The Column of Ash [Epic Fantasy]

By the time Eudoxia had gathered her chosen people, requisitioned the three ships necessary for the voyage, and organized them to head off, it was night, and Demetria feared the worst. She'd felt little since that initial burst of emotion from Daecinus. His death would reach her, certainly. Usually, the partner of a bonded other who died would feel immense pain, sometimes even endangering the living end of the bond. He'd felt her death long ago when the Vasians betrayed her, for instance.

Still, why had she felt nothing else? If his emotions reached so far in the first place, then why no more? Typically, the bond would struggle at such distances. So why the exception?

It made her nervous and pushed her to act out in haste, but she had to be patient, realistic, and calculated. That was how they would win this. It was not just about the two of them, but their people and maybe even the world. One ruled by Vasia with that priest at its head was a world destined for suffering.

When she awoke, the world around her had horrified her. The peace and stability of Pethya vanished, replaced by warlords and chaos. Daecinus was in pain, and she could do little to help, seeing him bent from his natural path as a leader toward one of war and harsh Sorcery. She did not wish him to go down such a road, but the world was cruel, and he had to be something else. Something harder. As did she. She just didn't imagine she'd have to be harsher toward her love, staying behind to handle New Petha. It felt like abandonment.

It is practical. That is what matters, she told herself, watching the crews ready their ships, the Sorcerers and their assigned Soulborne prepared to board, escorted by two dozen loyal footmen. Eudoxia stood beside her, watching the final preparations.

"Are you certain about this?" she asked the Magistros of Sorcery, of Hubris. "The journey from the shores will be more dangerous in the dark."

"These ships have capable sailors. Desirdus assured me."

"Good."

"We cannot wait. If the Returned One… if the Magistros of Supremacy, I should say, is in danger, then we must act."

"I am glad you trust me," Demetria said, offering the other woman a thankful smile.

Eudoxia cocked her head, confused. "Of course. How could I not? You are the Great Lady."

"I am remembered as a sacrifice needed for the age to end and a new one to begin. That needn't make my voice matter, just myself as a symbol. Or have I misinterpreted something?"

"No, it is true. You are the Martyr. It is a title that diminishes, certainly. But it is said you were the Reserve that the Returned One lost, leading him to Hubris. In many ways, you represent the opposite of Huris. And as the Magistros of Hubris, I would be a fool to discard the voice of Reserve." She shook her head as if ashamed at the very thought of that, and then her voice grew firmer, more severe, even, as she continued, "I will not repeat history. We will pursue this and bring him back, Standing High Magistros. I promise you."

Demetria nodded. Voice of Reserve, am I? She contemplated that. Once, it could be true, and even occasionally, next to Daecinus, usually more aggressive in his policies and actions, she could be the more cautious one. Was that what the people here wanted to see? Someone to balance out the storm that was her love? Was that how she could reach the archons who writhed under his influence?

"Will you be able to fight Maecia?" she asked after a moment. "Can you kill her?"

"If we must, then I shall."

"She's worshiped as a god here, almost."

Eudoxia nodded, looking reflective. "She saved us, led us here, and founded New Petha. Even if most haven't seen her but a few times, we all know the tales told to us as children. It is not an easy thing to set aside. But we must."

The magistros was a thoughtful person, a reflective one. Such traits were good in leaders, particularly ones you needed to keep on your side when the task ahead was a difficult one. "She will seek to undermine Daecinus," Demetria said, watching Eudoxia out of the corner of her eye. "She will try to regain control here. On top of whatever plot she's currently pursuing."

"I know. I believe you, Standing High Magistros."

"Of course. My apologies for the repetition." She was prone to reiterating when nervous.

"I will return him. And if possible, if necessary, I will see to it the Founder, that… Maecia does not threaten our cause. It's too important. Even for her." She let out a deep breath. "Those I chose will be loyal. They know the challenges that lie ahead."

Demetria turned to her fully and extended a hand, laying it on the magistros's upper arm, looking her in the eyes. "Thank you," she said with emotion and emphasis, meaning it. "Truly. This world is too large to change in isolation."

Eudoxia smiled for the first time, though it was a somber one, an almost saddened one, even if there was a trace of satisfied joy there. "That means much to hear from you. I've carried a burden here for a long time alone. It wasn't until I heard of the Returned One's arrival that I felt as if I could breathe. New Petha will not last as a political island, nor will it last as a divided, factitious state. It needs unity. It needs direction. It needs purpose. The two of you brought that, and I will not see it lost."

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…

Protis ran through the dead hillsides, feeling alive. Alive was not the right word. No words fit anymore. It had only been an hour since Daecinus had set them free, yet much had changed. Immediately. Then, in the time after.

It was not like shackles broken, freedom finally taken, but something else. Sight after blindness. The taste of Souls for the first time, impossibly nourishing. Protis wanted to explore, to question, to understand. There was much to learn, too much to learn… Not a challenge to be bested by. Their mind was their own, empty of the voices of others muttering in the distance and speaking of foreign memories. Some of the pieces were still there, but most were gone, and no more came.

Now Protis had space for new memories. New thoughts. New growth. What could they become? What could change? Life breathed anew. And yet… And yet, some things were the same.

Like the ones that hunted.

Protis flew through the low scrub at the edge of the Corrupted land, no less a beast of the earth than they were before. They smelled life struggling in the wastes, the fresh sharpness of trees and water ahead, contrasted with the bleak surroundings. They saw the rolling hills flatten, rise, and peak high in the darkness of night, hiding forests and rivers beyond. Heard the distant footfalls of the simpleminded ones Daecinus called Reavers in pursuit. There were ten of them, perhaps more. Protis was faster and stronger with greater endurance—there would be little difficulty in leaving them behind, chained to Maecia as they were, and escaping. Even if they had their armor and axe, outrunning them would be possible, but Protis had lost those things to Maecia. So, escape was favorable, less risky… But escape did not suit the Soulborne.

They had become enlightened, it was true, but at their core, Protis was still a creature of death. And so they let the Reavers gain, little by little, until they found good ground to fight. The hills broke apart with craggy cliffsides and ravines where murky waters emerged, snaking through the slits and gaps, all covered with thin, jagged scrub the color of old bone.

Protis hid among the dead cover until the creatures came into sight. There were eleven. Protis's eyes cut through the world and spotted Souls with far greater precision and clarity than ever was possible before. As expected, the Reavers could tell they had slowed here but had lost a strong scent. Simple creatures, bound and limited, but more importantly, without the High Souls Protis had in droves. In droves…

I eat, they thought, watching them near, I grow. Low Souls strengthen me, but so does the High… I incorporate the High. Protis smiled. They never would have made such a connection before, but now it was possible. Growth and strength could come as it continued to kill and feast. But more than that, their mind grew with their consumption. A creature of death indeed.

Two Reavers drew near, loping on all fours like simple beasts, heads pivoting in search of what they could not find. Jaws full of sharp teeth hanging open, the whisper of words nearly grasped caught there in their throats. Let the enlightened one seize them and give them life and voice, spoken through destruction. Protis smiled at their own thoughts and shifted, readying.

One of the two looked over, standing on its legs, head cocking, and black, dead eyes focusing in. The other trotted closer. Three others nearby. Four further out. Two unseen, out of sensory range or visibility.

Protis lunged. The nearest Reaver tried to slash out with its clawed hand, but was too slow as Protis took it by the throat with their own teeth and ripped free the veins that fed men blood. Before it could recover, Protis smashed their fist into the dying thing's head and crushed it into the sandy ground, roaring a bloody roar.

Supremacy was here.

The other swiveled and paused its charge, almost hesitant. But there would be no quarter, not with the Dead that threatened Daecinus, Ignatia, Emalia, and Sovina. Not with the Dead that threatened the living. Protis knew of what Maecia may do.

Protis was a creature of death, yes, but they were now also a creature of life.

They hit the Reaver before it could react, smashing it into the cliffside and battering the Reaver's skull into flattened gore. Protis turned and found three others nearby coming for them. Now, it could not fight the prey one-on-one. This was fine. They did not need to.

In violence, the beast came forth unbound and free, instincts sharp as its claws and teeth. Protis only barely moderated it with tactical positioning and awareness. But where instinct began, and conscious consideration ended was unclear now more than ever. They dodged, swiped, clawed, crushed, and tore their way through the Dead. Three, then four.

They were surrounded at one point, cornered, bearing light injuries scattered all over from the six already killed. Sentient enemies would have fled but not Dead. They didn't stop. And neither did Protis.

They tackled two down into a ravine thirty feet deep, killing one instantly with its body crushed against jagged rocks. The other rose to tear into Protis but was too slow and weak, for the Soulborne seized its arms and tore them free, knee pressed into its chest, holding it as it died slowly from leaking Sorcery. The others stalked Protis as they navigated their way up. One even leaped down to snatch Protis from the wall and bring them below, but Protis jumped across to the other wall, catching it, letting the Reaver smash into the rocks below before leaping up right into a waiting one. What followed was gory and quick and driven not by that tactical consideration but pure instinct for violence.

When it was done, they all lay dead; a silence in the air told of no more Dead. Even the two that had been out of sight were there, one with a broken spine and another without its head.

Protis was a mess of wounds ranging from small as finger-length cuts to two dismembered fingers and a fist-sized gash of missing flesh on their side from a snapping jaw. Covered in black muck and death, Protis kneeled beside the Dead and began to sate their hunger. They would not grow their Soul here, but they would repair and recuperate their body. Every dead Reaver was one less threat to humans.

They looked up from their feasting, face blackened with ichor, and stared west toward the Grand Observatory, hoping Daecinus lived.

Their creator…. Their friend… Protis would see to it that he lived through all of this. Their purpose was greater than destruction now. Greater than another's direction. Their purpose was their own, and that was a beautiful thing.