Crimson Ascension

It is clear to me that the recorded history is incorrect. Nospheo himself confirmed the Archon of Time still lives, and that he is not Perfected. I fail to understand the full implications of that revelation, or the means he employed to escape the Maker's grasp.

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

Draven glanced over his shoulder, at Elevalein. From an outsider's view, the shield might have looked like a single layer of blood hexion, but that couldn't be further from the truth—dozens upon dozens of individual shields rotated closely, making a cohesive whole. Tendrils of blood connected the shield to his astra, feeding it a steady supply of hexion to mend any damage incurred.

In the battle against Ulissan von Merz, the Chaos Perfected, Draven's shield had failed to hold. He refused to fall short again. The shield would hold as long as he did. Unless someone was strong enough to destroy it in one blow, the Art would reform itself according to the will imbued in the congealed blood.

Without another glance, Draven ducked under a sword aimed at his head. A step forward brought him barreling at a group of four Transmuters ready to change the stone under his foot. Draven didn't give them the chance. He spun around the group, delivering a flurry of barehanded blows that shattered bones like rotten wood.

Gone soft all of a sudden? Morph's dissatisfaction was palpable. Kill them!

No, we will need them, Morph. Something is coming. Draven ruled over the blood of a few troublesome Evokers on the verge of synchronizing their domains. He momentarily stopped the flow of blood going to their brains, rendering them unconscious in moments. The rumors are streaming in. Torches blinking out. Monsters wiping out small villages. The ceiling falling.

I didn't believe it at first, but perhaps you're right. Are the forces of the Beyond upon us? Morph hesitated.

The Hemomorph, in his previous life, had lived in the Beyond, hunted it—died on it. If there were other creatures who could master the Paths with such grace, then the Haven might not stand a chance. Deny it as he might, Draven would not stand by and watch while innocent lives fell to the forces heralded by the Fallen's escape.

Draven took a dozen blood arrows on his armour, which barely cracked it. Another step brought him close to the group of Menders that attempted to bring the Evokers back into the battle. His Presence spread into the group, the will of the Archon of Blood commanding the hexion inside their astras. All at once, the Menders in the room fell to their knees, blood hexion departing from their cores. It no longer obeyed them.

As several domains layered on top of Draven, he felt his own Presence struggle. Suppressed. "Enough," Draven murmured. Elevenfold Amplification. He felt the blood of all Empyreans in the room, sensed their fearful heartbeats. "Enough!" He roared.

A single word. A single command. The Empyreans in the room fell to their knees with enough force to shatter stone. Hands clenched into fists were forcibly pulled behind their backs, restraining their movements. Even though Draven didn't restrain their ability to speak, silence spread in the room like a vicious vine. It crawled from Sovran to Sovran until they could not hide the fear inside their hearts.

"I'm not your enemy!" Draven spoke not with pleading, but with the strength his power as an Archon commanded. "Yes, I was not born a Sovran—the rumors are true. I'm a miner. A ratling, as you so desperately remind me. But I don't seek the destruction of the Haven. I don't seek vengeance for the injustice your people forced onto mine."

"Injustice?" The man who had spoken previously snarled. "Know your abyss-damned place! You only exist to…" The oath forced upon every person who underwent Heightening prevented him from uttering the words out loud. "Serve. You aren't our enemy? You killed a Perfected and destroyed half of Varn'Kess."

"The same perfected who burnt Anaverith to ashes?" Draven raised an eyebrow. "The same creature who destroyed the eliminated the bloodline of the old Great Houses at the time of the Great Revolt?"

"That… I…" The man stuttered, lost for words.

Draven allowed his armor to face back inside his astra and pushed on. He had to stop the quarrel with the Magisterium Arcana. The Silver Flame Inquisition would hunt him down no matter what—they were the thralls of the Maker—but there was no need to antagonize the policing force of Elysium.

"What is your name, sir?" Draven asked the man, releasing his hold over him.

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The man stumbled to his feet, surprise etched on his face. One by one, the other Empyreans stood up, faces puzzled. The fight had departed their beating hearts. They had seen firsthand that Draven could end their lives with little effort. Sovran or not, whoever made it to Ascendance was anything but a fool.

"I… My name is Navron von Valestria, Lord Commander of the Magisterium Arcana." The man pulled back the cowl that covered his face. He had black hair, which had greyed near the temples. Though his voice had been filled with emotion, his face contained a pensive frown.

"Why do you hunt me, Navron von Valestria?" Draven said.

"I follow the orders of the Dream Perfected, the voice of the Maker himself. His will is my will." Navron spoke the words, but the frown on his face was anything but resolute. "We were told to bring you alive to Catalyst District 99."

Catalyst District 99? Draven's eyes widened, but he suppressed his spiked heartbeat before anyone else noticed the alarm. Why the mines? Why his home? It made no sense; if the Maker wanted his Fragment of Eternity, why not strike him at the Ark'Ennir Citadel itself?

Unless he can't, Aiden. Why would a starving hunter play with its prey? Morph hissed as the pieces of their suspicion fell into place.

"The Maker has abandoned the Haven," Draven muttered to himself. "He's… left us."

His words were not loud, but the room was filled with Ascendances. The revelation traveled around the room like thunder on a silent day. The Empyreans erupted with outrage. Curses echoed out amidst the denunciations. Hexion pulsed threateningly inside their veins.

"Silence!" Navron raised his fist in the air. It descended with a loud thud onto his chest. The Empyreans in the room mimicked the gesture, sheathing their weapons and falling into an attentive stance. "Those are some bold words, Archon. Had I the power, I would strike you dead where you stand."

Navron spoke the words that resonated with the sentiment of his men, yet his face told a different story. His eyes were wide. Sweat dripped down the side of his pale face. Navron von Valestria was scared. No, the man was terrified. Somewhere, deep down, he had to have wondered the same question.

"The rumors aren't rumors, are they?" Draven said, drawing a deep breath. Menders had started to heal the wounded. Empyreans shuffled on their feet. "You only brought one hundred Ascendances here because you can't afford to bring more."

Navron hesitated, then nodded. "Aye. There is no use in lying to you, is there?"

"No." The Heartsense of an Archon was not easy to fool.

"My forces battle creatures—abominations—from the Beyond." Navron walked closer, worry clear on his face. "They shave away at our numbers, Archon. Their strength does not exceed that of my battalions, but their numbers do. I begged for the assistance of the Lord Perfected, but he has gone silent. Daesvor no longer answers our pleas."

"The Fallen has escaped, Commander. I've seen his strength with my own eyes. The prophecies speak of the Maker's declining health… of his death."

"Surely you aren't implying the Maker has succumbed?" Navron suppressed the outrage in his tone.

"No, the Maker lives. I am certain of it." Draven ignored the faint pressure he could only feel once he was amplified past tenfold. Others had called him paranoid, but it felt as if someone was looking at him. Constantly. "But his absence… I can't help but wonder if he will do anything but watch as the Haven crumbles to pieces."

"The Torches have stopped functioning. The ceiling crumbles under our heads. The forces of the Beyond are upon us. The Fallen has risen. The Maker is dying." Draven heaved a sigh. He had broken free of Korvax's visions, but the larger events were still unfolding as they were meant to. "We cannot afford to fight amongst ourselves, Commander. Once, Ratlings and Sovrans were the same—in the times of the Old World. If we are to survive what's coming, our differences must be set aside."

"I need as many remnants as I can get my hands on. Perhaps I can fix the Torches, prevent the Haven from crumbling." The Magisterium Arcana were the ones that apprehended the forbidden artifacts; they were bound to have many to store.

That elicited surprised gasps from the Empyrean behind. It seemed his ability to see the runes was not common knowledge.

Navron von Valestria held his gaze for a long moment before saying, "You have not taken the lives of my men, though you had the power and opportunity to do so. For that, I am grateful. But do not misunderstand, Archon. The will of the Maker is absolute. He might be absent, but he will come when we need him most. I will repay his protection with treason."

"You don't believe that—"

"Enough! I will not have his name tarnished." Navron shook his head. Draven looked at him, dumbfounded. How could he believe that? The truth was right in front of him, yet he refused to accept it. "Begone. We do not have the power to stop you, anyway."

Draven spared the man a long look. He could see ‌hesitation wrestling with duty and resolve. Navron might hold doubts in his heart, but he was a man to see his oaths fulfilled. There would be no convincing the Lord Commander of the Magisterium Arcana.

The hexion shield around Elevalein parted as Draven walked inside, then reformed.

"We will transport you back to the citadel—"

Draven looked up. "No need."

He could sense the blood of the citizens above. With a nudge of his will, the shield shot into the ceiling, thorns forming on its smooth surface. Stone was ground to powder as Draven and Elevalein tunneled their way to the surface, leaving one hundred stunned Empyreans behind.

However, no matter how far he went, Draven couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him. It wasn't a Presence, but a subtle focus—an unnatural chill in the air. A will.