Heir of the Fog

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

Strings Beneath the Flesh

I leaned against the temple's cold stone, my notebook open to my sketch of the murals, the crystal ceiling's blue-violet prisms flickering across the page. Sharn sat beside me, her runic-marked skin glowing faintly, her yellow eyes calm but piercing.

Sharn wasn't just an Ultharis—she was a cleric, spreading Sjakthar's will through blood and ascension. Her fervor unsettled me, but her knowledge was a flame I couldn't resist.

I'd learned much in Vadis: Saruk yearned to become Vadruk, Vadruk dreamed of Baruk, and Baruk fought in the pit to ascend beyond, to sit at Sjakthar's side. It was their creed, carved into every wall, every axe swing. But Sharn's words about divinity not tied to mana, rooted in will, hit like a shockwave.

Will—intangible, untraceable by Kara's logic or Araksiun's scholars. If Sharn sensed it in me, enough to claim I could perform a god's act, what did she see? I gripped my notebook, my claw denting the page. "You call me Baruk," I said, keeping my voice steady, "but say I can do what gods do, create an Ul… Ultharis." The orc word stumbled on my tongue. "Can you measure will? Sense it? And isn't that blasphemy to Sjakthar, saying a Baruk like me could act divine?"

Sharn's eyes glinted, her tusks catching the crystal light, but her calm held, unbroken by my edge. "Baruk, you question much," she said, her human tongue smooth, laced with orc cadence. "Sjakthar's will is not so rigid. Gods are many, weak ones, mighty ones. Creating Ultharis, extending Khoris, is will shaped through mana, but will leads. Mana is fuel, not heart." She leaned closer, her runes pulsing, voice dropping to a fervent hum. "To kill for ascension, to spill blood for gresh, is love for him. He cares not how this goal is achieved."

My frost mist curled faintly, a reflex as her words sank in. Killing as love? Her fanaticism was raw, not cruel but devout, like she breathed Sjakthar's will. I'd told her I meant no harm, yet she saw my restraint as weakness, displeasing her god. "So Sjakthar wouldn't care if I killed your kin? It's all… natural to him?" I asked, cautious, my tentacles twitching. This was why I'd braved the fog, for answers about the world unknown. But her zeal made me wary, like stepping too close to a fire beast's flame.

Sharn nodded, her smile serene but fierce. "Blood feeds the abyss, ascension honors him. If you slew Vadruk, took our gresh, he'd see strength, not sin." She paused, her eyes tracing my frame. "Yet you, Baruk, are old—older than your face. Those rare Baruks who last several generations face death too many times to count, their will accumulating through their long lives, sometimes, as in your case, enough for divine acts, like granting Khoris or creating Ultharis." Her finger pointed at Hazeveil, draped over my shoulders, its shadows shifting faintly. "Your cloak lives, blessed by you. I see it, feel its Khoris."

I froze, my breath catching. Hazeveil? Blessed by me? The cloak stirred, as if hearing her, its edges rippling like a living thing. I'd named it early, in the fog's chaos, feeling a surge of mana and will pour into it. The Gloomwing's hide had shifted then, alive, but I'd never understood how. "Wait," I said, my voice sharp, human tongue clear but shaken. "You're saying I… blessed Hazeveil? Made it alive?" I touched the cloak, its warmth pulsing under my claws.

"Yes." She replied.

Sharn's eyes glowed faintly, mana tracing their edges, a gift from Sjakthar that let her see through Hazeveil's shadows and sense its life. "Your eyes," I said, leaning forward, "they see this… kho…ris? How?" My voice cracked, the orc word clumsy on my lips, but I needed answers.

Sharn laughed, a low rumble, not mocking but warm. "Not see, Baruk, feel. My Khoris lets me sense will's echo, as Vadruk might, but stronger. Your cloak hums with it, tied to you, born of your will." She gestured at Hazeveil, its shadows curling tighter. "You walked death's edge, many times. Each step built will, old as stone. You have it, even if you don't realize it."

I sat back, my notebook forgotten, the temple's silence heavy. Hazeveil alive because of me—a divine act, unconscious. "That is the power of a Khoris," Sharn said, her voice steady. "A Warlock, however, is something else. A Warlock is an extension of the divine's will, a conduit for a God's power through another individual."

It took me many minutes to process what Sharn was telling me, my mind grappling with the weight of her words until belief and understanding slowly settled in. She wasn't lying. I'd always sensed something deeper about Hazeveil.

Truthfully, I hadn't known what I was doing then, blind to the act's meaning, but now, staring at Hazeveil's faintly shifting shadows, I understood our connection was forged through this blessing. To Hazeveil, it was as if it had always known, even when I was clueless.

"Fear not, Baruk," Sharn said, her voice warm but fervent, her human tongue laced with orc cadence. "Will acts unseen, divine or not. Its nature draws power to those who wield it, known or unknown."

I exhaled, my notebook still open on the stone floor, its pages cramped with notes. Her riddles about will were dense, but I couldn't wait longer to dig into what I needed, answers about Warlocks, blessings, power. I leaned forward, keeping my voice firm. "Sharn, I want to make a deal," I said, cutting through her zeal. "You teach me about Warlocks and blessings, everything you know. If I can, I'll turn one of your kin into an Ul… Ultharis, my choice." The orc word tripped on my tongue, but my intent was clear.

Sharn blinked, her tusks catching the light, a flicker of confusion crossing her face. "A… deal?" she asked, her human tongue halting, the orc cadence thicker. "What gresh does a Baruk seek through trade? Strength takes, not asks." Her brows furrowed, her respect for me as a Baruk clashing with my offer. In her world, power demanded, didn't bargain. Yet her eyes brightened, eager, and she nodded without hesitation. "Speak, Baruk. I accept. Teach, I will."

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The deal was struck.

I settled against the temple's cool stone, ready to listen, my finger poised over my notebook. Vadis's simple tools, its child-sacrificing Kharvad, felt primitive, yet here I was, learning divine secrets from an orc fanatic in a city carved by a God. The irony wasn't lost on me.

Sharn's lesson began, her voice steady, weaving human words with orc terms like threads in a tapestry. "Ultharis, or Warlock in your tongue, is will extended," she said, her runes pulsing faintly. "A God binds another, makes them conduit, servant. Their essence ties, forever loyal, acting Sjakthar's will—or yours, Baruk." I scribbled furiously, my thoughts drifting to Meris, the only Warlock I'd known.

She never spoke of gods, her power tied to the Life Tree, or so I guessed. A tree as master, silent and vast; did it even know its Warlock? Meris, human, coreless, was different from orc Ultharis, but Sharn's words clarified the bond's nature, and it chilled me.

An Ultharis, Sharn explained, was a god's extension, their will bound to a master, usually a God, or even me, if my will proved enough. The bond tied their essence, a conduit for power, ensuring loyalty beyond choice.

A God could infuse mana through this link, from any distance, costing only mana, not will, boosting the Ultharis's strength. For creatures with cores, this mana could usually triple their capacity, but pushing further strained their bodies, risking damage or death. Constant infusion was worse, a slow poison if sustained.

Humans like Meris, without cores, relied solely on their god's shared reserves, limited by their flesh's endurance. I thought of Meris's vitality, her power always flowing; did the Life Tree keep her channel open, uncaring of strain? Sharn's brow furrowed when I mentioned it, her voice puzzled. "A God with a channel always open? No need for its own? Strange."

I paused, my finger hovering. "Meris," I muttered. If the Life Tree controlled her, did she know? Sharn tilted her head, catching my murmur. "A Warlock, this Meris?" she asked, curious. I shrugged, unsure, and urged her on. "Keep going. What does this bond do?"

The bond's darker truth was worse. If they resisted, the God could force compliance, no matter their strength. Sharn spoke of it as natural, a gift to serve Sjakthar's glory, but to me, it was vile, a kind of mind control that stripped away freedom.

I pictured Meris, her laughter free but maybe not her soul, bound to a tree that could seize her at whim. The Life Tree seemed gentle, but what if it wasn't? Sharn's calm acceptance clashed with my disgust, her yellow eyes unblinking as she described gods accessing Ultharis senses—seeing through their eyes, hearing their world, even taking their bodies as avatars, limited only by the Ultharis's mana capacity.

For a moment, I'd considered the power—tripling my reserves when needed, pushing past what my core could hold with life magic to endure the strain. But the cost—servitude, my mind not my own, it was unthinkable. Sharn saw Ultharis as honored servants, wielding a god's power to enact their will, but I saw chains, even if forged by gods. The temple's carved Baruk loomed above, its stone core a silent judge, and I wondered if I could truly create such a bond, or if I'd want to.

Mind control? Forcing someone to be a puppet? "That's… sick," I muttered, my voice sharp. "Taking their will, their senses, without consent? You call that natural?" Sharn's smile didn't waver, her eyes warm, uncomprehending. "It is Sjakthar's love, Baruk. Ultharis serve, carry gresh, wield his power. What greater honor?"

A new question gnawed at me, wondering why power would be shared at all. "Hold on," I said, cutting through her lingering zeal. "I see why Sjakthar needs agents, Ul… Ultharis, to spread his will. But sharing power… doesn't that weaken him? Why give it away?"

Sharn froze mid-breath, her tusks glinting, a flash of annoyance crossing her face. Her recitation, rote and almost sacred, had been interrupted, and her eyes narrowed, as if no Vadruk dared such a breach. But she caught herself, her gaze softening, respect for my Baruk rank holding her temper. "Gods have reasons beyond us," she said, her human tongue clipped. "Who am I, Vadruk, to question Sjakthar's will?" Her tone was dismissive, like my question was a pebble tossed into her faith's ocean.

I leaned forward. "I get that," I said, keeping my voice steady, "but Sjakthar shared so much with you, about other gods, about Khoris, Ultharis. You're telling me he never told you why he made you Ultharis? What he gains?" The second rule's call for shadows, favored secrecy. So why seek followers?

Sharn's smile returned, serene but mechanical, her voice taking on a rehearsed cadence, like reciting a Vadis carving. "Great Sjakthar's will is vast, beyond my grasp. I watch Vadis, guard its gresh, guide Saruk and Vadruk. Perhaps I may be the eyes from which he will decide who earns Khoris, who rises as Ultharis. But above all, I teach his name, so others become his followers." Her runes pulsed faintly, her eyes glowing, but the words felt hollow, a script etched into her soul.

I frowned, my finger tapping my notebook. Teaching Sjakthar's name—why? Sjakthar craved worship, a beacon against the abyss's shadows. "But why be known?" I pressed, my voice sharper. "What does he gain? You said your eyes, a Khoris, had a cost for your god, so why share giving a Khoris or even being known?"

Sharn's gaze flickered, her finger tightening on her knees, as if my words stirred something. For a moment, she seemed to think, her yellow eyes dimming, their glow fading to a dull gray, like a flame snuffed out. Then, abruptly, she blinked, her voice repeating, exact and mechanical: "But above all, to teach others about him, so that they can act as his followers." Her runes flared, color flooding her eyes, but her expression was blank, unaware of the echo.

My breath caught, my tentacles curling tight. "What was that?" I asked, my voice low, the lens's hum a frantic pulse. The air felt thick, the crystal hum dissonant, like the abyss itself watched.

Sharn tilted her head, puzzled, her tusks glinting. "What, Baruk?" she said, her tone genuine, as if my question came from nowhere.

"Your eyes went dull, and you… repeated yourself." I leaned closer, my frost mist swirling. "You didn't answer. Why does Sjakthar need followers? What's the gain?" I repeated, slower, watching her face, dread pooling in my gut.

Her eyes dimmed again, gray overtaking yellow, her runes flickering like a dying spark. She blinked, and her voice came, identical, a chilling echo: "So that they can act as his followers." Her gaze cleared, unaware, fixed on me as if I hadn't spoken twice before.

The temple's stone felt colder, the carved Baruk's eyes heavier, and my skin prickled, a chill seeping in. Sharn didn't know Sjakthar's grand reason—she wasn't allowed to know, or even think it. Her mind rewound, locked by divine will, a puppet's string I couldn't see and a theory started to form in my mind.