Crimson Ascension

The Ruined Tavern had a descriptive name, if Draven was being honest. It claimed the remains of some sort of ancient round arena as its property. Some whispered the building's purpose was death battles, where the ancients watched and reveled in bloodshed.

It predated the Haven for at least a few centuries, so there wouldn't be anyone but the Maker to know its real purpose. Shoddy wooden tables, expertly distributed under the fading light of day, adorned the open area. Servers served the customers, and Draven was surprised to find that none were weaker than Greater Reverence.

A fact that annoyed Finn to no end.

"Even the damn servers are stronger than me!" He threw his hands in the air, mock despair filling his voice. "Maybe I should ask to become a janitor or something."

"You really think they'd hire you?" Draven asked, putting the drink down.

"Shut up, man." Finn looked at him, then hesitated. "You know, we haven't talked about it before, but how exactly did you end up in the Sixfold Corridor twice?"

Draven closed his eyes, driving away the painful memories that threatened to emerge. "I'm not sure, Finn. I've tried to go back, to use it as some sort of… way to speed up training, but I can't seem to do it."

"Not gonna beat around the bush. We could use just that. You don't remember anything at all?" He insisted.

"It's hard to think straight when you have someone poking holes in your soul," Draven snapped, his voice trembling with rage. "I'll find that Arzhan bastard one day, I swear."

"That might be it." Finn nodded. "You're undoubtedly connected to it in some way, but you didn't go physically like the first time. No, only your soul did."

"What are you saying?" Draven frowned.

"Maybe it takes an Evoker to tap into your connection to the corridor—"

"Yeah, not happening." He dismissed the idea without a second thought. "You don't know what it feels like, Finn. Physical pain I can take just fine, my Providence numbs them a bit, gives me purpose to endure it. But soul torture? It doesn't get numb. It only gets worse."

"Alright. Alright. Forget I mentioned." Finn let the matter go. "Where's the fucking guy?"

"What do you mean?"

"Helvan was supposed to send a Witness to deliver some supplies. That was hours ago!" Finn examined the sitting patrons with fury. "Where in the abyss is he?"

"Who knows?" Draven shrugged. "I'm gonna go see if there's any news going around."

He stood up from the table, making his way to the counter. The mask drew a few long glances, but nothing to be concerned about. Or so he hoped. Two men sat in front of the barkeeper, shouting in frustration, a few too many drinks victim to their sorrows.

"By the Maker's left nut sack, Vic! I'm telling you something is going on." A black-haired man with scar-riddled arms complained. "The hexbeasts are so damn crazy all of a sudden. It's like there's a mating season going on! Wait, do they even mate?"

"You know they don't, but you're not mad. I've heard it's the same everywhere." The woman by his side chuckled, patting him on the back. "People are saying it started a few days ago. It's a shame, though, I was looking forward to pushing my Providence."

Draven took a seat next to them, the words rattling on his brain. Providence? Helvan wasn't joking. Their lack of fancy armor or ornate clothing notwithstanding, the two Empyreans were certainly of high birth; only those of high birth would boast about possessing an Az'Tenri Circlet.

"Trouble with the hexbeast, friends?" Draven picked up a drink and nodded to them.

"You fancy barging into other people's conversations, friend?" He spoke the words in a way that conveyed anything but friendship. "Go sit somewhere else—"

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The woman promptly smacked him in the head. "Sorry about him. Too many drinks and shitty luck on the hunt." She raised an eyebrow at the mask.

"It's alright." Draven was glad his expression was hidden. What an asshole. "I can't say we've had any luck either. Got ambushed by fifty or something hexbeasts before deciding to call it a day."

"Fifty?" Sobriety returned to the black-haired man's face. "That doesn't happen every day. Any reason for that? Did you carry a lot of cores like a rookie and got them turned on?"

"A lot of cores? Not really." Draven shook his head. "Why would that be a problem?"

"See this, Vic?" The man pointed at Draven in sheer disbelief. "How come they let these kinds of people in? It's feeding the damn hexfuckers, I tell you! There's some hidden agenda to destroy Varn'Kess, I'm telling you."

"Don't mind him." The woman called Vic winced. "Hexbeasts consume cores and astras to get stronger, but I'm sure you already know that."

Draven stared in silence. He most certainly did not, but now the behaviour of the Hemomorph's motive became clearer. It was trying to gather strength, to become powerful enough to challenge supremacy over his body.

Sneaky damn snake.

"But I gotta ask, why the mask?" The woman's hand drew dangerously close to her daggers. "You don't wear one unless you've got something to hide. Word goes around about a branded traitor, but you wouldn't know anything about it, would you?"

Draven's heart turned to ice. "Draw that knife and I'll cut off your hand," he spoke with a nonchalant voice.

"What did you fucking say—"

Draven unfolded his will and slammed his Presence into the duo.

Their eyes almost jumped out of their sockets, their resistance combined, falling short of matching his ethereal weight. The man struggled, eyes turning red with rage, but the woman shook her head and bowed.

"I'm sorry!" She begged. "That was rude of us. Please accept our—"

"Save your words," Draven sighed and withdrew his Presence.

He walked to the table, presenting his unguarded back to the strangers, daring them to make a move. To his surprise, none of them did. That was close! Dammit, I'm pretty sure that woman was a Greater Eminence. Sweat covered his back.

One's power usually correlated with the amount of their will. That was how Empyrean prowess usually worked. But Draven was someone who had an amount of will far greater than his realm of advancement, a fact which undoubtedly helped in selling his bluff.

Archon or not, he wasn't confident in facing two Greater Eminences at once. Not when his power was still unrefined, especially not when he didn't even know their paths.

Finn shooed off a pale-faced stranger after taking an unassuming bag. "Now off you go, be late for your other appointments!"

The Sovran stormed off with a barely restrained snarl on his face.

"What's the ruckus about, Finn?" Draven sat down, motioning to the bag before asking, "Anything good there?"

Finn glared at the messenger's back as if to stab holes in him. "Abyss damned slacker." He looked inside the bag, palming through the contents before shouting a barely restrained curse, "Fucking shit!"

Tears ran down his face. He closed his eyes as if facing a terrible headache. Draven did not need to ask what was inside the bag, for he had seen that reaction all too often when growing up. Instead, he took the bag and looked inside.

A dozen or so cores. One handwritten letter. A cube pulsing with blue light.

Abyss take me. Excitement sped up Draven's heart as he laid eyes on a runic remnant, the like of which he had never seen before. With this… I can finally… understand.

He feigned a reaction out of instinct to maintain appearances.

"If you ever retire as an Empyrean, you can go live as an actor." Finn scoffed, wiping down his eyes. "I know you can see them, you sneaky bastard. Helvan all but told me, so it didn't take a genius to add one and one and make two. But make no mistake, I am a genius."

"Oh..." Draven was surprised for a moment. It felt weird having his most tightly guarded secret exposed to the world, but it was also liberating. "It gets tiring… to pretend."

"I can't imagine." Finn sighed. "Still, better not get that thing out before we're in a safe place."

Draven nodded.

He took out the letter, reading it for any clues of Helvan's plans. "The Silver Flames Inquisition prowls. Stay out of the city. Do not visit the Ruined Tavern. Head north to the Erratic Mountain."

"Abyss fucking damnit!" Finn stood up, gathering his things. "And he's only mentioning it now? Damned used-to-be-geezer!"

"Fucking Helvan." Draven shoved the letter inside the bag, moving to leave.

"By the authority of the Silver Flame Inquisition," a voice spoke from behind him. It was familiar. "Remove the mask, good sir, and there will be no need for violence. Refuse and blood shall be spilt."

Draven turned around only to face three men dressed in silver armour, the sigil of a burning flame engraved on their chest with proud conviction. But when his eyes fell on the speaker, his stomach fell to the floor.

"Elevalein?" he muttered, stunned.