Crimson Ascension

The ascension of the first Archon, master of the Dream Path, was a turning point in Empyrean History—much that is known about Daesvor was taught by him. I wonder what else could we have learned had he not vanished. His disappearance, however, was a lesson on its own, for the Maker now wielded two Empyrean Paths.

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

The fight unfolded on the sandy ground below. The black armored woman ran at Finn, axe raised over her shoulder. Each of her steps sent the bloodstained sand quivering in curious patterns around her feet, but Draven didn't pay attention to those. He was too busy watching for that massive axe. A blow from that thing and Finn's done for, he thought.

Finn waited for her approach, helm covering his face. His knees were bent low, sword held in a two-handed grip over his shoulder. The blade's edge pointed to the sky above, glistening under torchlight. Draven felt his friend's heart beating like galloping horses. He was nervous. Draven nodded. Fear would keep him from taking unnecessary risks.

The axe descended with a low grunt, missing Finn by a few inches as he stepped to the side with a grace that surprised Draven. Nervous, not tense. The black-armored woman turned the chop into a flurry of blows, her massive axe cutting the wind with the sound of a blade passing through fabric. Finn ducked, stepped back, and weaved out of her range. One blow grazed his chestplate, and the white metal bent, then cracked.

Finn raised his sword as the axe slashed past his head and brought it down in a vicious chop. A brilliant light ignited his sword, turning the gray metal white. The edge bit into the woman's overextended hand, then passed through her armor and wrist without resistance.

Her axe fell from her limp hand.

Learning new tricks, I see. Draven nodded in satisfaction, his heart settling down to a calm rhythm. The Dream Path was as vast as the open skies of the world beyond the Haven, unbound by restrictions, limited only by the Empyrean's imagination and will to materialize their ambition into reality.

Concepts and Echoes, though to different extents, were no more than fragments of the fantastic dream people had while sleeping. One could capture the fleeting feeling of invincibility or weakness in a dream, weave it into an Art—make it into a weapon. It was possible, even though what birthed the Art was impossible. Dreamers made the impossible into reality.

The real trick, Draven pondered, is to replicate what is possible. The mind had a way of shackling itself, limiting one's potential by their self-created insecurities. Finn has stated it was much easier to capture outlandish concepts than ones that were familiar, like the blade of an Evoker—the Art that passed through what was physical and struck the soul. That had taken him the better part of one year and Elevalein's coaching to replicate.

Draven had to suppress a laugh. One year to achieve what most Dreamers would take a lifetime, and his friend still thought he lacked talent. Draven would not admit it out loud, for he feared stroking Finn's ego, but the young Dreamer was a genius. In one year, he had made Lower Eminence, progress that was nothing but astounding.

The clang of metal striking metal echoed in the arena, bridging Draven's attention back to it. The black-armored woman congealed a weapon forged out of blood, wielding it with her offhand. Her strikes lost their dangerous edge, clumsy and imprecise. The battle was over, even though the warrior refused to admit it. Arcs of blood shot from her weapon with each strike, aiming to hurt.

To kill.

Finn dodged without wasting movements, approaching her like a man who saw a path none others could see. He was good with the blade, better than Draven had become. It was the difference between a talented man who practiced often and an untalented pretender who aimed to learn by endless repetition.

Draven felt a tug on his soul. It's time? He stood up, departing the spectator's seats before the fight had been decided. The stairs back to the entrance were empty; most people wouldn't wander off before a fight had concluded. The admission to the Red Sands Arena wasn't cheap, and the spectacle would only increase in scale as the battles unfolded.

Turning to one of the entrances to his left, Draven walked further into the depths of the arena. The smell of food ahead invited him, but so did the pull on his soul. Rows of stalls, built like open stores, displayed wines, pastries, and many other types of food. An inner market? Draven frowned. That's not exactly an inconspicuous place to meet. No heartbeats in the surroundings, except for one.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

A man dressed in dark pants and a brown shirt stood with his hands in his pockets, a bored expression on his face. His heart, however, beat like an animal that wanted nothing but to run for his life. Draven didn't blame him; the man knew he was about to meet with an Empyrean who killed a Perfected. Fear was a natural response.

"Found anything worth having?" Draven said.

"Yes, lord—"

"I'm not a lord."

A light gray bag stood near the man's feet.

"Yes! Um… of course." The man stammered, his heart all but leaping out of his mouth. "Lord—I meant, sir! We found what you asked for, that we did. Hard to find remnants lying around these days, but my crew is quite…"

Draven extended his hand, and nearly invisible tendrils of blood pulled the bag to him. The man, who had been trying his best to maintain a facade of confidence, yelped. Inside the bag, the blue light of runes shone with enough power to illuminate the ceiling above.

"This is…" Draven looked at the bag, counting three remnants inside. One was shaped like a rod, another one was a disk, and the last was a shard of steel—a broken blade. "Is quite impressive. I have searched for remnants for many months without luck. I thought your service would have produced the same result."

Dammit, but speaking like a Sovran gets tiring. It sounded pretentious. Ten words when one or two would suffice. Draven heaved a sigh. "I am glad to be proven wrong." He turned to leave.

No names were exchanged, the man and his crew were one of many Elevalein had employed on the search for remnants—all tracked by Traces. There were no introductions, no formal arrangement, yet they all knew who he was. The rumors spoke of a red-haired man who could see the runes, the same one who ended the life of one of the Maker's hounds.

"Is it… true? Are you him?" The man asked.

Draven kept walking, ignoring the question. He would not entertain gossip; there were more important things that required his attention–the Hierarchy Stand, for one. Though Draven wished to participate in the tournament, he understood doing so was foolish. Red hair was not uncommon in the Haven, and the sketches of his likeness that spread throughout the cities were less than accurate, but it was better not to risk the Maker's attention.

Not for now. Not until he was ready.

Untaak'Dor had escaped, or so said the rumors. The Fallen was free, yet his presence could not be felt anywhere in the Haven. It shouldn't be possible, Draven thought as he remembered the sheer power of a fragment of the creature's will. If he is free, then we should feel… something.

The Maker had also vanished.

Draven made his way outside the Red Sands Arena, lost in thought. There were so many questions he couldn't answer. So much he had to do, yet an invisible clock ticked inside his mind. He could hear it with every step, with every shred of rumors that were fed to him by Elevalein's spies.

Some spoke of creatures of nightmare attacking the outskirts of the Haven, killing Sovrans and Empyreans alike, then disappearing into thin air. Others spoke of hearing voices, shouts, and the sound of battle where there was no conflict. Reports from trusted sources indicated the torches on the ceiling's outskirts no longer burned with light.

If those accounts were isolated, Draven would have disregarded them, but they came like a flood—spoken by the voice of many, spread from people who had no connection to each other. It was concerning. Something was happening to the Haven, and he had to know what.

Before it was too late.

Draven looked at the distance, the burden of what he had to do weighing deeply on his shoulders. He had to push the boundaries of the Ascendance Realm, delaying the inevitable was pointless. The sword waited for him, eager to answer his call. Sooner or later, he'd need to make a choice, hard as it might be.

There needs to be another way. Draven shook his head, refusing to accept what the scripture said about his Malediction. There has to! Suddenly, he froze, lost for words. Draven looked in the distance, far beyond the Ethernatus, at the edge of the horizon.

Something burst through the clouds, almost imperceptible from the distance, and fell from the ceiling. It reflected light, glistening in the air as it fell like an oversized drop of rain. Draven blinked a few times, and the object was gone.

Morph, did you see that? Draven asked.

See what? Morph hummed, puzzled. I'm busy.

I must be seeing things. It had to be. Draven was just tired; lack of sleep would do that to anyone, make them hallucinate. He hadn't slept in over a year. It had to be it. Yes, he was sure that was it. Draven nodded to himself and walked back to see if Finn had finished his fight, all the while trying to suppress the dreadful doubt that wormed its way into his mind.

Abyss take him, but whatever he saw looked like a torch. A torch falling from the ceiling.