Crimson Ascension

Many an Empyrean searched for the secrets of the powers wielded by the Maker, devoting their lives to unveil the reason behind the vast divide in their strength. All failed. All except a man who rose from nowhere—as if woven out of dreams—creating waves in the Hierarchy Stands. He called himself an Archon.

–Nerovian Orenn, Virien of the fallen House of Amethyst Dragons

ETHERNATUS, ONE YEAR LATER.

Draven heaved a sigh as he walked through the crowd unnoticed. He would steal from a god—from the Maker himself, yet not one of the citizens of Ethernatus recognized him.

Not their fault, Draven thought as he walked. His hair was neatly arranged, held by a lustrous paste. His beard was trimmed to the fashion trends of Elysium, shaved on the sides but full at the lip and chin. A black uniform, made of thick fabric, ornamented with golden threading that adorned his frame. It was a disguise, nothing more, Draven told himself.

A long, thin sword hung on his hip, its scabbard black, with dark brown leather woven around to facilitate a quick draw. After a year of practice in the Haven, he carried it with confidence. After decades of training in the Sixfold Corridor, he was deadly with it. Another one rested inside his soul, golden, woven out of power and blood. It waited. It slumbered. Even thinking about it gave him shivers, so Draven shoved the worry deep down in his stomach and continued walking.

Sovrans bustled back a forward, driven by the sound of eager merchants who settled up stalls on both sides of the street. Some were even Empyreans, which was puzzling. Why would wielders of such power bother with selling wares in the streets? Sovrans were a puzzling kind.

The smell of food was hypnotizing and distracting, but Draven wasn't hungry. He looked at steaming bread, at the luxurious cakes that undoubtedly could break one's teeth with their sweet flavor, yet his stomach did not utter a single growl.

You should get something to eat, Aiden. Morph's voice echoed inside his head.

I'm not hungry. Draven shook his head, trying his best not to look like a madman frowning at nothingness. Besides, we don't really need to eat anymore, so what's the point?

The point, Aiden, is to loosen you up! Morph sighed, repeating his worry yet another time. Finn and your brother will be just fine. The plan is solid. Everything is in place. Just take something to eat and bide your time.

Draven complied. He passed a few hexion cubes to a merchant and left with a fragrant bread. The first bite was out of obligation, to appease the worrying companion inside himself. The second was of his own volition.

This… is delicious. Draven bit into the bread, which revealed a light brown filling that was sweet and balanced. The salty, soft pastry combined with the sweet flavor creates something unique.

Draven hummed, feeling his mood lighten, though the worry was still there. Suppressing it was pointless. Morph knew he was concerned for the two, but he also understood what was at stake. Everything. The plan they had crafted in the last few months would face reality today.

Helvan might have been the one to suggest they steal the First Book—the only source of documented knowledge about the runes and their various combinations—from the Ark'Ennir Citadel, but Draven would be the one to do it. Just thinking about that man infuriated Draven!

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Bastard. Abyss burn his soul to ashes. Except Helvan no longer had a soul. He was one of the Perfected, or at least half of one. Draven absently palmed the book hidden in the inside pocket of his black coat—Nerovian's journal. The young lord whose House Draven had infiltrated to save his family, the man whom the Blooded Decree demanded he protect.

Primus… Draven finished the curious bread. I never took you for one to follow traditions to this extreme, Nerovian. Even after you know who I am… what I am. Was Dan still somewhere inside the Virien lord's mind? It was the only explanation to justify his unrequested help. No, he's gone. I'm the only one left.

The Red Sand Arena towered above Draven like a mountain sculpted by the whims of men. A pair of Empyreans guarded each of the many entrances, hands on their sheathed weapons, only allowing entrance to those who could produce their admission ticket. Draven unfolded the small piece of paper from his pocket, showing it to the guards, and passed without a word.

The interior was enclosed by stone and wood, with no windows to allow the outside light to come in. The many lightspheres expertly arranged on the walls and ceiling took care of the illumination, while the walls of stone dampened the noise to a muffled vibration in the air. The way ahead parted into two paths that moved up through two sets of stairs. Draven took the one on the right, marvelling at the rich display of paintings and trophies arranged on the walls.

The climb was short, and soon the light from the outside torches blazed in front of him. The noise increased until it became nearly deafening. The shouts and cheers of thousands of people neatly seated at the many levels of the arena echoed in the air, unifying until all the Sovrans gathered appeared to shout in unison.

Below the gathered crowd of onlookers, dark red sand spread to cover the ground in a deep layer of painted terrain. Draven thought the coloration curious; sand was usually yellow, after all. Unless… He felt the surroundings with tendrils of his awareness, spreading his Presence so it would not draw attention. The sand responded with his will.

I see how it is. The blood in the sands quivered at his ethereal touch. It stained the sand, the blood shed by hundreds, maybe thousands of Empyreans, melding into the history and creating the spectacle that drew people from all of Elysium. Stupid, Draven thought to himself. Why would Empyreans risk exposing their Combat Arts to the eyes of the public like this? It couldn't be worth the risk.

Two armoured figures entered the arena, one a man and the other a woman. The lady carried her helmet under one arm. Her brown hair was tied in a ponytail, as lusterless black armor that encased every inch of her body. Her free hand carried a battle axe almost as large as herself.

The man carried himself with the grace of a thief, slender alabaster white armor contrasting the black sword he carried attached to his hip. His helmet hid his face, which was unusual for combats in the Hierarchy Stand. The crowd grew silent, noticing the slight as the white-armored man made his way to the center of the sands.

He moved his hands up, slowly raising them to his head, and removed the helmet. His hair was black and cut short. His beard followed the same trend, shaved on the sides but full at the lips and chin. It was Finn! Draven's heart beat with anticipation. You better win this, dammit!

The two figures bowed, then approached each other. The shouts in the crowd dwindled to murmurs. They exchanged a few words only the two of them could hear, then walked back a few paces. Finn snapped his helmet on and drew his sword from his sheath.

"It begins." Draven took one of the empty seats. The crowd had become silent, but his heart beat like thunder. "It begins."

The rumors streaming through Elevalein's net of connection with the underworld of the Haven were alarming.

The winds of change swept through the Haven like an unrelenting force, turning rumors into facts, dreams into reality. It was unavoidable. Two of the five major cities in Elysium had all but become ruined wastelands. A Perfected had been killed.

Draven vowed the others would soon follow.