In the years since the reopening of the Temporal Gateways, Myriad has unified once more. Overseen by the newly established Myriad Coalition, the nine worlds thrive as a system of opportunity, but beneath the prospering peace, timeworn secrets threaten to unravel the system. The past is catching up with Bartholomew, and a darkness looms on the desolate planet of Sanctus, preparing to strike the Lord of Adventure and paving the way for their long-awaited revenge.
Legends of Myriad: Arc Two - Chapter 4: Trio of Adventure
Chapter 3 | Chapter 5
Arc Two Masterlist
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Bundling the elongated rolls close to his chest, Oscar stooped beneath the slanted pipe and deposited the blueprints onto the workstation. Mountains of furled paper and open notebooks cluttered the desk, footnotes and annotations accompanying the alterations to the diagrams.
Past the rooftop, Bartholomew’s city burgeoned with the elevating sun, shadows vanquished to the far corners as the daylight shooed the night. Partly sheltered walkways wound in gradual curves between the buildings, bolstered by struts that parted their carven petals to support the airborne paths. Foliage wreathed and crowned the bleached construction as the regrown forest thrived alongside the expanding metropolis.
“That’s most of them,” Oscar said, tearing himself from the view. “There are a more at the office, but they’re not complete yet. The team left a note promising to be done by the end of the day.”
Lord Luceras scratched the trimmed stubble on his cheeks, shirt sleeves shoved to his upper arms. He uncurled the blueprint from the top of the teetering pile and pondered the outline. “There is no rush,” he assured. “We are not exactly short on time, and I would rather spend an extra week smoothing out the designs as much as we can than face bumps down the road.”
Oscar frowned at his mentor, noting the embellished suspenders dangling in fatigued hoops by his waist and the tufts sticking from the topknot on his head. “Late night?”
“Yes, yes, lots of work to do.”
Oscar crossed his arms and clicked his tongue.
“What?” Luceras exhaled.
“Work? That is what you were doing all night?”
“Is that not what I said?”
Pretending to ruminate, Oscar tightened the fold of his arms and stared at the Prosperian lord. He disregarded his show of suspicion with a pointed shake of the sketches. “So you weren’t at a party until two hours ago?”
Luceras lowered the blueprints. From the beginning of his apprenticeship, the Citadel student had conducted every detail according to the book, deadlines met with days to spare and specifications squeezing at his artistic talent. The creative freedoms he cultivated dimmed in an effort to impress and please. On many occasions, Luceras had insisted he take time to paint, to sketch, to reach into the glittering recesses of his soul and bring something to life for the sake of it. But Oscar refused to listen, insisting on dedicating himself entirely to his new role.
“I attended a small carouse, and while I may have sunk into a glass or two, I also conversed with many individuals who are interested in facilitating our endeavour to rebuild The Core. So, yes, I was working.”
“Professor Spark specifically stated that this outpost needs to be started before the end of the month,” Oscar insisted.
“And it will,” Luceras replied. He abandoned the blueprint to the overflowing pile and handed him the sketchbook from the desk drawer. “Your design is exceptional, but there are a few structural flaws with the signal spire that need to be remedied. I made some suggestions for you.”
Unravelling the leather string binding the loose sheets, Oscar skipped to the rough illustration of the outpost. Written in the margin, Luceras’s flowing cursive advised him on the recommended corrections. He slid the pencil from the clip on the side and started rectifying the fault.
“May I ask you something?” Luceras asked, a preoccupied nod inviting him to continue. “You have not been to Solgarde in a while, and you have yet to mention any future visits. Did something happen when you were last there?”
The pencil slowed. “No.”
“Then why have you not been back?” Luceras quickly held his hand up to postpone the inevitable excuses. “Before you claim to have been busy, you can withhold those lies. I would never stop you from visiting home no matter how much work there was.”
Oscar replaced the pencil and shut the sketchbook. “Every time I leave Solgarde, it gets more and more difficult,” he admitted. “It’s my home, my family and friends are there. Up until a few years ago, my entire life had been lived on that planet, in that tiny, inconsequential corner of Myriad. And when I have to say goodbye, it feels like I’m leaving a part of myself there. I want to visit again, I just need to settle here properly and be certain of my choice before I do.” His teeth snagged his bottom lip, a firm bite delaying the sickly sensation in his stomach. “I know I have my whole life ahead of me, but I don’t have thousands of years like Prosperians. I have a hundred, maybe a bit more if I’m lucky. A blink to you. And there is so much I want to do. Too much, it feels like sometimes.”
From his seat on the vent block, Luceras studied the pensive furrow of his brow and the sensible fixation in his eyes. Oscar knew what he wanted from his creative capabilities, but he grasped now that he immersed himself in his work not only as a pursuit of his goal, but as a distraction from the hurt of living away from his loved ones.
“You are wiser than your years, Oz,” Luceras said, “but the ache of leaving home, whatever home may mean to you, never goes away. When you leave love, it is always a challenge. That is what I never understood about Bartholomew. He could not wait to shed the shackles of Prosperia, as he so considerately put it, forsaking the love he had there. It broke Marcia the most. She always doted on him when we were children. But although there is pain in parting, it does not mean you should avoid it.”
Behind the seated lord, the natural world and the buildings he inspired to rise co-existed together. Each morning, the aperture of the central travel point held onto the sunrise as it reared over the horizon, and come nightfall, the Starlight Path sailed over them, clear and bright. He helped design the city to inspire hope, a rebirth that ignited the entire system, and yet in doing so, his own spark had faded, succumbing to the duress of his dreams.
“You must rest yourself and your creativity from time to time,” Luceras advised. “If all you do is work the pencil, it soon becomes dull. Sharpen your senses again.”
“Point taken,” Oscar sighed, “and pun intended.”
“That’s the Oscar I know,” Luceras said heartily, hopping down from the ventilation hood and nudging him with his elbow. “I think there is somebody down there trying to get your attention.”
Oscar followed the pointed nod over the glass barrier.
Below, the smooth pavement and meandering walkways woke with the pattering of feet, unrecognisable faces passing by. Amongst them, a familiar figure waved up at him. He blinked and looked again to be sure of what he was seeing.
“Hey!” Alek shouted, lowering his arms. “Oscar!”
“When did you get here?” Oscar called.
Luceras leaned his hip on the paned barricade and tapped Oscar’s arm. “What are you doing? Say hello.”
“But Bartholomew-“
“My brother is not the be all and end all,” Luceras told him. “Spend some time with your friend and take your time. I can manage the finalisations for the outpost, and we can go through the details later. Home has come to you, and you cannot miss your chance.”
Oscar collided with Alek and whisked him into a hug before the door to Luceras’s studio had begun to close, clutching him tightly and swaying him on the spot. “It has been too long,” he said, releasing him from his grip. “What are you doing here? I had no idea you were planning on visiting.”
“I wasn’t, but I’ve had enough of my parents parading me around,” Alek explained. “They can hardly do that if I’m not there.”
“In that case, I appoint myself cheer up captain,” Oscar said. “And I take my duty seriously.”
“Yes, sir,” Alek chuckled with a salute.
“See. Got a grin already.” Directing him up the extended incline of the main avenue and to the elevated walkway above, Oscar stayed to the shaded overhang, the developing daylight blinding to unguarded eyes. “What did your parents say when you told them you were leaving?” he asked. “I can’t imagine they were pleased.”
Alek tucked his hands into his jacket pockets, a sheepish curl in his shoulders.
“You did speak to them before you left, didn’t you?” Oscar questioned, the answer already painted in his friend’s tight-lipped smile.
“Gwen knows, and she promised she would cover for me,” Alek clarified. “She was the one who gave me the push to stop dragging my feet and take matters into my own hands.”
Oscar compelled his ankles to climb and hunched to get himself up the steeper section of the slope, imparting a solacing pat to his shoulder. Not every family functioned like his, not everyone had the support and encouragement afforded to him since birth. More than once, he had contemplated bringing both Alek and Esther into his family and giving them a home with him, but he acknowledged they were too proud to accept such an offer. Instead, he encouraged them as best he could, reassuring them of their abilities and their worth, and heartening them on their own paths.
“I feel awful about leaving her behind,” Alek admitted, “but I have a plan. I’m going to settle somewhere away from Solgarde, maybe find an apartment here. When she’s ready, Gwen can stay with me for a while, at least until she has a place of her own. She has such a talent when it comes to music, and I can’t stand our parents taking credit for her achievements.”
“Myriad would love her,” Oscar agreed, “and The Core is a good central location for her, if she wishes to leave Solgarde.”
“There are so many more opportunities for her now. She can take her music anywhere she wants.”
“Sell out concerts, tours across the stars,” Oscar pondered. “Name shining in lights.”
“Maybe she just needs to see that she can get away,” Alek said. “If I can do it, then so can she.”
“Always the trendsetter,” Oscar teased.
Reaching the beginning of the overpass, Alek swatted at his arm, laughing with him as the advancing morning burnished the pale stone and whispered into the trees standing guard over the pathway. Sheets of water toppled from the sides and into basins below, a kaleidoscope of rich blooms and multicoloured underbrush enhancing the summer green of the pruned hedges.
Early risers summoned themselves from their drowse with wide yawns and caffeinated brews, the sleep clinging to their eyes and the sunlight prodding them awake. Light-footed and chirping, a flock of pygmy birds capered at the roots of a twisted tree, the bole and boughs slanting and curving as though to direct the flow of foot traffic and the leaves fluffier than those Alek was accustomed to on Solgarde.
Oscar deviated from their route and collected a handful of white berries from the higher branches. “I come up here sometimes on my lunch break,” he explained, crouching to the scattering of birds and presenting a palm full of ripe fruits to them. The birds skittered at first, approaching with tentative hops before digging into the offering. “There are flocks of sorrel birds up and down the walkways, but they mostly stick to the Aether Alder. Hopefully soon, we will get to see some fledglings. Luceras claims that birds born in Alder trees like this one are lucky, but I’m not sure how much truth there is in it.”
Freeing the creases in his fingers from the syrupy residue on the cloth he usually reserved for pencil stains, he rose. “We have another guest up at the lab,” Oscar said as they resumed their leisurely stroll through the suspended gardens.
“Oh?”
“Esther arrived recently.” At the wide-eyed elation unfolding across Alek’s features, Oscar swayed his head. “I’d put that cheer on hold for now. She went to Grethune before she came here.”
“Is she all right?” Alek fretted, joy plummeting. “She wasn’t hurt or anything, was she?”
“No, nothing like that, but the reunion with her parents didn’t exactly go as planned.”
How could it? Alek thought to himself, the memory of her tearfully trusting them with the story of how her parents betrayed her to the mage hunters still provoking a wrathful rage in his veins. Her story left a mark on him, and he only hoped that throughout their years of camaraderie and kinship, he and Oscar had brightened some of those darker days.
“Where did she go?” he asked.
“She’s been staying up at the lab, keeping to herself mostly. Professor Spark is away at the moment, but our rooms are just as we left them.”
“I didn’t think he’d keep them. Surely he had a better use for them once we went back to Solgarde?”
“I assumed as you did, but he said he wanted them to stay as they were, just in case we dropped by.”
A twinge smarted in the pit of Alek’s stomach. After departing from The Core to complete their studies at the Citadel, he and Esther rarely visited the central world. Only Oscar remained faithful, finishing his schooling early to join the efforts in restoring The Core and keeping the nine worlds afloat.
“A lot has changed since I was last here,” Alek said, admiring the architecture and the mergence of mortar and nature.
“There’s plenty more to see,” Oscar beamed. “Come on, I’ll take you on an extended route up to the lab.”
* * *
An excitable bounce in his strides and his enthusiastic rambles deviating into plans and potential redesigns, Oscar guided Alek through abundant streets and developing districts on his guided tour. From a forsaken wasteland that stretched beyond the horizon to a blossoming city, Oscar’s dedication ensured a true centrepiece for the nine worlds and a reclaimed crown for the whole of Myriad.
“During those years at the Academy,” Alek mused, boots crunching on the gravel footpath, “did you ever think you would be rebuilding an entire city?”
“I didn’t do this on my own,” Oscar corrected. “This is Lord Luceras’s project.”
“He trusted you with a lot of the designs, right?”
Oscar relinquished the point to him with a bob of his head. “To answer your question, no, I didn’t think I would be creating anything on this kind of scale.”
“And look at you now.”
The pride in Alek’s voice sent a warmth across Oscar’s cheeks, and he angled himself away to hide the rosy flush. Nothing ever evaded the notice of the soldier-in-training, and he silently accepted the teasing pokes to his arm.
“You know, I haven’t missed you at all,” Oscar remarked, tipping his nose up to the sky in an extension of his pretence.
Alek swivelled on his heels and continued their walk backwards, accepting the bait with a brazen grin. “Don’t lie, you absolutely have missed me.”
Oscar pretended to ruminate, tapping his chin and humming in contemplation. He squinted at the trees bordering the road. “No,” he decided. “Don’t think I have.”
He met Alek’s jovial expression with a deadpan mask, a runaway snicker rapidly developing into peals of laughter.
“Knew you were lying,” Alek said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Oscar replied, waggling his index finger in a circle. “Now turn back around before you bump into something and really give me something to laugh about.”
Beyond the shaded entryway, the restored and remodelled laboratory surfaced from the woodland. Landing pads and single-person pods aligned with the corresponding control centres, a watchtower bridge connecting the two hubs and the sentries on duty recognising them with a salute. Staff residences skirted the avenues, and observational greenhouses accommodated every variety of flora known to Myriad.
“Are you sure this is the same lab?” Alek asked, gaping at the sweeping architecture and the lively bustle. “It seems so... alive.”
“That’s what Professor Spark wanted. A collective effort in rebuilding the nine worlds.”
Guilt bit into Alek’s conscience. He had stayed away for so long that the place that kindled his sense of adventure became unrecognisable, a combined endeavour where he played the role of observer instead of participant.
By the steps to the research tower, angered green magic revolved around a spinning flail, the weapon lashing out in calculated strikes and the combatant focused on an invisible enemy. Engraved runes spat out heated cinders, the residue glinting from existence before it reached the ground.
“Esther,” Oscar called, motioning to their unexpected visitor. “Look who I found.”
Esther paused, hunching over her knees and gasping for breath. Rubbing the sweat from her brow, she welcomed the sight with a spirited smile and threw her arms around Alek.
Squeezing her close, the activated magic inside the dangling sphere of her weapon lapped at his cheek. “As glad as I am to see you, you might want to extinguish that,” Alek advised.
The jade light withdrew, and Esther attached the hilt to the clip on her belt. “Why did you not tell us you were coming?” she said. “We would have waited for you.”
“I would have called ahead, but this is all a bit spontaneous.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Fancied a change of scenery.” Alek gestured with a scarred hand to the courtyard and the ornamental features. “And what delightful scenery it is.”
“It is,” Esther agreed, “although Oscar may have overdone it with the decorations.”
Oscar stuck out his tongue at her, returning her playful grin with one of his own. “I’m going to continue with my work before you can slander my reputation even more,” he said. “I’ll meet you back up here for dinner. Try not to get yourselves into too much trouble.”
With promises of good behaviour and a proper reunion planned for the evening, Oscar retreated across the courtyard, waving over his shoulder and hurrying on his way.
“He told me you went to Grethune,” Alek said into the silent wake of their friend’s departure.
“Don’t,” Esther warned. “Oscar already lectured me about how I’m torturing myself for doing it.”
With raised palms of surrender and the countenance of a supportive friend, Alek quietened her concerns. “No judgement from me,” he promised. “I’m escaping my own tricky situation.”
“So you didn’t come here for the scenery?”
“Not exactly.”
“Pushy parents pushing too far?”
“That’s just for starters. The moment I got home, they wanted to know my plans. Every meal we had was a discussion about me applying for training with the Sunbreak Army, and the family gatherings... don’t even get me started on those. I thought I knew what I wanted to do when I graduated, but they’ve taken that dream and twisted it so much I don’t even recognise it anymore.”
Esther braced her hand behind her to lower herself onto the flight of steps. “I thought I knew what I wanted too,” she said, toying with the chain of her flail, “but when that time came, I realised that I kind of missed that sense of purpose I had when I was in Lumen. Over the past couple of years, I’ve found myself researching things for the sake of researching them, and I convinced myself that if I went back to Cavell, their position on mages might have changed enough for me to apply my knowledge there.” Grit rolled beneath the toe of her shoe, and she kicked the scattered grains away. “But it’s no different. I spent so long at the Academy certain of what I wanted, but after my time on Delorem, knowing there are other worlds to learn about and help out, I...”
“You had a taste of adventure and you don’t want to stop?” Alek guessed.
A grumbled hum droned behind Esther’s lips. “I don’t want to spend my life trapped in one little corner of Myriad.”
“You have an adventure buddy right here if you want the company,” Alek offered, a little too eagerly.
“You just arrived,” Esther pointed out. “Are you so keen to get back out there again?”
“More than anything,” Alek said, surrendering the tension in his muscles and finally listening to what his heart had been screaming at him all that time.
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Legends of Myriad: Arc Two - Chapter 3: A Step Forward
Chapter 2 | Chapter 4
Arc Two Masterlist
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Honed bubbles burst on Alek’s tongue in layers of ripe fruit and an unpleasant burn. Holding it tight, he swallowed the bitter drops. He did not share the same affinity towards celebratory drinks as his relatives, preferring sweeter tastes to the whetted edge of alcohol, but as soon as he came of age, his parents insisted he drink at least one glass at every party. A beverage of the affluent, they claimed, and a staple they would not relent on. Not with their reputation on display at every family gathering and the dispute of his admission into the Citadel Academy still choking the atmosphere.
The powdery perfume of the cerulean blooms crowning the vases irritated his nose. More clean vines and immaculate petals scaled the carved struts to ornament the chandelier, flawless to the most miniscule sinew and emanating the stench of perfection across the hall.
Sniffling, Alek itched his nose, masking the motion behind his drink. A drone of conversation swarmed the assembly of relations. Shoulders leaned closer to divulge rumours and the occasional compliment flushed already rosy cheeks.
“He is to begin his new role next week,” his Aunt Edwina prattled, arms loosely crossed and her gem-encrusted rings drumming on her glass. “The promotion we have all been waiting for. It could not have happened to a more deserving man than my dear son.”
Alek’s mother puckered her lips into an artificial grin and lifted her chin to look down her nose. “How quaint,” Millicent said with a pointed swill of her rose-tinted refreshment. “I do find it admirable you celebrate such achievements.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Edwina demanded, retaining the gracious smile to place the barbs into her words instead.
“Only that people get promotions all the time,” Millicent clarified. “But I know that not everybody has the courage of my boy, and your son must do with what he has been given.”
Alek shrunk from the attention, aunts, uncles, and cousins within the conversing circle eyeballing him as though the brag came from his lips. He attempted to lower the short sleeves of his shirt, cursing himself for complying with his parents request to flaunt his battle scars. They cared little that those streaks and stains trailed distressing nightmares in their wake, and that when those terrifying images threatened to pluck at his senses, Cas and Rhena never failed to answer his call with calm reason and sympathy.
“Alek went to another world and saved those poor, little people from a raging beast,” Millicent bragged. “That is something to be proud of, Edwina.”
Bristling at his mother’s description of the kind-hearted souls of Azuris, Alek gulped a mouthful of wine to withhold the indignation mounting in his chest. He extended his aunt an apologetic glance, but she brushed him off with a scowl.
Since arriving home from the Citadel Academy, qualifications in hand and schooling finished, his parents fussed morning, noon, and night, questioning his professional intentions before he crossed the threshold of the house and contriving unnecessary family gatherings for pointless reasons to parade him in their faces. A soldier’s heart beat behind his ribs, the desire to protect prevailing in his veins. That aim never changed, but they warped his ambitions to the point he could not recognise them anymore. Their gloating and their disparaging remarks about other members of his family tainted those dreams, loosening his grip on his goal and obstructing his view of the future he wanted.
“My Alek defeated a monster single-handedly,” Millicent pressed further, driving the point home with an arched eyebrow at her sister. “Those people are in his debt.”
“Stop it,” Alek snapped. The smirk scoured from his mother’s face in an instant. Relatives within earshot looked on in shock. “Just... stop it.”
Millicent blinked at him, clawing to retain her dignity by tucking a stray curl back behind his ear. “My boy, do not be ashamed of your accomplishments. You are amongst family.”
Alek chewed harder on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. “I am the reason that monster was released in the first place,” he corrected coolly. “The citizens of Azuris were perfectly fine before I got there. All I did was mop up the mess I created with the help of some generous, brave people.”
“Appears your perfect boy has had too much wine,” a lanky, sharp-chinned uncle snickered. Others contributed their own mocking chortles, Edwina a more than willing participant.
Losing the battle but ready to return fire, Alek’s response died on his lips at the sweeping touch to his arm. By his side and to the rescue, his sister exuded her usual serene poise.
“Perhaps you would like some fresh air to clear your head, Alek,” Gwendolyn offered, the bordering relatives softening at her benevolent charm. “I do not think the refreshments are agreeing with you.”
“I’m fine,” Alek said.
“Don’t be silly.” Gwendolyn extracted the glass from his grasp and planted it by a half-empty plate of savoury pastries. “Come for a walk with me. I have missed getting to speak with my little brother while you’ve been away.”
Her endearing tone quashed most of the animosity brewing, and she steered him to the double glass doors, granting the family a gracious smile in recompense for the trouble.
“I don’t need rescuing,” Alek insisted.
“Of course you don’t,” Gwendolyn sighed, ushering him out into the gardens and sealing the pompous gathering inside.
A premature dew coated the leaves, the cold snap rambling across the north of Celestria fleeing as the mild temperature soon saw to the glittering chill disturbing the land.
“The Efros flowers are expected to bloom early this year,” Gwendolyn commented. “Won’t that be nice? Even more honeycomb.”
Alek scowled, traipsing after his sister as she roamed the orderly hedgerows and yawning flowers to the angelic statue that guarded the converging paths. Wings outstretched as though she had just landed on her designated pedestal, she elevated her sword high, away from the icy pool below.
Pausing by the garden’s figurehead, Gwendolyn welcomed the refreshing chill. “You can stop looking at me like that,” she told her brother, aware of his frown and the flex of his fists. “I’m not going to chastise you. If you keep that expression up-“
“The wind will paint it on my face forever,” Alek finished. “I know.”
“Exactly. Some may call it an improvement, but I prefer to see you happy.”
A throaty chortle pushed at Alek’s chest, the swelling laughter subduing the pinched pout and the strain in his jaw. If there was one person he could always rely on, it was Gwendolyn. Dependable and encouraging, she bolstered him through every struggle, even when he did not deserve it.
“How have you been?” she asked, seating herself onto the fountain’s edge and patting the space beside her. “Be honest with me. You have always been good at hiding how you truly feel, and I’m worried you are withdrawing again.”
Alek flopped onto the cold slab and slumped over his knees. Amongst the flagstones of the path, grass stole into the vacant spaces, pining for sunlight and toiling to shake off the hardened frost.
“I’m not doing okay,” he admitted. “I can’t... I can’t do this anymore.” He directed a flippant gesture to the dominating house and the extensive garden where greenskeepers commanded every flower to grow perfectly or face being trimmed and discarded.
He finally faced her, an identical amber hue staring back at him. Her slender eyebrows dipped and a wealth of wishes for him nestled in the crease between them.
“I know you have been wanting to leave,” she said sympathetically. “I can see it in your face sometimes, and as much as I will miss you, if that is what you want, what you need, then you must go where your heart is leading you. This place will only wear you down, and I will not allow you to share my fate.”
Lodged in his soul like a splinter, her admission silenced the frustration. As the eldest child, Gwendolyn carried most of the expectations, often commended on her beauty and her talents, the shining jewel of the family. She never complained about the stresses of bearing their reputation, soothing abrasive situations with her compassion and appeasing their parents with her successes. Despite the fact they often took undue credit for the achievements of both their children, she tolerated their endless vanity to protect him, to ensure they would not find fault. On the occasions they did, she provided him with a defence and diffused the issue, all while bearing her own burdens.
Alek hugged her tightly. “I couldn’t have wished for a better sister or a dearer friend than you,” he said. “Lucky doesn’t even cover it.”
“Don’t give our parents the chance to guilt you into staying. Go. I’ll make up an excuse for you, just let me know when you’re safe.”
A bold rush spurred him, the murk he had been enclosed in for months dissipating with her inspiriting boost. Could he leave so suddenly, no word, no forewarning? What would he do? Where would he go?
As soon as the question sparked, he knew. There was only one place in Myriad he truly wanted to be. “I’m not going to abandon you,” he promised. “Once I’m settled, you can come and visit, and we’ll make plans for you, too. You can do whatever you want, Gwen. Play music all over Myriad, no ties to anything.”
Gwendolyn grinned at his enthusiasm, holding onto his hands as he bolted up from the fountain’s edge. “Knowing that you are happy is good enough for me.”
“No, I mean it,” Alek asserted. “I won’t allow myself to get away and not you. Myriad has opened up opportunities for everyone, and we will both get the life we want. You’ll see.”
“With confidence like that, how could I argue?” Gwendolyn chuckled, getting to her feet with his assistance and squeezing his fingers. “Now go. Don’t delay, or give yourself time to talk yourself out of it. Contact me as soon as you’re off world, okay? Swear it.”
“Okay,” Alek agreed, mind abuzz. “I swear.”
* * *
Lightning fuelled his steps and jubilant thrums beat against his ribs. Alek never stopped from the moment he cleared the Emerson gardens to the second he entered the Temporal Gateway Axis. His new goal energised into an exhilarating flame and burned away the knotted webs ensnaring his ambition to get out into the stars.
Within the station, dusk endeavoured to shut out the remaining daylight, the gilded warmth receding through the circular windows and the bracket lights on the turnstile entryways activating.
Beneath the globular clock, a mass of activity admitted him into the foyer. Corporate staff in tailored suits rushed to catch the gateway home, speeding past tourists jabbing at fold-out maps and shoppers hauling their newly acquired goods with heavy-lidded blinks and wearied shoulders. An artist guild associate bumped him as he darted by, extending a sincere apology before scurrying on his way.
The departure screens displayed interchanging advertisements until Alek tapped on the last monitor, rifling through the list of ships and gateways. Pockets of opportunity unwound before him. Spacious corridors lined with knowledge in The Compendium. Sprawling forests of Skuld. Paradisical oceans on Aetherdril. Swamped by choice, he almost covered his eyes and selected one at random, but at the heart of his climbing sense of freedom, he knew where he wanted to go.
He filtered the options to easier navigate the list, locating an entry departing in ten minutes. Below it and only five minutes later, a passenger ship awaited leave for Azuris.
The corner of his lips tugged at the image of the tidy slopes and the generosity of the people who called that stifling heat home. In his last communication to Cas and Rhena, he had promised to visit, but his original intention ferried his hand back to the slot above it.
Accepting that he would never reach the next gateway crossing even if he sprinted, he searched the selection for a later booking and purchased his ticket, accessing the funds in his private account and stashing the printed pass safely in the zipped compartment of his jacket.
Every path converged into a singular tunnel beyond the barrier checks and security inspections. Bowed bronze beams arched across the curvature of the ceiling, each decorated with unique designs representing the nine worlds of Myriad. Antiquated patterns embellished the Lucarian sign, and a herd of mystical horses galloped the length of the curve dedicated to Prosperia. Solgarde’s own crowned the end of the channel in well-wishes to those departing for home.
For Alek, leaving his home, a shamed sting nettled in his chest. Behind him lay his entire life, his adventures on Eternity an exciting heartbeat compared to the years of magic and the lulling swish of the coastal waters of his childhood. Yet, despite the temporary twinge at losing that familiarity, the hushed trepidation of the unknown enticed him more. He had prepared no plans for what he might do or where he might go once he reached his desired destination, but Solgarde crowded him like a cage. He needed to smash those confining bars and find liberation if he truly wished to escape his parents’ influence. Not only for him, but for Gwendolyn too.
Stretches of retail outlets and storefronts branched out from the connecting lobby, two aisles divided by low trees and occupied benches. String lights looped between the boughs to dip in luminescent waves. At intervals, advertisement boards between the seating cycled through posters for various shops in the vicinity. Cartoon animals announced limited-time offers and exclusive deals as travel announcements conveyed through the tannoy speakers. Multiple calls sought missing passengers and robotic reminders to keep an eye on personal items floated into the noise.
Alek browsed a quiet bakery while he waited for his gateway, purchasing a honeycomb muffin from the friendly cashier and digging into the treat on a seat outside the establishment. The crunchy, porous sweet atop the mountain of icing brought to mind the occasions his sister smuggled his favourite confectionery to him when they were children. Their parents forbade certain foods, but Gwendolyn never let that stop her from seeing her little brother happy.
He swallowed the regret with a mouthful of grainy buttercream. Casting off their parents without her left a sour taste on his tongue, but he reminded himself that it would not be forever. She would escape their suffocating control and take her musical gifts to every realm known to Myriad. He was certain of it. Every good commander needs a scouting party to assess the situation, he thought. I’ll make sure that when she’s ready, she has everything she needs.
The tannoy broadcasts blended into each other, notices merging in a repeated chain that interrupted the natural chatter. Lost in contemplation and almost missing the announcement for his journey, Alek flung the paper packaging from his snack into the nearest bin and raced for the signposted gates.
“Repeat of announcement: passengers travelling on passage 38412B are required to head to Gate Ninety-Four,” the cheery voice intoned over the speakers. “Thank you, and happy travels.”
He took a wrong turn and doubled back to an intersection, scanning the overhanging signs and locating the correct gate as staff began steering travellers towards the walkway. The Temporal Gateways no longer appeared as bursting columns of light, encased instead by tunnels and accessed through angular, teardrop frames.
The queue moved in an organised row, shoving commuters directed to the rear of the line by onlooking security and helpful station attendants assisting those with questions.
At the top of the staircase, Alek provided his ticket and shuffled along with his fellow wayfarers. Reaching panes met at the apex of the closed-off access bridge, and he peeked into the recesses below where windows permitted a glimpse of the inner workings. Catalysts applied their inherited gifts to maintain the swiftest mode of transport in Myriad, attentive to every shift in the mechanism and each adjustment of the machinery.
Aware of his hesitation and the potential to hold up the line, he focused on the moving queue. He waited at the outstretched hand of the guard on duty until he moved him along with an impatient flick of his fingers. Part of him wanted to look behind him one last time, to take in Solgarde, his home, but Gwendolyn had been right; remaining there would only wear him down, and if his future rested elsewhere, no amount of guilt or stalling could hinder him.
-- -- -- -- --
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Legends of Myriad: Arc Two - Chapter 2: Hunter and Hunted
Chapter 1 | Chapter 3
Arc Two Masterlist
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The walls of Grethune squeezed. Neighbouring businesses and establishments crammed the compact lanes and compressed together in indistinguishable rows. Shoulder to shoulder, they wriggled for room, many cobblestone exteriors fragmented and deteriorating under the weight of jutting balconies and terraces layering each upper level. Flagstone stairways became additional land, bearing chalk-smeared signboards and notices belonging to the bordering shops, no stone too small or narrow to place another item onto.
Esther remembered market days as a child in those constricting streets. She pressed herself in so tightly to avoid being jostled and jarred that her ribs ached for hours afterwards. Her mother always walked as though wind whipped beneath her feet, and while she strived to match her pace, she feared the moment someone wandered between them and cut her off from view.
In those days, the buildings flaunted fresh coats of pastel paint yearly that almost blinded in the sunnier months. Stains of strife tarnished them now, patches peeling, muddied and neglected.
Spurred by the biting draughts, a discarded newspaper sheet sailed in her direction. She hopped over a puddle and recovered on a damp lamppost to avoid the oily water. Crumpled posters bearing sought after individuals held fast to the streetlights.
Emerging from the rambling streets that brought to mind Lumen’s own circuitous alleys and crossing into the open civic plaza of Grethune, the clean, seasonal chill shrouded her in the earthy scent of rain. The hedges encircling the bronze horse and its honoured, if not slightly saturated, rider began to decay, prickly needles on the verge of browning and the matured foliage curling at the edges.
The parliamentary hall crowned the square, separated from the other buildings to stand imperious and alone. An oversized chronometer guarded the entrance, fastened into the Grethune crest and advising every citizen of their compliance and obedience to the law.
On either side of the central protrusion, the insignia of the Exalted Authority survived, brazen and unrepentant in their pollution of the government. The inhuman acts that attended those flags seethed in Esther’s blood, and she resisted the impulse to tear them down and set them alight in a searing green firestorm.
Instead, she stashed her flail further into her cloak and steered clear of the city hall. She had ventured home in peace, and she planned for her visit to remain that way.
As the drizzle mounted into sleet, Esther sped to the pavement opposite and ducked into a sleepy public house. Multiple mantelpieces exhaled a welcoming warmth, and meat roasted above a raised pit behind the bar. Most of the patrons hunkered over their meals and drinks, pretending not to notice her as they occupied their morning with reviewing the daily news sheets and tending to their empty stomachs. A few eyed her, deciding she did not pose a threat to their quiet and returning to their solitude.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asked with a hospitable grin, unloading a stack of gravy-stained plates onto the tray by the kitchen door and mopping her hands on her apron.
“Just a blackberry juice, please,” Esther replied, slipping a silver coin onto the countertop before the speckled glass had even made it to the tap.
“Looks like it’s coming down a storm out there,” the barkeep commented. The subtle wrinkles neighbouring her lashes deepened as she considered the civic plaza outside and the emergent gusts pulling and shoving at the downpour. “You made the right choice coming in here.”
“I’m not made of wafer,” Esther said. “Bit of rain never hurt anyone.”
“Don’t know. Folk come in here during weather like this and all they do is complain. Anyone would think knives were falling from the sky.”
Esther chuckled despite herself. For so long, Grethune had occupied a sombre place in her mind, its people turned to killers and the streets perilous for people like her, that it was easy to forget good-hearted people lived there too. Beaming, joking with each other, clinging onto that brightness to keep the dark from taking them as it had so many others before.
Hiding herself away in a corner booth with her refreshment, the heat of the nearby fire tended to the chill in her bones and the soaked hem of her cloak. As she sipped, she tracked the interwoven pattern of the carpet, inching across connecting lines and over obstinate stains, and bouldering to a halt at the arriving dirty boots trampling mud and rainwater in from outdoors.
“Absolutely not,” the woman managing the bar barked, lifting the collapsible countertop and storming past elevated tables. She wagged her finger for the newcomers to vacate her establishment and persisted in her position when they refused. “You lot are not welcome in here. Clear out.”
Esther’s heart thrashed against her ribs, a sickly bile rising that she swallowed with a mouthful of her drink.
Every eye in the room fixed on the six men. Each of them wore a high collared long coat, stripes on their shoulder straps and firearms clipped to their backs. Their leader boasted the most medallions on his lapel, shined to an accentuated polish and slightly askew on the frayed fabric.
“Did you not hear me?” the aggravated woman asserted, arms crossing over her chest. “Get lost.”
“Why?” the mouthpiece of the group shrugged. The scar on his lip stretched with his smirk. “All we want is a drink.”
“You ain’t getting one, Warren, so scram.”
“Is that any way to treat a paying customer?”
“You’re not a customer and you haven’t paid. You are scum.”
Grip straining around the glass, Esther mapped the viable exits. Entryway blocked, her last surviving hope lingered on there being a supply yard beyond the kitchen access or a window she might throw open. Yet, the fight within her begged for a brawl with these monsters. How many new scars could she give them before they snatched her? How many could she send into the deepest recesses of death where mages like her clawed for their revenge?
“You lot have brought us nothing but trouble,” the bartender insisted, poking the imposing man in the chest and spitting on the floor at the tokens of murder decorating his jacket. “My suppliers in Craeton have refused to do business with me because of what you mage hunters have done, what you’re still doing.”
“The Exalted Authority is gone,” one customer remarked from a table by the window. “Did you boys not get the message?”
Warren sneered, stony eyes meeting the unperturbed man who presumed to mock them.
“There are many in here who have lost a lot of money and a lot of business because of your kind,” the bartender spoke, boosting her chin when the unwanted guests retreated a step. “Many who would relish doing to you what you did to the mages you caught.”
“The law of Cavell states-“
“I don’t give a flying fuck what the law says. If a law calls for innocent people to be killed, it’s no law of mine. Now, get out, and take your simpering dogs with you.”
For a strained second, Esther anticipated the men forcing their way in and reached for the concealed weapon in her cloak, but one glance at the other patrons soon deterred them from their attempts. With a warning glare, the mage hunters trudged out into the rain, a hesitant pause surviving in their wake before the customers resumed their drinks.
Esther counted her shaky breaths to regain some sense of composure, jolting as the bartender perched another glass of blackcurrant juice onto the cardboard coaster minutes later.
“On the house,” the kindly woman said, her tone sweet where moments ago it had asserted and condemned.
“Thank you,” Esther replied. She relinquished her tight hold on the finished glass and accepted the refreshed one.
“It’s not safe for you in Grethune.”
“I... don’t know what you mean.”
“Your ring?”
Esther’s eyes dropped to the silver and gold band looping her index finger, a jade Volar crystal rooted in the middle. “I’m so accustomed to wearing it, I often forget it’s even there,” she admitted, concealing the jewellery beneath her sleeve and checking for prying eyes.
“Nobody in here is going to hurt you,” the bartender promised, using her frame to conceal her from view while she remedied her mistake. “Whatever you’re hoping to find here, it’s not worth it. Take my advice and get as far away as you can.”
Identity hidden and advice received, the barkeep continued her duties, but her warning persisted. Esther downed the second drink and smuggled a few extra coins underneath the flimsy cardboard coaster. Her plan would be worth the risk. If it worked.
Late morning bled into afternoon, the incident with the mage hunters disregarded by the patrons almost as swiftly as it had happened. At the noontime toll, a drove of famished masonry workers from the nearby ashlar yards crowded into the public house, lugging the cold snap inside with them. Groups broke off to occupy the vacant chairs, and the bartender and her staff hurried into action. Piping hot bowls of broth and soup, and sandwiches piled high with fillings soon met the tables, and the rush of gossip abated into a satisfied murmur.
Esther offered her table to a band of grateful stonecutters and relocated to a stool at the bar, welcoming her own plate of peppered beef and rice, and scarfing down the meal. The barkeep introduced herself as Clare, chattering away as she scrubbed the countertop and tidied the empty water bottles into the bins.
“If you’ve been studying in Mora, what are you doing here in Grethune?” Clare asked, loading a crate with used glasses. “There are better places to go, especially with the experience you must have.”
“I was born here,” Esther replied.
“A Grethune girl, huh? Whereabouts?”
“Barrow Way. On the outskirts.”
“Near the river quarter?”
“That’s the one.”
“I had a niece who lived there before she moved to Lourgaen,” Clare reminisced. “It’ll be a pleasant homecoming for you. Your parents must be glad you’re home after so long away.”
Esther gulped the last spoonful of seasoned rice. In the spread of tables and chairs behind her, the groups of masons dissolved as the minutes ate up their lunch hour and work beckoned. “They don’t know I’m here.”
“Oh, a surprise, how lovely,” Clare said with a lilt of endearment. “I’m sure they will be thrilled to see you.”
In the rosy-cheeked smile and the friendly tip of her head, Esther sensed that Clare envisioned a sentimental reunion, a child running to their parents to share stories of her scholarly accomplishments over a cup of sweet tea and more biscuits than she could stomach. A sinking intuition warned her that her plan would only end in tears and prove that the prospect of a reconciliation died the moment her parents cast her out.
“I hope they are,” Esther admitted.
Clare’s bright bearing paled, realisation overshadowing her cheery manner. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think before I spoke. Not every Cavelli mage found acceptance with their families.”
“I got out in time, thanks to help,” Esther reassured her. “Considering the fate of other mages, I’m one of the lucky ones.”
Clearing her bowl and setting it aside with the dirty glasses, a speculative air followed the barkeep in her cleaning. “I’ve never understood why people don’t like mages,” she pondered, lowering her voice. “The Exalted Authority claimed that magic was being used for harmful purposes, but that isn’t exclusive to mages. Folk throughout history have always found ways of contriving ill, even when magic lay dormant, so I didn’t believe that lie for a second. No, they were envious, I reckon. Mages helped people, they were liked. Knew the power of community, and I tell you, there’s plenty round here who could do with a reminder about that.”
“It’s nice to hear that we’re not completely unwelcome in Cavell,” Esther said.
“Times will change,” Clare promised. “Might not seem like it now, but they will.” Her easygoing expression stiffened at the flailing overcoat approaching at a run, the panicked arrival clutching onto the surface of the bar to avert a nasty collision. “By the stars, Leo, you’ll trip over that coat if you don’t slow down. You got a pack of duskhounds on your heels?”
“Sorry, Aunt Clare,” the teenager panted, ignoring the question. Sweat stained the underarms of his work shirt and he heaved for every breath. “Warren’s coming this way.”
“So? Did he not get enough of an earful the first time?”
“I overheard him talking. He’s bringing the big guy with him.”
“That little shit,” Clare spat. Flinging up the collapsible surface, she nudged Esther behind the bar. “Leo, you get back to work now, and not a word of this to anyone.”
“What’s going on?” Esther asked.
“We’re getting you out of here,” Clare answered, guiding her into the belly of the building, past shelves stocked with kegs and decorated bottles, and closets stacked with folded linen and cleaning equipment. “Warren isn’t much of a threat on his own, but there are some dangerous hunters who will have your head from your shoulders if they find out what you are.”
“I can defend myself,” Esther insisted. She halted in the darkened storeroom, prepared to fight.
Clare doubled back. “I don’t doubt that, but while you’re here, you’re in the firing line. It’s me they’re angry with, so let them bark. They won’t find what they really want.”
Committed to a peaceful solution for Clare’s sake, Esther withdrew from the fight before even drawing her weapon, shuffling through the narrow door and into the storage yard.
“Don’t go anywhere near the centre of town,” Clare advised, unhooking the latches on the slatted gate and checking the cramped lane beyond. “Take the shorter roads by the river to get to Barrow Way. Anybody stops you, you tell them you work for me and you’re picking up a shipment from the Glass Cannon Warehouse. And for stars sake, keep that ring hidden.”
“Thank you,” Esther said.
“Thank me once you’re in the clear. Good luck with your parents. Some came round to the idea of magic. They might have too.”
Esther drew her hood and scampered into the alley, the gate squeaking closed behind her. The bleak reality of Grethune’s streets scraped away the homely atmosphere of the public house as she progressed towards the river way passage and descended into the lower town.
She deliberated a retreat, wondering whether returning home was the best course of action considering the ever-present tensions, but she shoved the thought aside as soon as it arose. She’d come too far to give up now.
* * *
A choral breath whistled over the water’s edge to chase a dusting of fallen leaves into the river, bullying the withered plants without sympathy. The scattered survivors shivered by the gnarled roots in their refuge, hiding and hoping.
Further along the riverside and flanking the houses, boughs secured their remaining fiery leaves, a burnished blanket surrounding the homesteads and dappled up the base of the distant hills. Patchy frost made a clear warning on the blades of grass and the riverbank. In the windows, firelight burned, auburn heat dripping and distorting in blotches on the disturbed water.
As a child, Esther sprinted the lengths of that river, bounding with the wind as her only companion as she replicated the brave heroics of her favourite book characters, makeshift weapon in hand and fervour in her heart. At least until her father discovered her and yelled for her to abandon her stories and get home.
For many who had no prior knowledge of the blood absorbed by the soil and the screams that possessed the trees, it might seem peaceful, almost restful. But that strangling shame and the voracious remorse clawing in Esther’s ribs refused to let her forget what had happened to her home, to the people she once trusted. Time would never scrub the cries of mercy from her ears nor the drowning sense of death hounding her steps.
The loose track ended at a modest decline, a three-storey house constructed down the slope on struts and poles. Two upper levels dangled over the river, balconies laden with fresh washing and empty flower pots. Built into the sloped roof, the crowning attic and Esther’s former childhood bedroom appeared the only darkened window.
On the riverside, a woman knelt on the pebbled bank, chafed fingers mending the knots in the net as she hauled in the evening catch. The steely man at the open containers organised the writhing fish she handed over and returned the unwanted ones to the water.
A disquieted churn begged Esther to flee to Mora and cease whatever she hoped to find there, but as her mother’s eyes raised from her task, she bolstered against the uncertainty.
Lysa Tremaine shoved herself to her feet, the hem of her skirts soaking up the skim of river water. Her husband abandoned the half-full crates and cleansed his hands on a chequered towel to stand between her and their unexpected visitor.
“Hello, mother,” Esther said, voice cracking.
“Thought you were dead,” Soran Tremaine interrupted.
The moment Esther constructed in her mind over the past weeks vanished in his gruff response, freezing to death and shattering into powder like glass under a mallet.
“Heard about the siege at the Citadel, the mages who died,” he continued, unaffected by the flicker of her eyes and the clamp of her jaw. “We hoped you were amongst them.”
“Don’t say that, father,” Esther begged, repelling the tears as though her life banked on it. “Please.”
Soran neared, never taking his glower from the intruder on their peace. “I have no children. I had a daughter once, but she was too full of hubris for her own good.”
“Why are you here?” Lysa demanded.
“To see you both,” Esther said. “You’re my parents.”
“You’ve seen us,” Soran pointed out, “now go, before I call the hunters to do what they should have done when we reported you the first time.”
Esther stuttered in her withdrawal, part of her committed to standing her ground, to goading him to carry out his threat, but her efforts would prove futile. Her mother and father disowned her long ago.
Heading for the trail into town, tears snagged on her lower lashes and shed the possibility of a reconciliation. She swept them away with the pad of her thumb before they could slip free, diverting her attention to The Core peeking through the evening haze and the sprinkle of stars emerging within the fall of daylight.
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Legends of Myriad: Arc Two - Chapter 1: Prosperity and Hope
Chapter 2
Arc Two Masterlist
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Although the continual airstream from the ventilation grates whisked away most of the collective heat in the Delegate Auditorium, many still fanned at their faces with document papers and dabbed at beading sweat on their cheeks with the cuff of their sleeves. Inside the expectant hush, the slightest huff or cough from the gathered representatives travelled far.
After the closure of the Temporal Gateways three centuries ago, Myriad lost not only their pathways to each other but alliances too. In those years, when adversity struck, distress calls went unanswered and civilians were abandoned to suffer alone. Nobody heard their pleas for help, the void snagging them and devouring the noise as cities burned and isolation made for easy pickings. But now, they had the chance to rebuild, awakened from seclusion and more united than ever.
Pacing the lower levels of the assembly hall before her peers never failed to remind Farina of her purpose. The spiral suspended from the ceiling distributed its gold-guarded glow onto the centre of the room as she maundered, dispersing at the outer edges where mounted screens acted as windows, feeding live images of the stars beyond the revived city of Delphara.
Silver veins spread into the marble table below the looping light, a holographic rendition of the Myriad System revolving from the wide hollow in the middle. Representatives, flanked by assistants and advisors from each of the nine worlds anticipated her continued speech and observed from their booths. Above each, a clockwork timepiece displayed the hours on their respective homeworlds.
“Within these tender years of Myriad’s reawakening,” Farina said, her serene yet assertive tone carrying in the stillness of that monumental amphitheatre, “we have made true, substantial change. Trade prospers, knowledge crosses borders, and our worlds, our people, flourish as a result of our alliance of prosperity and hope.”
Her last note brought a smile to many of the attending delegates. They upheld the hope of their people, of an assured future in which every citizen might thrive. It was the principle on which the Myriad Coalition formed, a vow they willingly took to preserve the connection for good this time.
From the upper left branch of the hall, ambassadors of Skuld listened with interest, a keen ally to Solgarde and amongst the first to supply aid to any world that required extra assistance. The representatives from Lucarian, in their onyx and amber, endorsed her words with bowed heads, and the sunny eyes of the Eternity delegates kindled as though they brought the rays of home with them.
As expected, the Delorem bays were half-empty, the self-appointed voices who attended slouched in their plush seats, one slumped in slumber and another gnawing on his nails like a dog chewing through a tough bone. He inspected the damage with a scrunched nose and continued to wrest with his fingernail.
The only bare stands in the hall belonged to Sanctus. Once a land of sanctuary and refuge, the War of the Dark Star devastated not only the populace, but the entire planet’s surface. Nothing survived on that once heartening haven.
Early reports from the months after the reopening of the gateways revealed a barren wasteland, fleeting patches of red flitting in and out of existence that no specialist could decipher. Farina had spoken to Bartholomew about the sightings on multiple occasions, but he had cautioned her against sending anybody to investigate. He suspected remnants of toxic reagents still poisoned the air, but assured her he was monitoring the matter, leaving her with no option but to trust him.
“I am proud of what we have managed to implement,” Farina continued, meandering from the holographic map. “The unity we have forged and the bonds we have created will secure the nine worlds for generations to come. We are all children of the Starlight Path, and what we have built in a mere few years is nothing short of spectacular.” An undertone of magic suffused her faith in them. Even the Delorem delegates roused from their boredom at the optimistic warmth. “We have given compassion and harmony a home in our societies, and that is what we must strive to maintain. Our cooperation is imperative to rebuilding Myriad into an environment in which all have a chance.”
A scant number of eyes strayed to the occupied Delorem seats. Lumen’s stance the governing of their people caused disputes at every turn, digging up loopholes to secure their input within the coalition and quietening any voices from the enduring towns and cities on the planet.
Farina cleared her throat and tucked her hands over her stomach, refusing to permit division to grow in the face of all they had achieved. “The second anniversary of our coalition is fast approaching. To mark the merry occasion, I shall be hosting a gathering. It is my hope that you will join me in celebration to welcome in another year of our bond and the accord we share.”
“So long as the tankards never run dry, we’ll be there,” Delegate Nuelle Wolfstorm said heartily from the Skuld stands, a fist on the crescent surface in front of her and a smirk of mischief pressing at her freckles.
Adding her own amusement into the mix of her fellow delegates, Farina inclined her head. “Since your own suppliers have kindly offered to provide us with our refreshments, I do not believe we need to fear empty glasses,” the Solgardian confirmed. “There will be plenty for everyone.”
From the topmost Eternity booth, a representative rose to her feet in a flow of white and bronze. The ornamental hoops attached to her clothing and twisted into her hair chimed as she lifted the bracelets on her right wrist to her heart, fingers splaying across her collarbone “To Myriad,” she declared. “And to every citizen who calls this magnificent system home.”
“To Myriad!” others called, rising to join her praise of the nine worlds and the billions relying on them to uphold the tranquillity drawn out and enacted by their hands. “To Myriad!”
* * *
Farina retained her collected poise as she shed the inky cobalt of the Delegate Auditorium and welcomed the hospitable sunlight in the windowed corridor outside. Passing representatives praised her speech, calling promises to attend her party over their shoulders as they hastened to commence their day.
“I do apologise for the absence of my colleagues,” Edgar Ironstrike said in his usual disinterested drawl. “Delorem is busy as always, but you can count on my attendance at your celebration. It would be foolish to miss an opportunity to discuss future deals.”
Before Farina could respond with her customary courtesy and not the scathing remarks in her head, he departed, barking orders at his swarming entourage and swatting away a communications tablet.
“I’ll finalise the preparations this afternoon and confirm a guest list later this evening,” her assistant, Erylis, assured her. “The room should be simple enough to divide to ensure that tensions remain at a minimum.”
“You are a treasure,” Farina said as they headed away from the Solgardian entrance of the auditorium. “Can you ensure the water shipment is sent to Azuris as a matter of urgency? Oh, and I think it might be best to move the meeting with the Lucarian embassy to next week.”
“Of course,” Erylis replied. “There was a note from them about a malfunction with the nearby gateway, so I have arranged for you to arrive by ship instead. I tried to sort discreet transportation once you’re there, but they insisted on a convoy.”
“No worries. Have there been any other messages?”
“Nothing. I repeated your message to Solgarde this morning, as you asked. Perhaps there is a communication delay?”
Appreciative of her assistant’s attempts to quell her irritation, Farina squared her shoulders. “The transmissions are working as they should. I’m being ignored.” She searched the vacant walkway for the missing presence, hoping that perhaps preoccupation may be to blame and she had been hasty in her comments, but the blatant disregard for her messages told her everything she needed to know. “The Aetherdrilian ambassador is expected to arrive soon. Will you wait for her at the landing port and escort her to the conference hall? I will meet you there.”
“I’ll get it sorted, Delegate Canaris.”
Once alone, Farina curbed her haste in ascending the stairway to the upper levels of the coalition headquarters. To be busy was one matter, but to be ignored in such a brazen manner irked her more than she cared to admit.
Along the plum-coated delegation corridor, she straightened the creases in her fingerless gloves, fussing over the fabric and plucking at inconsequential specks of lint on her gossamer mantle.
“For someone who just delivered a fine speech, you look as though you are about to declare war,” Delegate Wolfstorm said as she rounded from the lengthy row of Skuld offices.
“Apologies,” Farina said, resuming her usual soft, smiling front. “I’m afraid I was quite distracted.”
“Comes with the territory. We can grin in public and be as bright as we like, but behind these doors, the stress only seems to gets heavier.” Nuelle twisted on her heels in a rattle of dwarven plate to accompany her walk to the Solgardian division. “The job gets to all of us at some point.”
“I wish the problem were the job,” Farina admitted.
“Oh?” At the tautened jaw and rankled breath, Nuelle chortled. “Oh, I understand. I have three daughters. You don’t need to explain anything. She still not replying to your messages?”
“No.”
“Not a single one?”
Farina’s head swayed, measured and collected despite the open act of defiance she faced from the one person she thought she could count on.
“It’s easier said than done, but you mustn’t worry,” Nuelle advised. “When she was on Skuld, she was far too busy adventuring and getting herself into mischief to keep in touch with anyone.”
“She’s not adventuring this time,” Farina sighed, trying to withhold the annoyance and failing. “She is on Solgarde, purposely ignoring my attempts to contact her.”
“In that case, perhaps you should talk to her in person.”
While Farina had considered marching home and retrieving her wayward ward herself, part of her understood her dislike of these places, those grand halls and the unwanted scrutiny her presence alone invited. The last thing she wished to do was put her in a position of discomfort. But she could no more hide from her reputation than Farina could change the cycles of the moon, and sooner or later, she would have to show her face amongst the delegation again.
“One more call,” Farina decided. “And if she refuses to answer, I guess I will be making a trip home earlier than planned.”
* * *
The tankard impacted on the table with a robust strike, sloshing over the sides in a gush of foam and dissipating into a sorry puddle of mead on the wooden slats. The other captains glared at the perpetrator of the noise over their cards.
“What?” Captain Sarros scoffed. Splayed in a organised fan, his choice of cards remained the only ones in play. “Didn’t distract you, did I?”
“Distracted by what?” Captain Marrow said, positioning three high-ranking cards from his own deck and grinning as Sarros’s smirk vanished in a stream of muttered curses. “The noise of your drink, or the sound of you losing?”
The three other captains withdrew in defeat, abandoning their turns, but the last player leaned forward, elbows on the table and a roguish arch in her eyebrow. Violet eyes absorbed the fiery glow of the mounted lanterns.
She set down the first card with a pointed flick of the corner and nestled the second down inside the anticipatory silence. Dangling their attention in front of their own faces, she rotated her final play between her fingers and laughed at their collective groans as she established a winning set.
“I believe they call that Battalion,” Lilith said.
“Honestly, commander, could you save us the humiliation and make your victory a little less devastating next time?” Captain Crane said, relinquishing her cards into the pile for the next game and tightening her short ponytail.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Lilith reasoned. “You are captains. Sharp tactics, impeccable strategy, perfect timing. I’m yet to see any of that at this table.”
A round of competitive glee passed between them, the gauntlet thrown and the challenge thoroughly accepted.
As the next dealer, Marrow shuffled the deck and dealt to the waiting players. A contemplative hush overtook the merriment, plans devised and countermoves speculated.
Lilith flitted over her selection, browsing the painted faces of the soldiers on her playing cards and the low-ranking numbers. Taking into account her previous wins, a couple of losses would not decrease her odds of an overall triumph, but she did not want to make it easy for them. They were the finest soldiers in Celestria, unparalleled in their technique, fierce in their attack, and an extension of her authority. A little testing of their mettle never hurt.
She played her chosen three, her captains deliberating their options too long and losing to a clever hand by Sarros.
“Was that tactical enough, Commander Cleaver?” Sarros asked with an edge of pride. “Or do we need to beat you again?”
“May I remind you I am in the lead by a considerable amount?” Lilith grinned.
“Not for long,” Crane said in a musical voice, tapping on her own collection of cards.
Playful quips circulated the table and developed into witty jibes, goading a series of wagers, undesirable duties put into the betting pool and the stakes raised.
“Cardin’s cape, is that Councillor Canaris?” Sarros whispered, hunching over his drink as though to impart a scandalous secret.
“Forget the card game, I bet you can’t say that again five times as fast,” Crane jested, earning herself a ruffled glower from Sarros.
“It’s Delegate Canaris now,” Marrow reminded them. “Or have you forgotten that?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Sarros whispered. “What in the name of the stars is she doing in Lowtown?”
Lilith ignored their squabbles and got to her feet. She fixed her gloves over her fingers and clasped her bracelets onto the correct wrists, tracking her guardian as she scoured the crammed tavern. “Get the next round set up. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Without another word, Lilith crossed the upper deck and jogged down the steps onto the mis-matched stone of the taproom. Enamoured by their drinks, most of the patrons overlooked the former councillor in their midst as they gulped copious amounts of fruit meads and sweet wines.
“Farina,” Lilith greeted, ending her guardian’s search with a wave and a strained smile. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Clearly,” Farina replied. “You were supposed to meet me on Aetherdril hours ago, and yet I find you drinking and playing card games on the wrong planet.”
At the stern articulation, a few stares drifted to the intrigue in the doorway.
“Not here,” Lilith said through gritted teeth, steering Farina to the adjoining corridor and out into the unoccupied garden. Puddles of rainwater reflected the soaked trees and drowned the droplets from the gutter in bouncing ripples.
“I’ve been busy,” she offered up before her guardian could get a word in. “Since I got back to Solgarde, I have been running all over Mora, and since I had the evening free, I wanted to spend some time with my friends.”
“I have been sending you messages and calling for weeks,” Farina said, the threat of more rain persisting on the lasting wind. “You have ignored every single attempt, and I know you have been receiving my transmissions. You cannot shirk your responsibilities, especially now.”
“My responsibility is to the people of Solgarde,” Lilith insisted. “I heard why you want to meet with me, and no, I will not attend your anniversary party.”
“You are a prominent figure. Your presence is required.”
“I don’t care if my presence is required, I will not be going.”
“Lilith.”
“Don’t ‘Lilith’ me like I’m a child! I spent months trailing after you when the coalition formed, months attending meetings where my voice didn’t matter because you asked me to, and for what? To show my face. Nothing more. My duty is to Solgarde, I told you that when I left. And you show up here, in front of my friends, to embarrass and lecture me.”
Indignant hostility billowed from her, and Farina retreated a step. Lilith had always been headstrong, an active participant and never an onlooker. Confronting her like this had been a mistake.
“I would not ask if I did not think it important,” Farina placated. “You reopened the gateways, whether you meant to or not, and it is not only Solgarde looking at you now; the whole of Myriad sees you. You reconnected us after centuries of isolation. It would mean a great deal to myself and many in the delegation to have you at our celebration to mark what you achieved in reactivating that vital link.”
The heaves in Lilith’s chest tempered. A scattered gust sprinted across the garden and avoided her boots as though it didn’t dare rile her further. “I’ll show for an hour,” she allowed. “But if the Delorem delegates come anywhere near me, I’m going to tell them exactly what I think of them, and then we’ll see just how good your diplomacy is.”
-- -- -- -- --
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Legends of Myriad: Tales From the Starlight Path - The Defence of Delphara
CW: This story contains depictions of blood and violence. Reader discretion is advised.
Considering the impending threat tearing towards their shores, a serene lull endured in the seas of Delphara, spirited clusters of foam toppling over one another up the ramps of the waterfront and bending waves rolling along like uniform soldiers. Mere days ago, families had piled onto the banks to indulge in the sunshine, splashing in the shallows and sharing picnics. Colour and life embellished the spotless waterside quay, but now, Daeron waited alone.
The bright-feathered gulls heeded the apprehensive shift and escaped into the mountains beyond the floating city, other birds and beasts not far behind. Those without the ability to fly scampered into nooks and concealed nests to shield their young, tunnelling into the deeper depths of Delphara. The citizens opted for a similar arrangement, fleeing via Temporal Gateways and ships to ferry them to designated safe zones across Myriad.
Daeron smacked the side of his communication device, grumbling to himself as the screen sputtered in objection and refused to comply with his aggressive tactics. No signal, no messages, no clue as to the status of the evacuation or the oncoming hazard.
The argent scales on his arm drank the ignited glints of sundown. Dapples of starlight and constellations already peeked through the rosy tangerine haze, awaiting the attack.
As a moon sentry, Daeron’s position required patience and a dedicated diligence. His duty, handed from generation to generation, obliged him to protect the sanctity and the peace of the night, but by himself, in that disquieted hush, with only the sway and churn of the tide for company, his discipline wavered.
He rotated the silver band around his index finger, conjuring the words of his vow to the citizens of Delphara. By the light of the moon and the guidance of the stars, I will protect and shield the sanctity of the night. With my hands I raise my weapons, with my heart I exercise my compassion, and with my voice I speak for the innocent. Hear my vow, and never fear.
From the rear of the benches, the slope of the seafront cafe expelled a curving, misshapen shadow, the silhouette distending and drooping with the descending daylight. The slender trees planted along the decline slumped as though to sleep.
Daeron wondered when he would next get to rest. Soon, he intended, once the city cleared, and he reached the safe zone on Skuld. So much for being a sentry, he thought, when I have to flee instead of defending my home. But the order to leave had not been his, and he acknowledged the wisdom and experience of his superiors, regardless of his own judgement.
While the discussions surrounding the decision to abandon Delphara did not transpire easily, the enemy would struggle to find anything of use left within the city. As part of the preparation effort, military personnel had been dispatched to various outposts and select facilities, destroying weapon power and vital information. A small act of rebellion, but one that they hoped may protect the exact locality of their refuges and prevent their capabilities causing disaster elsewhere.
At the clatter of metal and the flood of heat, he shunned the tranquil waters to welcome the fire giant advancing on his post. Wild sable eyebrows arched over gold-flecked eyes, and an elongated combed beard framed his stern face. His hair clumped together like feathers, scorched at the tips, and fiery rivers coursed from his collarbone and down his bare grey chest in forked channels.
“What are you waiting here for?” Ashir asked, tone thick and rumbling. “Ain’t going to be of any use sat here moping, moonie.”
“I’m not moping,” Daeron informed him, abandoning his oceanfront seat. “Shouldn’t you be out by the eastern bank?”
“Did you not get the alert? Civilian evacuation was a success, and the majority of our forces have arrived at their designated safe zones.”
“The signal out here has been unstable for hours, so no, I have not received any messages.”
“Well,” Ashir said, itching at his chin with a chewed fingernail, “the city is empty, so there’s no point hanging around. Once we’ve secured our areas, we can skedaddle out of here and leave the shell to those beasts.”
Daeron rejected the thought of his home, the streets he played in as a child and the structures that watched him grow, as a mere shell to be occupied and usurped by whoever possessed the greater power. Yet, strangely enough, the fire giant’s comparison coaxed him to see that his home was not a place or a building, but a feeling. Neither man nor beast, could kill that.
Hesitation hounded his steps from the waterside, and he slowed to a stop. Dying mottles of sunlight rocked and capered on the crests of the gentle waves, and the flattened path that marked the edge of the city gave way to convex architecture crowned with vegetation and flowers. White, verdant, and sapphire blue.
“Hey, Daeron, you can daydream as much as you like later,” Ashir suggested, understanding lacing his words despite his insistence. “We’re on a tight deadline here.”
“Sorry,” the moon sentry offered.
“No apologies needed, old friend.” The giant set his wide hand onto his shoulder. “I get it.”
“Let’s just get those charges set.”
“Already in place. I sorted them before I got here,” Ashir said, “but the sentries sent to the west were ambushed and couldn’t complete the setup.”
“Then we’ll head there before we go,” Daeron decided, following the eight foot warrior and trying to block out the call of home haunting the recesses of his mind.
* * *
Floods of smoke swamped the western region of Delphara, an inland wind shoving at the murk to disperse the dense clouds as more poured from the ruins of residential high-rises and businesses. Corpses cluttered the rubble and disorganised demolition, spines bent, arms slumped, and startled features gaping into the everlasting abyss. On their lapels, the stitched solar halo of the sun sentries soaked in the blood and soot.
Sinuous twines of flesh burst free from the spindly creatures stalking the street, skulking from mutilated body to crumbling shop exterior. The cords plucked like an instrument, reverberating to guide the sightless beings to their next investigation. Stomping its way over the wreckage, a bulbous hive brain collected the information and sent out silent instructions to its subordinates.
“No way a hive horde took out an entire squad of sun sentries,” Ashir whispered, sneaking into the ruins of the ruptured street corner.
“But what could have done this?” Daeron responded.
“Don’t know, but whatever it was, it must have moved on.”
“Where? This is the only threat registering.”
Ashir shrugged his wide shoulders. “Beats me. All I’m saying is we need to be cautious. I think there’s more here than hives.”
A pack of the fleshy underlings paused in their search and turned their flat noses to the air, sniffing through pronged slits beneath their milky eyes and galloping to a signalling cohort. From a divot in the road, it lifted an inactive charge.
“Shit,” Ashir spat. “They found the explosives.”
“They don’t know where the rest are,” Daeron said.
“It’s enough for them to guess the strategy,” Ashir pointed out. “Can’t rely on a plan that’s been uncovered, whether completely or partially.”
Padding light and swift across the grit and powdered mortar, Daeron crouched in a surviving doorway, Ashir close behind. The hive brain shoved into the gathering and snatched the charge from the recoiling inferior, acknowledging the find and tossing it back into the hole.
“Can you contact base and get new orders?” Daeron asked.
“With what?” Ashir waved his thumb across the flashing cross in the corner of his communication device. “Signal’s gone.”
“Okay, then, a new plan.”
“Which is?”
“Haven’t the foggiest. Right now, our biggest threat is that hive brain, so we eliminate it. Whatever it is feeding back to its masters will only weaken our counterattack.”
“Get rid of it,” Ashir said, easing the creaks in his neck. “Easy enough.”
Daeron mused restlessly. Retreat would have been the protocol in situations such as these had they been able to contact their superiors to confirm the order, but with communications on the blink and time working against them, fighting remained the only option.
“Aim for the hive brain and the rest will fall,” he said, drawing his moon-blessed blades.
“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Ashir grunted. His hammer scraped from the holster between his shoulder blades as he strode into the fading sunlight. Rivers of fire magic devoured the smoke and flames, invading his senses. He whistled, and the spongy monsters heeded the resonant sound with interested clicks and twitching tilts.
One broke from the rest and charged at the fire giant. Its skull connected with the level end of his hammer, and Ashir raised the weapon with a sickening squelch.
“Any more of you fancy a go?” he proclaimed. “Come on, don’t be so spineless.”
Provoked by the brash challenge, the herd advanced at reckless speed, flesh cords strumming and shrieks summoning the others to battle. Daeron vaulted from the sheltered nook, knives cutting through sinew and emaciated muscle in a swift attack.
“Leave some for me,” Ashir complained with a dash of jest in his tone, sweeping his hammer at the racing swarm. “You can’t have all the fun.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Daeron smirked. He kicked at flailing body and drove his blade into another. “If I distract them, do you reckon you could get to the hive brain?”
With a sprightly lustre in his eyes, Ashir grinned. A cascade of energy planted an approaching cluster onto their backsides, a stamp of his foot and some well-aimed strikes disposing of them. “You bet your grey hair I can.”
“My hair is not grey, it’s silver.”
“Same thing, isn’t it?”
Daeron released an exasperated huff.
“Just keep those gooey creatures distracted, and that lump is as good as dead,” Ashir told him.
Transferring his blades to his left hand, Daeron directed his right palm to the straight stretch of road, awakening spots of vibrations to interfere with the hive’s navigation. He picked them off one by one once in manageable groups, clearing an unobstructed path for Ashir.
The hive brain stomped and bayed, but the jammed stimulus never found its vassals. Sludge sprayed from its pores at Ashir’s unfaltering approach, a snarl unleashing a maw crammed with teeth and drippings of opaque saliva.
“Sneer as much as you like, you ugly beast,” Ashir growled, beating his chest with his fist to rouse the fire within him. “Nothing is going to save you now.”
A wail shot from the hive brain, shrill and acute, yet its subordinates stalled by the droning pools. It eyed Ashir and centred on Daeron, distinguishing the true source of the disturbance and bouldering at the moon sentry with little care for its own survival.
“Heads up!” Ashir shouted to his friend. His warning failed to reach him. “Guess I’ll do it then.”
Daeron compelled his knife into the neck of the hive thrall behind him, his concentration on the vibrating spell shattering at the shuddering stomps speeding towards his position. He prepared to dive aside when Ashir’s shadowy hammer careened handle over head and lodged tip first into the skull of the hive brain. Fluid gushed from the fresh wound and showered the side of a shop. Its obedient servants cried out, and the wind transformed them into dust.
“You could have hit me with that,” Daeron protested.
Ashir rebuffed his comment with a wave of his large hand and wrenched at the hammer. The weapon lodged tight until he pressed on the beast with his boot to remove it from its cranium. “It was nowhere near you.”
“It was right there!” Daeron insisted, gesturing to the spot barely a metre away where the corpse of the hive brain deflated in dragging exhalations.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Daeron,” Ashir laughed. “We got it, didn’t we?”
The affirmative hung on his tongue, but Daeron declined to let go of his close call. Fire giants, like most giants in his experience, never measured or weighed; they acted. They cared little for odds and statistics, trusting in their training and their abilities. But Daeron was a sentry, putting his faith in calculations and deliberated plans. Not that that meant anything now with their communications down and nobody else in the city.
Tracing the carnage, he recovered a charge from the entrance to a hotel, the wires snapped but the casing still intact. Shoving it onto his pocket, he wandered to the fire giant scanning his tablet. “Are there any other creatures registering in Delphara?” he asked. “You said it yourself, a hive group couldn’t do this much damage to a full platoon of sun sentries, so there must be something we’ve missed.”
“Nothing is coming up on the alarm system,” Ashir reported, the screen now clear of enemy indicators, “but that doesn’t mean there isn’t anything there. We’re still waiting on a response from The Core, but it’s been quiet on that front these past few days.”
“We haven’t had any reports from The Core? Nothing at all?”
“Not a single broadcast,” Ashir confirmed. “A distress signal was sent, but we haven’t got a reply. I’m assuming they’ve been hit too, but until they put a call out, we don’t know what’s going on.”
“Are there any reports from elsewhere?”
“Skuld managed to take down a Smogbrood, and Lucarian are having a bit of trouble. Last I heard, everywhere in Myriad has been hit, seemingly simultaneously. Those monsters are spreading like rot in damp wood.”
“And spreading fast,” Daeron observed, hands on hips and biting the inner corner of his lip. “We’ve been fighting them for years, but there has never been a concurrent attack like this.”
“Looks like the enemy are ramping up their efforts.”
“Meanwhile, everyone else is still recovering from the last dozen assaults, and we still don’t know where these creatures are coming from.”
Ashir plonked himself down on a pile of rubble to inspect his hammer, wiping the congealed, resinous liquid with a woven rag on his belt. “A neighbouring system, according to Professor Spark.”
“But why?”
“Why what?”
“Why attack us?” The question hung between them, clogging up the lull. “I don’t know, I just think there’s something weird about it. They aren’t going after anything in particular, just... killing people.”
Adjusting atop the loose boulders, Ashir returned his hammer to the magnetised holster. A sincere expression formed creases on his face. “It’s been a long war,” he said, voice deep and harbouring the sorrow for his lost friends. Daeron was one of the few he had left, many of his other loved ones taken in battle. “Right now, all we can do is carry on fighting. Our first plan here may be blown, but there’s always-” The device in his lap beeped, three consecutive pings ringing in a repeating pattern and a sizeable dot pulsating on the digital map by the southern waterfront. “That can’t be right.”
“What’s wrong?” Daeron asked, by his side in an instant.
“I’ve never seen a hive creature reading that large,” Ashir replied. “Have you?”
Daeron shook his head, scouring the south to check if anything poked over the buildings or moved between the reduced infrastructure. “No, I can’t say I have. Either that is the biggest hive we’ve ever seen, or it’s not a hive. Whatever it is, we should check it out.”
* * *
A volley of water lashed the red and grey brickwork of the festival plaza, driving Daeron and Ashir into a staggered retreat. Pealed cries, like the horn of a ship, clawed at the emerging night.
At the centre of the civic square that the city used for seaside markets and annual holiday celebrations, stood a twenty-five foot behemoth, humanoid with a flat, misshapen oval head and five attentive eyes. Seething vapour enshrouded it, coiling and serpentine.
“I think we know what wiped out the sun sentries,” Daeron mumbled.
“Is that a fucking Grendoth?” Ashir exclaimed.
“I think it’s just a Grendoth, it doesn’t seem to be engaging in any particular activities at the moment,” Daeron answered, disregarding the nettled stare from the fire giant. “Look at its eyes.”
“They’re glowing red.”
“Exactly. It must be connected to the hive creatures.”
“But what is it doing? Those things are lethal. Why is it just standing there?”
“It’s probably listening,” Daeron guessed. “There must be other hives somewhere that aren’t registering on the alert system.”
“In any case,” Ashir said from his concealed stoop by the decimated fountain, “the city is evacuated and we should leave. Quietly.”
“Wait, no.”
“What do you mean no?” Ashir demanded, motioning with his head for them to hightail out of there before the hulking beast detected them with its multitude of eyes and made a meagre meal of them. “Our job is done. The charges are set.”
“We can’t leave.”
Ashir exhaled sharply, patience waning. “Daeron, I like a good fight, but sometimes, you have to know when to withdraw. You can’t always be a hero.”
“This has nothing to do with heroics. If we don’t destroy that Grendoth, it will spread across Aetherdril, take out military points, tactical outposts, you name it,” Daeron pointed out. “That thing has the power to wipe out cities.” Ashir’s wise eyes bore into him, accepting his point but silently cursing him for making it.
“Well,” the fire giant huffed, snatching his battle hammer once more, “I did always want to go down swinging. And if we live? It will be quite the tale.”
“It will,” Daeron agreed, clapping his pauldron. “Make every hit count.”
“And make the bastard regret ever setting eyes on Delphara.”
In a ferocious war cry worthy of his valiant blood, Ashir darted from behind the collapsed fountain at the gargantuan, Daeron sprinting to the opposite side and striving to match the giant’s crashing strides.
The Grendoth tilted its chin to assess to assailants, body creaking like wind-blown boughs.
Combusting sparks sprayed from its ankle at Ashir’s assault, and the creature reared its foot. Before it could stamp down on the fire warrior, flashes of silver lambasted its hip, striking in relentless succession and burrowing to sustain the damage. Ashir smashed his hammer into the creature’s shin, and the Grendoth slid to one knee with a groan and trails of smoke.
“Keep going!” Daeron encouraged, bombarding the Grendoth again. The moon watched over him now, and he drank from the well of celestial light. “We need to bring it down to our level.”
Ashir didn’t need to be told twice. His instincts scorched through him in an exhilarating inferno, fuelling the warrior within.
Hit after coordinated hit battered the beast, heat-filled slams and radiant moonbeams striking without interruption. As the confusion wore off, it slanted its head to the stars and unleashed a puncturing screech, the shrill chord reverberating off of the foundations of the city. Cracks cut into the surrounding structures.
Dodging the path of a falling post, Ashir wrenched Daeron aside and dragged him to cover from the toppling concrete, and metal, and glass.
In the midst of the pause in attacks, the Grendoth regained its balance and found its footing, chest splitting as though a cleaving knife sliced through the layers of flesh and opening into a gaping pit. Squalls echoed from the hole, the darkness seeming to writhe as scores of winged monsters emerged. Soaring into the air, they reached a pinnacle and pitched towards the ruins of the plaza.
“That’s just playing dirty,” Ashir grunted, brandishing the hammer over his head in a leaden arch and crushing a Grendling under its heft.
“Do you really think these things play fair?” Daeron responded, thwarting three of the flying menaces with a singular glowing blast. “Maybe you want to sit down with the Grendoth and talk about honourable battle tactics.”
“I’d rather put my hammer in its heart,” Ashir admitted.
Daeron laughed despite himself, perspiration and mortar dust mingling on his face and his once glistening armour stained with blood. “That’s the spirit.”
Plunging into the fray, Ashir and Daeron hacked through the burgeoning mob of aerial beasts, evading gnashing teeth and repeated attempts from the Grendoth to stamp them out of existence. Hammer and blades sliced and bashed bone and taut membrane.
Exhaustion crept in like a winter fog, swaying once sturdy strikes and staggering hits, but Ashir was never one to give up a fight. Storing his hammer, he drew tight the engraved chains wrapped around his arms and forced every shred of his power into the glyphs. The swell of power channelled, and as more of the flying creatures flowed from the cavity in the Grendoth’s chest, he urged his fire into each of them. Their bodies filled with a hellish heat, and unable to retain it, burst into flapping infernos, screeching momentarily before they floundered and plunged like fiery raindrops.
The propulsion of their ignition sent the towering Grendoth reeling, unsteady stomps shaking the fabric of the city.
“Couldn’t do that to the Grendoth, could you?” Daeron asked.
“A creature that big?” Ashir replied, breathless and wheezing as his power recuperated. “You joking?”
“Course I am,” Daeron said. “Although...”
Ashir’s tired eyes found his, the cracked smile deteriorating at the sliver slithering by Daeron’s right shoulder. Like a huff of smoke from a pipe, an ashen tendril closed into a sharp point and aimed. “No!” he cried, shoving the moon sentry to the ground.
Daeron hit the alternating paving slabs in a rush of wind, catching himself and skidding to a safe stop. He scrambled to salvage his stability, recovering too late as the tapered smog found a home inside of Ashir’s chest. The cloudy spike drove through him until it materialised out of his back in a crimson spray.
Stained fingers tried to grasp the smoke, but it evaded Ashir’s clutches at every opportunity, rippling from his touch like disturbed water. The winding mist rose to the colossal Grendoth attached to it, five red eyes attending his final moments with neither compassion nor honour.
Heart in his throat as though it wished to vacate his body through his mouth, Daeron stared, stricken. Horror and fury merged into a deadly concoction, illuminating every cell in his body. With a boundless cry, he skewered the writhing cloud with his magic. Lightning spurred within the shaded roil, severing the connection to Ashir and travelling all the way up until it erupted in a blinding shine. No time to prepare for the onslaught, the Grendoth sank to its knees amongst the flaming corpses of its underlings.
“Hey, Ashir, stay awake,” the moon sentry begged, scampering to downed fire giant. “Listen to me. Don’t... don’t close your eyes.”
Traces of blood dribbled from the corner of Ashir’s mouth where his smile had been only moments ago, his torso a gaping wound and the fire within him dimming. He moved his lips to speak, but all he managed was a rasp. He squeezed the hand Daeron rested on his arm, soundless words exchanged as their eyes met for the last time. The gruff, laboured exhales slowed, and the fire giant’s body went limp.
Silver eruptions continued to pester the Grendoth, funnelling up the smoky tunnel and bursting about its hulking frame to extinguish its power.
Daeron pressed his forehead to Ashir’s, the fading heat encouraging the sweat on his brow. “Rest, my friend,” he whispered within a grief-stricken sob. “I’ll take care of the fight now. Go to the halls of your ancestors. May they receive you with the honour you deserve.”
In a tottered sway, the moon sentry rose. His muscles begged for rest and his lungs toiled for breath, but he would be damned if he was about to surrender now.
Screams tore from the roots of his soul, and tears dampened his cheeks as he liberated the pain in his heart in a barrage of moonlight-infused projectiles. The Grendoth yowled, and vines burst from its back. Barbed, spongy stems lashed around it like a shield.
Daeron dashed, and ducked, and retaliated, pushing himself beyond his exhaustion. Anger melted into fortitude, blood pumping at breakneck speed to carry and satisfy the demand for more magic. Blade slashes coupled with his power once in range, spearing into thickset skin. Planting his boots on the Grendoth’s thigh, he began to climb.
The swinging branches swooped, missing the mark and circling to make another attempt. Daeron stabbed at the Grendoth’s hip and hauled himself higher. His route lay clear, destiny leading him up.
A silhouetted tendril flashed on his periphery and he shifted his weight down, leaning out of the targeted spot. As he made to move again, the row of spines returned in a swift slash, lacerating his chest armour as though it were sheer cloth. The final spike grazed his stubbled jaw.
His footing lost, he pitched backwards.
The ground welcomed him with a jarring smack, rock powder surging from the impact to smother him. He rolled to his front and scraped along the paving slabs, hopelessly struggling to ignore the aching warmth seeping down his abdomen. Jabbing himself onto his knees, his arms slackened at his side, knives clattering with them.
Heartbeats passed in an unfocused, hazy blur. Ashir’s fires still consumed the bodies of the toppled Grendlings. How bravely his friend had fought, and for what? Daeron accepted too late that he had been foolish to suggest they confront a Grendoth. What chance did they ever stand against its might?
Yet his spirit bristled and fumed, far from conceding. Ashir’s tactic in aiming for the monster’s chest might be the answer he needed. Still exposed, the open cavity offered a weak spot.
Daeron slid a shaking hand into his pocket and withdrew the inactive charge he snagged from the hotel in the western region. Blood bubbled in his throat as he rotated the dials on the front of the box to alter the gears and activate the lethal mixture housed within. The chambers clicked into place, and the Grendoth neared. It paused, staring and observant. It didn’t need to stamp on him or lift him into a crushing end. The weeping slash across his chest would soon see to that.
“You will never win,” Daeron grunted up at the imposing monster. “Myriad will never surrender to you. And nor will I.”
Tight in his clutches, he drew the explosive back, screaming at the outburst of pain in his torso. Within the grief and the open arms of death, he launched the box. After several revolutions, its trajectory curved into the cavernous hole in the Grendoth’s chest. Mustering the drops of magic left in his failing body, Daeron unleashed a shining bolt at the charge and closed his eyes.
Seconds of silence proceeded the devastating blast. The resounding boom delivered shockwaves over the city, glass exploding and the festival square, once a hub of hope and joy, fracturing.
Daeron curled in on himself as the mighty Grendoth slammed into its final resting place with a groan and an agonised howl. He couldn’t tell how long passed, the torture in his chest fusing with the continuous shudders beneath him. When he peeked out of his stoop, the sheets of dust and debris had thinned into floating specks, and Ashir’s fires no longer remained.
He barked a cough of soot and blood, seeking to find his feet, but his legs quickly gave way and threw him back into the smouldering heap. Resigned but not done yet, he crawled, nails grazing dirt and ash, to the fire giant’s body. He patted the pockets on his amenity belt until he located the communication tablet. The two panels separated with little persuasion and the transparent screen between them unlocked.
Quaking fingertips pressed at the commands, silent prayers to whichever deity or celestial being might be listening to his plight occupying his thoughts. A singular bar in the corner shone. “Please,” Daeron begged. “Please, please...”
“Commander Ashir?”
Daeron recovered from his slump at the catalyst’s bewildered greeting.
“No, this is Captain Daeron. We’re still in Delphara. Commander Ashir is... he...” Daeron gazed at the deceased giant. “He’s gone.”
“What are you still doing in the city?”
“There was a Grendoth... doesn’t matter now, it’s dead. I need you to set off the charges.”
“That’s a negative, captain. They’re all offline.”
“Offline? What do you mean?” Realisation punched Daeron in the gut in a wave of nausea. The hive brain they defeated managed to transmit its findings before Ashir killed it. To sate his suspicions, he checked the maps. Dozens of dots blinked all over the city. “The enemy knows our plan. The only option is to shut the gateways to Delphara and starve them.”
“I’ll send help,” the catalyst said. “Stay where you are.”
“No,” Daeron told her, hand squeezing the leaking slice across his chest. “It’s too late for me. The enemy are everywhere. Delphara is lost. Shut the gateways now. Nothing gets in, and nothing gets out.”
* * *
Water lapped at the ramp of the coastal front, trickling down and leaving stray droplets as though to play a game. Raised in a dried-up tundra and unyielding heat, Farina admired the ocean, the rhythmic flow and the habitual roll placating her nerves as it spread towards the horizon.
The representatives of Myriad on the grass behind her split into groups to admire their location and air their judgements, the occasional opinion surpassing the rest.
Crouching, Farina grazed her fingertips across the calm surface of the sea. A few rogue waves splashed at her rings and prodded at the hem of her dress.
“Delegate Canaris?”
Farina retreated from the water’s edge and bowed to their guide. The Aetherdrilian woman returned her gesture with a dimpled beam.
“It is a charming city you have here, Eva,” Farina said. “It is hard to believe that it has gone so long unoccupied.”
To the west, two soaring bronze guards monitored the primary tributary that served as an entryway into Delphara. The left figure gripped a war hammer, and the second a blade, the weapons meeting to form an arch over the mouth of the river. “I’m certain I spotted images similar to those statues on our tour. Who are they?”
Eva shuffled round to glimpse who she meant. “Oh, that is Ashir and Daeron, a fire giant and a moon sentry,” she explained, delighted to speak of her history to someone who seemed genuinely interested. “They were defenders of Delphara and died during the final battle of the city taking down a Grendoth. After the war, sculptors made those statues to guard their final resting place and left the city to its peace.”
Stories of the war centuries ago had not gone missed by Farina. After her ward, Lilith, opened the Temporal Gateways, she dedicated weeks to educating herself on the War of the Dark Star and the atrocities that plagued Myriad. Yet, she had never heard of Ashir and Daeron.
“But,” Eva said pointedly, “I think it is time that we put Delphara to use again. I have spoken with our leaders, and they voted unanimously in favour of allowing you to set up your coalition here, if you think it suitable.”
“Delphara is perfect for our new beginning,” Farina agreed. “And what better way to honour your fallen than ensuring that the city they loved and protected becomes the home of peace and unity for all of Myriad.”
-- -- -- -- --
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Legends of Myriad: Tales From the Starlight Path - The Breaking of House Quinn Part 3
CW: This story contains familial abuse. Reader discretion is advised.
The corners of the wax seal stamp jabbed into Azra’s palm, embedded replications of the Celestrian symbols imprinting onto his skin. Every time he sought to loosen his grip, his fingers tightened, squeezing the only evidence of his mother’s crimes. The possibility of his mother having committed a workplace misdemeanour that would result in her losing her credibility and her influential position with the other honourable households of the capital seemed trifling compared to the reality of the situation. The truth was far worse, and significantly more incriminating.
The Syndicate functioned with guile and tact, reacting deftly to developing risks and relocating entire operations if necessary without leaving so much as a scrap of their lawless dealings behind. Their transgressions dispersed like mould spores, infecting an area and spreading to the next. Mora bled for their misdeeds, and the people of Lowtown even more so.
In the turbulent wake of the fall of Tiveris, and the migration of its people, wealthy financiers swiftly exploited the situation to their advantage, providing the monetary means for new houses and businesses to be built. They named themselves the Syndicate, promising a fresh start, but behind their false generosity, every soul of the newly established Lowtown belonged to them, owing them their gratitude and their silence.
Azra dreaded to think what the people down there suffered on a daily basis. Poverty wove its unforgiving claws into the foundations, and the Syndicate ensured it took root, sapping anything it could from the inhabitants and profiting from their misery.
And his mother and Jarett kept that merciless wheel turning.
Incessant shivers engulfed him as though a ground quake stirred beneath him, his constant companion in the stuffy rain that clogged the slumbering city and ascending the steep slopes with him to the loftier districts of Mora. Warehouses and mills stole by in a washed out blur. Rain droplets snagged in his drenched curls and mingled with the sweat on his brow, but he felt neither the deluge nor the saturated heat.
Pressing on into the murk and downpour, he blundered into the locked door of his father’s workshop and pummelled on the sealed entrance. Minutes crept by until the lobby lights activated behind the frosted windows. His father’s voice announced his presence, low and tired.
“Father!” Azra called. “Father, it’s me! Open the door, please!”
The chain unhooked in a flurried, rattled movement, and the hinges squealed inwards.
“Azra?” Portho said, the befuddlement reshaping into alarm at the sight of his son soaked from head to foot and panicked. He steered him inside and shut the incensed elements out. “What’s going on? Are you all right?”
The boy fought to reclaim his breath, gasping and coughing. Before he could create a puddle of rainwater about himself, Portho assisted him into the epicentre of the construction complex, past vacant workrooms and tables of prototype architecture. On the topmost floor and safely within the hush of his office, he draped a throw from the armchair over Azra’s shoulders and settled him by the fireplace. The bust of his father, the stalwart Archibald Quinn, observed them from the embedded nook above the mantelpiece, a singular beam of light casting shadows on his rounded features.
“What are you doing here so late?” Portho asked, soothing his son’s trembles with a steady hand on his back. “If it’s urgent, you could have called, and I would have come home. You didn’t need to go wandering out in the rain.”
From his trembling grasp, Azra released the wax seal stamp into his father’s care.
Portho rotated the shaped stick between his fingers and stared at the worn metal engraving nailed onto the end. The wings of the infamous bird almost touched the elevated outer frame, and he picked at the darkened wax glued to the side. “Where did you get this?” he questioned in an exhaled murmur.
“Hidden in a safe box in mother’s office,” Azra replied, the warmth of the shallow fire drying the cooled rain seeping through his clothing. “I know you probably don’t believe me, but it’s true. Mother and Jarett have been allowing strange visitors into the house for years. I thought they were just clients.”
Portho’s mind rocked like a creaking ship in a sea storm, lurching and attempting to reach some sense of calm. “Azra, why were you in your mother’s office?”
Azra sniffled and rubbed the tears from his eyes, envisioning the state of his bedroom and the pieces of his work strewn on the carpet. “She destroyed my projects and my research. I wanted revenge, so I thought I’d find out who the strangers were, and found the stamp.”
“She did what?”
“I got home from the open lecture I told you about, and she flew into a rage. She was annoyed that I’m taking more of an interest in inventing than the family business.”
The back of his hand over his mouth and his blood boiling in his veins, Portho disregarded his own growing fury for the sake of his shaken son. “How long has this been going on?”
“What?”
“How long has your mother been angry with you for your interest in inventing?”
“A while,” Azra said. “Usually, she would remind me of my duty, and then Jarett would make it worse.”
“Make it worse?”
“He...” He couldn’t say it. Sometimes, when the daylight cleared, and the night threw a blanket over the world, he would pretend it never happened. He created scenarios in his head where his mother loved him, his brother was his mentor and his best friend, and his father returned home every evening to stories of their day. But reality had a way of worming in as soon as those thoughts arose.
“It’s all right, I’m here,” Portho said as the sobs squeaked from the boy, bundling him close as splotches of rain and tears soaked into his shirt.
“Jarett never liked me,” Azra whimpered. “Since I can remember, he’s always been mean. It was only words at first, anything he could say to make me feel small, but as soon as I was big enough for him to hit, he did. A lot.”
Portho’s pulse pounded in a quickening rhythm, his heart thudding and breaking, and repeating the sickening cycle. “Is your mother aware of this?”
Drawing from his father’s shoulder with a sniffle and a splutter, Azra massaged the tears from his eyes with the heel of his hand and shrugged.
“I am so sorry,” Portho said, his stomach churning at the notion of his boy, his determined son, withstanding that torment. And at the hands of his mother and his older brother, no less. Two people in his life he should have been able to trust with his well-being. “I am supposed to protect you, and I have done a very poor job of it.”
“You still wouldn’t have known,” Azra reasoned, wiping his dripping nose on his unbuttoned sleeve cuff. “They never did anything when you were there.”
An overwhelming shift in Portho’s world brought everything he assumed about his family collapsing around him, blazing into a smouldering wreck and deserting him to the ashes. “I hate to ask this, but do you feel safe enough to return home?”
“If I have to.”
“You won’t be alone for long,” Portho promised. “Be as quiet as you can. Put the stamp back where you found it, and then go to your room. I need to call someone, but afterwards, I will be straight home, okay?” His soul tore at the thought of separating from him after learning of his suffering, but if his suspicions held any truth, he had to be certain before he confronted the matter.
“It’s going to be all right, Azra,” Portho said, thumbs clearing the tear tracks on his son’s cheeks. “I will make sure nothing bad ever happens to you again.”
* * *
Collecting the final broken fragments of his work, Azra hauled the last box to the mournful row beneath his window. Those designs once decorated his room, an auspicious reminder of his potential and the exciting future that waited for him. Piled into a mere few containers, his efforts seemed insignificant. His research, his diligent studies, meant nothing, just a pile of useless scrap.
But his father believed in him, wanted him to succeed and inspired him to heed that image of the breathing laboratory and the abundant discoveries within.
I can still become an inventor, he reminded himself, staring at the packed-up leftovers of his dream. I have my mind, and that is all I truly need.
Despite the consoling sentiments, a strangled cord lodged in his soul. There would always be people seeking to demean him, relation or not. Rival inventors and disbelieving minds posed countless obstacles, but if he could weather his mother’s aggressive resistance and her threats, he could handle anything.
A booming voice thundered into the upper floors of the mansion, multiple doors opening and shutting in quick succession. Azra trailed the noise, and the yelling escalated.
Downstairs in the entry lobby, Portho Quinn paced below the serpent-sculpted chandelier, a sheen of sweat coating his forehead and fire in his eyes. Azra had never seen his kindly father so infuriated. He crouched by the bannister as his mother and Jarett descended the stairs.
“Portho?” Celia said. “What are you shouting for?”
“How could you?” Portho all but growled, honing in on his wife. “How could you take what we have built, the family we made, and squander it as though it means nothing?”
Celia hesitated at the base of the staircase, hands folded over her stomach. “You’re not making any sense, darling.”
“I know about your work with the Syndicate.”
Her silken countenance dropped into horrifying realisation.
“Whatever you’re thinking, you are mistaken,” Celia told him soberly. “I-“
“You’re a liar and a criminal, Celia!” Portho raged. The papers in his grasp quivered, crumpling and scrunching at the edges. “A while ago, I was made aware of a rumour that you had been spotted in Lowtown on multiple occasions, speaking with suspected members of the Syndicate. I refused to believe it, but it’s true, isn’t it?” He dragged his free hand through his bedraggled, rain-soaked hair. “My own wife, complicit in their corruption. And you dragged Jarett into it too.”
With a tight-lipped smile, Celia glided to Portho. “Dearest, this is not what you think it is,” she said, smooth and saccharine. “The Syndicate requested some architectural designs from me and promised a lot of money.”
“Is this not enough for you?” Portho asked, motioning to the opulence they revelled in. “Are you so desperate for more that you willingly colluded with a criminal organisation?”
Celia fell silent.
“Don’t lie to me,” Portho snarled. “You’re not a contractor. You’re one of them.” In a curt snap of his wrist, he tossed the documents at her feet.
Jarett abandoned his post behind her to retrieve them. His chest deflated at the conclusive evidence, and he handed the sheets to his mother. “If you’ve had this information for a while, why have you decided to confront us about it now?” he sneered.
“Because I have dealt with malicious rumours before,” Portho replied, “and they have always been untrue. I assumed the same of this until...”
“Until what?”
Azra’s heart thrashed like it was about to bash through his rib cage and escape his body, knuckles constricting on the carved bannister bars.
“Until someone brought me something I could not refute,” Portho clarified. “After that, I put in some calls, and they provided me with everything I needed.”
With the bearing of a defeated man who could not yet succumb, Portho traipsed through the conquered quiet and out into the stale early morning air.
Dread gurgled and spat inside of Azra’s stomach, and he tracked the argument as it spilled outside. The sun still slumbered, but the moon slumped towards the horizon, preparing to wake the celestial light for another day.
Staying out of sight, he stooped by a globular planter guarding the top of the flagstone steps.
“What are you doing out here?” Celia demanded, close on Portho’s heels. “Get back inside, and we can discuss this rationally.”
“No,” Portho refused, retreating to the barricade of hedges. “The wardens are on their way, and I am going to be right here when they arrive.”
Jarett’s scowl flashed to his mother, a flare in his nostrils and his jaw rigid.
“If you wish to handle this with any sort of dignity, you will go with them,” Portho instructed. “Tell them everything, every little detail, and then accept whatever punishment they deem appropriate.”
Celia loosened her shoulders, her mellowed, genial approach melting into spite. “It wasn’t the money I wanted,” she sighed. “The Syndicate have big plans for the Council of Cardin. Once they have been deposed, I am guaranteed a spot on their new council and a real position of authority. I can’t have you getting in the way of that, Portho, husband or not.” From the pocket of her dressing robe, she extracted a Cavelli gun and unloaded two rounds into Portho’s skull. The man didn’t even have time to appear shocked.
Portho Quinn staggered and keeled onto his back, blank eyes staring at the advancing morning and a halo of blood soaking into the stones. Celia poked him with her foot, regarding him as she would a dead insect she had intentionally crushed, and fired another shot into his chest.
Huddling at the door of the manor, Azra startled, stock still for a fraction of a second and fixated on the dead body of his father before his instincts drove him into a run. He hopped over the boundary of the steps, and the crunch of plump pebbles chased him across the garden.
“Get back here, you little shit!” Jarett called after him.
Azra sprinted faster than he ever had in his life, feet pounding at the uneven ground and the nauseating horror spinning his head. His father was dead, murdered by his mother. Coldly. Callously. Without hesitation. The man who had encouraged him and nurtured his dream lay dead in the driveway, and despite his heart begging him to go back, to cry tears onto his cheeks as they did in fairy stories to revive a lost loved one, he had to flee before he became the recipient of the fourth bullet in that gun. Because there was no way he would go quietly now.
In an almighty leap, Azra snatched the lattice grid covering the cobblestone wall on the perimeter of the Remwood garden. Every boost and every despairing foothold brought him nearer to the top. Reaching the bottom of the fence, Jarett pursued with a grumble.
“You’re not going to get away,” the older Quinn hissed, stretching up and fastening to his ankle.
Azra flailed his leg, the painful grip yanking him down. He bolstered his grasp on the wall and strove to regain his progress. “Let go!” he screamed.
“Why would I do that?” Jarett laughed at his distress. “You’re going to come back with me, and you’re going to keep your mouth shut about what you saw.”
The image of his father’s lifeless corpse flashed in his mind, eyes empty, blood leaking. With an almighty kick, he wrenched up his leg and brought the sole of his shoe down onto his brother’s face. Jarett’s nose let out a clean snap, and he hit the thinning gravel with a punch of air and a dumbstruck wheeze.
In any other situation, Azra may have spent a few seconds to delight in his triumph, but he wasn’t out of danger yet. Scampering up, he put all of his weight into casting his legs over the top of the wall and prepared to jump onto the overgrown grass below.
* * *
Altair yawned and blinked away the sleepy haze, trudging by the cylindrical bookcase and the window overseeing the city’s rooftops. Rhythmic ticks trickled from the timepiece on the brickwork wall in a hypnotising beat, as though tempting him to return to the land of dreams. His father had fervently sworn by an early rise, and Altair upheld the habit in his adult years.
Daylight graced his personal laboratory in the academic district, tentative and apologetic for disturbing his rest. Fiery wedges slid unhindered through the circular glass in lengthened rays as Altair prepared his work for the day, illuminating the floor in batches of rainbow speckles, distorted by the rain droplets. The coffee on the side almost went cold before he rescued it and drank deep, saving the little warmth left.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself, poring over the tattered logbook and untidy notes from his previous attempts at refining an engine capacitor. “Coupling the external connectors didn’t yield enough of an energy flow, but it may do if we add in a surge protector and increase the-“
A string of clamorous bangs on the entry poached his attention from the contraption, bristled eyebrows knitting over attentive eyes as he descended the stairwell to the lower floor.
“I’m afraid I am rather busy at the moment,” he told the mystery visitor. “Come by again later.”
The insistent drumming continued, and beyond the cobalt-tinted glass, a small shape shivered.
“Please, Professor Bevan, it’s Azra Quinn,” a strained voice pleaded. “I need help.”
Altair flung the door open, and the dishevelled boy limped in, dirt and grass pasted to his clothes and tears drenching his cheeks and his chin.
“By the stars, boy, what happened?” Altair said, perplexed and assessing the bare street outside for any potential danger before he fastened the doorway shut.
“My father...” Azra panted. “He’s... he’s dead. My mother, she... she’s a part of the Syndicate, and he found out because of me, and she shot him. My brother tried to catch me, but I ran... I didn’t... I didn’t where else to go. I’m sorry.” Azra’s knees buckled, but Altair caught him before he hit the floor.
“There is no need to apologise,” Altair assured him, hushing the boy’s cries on his shoulder. “It sounds like you’ve been through quite the ordeal, so I’m going to alert the authorities.”
“They’re already on their way to the house,” Azra sniffled. “My father called them as soon as he learned the truth.”
“They still need to know that you are safe,” Altair reasoned. “Come on. Let’s get you up to the lab.”
Azra stumbled to his feet, forcing one sore foot in front of the other up to the private workshop. The professor sat him down on an armchair by the log burner and placed a box of tissues on squat table beside him.
Monitoring the shaken child dabbing at his tears and struggling to collect them before the next wave fell, Altair balanced the receiver between his ear and shoulder and mentally rushed the looping indicator. An operator picked up the call, and he relayed the information to her, patiently answering her questions and agreeing to remain in the laboratory while she dispatched help.
“A couple of wardens want to speak with you about what happened, and they’re going to send a medic to check for any injuries,” Altair said as he set the phone back on the connector. “I’ll be here the whole time.”
Azra gave a meagre, understanding nod, rough red patches encircling his bloodshot eyes and teardrops dangling from his dark lashes.
“I know it doesn’t feel like it, but everything is going to be okay, Azra,” Altair promised, crouching by the grieving boy. “You’re safe now. Nothing is going to hurt you here."
-- -- -- -- --
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Legends of Myriad: Tales From the Starlight Path - The Breaking of House Quinn Part 2
CW: This story contains familial abuse. Reader discretion is advised.
Azra neatened his shirt, smoothing the creases at the hem and brushing the fabric for stray lint. His twelfth birthday delivered plenty of presents from his father, from a pocket watch etched with a dragon from his favourite story to a pile of books almost as tall as him, but the shirt surprised him the most. The black collar mirrored the uniform worn by first-year Citadel students, refined and stylish. His ensemble filled him with an academic thrill, another year older and a step closer to that enviable spot at the Academy.
Even his mother gifted him a gold pin with the family crest to complement his new shirt. Her mouth had pursed at the inventing books, but she stayed quiet on the matter. For some time now, he had suspected that her architectural dealings were not as legitimate as she claimed. He lacked substantial proof, but if it kept her scrutiny from him, he didn’t much care.
Mr Hesselton’s regular visits brought other industry partners, gruff-faced, dour types that derived amusement from scowling at him. He suffered worse at the hands of his brother, and their juvenile glares proved futile in their attempts to unnerve him.
In town, the summer breaths sought to relieve the hot weather, but the humid air eradicated the pitiful flutters and continued to swarm Mora with heat. Many fanned themselves in the shade of shop awnings and lofty spires as they voiced their complaints, others basking in the searing sunlight, the winter cold a distant memory and lively festivals on the horizon.
Azra called in on Raffle’s Confectionery to pick up a mix of toffee drops and caramel dew bars with his birthday money. Kind as usual and delighted to see him, Mrs Raffle threw in a free pack of homemade honeycomb that he munched on as he journeyed across the innermost region of Mora’s sweeping city.
Residents flocked the park, relaxing in the greenhouse tea room and resting by the river to splash their feet in the refreshing water. Children scurried between picnickers with mini kites and handcrafted streamers, the multicoloured ribbons flailing in the wake of their excitement.
Azra located a spot on the grass by the gazebo platform to sit and shoved the empty honeycomb packet into his satchel, dusting the crumbs from his fingertips. Hundreds attended the event, experienced scholars converging to exchange ideas and theories, and inquisitive intellects loitering on the peripheries.
Professor Altair Bevan arrived onto the sheltered stage to strident applause. Azra joined in with fervour.
“What a welcome,” Altair said once the ovation cooled. “And what a turnout. It is fantastic to see all these keen minds ready to embrace the future.”
A crowd member at the rear of the gathering released an excited cheer. Some chuckled behind their hands in response, and a few of the older academics frowned at the raucous behaviour.
Azra had never been fond of noise, but on this occasion, he felt the same exuberance. He fished out his notebook and a pencil from the front section of his satchel and prepared a blank page.
Professor Bevan opened his public lecture with a basic demonstration of how the city collected and retained electricity, circuits binding and breaking at certain points to dispense the power evenly. The lightbulbs lit up, and the metres displayed an equal stream.
At the brief explanation of the process, Azra scribbled down every word, lining pages with science and history.
Professor Bevan amazed the crowd with demonstrations of contemporary technologies and their humble beginnings, and the fortunate mistakes that had paved the path to tremendous discoveries. Sentiment overtook his voice as he spoke of how the engines used in their transport systems, from personal vehicles to trams, began as a failed invention by his own father, the plans inherited by Altair on his passing who later perfected the design.
His lecture concluded, and he welcomed questions from the attendees, making time for everyone and answering each with a confident knowledge and a hint of humour. Azra possessed many avid queries, but he restrained them in the presence of people who knew much more than him.
The crowd dispersed once the topics of discussion had been exhausted, and Azra scampered to his feet, jogging up the low steps to the shaded stage and clearing his throat. “Professor Bevan?”
“Hello there,” Altair said cheerfully as he packed up a stack of circuit boards. “Can I help you?”
Azra stumbled over his words a couple of times before he managed to get anything coherent out. “My… um… my name is Azra Quinn. Your lecture was enlightening.”
“Literally,” Altair joked, brandishing a lightbulb and covering it in protective wrapping. “Quinn, did you say? You must be Portho Quinn’s boy. He runs the construction firm in the upper district, correct?”
“He does. I’m his youngest.”
“You are also the little sneak who has been climbing the Citadel walls to listen in on my lectures.”
Azra’s eyes widened, dampened red expanding and voice spluttering as he sought an answer that wouldn’t get him into trouble.
“I should report you,” Altair told him. “Yet, you have never actually broken in or caused a disturbance.”
“I’m careful when I climb, I promise, and I only wanted to learn from your classes,” Azra explained, hurrying to get the words out before his dreams came crashing down. “When I’m older, I want to go to the Citadel Academy and train to be an inventor. Like you.” He foraged in his satchel, shoving aside the scrunched honeycomb wrapper and producing a folder from within. “I brought these to show you what I’ve been working on.”
Silently instructing his assistants to continue packing the equipment, Altair scoured the organised portfolio, browsing blueprints and designs carefully envisioned by the aspiring innovator. For one so young, his ambition knew no bounds. His observations proved astute, and in the margins, little questions demonstrated his eagerness to learn. It was as though he was looking through his own childhood notebooks, exploring the pages of time.
“Your visualisations are impressive and your studies appear insightful, Azra. With this level of determination, I have every confidence your future will be bright,” Altair said, handing the folder back to the boy. “I wish you luck when you apply. The Academy will be fortunate to have such a keen acumen.”
* * *
Beaming with certitude, Azra skipped in his strides through the Remwood Manor foyer, one hand clutching the strap of his satchel and the other holding onto the bannister of the angular staircase. His conversation with Professor Bevan replayed in his mind, the hope of becoming a Citadel student expanding with each recited word. He could do it, he knew he could. He possessed the intelligence and the intuition to be an accomplished pupil, and if they required hard work, he was more than prepared to apply himself heart and soul to the pursuit and application of knowledge.
His thoughts chased each other like clicker horses on a racecourse, overtaking and leaping with his renewed enthusiasm. In the past, particularly promising students had been granted permission to complete their mandatory schooling early so that they may attend the Academy or a similar institute sooner than planned, many going on to achieve the highest accolades, and change Celestria with their outstanding achievements. The alumni boasted the best, and determination drove him to join their ranks.
Maybe I could go before I’m seventeen, he pondered, the notion igniting an almost feverish obsession to excel further. Or perhaps the Innovator’s Guild might accept me into one of their junior programmes next year to give me an advantage over other applicants. The ingenuity within those walls called to him every time he wandered into the academic district, assuring him of his destiny.
He imagined his future so clearly, the sprawling laboratories, the rolled-up cuffs, the scent of oil and soldered metal connecting to create something wonderful and new. His daydreams accompanied him into the third-floor hallway, shattering at the booming crash behind the ajar door. Panic churning, he flew down the corridor and stumbled over his own feet into his bedroom.
He staggered to a horrified halt at the sight of his once organised and orderly desks, littered with torn paper and shredded blueprints. On the floor, bits of broken models assembled with wooden sticks and makeshift cogs lay snapped and trampled into unrecognisable pieces. Witness to it all, Jarett observed their mother’s rage from the foot of the bed.
“What are you doing?” Azra shrieked, surging forward to stop her. His brother yanked him backwards.
Celia’s usual straightlaced countenance contorted into violence, the unruffled stare transforming into a terrifying frenzy and wispy tufts of light brown hair sticking out from her ponytail. For a brief flicker, Azra was convinced she was going to lunge at him and enclose her manicured fingers around his throat.
“You swore you’d got rid of this shit!” she screamed, cheeks flushed a livid crimson and her eyes bloodshot. “When I saw those ridiculous inventing books your father got you for your birthday, I knew you had been lying. Must I carve it into that skull of yours that you are a Quinn? A Quinn! Do you understand that?”
His mother’s uncharacteristic anger delayed any tears, and Azra stood frozen on the spot, quivering like an animal about to be slaughtered. How could she do this? Why was she so adamant he abandon his dreams and pledge everything to the company?
“You will serve your brother when he becomes the head of the family business, do I make myself clear?” Celia said, pulling on the sleeve of her rosy shirt to correct the wrinkles.
“You’re a monster,” Azra cried, voice a murmur and realisation kicking him in the gut. His work was gone. Everything he had built over the years, his research, his findings, his hopes and dreams, stared at him apologetically from the heaping mess. “You are both the worst people I have ever had the misfortune to meet, but do you know what is most unfortunate of all? That I share your blood.”
Jaw strained and nostrils flaring with each intake of air, Celia prodded a pointed fingernail into his shoulder. “It would be in your best interest to do as you are told,” she advised, easing into a directed authority. “This obsession with inventing is nothing but a distraction from your true purpose, and I will not allow you to squander your time with this nonsense any longer. Continue in your pursuit of this, I will enrol you in an internship until you turn eighteen, upon which you will become Jarett’s assistant.”
“Father supports me,” Azra told her. “He’s happy for me to go to the Academy.”
“Your father is a fool, but at least he knows that his obligation is to his family. Not some selfish whim.”
Azra’s head hung in defeat, heartache engulfing him in a tidal wave he could neither fight nor escape. He clung to every inhale, tried to see through the foamy water and the bubbles of his own breath, but in the end, the only option was to succumb. Even if he wanted to renounce his inheritance and flee, where would he go? No other family member would dare take him in, and the streets were no kinder than his mother and brother. His father would probably believe him if he told him everything they had done over the years, but he knew it would only lead to an irreversible rift.
“Since you pride yourself on your intellect, learn this quickly: you can do this the easy way and start to take an interest in the future your father and I have worked so hard to give you, or I can make sure your prospects from here on out are incredibly bleak.”
They already are, Azra thought, keeping his silence and conceding with a feeble nod.
Celia rectified her blazer, tucked her locket back into her shirt, and strode from the room. Jarett tagged behind her, her eternal shadow awaiting his moment of glory.
Sniffling and surrendering to the tears, Azra caved to his knees and picked up a snapped spindle, abandoned by the crushed wheels it once held together. If his mother wanted him to take an interest in the family business, so be it. But he would not obey like a meek mouse and traipse after Jarett until old age permitted him release from the nightmare. He would not resign himself to that fate. He was good at pretending when the occasion called for it, and if all he needed was to present his mother with false participation in the future she concocted in order for him to spark her downfall, he would paint the sweetest smile onto his face as she fell and kick Jarett into the hole with her.
The smashed remnants of Azra’s work spread into the corners and crevices of his room, defeated soldiers in a war they never stood a chance in. Some hid in the shadows beneath his bedframe, others blanketed by torn blueprints and indecipherable notes, the dormant heliocentric model circling the ceiling light hovering over the carnage like a flock of vultures.
His feet bounced off the edge of the bed, eyes sore and dry. His mother could be cold and cutting with her comments, but to be so cruel? To take her son’s dreams and trample them into oblivion in front of him? Staring at the mess, calling her and Jarett monsters seemed an understatement. They were no family of his with their malice and their dubious associates, and if they wished for him to play along with the future that they fabricated for him, then perhaps he would. Only not in the way they expected.
With a twinge in his legs from sitting still for so long, Azra trod carefully across the carpet, rescuing a couple of metal spikes from the fragmented accumulation and stuffing them into his pocket, along with a torch from his bedside chest.
Nobody wandered the house so late into the night, usually just his father when he returned home from work in the small hours, but there had been no sign of his imminent arrival and the manor reposed in a conscious silence. The paintings stalked his path from their flecked frames as the portraits of his ancestors regarded him with mistrust.
Be ashamed all you like, he challenged their surly faces. You won’t stop me.
He slowed once he reached the ground level, a short chorus of howls from the nocturnal animals outside halting him for a brief second before he dipped into the slender corridor hidden by the staircase. At the only door in the passageway, he knelt on one knee and withdrew the spikes from his pocket. Controlled wiggles slotted them into the lock.
Azra’s hands shuddered, measured movements persisting despite the doubt. Blood pumped through his veins in loud thrums, bearing his fear and anger with it. He stole onto the Citadel walls to learn, but this was something else. Revenge. Retribution. Dishonesty. All the things he had been taught were bad. And yet, strangely, no remorse crossed his mind. Within the apprehension at being discovered, he wanted to hurt his mother, hurt Jarett, rip their work from them as they had done his and watch their descent.
The final mechanism surrendered to the methodical jabs of the spikes, and Azra crept inside the dark office before the squeak of the hinges could give him away. Dulled garden lamp rays trickled down the windowsill, steeping the room in shadows. He switched on his torch.
People often made the mistake of assuming his mother revelled in opulence and finery, but the truth was she preferred simpler embellishments. Shaded scarlet coated the walls, offset against the scattering of plain gold trinkets and the pale rug in the centre.
Azra beelined for the dark-wood desk set atop the rounded carpet. Yanking open each drawer, he rummaged through notes written in precise cursive and letters intended for clients. He browsed portfolios full of architectural designs and hunted for anything incriminating. None of the visitors came up in his search. Not a Hesselton, or a Myler, or a Pellmann. Not even Mrs Euphrasia, who Celia claimed was her top client. She alleged those intimidating guests dropped by to discuss business, and yet, after all of those visits, all of those meetings and agreements, their names were absent from her correspondences.
Mind flooded with suspicion, he tested some of the document boxes on the corner shelf, seeking any of the peculiar visitors and failing to find a single one. The Architectural Committee required all designers to maintain thorough records for inspection purposes and construction referrals, but his mother’s closest clients and their projects were nowhere to be found.
Not clients perhaps, he considered, replacing the box onto the shelf with the rest. But then, who are they? And what business do they have with my mother and Jarett?
He maundered in front of the dead fire, arms folded and contemplations reeling. When Jarett argued that Mr Hesselton was an uncle, he had suspected that something might be amiss. The lie struck too quick and nowhere near convincing. He considered that perhaps his mother scraped some money off of projects or wanted to get ahead of other architects, but her records contained no such undertakings for those people.
In his exasperation, he crawled on his hands and knees to probe behind shelves and underneath the sofa, squeezing his fingers between the floorboards with the expectation of locating a movable plank and a stash of evidence. No such luck. Not a shred of the strange clientele.
He stared at the ashes in the fireplace. To the right of the raised front hearth, a brick snatched at his torchlight and created its own singular shadow, the silhouette oozing onto the polished wood floor.
It lay partly obscured, but he discerned the rough shape. Shuffling nearer, he dug his nails into the stone and coaxed it from the wall. The surrounding blocks loosened with a little persuasion until a lockbox formed behind the opening.
Nine rounded buttons with Cavelli symbols in place of Celestrian numbers presented him with his puzzle, and after multiple unsuccessful attempts, he sat back on his heels, stumped and no closer to the truth. His mother never did anything at the flip of a coin or on a whim, everything about her had been carefully procured and decided. This code would be no different. He just needed to think.
He closed his eyes and focused on that image of the decorous woman she pretended to be. Orderliness radiating from every pore, an artificial friendly smile that seemed to trick every person she met. Three pearl pins in her hair and that locket she never went anywhere without.
The locket.
Azra’s eyes flew open. Inside that locket were two pictures of his grandfather, a Cavelli born military officer and his mother’s inspiration. Celia never warmed to her own mother, but she adored her father, aspiring to be like him, superior and indifferent. By Azra’s calculations, she’d achieved that and then some.
Hunching close to the lockbox, he squeezed the buttons in the order of his grandfather’s birthday, remembering it well from the candles strewn about the house and the quiet dinner every anniversary. He pressed the final symbol, and the latch gave way.
For a moment, he thought the box empty, a yawning darkness the only element inside, but as he reached in, he felt a hexagonal stick. He withdrew it from the hiding spot and turned it over in his palm. Weighty and decorated with Celestrian markings, a droplet of black wax adhered to the side.
A plate of metal engraved with an elegant pattern known to all citizens of Mora stuck to one end, and Azra aimed the torchlight at it to confirm his suspicions. The cavern eagle of the Syndicate, criminals and thugs in every conceivable sense. Contractors did not possess wax seals, only members.
Awareness of the situation struck him two-fold; he had the evidence he needed to enact her downfall right there in his hands, but the truth was far worse than he anticipated. The Syndicate were not to be provoked. People who crossed them vanished, never to be seen again. Even the authorities steered clear of them, aware of their misdeeds but too frightened to act against them. Their influence stained the city, and his mother, and probably Jarett, were a part of it.
Sealing up the lockbox and lodging each brick back into place, he staggered to his feet and abandoned the office, the wax seal gripped tight and a nauseating dread making a home in his stomach.
-- -- -- -- --
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Legends of Myriad: Tales From the Starlight Path - The Breaking of House Quinn Part 1
CW: This story contains familial abuse. Reader discretion is advised.
Gulped gasps sinking into his lungs and scrambled grasps lifting him up the last stretch, Azra hoisted himself onto the flat rampart and dislodged the cough in his throat. Despite how often he climbed, the exertion always left him winded. The view made the effort worth it. Spires soared in noble elevations, centuries-old structures forming a circle to protect the building in the centre of the Citadel and overseeing the serene waters of the western coast.
Azra cleaved to a rise in the barrier, stooping to a kneeled crouch to conceal himself. A short distance from the embankment below, two dozen students convened on blankets, enraptured by the esteemed man at the tables. A tidy arrangement of machinery and their separated parts decorated the weathered worktops.
“This device,” Professor Altair Bevan announced, his trimmed batwing beard fluttering with the declaration, “is capable of limiting the loss of vegetation during a drought.” He relocated to a bulky piece of apparatus on the middle table, the opening thrown wide and the skeleton within revealed. Scores of gears ticked and clicked, operating in cooperation to push and pull the bonded valves. “At the moment, the only mechanisms that are working are the propulsion components, but with the addition of water, these hollow wheels can utilise that buildup of energy to move it up. Watch closely.”
With a steady pour, Altair set the mechanism in motion. The gush surged into each translucent wheel, carried by the controlled momentum until it was driven upward in a measured flow. Each segment passed the water without a single drop spilled, transporting the vital liquid to where it needed to be.
Interest alight and fascination redoubled, Azra shuffled closer to the edge of the defensive barricade.
“It is the aim of The Innovators Guild to have these installed across Celestria within the next decade to prevent widespread damage to crops and essential flora during hotter months,” Altair explained. “This segment here can collect rainwater, which shall also limit flooding. With the correct calculations, nothing is going to be wasted.”
A hand shot up from the assembled students, and he gestured to the inquisitive girl.
“Will these impact on soil quality or disturb the ground?” she asked.
“Good question, Alys,” the professor praised. “No, they do not alter ground conditions. The plan is to position them far enough under the dirt to not cause any issue or distortion.”
“Surely they’ll need to be replaced a lot,” another called out, leaning around his peers. “Metal rusts and exposure to water will only quicken that process.”
“That is does, but the plates used to form the distributors are coated. After a while, that varnish is expected to wear away, but it should prolong the life of them significantly.”
The gathered pupils jotted in their exercise books, and Azra hastily rooted out his worn notepad from his satchel to follow their example, sketching a diagram of the machine and scribbling annotations in the surrounding space.
Finished with his observations before many of the students, he returned his attention to the class and met with Professor Bevan’s smile, gracious, wise eyes catching his for a fleeting second before he tucked himself into the wide stone block. He curled in tighter, imploring the stars not to let him get caught.
“Nature and innovation go hand in hand,” Altair told them, resuming the lesson. “Remember that. Our purpose as innovators is not to build bigger, but to work in unison with our surroundings. The world protects us, and we must protect it in return. That is the essence of invention.”
As Azra transcribed the professor’s words and accepted the sentiment into his teachings, a leaf detached from its branch, spinning in a neat spiral and landing on the open page of his notebook. He made to flick it away and stopped short. Nature and innovation, the everlasting rotation of preservation, an equal give and take.
He pinched the leaf into the pocket at the back of the pad where neither coastal wind nor its own inclination could dislodge it.
Chimes pealed from deep within the bell tower, inciting a string of tolling notes. The students of Professor Bevan’s class packed away their belongings into identical satchels, embellished with charms and ribbons.
Azra dreamed of carrying a Citadel satchel, selecting a bauble or two to hook on the buckle and binding the silk of his chosen academy onto the straps. Those who achieved accolade badges pinned them to the front fold to boast of their accomplishments, and he hoped to do the same one day.
“Do not forget your mid-term essays are due in soon,” Altair reminded the bustle of students. “If you require an extension or any help, please come and see me.”
A rise in chatter emanated from the lawn and Azra chanced a peek between two stone blocks of the bulwark barrier. Groups dispersed towards the main building, a few students chasing after each other in their haste to reach the dining hall first. Professor Bevan organised the various components and equipment into crates beneath the folding tables with a calm, methodical ease. The man never seemed to do anything in a rush, moving as natural as a summer air current.
Squeezing the final component into its designated box, Altair wandered to the grass embankment, his hands on his hips and his regard sailing up to the top of the curtain wall.
Azra ducked. A sore ache gnawed at the muscles in his legs from his prolonged stoop, but he didn’t dare move.
“Is there someone there?” Altair called. His question sank into silence. “You are in no trouble, but you really should not be up so high. It is quite the fall.”
Azra heard those words so often. Every time they were a lie. Upon request, he provided the truth, owned up to misdeeds and promised not to do so again, but all it brought was trouble. He had learned long ago of that deception, and trusted nobody who claimed otherwise.
He stuffed his notebook into his bag, his pencil and the fallen leaf with it, and scampered to the boundary of the wall behind him. The toe of his shoe knocked into the ancient brick until he located the topmost foothold. Grasping at nooks and gaps, his feet touched soil again.
His usual route steered him between the trees on the peripheries of the Citadel grounds. Clear of the copse, the guards at the gate guffawed and joked as though they did not possess one of the most important jobs in Celestria.
Azra straightened himself and hurled a disparaging look at them, staying out of their line of sight as he blended in with the crowds of the academic district and headed for home.
* * *
The dolorous beat of the long-case clock and a charmed laugh welcomed Azra into Remwood Manor, the ancestral home of the Quinn family and one of only a few surviving manors to boast authentic zedite. Much had been replaced over the years, but the upper spires and entryway maintained the original structure. He never warmed to the appeal of the slate and purple speckled stone, but new guests usually found it an interesting talking point, and he knew enough about it to impress them.
Recognising his mother’s discerning tone funnelling from her office, he swatted at his clothing for loose sprigs and leaves. A few gnarled twigs poked from the creases and he snatched them out, disposing of them in the windowed porch and checking the welcome rug for any stragglers.
“I do hope you can make the conference next week, Mr Hesselton,” Celia Quinn said, leading a broad-shouldered bulk into the foyer. “I assure you our arrangements for redevelopment will be most illuminating, and I would like your input on the plans.”
“Give me a few days and I’ll get back in touch with you about the date,” Hesselton responded, accepting his trench coat from the suited man attending her. “Your ideas so far are to be commended.” Particles of ash discharged from the end of the cigar dangling from his lips and he marched to the tinted glass doors with a purpose in his brutish strides.
Azra retreated to avoid being bouldered aside by the visitor, shrinking unseen into the shadows of the ornament cabinet. A string of earrings pinched the man’s left ear and the stench of expensive cologne fused to him like a second skin.
“What you hiding there for?” he gruffed.
Apprehensive and unsure whether a response would displease his mother, Azra trudged out of the dark and refrained from meeting his stony stare.
“Do I scare you, lad? That it?” Hesselton stamped forward, and the boy withdrew further. “I take it you’re Azra. You looked just like your father with those curls, but there’s no mistaking who those eyes belong to.”
Azra’s gaze soared to Hesselton’s pock-marked face. His mother’s welcoming disposition waned, but she retained a smile for their guest.
“Do let me know if you will be attending our next meeting,” she spoke, ushering her boy to his older brother who forcibly seized his arm and wrenched him out of the way.
“Until then,” Hesselton said, seeing himself out onto the driveway.
Celia waved to the departing car and pressed the front doors shut, regulating her ire with composed breaths as she turned to her youngest son. Her disdain bore into him, and she extracted a brittle twig from his hair. “Have you been to the Citadel again?” she asked, voice low and measured. She did not wait for an answer. “What have I told you about going there?”
His brother, Jarett, scoffed, tightening his tie. “What do you expect, mother? He spends far too much time with his nose in a book than caring for his duty to this family.”
Jarett’s hair ran darker than Azra’s, his eyes a bloodied ruby in contrast to his light scarlet. When they were younger, he frequently told his little brother that he had inherited the rich Quinn tapestry because their ancestors deemed him worthy and Azra weak, watching as he cried bulbous tears and laughing at his pathetic response. That tactic no longer resulted in pitiful sobs, but he had since discovered crueller methods of tormenting him.
“Are you going to keep disappointing us until you do as you are told?” Jarett taunted.
Far too busy for her bickering sons, Celia hurled a silencing glimpse at Jarett. He hushed with a sullen grunt. “Azra, you are a Quinn,” she said rigidly. “You are old enough to understand that you have a reputation to uphold. Your actions reflect on all of us, and you would do well to remember that.”
“I’m going to study at the Citadel,” Azra insisted, refusing to relent on the matter. “How is that not serving the family name?”
“Your obligation is to the business. Have you no sense of duty? Your father and I work tirelessly to secure a future for you. Are you so selfish as to let all of our hard work go to waste?” Celia lifted to her full height until her tall posture eclipsed his. “No climbing and no going anywhere near the Citadel. I will not tell you again.”
With an air of derision and her hands clasped over her stomach, she disappeared into the corridor behind the dividing staircase, her office door clashing with the frame in a marked hit and the echo rebounding within the entry hall.
Azra scraped his shoes on the floor in the quiet left by her disappointment. “Who was that man?” he asked his brother.
“An uncle,” Jarett replied tersely.
“He was not. None of our uncles are called Hesselton.”
“You don’t know all of them.”
Dignity wounded and fed up with feeling like a defenceless pushover, Azra righted himself from his stoop. “Has father met this new, mystery uncle?” he challenged.
Jarett’s eyes obscured almost into pitch black pools as he snatched Azra by the collar and shoved him into the wall. Fingers constricting into a fist, he slammed his knuckles into the side of his brother’s face and slapped his hand over his mouth to silence the cries. “You are a ten-year-old nothing, do you hear me? If you breathe a word of this to father, I will feed you to the sea piece by piece. Nod if you understand.”
Azra attacked the relentless grip trapping him, feet flapping inches from the interwoven wooden flooring and refusing to give in to Jarett’s threatening methods.
“Nod, you pathetic, whining little shit,” Jarett hissed, seizing a handful of his hair and yanking his head down until he complied. He dumped him onto the floor in a crumpled heap. “Anybody asks, you got those marks on your face while you were climbing. You really should be more careful.”
Curling close to the wall, Azra shivered against the panelled planks, waiting until the storming stomps softened on the carpet of the staircase and vanished into the upper levels. He sobbed so hard he almost vomited, clamping his hands over his mouth in time to the keep the bile in and the noise from alerting his mother.
He had to get up, scour the blood from his face and the dirt from his clothes. He couldn’t worry his father when he already had the weight of the world and the family’s continued legacy on his shoulders. That, as his mother pointed out, would be selfish.
* * *
Inspired by the firm prod from the poker, embers coiled from the burning coal and a veil of heat licked at the evening chill invading the office. Portho Quinn warbled a tune to himself, stopping only to sip at his piping hot cup of Apelgum tea and replace it on the chipped saucer stamped with his father’s initials.
A shadow fluttered over the bookshelf behind him. Nervous treads neared the fireplace, pausing at the sofa and daring not overstep the line onto the rug.
“Azra,” Portho said, appeased to see his son safe. “When I heard you had fallen, I feared I’d find you in the hospital, but your mother assured me you were well.” He crouched and prompted him to turn his head. The worst of the bruises narrowly dodged his left eye in a swollen splotch, and jagged cuts littered his eyebrow. “What happened?”
“I was climbing, and I slipped,” Azra murmured, staring at the helix motifs on the rug, anywhere but his father’s concerned expression.
“At the Citadel?”
Azra shrank in on himself. He locked his hands at the small of his back as regretful droplets spilled from his lashes. “I’m supposed to be focused on the family. I’m sorry, father, I’ll do better, I don’t want to disappoint you.”
Portho swiped a tissue from the box on the coffee table and patted away the tears, avoiding the inflamed blotches and scratches. “Why do you go to the Citadel?” At the responding silence, a worried tuck burrowed between his eyebrows. “Azra?”
“I was hoping to study there once I finished school,” he admitted, “but continuing the family business is more important, I know that, and-”
“Azra.”
“I’ll focus more, I promise.”
“Hush now, it’s okay.” Portho held onto his arms, combing the panicked expression for any sign of what lay cornered inside. His youngest son had always been quiet in his observation of the world, but never fearful. This distress, this uncharacteristic alarm, troubled him. “What would you like to study at the Citadel?”
“Inventing and innovation,” Azra answered with a sniffle, his anxieties receding at the kind glint in his father’s eyes. “But the family business-”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Portho told him, smoothing the mop of curls coiling to his cheeks. “I had no idea you wanted to go into further education, and I should have. I’m not home enough, am I?”
It was not a question that required an answer. Azra never blamed his father for being away so often and coming home late into the night. He strove to provide his family with everything he could, ensuring their great legacy continued for his sons to inherit.
“How about I get in touch with the faculty at the Citadel and see if they might give us a tour?” Portho suggested. “I’ll go with you, and you can tell them about your plans for your studies. I’m sure they would love to hear from an aspiring student.”
Azra wanted nothing more than to accept, to look upon that wondrous place and bask in the academic atmosphere, but in every nook of his mind, his mother’s disapproval watched. That all-observing objection to his dreams quietened his wishes, and with a crestfallen droop, he refused. “It’s okay. I’ll see plenty of it when I get accepted.”
“That’s the spirit, my bright boy. They will be lucky to have you.” Gripping the angled armchair to nudge himself to his feet, Portho caught the slight shrink in Azra’s posture, shoulders closing to shield himself and focus assessing the room as though he expected a monster to launch at him from the shadows. “Has something else happened?” he questioned, disposing of the tear-soaked tissue in the bin by his desk.
“I’m just a little rattled from the fall,” Azra replied. “I won’t go climbing again.”
“Do you need to see a medic?”
Azra shook his head adamantly. Medics were smart, and he doubted he could lie convincingly if they pressed him about his injuries. He wanted no more trouble. Jarett’s rage caused enough of it, and it was all he could do to stay out of his way when a bad mood overtook him.
“Nothing is broken or needs stitches,” Azra said, “and I cleaned everything properly.”
The youngest Quinn often returned with scrapes and bruises. His eagerness to get everywhere quicker than his legs could take him frequently left him with a fresh mark and occasionally a cut that he treated himself with an astute calm. Yet his demeanour seemed different, distancing himself and wincing at every minuscule sound.
“Has somebody said nasty things to you at school?” Portho asked.
“No.”
“Worried about something here at home?”
“No.”
“You can tell me what’s wrong.”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
Portho ruminated on his avoidant responses, conscious of the fact he would never receive a clear answer from him if he refused to give one. His suspicion spiked, but he didn’t wish to upset him further.
“I don’t want you to abandon your dream of going to the Citadel Academy,” Portho said, “but you do need to be more careful where you go. If you insist on climbing, I’ll get you lessons and a helmet.”
-- -- -- -- --
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“The atmosphere there is curious,” Esther mused, lounging into the comfy sofa cushions. “There is a sense of both community and divide, like the people there aren’t sure which side they need to be on. They rely on industry for their livelihoods, but it’s also draining them of any kind of freedom. Each day is a test of their survival.”
“Sounds as though the struggle is ingrained in them,” Lilith said. “But the woman who enlisted your help was unlike the others?”
“Penelope? Yes, she doesn't agree with the severe regulations the other industry heads impose on their workers. She’s losing the battle, but she's not one to surrender. Frankly, it won’t be long before they start looking at what they can take from her territory. I only hope when that time comes, her district rallies around her.”
One leg crossed over the other, Lilith’s foot bounced as she mulled over Esther’s judgement of the home of industry. They veered towards anarchy, and from experience, that chaos only escalated into bloodshed and carnage. The working citizens of Delorem possessed no magic and no advantage over their governing rulers as the mages had during the war on Solgarde; they had guns and weapons, but so did the ruling families. “I’m sure your presence there gave her hope.”
“She needs more than hope,” Esther said, snagging one of the crispy biscuits from the plate on the coffee table between them. “They all will. The tension there was just like before the purge. It’s going to kick off, there’s no doubt about that, and when it does, I can’t see it ending without a lot of blood.”
“Does Bartholomew know?”
The crunch of the wafer treat slowed as Esther chewed and gulped it down, scraping some time to weigh her response. Should she tell Lilith what she had seen, the gargantuan monster he created and the pain he inflicted for the sake of protecting the gateways? “He’s aware of the situation,” she answered decidedly.
“He won’t leave them,” Lilith assured her. “He practically ran to your aid as soon as he heard of the trouble you were in, and he’ll do what he can to ensure the people of Delorem remain safe.”
I’m not so certain, Esther thought, the image of the Wrath plastered in her mind alongside the intense scar forming on Penelope’s wrist. “You’re right,” she said.
From the balcony overlooking the nerve centre of the laboratory, Alek traded a glance with Esther, her natural confidence tarnished and her uncertainties silently conversing with his questioning glimpse. She had discovered something of the eccentric professor that disturbed her, and whether she decided to tell him or not what transpired on Delorem, Alek trusted her instincts.
Oscar wriggled on the sturdy railing beside him, legs swinging aimlessly and his tired eyes far away.
“Hey,” Alek whispered as Esther continued her stories. “Are you doing okay? Esther won’t mind if you wanted to rest.”
Oscar faced his worry with a smile too broad and stretched to be anything other than false and picked at the dry skin flaking on his fingertips. Alek’s reassuring touch persuaded him to stop. “I’m all right,” he said. “It’s just taking a bit to get used to being here again. The lab was a mess when we left, but Professor Spark and Professor Bevan have cleaned it up nicely.”
“That lie may work on anyone else, but not me. What’s going on?”
A nauseating, sticky clump pulsated in the back of Oscar’s mouth, threatening another sob. Blood flecked his fingers where he’d bitten his nails down, and his stomach somersaulted with every anxious thought. “I keep thinking about what would have happened to me if Angelica didn’t make that sacrifice,” he confessed under his breath, almost ashamed to admit it. “I was lucky that the Phoenix clan took me in, but… but I couldn’t help wondering if I’d ever see home. If I’d ever see you, and Esther, and my parents. It’s stupid, but I began to contemplate what I would do if I was stuck there.”
“That’s not stupid to me,” Alek told him. “You were making do with the situation you found yourself in.”
“Doesn’t matter now,” Oscar decided, coughing to impede the sickly feeling. His knuckles whitened on his sketchbook, the pliable fabric cover and the paper compressed together in his grasp until the edges began to curl.
“It does.” Alek eased the journal from his clutches before he damaged it. The pages appeared thicker than before, the spine ridged from the continuous open and close and extra sheets sticking out. “Looks like you added to your work while you were away. May I?”
“Sure.”
Situating himself on the bench by his friend’s dangling feet, he leafed through the new sketches, appreciating every detail and the style so wonderfully Oscar that his beam deepened involuntarily. Distant lands put on a remarkable performance in those splendid renditions, faces given to the names he had mentioned and notes in the margins accompanying the architectural depictions. “I’m glad you had people that you could rely on,” he said. “I would like to meet Lysander and Demetrius and shake their hands.”
He flipped the page onto a spread of mountainous peaks and outer buildings. When he tilted the book, the landscape transformed from day to night. “You’re just showing off with this one,” he chuckled, roving the intricacies of the magic rooted in the lines and fixating on the dedication in the corner. “For me and Esther?”
“I’ve never missed anyone as much as I did you two when I was drawing this,” Oscar said. “The view from my room was beautiful, but all I wanted was to be at the Academy, sat beneath the blossom tree laughing with you both like we used to and trying to talk Esther out of another bonkers plan to investigate something she’d read about.”
The memories bathed him in a comforting summer breeze, awake with the powdery scent of prospering petals and the brine of the sea. “Truth is, I never wished to stop her. Just didn’t want her getting into trouble or ending up hurt.”
“That’s why we went with her.” Commander Cleaver’s words resonated in Alek’s ears, like an outlying gleam that solidified the closer it came. His thumb rested on the cursive letters of Oscar’s dedication. “We don’t leave our own behind. You know we wouldn’t have left you trapped on Lucarian, right?”
The absence of his friend’s ardent faith had been noted during his stay with the Phoenix clan, the persistence and perseverance of a worthy soldier that cloaked him in surety and instilled a lasting courage. “I know.”
Alek struck his thighs and pushed himself up to interrupt Esther mid-sentence and present her with the open sketchbook. “It appears our Oscar has been exercising his creative talents while he was off adventuring,” he said.
With a curious “oh”, Esther absorbed the precision and artistry she never failed to find inspiring. “He has always had an eye for detail.”
“Check out the dedication at the bottom,” Alek instructed.
She dipped her attention to the four angled words in the lower corner of the piece. Her heartened gaze met with the artist’s as he plonked himself down beside her. For the months she stayed in Lumen, she shouldered everything herself, every burden, every duty. But now, in the supported and comforted contentment of her friends, she never wanted to part from them again.
From the armchair, Lilith watched the reunion with warmth in her heart. Their reports only skimmed the surface of their experiences, and she identified the weight of being separated from the people most precious in life. Time and duty cared little for love, but it made the homecoming all the sweeter.
“What you have done in the service of Solgarde and Myriad will not be forgotten,” she promised them, rising from her seat. “I am so proud of all three of you.”
The trio regarded her with a thankful flush and a fulfilled lift of the chin.
“When I return to Mora, I plan on having a word with the council to inform them of your adventures and what you discovered,” Lilith said. “It’s likely you’ll receive accolades, but if you would rather, I can arrange for them to be given discreetly.”
“That would be appreciated, commander,” Alek replied. “I think after everything, we just want to get on with our studies.”
Esther and Oscar nodded in exhausted agreement.
“Discreetly it is, then,” Lilith promised. “I’m certain you will all achieve wonderful things, but if you ever need any advice or support, my door is always open. Even greatness needs a bit of help now and then.”
* * *
Keys clacked and levers clunked. Metres alternated in their measures and in the clear dome of the cultivation controls, the blend of temporal essence, mirror pool water, Ocher Ore, and Lytus feathers coalesced into a silvery substance.
Altair folded his arms over his chest, scratching at his bearded chin and tracking the swirling concoction. All had been calculated and mixed to the specific instructions, hours of preparation and no small amount of danger coming together for this precise moment.
“Haven’t seen that much doubt on your face for a while,” Lilith commented. His arms released from their tensed pinch as though reflexively seeking to alleviate the uncertainty, and she slid her grasp into his. “Have faith, professor. We will prevail, by dust or by gold.”
Heartening as always in critical situations, Altair squeezed her hand. The light she bore for Solgarde would forever burn, her legacy one of hope and her strength an inspiration to those in their darkest moments and deepest doubts. She felt as they did, the loss, the heartache, the emptiness in the silence, and yet she still reached out to those in need, pulled them to their feet again and consoled them with an offering of sentiment and surety.
“Farina and Azra are waiting by for word,” he told her. “Let us hope we can deliver some good news.”
At the desks, Alek, Esther, and Oscar huddled closely, animated in their conversation. Cleaned of the dirt and their adventures, they resembled Citadel students again, but no amount of water could wash away the bruising on Esther’s neck, the exhausted smudges under Oscar’s eyes, or the slashes on Alek’s arms, thread binding them as they healed.
“You spoke to them about their experiences,” Altair said. “How are they doing?”
“They’ve all been through quite an ordeal,” Lilith replied. “I can tell they’re putting on a brave front, but they have wounds inside and out that are sure to leave scars.”
“They seem strong. They will grow around them.”
“But they are too young to suffer that sort of grief.”
Professor Bevan hummed. While he might have agreed with her assessment, there was nothing they could do now. “Grief does not care for age. You were much younger than they are when Tiveris collapsed,” he reasoned. “Yet you survived.”
An agitated roil flipped in the pit of her stomach and she swallowed the restless memory. She steered clear of thinking of Tiveris, her first home, that quaint mining village where she was born, buried under rubble. The rumble of the world and the fearful day her father vanish pealed in a far off part of her mind. She shoved it aside. It did no good to dwell on matters she couldn’t change.
“You have braved the murkiest depths again and again, and you endured,” Altair continued. “So will they. Sometimes, we do not have the luxury to choose or the time to consider any other option than the one placed before us.”
“You don’t need to tell me about a lack of options in desperate circumstances,” Lilith said, harsher than she intended. She gnawed on her lip and defused the irritation. “Sorry.”
Altair bent his head in remorseful concession. If he could rewind the clock and change what transpired when they’d met, the impossible position he and the council put her in, he would without hesitation. “You do not need to apologise, Lilith,” he said sensitively. “I do not blame you for feeling how you do.”
“It’s… it was tough,” she afforded. “No point dragging it up again now.” She relinquished his hand and strayed to Bartholomew, hip against the console and head tipped until her loose raven curls swung over her shoulder.
“I am almost done,” Bartholomew confirmed.
“How sure are you that this is going to work?” Lilith asked.
The professor’s deliberate movements slowed, barely perceptible to any who had not been watching him meticulously. But Lilith had. She spent much of their ventures learning his behaviours, as she did with most she encountered.
“In theory, nothing should go wrong,” Bartholomew said, “but…”
“But?” she pressed.
“As with any experimentation, there is always room for setbacks and failure.” He examined the finished product, the starlight glow in the glass containing so much promise and yet suffused with fear that their tribulations had been wasted. If this did not work, he was unsure what their next move was. “Everything is ready.”
At his dubious announcement, Altair, Alek, Esther, and Oscar shuffled closer, eager to witness the result of their labour.
“The items we collected create a dust that was used in forming The Starlight Path,” Bartholomew explained, “the visible connection between our worlds. It is my hope that the gifts The Core gave to Prosperia, Skuld, Eternity, and Delorem will be the stimulant in waking it.” His knuckles tightened around the release lever. Now or never.
He shoved the bar upward into the discharge mechanism and the silver stream leaked into the tubes and the adjoining hatch in the roof. In a sprinkle of glittery raindrops, the concoction made landfall, seeping into the tracts of soil and ash. He had witnessed what many came to call star shedding before, those mesmerising spectacles when parts of his Starlight Path jettisoned large clumps of light to regrow it anew. The natural moulting happened every few decades or so, harmless to any planets it fell upon and admired by stargazers across the nine worlds.
This, though, was different. Observing the mixture sink and fade, his faith plunged into the ground with it. Wake, he urged the planet he befriended and trusted to guide him. Wake and join us once more. Myriad needs you.
“There!” Oscar called, scrambling to the window and jabbing his finger on the glass at a verdant blotch sprouting by a toppled ribcage. “That wasn’t there before.”
Bartholomew fastened the additional lenses over his glasses and magnified the speck. Like the first flourishing buds of spring, a patch of green climbed out of the mud. More followed, minimal and yet growing. “Grass,” he affirmed.
Around the laboratory epicentre, secondary systems stirred, stretching their mechanisms and greeting them with bleary eyes. At the surveillance screens, Bartholomew explored the transmitted reports. A swell of encouragement flowed through his veins. “The Core is awake,” he reported, jovial and celebratory. “Only just, but our plan worked.”
Esther, Alek, and Oscar embraced each other in a tight-knit circle, jumping and laughing in their elation. Altair rested a hand on Lilith’s shoulder before she launched herself into his open arms.
Bartholomew closed his eyes for a moment, drinking in that pleasant harmony from the planet. I have missed you, old friend, he confided into the world. Welcome back.
Breaking through the excitement and joy, an escalating series of beeps distributed themselves into the circular space. The amusement ceased, trickling into silence.
“What is that noise?” Lilith asked, her smile erased and her senses alert.
Bartholomew hunched over the communications network, working at speed to reveal the signal piercing into his laboratory. All at once, the clamour lowered into a consistent pattern. “It’s an old transmission from the end of the war,” he said, the message usurping the entire system until he was powerless to stop the spread.
Two words presented themselves. ‘Help us,’ every monitor screamed. ‘Help us.’
-- -- -- -- --
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Legends of Myriad: Arc One - Chapter 41: A Vow to Fate
Chapter 40 | Chapter 42
Arc One Masterlist
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Frayed thumbnail worried between his teeth, Oscar continued his moseyed strides. He reached the opposite wall of his room and swivelled on his heels again, chewing as though a splinter had taken root in his skin. His mother always reproached him for biting at the tiny fragments when they got stuck, instead smothering the irritated area in a paste and bandaging it up until the mixture drew it out.
It was no longer a splinter that he tried to coax out but the all-consuming dread that closed in around him. Each pop of anxiety set a spark to his nerves, lighting them like an incendiary and leaving him to watch the flame chase the cord to the powder.
He was stuck. He avoided the notion of being trapped, that sounded far too caged, too permanent, but his efforts stalled. The excursion to Bloodtide River proved pointless and while Demetrius and Lysander seemed undeterred, decoding more tomes and journals for a scrap of information, Oscar suspected they were looking in the wrong place. What was happening to the gateways now had never happened on Lucarian, at least not according to the history books. Demon magic and Fate intervention flourished in abundant supply hundreds of years ago. Nobody considered the possibility of that power waning, and so a solution to such a problem never arose.
His eyes itched with the unmistakable herald of tears, but he denied them the chance to fall, not when there was still work to be done. “There has to be something we’re not seeing,” he muttered. “There must be.”
Esther and Alek rested at the forefront of his contemplations, their enthusiastic smiles spurring him to find the means back to the coastal air and Efros flowers of home.
Professor Spark will know how to sort this, he told himself. But how long would he be waiting? What if the professor couldn’t reactivate the Lucarian gateways without Fate magic? They relied on a dual mechanism to power them, and if no substitute existed, what then?
He withdrew his thumbnail from his mouth and wiped the spit on his top. Thinking like that only drove him to torment, and he needed his wits about him to act, even if that action was merely transmitting a message to The Core. The demon stronghold gateway connected to the laboratory, and while closed off, it was a start. He had no clue if a solution might be offered or if he would receive instruction on how to proceed with his mission, but without Professor Spark’s input, the prospect of returning remained uncertain.
Snatching the satchel dangling from the ornate chair, he stuffed his notebook, pencil, and a bottle of water inside. Sturdy hands guided the clasps of his cloak into their fixtures once the weighty fabric draped neatly over his shoulders. Before any hesitation planted doubt in his mind, he abandoned the room.
Along the private corridor, dusk began to swallow the meagre daylight afforded to Lucarian and the last feeble rays retreated into the windows. Oscar pursued the receding wedges to the grand staircase, taking the steep steps two at a time and all but slamming into the distracted figure strolling by the obscured bend.
“Apologies, Lord Alaric,” the mage stammered as he stumbled to give the man some space. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
“No harm done. I was not particularly aware of my surroundings either,” Alaric replied, tapping on the open pages of the ledger balanced on his forearm. “You haven’t seen Lysander, have you, by any chance?”
“I think he went to see Lord Bertram, and he said something about a Phoenix guard meeting this evening.”
Alaric inspected the timepiece on his wrist. “Ah, he’ll be in the meeting.”
With a hasty bow to the first lord of the clan, Oscar headed for the decorated entryway. He constrained the impulse to hurry, the door a mere breath away as Alaric’s voice snatched him from freedom.
“You seem like you are ready for an adventure,” he called. “Heading out?”
Oscar wavered. Alaric would not prevent him from leaving, would he, if he suspected the truth of his outing?
After a stretched silence that undoubtedly only heightened any suspicions, he turned back and pretended to pluck a piece of loose lint from the trim of his cloak. “I spent all afternoon reading and forgot to get some drawing done before we lose the light. I still have some pages left in my notebook and the views from the parapet are magnificent in the evening.”
“They are,” Alaric agreed, with an attentive glint in his eyes. He soundlessly closed the registry in his hands and tucked it under his arm. “There is a pleasant view of an ancestral outpost that Professor Spark took an interest in during his many visits. It is rather difficult to miss. Bertram and I would use the gateway there to visit him, back in the day. The last location it went to was his laboratory.”
Nearing the mage, he handed him an embroidered handkerchief from his coat pocket. “It is much closer than the demon stronghold you arrived in. If you discover an answer to your problem and decide to depart, leave this behind. I can make a trip there later in the night to recover it.”
“Thank you, Lord Alaric,” Oscar said, running the soft fabric through his fingers. “For everything.”
“Get home safely. That is all the thanks I need.”
Oscar flung the door open, hesitating as the growing evening air rustled his curls. “Will you tell Lysander and Demetrius goodbye on my behalf? And that I wish them all the best?”
“Of course,” Alaric promised. “You should go. The light is fading.”
Certain that his farewell would be passed on, he descended the stone staircase with a vigour in his stride. While Alaric decided not to hinder him, others might. Loyalty and hospitality formed the roots of Phoenix integrity, but this mission he had to complete alone.
* * *
Alaric had not been mistaken; the outpost jutted from the cliff face, the bleak structure balanced on artificial struts buried deep into the rock and protruding at a measured angle to point directly at the Phoenix manor. He wondered how he’d missed it before.
The signal on his tablet shepherded him along grubby hallways and through decomposing galleries, candelabras sagging from the corroded brick and dirt choking the once glorious architecture.
Steering by orb light, he ascended a looping staircase, up and up, hopping over distended gaps and testing the more precarious footholds before placing his full weight on them.
At the top, a glass room unfurled, puncturing the low cloud line. An askew ladder scaled the grand telescope angled at a loose window, the rasping wind snagging the fragile frame in a rattling shudder and permitting a papery ice to coat the exposed surfaces. The stars shone in all their splendour and glory, greeting him with a delighted glitter and a promise of home. The Core was out there somewhere, Solgarde just beyond. Almost there and yet still too far.
Oscar bumped the radiant sphere into the air, and the octagonal space manifested. Emblem-emblazoned walls bearing the symbols of the other worlds safeguarded the platform in the centre where the etched and painted map of Lucarian strove through the dirt and frost. A mechanical whine whimpered within.
His tablet pinged, and he tested the strength of the gateway. While inactive, the signal here appeared stronger than the readings at the demon stronghold, protecting the meagre energy that remained.
“I know you can’t get me home,” Oscar spoke to the toiling machinery, the information he had typed and retyped waiting on the screen, “but can you at least deliver a message to my friends?” A trembling thumb prodded the send button. Seconds advanced sluggishly, as though dragged by the hands of time, his efforts ending in a red error notice over his carefully curated words. “Please. I just want to tell them I’m safe.”
“The gateway cannot hear you,” a sympathetic tone divulged from the murk. “I am sure if it could, it would heed your plea.”
Strands of peculiar power and a far-off chime acknowledged his own magic with an airy brush and an uplifting warmth. The Heart of Lucarian stepped into the outer ring of orb light. Her pearl-grey robes glided by her bare feet and her inquisitive regard softened at his surprise.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, searching for her intimidating companions and finding them absent.
“After we met at the river and your friends offered me refuge in their lands, I spoke with the leaders of the Phoenix Clan,” she answered. “They kindly granted me safety here, as a temporary shelter until they find something more suitable, but I rather like it.”
The dormant portal called to Oscar within the deserted chill. Alaric had no reason to prevent his journey once he had set him on a path to the outpost or insist he take someone with him because he was already protected by the one person able to ensure his return home.
“Your friend, the guard, was right: I am a Fate,” The Heart confirmed. “My name is Angelica. There were once millions of my kind on Lucarian, but after the gateways closed, people grew angry. They thought that the demons and the Fates were attempting to seize control, and so turned against us. But we understood the truth. We tried to explain that they had been sealed for their protection, that more of those monsters could not be allowed to reach our world and they would reopen when it was safe, but they refused to listen.”
Angelica wandered further into the observation room, stalling at the base of the gateway podium and charting the decorated posts with hovered fingertips. “The majority of demon catalysts fortified themselves inside their strongholds, but we Fates had no such shelters. Necromancers saw a chance to gain more influence, and so agreed to hunt us and persuade us to reconsider. We refused, and they plucked away our power in the most painful ways imaginable, took it for themselves, but none of them were catalysts and so could not restore the gateways. Massacres spread across Lucarian until my people died out.”
A familiar tangle lodged itself in Oscar’s chest. He recognised the horrors of that butchery all too well.
“I got captured and tortured, pieces of my power taken from me until little remained, but I was lucky,” Angelica said. “Mal rescued me and was one of the few demons who tried to aid the Fates. I rallied an army, earned my name as Heart of Lucarian for my part in our struggle, but in the end, it was not enough. The damage grew too severe.”
“There are surviving Fates out there, right?” Oscar reasoned. “Others who can support you?”
“Perhaps, but I have not met them. If they are out there, they are hiding, and I cannot say I blame them.”
“Loads of people must have passed by that river who could help, yet none reported seeing you.”
“I did not wish to be seen.”
“But we saw you.”
Angelica inclined her head. “I grew curious,” she admitted. “I had the privilege of meeting many mages in the past, all compassionate and selfless in the assistance they gave, expecting no reward or profit in return. Now, I would like to repay that kindness by helping you get home.”
“If you have met mages, then you know that we believe a child has no right to blame or benefit due to the actions of a predecessor,” Oscar pointed out. “We all begin with blank slates and allow our own deeds to speak for our nature.”
“I suppose I should add stubborn to that list of mage attributes,” Angelica ruminated.
With a sweep of his boot on the scattered dirt, he shoved his hands into his pockets. He refused to take the little she had left, regardless of how saintly or heroic his ancestors may have been. Their efforts bore no semblance on what he deserved.
“I do not suppose you would accept this as a gift?” Angelica tried, but the sway of his head provided his resolute answer. “Then how about a promise? A terrible power stirs, one that has hibernated for a long time, and when it wakes, I fear Lucarian faces a great danger. Should you promise to aid us, I shall consider your debt paid.”
No rejoinder or reason for refusal presented itself. Angelica’s offer seemed reasonable, but ominous clouds surrounded her words. He had faced terrible power before, and it ended in bloodshed and war.
“You need not answer straight away,” Angelica said.
“No, a promise sounds fair.” Oscar steeled himself and mustered his courage. If his promise ensured peace and safety to innocent lives, he fulfilled his duty as a mage. Irrespective of their area of study, all those who possessed magic on Solgarde vowed to wield their powers to protect and defend. Angelica was willing to make a monumental sacrifice, and only a substantial act would ever repay her.
Feeling in his satchel for Alaric’s handkerchief, he withdrew the flimsy fabric and looped it around the gateway controls. The instant he accepted Angelica’s outstretched hands and sealed their agreement, he locked himself into the vow, a solemn oath that would loiter on his horizon. Nobody could predict when the day of repayment would come, only that it would.
He planted his own hands on top of hers, their magic melding for a brief beat as he agreed to her terms. The pledge clasped tight, and the machinery reverberated into life, the portal glow overtaking his own orb light and banishing the remaining shadows. In a startled jolt, his grasp slipped from hers.
“I will do all I can to keep the gateway open long enough for you to get through,” Angelica said. “Now go. Return to your friends and remember your vow.”
* * *
Oscar hauled a tremulous breath into his lungs. Cleansed air rebounded down his windpipe as the Starlight Path compelled him into The Core laboratory in an undignified buckle onto the floor. The nauseating stir in his stomach mellowed once he pressed his forehead to the cool tile, sweat beading and clammy hands clawing across the cracks.
On his initial trip to Lucarian, his body cramped, and he’d floundered until a dusty chair offered him some refuge from the spinning. Much of his first hours in the home of the undead had been spent reeling and occasionally vomiting. This time, the dizzying whirl subsided swiftly and the sickly churn allowed him to keep his dinner. Small wins, he thought, inhaling the vague whiff of damp and steeped fruit teas.
The call of his name and the duo of familiar voices wrapped him in a blanket so dear and warm the dam inside his heart shattered. A sob and spittle joined the dust on the floor, and two pairs of arms eased him up into safety and comfort.
“Oscar,” Esther soothed, a consoling touch to his curls and her cheek pressed firmly to his. “You’re back.”
“Hey, it’s all right, buddy,” Alek said as he wound them both into his grasp. “We’re here. Breathe. That’s it.”
Oscar’s hands clenched into fists, cleaving to his friends as though he would vanish without them. Not quite home, not yet, but enough to satiate the pining for Solgarde.
Alek wiped the wet streaks with a fresh tissue from his pocket and Esther swept the specks of dirt from his forehead, fighting the line of tears on her lashes.
“I didn’t think… I had no idea if I’d make it back.”
“For a while, we thought you wouldn’t either,” Alek admitted. “Professor Spark and Professor Bevan have been working on a solution, but they couldn’t find what was causing the system failures.”
“It’s a long story.”
“While I’m curious about what happened, let’s get you cleaned up first,” Esther said, supporting his elbows and aiding him to his feet. “You all right? We can help you if you need it.”
“I’m good,” Oscar breathed, the spin and sway of the room subsiding. Once his vision settled, he clocked the inflamed patches on Alek’s bare arms and the deep-set, purple marks encircling Esther’s throat. “Oh, stars… Esther…”
“What?”
“Your neck. Who did that to you?”
“Picked a fight with a guy five times my size,” she said, striving to sound detached, but the rasp betrayed her. “I made sure he came out of it worse than I did. Commander Cleaver was not happy when she saw. Didn’t think Professor Spark was capable of flinching, but he looked ready to bolt.”
A panic flared in Oscar that she had been impelled to fight alone, that she hid injuries he couldn’t see and painted a brave face on it, just as she had during the war. “Wait.” His mind reeled. “Did you say Commander Cleaver? She’s here?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mother of Modern Magic. Sunbreaker. That Commander Cleaver?”
Esther’s beam broadened, and she jittered in excitement.
“Oscar!”
At Professor Spark’s elation, three sets of eyes attended his arrival into the central hub.
“It is a pleasure to see you have returned,” Bartholomew said with a clap on the shoulder a little too rough for his slender size. “What happened? How did you get back? Professor Bevan and I have been searching for a way to contact you.”
“The gateways on Lucarian have no power left to sustain them,” Oscar explained, rubbing the sore spot on his arm.
“In what sense?”
“A massacre after the gateways shut wiped the Fates almost out of existence. There was one who helped me. She barely had anything to give, but she still wanted to get me home.” The vow snuggled into the recesses of his mind, but he remained quiet on that part of the deal. It was his promise to make, his to fulfil when the time came.
The professor acknowledged the news with a contemplative hum, but it did not hamper his high spirits. “The situation is far from ideal, but at least we know what is causing the issue.”
“Here.” Oscar handed over the tablet from his satchel. “All my findings are on there including readings from three separate gateways in Phoenix territory. I’m not sure if there’s an immediate solution, but the people there are going to need help to get them working again.”
“Not to worry. Once The Core is awake, it will be my top priority to fix this mess,” Bartholomew said, browsing the list of reports with interest. “Myriad must be united, and that cannot be done without Lucarian.”
-- -- -- -- --
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Traversing the fine fog of Lumen’s broad pavements, Bartholomew repressed a cough. Delorem’s climate clogged in his day, but now it choked, suffocating in a bracing grip that kept its victims alive long enough to be useful before it brought them to their undignified end. Death wandered in the wake of the misery on bloodied feet, feeding off the scraps the governing families discarded in their goal for more and quicker. Three-hundred years had not softened this world into kindness; it made it worse.
A discomforting twinge tunnelled into his chest. Could he have prevented Delorem from reaching such stifling levels if he had woken from his sleep when planned? Had his grave miscalculation caused this grief and the escalating hostilities? He would never know. And that marked fact irked him more than he cared to admit.
He evened the wrinkles in his waistcoat and loosened the pent up pressure in his demeanour as he drew near the commotion of city folk amassing by the river. The barriers barely hampered their efforts as they craned their necks and aired their confusion in whispered theories and rumours.
“Are we going to be without water again?” an oily man asked his friend. “This’ll be the third time this month the filtration’s gone bust.”
“I think it’s a bit more serious than that,” the woman beside him answered, snooping over the people in front of her and almost tripping over her curiosity. “Look, they’re rounding up district guards.”
Hearing her observation, the few surrounding her rose to their tiptoes, some scaling the riverside railings to watch the proceedings. Agents sporting night vision gear and long-nosed rifles escorted the apprehended officers to a cluster of unmarked vans. One of the agents removed his goggles and conversed with the woman overseeing the operation.
When her focus diverted to the increasing crowd, Bartholomew distinguished the stern, if not slightly rosy, features and gradually advanced between the gathered bodies towards her. A couple muttered their protests, but he ignored their grumbles and stuck to the rusty river barriers to remain unobtrusive to the process of arrests and eager gawping.
“Esther,” he called, capturing her attention with a signal of his cane.
She allocated the agent his orders and addressed Bartholomew with a brisk nod. “I wondered when you’d show up,” she said. “Or if you even would. We had to lock some of the gateways to be on the safe side. Miss Kingsrose has agents in most of the active ones now.”
“That is good to hear,” the professor affirmed. As she assessed the river boats patrolling and the dusky, inky hue of the night manifested in the water, he noted the splay of finger-shaped bruises folded around her throat. While she appeared unaffected by the attack, he promised Lilith she’d come to no harm. If he had known how dangerous Delorem had grown, he may have reconsidered sending a student there.
From the pouch on her belt, she extracted a clear packet and handed it over to him. “Are they the right feathers?”
“They certainly seem to be,” Bartholomew replied. He inspected the fibres and the repeating patterns. Satisfied with their shape and design, he slipped them into his inside coat pocket.
“Shame,” Esther sighed. “I was hoping for a reason to smack that smug grin off Ralph’s face.”
Bartholomew had little time to ask her who Ralph was and what this mystery man had done to agitate her. “Exactly what actions have the industry families undertaken in their attempts to hold the gateways?” he queried.
“Only what I told you on the call,” Esther said, arms crossed tightly over her chest and her analytical stare studying the ongoing convoy of captured officers. “Penelope doesn’t want any part of it, she warned me about what the others were planning. She wants the gateways free for all to use, but she’s one against four.”
“She may declare she does not wish to possess to them, but many carry an ulterior motive for their altruism.”
“I can assure you she really isn’t interested in laying any sort of claim. She runs her district differently to the others.”
While Bartholomew sought to take an optimistic view whenever possible, especially if somebody with power on Delorem served with a candid heart, his experiences warned him to proceed with caution. Trust with vigilance for now, but prepare for difficulties along the way.
“You have done remarkably, Esther,” the professor commended. “Your thorough reports provided an interesting insight into the issues here.”
“Just doing what I can,” she replied, but the unmistakable grin she tried to bury betrayed of her satisfaction at a job executed well. “Did Alek and Oscar get-”
A cry from the steady flow of handcuffed officers stole her question, and she charged into the unfolding dilemma, Bartholomew close behind.
Above his head, an Ironstrike guard brandished a shock grenade, pin intact and bloodshot eyes bulging from his skull. The gawking crowd scurried to the refuge of nearby doorways and bus stop shelters, some fleeing the scene completely in a flurry of shrieks and wails.
“You can’t do this to us,” he screamed. “I won’t let you!”
One look at Esther and the agents obeyed their silent order to retreat. Refusing to be pacified by the withdrawal, the Ironstrike guard bolstered his position, but his morsel of hesitation was enough for the mage to worm a spell around his ankle. With a firm twist, he buckled onto his face. The explosive tore free from his grasp, and Esther rescued it from the air, depositing it in the care of the Kingsrose agent beside her while the others rushed to restrain the guard. He continued his tirade, promising that Ironstrike would never permit them to get away with the arrests. Whispers broke out from the smaller crowd that remained to see how the spectacle played out.
“Good catch,” Bartholomew said.
“You grow used to splitting your attention here,” Esther shrugged. “Stuff kicks off all the time with no warning.”
“In any case, I recommend you go back to Miss Kingsrose once your duties are finished here. Rest if you can,” Bartholomew suggested. “I shall contact you when I am ready to leave.”
The prospect of leaving Delorem both delighted and disappointed Esther. Home occupied her mind whenever she wasn’t sorting problems, but a feeling of unfinished business crept in. Her presence gave Penelope another ally, and Lumen another set of hands to aid in their struggle for liberation. But she had yet to complete her studies, to learn all she could of her power and how it might be best utilised.
She tracked Bartholomew’s departure through the crowd, pondering what he planned to do to dissuade the industry heads from their path. It would take more than a stern talking to, that she was certain of.
* * *
“With the feathers in Professor Spark’s care, I’ll be going soon,” Esther said, loitering by the windowed door of the upper library. The lambent fire buried the room in a cordial warmth, the glass cabinets overcrowded with books and family tomes mirroring the spirited pop and pirouette of the embers.
Since the assassination, Penelope exhausted much of her time in the library, secluding herself within the stained mahogany and discoloured pages her father failed to dissuade her from as a child. Attended by the musty smell of mottled paper, pallid ink, and rudiments of dust, she protected the continuous burn inside the fireplace at all hours and nursed more tea and coffee than a student on a stringent deadline. Esther accompanied her for the most part, and while quiet, she couldn’t argue with the lengthy stretches tucked away when they offered such a wealth of new knowledge at her fingertips.
“I hope your time in Lumen has not been completely awful and that you won’t judge us too harshly,” Penelope admitted, the toe of her slippers shaving the flowery rug.
Esther listened to the dainty telltale clink of a porcelain cup meeting with its matching saucer and strayed from the silhouette of the city. “With people like you here, it is difficult to make a condemning assessment of Delorem. There are bad influences everywhere, my own world included, but it is the actions of the good and the rise of their voices that matter most.”
“So you do not criticise me for bringing you into Kingsrose territory for a tactical advantage over my competitors?”
Head and heart in agreement with the answer, Esther’s response dangled on the brim of freedom. She viewed her differently in light of the new information, but in the aftermath of the riverside attack and on proper reflection, was it truly a deplorable act? While Penelope concealed her intentions, she had done so with no malice or acquisitive intent. She required an upper hand, and Esther did not blame her. “Is that the only reason you brought me here?” she asked.
“Does any complex decision really have a singular reason?” Penelope returned. “No. It is true I requested your assistance so that the others could not use your power against my district and myself, but I do not wish to control your gifts either. Delorem is dangerous at the best of times, and I wanted you here to bring you under my protection and keep you safe. You have a good heart and the courage to stand up for what is right.”
“There then,” Esther reasoned, as though nothing more on the subject needed to be discussed. “You did not request my help for egotistical reasons. I probably would have done the same if I were in your position.”
“Thank you, Esther. My father always taught me to look out for those like you, and I hope to one day be able to pass that teaching onto Gabriel. If he lets me.”
“Give him time. I’m sure natural curiosity will get to him soon enough.”
As Penelope took in her fearless posture and mettle-laced bearing, she acknowledged that her life would slip into loneliness again once Esther returned to her world, fenced in by nodding heads and bottling those worries that the daring mage so kindly helped her to unpack. If she had found a friend like her as a teenager, perhaps she may have stood up for herself more, married her love, raised her son without a care towards what anybody else thought. Instead, she resigned herself to isolation. “Your absence will be noted when you leave,” she said, standing from the crescent armchair.
“I can always return,” Esther said. “When I’ve finished my studies.”
“I am certain you shall do splendidly.” Penelope straightened the pin on her lapel that she animatedly informed her over dinner one night represented the outstanding institute of The Citadel and her chosen school within the Academy. “You are very astute. I dare say you will graduate at the top of your class and be the envy of them all.”
“Just getting through my exams is fine by me,” Esther admitted with a shaky chuckle. “But perhaps now I have other options after graduation. Maybe I could learn more about the gateways and put my knowledge to use there instead of archaeology like I’d planned.”
“No matter what you decide, you have my support,” Penelope said. “Whatever you need and whenever you need it.”
Not acquainted with heartfelt praise, Esther flushed, a swell of potential fulfilment fluttering within the uncertainty.
Blazing white engulfed the room. Esther stationed herself by the Kingsrose director in anticipation of another attack, but when the library remained standing and silence fell, she compelled her racing mind to hush and heed the rational thoughts fighting to overcome the initial alarm.
“What was that?” Penelope breathed, trailing after the mage as she slipped out onto the balcony to observe the ashen sky.
Seething rain clouds waded through the factory plumes and resolved into a gargantuan humanoid form. Ruby firebolts discharged in its eyes, mini storms contained within the sockets that synchronised like a natural eyeball. To that monstrosity, they probably appeared as dots of dust, flicked aside with the merest effort.
A threatening rumble wound tight inside the behemoth’s throat before its booming voice rocked over the city. “What power do you hold to assume command of my gateways?” the creature roared. “None!”
Esther stilled.
“Beings of little consequence would dare to wrest my creation from me? I, Lord of Adventure and Navigator of the Starlight Path, will not suffer such insolence.”
“Is that the man you called to help us?” Penelope whispered.
“He was much smaller when I last spoke to him,” Esther replied, attending the performance in equal parts horrified and awed.
Her amazed rapture shattered once the protective spells she nurtured as the gardeners did the roses ruptured and split. The magic that guarded the house fractured, and in a final, apologetic breath, withered into oblivion.
Penelope blanched and recoiled, grasping her right wrist. Droplets of tears wavered on her lashes and a strangled gasp shivered through her lips.
By her side in an instant, Esther gingerly turned her arm over. A red, ovate impression simmered, boiling on her pale skin as though something sought to crawl out.
“To the industry families of this world, I have marked you and your descendants as a warning,” the storm declared. “If you do not cease in your bid for my gateways and dare to challenge my authority again, I will wipe your lines clean from Delorem.”
Esther paid little attention to the clouds as they thundered and dispersed, occupied in striving and failing to counteract the potent spell searing into Penelope’s arm. The inner windings of the charm dug deep, not only into her skin, but the fabric of her being.
Increasingly flustered thumps ceased by the open balcony door and a disconcerted maid stared at Esther’s trail of magic attempting to pacify the raw marking on her employer’s wrist. “Miss Kingsrose, the guards are asking if they are to mobilise?” she panted out. “What was that thing? What do we do?”
“Go fetch me clean water, some ice, and as much gauze as you can,” Esther said firmly, shocking the maid into action with a severe glare and returning to comforting the injured woman. “It’s all right, try to keep as still as possible.”
Penelope muttered something, a word so quiet and so fearful it was more a breath than an actual sound.
“What did you say?” Esther asked.
“Gabriel.”
“What about him?”
“He’ll be marked too. If anybody sees it, they will know. It won’t take the other heads long to figure out he is my son once rumours start to spread.”
The mage met Penelope’s terrified gaze. It wasn’t as though he could pass the blemish off as a birthmark; the stain was far too devised for that. “Oh shit,” she muttered.
“What am I going to do?” Penelope panicked.
“I don’t think there is anything other than what you did for me,” Esther said, little hope in her tone for a covert resolution. “Bring him here and protect him. That is all you can do now.”
* * *
As she descended into the tangle of channels beneath a deserted Wrenlow warehouse, a luminous sphere bobbing above her upturned palm, Esther directed her indignation into her assignment.
Why had Bartholomew marked the industry families? Why commit such a callous act when his own imposing form would have been enough to persuade them to retreat from the gateways?
Despite every compulsion to stay, to find Gabriel and apologise, she resisted. What good would an apology do for him? The only hope remaining was Penelope’s final vow to bring him into the Kingsrose district and shield him from the other industry heads and potentially angry rebels.
Coming to the underground gateway room, tucked behind an assemblage of charms and enchantments, her temper boiled again at the sight of the busied professor.
“You are late,” he noted, pausing in his restless shifts at the flare of her nostrils and inching by the waist-high globe of Delorem. “Did you not receive my messages?”
“I thought it best to help Penelope with her new wound first,” Esther replied, taking long, slow strides into the room and extinguishing the guiding orb with a clench of her fish. “That seemed more important.”
Straightforward and concise, like her reports, Bartholomew deemed it wise to keep his mouth shut. Not that any sign of tenacity would persuade him to concede on the matter. He performed a necessary action to ensure the safety and integrity of his gateways, and in doing so, protected Delorem too.
“What was that?” she demanded. “That… thing wasn’t you, but it had your voice.”
“It was a Wrath,” Bartholomew explained, undeterred by the rigid lift of her chin and resuming establishing a link to The Core. “My kind can create them. It takes the form of whatever we choose, and as the name implies, unleashes our rage.”
“You didn’t need to injure them,” Esther hissed. Try as she might, she couldn’t stay quiet, not when honest people had ended up hurt because of him. “Scare them a bit, sure, but this? Really?”
“The marking will not trouble them further, but it ensures they think twice before attempting to cross me again.”
A scream bristled like thorns in her throat, withheld with a bite. She doubted he realised the danger he brought to Penelope and Gabriel. Two innocents caught up in a plot they had no part in. “What you did was cruel,” she asserted. “Do you truly believe that will stop the industry heads? If anything, you’ve only incensed them more.”
“My solution affords me more time to enact extra protocols and protections on the Delorem gateways,” Bartholomew insisted. While ready for a challenge, he would not tolerate impertinence.
Concern for Penelope and Gabriel converged on her conscience. They deserved none of this. Stars, even some of the industry children did not deserve this punishment. Many were too young to comprehend the atrocities of their world, and yet they had been tarnished for life, their bloodline with it, fated to pass the scar to their descendants.
“You will understand one day,” the professor said. The gateway swirled and fixed a stable connection to the laboratory. “Now, let us get those feathers to The Core.”
If this is the way of Myriad, I don’t think I’ll ever understand, Esther locked behind the tight press of her lips as he sauntered into the uninterrupted flow of light and allowed it to swallow his form whole.
Beneath her feet, the churn and vibration of Lumen stirred, steady and persistent. Hesitation pursued her steps up to the gateway, an invisible rope tied around her waist and making each footfall heavier than the last. “I’ll come back,” she muttered to the unseen outstretched hands and the pleading, coal-smeared eyes begging her not to go. “I swear it.”
-- -- -- -- --
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Clearing the gap between the car door and the uneven cobbles in one confident hop, Alek welcomed the cover of Azuris’s streets. Out in the dunes and outer ridges of Eternity, nothing abated that baking heat. The capital at least provided some protection and comfort, and after the scorching return journey, he silently thanked the recycled wind flow cooling the sweat on his brow.
Military personnel and numerous senior members of the ruling government flocked the avenue, splayed trees providing adequate shade from the beating afternoon sun and the half-broken buildings supported with netting to prevent more mortar from falling. At the double slam of the vehicle doors, every face shot to their position, eager gazes standing by for some indication of success or failure.
“What are you all gawking at?” Rhena called, undeterred by their rapt attention. “Does it look like we failed?” At her triumphant laugh, the stares eased into relief, consoled smiles exchanged and victorious cheers spreading through the younger recruits until barked orders from their superiors jarred them into action.
Mere seconds separated the moment between Rhena spotting Cas and landing into her waiting embrace, squealing at the elated spin before arriving on her feet again. Tight arms held her close. “You haven’t twirled me round like that in a while,” she jested. “Maybe I should go on dangerous adventures more often.”
“Don’t even joke,” Cas warned her, retracting enough to encourage her to tilt her chin. She examined her freckled skin, sweeping aside red, coiled curls to check for signs of injury.
“Stop fussing, I’m okay. The plan worked. Those buzzing bastards are gone.”
Cas cradled her in loving hands and pressed her lips to her sandy forehead. “Let me fuss,” she muttered. “I was worried.”
“I always come back,” Rhena assured her. “You know that.”
“This was different. There were so many things that might have backfired. You could have been hurt or worse.”
“You worry way too much.” Lifting to her tiptoes, Rhena pulled her in for a kiss. “See. I’m perfectly fine.” To further prove her point, she presented a toothy beam that earned her a fond smile in reply.
The hours of concocting dire, distressing situations ebbed at Rhena’s playful spirit. Cas would never dream of hampering her adventures, but it didn’t lessen the worry every time she suggested another perilous feat. And this, the endless stream of danger over the past couple of days, revived the uncertainty and imminent threat from the civil conflict.
“I see that now,” she said reflectively. Beyond the mass of military uniforms, Alek digressed from the stationary vehicle and closer to the hubbub, hands stuffed into his baggy trouser pockets and innocent eyes roving over the proceedings as troops dispersed to release the concerned citizens from the shelters. “How’s the kid? Doesn’t need medical attention, does he?”
“I checked him over before we got in the car,” Rhena replied. “I think he’s okay. No bleeding, at least. He was real quiet the whole journey. Kept looking out the window like he expected those things to come back. Tried talking to him, but he didn’t seem in the mood.”
Cas wasted no time in dragging him in for a squeezing hug as soon as he was in range. “Are you hurt?” she asked. To her relief, he appeared unharmed, if not despondent.
“Only my pride,” Alek responded sheepishly. “All of this was my fault.”
“Mistakes happen, but you put it right.” Cas dusted a speck of dirt from his eyebrow with the pad of her thumb. “Who is to say something else wouldn’t have woken those creatures up in the future? Your knowledge and your bravery ensured we kept the casualties to a minimum and successfully got rid of them. Remember that, soldier.”
Alek inflated from his slump at being deemed a soldier, especially coming from someone like her. At her precise salute, he returned the gesture with the vigour of a faithful trooper, right fist clenched and striking his left shoulder before bending into the traditional bow. A mage symbol of respect, not a military standard, and a custom that never failed to encourage a slightly higher lift in his chin when he rose.
“That’s the spirit, kid,” Sergeant Darilen chuckled as he joined them, clapping him on the arm. “Commendations on your victory.”
“It was a joint effort, sir,” Alek said. He tidied his posture and tucked his hands at the small of his back, remembering himself as he addressed a superior officer. “I wouldn’t have got anywhere without the help of Cas, Rhena, and your troops.”
Eyebrows arched, Darilen’s grin widened, and he bent his head in concession.
“If I’m required for a debrief, I can have a report written and sent to you,” the mage offered.
“That won’t be necessary,” Darilen assured him. “You were successful, and that is all I need to know. Right now, our focus is on containing the damage and rebuilding.”
Short fingernails plucking at the knot in the cord tied to his wrist, Alek freed the twine and presented his Eventide crystal to the sergeant. The depleted stone dangled and rotated. “On the way back, I was thinking of how I could make up for letting the laycrawlers out,” he explained, “and while I can’t do much, I can offer you this. It’s a little drained, but in time it will heal. Put it in the care of whoever maintains the shield. It should give it a healthy boost.”
Darilen withdrew a step. “While the engineers would have a field day with that kind of technology, I can’t accept such a gift.”
“Sure you can,” Alek said. “If you think it would be of some use in keeping Azuris protected, I want you to take it.”
“Do you not need it for your magic?”
“I’ll get another when I return home.”
Warily, Darilen accepted the gracious offering, turning the surprisingly light crystal over in his palm. He anticipated a spark or an electrical shock, yet all it did was cool his skin.
“You’ve done your people proud, Alek,” the sergeant commended, dropping the translucent stone into his top pocket for safekeeping. “Your kindness will go a long way in defending Azuris for years to come. If you ever wanted to join our military, you know where to find me.”
“I have my studies to complete first, but I’ll keep that in mind.”
“See that you do,” Darilen said. “Have a safe trip home. And remember us when you’re a fancy mage officer.”
Alek saluted as the sergeant retook his position with his troops, that tiny word spreading hope in his heart. Yes, he thought. Time to go home.
* * *
Sunbeams bounced from the decimated ceiling and covered the mosaic in enduring pools of warmth. On the tiled walls, suspended forest frogs capered from floating timber to motionless leaf pads. Splits in the facade reached the border of the patchwork and chipped many outer tiles, but the overall picture prevailed untouched. Further up, a spread of aquamarine and off-white plates composed alternating motifs above the arched woodland designs.
“Looks like there used to be water running down these passages,” Cas observed as they ascended the alabaster stairs. Natural dips in the floor on either side ran down and met with the symmetrical architecture beneath the bridge. Spiky fronds invaded from the cracks to wave at the sun and drink in the glorious rays.
Scattered about the bedraggled garden, smooth-plumed fowl pruned their lengthy feathers and skipped on the jagged remains of the temple. A few took flight as they wandered by, landing in their nests where squalling fledglings vied for their parents’ attention.
“I wish you could stay longer,” Rhena said, nudging the mage beside her with her elbow. “There are so many places in Azuris you’d love, and you have got to come to a Vector race. A real one. Not those shoddy imitations in Requiem.”
“They’re not that bad,” Cas reasoned.
“They don’t even use proper track techniques and make up their own rules as they go along,” Rhena countered. “It’s an insult.”
“I never thought I’d see the day you wanted to play by the rules.”
“The customs of Vector racing are a sacred tradition. The sport would be nothing without them.”
“I’ll remind you of that the next time you insist on a grappling hook as a tactic.”
Rhena made to defend her claim before she encountered the tease in the sunny hazel of Cas’s eyes and the tickled inclination of her head. “In any case, we’re going to miss you, Alek. You’ll keep in touch, won’t you?”
“Course I will,” he assured. “And there’s nothing stopping me from visiting again once I’ve graduated.”
“A fully fledged soldier,” Rhena said, features alight and beaming at his bright prospects.
“If the past few weeks are anything to go by, I think he already is,” Cas asserted.
The side room containing Bartholomew’s personal gateway lay tucked aside from the rest of the magnificent structure where it could neither bother nor hinder the natural flow of the place. Trimmed in accordance with the decoration outside, grimy tiles furnished the floor and mosaic creatures padded the walls. The dust over the windows prevented much of the sunlight from invading, but enough weathered through to ricochet from the mirrored brackets and illuminate the space.
Rhena marvelled for a split second before her innate curiosity refused to remain still for a moment longer. She cleared the three stairs onto the lower tier of the room in an effortless bound and admired the cylindrical glass case in the centre, the floor to ceiling shelves displaying neat lines of trinkets and curios. Cas accompanied her, albeit calmer, appreciating the enthusiasm in Rhena’s questions and letting her mind wander to the worlds these items came from.
At the controls of the gateway jutting from the far wall, Alek mused over the instructions he’d written before departing from Professor Spark’s laboratory and ensured he executed each one carefully before moving to the next step in the list. He flicked between his tablet and the slightly askew control panel, working to decipher the faded keys. Identified and decoded, he prodded at the buttons to select the correct destination on the monitor.
“Will you visit me on Solgarde?” he asked, uncurling from the controls as Cas’s interest sailed to the inactive gateway.
“Just you try to stop us,” she replied.
“There’s so much cool stuff in here,” Rhena enthused, dragging herself from a riveting puzzle box. “How has this place not been ransacked?”
“Protective charms,” Alek answered. “Spotted two as we entered the temple, three more in the gardens, and another outside the room. I noticed a few warning spells too when I first got here, but detached them so no alarms would be raised at the lab.”
Having summoned the strength, the sleepy mechanisms inside the platform clicked from their holdings and into their connectors. After a brief spark and splutter in protest at being woken up, a temperate gleam levitated above the podium.
As the initial rush of electricity eased, Rhena’s excitement waned and her complexion paled.
“Thank you for looking after me,” Alek said. “It was an honour to meet you both. I hope one day to be able to repay your kindness.”
Rhena squeezed him into a tight hug and brought Cas along into the embrace. From the moment Alek wandered into their lives, she had a new soul to show the wonders of her world, an adventure to heed, and she vowed to teach him more about Eternity when he next visited. “Get going or I’ll start tearing up,” she told him, loosening her grip and sniffling.
“Don’t be a stranger,” Cas said as he jogged up to the plinth. “You’re welcome here anytime.”
“Make it soon, though, okay?” Rhena added.
With a final farewell wave, he sank into the portal light and the mechanism ferried him onto the Starlight Path. The rhythmic thrum decelerated, and the system shut itself down.
Silence trailed in, and Cas contemplated the fascinations of the room. “We should get going if we want to get to Azuris before sundown,” she said, urging her admiration from the antiques. “I did not like the look of those clouds rolling in.”
Rhena made no attempt to move, staring at the empty air where the swirling glow had transported their new friend home moments before. Hands balled into fists and trembling, her chest rose and fell in deep waves.
“Rhee? Are you all right?” Cas asked. “If you’re worried about Alek, he’ll be okay.”
“Yeah, I know,” Rhena muttered. “I’m fine.”
The dapple of sweat coating her usually rosy cheeks and jittery flicker of her eyelashes suggested otherwise, and Cas placed herself between the inactive portal and her partner.
At Cas’s pleasant touch to her chin, persuading her to look at her, Rhena jarred back into the quiet side room. “I could hear it again, those whispers when the gateway switched on. Just like at the racetrack. Was only there for a moment, but I swear I heard it.”
“It’s probably the stress catching up with you, sweetpea,” Cas assured her. “Let’s get you home.”
Rhena nodded, but she wasn’t wholly convinced. The acuate murmurs loitered in her ears, words seeking to communicate, yet she understood none of it. They may as well have been the wind.
“How does a hog roast casserole for dinner sound?” Cas offered, guiding her from the office of the long-forgotten professor and out into the listless halls. Outside once more, the dried up courtyard received them with a surge of sunshine. “Oh, and how about some of your favourite chocolate cake from the bakery?”
“Sounds perfect,” Rhena replied, resting her head onto the taller woman’s arm and letting the sunlight of the overgrown garden wash away the haunting whispers.
* * *
In the stillness of Professor Spark’s laboratory, the equipment droned freely, a distant rattle developing from the server units as the gateway shrank into the podium. A few empty mugs lining the surface by the stretch of windows and the desks bearing the weight of opened tomes served as the only signs anybody had been there recently.
Dusting the sand from the creases in his clothing, Alek wheezed into the back of his hand. After months in the dusty, scorching atmosphere of Eternity, he’d almost forgotten what fresh air in his lungs felt like.
“You all right there?” a good-humoured voice came from the double doors beside the ground level bookshelves.
“I’m-” He cleared the rest with a throaty hack and swallowed the bile that rose with it. “Getting used to cleaner air.”
“I take it you’re one of the adventuring students.”
Rubbing at a sore spot on his neck as the rough force of the rasp grated up his throat, he lifted his head to regard the woman who greeted him, taking in the black and white fitted attire usually worn by Sunbreak soldiers when out of their protective gear but still on duty. Only this soldier kept some of her carapace, the material over her abdomen and chest made of lightweight metal.
At the blink of her vivid violet concern, he stuttered into an upright position. “Apologies, Commander Cleaver,” he spluttered. “My name is Alek. Thrulian Academy. Second division. Your speech last year on mage tactics was inspiring.”
“I remember that one,” Lilith mused, her stroll fluid and floating as she neared the accumulation of desks and books. “Your class were quite rambunctious.”
“I’m sorry for that.”
“Don’t be. I’d had an awfully dull morning and a bit of a challenge did wonders for the tedium.” She tossed the book in her grasp onto the pile with the others. “At ease, soldier. You look like you’ve seen some scrapes.”
Alek relieved his aching shoulders from the rigid stance and flexed his fingers to avoid wringing his hands. “All of my own accidental doing. Citadel training kept me sound, though.”
“A true testament to our teachings, if ever I heard one,” Lilith said. She discerned he was attempting to conceal his fatigue, mind still in battle mode. She understood. It required time and a conscious effort for a soldier’s senses to settle after an ordeal. For the younger ones, their heads took a lot longer to ease, to realise they were out of danger.
“Oh, I should hand this over,” Alek said, fishing in his satchel and plucking out the temporal essence. The energy in the glass vial writhed in flowing tendrils, neither liquid nor gas, but a separate element entirely. Rather like their magic.
The swirls evoked memories of his early discipline at the academy, mastering the basics of spell casting and the thrill the first time he successfully cast a charm. His veins carried his power and connected him with his inner strength, maintaining the feeble glimmer that coiled about his wrist in a wobbly spiral and warmed his skin.
Lilith accepted the vial and held it up to the natural light, the modest viridian pulsation staining her fingertips and burrowing into the spaces between her fingers. “I hope you didn’t go through too much trouble getting this,” she said, depositing the narrow flask into a rack by the console panel.
“Only a trip into a cave system with deadly laycrawlers, accidentally waking them up and setting them loose on Eternity’s capital city where they merged into an enormous creature, and a shaky plan to get them to an empty world so they couldn’t do any more harm.”
Lilith’s lips opened to deliver a meagre ‘what?’, but she all she managed was a drawn out hum. She composed herself enough to make a mental note to have a strict word with Bartholomew later for sending the boy on such a risky mission. “At any rate, you’re back here safely,” she reassured.
While Alek learned much from Eternity and the hospitable people of that sandy world, the prospect of home called now that he was one step nearer to the cool coastal breeze of Mora and the inspiriting magic of Solgarde. “Have Esther and Oscar returned?” he asked.
“Not yet. You’re the first.”
Alek sagged, having hoped to be the last so that he could reunite with his friends.
“Bartholomew is on Delorem with Esther sorting out a spot of trouble, and we haven’t been able to speak with Oscar. Messages and communications aren’t going through, but his tablet is still active.” Tracking the worry on Alek’s features as it spread from his tired eyes to the droop of his lips, Lilith withdrew from the flashing buttons of the console. “I’m sure he’s fine. Professor Bevan has been troubleshooting the problem and thinks it’s something to do with the gateways on Lucarian. It seems they’re too weak to function, which may be impacting on the signal between the lab and Oscar’s tablet.”
“He has a way back though, right?” Alek pressed.
“We’ll get him home,” Lilith promised, her staunch resolve easing the abrupt tension in his posture. “We never leave one of our own behind.”
-- -- -- -- --
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Lilith Cleaver made her name as the Mother of Modern Magic at just eighteen years old when she reactivated the four major crystals of Solgarde and restored magic to the land. A masterful mage and an accomplished warrior, she went on to form the Sunbreak Army and led them into war against the Exalted Administration during the purge. Her courage and her mastery of magic earned her respect across Solgarde, and secured her a place in the history books.
Lilith was raised in the mountains and fields of Tiveris, a mining village on the outskirts of Celestria’s capital, Mora. After surviving an explosion during a miner’s strike which killed her father and brought the mountain down on the village, she was rescued from the rubble and taken in by her neighbour, Krista. The survivors journeyed to Mora for sanctuary and were permitted to build a settlement in the tract of dried-up land below the city bridges, naming the place Lowtown. With Mora refusing to provide any money or resources for this venture, The Syndicate, a criminal organisation, agreed to help fund the construction of houses and businesses and claimed ownership of the town.
Lowtown became a hotbed of illegal activity with The Syndicate in charge, and Mora took an interest in ensuring it didn’t overrun into their streets. Wardens were soon stationed to ensure peace and safety, and wishing to care for Lilith to the best of her ability, Krista joined them. During a confrontation with members of The Syndicate, Krista was killed. Left to fend for herself at a tender age, Lilith began travelling into Mora and working as a pickpocket, funnelling the money into helping the people of Lowtown who depended on Syndicate funds and keeping herself alive.
In her later teenage years, she noticed a friend’s involvement with the criminal leaders. Deciding to confront him, she crept into their headquarters and accidentally knocked over a stack of expensive wine. To recompense them for the destruction of merchandise and for trespassing, they gave her the chance to recoup the losses by stealing an inactive Eventide crystal believed to be in the possession of Professor Altair Bevan. With no other choice, she agreed to retrieve the crystal. As she was sneaking out of Altair’s office, she got caught by his laboratory assistant, Azra Quinn.
But Azra spotted something when she was close to the crystal; it briefly began to glow. After hearing of this, Professor Bevan gave her an ultimatum: she could go to trial, which would undoubtedly result in a long prison term, or she could help him with his research into the Eventide crystals. Lilith accepted the latter option.
A part of the upper city and with expectations placed upon her, Councillor Farina Canaris agreed to become Lilith’s guardian in this new chapter of her life. Lilith needed an appropriate education and so the council allowed her a spot at The Citadel Academy. At the choosing ceremony, she selected Eternos Academy to continue her studies.
Her schooling was wrought with misadventure and targeted attacks, with multiple incidents arising from the broken deal between Lilith and The Syndicate. At eighteen and after much extensive research, she revived the Eventide crystal belonging to Professor Bevan. Piece by piece, magic flowed once more into Solgarde, and she activated the other three major crystals to herald a new era.
The Academy transformed into a school for mages, as intended when founded by Isadora Celeste. Lilith played a major role in the rejuvenation of Mora and earned herself the title Mother of Modern Magic.
Over a decade passed by in peace, with magic climbing in aspiration and innovation bringing new inventions to assist the people of Solgarde. But some grew wary of the influence gained by mages and some of the tragedies that resulted from magic, and the Exalted Authority wormed its way into power to monitor them. They spread their ideals, claiming mages to be dangerous, and ordered a purge, making magic illegal.
Years of civil war brought destruction and ruin, but in the end, Lilith founded the Sunbreak Army to protect Mora and united the leaders of the two other kingdoms to dismantle the Exalted Authority. During the war, she studied the Temporal Gateways, and following the conclusion of the conflict and the mage victory, used her magic to call out to The Core for help in restoring Solgarde. Unbeknownst to her, she possessed the power of a catalyst and her signal opened Temporal Gateways across Myriad.
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Legends of Myriad: Arc One - Chapter 38: Prosperity
Chapter 37 | Chapter 39
Arc One Masterlist
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A comfortable chatter, not dissimilar to the informal conference of councillors in Mora, sailed about the hexagonal stateroom, swarming the elevated interior terraces and the pearlescent ornamental thrones sojourned atop. Imposing and lustrous, Bartholomew’s family stood as testaments of time, honed and perfected by the tick of the clock. Many tipped their heads in greeting, unbothered by the Solgardian in their midst, others far too engrossed by their sparkling beverages and pleasing conversation.
“Do not believe their feigned indifference,” Marcia said, pinching in the cuffs of her lace gloves. The coronet in her loose curls breathed gracious glints of magic as she strode within the congregation of relatives, distant and close alike. “Almost three centuries have passed since they last encountered a mage, but they do not wish to be the first to approach. They fear their interest may be perceived as desperation.”
“Sounds like the council back home,” Lilith commented. “Stars forbid an emotion ever crossed their faces.”
“You are well acquainted with polite company.”
“If that’s what you want to call it. Personally, I find it rather dull.”
“Then that makes two of us. As a child, I always wondered where their spirit and curiosity was.”
“Where their stories were hiding?”
Marcia’s rosy regard sloped to the mage as her vigilance roamed the hall, deliberately determining where she cast her contemplation. Her observation traversed aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, deciphering each flawless face. “Here,” she offered, “you must take a look at our state windows. Each of us has one. This is mine.”
In a field of frosted snow and iridescent sun, Marcia’s glass likeness shone, a sprouting scarlet flower in her left hand and a veneered dagger in the right. Tresses of curls wound to her knees and the lilt of a smile beamed to every onlooker in the room.
“Love can both hurt and delight,” Marcia explained, “and we accept the warm with the cold. Engaged in that glorious feeling, darkness may still invade. We must retain our fortitude through it all. Appreciate good and bad with equivalent approach. That is where the true balance of emotion lies.” A reverence endured in Lilith, collecting in the air between the glass visage and the spectator. “I sense I do not need to define such things to you.”
“We all have people we love who we don’t want to lose,” Lilith replied, admiring the refined contour of the petals and the biting edge of the dagger. “It’s not always in our power to stop the worst from happening. But we walk ever on. Through hail, and storm, and high wind until we see the sun again.”
Marcia recognised the old mage proverb, touched to discover that their song of inner spirit survived the ages of uncertainty and turmoil, boosting the morale of those who called that enchanting world home.
Snared by her own emotion and snagging the sinking in her gut, Lilith drew from the window and moved to the next. The lean figure stood within a black pane, shrouded by constant night. Unlike the other glass depictions who faced the party as though to judge the worthy and the undeserving, this man remained lifeless, eyes sealed and head angled to the side like a pendulum.
“Who is this?” she questioned. Marcia’s joy floated from her, taken by wind only she felt, and she almost regretted asking.
“That is my twin brother, Marcus. His window was replaced when he passed at the end of the war.”
The glassmaker presented the fallen Prosperian in such a peaceful manner that Lilith didn’t dare gawk for too long for fear of disturbing his eternal rest. Yet she struggled to deter her gaze. The isolated countenance called to her, and she refrained from reaching up to press her palm to the pane. “Are you gods?” she inquired. “The way Bartholomew speaks, it’s like you are.”
“Not as such, but we do possess what some may call a divine influence.” Marcia peeped at her youngest brother tucked aside in a corner, likely sulking that she requested a mere dash of his precious time. “Come,” she encouraged the mage. “There are other members of my family I would like you to meet.”
Sweeping her away from the melancholy window and to the shimmer and sway of her relatives, she paused by a discerning man draped in sable and gold, the parallel strip of buttons on the tail of his elongated jacket proudly proclaiming his emblem. “Luceras, may I introduce you to Commander Lilith Cleaver of Solgarde? She has come a very long way to visit us.”
Luceras diverted from the pockets of conversation he idly tuned into, angling the rim of his glass in greeting to his sister. His stubbled beard swirled in trimmed waves by his ears, each aspect of his bearing clipped to perfection. The faint ruffled line of his shirt sunk into his belted trousers, and the clasps on his tailored waistcoat boasted sculpted aquatic creatures. “So this is the point of intrigue for the evening,” he greeted, bowing low to their guest. “It is a pleasure to welcome you to Prosperia, Commander Cleaver.”
“Luceras is the Lord of Creativity,” Marcia said. “You should see the marvels he weaves into being.”
“Flattery, sister, really? I did not think it was your style.” He slung her a spirited grin and swilled his wine. “If only our dear brother would take an interest.”
“What is Bartholomew the lord of?” Lilith asked.
Luceras snickered into his glass. “Why, adventure, of course. What else?”
“That certainly makes sense.” Professor Spark sought exploits with a rigid determination, although she suspected that on occasion, it found him through no intervention on his part.
Interspersed with the festivities, fluctuating rivers of translucent glints coasted in the wake of the guests. Particles of saturated sapphire and radiant yellows coalesced with a host of emeralds, and violets, and blushing reds. The streams adhered to individual bodies, sailing with them as they moved and relocated themselves around the room. Within it all, Bartholomew’s form remained bare of the iridescence.
“You see it, do you not, the gleam that attends us?” Luceras said, tapping the lip of his fluted glass to her arm. “Mages have always been able to distinguish the pulses of our power. It unnerves some.”
Lilith’s chin rose to the lord, her own figure almost eclipsed by the dazzling shiver of his magic.
“Do not look so surprised, commander. I occasionally glimpse the creation of thought.”
“I can’t see Bartholomew’s magic,” Lilith pointed out. “He is one of you, isn’t he?”
“Of course,” Luceras answered, eyeing his brother as he crossed the streaked marble, tucking his shoulders in to evade passing assemblages of relatives. “But Bartholomew decided he was better and wanted more than Prosperia, and so he lost his sparkle in all but name.”
“You always were jealous of me, Luceras,” Bartholomew jibed. “Even as children.”
A tickled vibration tremored in Luceras’s throat. “Jealousy is an ugly emotion, far beneath us. It may surprise you to know that I am actually quite proud of my little brother.”
The professor grunted, the crinkle on his nose flaring at the endearing term.
“Lighten up, Sparky,” Luceras laughed. “It is a party. I thought a man of your intelligence would be able to discern that from the delightful dress and the wine.”
“Like you ever needed a reason to drink.”
Amusement growing, the Lord of Creativity yielded with a tip of his non-existent hat. “Well played.”
Bartholomew accepted the gracious surrender and withdrew his communication tablet, draining the last of his syrupy beverage in a steely gulp and discarding it on the table behind. “I have to take this call,” he muttered. Long-legged strides took him into the vacant corridor beyond the domed entryway and veils of petals.
“Any excuse to get away from us,” Luceras huffed, claiming a fresh glass of wine from a roaming server.
Marcia straightened at the comment and inspired her natural serenity. “Bartholomew informed me you are known as Sunbreaker on Solgarde,” she said to their visitor. “You did not break a sun, did you?”
“No,” Lilith replied. “Not quite.” While she strangely relished the opportunity to speak of her past to Bartholomew’s siblings, if only to find out more of their histories, her concern dawdled on the pacing figure of the professor outside the reception hall. A furrow drove into his features, and his jaw stiffened as he communicated with the mystery caller. “It’s a long story.”
As Bartholomew’s prolonged conversation wore on, the feigned disinterest in her proved itself to be a convenience. No disturbances to distract her from endeavouring to read Bartholomew’s lips as he talked and no questions to address. She identified a few words, but he spoke so hurriedly and turned aside at inopportune moments, leaving her struggling to keep track of his side of the exchange.
With Marcia and Luceras distracted by a cluster of curious cousins, she sidled from their company and meandered to the glass overhangs dividing the hall from the walkway beyond. The flimsy fabric covering the open windows beat floral scents into the building from the gardens outside.
Bartholomew nudged his glasses up to massage the bridge of his nose, tablet limp at the end of his dangled arm.
“Who called?” Lilith asked, slowing as she neared the perturbed man.
“Esther.”
“Is she all right? She’s not hurt, is she?”
“No, she is unharmed. She has informed me that the industry families of Delorem are trying to gain control of the gateways.” Lifting himself up from his slump, Bartholomew rebuilt his unruffled facade. “She managed to thwart one attempt, but fears more may be imminent. If they wrangle that authority from me, they could hold that power hostage, or even close the planet off, which, amongst other problems, would leave Esther trapped.”
A muttered expletive slipped between Lilith’s gritted teeth, the pleasant smile painted onto her face for the party stolen away by the disturbing news.
Guiding her further into the hushed corridor, Bartholomew slanted over her to survey the accumulation within the stateroom, thankfully oblivious to their plight. His eyes caught Marcia. “Perhaps you should take an extended stay here, just for a few days, before you return to The Core,” he suggested. “You have helped me tremendously, and you deserve a break.”
“As grateful as I am for your consideration, I don’t think now is an ideal time for a holiday,” Lilith returned. “If there is a problem to solve, I should go with you.”
“All will be well. Are you not curious about my home?”
“Yes, but Prosperia isn’t exactly going anywhere.”
“Not to worry. The industry families shall see reason soon enough. This is a mere detour. The mission has not changed, commander.”
In a couple of steps, Lilith stood within breathing distance of him, considerably shorter in stature but certainly not in will. “Do I look like a fool to you?”
“There is already one mage in trouble on Delorem.”
“I can handle myself.”
“That is not my concern.” Bartholomew steepled his fingertips and gnawed on his lip to prevent an outburst. Although sympathetic to her position, he had little time in which to act. Time he could not waste debating the issue. “It is important that I have no distractions while I rectify this. Powerful you may be, but there are things out there stronger than you.”
Lilith’s staunch stance softened, and in a huff of reluctance, she ceded the argument to him.
“Please offer my excuses to my siblings,” he requested. “I would say they will understand, but I doubt that. Unfortunately, the time for explaining matters shall have to wait.” With a bob of his head in farewell, he hastened into the afternoon shade on the fringe of the hallway.
Resigned to a brief break on Prosperia while Bartholomew resolved the rising tensions on the industry world, Lilith collected her composure, energised her smile, and rejoined the congregation in the reception hall. Quizzical glances tracked her.
“I wondered where you had vanished to,” Marcia said at a glided approach, surveying the deserted corridor. “Where is Bartholomew? Still on his call?”
“Delorem is getting unruly and the issue can’t wait,” the mage replied. “He suggested I stay here for a few days, but he hasn’t abandoned us. He will come back.”
The graceful gleam deteriorated slightly, and Marcia’s eyebrows constricted. “That has yet to be seen,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “He has a habit of leaving people behind.”
* * *
An electrical wind and a mechanical buzz swept Lilith into the restrained cold of the Spark laboratory, heeled shoes snagging on the bottom step as she materialised from the light. She glowered at the offending stair.
“I did not know when to expect you back,” Altair said, capturing her by the shoulders and dragging her into a warm embrace. “Bartholomew told me you would be taking some time to relax on Prosperia with his relatives. How was it?”
“Definitely entertaining.”
The laboratory appeared tidier in her absence. Altair frequently kept himself busy, a particular type who swore an uncluttered environment encouraged an orderly mind. When left to his own devices and with no research to conduct, he neatened a place or spruced up his surroundings, especially if stressed about something or other. His office had never been so clean than at the prelude of the purge.
“I stayed mostly with Bartholomew’s sister, Marcia,” she told him as she took an empty seat at the observation monitors and picked at the half-eaten bowl of grapes on the side. “Lord Luceras was with us too. The day after the party, their cousin, Idaran, came to visit. He could teach our soul mages a thing or two. Oh, and yesterday, I went on a hike with their other sister, Niruna. You would not believe the tactics she has for finding out secrets.”
Busying himself at the gateway controls as he listened to her recount her visit, Altair occasionally interjected with a question and savoured the returning smile before her answer.
“Have you heard from Bartholomew?” she asked, grape bowl empty and swaying in her seat. “I thought he’d be back by now.”
“Professor Spark is still on Delorem, as far as I’m aware,” Altair replied from the power units. With a grunt, he wriggled loose the secondary connector and slotted it into the adjacent valve. “He did say it might require a bit of work to resolve the problem.”
“Funny. He told me it wouldn’t take him long.” Bored with sitting, Lilith roamed, poking at the pens on the desk until they rolled and parted from each other. “Not that I believed him.” One of the markers stopped by the side of an opened notebook, Altair’s recognisable cursive flitting in neat lines. “I see you have been doing some research of your own.”
“Some light reading on the gateways.”
“You never do light reading. You disappear for three days into the library and emerge stinking of coffee and rambling about your latest discovery. And then you lock yourself in your lab.”
Altair finished recalibrating the system and awaited the telltale click and whir. Eight seconds exactly, as expected. “You have a fair point, but compared to my usual research, this was simply a bit of casual study.”
“What did you uncover?”
“While tracking readings in gateway activity, as Professor Spark requested before he left, I have also been studying how they function on other worlds. We have our crystals, Lucarian uses a combination of demon and fate magic, and Skuld utilises natural water energy.”
“Intriguing.”
“There is no need to pretend to be interested.”
“I mean it. This is all new to us, and the more we know, the more prepared we are. Knowledge is a weapon just as much as spells and swords, right?”
Contemplating her analogy and uncovering his own belief in there somewhere, he noted the faraway glimmer, the search in her as she strolled. “Azra returned to Solgarde,” he said, placing his bets on who she hoped to find. “Since the storm is not a problem anymore, he saw no reason to stay.” From the drawer to his right, he handed over a recording disc, the surface newly imprinted and the glass in the centre yet to relay its message. “He asked me to give you this.”
Lilith retreated, flickering eyes loitering longer than she would have liked. “There is still work to be done.”
“Forgiveness is not about forgetting what happened or the harm caused,” Altair said tenderly before she outright refused the gift. “It is choosing to let go of personal pain and move forward.”
Annoyingly, Altair made a valid point she could neither argue against nor contest. She grasped the disc as though it might explode in her face and shoved it unceremoniously into her pocket before she played the damned thing out of curiosity. “I stand by what I said. We can’t waste time on sentimentality until The Core is awake and Myriad is safe.”
“Yes, commander.”
Free of muddied wind and ardent flurries of ash, she regarded the calm outside. How many people once built their homes, their businesses, their livelihoods there? And look at it now. Empty. Desolate. Silent. “It looks likes a completely different place with the storms gone. I never realised the scale of it.”
“Neither did I,” Altair sighed. “Azra did a good job clearing it all up, and those souls may rest after their centuries of torment. Poor things. I dread to imagine what they felt.”
She agreed with that at least. The dead of The Core would slumber in their eternal night, free from the pain and the misery tethering them to the central world.
In the caverns of her soul, the darkest corners she did not dare stare into for too long, he remained there, whispering to the recording disc pressed to her chest. It barely weighed more than a sunburst fruit, yet on her mind it held the weight of an ocean. It didn’t matter. Whatever Azra wanted to say to her, whatever words crawled unheard in that metal casing, it would have to wait.
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