Crimson Ascension

Draven congealed his hexion into a solid blood beam, shooting it at the last hexbeast standing. The humanoid aberration tried to dodge, but a hazy field descended upon it, slowing down its movements considerably. The attack hit its mark, leaving a bloody hole in the center of the creature's chest.

"This is bad." Finn gripped his knees for support. "It's like they won't stop coming."

"Have you noticed it, Finn?" Elevalein asked, looking at the corpse of the slain hexbeast around them.

"What? That we are almost running out of hexion or that we're almost dead?"

"Not that." The Evoker shook his head. He turned his gaze to Draven, who unceremoniously collected the cores with a bloody dagger. "The hexbeasts attack him first. Always. We're afterthoughts."

"Oh?" Draven turned around.

"Not particularly, no. But now that you mention it…" Finn hesitated, mumbling inaudibly to himself. "You might be right. It's probably because of the little critter living inside of him."

"The what—" Elevalein frowned.

"It's not that." Draven cut his brother off, throwing a glare at Finn. "Probably. I've felt a weird thrum ever since I stepped foot in Varn'Kess, but none of you seemed to notice it. It's like a beating heart. Now, it's blended into the noise, but I can still hear it."

"I've never heard of such a phenomenon." Elevalein paced from side to side. "But I suppose it could be something related to the Path of Blood, an enhanced sort of Heartsense you have due to your high affinity?"

Draven shook his head.

"Heartsense is different. Whenever I hear a heartbeat, I can pinpoint exactly where it is, but this is more like a feeling." Draven broke the hexbeast's skull open, retrieving its core before placing it into a makeshift pouch attached to his waist. "This… thrum draws me in, calls me in a direction."

Finn's eyes widened. "If you're right, and not just becoming mad from the corruption of this place, maybe what's on the other side can also feel you."

"Ridiculous." Elevalein burst into laughter. "Are you saying that The Fallen himself has taken notice? Have you both forgotten he's dead? The Maker made damn sure of it."

"You heard the words of that old Dreamer." Draven stared at him with a straight face.

Reluctantly, as if drawing from a repugnant memory, Elevalein muttered. "The Fallen will rise."

Draven spread his heartsense far, the reaches of his perception scrutinizing his surroundings until he was sure no other hexbeasts were nearby. He found nothing. But they had to keep moving, if nothing else, to prevent another ambush.

A small black-furred rabbit with beady eyes stared at him. Methodically, it opened its tiny mouth and smiled. Draven shot a spike of blood at his head, obliterating the creature on the spot.

No heartbeat. It's not alive, or an animal, or even a hexbeast. He stood up, already walking in the opposite direction from where it came.

"That can't be good." Finn swallowed. "The last time we saw one of those was in the Erratic Mountain."

"Thanks for speaking the obvious, Finn," Elevalein said before following.

"Shut up, man," Finn grumbled for a moment, looking at the creature's remains. Nothing but a black, inky substance that resembled living shadows.

The Ruler of Shadows had found them.

***

Wind whistled with an acute tune, as if a sword parted it with sheer violence. Draven jumped to the side, trying not to emit any hexion at all. He needed to save it, no matter what. A day ago, Finn depleted his reserves, and Elevalein proved unreliable.

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Sometimes the Evoker was a force to be reckoned with, dispatching hexbeast with ease, but most often than not, he would struggle to emit a single attack. Sweat dripped down his face, eyes bloodshot and in pain.

"Please, not now…" Elevalein muttered, almost begging to no one Draven could see.

Draven roared, ducking another wind blade, and driving a punch straight to the gut of the twisted man in front of him. He, or rather, it had been a man once—the posture, the ragged clothes all made that clear—but it was an Empyrean no longer. Perhaps madness was not the only blight a long exposure to the corruption of the Old World wrought upon its visitors.

The creature fell back, a dozen small cuts and bruises opening all over its body.

Dyad Vessel was drained. Not a single drop of stored pain remained in its reserves, much like the condition Draven's astra approached. He had enough to mend a serious injury once, perhaps twice, but only that—the constant attacks from hexbeast had made sure of it.

The creature roared, charging forward with reckless abandon. Draven followed suit, determined to end things before he was forced to spend more hexion. A razor whistled past his head, close to shear a couple strands of hair, but he moved his head just enough to get out of its way. The hexbeast leaped, obsidian claws ready to draw blood on a swipe.

Draven allowed them to land, closing the distance at the expense of a gaping wound on his shoulder. He pivoted his body to the side, ducking the beast, getting behind it, and wrapped his arms around its neck. With a roar, he twisted it violently to one side.

He collapsed as he heard the sound of broken bones.

"Draven!" Elevalein shouted, desperation filling his voice.

When he turned his head, body jumping into action, ready for another battle, Draven found not a foe, but a deeply wounded friend. Finn lay on the ground, blood bubbling out of his mouth, eyes becoming hazy. A deep gash shorn through his flesh and ribs, close enough to the heart. It was a miracle he had not died instantly.

"Dammit! How did this happen?" Draven pressed a hand against the wound, urging his hexion to mend the broken bones and flesh.

"How do you think?" Elevalein shouted, eyes still bloodshot from the earlier struggle. "That damned thing attacked him before you broke its neck."

It's not a big deal. I can heal this much.

Hexion flowed inside Finn, closing the flesh, stopping the blood loss, but not stopping the bubbles of blood foaming out of his mouth. Mending flesh required little hexion; bones consumed more, but were also easily fixed with sufficient reserves. Organs‌ were different. A skillful Mender could fix organ damage, but remaking one completely required considerable power.

Power that Draven had longer.

His astra was devoid of any refined hexion. Refining it on the spot was out of the question—Finn would not survive as long. If he were a Mender like Draven, the wound would have been a minor inconvenience, but Dreamers weren't known for their unmatched physique. A broken lung, untreated, unmended, meant death. It was but a matter of time.

"What's taking you so long?" Elevalein gripped his shoulder, before his skin drained out of blood. "No… you're… empty?"

"You said you're not a parasite, right?" Draven spoke out loud, ignoring his brother, knowing it would hear him. "Finn's dying. I don't have the hexion to mend him, but you do."

"I'm not a Mender—"

"Shut up!" Draven snapped. "Dammit, shut up for a second. If you're not gonna be of any help, the least you can do is keep your mouth shut."

He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips. It wasn't fair. He was sure Elevalein had a unique situation that prevented him from wielding his hexion freely. But that didn't concern Draven—he had enough problems of his own.

"Have," the Hemomorph whispered inside his head. "But why help? Aiden not friend. Said he kill. I no prey."

"You kept interfering! I couldn't even use hexion properly." Draven tried to reason with it, but he knew his previous threat hurt his request. The Hemomorph was right. Why would it help after being threatened with death?

"Was trying to help!" The Hemomorph protested. "Always trying to help. Aiden hurt? I mend. Aiden meet hunter? I kill. I help. I help. Aiden tries to kill. Why help?"

Finn gasped, blood flowing from his mouth in crimson rivulets. Every moment Draven spent talking was a moment his friend could not afford to waste. Instead of arguing, he closed his eyes, diving into the recesses of his soul.

The largest astra hovered without flames, empty and lusterless, devoid of power. The other one, smaller, darker, with black and crimson flames, roared with power. A thin sphere of will surrounded it, kept it caged. While Draven had been busy fighting for his life, the Hemomorph had crystallized its power further.

Draven willed the sphere to disappear.

He remembered the words Helvan had made him swear long ago, the oath to save his family. It was ironic, in a way, that he was about to repeat them to save someone who was not his relative, but Draven did not hesitate even for a second.

He had lost Myra, and he was not about to lose Finn. Not if he could stop it. Not if they could stop it.