Crimson Ascension

Draven looked at his murky reflection as he shadowed Nerovian on the shining floor of the Amethyst Palace. He wore a dark purple vest, golden embroidery of House Orenn—a compromise between comfort and luxury. It did not seem like the outfit one should wear when infiltrating enemy territory, but he supposed that was exactly the point.

Other Sovran lords walked around them, casting curious glances at him, yet he kept his mouth shut even though his eyes and ears were open. On his first visit, most of the invitees were of a similar age to Nerovian, young lords and ladies who were undoubtedly heirs to their houses—people of influence.

Something was different this time.

The faces of the guests spoke of age and experience, and the looks and murmurs thrown around by more knowledgeable servants told him all he needed to know. These were the Virien themselves, the leaders of their respective houses, figures who held eminent authority over the future of Anaverith. Their heirs were still present, but the crowd of different generations did not mingle.

"What a fine salon has your house thrown in this lovely evening, Nerovian." Lord Balthrian approached with his green eyes shining like lanterns. "I wonder what this fuss is about. My lord father certainly could be in a better mood."

"A question I have asked often, Balthrian." Nerovian returned the half-bow. "I am glad to see you are not ill-accompanied tonight."

Balthrian chuckled and threw a glance behind him as if to confirm the words. "Artros is an odd creature. Sometimes I wonder if he despises or has taken feelings for you, but I suppose only the Maker holds the answers to such mysteries."

"I will take hate over infatuation." Nerovian mustered a half-hearted chuckle.

"Word travels faster than dreams. It is around us, incessant gossiping and endless questioning," Balthrian said.

It seemed every Sovran enjoyed beating around the bush, so Draven turned his attention elsewhere—to a more important scene. The Hall of the Amethyst Dragon, the room protected by the massive Empyrean.

Why guard something at all times? Judging the group of Virien by how they behaved, ‌the Lord of House Orenn was amidst them. Knowing how he looked would have been an asset.

The stairs in the far right corner were also guarded by Empyreans. One headed up while the other one descended to the depths below the Amethyst Palace. It's either the hall or the stairs. Maker let it be the stairs. Taking his chances against two Empyreans at once seemed more realistic than imagining a fight with that mountainous man.

Draven had only seen one being taller than him. Thinking about Asthagon only brought questions, and those he could not afford. Not the time for doubt.

"Is that correct, Draven?" someone called to him.

His name—the disguise he wore to ward off inquisition—and it was calling him. He looked up to see Lord Artros with an arrogant smirk plastered on his face. Don't talk? Sounds good to me. With a glance at Nerovian, he returned his attention to the surrounding party.

"You dare ignore me, Low Blood—"

"Insult my Primus, Lord Artros, and blood will be spilled." Nerovian snarled, and their surroundings fell into cold silence.

Even if Draven wanted to, it was impossible to ignore the air of hostility that threatened to ignite with a stray spark.

Lord Artros's eyes widened in clear disbelief. "We both know that blood would not be mine, Nerovian." He scoffed and approached the heir of House Orenn without a drop of fear on his face. "Empyrean against half-breed. It does not take a genius to know the outcome."

The crowd of listening Sovran gasped. Half-breed? What did he mean by that? Whatever insult he meant struck Nerovian like a punch to the gut—his entire demeanor changed at the mention of the word. His eyes were red and wide, fists clenched, and knees in the process of assuming a fighting stance.

Balthrian walked in front of Nerovian, raised his hand, and planted a slap on the red-haired Sovran's face. "Have you no shame? To insult the host of a salon held in goodwill, I wonder what manner of education House Elore is passing down to its heirs."

Blood trickled down Artros's split lip. Infatuation, my ass. Hatred distorted the lord's face in an ugly rictus of impulse and reason, but ‌he did not retaliate against Balthrian.

"Ah! The energy of youth." A rough voice boomed in the hall. It seemed unimpressed. "Lords and Ladies, my esteemed guests, reserve your feverous spirit for the Hierarchy Stand—where you will fight to your heart's content. No Empyrean Arts, I am afraid."

"Hierarchy Stand? Why has no one told me?" someone gasped behind Draven. "Lothair, fetch my armaments with haste!"

The gathered Sovran whispered similar commands.

"It is the Maker's will to set injustice right." Artros threw a poisonous glance at Nerovian.

Nerovian looked back at him. He traded no insults, no threats, but there was murder in his eyes—in the way he looked at the red-haired noble as if imagining what to do with him.

Empyreans of House Orenn guided the younger crowd out of the festivities. Nerovian parted with a solemn nod to Draven. No words, a sign of his bad mood. The Virien‌ steadily disappeared behind the guarded gate, where Arzhan stood like a tower of flesh and metal.

"Would you like a drink, my lord?"

Draven turned around to see none other than Aemon. Black and purple suit, a silver plate full of drinks expertly balanced in the palm of his hand, and an excited grin plastered all over his face. Few remained in the hall besides the two of them—Primi of the other heirs and servants doing their jobs. If there was ever a good time to disappear, it was now.

Aemon discreetly placed the drinks on one of the empty tables. There were no eyes on them, none that Draven noticed, but there were certainly ears. In a place where everyone heard even the most secretive whispers, speaking one's mind was courting death.

"Lord Nerovian was told you had some rare spirits in stock. Courtesy of Theodore, if my memory serves me right." Draven whispered between them.

A few ears perked up at that, though no surprise reflected on the faces of those intent on minding their business. A cover in plain sight suited what they were about to do.

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"Of course, my lord." Aemon nodded and turned to guide Draven out of the hall.

The garden outside was devoid of any eyes. The torches shining in the sky told of late hours approaching—hardly an appropriate time to perform friendly combat, but Sovran culture made no sense to begin with. The silhouette of the Amethyst Palace shone with the occasional flicker of a lightsphere close to windows and the distant sound of battle.

"Where are we headed, my lord?" Aemon inspected the palace for secret entrances. He kept the honorifics and respect in his voice in case someone else overheard them.

"To the secret stock. There is just one issue." Draven paced around the palace, looking for any clues. "Theodore is not a man who will easily let us through."

Aemon's eyes narrowed. He understood they were not talking about Theodore at all, but about the giant who stood between them and the information they had sworn to seek. "That much I can tell with a glance! But you know what, my lord? The Orenn House sure has some nice architecture."

"Lots of windows." They shared a glance.

Running showed guilt, but no one judged a faster-than-normal pace—people were busy, after all. Draven guided Aemon along the palace's exterior, their paces on the edge of breaking into a sprint.

Darkness did not hinder his sight; it was a friend that shielded him from prying eyes, but Aemon was not one of its acquaintances. He grunted every time one bush whacked him in the face, but dared not utter a curse. Not a word.

"It might be there." Draven broke the silence. Close to the wall, under the light of the castle windows, four guards stood like statues. "Abyss take me if it's not there."

"Don't sabotage us, stupid!" Aemon cursed. "Theodore guards the inside of his stock, while his assistants secure the outside. Common spirits are known to everyone by this point, but the secret spirits… Well, that kind always requires more security."

"Do we still need to talk like this?" Draven asked Aemon. It was confusing, not to mention annoying.

"Want to risk the wrath of big Theodore, My lord?" Aemon snarled.

"Fair enough." Draven surrendered his hands. "And it's Master Draven to you. I'm no lord."

Aemon rolled his eyes.

The Amethyst Palace was small compared to the surrounding buildings of the Orenn House complex, but its towering spires pierced the air as if attempting to reach the ceiling itself. One might take it as a bold statement. But Draven had not the time for musings, least of all to enjoy the view.

He had a job to do.

The rooms guarded by the two armored men were empty. The clear windows revealed the other side of the door where Arzhan stood watch—that and a set of stairs to ascend the spire. There was only one thing to do. Draven knew it as soon as he laid eyes on it.

"We need to climb, Draves." Aemon hesitated. "But a fall from that high—"

"Don't say that!"

They turned around, far from the guards, near the corner of the palace. The layered roof was far above them, nearly at the height of a three-story building. Is it even possible to jump that far? Draven did not know. The new heightened body did not exactly come with a manual of limitations, and they certainly lacked the time and opportunity to find out.

"Remember," Aemon turned to him, "don't make a scene—"

Draven jumped with all the strength he had. The wind rushed in his face; the ground grew distant, and the torches in the ceiling got slightly closer. He landed with a muffled thud on the ceiling. Not enough to be overheard, hopefully, but enough to cause Aemon to land with a growing scowl on his face.

"Let's go." Draven took the lead to guide them amidst the poor lighting.

The spire had several open verandas, not to mention decorative, protruding squares that invited the uninvited. Draven closed his eyes and attuned with the raging waves of hexion within him. The crimson fog burning outside of his astra resonated with the blood; it heard their whispers as if it existed in synchrony with their beating hearts.

One heartbeat behind him. Two underneath him—the guards, most likely. Several up in the spire. He knew where to go. He began the climb, and Aemon followed without hesitation. The wind brushed against Draven's jacket, a howling tune that urged him to look below, but he understood that was the last thing he needed to do.

After a few minutes of arduous climbing, the heartbeats grew closer, numerous, agitated. Something was going on, and they needed to know. A stone dragon wrapped around the spire, masterfully carved in a way that it curved around the windows like a piece of art.

"...Impossible! That sort of heresy might earn us a cleansing, Paradius." An outraged man's voice abandoned all sense of courtesy. "What proof do you have of this?"

Draven and Aemon stood clear of the window. Yet the whispering sounds of the growing commotion might as well be louder than yelling.

"Do you believe I would produce such news without evidence, Lord Elore?" Paradius Orenn, the lord of the very spire they now skulked on, snarled. "In some sectors of Elysium, there are rumors of the torches blinking during the day. Rumors that I have confirmed with my very eyes."

"That is not enough, Paradius." A stern voice cut through the commotion with a veil of silence. "But again, you are no fool. What else have you discovered?"

Draven knew that voice. It belonged to Nospheo, the Blade of Eons—the man who had walked through the Amethyst Palace without a hint of concern in his eyes.

"Indeed," Paradius said.

Draven looked at Aemon for any clues about the broken bits of information, but he stood transfixed, eyes glued to the crowd of strangers. Something was wrong. The usual carefree levity on his features had dissipated in the howling night, as his bloodshot eye tracked a man who leisurely talked amidst his peers.

"Aemon?" Draven tried to get his attention.

He gritted his teeth, hands tightening into fists, and his black eyes took the tone of an iridescent white. Draven had not known him for long, that much was true, but he knew him well enough. In the entire Haven, there was only one thing—one man—who, at the slightest mention, caused Aemon to lose himself inside his rage.

His father.

"If you give us away, we're as good as dead." Draven held onto one of the dragon's claws with one hand and grabbed Aemon's arm with the other. No response. White mist seeped out from Aemon's closed fists. "Finn!"

Aemon blinked into awareness. Hatred ingrained so deep was hard to shake off, impossible to get rid of, but it could wait. With a shudder, he recalled the hexion to himself and let his feelings marinate in the darkness of his heart, where they waited for the opportunity to stain the world with their ugliness.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Soon. The determination that seeped out from him was colder than the wind.

The Virien went silent. Something had happened. Sharing a concerned glance with Aemon, he peeked through the window. An elderly lady stood in the center of the room, her figure towering amidst the Empyreans even though she was the shortest of them.

"I dreamed of darkness in the Haven." Her raspy voice permeated every corner of the room. Shivers ran down Draven's spine. "They who have been sealed by the Maker have returned. The Fallen will rise. The Cosmic Firmament shattered once more. The fruits of the Original Sin withered and died."

Faces paled around the woman. Her words carried power, authority written in hexion that left no doubt of the truth that left her lips. Whereas the Virien doubted Paradius Orenn, they took her word as a prophecy of doom.

"The rivers of time corrode even what is eternal. After one thousand years, not even the Maker would be able to fight its relentless currents." Nospheo sucked in a breath, stumbled on his feet, and sat down on one chair.

As if to cement the man's words, the old woman closed her eyes for a moment that stretched into eternity. When she opened them, all the hope gathered in those around her vanished as the words left her lips.

"I dreamed of the Maker's death." Her words were conveyed through a whisper. But that silence was intent on changing the Haven forever.

Draven pulled away from the window, his heart pounding in his chest. It was too much. It was worse than he thought. The Maker's death. To glimpse the future through dreams required power unlike anything he had ever seen—a feat only the most prominent Dreamers in all of Elysium had ever achieved. It was not something that could be done at will. Yet, without fail, it always came to pass.

"Maker protect us," Aemon whispered.

The prayer had once brought hope. It spread warmth during the frosty nights, filling the bellies of the hungry with sustenance to live another day. Now the words brought nothing but despair, for the Maker was bound to die.

And the Haven along with him.