Chapter 279: The Demands of Dominions

Thank you to my beta reader and editor, GlassThreads!

Sevren Denoir

My limbs felt loose as I marched through the Denoir Relictombs estate, my mind awhirl with fire. Images of the mana projection of Burim's utter collapse pushed me forward. The news of the devastation had barely reached the public after one of my ascents with Caera and Naereni.

Those two were going to meet with Wade and Alaric to see what knowledge they could piece together from their contacts. That just left me to my family as I tried to use their connections.

I could almost imagine my metal arm aching. I couldn't feel pain in it anymore; not really. But that didn't stop me from thinking of the threads of lifeforce that I knew connected it to my body.

Rumors say that Toren was involved in whatever attacked the city, I thought. People are saying that an asura struck there. Was my friend able to fight such a thing?

Was he even still alive?

The Denoir estate was tastefully decorated. Paintings dotted the walls here and there, each one showing a severe member from our highblood. Braiuz. Vaelor. Maesa. Half a dozen more familiar Denoir highlords and ladies flashed by me, each pinning me with a disapproving stare. It was clear to me that none of these portraits wanted me here. They despised my presence entirely.

But I was here anyways, and they were simply ink.

Despite myself, however, I halted in my tracks as I moved near a portrait taken many, many years ago, showing Father, Mother, Lauden, Caera, and I. All smiling. Father's olive hair was perfectly brushed and slicked, of course. Mother's pure white smile reflected every bit of gold in the room in a dazzling way. Lauden's was more shy. This was before he'd become a bumbling oaf. Caera's grin was more hesitant, uncertain as her ruby-red eyes flicked to me. Her hair was short in this depiction. Barely past a bob cut.

I was the only one in the painting that didn't show my teeth. But I still smiled, however thinly.

I wasn't smiling now.

The lighting artifacts cast long shadows as I marched past nervous servants and bowing guards, but I ignored them all, too focused on my task ahead. Then I spotted a young woman with bright orange hair, tied neatly into a bun as she rushed through an opposing hallway. Her face was a mask of worry as she clutched at something in her hands.

"Nessa," I said sharply, getting the maid's attention. "Wait a moment. I need to ask a question!"

The young woman–Caera's steward and friend within the Denoir's restrictive home–stuttered to a stop as she heard my voice. Her eyes went wide as she squeaked, nearly dropping the item in her hands. A clipboard? "Oh, Lord Denoir!" she said, bowing quickly. "I didn't see you there. If I had, I would've–"

I waved away her words as I approached. "I don't care about the formalities," I interjected, shaking my head. "I need to know where the Highlord and Lady are. I need to ask them some questions."

The Denoirs didn't have much of a presence on the other continent, but they had sent a token force to assist Scythe Seris in her conquest of Dicathen. If anyone knew anything more directly about the devastation that was sending ripples of shock through Alacryan society, it would be them.

Nessa averted her gaze, keeping herself in a prostrated position as she chewed on her lip. "The Highlord and Lady just got out of one meeting, Lord Denoir," she said respectfully. "I think they're having another as we speak, though. It might be bold of me to say, sir, but… It might not be wise to test them. Considering what happened with the new heir recently."

I sighed. It was common knowledge now that I'd been shifted to second-in-line to take the mantle of Highlord Denoir after my brother, Lauden. Truthfully, I didn't care, but it had made family interactions even more heated.

I hate this place, I thought, my eyes smoldering as I restrained my irritation. I still hate it so much.

Every glance at the useless wealth around me only reminded me of the pointless politics of it all. Look at me, all that glittering gold lining the walls said. I'm so wealthy and important. Won't you just bow and cower at my feet?

"I'm not looking to test them, Nessa," I responded, an edge in my voice. "I just need information on what happened in Burim recently."

Nessa opened her mouth to reply, still clearly hesitant, when a familiar voice interrupted us. "Ho, Lord Denoir," they said. The voice was old from use, but strong despite the age. "It's been some time since we've met."

I turned, mildly surprised to see Highlord Renton Morthelm walking down the hall. The old man seemed to have lost some weight since the Plaguefire Incursion, and his dark gray hair was slicked back at the sides. His eyes gleamed with quiet intelligence as he took every step.

At his sides, Taegan and Arian escorted the Highlord. The burly striker and thin swordsman both bowed respectfully as they saw me, but my focus was on the nobleman in front of me.

"Highlord Morthelm," I said with respect, bowing slightly. "It has been a while. A few months, yes?"

Highblood Morthelm was one of Fiachra's most powerful families. Even though their Highlord had lost his ability to use mana–and taken in an unadorned as a wife since the Plaguefire Incursion–they were still a force to be reckoned with.

"A few months indeed," the old man grunted, massaging his chest slightly with a masked wince. "You never stay in one place long, Lord Denoir. I can hardly catch you when you move so fast. Especially without magic," he said with a brusque laugh.

I opened my mouth, feeling the sudden urge to ask him more about what his life had been like after the Plaguefire Incursion. That was when everything had changed for both of us.

His actions in stalling for time against the vicars still burned in the back of my mind like a brand. A Highlord, willing to do what was right instead of saving his sorry life.

I worked my jaw. "We'll have to talk again sometime," I said haltingly, a quiet look of understanding passing between us. "I'd be… happy to catch up. But right now I'm in a hurry."

Lord Renton's eyes flicked back the way he'd come. "Ahh, I suppose you need to meet with your family then. About what happened in Burim recently, I wager?"

I nodded sharply. "Yes. Our mutual friend is rumored to have been at the center of whatever happened. I wanted to get what news I can."

The highlord tapped his cane nervously, a silent chill spreading over the hallway. The lighting artifacts seemed to dim. Taegan's face scrunched up in an expression that reminded me of some aether beasts deep in the Relictombs. Arian stared past me at the wall as his eyes unfocused, something churning away from the surface.

"Your family got a recording," Renton said, his tone low as his eyes flicked every which way. "It's tarnished and catches barely anything. The mana interference made it practically useless. But it shows something of what you're seeking. I… can't say more."

The old man's veins bulged from where his wrinkled hand gripped his cane. It was with a surprising start that I noticed the sweat soaking his pristine coat.

Toren, are you okay? I wondered nervously, noting the electric sensation in the air.

I swallowed, feeling a matching dread rise up from within my soul. "Is he…"

Is my friend dead? I wasn't able to ask, my throat clenching as I stared at Lord Morthelm.

The highlord man shuddered slightly, shaking his head. He seemed to understand my implication. His expression wasn't haunted, not really. But I couldn't read it. "We don't know," he said. "Just… see for yourself, Lord Denoir."

He left after that, unable to look me in the eyes past the whirling confusion in the back of his mind. Taegan and Arian followed after him respectfully, each giving me subtle nods of respect.

It didn't take me long to find my family. They were all present in the meeting room reserved for respected guests. The room was lavish, true, but it wasn't gaudy or over the top as the room for unwanted guests was.

A painting of the Vritra's Maw Sea hung tastefully over a gently flickering fireplace, showing a few old ships as they quested out over the bay. Lauden lounged in a chair near the fire, his olive hair slick with sweat as he gazed up at the ceiling.

Not far to the side, a simple bar counter made of polished clarwood reflected the orange light. Father was pouring himself a glass of whiskey from one of the upper shelf vintages. When I entered the room, his tired eyes drifted to me, but he didn't say a word. His suit was pristine and perfect as always, but I noticed the pinched look between his brows that told me he was worried about something. He only nodded.

Lenora sat imperiously on a wyvern-leather couch, her arms crossed over her stomach as she stared at a tea table in front of her. The slightly glowing runes etched into the perfect wood of the table seemed to have swallowed her mind whole as she swirled a glass of brandy. She didn't even acknowledge my entrance.

I looked away from her, too. Back to my Father.

"We were expecting you here soon, son," he grunted tiredly, walking over to the couch. He sat himself down with a low sigh, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "You're here about our friend, Toren."

"I'd hardly call him your friend," I bit out, settling down into the chair across from my Father. "You only spoke to him a couple of times."

Corbett took a sip of his drink. Lenora kept her eyes glued to the rune-etched table, ignoring me completely. "Highblood Denoir has extended a great amount of resources towards our friend, especially since he's gone to war alongside Caera's patron," he grunted. "If we aren't his friends, then I'd have to redefine the word in a dictionary. There are countless rumors and plots shifting around Spellsong as his… relations with Caera's patron becomes more clear. Controlling and influencing a Scythe's paramour is power in and of itself."

I snorted, seeing through my father's words immediately. "So you're Toren's friend, of course, because you're not influencing or indebting him to you at all, are you? You're better than the other highbloods that are trying to."

"Sevren," Lenora's voice echoed out quietly. "Please stop speaking of things you know nothing about."

I recoiled as if I'd been slapped, gnashing my teeth. The fire crackled in the hearth, but Mother didn't raise her head. Visions of our painful meeting in the back alleys of Fiachra lanced like hot rods through my mind.

I forced out an agitated sigh. "Fine. What have you been doing that makes you a friend to Toren?" I allowed, tapping my fingers along my metal arm. I'd been burned by my assumptions before because I didn't ask.

"Highbloods Morthelm and Denoir have been working closely for the past half a year or so since the Plaguefire Incursion," Father said, leaning forward on his arms. He scrutinized me, uncertainly, his eyes settling for a while on my soulmetal arm. "We formed a task force to control the flow of information about Toren Daen that came back from the other continent. Most bloods are too focused on what we do let past our nets: that Toren is the paramour of Scythe Seris, that he is heavily invested in the dwarves of Darv, and other such tidbits. Most of our foes are too focused on those to really understand the gravity of what he is."

I leaned forward, thinking about this. My eyes flicked between my silent mother and father. Do they know about Bloodstone Elixirs? I wondered. Have they figured out that Renea Shorn is Scythe Seris?

"And you understand the gravity of what he is?" I asked, trying not to sound too cynical or defensive.

Corbett didn't respond. Instead, he pulled something from within his vest, then set it gently on the table.

My eyes narrowed as they landed on the device. "A projector artifact," I said slowly, noting the port for mana to exit. This was an expensive model, but it was clearly damaged. Burns marred its normally pristine silver surface, and the dents and scratches made it look like it had been a part of a rockslide. "What's important about this?"

"I saw you fiddling with these way back when you were a boy, Sevren," Corbett said somewhat fondly. "I've no doubt you know what this specific model is."

My brows furrowed. "A Janthalm Focus Mark III," I said, recognizing the worth of what I was looking at. "No… this one is a Mark IV. It's designed to record high-speed fights at the Victoriads between Retainers and sometimes Scythes. They're a more recent development."

Corbett nodded. "These devices can track the fights between the greatest of our mages. This particular recording artifact was given to one of our spies placed in Burim. He barely managed to use his artifact as he ran from the destruction around him. The pitiable sod was one of the only people able to get through the portal in Burim before some sort of interference broke the connection. The man was half a corpse when he reached us, babbling about fire and blood."

I looked up, my brows narrowing as my attention shifted, between my parents, then toward where Lauden was absently staring at the ceiling. I'd come here for news about Toren and the aftermath of whatever had struck Burim. Outside, the display artifacts and newsmen only showed rubble, destruction, lava, and despair. But this was a recording of the actual event.

I understood instantly as the rumors cemented in my head. Toren had fought something. Or someone. And this artifact showed that truth.

Hesitantly, I reached my arm out, holding the damaged relic. I worked my jaw, sending mana through it in the right pattern.

Immediately, a pane of pure mana flickered into existence over the artifact, images dancing and fuzzing over it. The quality was grainy and hazy, spots of distortions appearing across the video.

Mana interference, I recognized immediately, having worked with these kinds of devices before. But mana interference on a device of this quality? That could only mean whatever's causing it is absurdly powerful.

Whoever was recording this was running. Sounds of cracking stone and the screams of people drowned everything out, except for the spy's labored breathing. His terrified huffs scratched at my ears as the footage continued.

It was a mass exodus. Hundreds of people–both Alacryan and dwarf–ran across a wide bridge of stone as they fought and nearly trampled each other to get away from something. A roaring bellow–like something from a forge detonating–caused flashes of white and more mana distortions, deteriorating the already poor quality further.

The spy was pushing himself through the crowd, using some sort of spellform to weave and flow like the wind. The way the recording artifact jerked this way and that told me that he must have turned it on with barely a second thought.

Something blurred over the bridge. Two somethings. A streak of familiar orange and white, and one of trueflame red. The wake of their passing made the bridge tremble and shake. People screamed, and a few fell over the edge into the darkness below. The man with the artifact stumbled, trying to keep his focus on the beings zipping about the sky.

They're too fast, I realized with awe. My hand clenched around the artifact. This artifact is designed to capture Scythes far beyond the speed of sound. It's untested, true, but…

"Toren," I said, my jaw dropping as that blur of orange and white was thrown against a stalactite. "Vritra's horns, that's Toren. What the hell is he fighting?"

As the two titans continued their clash, every intersection caused rumbles to shake the cavern. And finally, they separated. For the first time, the camera managed to focus on the two combatants in the bright dark.

Toren was different from the last time I'd seen him. His hair was tied haphazardly into a ponytail that stretched down to his upper back. It burned with a deep, pulsing crimson. His eyes bore no pupils, simply seared. All about him, an armor of crystalline mana pulsed like undeniable plates. Wings of dying glass thrust from his back, and his left arm had been replaced by a duplicate made of the same strange mana. He was burned and cut in a thousand different places.

I felt sweat bead down my face as I looked at my friend. Soulplume. The deepest depths of his power. The one he used to kill Mardeth.

But I felt my heart stop when the recording artifact darted to the other combatant. Hair of a similar red adorned his features, and his body was also bleeding from so many places I couldn't tell where he'd been cut. But from the flash of his eyes and the way the recording shivered with increasing grain just from attempting to focus on him, I knew what this was.

A phoenix. An asura battled with Toren across the caverns of Burim.

Toren thrust his hands out, the very world itself seeming to hum. A literal star of white fire flashed into existence over his outstretched palms. Then it shot forward like a tear of pale sunlight amidst the dark, slamming into the phoenix. Toren's enemy held out their hand, barely catching the beam of energy. The clash made the artifact's residual grain increase as it struggled to comprehend what it recorded.

The spy, wisely, decided it was time for him to leave. His attention snapped away from the fight, his breathing increasing as he pushed his way through the crowds. His rune–probably an emblem of some sort–shoved people out of the way en masse as he finally broke rank.

All hell broke loose. Suddenly, mages were trying to use their spells to clamber closer to the faraway teleportation gate. Chaos overtook the entire evacuation, which had been strangely lulled so far.

The spy barely managed to reach the other end of the platform before the artifact shook. A humming sound that made my ribcage tremble and my toes curl overcame all other noise. There was a flash of utter, painful white that made me recoil, and then nothing more.

That was all that was left. Just a flash of white, stamped onto the mana panel. I watched for some time more, but I knew what had happened.

Mana burn. Whatever that attack had been, it had distorted the ambient mana so greatly that the feedback had fried the recording artifact's ability to capture anything else.

The room was silent for a long, long time as I stared at the pane of white mana, trying to put all of this together. The phoenix Toren was fighting… they looked like him. Almost as if they were related somehow, with their shades of hair and pulsing fires.

Toren was fighting with an asura, I thought again, still not fully understanding what I'd just watched. A lesser fought a god.

It didn't matter if he won or lost the fight. Not really. The fact that he hadn't been destroyed in the first exchange…

I'd seen Toren's absurd growth in power firsthand. In only a few months, he went from being relative to me in strength to fighting Retainers—and winning. But that was all still human. It was within the bounds of what I understood. But this—

What are you, Toren? I thought, not for the first time. What the fuck are you?

"This was all that our man managed to acquire," Corbett said into the silence. "We haven't had anyone try and recover any more footage. That's where we knew you would come in."

My hand tensed around the artifact mutely. I'd tried so hard to hide Toren's importance from my family. I'd tried to keep his abilities and strength down low.

"Is he alive?" I asked, the words feeling foreign.

"We don't know," Lenora replied, looking up from the table. "All reliable information from Burim has cut off entirely since the Breaking a few days ago."

Toren had told me that he was going to kill a Scythe. He had not said as much explicitly, but my best friend had implied he would bring about the downfall of Agrona's plans for this continent. But I couldn't say as much.

I can't let this recording survive, I thought suddenly, my metal arm shifting. It will make its way to the Sovereigns eventually. I can't let that happen. I can't.

It didn't matter if they would eventually learn about my friend's powers. Agrona had already confronted my friend deep in the constraints of the Central Cathedral. If I were the High Sovereign, I'd be watching for any note of Toren's impossible strength.

"All of Alacrya will be lining up to curry favor with Spellsong soon," Corbett muttered, his gaze distant. He spoke more to himself than to me, his face unreadable as he stared up at the ceiling. "Highblood Denoir will need to invest more of our resources into East Fiachra and all of Lord Daen's previous allies. Lord Morthelm's resources are already stretched too thin with the aftermath of the Plaguefire Incursion…"

Something didn't add up about this. I knew that my parents would try and pull Toren into their clutches when they heard about his power, but Toren was beyond their reach. He wasn't even someone they could touch anymore. With the level of strength this recording implied, he was already beyond their petty politics.

Scratch that, Toren was the paramour of a Scythe. What influence could Highblood Denoir have when Scythe Seris–

It finally fell into place.

"If you're stretched for resources," I grunted, a voice deep, deep inside of me laughing at how neatly it all fit together, "you could always ask Bloodstone Elixirs for help."

The silence that followed was so deafening I could hear the subtle whirring of mechanics in my soulmetal arm. Corbett focused on me directly, while Lenora only took another drink of her brandy. Lauden, surprisingly, blinked as he turned around. My younger brother—snob that he was—clearly sensed that my words had more weight, but he didn't understand why.

They knew, I understood. They knew about Renea Shorn. Or at least they understand that Bloodstone Elixirs is subject entirely to Seris' whims.

"How long have you been her pawns?" I asked, leaning back. I crossed my arms, holding the recording artifact in my right. "How long have you just been puppets for Scythe Seris? Because this isn't just about Toren. This is about following Scythe Seris."

"We are all servants of the Sovereigns, son," Corbett said, leaning back in his chair. "You know this as well as we do."

Son. My father hadn't called me that in a decade. Not since I'd dedicated myself to being an ascender and avoiding my pointless family duties.

"That's not what I meant," I bit back, memories flashing in my mind. Of Seris as she propped Toren up as some sort of folk hero in the aftermath of the Plaguefire Incursion. How she'd given amulets to both Naereni and my sister, telling them both that they could either hide their powers, or be subjected to Taegrin Caelum's torture chambers. "Because this isn't about the Sovereigns at all. Scythe Seris wants you to keep–"

"Shut your mouth," Lenora hissed, her shadowed eyes piercing me, before darting about the room. "You don't know what you're talking about, boy. Again, you assume without context. Just like with Abi–"

Someone burst through the door, tumbling to the ground in a feverish heap. Before I was even consciously aware of it, I was on my feet in a combat stance, my soulmetal pistol summoned from my dimensional storage and aimed directly at the figure's head. In my right hand, I clenched the recording artifact close to my chest. Corbett, too, had suddenly shifted into a form ready for combat as my mother stumbled to her feet.

I blinked in surprise, however, lowering my gun slightly as I took in the sight of who had unceremoniously interrupted a meeting of Highblood Denoir.

Taegan—with his fiery hair and massive shoulders—sweated on the ground as he haphazardly pulled himself to his feet. The man usually looked about as emotional as a brick wall, but there was a clear mask of panic on the striker's empty face as he hauled himself to his feet.

"What is the meaning of this?!" Corbett bellowed, his magic barely kept in check beneath his fingertips. "To interrupt a meeting of your employers–"

"She's here now," Taegan said quickly. "Arian sought to keep her attention occupied for a few seconds while I rushed here. But there was no time, my lords," he pushed out, sweat beading over his forehead.

My fingers clenched around the handle of the pistol in my hand. He isn't calling Arian 'Tiny Sword,' I thought with dread. Who could have rattled him so much to–

"Running was your mistake," a smooth, strangely focused voice said from just beyond the door. "It just told me that I needed to chase you."

The aura that flowed into the room in the wake of that feminine voice stole the breath from my lungs. My finger trembled near the trigger of my gun as I stared, wide-eyed, at the creature that loomed behind Taegan like an aura of death.

With skin the color of milk, a skin-tight dress of accented dark spikes, and bone-white hair that flowed in a braid nearly to her back, the woman's figure would have been recognized anywhere in Alacrya. Even without a twin set of dark horns that erupted from her scalp, I knew the beast that coated the Denoir estate in an aura of doom.

Scythe Melzri Vritra's coal-black eyes imperiously swept over the utterly frozen occupants of the room, her gaze testing as her power billowed around her.

Belatedly, my family rushed to comply with her presence. Corbett practically threw himself to his knees alongside my mother, both bowing low so as to not give offense. Lauden fell off his chair as he knelt, his movements jerky and unsure.

"Scythe Melzri Vritra," my father said haltingly, his eyes flicking haphazardly to my still-standing form, "we were not expecting you. If we had known you were–"

"Sevren Denoir," the pale-haired monster said, those catlike eyes finding me. She unceremoniously kicked Taegan's still-kneeling body, sending the poor man careening into a nearby wall. "You're Spellsong's friend, aren't you? And you aren't kneeling like the lesser you are."

My mother's eyes begged me to comply. Begged me to get on my knees and press my forehead to the floor and plead for the Scythe's forgiveness. But even as her aura made me break out into a cold sweat and my right arm feel as if it were crafted of lead rather than soulmetal, I could only think of one thing.

They're after Toren already.

My hand tightened around the recording artifact, then crushed it in my palm. The crumpled metal fell to the floor in an echo of decimated steel. "You won't be able to get to him through me," I said, backing up slightly as I locked gazes with the Scythe. "Your spawn has tried worse before."

Time seemed to slow as Melzri's mouth had formed a little 'o' of surprise as she watched the shattered relic fall to the ground. Her eyes drifted to the gun I'd subconsciously pointed at her, then back to my face.

I need to get to the Relictombs, I thought, in the middle of taking a step backward. That's the only place I'm safe.

"Please, Scythe Melzri!" Lenora said, pushing herself to her feet as her dress nearly caught her in a tangle. Her brilliant white hair shadowed her face as panic suffused her voice. "My son does not know–"

"You tried to defy me," Melzri said, sounding annoyed as she utterly ignored my mother. "That's what you're trying to do here, isn't it?"

One moment the Scythe was at the far end of the room. The next, my world exploded in pain. I screamed as I flew through a nearby wall, my left arm an unrecognizable mess of crimson. I cradled what was left of it in a heap, my mind delirious.

"Was this what you thought could hurt me?" Melzri's smooth voice said, sounding agitated. I gritted my teeth through the pain, looking up at the source. The Scythe stood at the hole in the wall my body had made, holding something in her hand as she inspected it with a curious eye. "This little contraption? Did you really think me so weak?"

It was my gun. My soulmetal gun rested in her slim hand as she looked it over like a curious cat. A grin slowly spread across her milk-white face, her blue lips stretching taut like a bowstring as she stared at me. Suddenly, I was reminded of a shintcat playing with a skaunter before finishing it off.

Melzri aimed the gun at me, her eyes narrowing. "You were aiming this end at me, lesser," she sneered. "Let's see how formidable it really is!"

And then she pulled the trigger. The kickback of the weapon seemed to have surprised even her as she fired—which was exactly what I'd been counting on. I was already moving, an eruption of dust and shrapnel trailing where my bullet struck.

A blade erupted from the top of my soulmetal wrist as I ignored the ruined mess of my left arm. Droplets of blood trailed behind me as I engaged Dictate of Mass, burring forward as I swung the metal at the woman's throat.

The Scythe—who had seemed off-guard and surprised from the kickback of my gun—wasn't even fazed by the sideways cut aimed for her throat. She weaved backward, easily avoiding my blow, before she lashed out with a fist.

My head rocked from her casual backhand. I stumbled, barely able to think, when I felt my feet being swept out from under me. I tumbled to the ground with a pained grunt, my vision flashing red as my wounded arm was jostled.

The Scythe was on top of me before I could even take in my change in position. Her face was set in a deep scowl, her teeth bared in an angry snarl as she loomed barely a foot over me from a mounted position. Her knee dug into my sternum in a way that was designed to hamper manaflow from my core.

"Did you think this was enough to defy me?" she hissed, pressing the barrel of my gun into my forehead. Her breath across my face made the blood in my veins turn to ice. "Was this it?"

I limply maneuvered my right arm, even though it was pinned by the Scythe's other hand. Through the haze of my pain, I pulled a single item from my dimensional storage.

Click.

I groaned as Melzri pressed the barrel of the gun in further. "I came here for a purpose, Sevren Denoir. But I can get someone else to carry my message. If you're so fit to–"

"You're a bitch," I wheezed, spitting blood onto the Scythe's face. "Nobody's ever told you what a monster you are. But you're the worst kind."

I could just see my parents rushing for me out of the corner of my eyes. Lenora's expression was a mask of terror as she moved in slow motion. Corbett gritted his teeth as he opened his mouth to shout. Even Lauden was drawing a blade from his dimension ring, his eyes wild.

But Melzri was the most shocked of them all. She appeared utterly stunned by the splatter of red that tainted her once-pale skin. She blinked down at me, baffled at my words.

Then her face twisted into one of utter rage. "You fucking cretin," she seethed. "You don't even–"

I aimed my wrist at the Scythe's face, feeling as her aura drove the breath further from my lungs. Surprised as she was by the spittle of blood dripping down her face, she didn't even have the time to comprehend the barrel of my arm as it aimed straight for her mouth.

I pulled the trigger in my mind.

The world erupted in electric light as I fired an artillery shell from my arm. Lighting crackled and jumped around me as I was forced painfully back into the floor, the breath leaving my lungs as my wrist ejected the bullet directly at the Scythe's face.

My vision flashed yellow as the sound of thunder and power drowned out all my senses. For a moment, I didn't know where I was. What had been happening. What I'd been fighting. My ears rang and my back ached like I'd been fighting for days from being pressed into the stones beneath me.

I blinked, my breathing ragged as my vision cleared. A veil of smoke shrouded Melzri's face, and her body was utterly still over top of me.

My gun fell from her limp fingers, clattering to the stones. Through the ringing of my ears, I couldn't hear it at all. For a second, I wondered if I'd done it. If I'd killed a Scythe. After all, the round I'd just fired had been enhanced with powdered aether crystal. It could tear through practically any mana defense I fired it at, and I'd shot the bitch point-blank.

Instead, when the smoke cleared from Melzri's face, I was greeted with a sight from a demon's nightmare. Most of her once graceful features had been turned into a mess of burnt and blackened flesh, revealing the bones far beneath. The blackened and charred skin of her face sloughed off like tar from an infernal pit, flakes of it disintegrating before my very eyes.

A skull stared down at me with impossibly wide eyes, tendons and muscle barely remaining attached to the face.

She was alive. Half her face had been torn apart from the impact, but she was alive. And in between Melzri's teeth was my bullet, crushed by the cracked enamel.

She caught it with her teeth, I realized with shock. The monster caught the bullet with her teeth.

I watched in horror, unable to even move, as Melzri's shaking hand moved to her teeth. She took the crushed projectile of soulmetal between her thumb and forefinger, inspecting it with ghoulish eyes.

Her mana flared, and dark flames–so much like Caera's–sputtered into existence, washing over her face. I watched in real-time as the wound I'd so desperately gambled to create was erased by her healing factor, leaving clean and unblemished skin.

Melzri stayed transfixed, her eyes honing in on that bullet. The weight of her aura pressed my family far behind her into the floor, even as they struggled to assist me.

"You tried to kill me," she said, seemingly unable to believe the words as they left her pale blue lips. "You… actually tried."

"Did you think I wouldn't?" I wheezed. "I told you what I–"

"Shut up, worm," she hissed. "Say another word, and I'll kill you. I'll paint these walls with your red blood and make your parents watch."

I gnashed my teeth, glaring up at the woman even as she held my life in her hands. All my life, I'd suspected on some level that this was how it would end. I'd go out in a blaze, trying to kill a Scythe.

Just one more shot, I thought manically, searching in my dimension artifact. I just need one more shot.

I'd only managed to get this far because the Scythe had let her guard down. If I could make her do it again…

The Scythe leaned forward, pressing the smashed bullet to my forehead. "You are going to send a message to your friend Spellsong," she said in a low, low voice, barely a few inches from my face. I resisted the urge to shudder from how cold she felt. "My daughter was captured by those traitorous mongrels of the Triunion. Nobody else has opted to save her. But Spellsong will. Because if he doesn't…"

The Scythe grabbed my soulmetal gun, then pressed it into the ground directly beside my ear. Her eyes glinted as she pulled the trigger, ejecting another round deep into the stone. A spray of shattered rock opened cuts all along my face as the explosion made my ears ring.

"Then 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."

Melzri ran her tongue over her lips as she leaned closer to me, her aura siphoning my very life from my bones. "Do you understand?"

I glared up at her with eyes full of hate. "He'll get your message," I hissed.

Melzri stood after that, leaving my body in a small crater as she stretched out her back. "You have two weeks. That's when Father says the war will be over, and that's all the time you have, Sevren Denoir."

She marched away after that, her boots clicking on the steps as her form-fitting dress swirled. Before she left, however, she spun on her heel. The bitch held out my pistol, taunting me with it as it reflected the light. "And this is mine now."

Then she vanished into the shadows like a ghost, leaving me to groan in agony as I remembered the bloody mess my left arm had become.

I barely registered as my mother rushed forward, engaging some sort of Spellform as she tried to diagnose my injuries. I waved her away as I blinked, plans and ideas running through my head as I tried to figure out what to do next.

Scythe Melzri wants Mawar freed from the Dicathians' clutches, I thought, stumbling to my feet. The shouting voices of my parents as they called for guards, medics, and tried to get my attention were ignored.

I stumbled away from my family, delirious as they tried to get me medical attention, but I ignored them. I didn't know when, but I found myself in the Denoir courtyard as I trudged forward, thinking of Toren, Mawar, and what I could do with this recent turn of events.

Guards and medical personnel followed me as I went, but I was only half aware of the world around me. I needed to get to the Relictombs.

A cough drew my attention to the courtyard wall. A young girl sat there, staring up at me from a nervous, crosslegged position. She had dark brown hair, and her hands fidgeted nervously with her worn clothes. "Sevren Denoir?"

I frowned, clutching at my bloodied arm. The guards around me oriented on the intruder, their weapons humming as they found the anomaly. "Raise your hands in the air, intruder!" a blustered Taegan snapped, his eyes hard. "How did you get in here?!"

The girl nervously raised her hands in submission. How she'd gotten inside the walls of the Denoir Relictombs estate, I didn't know–but that meant she was dangerous. "I swear, I'm not here to fight!" she said quickly, her eyes wild as they darted between me and the guards. "But I've got news! From the person who gave you your goggles! It's about Toren. I promise I mean no harm!"

I blinked, my vision focusing on the girl with utmost intensity. An asura had given me those. Who was this girl?

"What is your name?" I asked through gritted teeth, clutching at my wounded arm.

"Circe Milview," she said, cringing as Taegan levered his mace at her, "Circe Milview! And we don't have much time."