Rise of Tyrus

The afternoon sun beat down on their backs as Blue Dawn made their way out of the ancient temple of Mevena. They crossed the warped courtyard in silence and passed the site of their earlier battle, the carnage still fresh, welcoming them with the stink of dried blood and ruptured bodies.

Broken scales of hardscales scattered like discarded armor, the twisted remains of rock spiders with their limbs at unnatural angles, and the massive form of the greater hardscale lying still in a pool of its own blood.

Flies buzzed in little ecstatic spirals, eager to lay their eggs. High above them, three stonemasons circled the basin, as if biding their time for the group to leave. Tyrus narrowed his eyes, his hand hovering over his ring just in case one of the beasts decided to swoop down.

Alaran paused with them at the edge of the square, his garments swaying in a light breeze. He took it in without flinching, eyes moving once around the perimeter. Grant's crushed shield lay discarded and curled, the spider legs like snapped twigs, the scorched stone where Fiona's and Igneal's fire had licked. His hands folded into his sleeves.

"A thorough culling," he said, voice even. "Nicely done."

Fiona tilted her chin and let a grin slide across her mouth. "It was merely child's play... until the big one arrived. Those scales were a nightmare."

"I see. Keep up the great work. I expect great things from Blue Dawn in the future."

The comment seemed to fan the flames of ambition in Fiona's chest, her eyes blazing with renewed determination. Praise from a diamond explorer wasn't common to receive. She rolled her shoulders back, drew herself up as if the words were a mantle.

"Thank you, Apostle Alaran. We won't disappoint you."

They didn't linger around the corpses, as the number of stonemasons flying overhead grew by the minute, and the flies grew thicker. The climb out of the basin was simple, even with the trail angled down like a scribbled line, stone chips slipping from under their heels. Eventually they reached level ground, where their horse and cart waited exactly where they had left them. The faithful animal nickered softly at their approach, no doubt eager to be moving again after hours of patient waiting.

"Everyone's a mess," Fiona said, wrinkling her nose. "We're not tracking dirt and guts inside."

She set her staff into the ground with a neat tap and murmured a brief incantation. Stone trembled and then shouldered upward into a makeshift stall with four close walls in a clean square, a little taller than Grant. In the middle was a deep hole. Another gesture and a lens of water gathered above it, perfectly flat, perfectly still, like a well.

They took turns after Fiona finished her quick bath. One by one, into the bathing chamber they went. Water fell in a tight funnel, mud and blood and webbing from hair and skin and gear. Afterward came a brief lash of heat to blast-dry the body. Reo made a show of yelping at the heat while Igneal, dignified even while dripping, made no noise within the chamber. With the top portion of his head peeking out, Grant stood like a boulder under a waterfall, letting it hammer the dirt from his body.

When it was Tyrus' turn, he stepped into the stall, tipped his face into the cold, and let the day sluice off him. Blood came out of his hair in thin threads. He kept his eyes closed and listened to the sound of falling water and, under that, the faint thrum of his heart. The curtain stuttered to a stop, and a plain, clean heat rolled over him, drying fabric and skin. Then the wall sank into the ground, and the square of ground looked like it had always been level.

Soon they all looked presentable again. Tired, but no longer resembling refugees from a slaughterhouse.

Sir Wayne took the driver's bench without ceremony. The rest climbed in. The carriage lurched forward, wheels crunching over grit, and then they were rolling north, the road lifting by slow degrees toward the upper shelf of the High Plateau.

Tyrus found a spot on the floor with his back to the wall, knees up, his coat folded under him. He closed his eyes and slid inward, letting breath lengthen, mind unravel. He touched the edges of his mana heart; it responded with a slow, obedient throb. Neither full nor empty, it was reminiscent of a pot being replenished by rainfall after a drought.

The familiar routine of breathing and mental focus helped calm his racing thoughts, but even as he worked to replenish his reserves, his mind continued to churn over the events of the day. The experience felt like a dream, beginning with Reo's scouting of the basin, and continuing with the odd feeling he had in the cathedral, which was later found to be the greater hardscale.

It had been almost ridiculously easy to set the rock spiders and hardscales against each other, exploiting their territorial instincts with nothing more than strategically placed bait and a few well-timed disturbances. But the greater hardscale itself had been an entirely different challenge—a creature of such power and intelligence that their victory still felt somewhat miraculous.

His thoughts inevitably turned to the mural they had discovered, and to Eaubrus's reaction upon seeing it. The shadow wolf had been unusually quiet since their departure from the cathedral, lost in what could only be a deep contemplation of memories that remained frustratingly just beyond his reach.

Tyrus understood where Eaubrus was coming from, as they were in very similar situations that were out of their control. Not knowing what your life was previously would drive anyone insane. All they could do now was regain pieces of their memory one by one.

Tyrus didn't want to disturb whatever process his companion was going through. If Eaubrus needed time to sort through fragmented recollections, then that was exactly what he would get. Pushing too hard might cause the delicate threads of memory to snap entirely.

Instead, Tyrus found himself analyzing what they had learned from Alaran's insights. The image of a hand dripping silver liquid onto a white seed had taken on new significance considering the Apostle's explanations. If that hand truly belonged to Mevena, and if the seed represented the Elder Treants, then the implications were staggering.

He thought back to his conversations with the Elder Treant at the Wildwood sanctuary, remembering how the ancient being referred to Mevena as "Mother." At the time, Trus assumed it was simply a title, but perhaps it had been more literal than he'd realized.

The idea of a goddess actually giving birth to trees was ridiculous when he stopped to think about it. How exactly would that work? It wasn't as if Mevena could carry a seed in her belly and birth it like any human or animal would for a baby. But then again, he was being stupid to think in human terms when dealing with deities. If animals, beasts, and humans differed from each other, then the same could be said for deities as well. They probably had methods far beyond mortal understanding.

A mother not by womb but by will—if gods bled mana and not blood, then maybe a tree could drink mana as easily as water. Tyrus tried the ideas on like coats and found each one both too tight and too loose.

How did the first seed exist at all? Seeds came from flowers. Flowers came from plants. Then the cycle repeats. He imagined a god simply putting a hand into the world and pulling a seed out as if it had been there in a pocket all along. He made a face at his own picture. It sounded stupid, but what was a god if not someone who could make a stupid picture true by wanting it hard enough?

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Tyrus sighed, a small exhale through his nose that loosened something in his chest. He wouldn't be pondering such complicated questions if not for his promise to help Eaubrus recover his memories. But he wasn't about to break that promise as doing so would make him a liar, and he'd had enough of dishonest people in his life.

He'd learned long ago that it was better to be honest and kind than deceitful and cruel. Honest people were more likely to be trusted and liked, while liars inevitably found themselves isolated and despised. Having spent years on the wrong end of cruelty, Tyrus had no desire to inflict such treatment on others.

It mattered to him to keep the words he said. People who lied did it for many reasons—fear, advantage, habit—but he had lived long enough to where promises fail in small ways that hurt large. He wanted to be the sort of person whose word could be trusted.

After an hour of meditation, Tyrus felt his mana heart reach full capacity once again. The warm sensation of replenished energy spread through his body as he slowly opened his eyes, blinking in the sunlight that filtered through the cart's covering.

The first thing he saw was Alaran opposite him, seated with the calm of someone who could have been sitting in a garden or a den of beasts and looked no different. The Apostle's eyes were shut, his hands resting together as if in a prayer.

Tyrus studied him because staring was easier than talking. The soft robes were clearly of the finest quality, and the fabric looked expensive—probably worth more than Tyrus earned in several months of explorer work. Just how much did an Apostle make, anyway? What exactly was an Apostle? What duties did they perform? How did one become an Apostle in the first place?

As if aware of Tyrus's glance, Alaran's eyes opened. They were brown and flat as polished wood, and something in Tyrus's neck prickled, an instinctive flicker as if he'd found himself gazing at a still pond that was, in fact, bottomless.

"I can tell you have burning questions," Alaran said. "Do not be afraid to ask. I will answer truthfully and to the best of my ability."

Tyrus's mouth went dry for a heartbeat. He swallowed and nodded. "What exactly is an Apostle of Thasmian? And what are Apostles in general, for that matter?"

"Apostles are mortals chosen by the gods to serve as their representatives in the physical world," Alaran explained. "Each deity who still maintains contact with mortals typically has a few Apostles—rarely more than two at any given time."

He shifted slightly in his seat, making himself more comfortable for what was clearly going to be a longer explanation. "Apostles receive certain gifts from their patron deity. In my case, Thasmian has granted me the ability to discern truth from falsehood, to see through deception and illusion. This makes me uniquely qualified for investigative work, both religious and secular."

"And the responsibilities?" Tyrus asked, genuinely fascinated.

"My purpose is to find truth, no matter where it leads. To fix what's wrong when it appears. And to keep a precise account of both heavenly deeds and human lives." Alaran's gaze drifted. "It's not always simple. Truth can be painful, and those who profit from lies don't usually like it when the truth is revealed."

The explanation answered some questions while raising others. Tyrus was about to ask about the selection process when Alaran spoke again.

"If I may, I would like to ask you some questions in return. It seems only fair, given your curiosity about my nature."

"I don't mind," Tyrus agreed readily. "Ask whatever you'd like."

He waited one breath, then another, as if giving Tyrus time to change his mind. When Tyrus didn't, he said, "Is it true that your blood carries the mark of the Tiger Tribe? The black tigers."

The question struck Tyrus with the force of a hardscale's blow, completely surprising him. His pulse quickened as he scrambled to find an answer.

"I... yes," he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I might be the son of the King of Beastfolk, or one of his siblings, or somewhere else in the Tiger Tribe. I'm not entirely sure since I don't know much about them. There isn't much information available about the family, so I'm mostly ignorant when it comes to them."

"Information about the black tigers of the Tiger Tribe is indeed difficult to come by. Finding reliable records about them within the Lethos Empire is impossible. Have you considered going to the Beastfolk Kingdom to learn more?"

Tyrus shifted in his spot, acutely aware that the other members of Blue Dawn were listening to every word. Fiona and Reo, who were meditating as well, had one eye scarcely open on Tyrus. Though Grant's eyes were closed, one of his ears twitched. Igneal didn't care for secrecy and was scowling at the Apostle.

"I've thought about it sometimes, but it's not my top priority right now," Tyrus said. "And... I'm sure I wouldn't be welcomed there. From what I've heard, weakness is looked down upon, and being a Demi-human wouldn't do me any favors."

"Couldn't the same be argued within the Lethos Empire?" Alaran asked, his voice even but with a hint of defiance. "Aren't you often scorned and even hated here, simply because of your connections to the Beastfolk Kingdom?"

The question struck home with uncomfortable accuracy. Tyrus felt the familiar sting of remembered slights and open hostility from those who couldn't see past his other half. But before he could respond, Fiona stirred.

"Apostle, please," Fiona said respectfully but firmly. "Perhaps we could discuss something else? Tyrus isn't fond of this kind of topic."

But Tyrus looked Alaran dead in the eye. "You're right, but not everyone is like that."

He took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before continuing. "I used to think everyone was cruel, and that the world should burn for it. For years, no one would lend a helping hand when I needed food or shelter. I was out on the streets, fighting for survival every second of every day. Sometimes I would go to sleep hungry, shivering because I had only leaves and the clothes on my back to shield me from the cold. I had to hunt for my own food, fight beasts that challenged me, and tend to my own wounds with whatever I could find."

Tyrus felt his face go hot and resented it and went on anyway. "Sometimes I would cry until I passed out from exhaustion, cursing the world for making my life so hard. I believed everyone was evil... until I met Wanderer, who saved me and showed me kindness when I thought all hope was lost."

He glanced around at his companions, his expression softening. "Then I met Fiona, Reo, and Grant, who helped me reach heights I never thought possible. Even Igneal and Selena helped me in their own ways." His hand moved unconsciously to touch the enchanted coat's seams as he added, "And Ivy too."

"With them, I realized that not everyone is bad. I just had to wait until the time was right to meet them. I'm thankful for what they've done for me, and it's only right to repay them the best I can by assisting them with whatever they ask of me."

When Tyrus finished speaking, something changed in the air. Fiona let out a small, watery sniffle and swiped a finger under one eye. Grant didn't bother to hide the single tear on his cheek. Igneal stared steadfastly out the window with the concentration of a man trying to will his face not to be a face. Reo, whose back had been turned, kept it turned.

Alaran nodded slowly, his expression showing what might have been approval. "Truth often requires courage to speak, especially when it concerns pain. Thasmian teaches that honest acknowledgment of suffering can transform it into strength. May you find the answers you seek, young one."

After that heartfelt conversation, they rode in silence. The basin fell behind them, a bowl of ruin, thorns, and a single temple with a scarred story inside. The road shouldered upward through scrub and then through stands of grass that grew short.

Alaran asked no more questions. Fiona dozed with her mouth slightly open, head knocking softly against the carriage wall each time the wheel found a rut. Igneal took out a cloth and cleaned the worst of the scratches from his shortsword's guard. Grant watched the road through the small front window like a hound. Reo whistled a tune under his breath until Fiona, eyes still closed, said "Stop," and he stopped.

When moonlight appeared, the group would stop their travel and make camp for the night. With stonemason meat cooking on a metal pan over a blazing campfire and Fiona adding her spices, Grant would make conversation with Alaran, asking the seasoned Apostle about his adventures as an explorer and any advice he was willing to tell. The Apostle was more than happy to share his exploits, with Reo joining in as well.

After their meal, Grant and Tyrus took first watch while the rest slumbered. Tyrus spent most of his time looking into the distance in top of a rock, eyes and ears peeled for anything suspicious. Eaubrus was still silent, and for a split second, Tyrus was worried the wolf was left behind at the temple. However, he could still feel Eaubrus presence in his shadow, so he just shrugged it off and focused on his duties.

Hours passed, and Tyrus eyes began to feel heavy. Suppressing a yawn, he stood up and walked over to Fiona, currently embraces in a sleeping bag He gave her a quick nudge, and she groaned as she groggily opened her eyes and yawned. Muttering a few curses about beauty sleep, Fiona stood up and shuffled away.

Tyrus slipped into the warm bag and stared at the night sky until sleep took over.