Sassel stared at the creature slowly reassembling before him—its body wrapped in rotting fur, its upper half floating in midair, while its lower half drifted like living dust in the wind. One hand gripped a rough flint greatsword, the blade pressing against Sassel's own black-and-red longsword in a standoff. The creature's other arm, from the elbow down, remained mist-like, as if uncertain whether to reform or act.
The Temas looked down briefly at Jeanne in the corner, then returned his gaze to Sassel. A creaking sound like grinding bone echoed from within him as he spoke:
"Your weapon is not forged of worldly steel."
His voice was as rigid as stone and dust, utterly devoid of anything that could be called emotion.
Incandescent flames circled Sassel like halos, piercing through the Temas' misty lower body and illuminating his yellowed, bone-crafted helmet. The helmet appeared to be made from the skull of some extinct horned beast, with two curved sabertooth fangs jutting from the bottom and a gap between them to accommodate a human head.
"You mean—if it were ordinary steel, your flint blade would've sliced me and my sword in half?"
Sassel met the creature's gaze—if those two sunken black pits could be called eyes—and studied him carefully.
The Temas looked much as Sassel remembered. Though magic had rendered them immortal, the passage of ages far older than humanity had inevitably left their marks. His muscles were shriveled and taut, like knotted, iron-hard roots of ancient oaks. His deep brown, bark-like skin was drawn tightly over a powerful skeleton, riddled with old wounds—torn, healed, and torn again. His face resembled a mummified corpse, high cheekbones jutting beneath the tusked helm, nostrils reduced to two black holes, eye sockets cavernous and lit now and then with a glint of deep crimson.
Through the charred furs wrapped around his neck, a portion of his exposed spine was visible, laid bare where the skin had sloughed off.
The last time Sassel had seen one of these beings was decades ago, before Empress Nero ascended the throne. Back then, he had served in the Empire's Third Legion Mage Corps, executing a mission from Caesar. The Temas legion had passed briefly by as they headed west into the wastelands.
Sassel released the Pathway magic and slowly descended, his feet touching the ground without a sound, like submerging into water. The Temas descended with him, the mist of his lower body condensing as he retracted his flint blade.
"I always thought your kind were mortal enemies of black sorcerers," he said. "We have always honored our covenant with the humans of the Church."
"There are... special circumstances here," Jeanne replied.
"What circumstance can outweigh hatred?" the Temas asked, turning toward her in that same stiff, dead tone.
Sassel suddenly laughed. Having magically mended his broken ankle, he'd quickly tossed aside the previous violence in favor of curiosity.
"Love, of course! Temas friend, I've fallen in love with this woman here—it's a feeling that transcends hatred. You understand, don't you?"
"Go to hell with your 'love'!" Jeanne snapped, then turned to the Temas. "Ignore this idiot. Tell me—what's your name?"
"Shavazon Tulan. That is my name. I am a Temas of Logros, of the Talad clan, born in the winter of the Decaying Year, the first son of my line. I became a warrior during the Second War against the Snow Demons, and I currently serve as bone-smith under Aesa Onas—"
"That's enough!" Jeanne cut him off, pressing her fingers to her brow, clearly out of patience. "I didn't know your kind were so damn chatty."
"This is a misunderstanding," Shavazon replied calmly. "We rarely speak to humans, but when required, I aim to answer all questions clearly."
Sassel doubted it was a misunderstanding. It was more likely this Temas was just unusually verbose. After all, they were often referred to as the "Silent Legion."
He cast a sideways glance at Jeanne, then shifted his gaze to the flint sword.
"May I ask something, Mr. Shavazon? I've never read that your flint swords could sever magic. That doesn't match the records I've studied."
"During the twenty-fourth war against the Snow Demons, we exterminated many of their controlled species—creatures your black sorcerers call 'broodbound,'" Shavazon said, now looking at Sassel. "Our hunts brought death to many large beasts and even drove some species to extinction. But war never ends, and time is meaningless. We do not care about these things. The only thing that mattered was that the bone-smiths discovered materials in their corpses capable of infusing Otataral into the flint blades."
"The ore from the Seven Cities continent that supposedly nullifies magic? Well," Sassel shook his head, "I've only read about it. We don't see much of that stuff here."
"Your curiosity is strong, human who seeks knowledge of the outer gods."
"Mages are all curious."
"That too is a misunderstanding."
"Are all of you this rigid?"
The Temas warrior thought for a moment, then said, "I have witnessed countless deaths and births across twenty-seven extinction wars. I am among the earliest born of the Temas. During the twenty-sixth war against surviving Snow Demons, our numbers fell from nineteen thousand to twelve thousand. Our clan leader, Cogh Aevan, was nearly destroyed. My lifespan exceeds the history of your entire species. That is not unusual."
"Enough! Can you two stop rambling?" Jeanne snapped, glaring at the ragged warrior. "Can you tell me how you knew he was a black sorcerer?"
"I didn't," Shavazon said flatly. "You mentioned it yourselves when you summoned me."
Silence.
"Damn it," Jeanne muttered, breaking the awkward pause. "Mr. Shavazon, could you keep his identity a secret?"
"Because of love?"
Before Jeanne's expression could twist further, Sassel cleared his throat and said, "That was a joke, Temas. Surely your people don't care about human internal politics?"
"I cannot speak for Cogh Aevan, but the bone-smiths concern themselves only with the surviving Snow Demons of this world," Shavazon replied. "I helped you purge some black sorcerers because of the covenant, but if you would rather I didn't, I have no objection."
Still doesn't mean he won't blab. The guy talks too damn much.
"So... this counts as a covenant?" Sassel asked.
"We don't usually form pacts with individuals, human," the warrior said after a pause. "But the era is changing. Perhaps we should, too. You two are a strange pair. Perhaps I would consider making a covenant with you."
Sassel caught the phrasing—definitely a talker.
The black sorcerer asked, "You said the era is changing—what do you mean?"
"The Summoning approaches. The ritual will be held again. The Temas of Koron will soon appear," Shavazon answered simply.
"Wait—you're not the only Temas from the First Throne?" Jeanne interrupted before Sassel could ask.
"In the past, we had more than ten legions. Now, only six remain," he said slowly. "I am of Logros, under the command of the First Throne. But Koron is our largest force."
"And their arrival… what does it mean?" Jeanne asked, frowning.
"The three-hundredth millennium is coming," the warrior told her. "The time of scattering will end, Inquisitor of the Church."