Crimson Ascension

Nerovian paced in the ruins of his ancestral home, leaving footprints amidst the ashes of burnt books and memories. The once pristine, grand residence of the Orenn House was now nothing but ashes and rubble.

It was ironic how a Virien household could be reduced to nothingness with one whimsical decision from the all-powerful man who ruled them all. It was ironic, funny even, but Nerovian was not in the mood for laughing. He wanted answers.

Rumor had it that the Perfected took his father, sentenced him to death for treason. If that was true, he was dead. But he refused to mourn the loss.

Paradius Orenn put the family's status, power, and safety—everything—at risk to chase a story that was better left unspoken. Even if the Maker's prophesied death was true, what could the Orenn family do about it? They were nothing better than a low-ranking house in the grand scheme of the Haven. Without an Ascendance amidst their ranks, pursuing power was wishful thinking.

"You will not say farewell to your sister and mother?" Nospheo interrupted his thoughts. "I'm sure it would put comfort in their minds to know you aren't pursuing dangerous notions."

Nerovian shook his head. "They are better off without me, Master Nospheo. Now that my sister is a Psyker, the Magisterium of the White Rose will take good care of her and Mother. Even given our… less than ideal situation."

The Chroner produced a minute nod. "To produce a Psyker is a blessing and a curse."

"As for what I pursue, it is the same as yours." Nerovian knelt. Soot stained his purple suit, but he was past the point of caring for such details. "Answers."

"The man who took the branded traitor isn't someone to be messed with, Nero. I might be an Ascendance, but he is… different. We would do well to stay away from him." The Chroner hesitated before saying, "I swore to your father that I would protect you in the event of something like this happening, but I never said anything about fighting an Archon."

"Archon." Nerovian whistled. "Not one, but two."

For the first time since the destruction of Anaverith, Nospheo paled. "What do you mean?"

Nerovian did not reply right away. Instead, he rummaged through the debris, throwing boulders aside with effortless ease. He palmed the ground, feeling for something, until a smile broke his serious features.

"Found it."

He pressed his hand against the cold metal, infusing hexion into the device until most of his reserve emptied. The ground shifted, rumbling under his feet, whining as the plate moved and crushed pieces of debris. Burnt metal lid under stone until a passage appeared amidst the rubble, leading to Paradius' private quarters.

Nerovian had only been there once, when he had been a child. He should not have been able to remember it, but his memories were a jumbled mess recently—the lives of a miner boy mixed with his own in ways that he sometimes could not distinguish.

He walked down the stairs, and Nospheo followed without a word.

The air still reeked of fire, but the smell of mold and staleness overpowered the surrounding destruction. Rather than stone, metal constructed the wall—-veotherium, if he wasn't mistaken. It guaranteed safety from even the most powerful of Empyreans.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

Lightspheres burst with brilliance with the snap of a finger, chasing away the shadows from the room. A small, unassuming desk stood in the center, positioned strategically to get the best reading light. Wooden, transmuted rather than carved, the bookshelf Nerovian had been looking for graced his sight.

He palmed through the contents, the various tomes organized in neat regard, before pulling one out. After minutes of flipping through the pages, he read a section out loud, "Runic artifacts, remnants if you must, were once as common as air. But that changed once the second Archon rose to power."

Nospheo raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued.

"Many believe, some amongst my peers, that the Maker made the Blooded Decree because the remnants were becoming scarce, but that could not be further from the truth. Against popular belief, these artifacts do not predate the creation of the Haven. They do not hail from the Old World."

Nerovian sucked in a breath of cold air.

"The Maker, as befitting his name, made them. I will be hunted down for putting these words on paper, but the truth is more important than my life." The young lord paused, eyes widening as he saw the words that followed. "While we can't see the runes, I believe the Maker can. If my sources are to be trusted, he is the very craftsman behind the creation of all remnants."

"I must assume this person met a dire fate," Nospheo sighed. "To claim things like that, he had better abandon the idea of ever falling asleep again."

"Daring." Nerovian agreed. "But truth nonetheless."

"How can you be so certain?" The Chroner asked.

"Draven could see the runes, Master Nospheo. It might sound insane, but I know the truth." Nerovian winced as a headache spread through his skull, behind his eyes. Memories not of his own tried to resurface. "I have seen it with my own eyes."

"Are you referring to the Heightening accident?" Nospheo asked, concerned. "I thought the side effects had passed."

"The boy's ego has vanished, yes. But his memories remain. Through his eyes, I saw a miner who could draw runes, an Archon in the making." Nerovian put the book down. "The Maker outlawed remnants, not because they were scarce, but because he disliked the idea of others seeing through the veil of runes."

"That's a stretch and you know it, Nero." Nospheo's eyes glowed with power, and his figure blurred. "Well, maybe not that big of a stretch."

Nerovian raised an eyebrow, chills running down his spine. He knew what a Chronos Domain looked like, even though Nospheo attempted to return to the exact spot he had been standing on. He might be mistaken, but in that one second, the Empyrean could have read through all the books on the shelf.

"So, what's your plan? Knowing all this is dangerous, but so is acting on that knowledge," the Chroner said.

Nerovian tried to suppress the memories, really tried, but what could he do when he did not know when Dan began and Nerovian ended? Part of him hated Draven's betray while the other worried about him, like a brother. He knew the feeling was not his own. He knew it wasn't right. But he couldn't ignore it.

"I have to find him," Nerovian sighed. "If he is an Archon, if the Maker will die and the Haven is about to fall, then he will need all the help he can get."

"I urge you to rethink that. You've seen the posters, he is being hunted by the Inquisition. Wherever he goes, death will follow." Nospheo attempted to change his mind.

"Death will follow us, regardless. Look around you, Nospheo. There's nothing left of my House, and if the prophecies are true, this fate will be repeated on a much grander scale."

"It is not our responsibility to—"

"My father is dead!" Nerovian snapped. "I will never see my sister again. The Maker will die. The Haven will fall. None of it makes sense, Master Nospheo. None of it! I need it to make sense. It's the only way to justify," he pointed at the surrounding destruction before saying, "This."

Nospheo sighed, losing himself in the dwindling fires that still burned in the city—what remained of it, anyway. "Very well, Nero. I'll find us someone who can lead us to them."

"What do you mean?"

The Chroner retrieved a blood crystal from within his coat's pocket. "I wish it wouldn't come to this, but the certainty in that man's eyes was final."

As the Empyrean departed, Nerovian immersed himself in reading his father's collection of forbidden texts. Paradius had been an avid collector of ancient history books, some of which pre-dated the Blooded Decree. It had been his hobby, and what spelled his fate.

Nerovian only hoped the knowledge buried in them held the answers he sought.