Crimson Ascension

The torches above shone with painful brilliance. To the common people, the brightness of a new day dissuaded dangerous ideas—deeds that might border into forbidden territory. But as Draven strode through the streets of Varn'Kess, only one thought filled his mind.

Today he dies. He adjusted the red mask covering his face, suppressing a grunt of annoyance.

A long time ago, he had felt special being the only one able to gaze upon the mysteries hidden by taboo. Now, he wished to be rid of the skill. He yearned for the strength to heal the scar on his face, the one that made all living men wince at a glance.

Draven tried to mend the damage, the burnt tissue in his cheek, but whatever property the runes held placed them beyond the touch of the Empyrean Arts. With a sigh, he pushed the matter from his mind. He was in Varn'Kess for vengeance, not self-pity.

The home of House Astrais, one of the largest cities in all Haven, was a sight unlike anything he had ever seen. Fortified walls, littered with metal spikes along their length, surrounded the agglomeration of stone buildings with the care of a hunter imprisoning its prey. Spires rose high near the perimeter but gradually diminished in height toward the city's heart.

None of that captured Draven's attention. Sovran architecture was impressive at first, but one soon grew used to it. A city that throbbed with the heartbeat of a living being? Now that was something Draven would not get used to for a long time.

With every hexion-infused step he took, and with each breath inhaled, he could feel it. The being that rested forever in its tomb. The vanquished foe slain by the Maker was an overbearing presence, even in death.

The Fallen. Or whatever his name was. Draven could not care less.

He entered one spire, ascending flight after flight of stairs to reach its peak, where a dignified tavern claimed its place, its guests, Empyreans of all strengths. One of them would die this day, Draven swore.

He glanced to the side before entering the clamoring gathering of pompous Sovrans, and stumbled at the sight of a drawing nailed to the wall. It depicted a man. Someone he knew all too well.

Wavy short hair boiled upward, as if lifted by a gust of wind. Narrow eyes, coupled with furrowed brows, painted the complexion of a natural-born villain. A mess of lines attempted to imitate what a rune looked like, at least to those not born Sighted.

Draven adjusted his mask again. Abyss take me, Sovrans are good at spreading gossip. He looked at the drawing once more.

"Enemy of the Haven. Wanted Alive," Draven read. "Recompense for capture: Entrance to Eternatus Hierarchy Stand and 10,000,000 greater hexion cubes." His voice gained an offended tone as he stared at the drawing's scowl.

Doesn't even look like me.

"Good sir, no masks allowed in our establishment," a frail Sovran said at his side.

Draven silenced him with a burst of his Presence, enough force to let others know insignificant rules would not stop him. Not today. Never again. He was here to find the man who had made him and his family suffer needlessly.

That day had come.

Draven spotted his target at the far end of the tavern, and his blood boiled. The Sovran who tried to stop him whimpered and scrambled away, for he knew the look of a man who meant to spill blood.

Pristine white vestments, a slightly condescending smile, a powerful frame worthy of an Empyrean. He sat beside a pretty waitress; her smile was convincing enough to earn extra pay.

Draven strode across the dark wooden floor. His steps cracked the planks. The mood wafting from him silenced the crowd of perceptive Empyreans. All at once, three strong Presences enveloped his spirit, trying to gauge his power, intent on establishing a hierarchy.

Draven suppressed them as an afterthought.

The Empyreans who noticed him left in a hurry. But his target did not. Good, Draven smiled under his crimson mask. He arrived in front of the man, finally catching his attention.

The white-robed Sovran looked up from his conversation with the waitress, annoyed. "What's the matter with you? As you can see, I am busy. If your intent is to join the Magisterium Arcana's party in the upcoming Incursion, you'll have to apply like all the others."

Draven raised his hand, hexion infusing his body to the full extent a Greater Reverence was capable of, and slapped the Sovran across the face. Bones cracked beneath his palm. Teeth flew and struck the wall. The Sovran blasted backward into the polished wood, cracking it with the sheer force of the blow.

The waitress screamed, jumping aside and crawling away.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"What's the matter, Calandor?" Fury laced Draven's every word. "It's just a slap."

The man who had brutally beaten Draven's mother—stood dazed by the sudden attack. Still, he was part of the Magisterium Arcana for a reason. Hexion surged beneath his skin, mending the damage done to his rattled brain, sending sharp focus back into his bloodied eyes.

"Y–you!" he said, mustering hexion to mend his jaw. "What's the meaning of this? How do you know me? Forget it! Maker be my witness, I challenge you to a High Duel—"

Draven let the hexion strengthen his body and punched Calandor. The Sovran caught his fist with equal force, visible strain showing through the rage creasing his brows. Without unfolding his Presence, Draven knew he faced another Greater Reverence, and so did Calandor.

Calandor yanked him by the arm and drove a punch into his stomach. Draven felt the wind flee from his lungs, but he only smiled. The Sovran released the arm, only to slam a kick into his chest. Pain exploded inside him as three ribs cracked, but he merely stumbled back as Calandor used the opportunity to gain distance.

"I'm glad you didn't go down with a slap," Draven said, mending the cracked bones in an instant. "I wouldn't want you to die just like that. Not after what you did to me. To my family. To my mother!"

"Listen, you abyss-forsaken madman, we've never met before," Calandor snarled through bloodied teeth. "But I suppose the only way to know is if you take that mask off. Are you scared of showing your ugly mug to the Haven? No need for that. After I'm done with you, not even your damned mother will recognize you!"

Calandor let the hexion waft from his body, congealing into a thin saber that mimicked the one strapped to his waist, before rushing at Draven with a roar. Crimson armor hardened over his white vestments as he dashed forward.

Draven stepped back and raised his arms into a protective stance. The saber fell with a sharp whistle, but he narrowly avoided it with a duck of his head.

He's good. Strong. He dodged the blows, expecting blood spikes to strike him any moment. None did. No barrier blocked his path of retreat. Calandor only rushed forward with a single-minded focus of slashing him open.

Draven exhaled the fury clouding his judgment. Anger had no place in a duel between Empyreans. Even though there was a blood debt to be collected, only a fool would let emotion guide his actions. But that was easier said than done. Calandor reminded him of everything—everyone—he had lost.

He absently felt the metal bracelets gripping his wrists—hexion dampers. They suppressed his control and limited the amount of hexion he could channel. Draven did not know why Helvan had told him to never remove them, but the old man could go eat coal for all he cared.

The lack of attention earned him a deep cut to the leg. Draven feinted a step back, then dashed forward with a kick to Calandor's knee. When the Sovran retreated with a grunt, Draven palmed the metal latches on both wrists and let the bracelets fall to the ruined floor. He had to finish this before the Silver Flame Inquisition caught wind of this battle.

Calandor leaped back, eyes wide open in surprise, as tendrils of hexion spread from Draven with unrestrained freedom. His stance changed, a serious frown overtaking his face in an instant, and Draven understood the real fight was about to begin.

The Sovran swiped his arm and thin, sharp blades made of blood burst forth, aimed at his legs. Draven willed a shield to existence in front of him, buying enough time to swerve to the side and dash away from the attack.

When he raised head, Calandor was onto him with a speed he hadn't showed before. The Blood Armament came, trying to take him in the heart, the entire weight of the Sovran's body behind the attack.

I've been waiting for this.

Draven grabbed the sword with his bare hands, grimacing as it tore through his flesh and bone with little effort, and broke Calandor's nose with a punch. The moment skin touched skin, Dyad Vessel flooded out from his spirit, eager to unleash all the store retribution upon its victim.

Calandor's legs bent back and broke, as he crumpled on the floor with soul-piercing scream. A deep cut appeared in his hand, alongside the sound of three of his ribs breaking. The armour that surrounded him vanished in a burst of mist, replaced by burns lacing his torso.

The brunt of the training Draven had been performing, if it could even be called that, manifested into Calandor in the blink of an eye. Burns. Cuts. Stabs. Broken bones. Everything struck him at once, but it wasn't enough to send him unconscious.

"What… What did you…" His eyes muddled for a second as fought through the pain, but gained clarity not a moment later. "A Providence. But what did I ever do to you? Who are you?"

Draven ignored his questions, the horror and realization of impending death on his face. He thought spilling Calandor's blood would ease his pain, perhaps even bring him a measure of solace—it only brought hunger. The scent of blood was overpowering, the hue of the warm pool that spread from the defeated Sovran awakened something in him.

Prey! A voice echoed inside his head, making him stumble. Let me join the fun. Draven swerved to the side, confused. The hexion at his command faltered, almost as if refusing to his intent, overridden by another will that wasn't his own.

What's going on? He shook his head, trying to get his thoughts in check. Calandor grinned. Three blood blades shot from his still body, taking Draven by surprise. Shit! He willed a shield in front of him, or tried to. The hexion struggled to obey for a moment, granting the blades enough time to chop into his flesh.

Pain flared on his arm as one blade almost cut it clean off. Anger exploded inside of him. Rage. Hunger. Draven blacked out for a second, and he came back to his senses, a crimson tail which sprouted from his lower back impales Calandor in the head.

"What in the abyss?" Draven muttered, confused.

He willed the hexion to dissipate, but it resisted, struggled against the command. Obey me! He roared with the full extent of his will and the tail vanished. Mend me. The flow of refined hexion drained his astra as it sought his wounds, drenching them in healing energy that stopped blood loss, put bones back together, and mended cuts.

"I remember telling you not to remove the dampeners!" Helvan appeared behind him, unnatural anger laced in his voice.

"What happened, Helvan?" Draven took a seat, absently looking at his arm, marveling at the visible speed it healed. "The hexion… It resisted me. Refined hexion. I black out, and when I'm back, that bastard's dead."

"The Hemomorph is what happened. We thought a core carried no will, certainly no soul," the once elderly man, now an adult in his prime, said with a pensive frown. "It is clear now how lacking that knowledge was. Do yourself a favor and put the dampeners back on your wrists. It is the only way to suppress the creature's will."

Draven gathered the metal manacles, clasping them on his wrists without once hint of indignation. Whatever lived inside of him was stirring, and so was this city.