Crimson Ascension

The Great Revolt lasted two decades, spanning from the center of Elysium to the very edges of the Catalyst Districts. The Archons of Time and Chaos amassed the forces of several Houses, now extinct, in an attempt to venture into the world Beyond. Surprisingly, they succeeded—if only the two of them. Whereas many departed, only one returned, forever changed. Perfected.

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

Lightspheres illuminated the hallway as Draven walked with his head down. Hexion masked his soul, woven from one of the many Evoker Arts Elevalein maintained with grim resolve. The insides of the Ark'Ennir Citadel were not what he had expected; gone were the luxurious ornaments belonging to Sovran architecture. The palace was plain and simple. Utilitarian.

No paintings adorned the walls. No sculptures immortalized heroes of an age long past. The Ark'Ennir Citadel was nearly empty—lifeless. Were it not for the occasional servant walking with intent, Draven would have thought he was in the wrong place.

Ahead walked a man dressed in plain white robes, the same vestment shared by all others inside the citadel—Draven and Elevalein were not exempt from it. It was not wise to stand out like a sore thumb. The man, Elevalein's contact in the citadel, trod the long stretches of obsidian stone barefoot, his stature putting him closer to a miner than Sovran.

I don't like this. No one's stopping us. Draven clenched his fists. He failed to believe Elevalein was enough to hide their soul signatures from the Maker himself. Security is lax. This is supposed to be the most dangerous place in the Haven.

Who else would try to steal from the Maker? The assurance of destruction is already deterrent enough, don't you think? Morph spoke, but Draven felt the doubt flitting amidst every word.

Perhaps.

Draven followed the silent man ahead, all the while assuring himself that the plan was solid. The Hierarchy Stand would draw the attention of most Empyreans in Ethernatus. The Magisterium Arcana itself was in charge of ensuring the streets were patrolled in preparation for the spectacles in the Red Sand Arena. That put one of the Maker's forces outside of the citadel.

The Silver Flame Inquisition, on the other hand…

Draven shared a nod with Elevalein, whose eyes flashed green with hexion. Moments later, the ground shook under Draven's feet, groaning like the roars of a hungry beast. Good. He suppressed a smile and kept walking as if the disturbance had gone by unnoticed. Nerovian and Nospheo did their part. The Silver Flame Inquisition won't let an attack on their headquarters go unpunished. He only hoped Nospheo would be enough to escape when the Evokers in the city gave chase.

"This is the furthest I can go," the man said, eyes never leaving the ground.

"Very well, Brother Artin. May the Maker bless the rest of your day." Elevalein strode ahead, as if knowing the way.

Brother Artin winced and walked back the way he came. Draven followed his brother, the hexion in his veins enhancing his body, pulsing inside his veins in the same rhythm as his anxiety. The hallway opened into a wide room several dozen spans tall, hundreds wide. Closed doors on each side spoke of a hidden labyrinth designed to confuse potential intruders. It had to be. Why else would anyone make a layout so confusing?

Draven shook his head. A drop of sweat trickled down the side of his face.

"Follow, brother," Elevalein said, moving with confidence and intent. He approached a door on the far right and opened it.

Draven gasped before he could control himself. Hidden inside the citadel, a library of gigantic proportions burrowed deep in the earth. Flights of circular stairs tunneled into the depths below, carving the ground into many layers and floors, each filled with endless rows of books. This… this is not what I expected. Many of the white-robed servants walked with books in their hands, and others organized the shelves. Some even escorted guests who did not wear white.

One look over the ledge below, and Draven knew not even his body could survive the fall unharmed. Hundreds of layers, perhaps more—the library had enough space to store all the knowledge in the Haven. No fence divided the vast store of knowledge and the certain death below—a message, perhaps.

Floors one to fifty contained only books, tomes of ancient history, common knowledge, and obscure books. But as Draven descended into the Ark'Ennir Citadel, the books gave way to items of all shapes and sizes. Not runic remnants, but relics of historical relevance. Objects of scholarly interest, perhaps.

Draven stopped in front of a broken piece of metal and glass. The relic was forged as if a blacksmith had hammered a bar of steel flat, molding it into two thin rectangles that connected with an unseen hinge. On one side, the metal was brushed, if a bit rusty; on the other, a cracked glass panel, black and sleek, attached itself seamlessly to the device.

I've seen something like this before. Draven frowned as he looked at the many symbols encased in small squares next to cracked glass. Yes, it's the same as what the Fallen showed me. He realized. Fragments of the Old World.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

With a shake of his head, Draven descended further. Elevalein walked next to him in silence, his face focused, eyes turned into emeralds. The Evoker didn't allow the many books and relics to distract him, for he could not afford to lose focus on the veil of obscurity that shielded both their souls from others who would find them.

The further down they went, the fewer people walked the aisles. None stopped them. None so much as glanced their way. As far as Draven sensed, the servants in white robes were not even Empyreans. How could they guard this throve of knowledge if they lacked the power granted by the Paths?

It struck him as odd.

After one hour of descending the citadel, Draven arrived at the very bottom. The room was mostly empty. The stone was rough, though well-maintained and clean. No dust collected on the floor, even though the air smelled stale. Contrary to all the layers above, this one had no shelves—no items organized and encased in boxes of glass.

Draven noticed a few runes carved on the ground, but they produced no light. Many of which were half-etched, carved in a way that denounced the work of an amateur. He spared the incomplete runic circuit one look before dismissing it to the back of his mind.

The place was empty except for four items, which stood under the dim brilliance of the lightspheres.

Four pedestals made of pure silver displayed the items as if daring any intruder to lay their hands on them. One was a simple piece of obsidian black glass—or stone. Draven was unsure. He looked at it, and his heart almost dropped to the ground. It can't be! He gasped, prompting Elevalein to raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

"That's a piece of the Sixfold Corridor," Draven whispered in awe. "How are they… how did he… Abyss take me, how's that even possible? A soul cannot bring what's physical back to the Haven."

"It shouldn't be, not according to everything we know about it. Well, the first time one walks its obsidian grounds—what's supposed to be the only time—they do so in flesh and spirit." Elevalein approached the pedestal with due reverence. "Perhaps someone was able to bring a piece of it back. Maybe it was the Maker himself."

"No." Draven shook his head. "Any damage to the Corridor is reversed within moments. I've seen it. Plenty of times. The pieces, the fragments, they all disappear."

"This one didn't."

Draven grunted, but moved away from it. The item on the left side was a bloodstained dagger, forged not of metal, but glass—Ekron. It was a simple weapon, from weapon to handle, but the blood that stained it sent shivers down Draven's spine. It marred the pristine, wriggling its way inside the Ekron as if it possessed a life of its own. Worst of all, it didn't answer ‌Draven's beckon.

Blood that refused the call of the Archon of Blood. It's not just any sort of blood, Morph pondered. It feels wrong, somehow.

That's not why we are here, Draven shrugged off the questions, the hesitation, and moved on. The next item was a broken piece of armour. It seemed to crumble into purple smoke, slowly but surely. The smoke trailed up a few spans in the air before dissipating into thin air. He paid no attention to it, for his sight was set on the closed book that stood next to the armor.

The leather that made the tome was black, made of a moving ink that flowed as if alive. The pages were alabaster white, almost glowing. The First Book! Draven reached his hand to grab it, heart thundering inside his chest. It's thinner than I thought. Many of the Empyrean manuals, the briefest ones available to the masses, were lengthier than this tome.

Draven picked up the First Book. It held the key to everything—the fabrication of remnants, enhancing his Empyrean powers. Everything. Perhaps it was wise to take the book and make way for the exit; it was in the plan, after all. But Draven had to see the runes. He had to know. It was the same curiosity that drove the miner boy to seek the Gate for the first time. With a deep breath, Draven opened the First Book.

A blank page stared back at him.

What? Confusion made him frown. He flipped through the contents, the feelings buried inside of him resurfaced with each empty page he saw. Confusion became hesitation. Hesitation turned into fear. Fear melted into cold resolve.

Draven ran at Elevalein, the power of Tenfold Amplification all but destroying the ground with each step he took. The Evoker didn't even have time to react before Draven grabbed him by the waist and willed tendrils of blood to haul them to the surface.

The runes in the floor burst into light. Draven gritted his teeth, knowing he had been too late—recognizing the trap before his eyes. The Hemomorph Mantle burst his white robes to shreds. A multi-layered shield congealed around him.

The room shivered, then went dark.

Draven hit the ceiling with a sickening crunch of stone. All around him, hundreds of heartbeats unveiled their power. The sound of steel coming out of a sheath echoed in the enclosed room until it became deafening.

"Welcome, Archon." A hooded man smiled at him, unveiling his Presence. When he did so, the others followed. All around Draven, more than a hundred Ascendances pressed their will against him.

A trap. It was a trap. Draven gritted his teeth and floated with the assistance of the blood tendrils. But how? How could they know where I was? The circuit wasn't automatic. It had to have been triggered by someone! He buried the questions deep inside his heart and readied himself.

"This many Ascendances to trap me? It seems Sovrans no longer know what a fair fight means." Draven positioned himself in front of Elevalein, a grim frown on his face.

"I would have thought you, of all ratlings, would have known there is no such thing for your kind. So what if you are outnumbered? The Maker's word is the Haven's decree. You exist to serve!" The man pointed his sword forward, falling into a battle stance. "We exist to serve!"

"A misunderstanding, you see. I'm not the one outnumbered. You are." Draven grinned and unfolded his Presence.