Crimson Ascension

The light of the torches dimmed to a welcoming orange, signaling the end of another day. People walked back and forth like always, an annoying column of bodies that made everyone's life a little more difficult. It was in the impatience of a merchant who shouted his way through, barreling a path amidst people who did not hear. It was also in the voice of all those around him.

Murmurs. Shouts. Gossiping. Nothing had changed. But Draven knew everything had changed.

How would they react if they found out what was bound to happen? The death of the Maker, the man who single-handedly created the Haven, rescuing humanity from the brink of extinction, was not news anyone would take seriously. If he had lived one thousand years, another millennium was nothing outside his grace.

Draven wished that was true. But he knew better.

"There's the Wild Voice right there!" Aemon shouted over the crowd, spotting the place where they were supposed to meet the others. "Out of the way!" He leveraged his body against the crowd and lost.

Heartbeats all around Draven, their sounds soothing as they dampened the maddening choir of the gathered people. He felt inside his jacket for the book. There, next to his beating heart, protected against swift hands.

There was not much to learn in terms of Arts, but mastering them was another story altogether; it did not take long for Draven to discover that. While he had a great affinity with the Art of Mending and Resonance, healing and heartsense, the others lay just outside his grasp.

The Art of Congealing and Ruling.

Time was running out, the Heightening ceremony was approaching, and he still could not congeal a Blood Armament like Overseer Travor once had. Draven had to be careful even to think about emitting his hexion outside his body, lest the energy rampage through his flesh as if it were his worst enemy.

Controlling the blood of others, the main prerogative of the Art of Ruling, was even more elusive. Either he was missing something, or the book he had stolen was written by an idiot.

Aemon's tight grip on Draven's arm brought him back. He pulled him aside with a pale face, sweat on his brows, fear displayed clearly in his vice-like grip. Draven followed his gaze, heard the sudden silence of the crowd, and soon understood the origin of his terror.

A man walked in the middle of the suddenly empty avenue. His skin was silver, like freshly polished steel. His torso was devoid of clothes, bare muscles rippling with a sort of power that could be felt in the air. None held their gazes for long. None except Draven. But he soon fell to his knees like all the others—it was in his best interest to pretend normalcy.

If Draven wanted to live, he had to look away from the runes inscribed in that man's flesh.

The man was gone as suddenly as he had appeared, but the crowd dissipated in silence. Terrified murmurs spoke a single word. Perfected. Draven had to know what it meant. Who was that man? How did he get runes all over his body but seem unaffected by them? ]

Draven knew there were no answers to be found by contemplating an impossible puzzle by himself, so he grabbed Aemon and rushed to the Wild Voice.

***

The tavern was silent. People drank their ale with trembling hands, as the news had already arrived by the time Draven and Aemon reached the establishment. The barkeeper greeted them with a solemn nod and returned to wiping his already clean glass cup.

Far to the side, in an inconspicuous corner of the dimly lit place, Myra sat with Corvanis, but Helvan was nowhere to be seen. My master and the man who killed my father, what a nice reunion.

"Been a while, guys." Aemon pulled out a chair. "Why the long faces? Didn't miss us?" He forced his cheerfulness.

"Forgive us the poor reception," Corvanis snarled. "It is hard to be welcoming with one of the Perfected prowling in the streets."

Draven looked at Myra and nodded before sitting. "News already got here then."

"Screaming and tripping," she said, with a look at the somber barkeeper. "But seeing you two again almost takes the somber edge out of it. Almost."

"Someone gonna explain what in the abyss is a Perfected?" Aemon shook his head and avoided a pinch from Myra. "I'm almost thinking you guys like to keep us in the dark. That a hobby or something?"

"He's not wrong." Draven looked at Myra.

It was Corvanis who broke the silence. "They are the hounds of the Maker," he spat. "Empyreans of great power. No, that is an understatement. If your education is not as flawed as your manners, you might remember the different affinities to a path. Simply put, we are born with a tangible amount of talent that will dictate how powerful we might become."

"Yeah, I remember everyone making a fuss about Draven's—"

"Do not interrupt me, boy." Corvanis silenced Aemon with a glare. "Training and diligence can bridge most gaps in affinity, that is true—I have seen it myself." He nodded to Myra. "But some chasms are so wide that no amount of hard work can overcome them. Some people are born so talented that no hard worker can ever dream of matching them. Archons are what they are called."

"That silver-skinned man who makes Anaverith tremble with every step is one of them. Was one of them. Now he is something beyond even that. The runes, whatever their purpose, augment a Perfected's power to an incomprehensible degree." Corvanis sighed. He made as if to continue, but shook his head.

"If we were to gather all the Empyreans in this city, we might have a chance at stalling that thing for a few minutes," he said before falling into silence.

A few minutes.

All the Empyreans in the city would only stall him—not stop, not harm, not kill. Stall. A shiver raised all the hair on the back of Draven's neck. The Perfected might be powerful, talented beyond measure, but if Corvanis was right, the secret to their power lay in the runes carved into their flesh.

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"What is he doing here? I thought Anaverith was the backwaters of Elysium?" Draven asked.

"Well, the Perfected won't act without the Maker's say-so." Myra clicked her tongue. "So something is going on here that is not making the big man happy."

"You think?!" Aemon's voice got a little too loud. "You know what? Tell her, Draven. Where in the abyss is the old man, anyway?"

Draven ignored Aemon. How to say a piece of news that would shatter the peaceful lives of common people? Nice words, beating around the bush—he suspected none of these tactics would soften the blow once it landed.

He took a deep breath, collected his thoughts, and let the words spill out in a hush so others did not hear. "The Maker will die, and the Haven will fall."

"Good one!" Myra scoffed, a smile on her lips. The expression lost its confidence as Aemon and Draven did not return the mirth. "Come on, guys… you can't be serious. Right, Corvanis?"

The frown of disapproval fell from Corvanis's face as he realized none of them were joking. "Seriously, where in the abyss is Helvan…"

"That would explain why one of them came to Anaverith." An emotionless voice drifted from the corner of the room to their table. Dressed in black, hair as white as cotton, Helvan approached as if his sudden appearance was not at all uncommon.

"Tall words provided without proof are no more than gossip, Draven," he said.

"Gramps! Good to see old age didn't take you just yet." Aemon stood up.

Helvan looked at him. "There is no need for reminders. You fulfilled your oath, Aemon."

The words made Aemon eager to speak. "There was a meeting on the tallest spire of the Amethyst Palace, a gathering of Virien hosted by Lord Paradius Orenn himself. All of them had reacted the same way as the old man, but they had all believed it once an old hag spoke the same things—"

"Describe the old woman," Helvan interrupted Draven. "What was her name?"

"They didn't say it. Short like you, white hair, wrinkled face," Draven explained, but Aemon interrupted him.

"Permanent white eyes even while not emitting hexion. I don't need to tell you what that means, do I?" Aemon crossed his arms, grew nervous, and snatched Corvanis's drink, downing it in a single gulp.

"Dreamer," Myra sighed, apparently convinced. "A powerful one."

"There is only one Dreamer that fits the description. For all the Virien to take her word as truth, she must be none other than Mallennia." Corvanis glanced at his empty drink. "If you would excuse me, I have to go." Try as he did, the Overseer could not hide the worry on his face.

Helvan did not stop him.

"Not a rumor but a prophesied dream." The elderly man looked lost for the first time. "I thought we had more time. I hope you forgive me, Aiden."

Draven had not heard that name for a long time—it was no longer who he was. But the old man sure knew how to apologize when he was wrong.

"It's not a big deal. I saw it with my own eyes, heard it myself, and still don't believe it." He sipped the frothing drink in front of him. It tasted sour. "I've done my part, Helvan."

"And I will do what I swore to do." Helvan held Draven's gaze for an uncomfortable second. "Prior to the day of the Severing, when the Orenn House lowers their guard, I will assist in retrieving your family."

The words were like a decree that lifted an unseen weight from Draven's shoulders. All the suffering, all the nights of silent training in the confines of his soul—it would all end. Skulking in the shadows in fear of being found. It would end. Responding to fake names. No more. The endless torture of not being able to do anything, of accepting his powerlessness.

Enough.

He did not thank Helvan, but he wanted to.

"Come, Aemon." Helvan beckoned Aemon as he stood up. "I suppose it is time to teach you how to kill an Evoker." Both departed with different springs in their steps.

Unbuttoning his jacket, Draven produced the stolen book for Myra. "What do you say about a lesson, master?"

"Sure! Why not? Anything to take my mind from, hmm… the end of the world? The death of us all?" She scratched her head with a perplexed expression. "You know, sometimes I think you guys are crazier than me."

***

Hexion circulated in Draven's blood as he walked the way back to the Orenn House. Following Myra's instructions, his blood vessels diluted the Hexion, which pumped farther with each beat of his foreign heart. Channel more than was wise, and the consequences would be dire—or so she said. Still, he felt the ripples of power coursing through his muscles, strengthening him.

A simple, effective trick. But it was not free.

The refined hexion steadily disappeared as he consumed it; his body absorbed its power faster than he could replenish it. Nonetheless, it was worth it. The exercise did wonders for practicing the Third Tenet: Emit, for it instilled in him an intrinsic understanding of how to imbue his will into the hexion without conscious commands.

His step carried him farther than intended, then the strength faded into the wind. Dammit, lost control of it again. The more he thought about what he wanted the hexion to do, the harder it was to keep it leashed to his will. The key, according to Myra, lay in the subtle barrier between consciousness and unconsciousness—a command without thought.

It was harder than he first imagined.

The respect he felt for the red-haired Empyrean only grew as he came to understand the depths of her knowledge and skill. The things he struggled so much to do, she did with the grace of a bird flying in the air. Was that what talent looked like? Perhaps, but no one wise would discredit the years of practice she had accrued.

When asked about the Art of Congealing, especially about the formation of Blood Armaments, she just shrugged. "You gotta know your weapon in and out," she had said.

No one ever trained Draven in any sort of martial combat involving weapons, so mastering that trail on the Blood Path was beyond him. For now.

The Art of Ruling was another disappointment. Myra herself confessed she could not do it properly, as her will was not strong or vast enough to make the blood of others bend to her command. But he remembered his body freezing with a mere touch of her cold hands on the operation table—that memory was one tough to bury.

"To rule is to make others resonate with your will," she had rambled. "Yeah, I know, two arts in one. Annoying, right? You can think about it like two drunk people shouting at each other in a tavern. When one is loud enough, the other will shut up for a second. Makes sense?"

Draven did not understand it. After simmering on it for hours, he was still clueless about it.

"The key to ruling is to make them shut up not for a second, but for as long as you want them to. It's all about who has the stronger will of the two, truth be told. Easier said than done, though. I can do it to babies and unheightened people that are not freaks of will like you, but to do the same to another Empyrean… gonna need to link with one or two other Menders."

Just remembering her words put him at a loss. He knew his will was abnormally strong and vast, but his finesse in controlling it was the direct opposite. With a sigh, he let the matter go. There would be time for training later—when his family was safe and sound.

Perhaps it was better to finally push the boundaries of Lesser Reverence.

He stumbled again when an unexpected realization hit him. The training, the grueling pain and effort, had always been a means to an end, a way of getting closer to rescuing his brother and mother. But that had changed along the way. As wrong as it sounded, he liked the routine. The feeling of tangible progress.

It was part of who he had become.

"Make a sound, and you are dead." A cold voice spoke from behind him.