyes held a tender, exasperated fondness as she watched me reach for another.
I paused, the twenty-first confection halfway to my lips. "I can finally eat as much as I want," I declared, my voice muffled slightly by the previous bite, "sugar or not, without worrying about ruining my health even more. And you're complaining, Dragon Mama?"
"Wait," I mumbled around the mouthful, turning to her fully, "Asuras don't have problems with sugar, right?"
"No, Child, we do not," Sylvia sighed, though the corners of her spectral lips twitched upwards. "Though your current rate of consumption might challenge even a dragon's constitution." She drifted closer, her form casting no shadow.
"Aren't you being just a touch gluttonous?"
"Yes," I stated shamelessly, meeting her gaze directly.
"And I pride myself in that. It means I am enjoying life. Which, after everything, is the entire point of this new existence."
The simple truth of it resonated deep within my core, vibrating in harmony with the pale gold aether humming there. This joy, this visceral, uncomplicated pleasure in sensation, felt like a victory cry against the God of Misfortune. Every bite was a defiance, a celebration of a body that worked, that felt, that thrived.
Only a day within the Denoir estate's sanctuary, yet it felt more like home than any sterile hospital room or echoing Hyperion hall ever had. Was it Sevren's unwavering, if exasperated, friendship? The reason didn't matter.
The weight of my past life—the decades of pain, the suffocating fragility—and the brutal forging of my aether core, the desperate fight in the Fog Zone… all of it felt distilled, justified, into this single, perfect moment of savoring a cookie.
Having the body of a demigod, capable of shattering fog-monsters, yet finding transcendent joy in baked goods. It felt like scaling the Everest just to appreciate the view.
I was halfway through cookie number twenty-two, lost in the buttery ecstasy, when the atmosphere shifted. A subtle tremor ran through the manor's usual quiet hum.
Distant sounds—the sharp click of boots snapping to attention on marble, the sudden cessation of servant chatter, the palpable stiffening of postures I could feel even from the library—cut through my sugary reverie. The air itself seemed to chill, charged with a sudden, electric tension.
Sevren's parents? The thought surfaced. Sevren had assured me of their absence, but nobles always moved in unpredictable orbits. I owed the owners of this sanctuary courtesy, however daunting.
Swallowing the last delicious crumb, I wiped my hands on my borrowed, overly-fine trousers and rose. Sylvia's expression shifted, amusement replaced by a watchful alertness.
Descending the grand staircase felt like stepping onto a stage. The atrium below, vast and elegant under the glow of a massive candelabrum holding mana-fueled 'candles', was a space of hushed activity.
Now, it was a tableau of frozen deference. Guards stood rigid, eyes fixed straight ahead. Servants bowed low, almost trembling. And at the center, bathed in the cool, artificial light, stood Sevren.
He was bowed deeply, his posture the epitome of noble propriety, yet I could sense the tension radiating from him, tight as a coiled spring. Before him stood the source of the disturbance.
She looked like a young woman. Pearl-white hair cascaded like a waterfall of moonlight down her back, contrasting starkly with skin like polished alabaster. Her features were sculpted perfection, cold and serene, framed by eyes the color of deep obsidian, fathomless and utterly calm.
She wore robes of deep violet and grey, simple yet radiating an aura of absolute authority. And rising from her forehead, impossible to ignore, were two long, elegant, impala-like horns—purest black, curving upwards with lethal grace.
Vritra Blood. The identification slammed into me with the force of a physical blow. But not just any. The sheer presence she exuded, the way the very air seemed to still around her, the terror in the servants' eyes… this was power incarnate.
An enforcer of Agrona.
"Child…" Sylvia's mental voice was taut with sudden, profound worry, her spectral form flickering slightly beside me.
I silenced her with the barest, imperceptible shake of my head, my own gaze locked onto the intruder. Every instinct screamed threat. Not just to me, but to Sevren. He'd hidden me, defied Agrona's reach by bringing me here. This woman's presence endangered everything.
Protectiveness, fierce and primal, surged through me, burning away the last vestiges of cookie-induced bliss. Would I kill her to protect Sevren? To protect him and his family? The answer crystallized instantly, cold and hard: without hesitation.
My mind raced, combat calculations flashing with lightning speed. Horns. Sylvia told me how important they were for basilisks, likely for Vritra Blood too.
The plan formed with brutal clarity: close the distance, use aether-augmented speed to grab, wrench the horns free with all the power I could muster—as weapons. Drive them down, hard and precise, targeting the solar plexus, aiming to shatter the mana core pulsing within her.
Then, unleash the full, obliterating force of my pale gold aether. No quarter. No risk.
"Sevren," I called out, my voice deliberately calm, cutting through the stifling silence as I reached the atrium floor. I kept my gaze fixed on the woman, refusing to bow.
The woman turned her obsidian eyes towards me. They swept over my form, lingering for a fraction of a second on my own horns, partially obscured by the aetheric stick insect I'd created. A flicker of… something… passed through those dark depths.
Not fear. Interest? Amusement? Assessment.
"Sevren," the woman's voice was like liquid night, smooth, controlled, utterly devoid of inflection, "who is your friend here?"
The question was polite, almost casual, but it hung in the air like a drawn blade. Her composure was unnerving, a glacier concealing unfathomable depths.
Sevren straightened slightly, his own voice impressively level, the perfect mask of the Highblood heir. "He is Iskander, Scythe Seris." He met my eyes briefly, a silent warning screaming within them.
Scythe Seris. The title confirmed it. She was one of Agrona's supreme enforcers. Her dark eyes locked onto mine again, probing, analyzing. Was she seeing through Sevren's carefully constructed story?
Recognizing the stolen dragon flesh? Sensing the core of aether burning within me?
"Sevren," she said, her gaze never leaving mine, "I do require to speak with your friend. Alone."
The command was absolute, brooking no argument. It wasn't a request; it was the removal of a variable.
Sevren's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He looked at me, a silent question, a plea for caution warring with his own helplessness against her authority.
I stepped forward, placing myself squarely between Sevren and the Scythe. The space between us crackled with unspoken tension.
"Of course," I said, my voice calm, matching her lack of inflection. I offered a shallow, perfectly executed bow—the kind Sevren had used earlier, respectful but not subservient. "It would be my honour, Scythe Seris."
Her message was clear. Her desire for privacy was granted. My message was clearer: I'm not afraid.
A flicker of surprise, quickly masked, widened her dark eyes for a microsecond. Was it amusement at my audacity? Or recognition of the steel beneath the grey skin? She was truly hard to read, no matter the experience I built inside the Heart Relic.
Sevren hesitated for a breath, then, with a final, loaded glance at me, turned and ushered the guards and servants out. The heavy doors to the atrium closed with a soft, final thud, sealing Seris and me in the vast, echoing space. The only sounds were the faint crackle of the candles and the drumbeat of my own heart.
"Your name is Iskander, then," Scythe Seris stated, breaking the silence. She stood perfectly still, her posture relaxed, hands clasped loosely before her. Utterly at ease. Utterly terrifying.
"Child," Sylvia's voice was a whisper in my mind, strangely devoid of actual worry for me, "if Seris' objective was immediate capture or harm you, she would have acted already. Don't be impulsive."
I know, I thought, the words sharp in my mental space. But what game is this? What does Agrona's hand want with his lost weapon?
"Yes, Scythe Seris," I replied, keeping my voice level, my gaze steady. "It seems you have been searching for me."
Her eyes swept over me again, a clinical assessment. They lingered on my chest, as if trying to pierce flesh and bone to perceive the core within. Then they lifted to my horns, specifically to the golden stick insect nestled between them.
A faint, almost imperceptible frown creased her alabaster brow, a crack in the perfect mask of indifference.
"You have a rather… interesting… way to dress," she remarked, her voice retaining its smooth cadence, but now laced with a subtle thread of dry amusement. "I have never seen basilisks, or indeed any Vritra-blooded, wear ornamental insects between their horns."
The faintest upward tilt touched the corner of her lips. "It's… unique."
My mental gears ground. So the disguise didn't fool her. Not entirely. A flush of chagrin warred with annoyance. I need to improve my Creation. Make it seamless, part of me, not just an object placed on my head. I clicked my tongue softly against my teeth, the sound sharp in the quiet room.
"Aesthetic choice," I deflected, keeping my tone neutral.
To my utter surprise, she moved. Not aggressively, but with fluid grace. Her hand dipped into a fold of her violet robe and emerged holding a small object. She extended it towards me. It was a simple, smooth bead, deep blue shot through with swirling veins of violet.
"Use this," she said, her voice matter-of-fact. "It's a simple glamour accolade. Far less… conspicuous… if you wish to obscure your horns effectively."
Her obsidian eyes remained fixed on mine, watching, gauging my reaction to this unexpected offer.
I stared at the bead in her outstretched palm. Suspicion roared like a furnace. A trick? A tracker? Slowly, cautiously, I reached out and took it. It felt cool and inert in my fingers.
Instinctively, I sent a tendril of pale gold aether flowing into it, probing its structure, seeking hidden mechanisms, traps, or resonance like the Heart Relic.
Nothing. It felt like… just a bead. A well-craftes trinket, but inert to aetheric probing.
"What game are you playing, Scythe Seris? Aren't you here to deliver me to your glorious Agitated?" I deliberately mangled Agrona's name, injecting as much mocking contempt as I dared, watching her face for any flicker of outrage, any sign of wounded loyalty.
Her reaction was… nothing. No flinch. No anger. Not even a flicker of disapproval. She simply tilted her head, a gesture of cool curiosity, like a scientist observing an unexpected reaction in a specimen.
"I see that your mind is intact," she stated, a note of… satisfaction?… entering her voice. "Good."
"Intact?" The word struck me. I glanced at Sylvia, a silent plea for understanding.
"Agrona," Sylvia's mental voice was grim, laced with a shade of dread, "he possesses hideous mana arts… insidious magics that can twist thoughts, implant suggestions, rewrite memories over time. Subtle, pervasive. The indoctrination Alacryans suffer is amplified manifold for those he focuses on. Your mind… your core self… remains pristine. Likely shielded by my echo within you. But this confirms he expected to exert control."
The implications were horrifying. Agrona didn't just want a weapon; he wanted a puppet. A slave whose very thoughts belonged to him.
"What do you mean?" I demanded aloud, my voice tight, the bead clenched forgotten in my fist.
"I am not your enemy, Iskander," Seris stated, her voice dropping lower, losing its formal edge, gaining a surprising weight of sincerity. "You are a reincarnated soul, thrust into an unknown body, in an utterly alien world."
She knew. She knew.
"You seem to have found… rapport… with Sevren. But this friendship places him in grave danger. More than you perhaps realize."
"Are you threatening Sevren?" My voice was ice. The air around me grew colder, pale gold aether flickering faintly beneath my grey skin. The image of wrenching her horns flashed back, vivid and violent.
"No," she countered immediately, her own gaze unwavering, unflinching. "I state fact. Agrona will find you it's only a question of time. His reach is long and his patience vast when it comes to his experiments. And when he does, anyone associated with you, anyone who harbored you…"
"I can help it. Help you avoid that risk for the Denoirs. Help you."
Help me? The concept was so alien, so utterly unexpected coming from Agrona's Scythe, that it momentarily short-circuited my suspicion. "What's in your mind?" I asked, the question raw, probing her mask for the first time.
"Are you plotting some kind of rebellion against Agrona? Is that it? You want to use me just like he would have? A different master, same cage?"
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "I want to ensure Agrona does not possess his aether weapon," she said, each word precise, hammered on an anvil of conviction. "Your mind may be unaltered now, but that does not mean he lacks levers. He knows you live. He knows what you are. Who knows what dormant commands, what fail-safes, he wove into the very fabric of your being?"
The thought was a fresh spike of ice in my gut. "I want you to get strong enough," she continued, her obsidian eyes burning with an intensity that finally matched the power she radiated, "strong enough to truly defy him. To fight back. It is," she paused, the word hanging heavy, "in both our best interests."
A slow, incredulous smile spread across my face. "Oh, interesting." The pieces shifted, the board revealing a new, unexpected player. "To summarize," I said, my voice laced with dark amusement, "you hope I will become a threat to Akuma."
"Is it really that simple? You, a Scythe, fostering Agrona's own destruction?"
"It is pragmatic," she stated, unruffled. "I am a Scythe. That means I can grant you legitimacy within the system. I can make you an official Ascender. If you encounter others, you will say you hail from the Dominion of Sehz-Clar. The city of Aedelgard, to be precise." She laid out the cover story with cool efficiency. "It provides a paper trail, a plausible origin. I will take care of the rest."
The offer was staggering. Legitimacy. A shield within the system designed to hunt me. "And what makes you think I will follow these… orders?" I challenged, the word tasting bitter. "They seem way too convenient for your plans, Scythe Seris. Why should I trust the architect of my cage to provide the key?"
She didn't hesitate. "Consider it both an investment," she said, her voice softening minutely, "and… a way to thank you."
"Thank me?" The words startled me.
"For saving Sevren." Her obsidian eyes held mine, and for the first time, I saw something beyond calculation or power. A flicker of genuine warmth. Of gratitude.
"Sevren is the brother of my apprentice," she explained, the formality dropping further. "And while it may seem incomprehensible to you, given my station… I do care about the people of Alacrya. I care about those… close to me." The admission was quiet, profound, utterly disarming in its sincerity. "Helping you serves both those objectives."
The revelation landed like a stone in a still pond. This terrifying enforcer capable of gratitude? Capable of caring for Sevren? It shattered the simplistic image of monolithic evil. It made her infinitely more complex. More dangerous? Or… potentially, an ally?
I stared at her, at the bead still clutched in my hand, at the impossible offer laid before me. Legitimacy. Resources. Protection for Sevren. A path to grow strong enough to defy Agrona. It was everything I ostensibly needed. Everything Sylvia would likely counsel me to accept.
But the taste of the cookies, the sheer, unadulterated joy of that simple act, echoed in my memory. I had fought for this freedom, this autonomy. I had created this fragile sanctuary of self.
To accept Seris's offer, however pragmatic, however laced with genuine gratitude, felt like stepping onto a pre-ordained path. Becoming a piece on her board. A weapon in her rebellion. It felt like trading one cage for another, however gilded the bars. It felt like surrendering the hard-won right to define my own fight, my own Creation.
Aetherman wasn't a politician. He was a superhero and superheroes are above the squabbles of politics.
No, while Seris might not be my enemy I refused to follow someone else's orders however vague or the chains weak.
A low chuckle escaped my lips, echoing softly in the vast, silent atrium. It wasn't mocking Seris. It was a laugh at the sheer, terrifying absurdity of the choice.
I met Scythe Seris's obsidian gaze, the bead warm in my palm, her offer hanging in the air like a lifeline.
"No."