Thank you to my beta reader and editor, GlassThreads!
Sevren Denoir
Sun streamed into the side room of Darrin Ordin's countryside villa, but the curtains caught it before it could leak in too far. The scent of mid-spring lingered like an unwelcome guest on the winds outside. Here in rural Sehz-Clar, those scents were always more forceful somehow. It was almost as if the season sensed that winter had not left us yet, and was tapping and scratching at our edges to try and force its cheeriness down our throats.
Wade fiddled with a projection artifact at the far end of the sparse room. His eyes, as always, bore dark circles that seeped too low. His curly hair was weighted with grease, and I thought one of the frames of his glasses were cracked. Despite his obvious exhaustion, his fingers were quick and deft as he worked to input the tape.
"This was all our people managed to get from those that returned via tempus warp," he muttered, adjusting his glasses. "The tape itself—and artifacts like it—are being heavily restricted by the regulatory offices. This took work to retrieve. Far more work than it should have."
Alaric, the old drunk—who was sprawled out on a nearby sofa—grumbled lightly as he scratched his face with a meaty finger. "Tricky operation it was, getting in there. Trickier than any other mission I've thrown at ya, rat boy."
"Well, most of your training missions didn't mean anything," Wade returned calmly. He seemed to be the only member of our group that Alaric couldn't irritate, which was probably why the sentry took to the retired spy's lessons so well. "Just excuses to get more booze out of me. This was the first time any of it came together for anything important."
Alaric chuckled a bit at that, but the deadened look in Wade's eyes snuffed any amusement he might have had.
Wade shoved his hands in his pockets as he finally set up the display artifact, before strolling toward where Naereni stood with Apple the skaunter nestled in her arms. Even the resident Rat of the Menagerie was silent, devoid of her usual banter and quips. Her fingers were tense as she tried to scratch at Apple's scale-fur, but it was obvious it wasn't working to calm her.
Wade took her hand, giving it a comforting squeeze.
A few others waited at various points across the lounge, most in similar states of overcast winter. Darrin Ordin sat heavily on the same couch as his old friend Alaric, his cane resting nearby. The retired ascender's eyes were hard and focused as they stared at the space where the projection would eventually appear. He said not a word.
Caera clenched the back of the couch, her fingers digging into the soft leather. She lightly chewed her lip, her red eyes shaking a bit as they stayed fixed on the wall. Her navy hair was pulled into a haphazard ponytail, having just left training. Despite this, I was certain that the sweat lining her brow was not from drilling her sword forms.
I kept my arms crossed. While the others prepared for the coming revelations, I felt something else fighting inside my gut. Anger. Irritation.
A week ago, I had still been working on a fallout plan with the rest of my family in their Central Dominion estate. Scythe Melzri had torn the Relictombs estate apart and had threatened to return if Toren did not free her daughter from the clutches of the Dicathian King. Highblood Denoir was facing increased pressure from their enemies already. With their backer, Scythe Seris, occupied on the war front, they were more vulnerable than normal.
Combined with the fact that Scythe Melzri had threatened me and everyone Toren cared for, it presented weakness. Weakness that needed to be amended if the Denoirs were to maintain power.
Power, I scoffed internally. Always about power. Even when they talk about working along Scythe Seris for whatever-it-is, they always focus on maintaining standing.
Mother and Father cared for much, but that desire for power was chiseled into their very blood. We'd been having another argument about it, I remembered. Another catastrophic squabble that would go nowhere and solve nothing. Another product of this unchanging, rotten society.
And then, without any warning, night had turned to day. Somewhere in the south, someone had decided that the sun hadn't actually set yet and cast the entire horizon in golden light. The ambient mana had rippled with an aftershock, even from across the ocean.
I'd watched it with my family, awestruck. Because as the sun asserted itself for a few scant minutes in Dicathen, I had known. My family had not said anything. The guards, the cooks, the servants, the soldiers, the ascenders?
They simply stared in silent awe and fear. Because what else could have commanded such power but an asura? Only the gods themselves could turn night to day.
Immediately afterward, Highblood Denoir had lost all contact with what token troops they'd given the war effort. In fact, as far as my family's informants could tell, after the Second Dawn, Alacrya had lost contact with all of Darv. Nothing from the ground troops. Nothing from the troops in the Earthmother's Isle. Not even a hint of contact from the multiple fleets or long-distance communication artifacts.
Which meant that Epheotus had struck back, and it was likely that they had wiped the dwarven homeland itself from the map. The upper echelons of highblood society were in chaos, asking endless questions and receiving no answers in turn. Taegrin Caelum was silent as a tomb.
Or at least, it had been until Wade's information network in Cardigan had whispered of a recent leak.
"This tape shows survivors from Darv returning via the tempus warp platforms. Apparently, there were a few ships that were intact enough to reach the portal chain across the sea, before allowing the survivors back," Wade said. His voice was surprisingly matter-of-fact, despite his exhaustion. He had a strange way of sidelining the things that might otherwise overwhelm him. "I've seen a little bit of it already, but… This is the first time I'll be playing the whole thing."
The room held its breath as they stared at the wall, the light from the curtained windows dimming. Then the projection of pure mana blazed across the stones.
I recognized Cardigan's tempus warp platform the moment I saw it. Indistinct shouts and noises echoed. Frantic people and mages darted about. Whoever held the recording artifact was breathing heavily as they struggled to keep it centered on the platform.
A pane of purple fuzzed into existence over the platform, oscillating in a familiar way. Almost immediately, people began to stream through. Soldiers, the lot of them. They were covered head to toe in dust, blood, and grime. It was only a few at first, but then dozens flooded through the portal. Most who stumbled past were hardly aware of the attendants rushing forward and hauling them away.
I heard the couch creak as Caera's fingers dug deeper into the leather. I tapped my finger on my soulmetal arm, glaring at the sight of devastated soldiers.
The recording picked up a few scattered words from the returning men. They whispered of asura and death in the tunnels. They babbled about being hunted and followed and torn apart. Their glassy, horrified eyes confirmed what all of us had already known.
And still, we watched the returning wave, looking for those we'd missed. I knew the outcome, but I looked anyways.
When a familiar man stepped through the portal, Caera finally released a short breath of anticipation. Her ruby eyes shivered as they focused on the battered man with dark horns and an even darker expression. The Vritra-blooded man kept his eyes focused forward, but there was a hollowness inside that seemed to stretch into the room as well.
"Retainer Cylrit," Caera said sharply, her voice straining with hope. "He survived. That means that…"
She chewed on her lip again, her words cutting off as thoughts of her mentor writ themselves clear across her fearful face. Because if Cylrit was alive, then perhaps Scythe Seris was, too.
But I thought I understood the emptiness in the Retainer's eyes. It was not the emptiness of the broken and shell-shocked strikers and sentries and casters tumbling around him. It was the kind that said he'd lost something.
I still hated Seris Vritra, but I hoped—for my sister's sake—that she yet lived. But this world did not reward optimism.
My eyes drifted down to the war-battered Retainer's side, noting a familiar figure there. Retainer Mawar looked as disheveled as everyone else, with her short white hair and pale skin. But the fact that she was alive and back in Alacrya changed everything for the Denoirs.
I'd sent my hesitant message to Toren, begging him to do what he could to free Mawar, lest Melzri come down like an anvil on our skulls. And he'd followed through, apparently. Mawar was there. Beaten, battered, and looking half-dead, but there.
My eyes narrowed as they focused on the purple pane, the tapping of my finger becoming more and more forceful as I glared at the recording. Only a few soldiers stumbled through, one after the other. But not who we were hoping for.
Mages cried out to the Retainers as they stepped through, begging for answers. What had happened? Why had they lost contact? What should they do now?
Retainer Cylrit turned like a grinding obelisk of melted metal, silencing the entire crowd simply through his hardened stare. The hollowness of his eyes tore through the recording artifact as the tempus warp portal finally faded away.
The pure mana plane making up the recording went blank as the recording ended. Despite that, I could swear I could still see Retainer Cylrit's eyes burned into the artifact. A chill went down my spine like the winter that had never truly left, mingling with the rising rage in my gut.
We stared for a mute, uncomprehending moment. Darrin exhaled a weary sigh, before burying his head in his hands. Alaric, for once, sensed the mood in the room as what little life remained seeped down the metaphorical drain.
"That's it?" Caera asked, her navy hair whipping as she turned to stare at Wade. "There's more here, right? That can't be everything."
Wade exhaled through his nose, his gaze distant. "No, that's… That's it."
Caera gnashed her teeth, standing abruptly. Her nails ripped through the couch as she struggled to contain her emotions, her intent warping the air in its sudden anger. "No. That's impossible. My mentor must still be alive. She's the sort who plans for everything. And—"
"Your Scythe is dead, Lady Denoir," Darrin said softly, his voice calm as a mother's breath. He didn't turn his eyes from the floor. "She wasn't there. And neither was Toren Daen."
"I can't accept that," Caera bit out, turning around. Her mana churned along her hands, and I could almost sense the soulfire burning beneath the surface. "Seris wouldn't just die."
She looked back at Wade and Naereni imploringly. "Your friend, Toren. He wouldn't die, either. You saw how strong he was. There must be more."
Naereni squeezed her eyes shut as Apple crooned lowly. Wade simply looked away.
"Sometimes, this world just takes, Lady Denoir," Darrin said softly. "It's not an easy thing to accept, I know. But sometimes you don't get to talk to them again before they're gone. Whether that be your Scythe, or Spellsong."
Darrin spared me a complicated look at the mention of my best friend. The retired ascender had changed a great deal in the past six months. He'd grown out a bit of his beard as he settled down into something of a family man, working with his lover, Dima, to care for the children in his estate.
Apparently, Toren had left the former leader of the Unblooded Party a book before he'd set off to war. And that book—along with many long nights talking with Dima—had convinced him to try and talk with my friend again, as well as allow our Menagerie refuge when we needed it.
But Toren isn't coming back. The one good thing this fucking system made, the asura had to break. The one chance we had at something changing—at any sort of future for this continent—was gone. Gone in an asura's golden light.
Caera glared at the retired ascender for a moment, a fury that matched mine building in her core. I thought tears might have glistened at the edges of her eyes, but they were gone when she blinked.
"I'm going to the training room," my sister said darkly. "Tell me when you find what's left of the tape."
She marched from the room with winter dying at her heels, her fists clenched and mana swirling about her in a barely contained rage.
Naereni watched the doorway long after her friend had left, a mournful expression there. "I should go after her," she said quietly. "That's what friends do."
"No," I interrupted, my voice cold. "Caera needs to be alone right now. She needs to work through her sword forms, or spar an invisible enemy."
Just like I wanted to shoot something. Just like I had felt rising anger in the wake of Toren's death. Just like I felt the constant urge to move. This was the kind of anger that needed to be exhausted.
I adjusted my teal cloak on my shoulders as I strode to the door, feeling the worried and despairing gazes of the rest of my… friends.
"I need to be alone, too."
—
When Toren had left for the Dicathian war, he'd promised that the entire world would change. He'd spoken of breaking the High Sovereign's plans to bring down a terrible being by killing Scythe Nico Sever.
I had been a fool. Such a damn fool. Because, deep down, some part of me had believed him. I'd listened to his passion and certainty that things could get better, and I'd forgotten Abigale. I'd forgotten that nothingcould improve in this world, not when the gods reigned supreme over everything.
Not when they could reignite the sun to wipe out us lessers.
My footsteps echoed loudly along the cobblestones as I searched for an outlet. Darrin's estate was large, and I didn't know whereI was going. I was going somewhere. Probably.
My soulmetal arm felt heavy on my shoulder for the first time in a long, long time. Deep inside, I felt that no matter what level of usage I pressed into Dictate of Mass, it would never feel light again. Now it was a bare reminder of what was left, just a hunk of dull brass.
I passed a few of the kids Darrin cared for now. I didn't know their names, but those whose paths I crossed scurried away from the intent I kept leashed.
When I noticed Seth Milview in one of the hallways, with his scruffy brown hair and generally unkempt appearance, I forced my emotions back into the box I'd sealed them in for the past week. The kid had been through far too much, just like every kid on this continent.
Toren had once told me that Wraiths—Agrona's shadow army of half-blooded Vritra warriors—truly existed. But despite the source of his words, I hadn't truly believed him. At least not wholly.
But when Circe Milview had approached the Denoir estate after Melzri's attack with news and information about the strange asura who'd gifted me my goggles, I finally believed.
I need to get out of this estate, I thought as Seth ran after a dismissive Briar, shouting something about martial training, it's forcing everything back into my head.
My anger and grief radiated from me like heat, and here in Darrin's estate, no matter how high the ceilings, it always pressed back in and made me feel like a kettle about to burst.
It didn't take long to reach one of the side exits. Only halfway conscious of the action, I pushed open the door, before striding into the open air.
I was immediately struck by how warm it was outside. Even without layering myself in a protective shroud of mana, my teal cloak and sturdy doublet was enough to ward off the light chill. The wind carried pollen and the scents of new growth as it breezed through the hilltop gardens, taunting me with its vitality.
Darrin's estate was in one of the rural parts of Sehz-Clar. Most of Alacrya's food production was centered around the first layer of the Relictombs and the Heart's Blood River along the Sehz-Clar-Etril border, but this deep in the wilderness, there were still holdouts of the old ways.
Darrin's estate had a few gravel pathways rolling down the hilltop. Benches, small trees, and lampposts created an air of utmost serenity. I could almost imagine the limping man strolling through these shadowed glades with Dima, reminiscing and reflecting about days past.
Hills stretched as far as the eye could see, most of them painted with barren trees. The leaves hadn't yet come back, but they teased the possibility of green amidst the dotted towns here and there. The sky was overcast with clouds, but that didn't stop me from being able to see for miles upon miles all around.
It was silent here, away from all civilization. Peaceful and raw, in a way the Relictombs and cities never could be. And as I stood there on a simple porch, staring out into the distance, I realized something strange.
I like it here. I like the silence. I like the serenity. I like the solitude.
I was so startled by the sudden understanding that it tore me from my brooding. Amidst all the anger and grief of these past days, the acknowledgment that there was something I enjoyed took me away from myself.
I turned my gaze up to the overcast sky, feeling the wind pull at my light stubble and ruffle my hair. The sun was there somewhere beyond those clouds, blocked from casting her light down.
The Town Zone… it tries to mirror this, I thought, exhaling through my nose. It tries to capture this… serenity. But it can't.
Was that why I always returned to the Relictombs? Was that why I was so ready to traipse all over the djinn's old ruins, mapping the unmappable? Was it just to find this silence?
I exhaled a light breath, feeling a bit looser for that moment.
"So do you always stare longingly up at the sky," a feminine voice said nearby, "or is this just a one-time thing?"
Mana surged through my body as I burst into instinctive motion. I whirled, all thoughts of peace and quiet abandoning me as I thrust out my hand toward the source of the voice. I gripped the cloth of their clothes, before shoving the intruder against the wall of Darrin's estate. That earned a squeak of surprise.
A squeak that ripped my sudden fervor from my bones. I blinked at my captive, suddenly in control again. Circe Milview stared back at me, pinned to the wall from where my arm gripped her coat. Her eyes were wide with surprise as she stared at me, her cheeks flushed red from fear. Her lips were parted, no doubt about to scream in terror.
"I'm, uh, unarmed!" she squeaked out, her brown hair in total disarray from being suddenly pressed against a stone wall. "I come in peace?"
I sighed, chastising myself for being so sloppy. I should have sensed the sentry coming, but I'd relaxed my guard too much. And now my body was suddenly tense again, boiling with that suppressed rage that had only left me for a brief moment.
"I'm sorry, Lady Milview," I forced out, releasing the girl's coat and stepping back. "You startled me. I don't react well to that. You can't let it happen in the Relictombs."
Circe's face was red all the way to her ears as she coughed lightly, still staring at the arm that had pinned her. It seemed that those who couldn't reinforce their bodies with mana didn't handle the chill well. "If it would give you some peace of mind," she said slowly, "you could check me for weapons. I might be armed. You don't know."
I turned away, my mood souring now that the sense of serenity had left. I glared back at the horizon again, wondering what I'd lost. "It doesn't matter. No weapon you have could pose a threat to me."
Behind me, Circe sighed. I thought it was in relief, but there was an irritated edge to it. I heard her shuffling behind me nervously.
"I wanted to thank you," she said after a moment. "For giving me and Seth a place to go. After… you know. The asura. The Wraiths."
My mind flashed back to the aftermath of my confrontation with Melzri Vritra. When I'd staggered from the Denoir estate, Circe had been waiting there, carrying a message from the strange titan asura. Apparently, the titan was alive, and he'd had a scuffle with some of Agrona's hit squads.
I'd used what resources I had available as a Denoir to organize a steamboat passage to Dicathen, ostensibly as a resupply for the final push on the war front. Truthfully, it would serve as a perfect place for a wayward asura to smuggle himself away back to the other continent.
The bedraggled deity had given me the goggles. It was only fair that I repay the favor. And if it fucked the High Sovereign over in some small way, I would only rejoice. I didn't know if the titan had managed to escape. I hadn't seen him since the first time, but I hoped he'd made it away. But none of that had any bearing on what Circe Milview was thanking me for.
"It's Darrin you should be thanking. I'd barely said anything about you and your brother's predicament before he'd offered you his home," I grunted, still glaring at one of the gravel pathways.
"Well, I did thank Darrin," Circe said, stepping up beside me. "He waved it off, laughing about providing a place for those who need it. He's a little strange about that."
"He's not strange," I said, my metal arm whirring as I crossed my arms. "He's good. There is a difference."
"Well… is there?" Circe asked hesitantly, running a hand through her brown hair. "Seems to me like being good is the same thing as being strange. I didn't really understand that until recently."
I paused, letting that thought whirl about my head for an irritating moment. Good people didn't last in Alacrya. Good people died. And if they were still somehow good, then, in a roundabout way, they were strange. Strange because they were different. Strange because they stood apart. Strange because they wanted to make things better.
"There aren't very many good people anymore," I said, focusing on one particular bit of gravel in front of me. A piece that was strangely round amidst all the jagged edges and sharp lines of its surrounding brethren. "They don't stay."
"Spellsong isn't gone," Circe muttered quietly, in a voice so low I almost couldn't hear.
I blinked, then scowled. I could understand Caera's denial of Seris' death. My sister had grown with Seris as a mentor, the Scythe subtly guiding and usurping the position that Lenora should have occupied as a mother figure. That made sense.
When Circe had first arrived here, the young woman had pestered me with questions. Questions about aether. Questions about consciousness. Questions about where Toren got his ideas. About what the edicts meant, if there was a purposeto them. And it had aggravated me so deeply: because she'd assumed my best friend was some sort of outlet for something higher.
But Circe hadn't known Toren. And beyond that, she'd channeled his abilities somehow. It was her inability to do so anymore—that failure to use the dawnlit healing arts—that had first assured me of the truth.
"He is gone," I retorted, clenching my hand. The sound of creaking metal tore through the garden as I glared at the ground. I imagined, deep in my skull, that my glare was what weathered that single pebble to roundness. My anger shaved away all the hard lines and obtrusive points. "He's dead, Circe. You can't do your strange healing bullshitanymore. You said yourselfthat there was nothing to reach out to. Literal godskilled him. They squished him like an ant because he didn't fit into their little war. And now we're back here again with nothing."
"They aren't gods," Circe snapped, turning her head away. "Don't call them god."
I growled. "What else should I call them, then?" I snapped, feeling everything I'd kept bottled up finally boil over. "They made Dicathen into a damned candlestick! For ten minutes! It was night, and then it was day again!A continent away! If that isn't the power of a god, then I don't know what is."
"It isn't about power," Circe bit back. "Gods aren't cruel, Lord Denoir. They don't enjoy watching everything die. That's not a god. The Doctrination, the asura of Epheotus… that's not what a deity is."
The wind whistled through the estate, for once sounding like a mournful banshee's wail. Circe wrapped her arms around herself for warmth, turning away. "You just need a little faith, Lord Denoir," she said quietly. "There's a plan out there. There's design in this world toward something greater, and even the asura are subject to it."
Always back to that strangeness of hers. The reason she'd pestered me with questions about aether and how Toren knew of it. My head was a maelstrom as Circe's words flickered with old memories and hopes. Having faith was foolish. It stood in the face of reason and logic. Have faith? Have hope? For what?
"I knew I'd find you here," a familiar voice echoed out, lingering in the wind. "I've been looking for you for a while, Denoir. You're so annoyingly elusive."
This time, when mana flowed from my core and I engaged every ounce of strength within me in instinctive fear, it was far from an overreaction. That familiar tone ripped memories of electric pain from the depths of my mind as I stepped forward, pointing my soulmetal arm at the figure that had interrupted.
My heartbeat rose in my chest as I placed myself between the being and Circe Milview, my mind working feverishly to account for the intruder's presence.
Because Melzri Vritra had finally returned, like a reaper coming to take her due.
The pale-haired scarecrow of a Scythe lounged atop the arm of one of the lampposts along the gravel pathway leading into a glade. She swung her nearly-bare legs leisurely, entirely unbothered by the slight chill. Her horns absorbed what light spring granted, banishing it to Taegrin Caelum itself.
The woman was a corpse. Too pale. When she inspected me with sparkling eyes of jagged obsidian, there was no color to her cheeks that should have told me she had blood. Just pure white porcelain.
Fuck! I thought in a sudden panic, my arm whirring with electricity as I kept it pointed at the Scythe. My countermeasures aren't ready yet. She's here too soon.
And behind me, within Darrin's estate, so many of the people Toren cared for were holed up, mourning his death. My sister was there. The Menagerie and Darrin himself.
"I'm going to take everyone he ever loved and cared for from him. I'll burn Fiachra to the ground. I'll salt the earth with your blood, and I'll feast on your heart. If I can't have my daughter back, I'll take everything from the one who could have saved her."
In my initial focus on the Scythe, I'd missed something important. A ropewas tied to the looming lamppost just near Melzri's hand. Around and around and around it wove, before drooping like…
Like a noose. And within the noose, a mage in dark clothing slowly choked beneath his own weight, gasping for breath as he kicked and struggled against impending death. I didn't recognize him.
Melzri Vritra slowly smiled as she noticed my attention, leaning backward on the lamppost's arm as she arched her back in a casual way. "You should be honored to have my attention, Denoir," she purred, playing with her long braid. "So, so many always clamber and claw for it. And I took all the trouble to show up here for you, prepare the stage,and now—"
"Mawar is alive," I snapped, running an inventory on the aetheric bullets I had stockpiled in my dimension ring. Those could tear through mana barriers like they were paper, but they were so difficult to craft and refine. If I was lucky… "You have no reason to be here at all, Scythe."
Melzri's jovial expression darkened. The only sound I could hear was the sputtering of the choking man dangling from the lamppost and Circe Milview's terrified mumbling as she cowered behind me.
The Scythe's intent slowly unfurled as she scowled at me. "You're a little bitch, aren't you, Sevren? I am a Scythe. I decide when to have a reason to be anywhere at all. And I have every reason to be here."
Her eyes flicked to Circe behind me. Melzri's tongue darted out, coasting about her blue lips in a predatory fashion. "You." Circe squeaked in fear, trying to keep herself from facing the Scythe's expanding aura. "Yes, you, girl. You are going to shoo. You are going to get away from this bastard."
The Scythe accentuated the demand by gesturing in an arrogant manner, as if the girl was a bad stench she could simply dismiss. Her nose wrinkled in distaste.
"Run, Circe," I whispered under my breath, still keeping my cannon arm trained on the lounging Melzri. "Get the others to evacuate. Now."
The young woman took a breath, then began to stumble back toward the estate.
"I'm not going to kill anyone," Melzri announced loudly, smiling in a satisfied way at Circe's retreating back as she scurried away. "At least not anyone more. Just don't give me a reason to!"
The Scythe nudged the hanging man beneath her with the tip of her high heel, swinging him exaggeratedly. The poor sod coughed and sputtered, his hands clawing at the rope. His neck hadn't been broken, and from how he struggled, I could tell he was going to die a slow death. He swung like a demented earring as Melzri pushed him.
"There were a whole bunch of these idiots skulking about the forests of this estate," Melzri drawled absently. Whenever the noosed mage reached the right point, she nudged him with her foot again, sending him into another fit of coughing and choking. "I know their kind, Denoir. Assassins from rival bloods wanting a cut of meat. What's left of this man's squad is painted across the forest."
Melzri pierced me with a stare as the wind finally died. "You're a fucking asshole, Denoir. But my daughter is back safe from the Dicathians, and I hold my promises. Your family gets to scuttle away from their destruction for another day."
The Scythe leaned forward on the arm of the lamppost, her aura stealing the life from the spring air. "But make no mistake, you little fucker. Your family is going to burn to the ground. You'll be picking apart their corpses from the ashes."
My cloak flared as I engaged my Regalias, preparing for a fight. "You won't get the chance, bitch," I shot back. My prototype wasn't ready yet, far from operative efficiency. But I might engage it here. It could give me a chance to put this witch down, so long as she let her guard down like last time.
"You don't get it, do you?" Melzri taunted, falling from the lamppost. She landed without even bending her knees. "I'm not going to do anything. I don't need to. How many people have your parents pissed off because they had my sister's protection? How many highbloods were unable to act against Highblood Denoir because of that?"
Melzri trembled for a moment, rage shuddering through her. For the first time, her milk-white skin flushed as she stared at me. "My sisters are dead, Denoir. My brothers are dead. Cadell himself is dead. My family is broken, and Father has not stepped from his study for the past week. The only solace I have is that my Retainer—my daughter—is still with me. Because of you."
I paused, fighting off a shudder from the Scythe's aura as her words went in an entirely different direction than what I expected. I tried to suppress the fears that the Scythe's words elicited, because she was right.
Highblood Denoir was more vulnerable now than it ever had been. If Seris—their political backer—was dead, then a shield they had always relied on was gone, exposing a flank of fresh meat. Toren, another known associate of the Denoirs, was gone as well. There was nothing stopping the hounds that would tear them apart.
My eyes flicked to the assassin as he hung by a noose, his eyes wide and bulging. Apparently, his mana allowed him to hold on longer than otherwise.
"You think the Denoirs are that hanging man?" I said quietly, still alert. "You think my family has hung themselves, and are slowly losing oxygen?"
Melzri stared at me, eerily silent as she trembled with anger. "Are you not enraged?" she breathed, enunciating each word. "Don't you want to just… let it all go? Just lash out?"
At the final word, the Scythe's arm blurred faster than I could see. I hadn't even been able to comprehend it, but a sword haloed in void wind had appeared there, before striking to the side.
An arc of decaying mana scythed through the glade, toppling tree after tree after tree. Their rumbling fall shook the earth, sending tremors up my feet and into my clenched teeth. Each rumble was a pulse in a dying heartbeat.
"But you can't lash out, can you?" Melzri continued, still focused on me with feverish intensity. "You're stuck. Here. Not there. Not where you can fix things."
"What do you want from me?" I snapped, suddenly unable to keep it all contained anymore. "Why are you here?"
The pale-haired Scythe lowered her curved blade slowly. She hadn't turned away from me. She hadn't blinked. "Arthur Leywin took your friend from you," she said slowly. "He took my family from me. I want to kill him, Sevren. I want to tear out his heart and feed it to him for what he's done."
Arthur Leywin… I'd heard that name. What Alacryan hadn't? The Lance. The chosen of Epheotus, anointed King of Dicathen. The Blood-Scourge of the Glades. Tales and whispers told of the asura's mortal champion even here in Alacrya, whispered in the same tone as stories of the Wraiths.
Why wouldn't they? I'd seen the recording of that man as he stood before all of Dicathen, a dragon at his back and a sword dripping with Retainer Uto's blood. It made an impression.
It was said that the mage had never lost a battle. No Alacryan had entered a battlefield with King Godspell and survived. In fact, rumors pointed to the idea that it was his influence alone that kept the entire Dicathian side moving. It was hoped that the Scythes would put him down. In particular, Highblood Denoir counted on Seris outmaneuvering the crowned King and putting an end to the resistance.
"You want to kill him?" I scoffed, incredulous. "You think he's to blame for all this? All this death?"
Melzri took a few steps closer to me, extending her arms in a wide gesture. "It is his fault. If he hadn't stepped up, the war wouldn't have dragged on as long as it had. Father would have seen his victory sooner, before the damned asura broke their treaty. Your friend would still be alive."
She flourished her free hand, before something familiar appeared there: my soulmetal gun, stolen from me weeks ago. She twirled it between her fingers absently, still staring at me with eerie intensity. "You're a dense little bastard, Sevren Denoir," she said with a sneer. "But you're not a total idiot. Father will respond to this. He'll gather his army again, and this time, he will try. The asura of Epheotus thought they could play games with us, but not anymore."
The scarecrow of a Scythe tossed my gun toward me. I caught it easily. "My sister is dead, but she was a Scythe. You will work for me, and I'll keep your family protected. And when Father declares that the Dicathians will die, you will join me in putting them down. You can do something with all that rage."
My gaze drifted down to the gun in my hand. The contours were smooth and perfectly sublime, crafted to perfection. This weapon wasn't just a tool of war. It was a work of art. But even as its familiar weight settled into my hand, it felt like a simple bludgeon.
Truthfully, I did feel anger rising in my stomach. The same sort of anger I thought Melzri felt.
But the Scythe, just like everyone else, had it wrong. She blamed the Dicathians for taking her fellow Scythes and Retainers from her. Like a child, she blamed them—the victims of this war—for all the heartache and loss.
But the Dicathians were only defending their home. Agrona had made the push into Dicathen. And Melzri—just like all the rest—believed the lie.
"I don't want revenge," I said lowly, still looking over the gun in my hands. It was still out of ammunition from when Melzri had stolen it from me. "I want justice."
Melzri smiled, a strangely pretty expression on her face. "Then it's a—"
In a practiced motion, I ejected the magazine from the handle of the gun with a click, summoned another from the dimensional storage in my right arm, and slotted it into place with a satisfying clunk.
I kept my eyes on the Scythe as I raised my arm, aiming the gun at her. Her brows raised slightly as her words cut off.
Then I pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. Three times. Four, five, six. Shots resounded one after the other into the silence like a caster's fireball. Cartridges routinely ejected from the sliding barrel, clinking to the gravel at my feet. Ten. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen.
In the end, I pulled the trigger seventeen times. Smoke seeped through my nose as the final shell fell to the stones, gunsmoke wafting like a demon's haze as I kept my gaze locked on the shocked Scythe.
She turned her head slowly, peering behind her where the choking assassin had finally gone still. The mage's body was riddled with holes from each of my shots, the first one piercing perfectly through his forehead.
The Scythe's neck might as well have creaked like a rusty hinge as she turned to look back at me, her blue lips parted and her face flushed from what must have been rage. She didn't say anything more as she stared at me in disbelief.
"There's nothing left in the magazine," I said calmly. "These bullets were specifically designed to ignore any sort of mana barrier. It's quick. Efficient. Just. One pop, and the suffering is over."
I threw the gun at Melzri's feet. She stared at it with wide eyes but didn't move to pick it up. "Justice doesn't hang men to watch them struggle."
I swiveled on my feet, marching back toward Darrin's estate and leaving the stupefied Scythe to stare at the gun on the ground.
I'd long since forgotten the serenity I'd found for a brief instant staring out at the hills. Because Melzri had appeared so swiftly without any sort of warning. No place was safe. No place was peaceful.
Maybe the Relictombs weren't perfect. Maybe they weren't the true ideal. But at the very least, within those endless catacombs, I wasn't always forced to look at this wretched system's failures.
I needed to go on an ascent.