Chapter 55

"Hive'll get hungry. Cabal too, wherever they scurried off to, but it's the Hive that worries me most. I don't want them hitting out at surrounding settlements, though the Harmony could take advantage of us if we push too hard."

"What do you propose?" Kiphoris asked.

Ikharos trailed a finger over the flashing hologram of the Spine's northern reaches. He drew a line to the east and south of the carrier's position. "As long as a single Hive draws breath, they're a danger we can't ignore. But neither can we afford open battle. Not yet. So I'm going in. Not a direct attack, just to patrol. I'll be able to reach what demons strike out and knock 'em down. Outside of the carrier, they're at a disadvantage. I'm faster than they are, and I can hit them from a distance. Easy. It'll give us time to… I don't know, prepare for whatever comes next."

"What will you take with you? How many soldiers will you deprive us of?" Sundrass challenged. "A Skiff and a crew?"

"No. That'd be highly presumptuous of me, wouldn't it?" Ikharos crossed his arms. "Me, my Sparrow, and a few choice scouts if you can spare them. Not enough to cripple you, and not enough to draw too much attention I'll still be just a call away if you need me."

"What if the Hive catch you out?" Formora questioned. "Or Elkhon? You'll be without reinforcements."

Ikharos straightened. "Out in the open, away from the carrier, I'll be able to feel them coming miles off. Elkhon included. I can hide myself, and others, if need be. Minor Light usage. They won't know I'm there in the first place." He locked eyes with Kiphoris. "I want Melkris."

The former Wolf shifted. "Melkris-Va'ha?"

"Yeah. He might be an idiot, but he's reliable. And a good shot."

"Granted. Take him. Keep him if you so desire."

"I want a Marauder too. Someone fast on their feet and faster with a knife. And," Ikharos turned to Formora, "mages. Javek and-"

"I," she finished.

"You could return to Ellesméra," he offered. "It'd be safer."

"I don't care for safer." Formora lifted her chin. "I care for my home's welfare. The Hive threaten that."

Ikharos dipped his head in acquiescence. "Your choice."

A rumble came from the other side of the flickering holodesk. Tarrhis shuffled forward and cast a critical eye over the highlighted area. "Your chosen territory is large. How can you hope to watch it all?"

"Surveillance devices, couple of Shanks, and Pikes for the scouts if you'd be so kind."

"All but the last are within mine-power." Tarrhis closed his outer eyes in a rare smile. "For that you will need to bargain with Palkra-Veskirisk. All of mine-Pikes are under his jurisdiction."

"Noted." Ikharos looked back at Kiphoris. "Marauder to spare?"

The Wolf slowly nodded. "Arxiks or Beraskes?"

"What's their skillsets?"

"Arxiks is near-Splicer. Beraskes was hatched to be a warrior."

"Beraskes, if she's fair in a fight. Any Hive equipment falls into our hands, Splicer's not going to be much help. Their stuff is more mysticism than science, and highly corruptive besides."

"I will inform her after this meeting."

"And another," Tarrhis boomed. "Raksil. Mine-son. Take him with you, Kirzen."

Ikharos quirked a brow. "Raksil?" He hesitated. "I don't mean to cause offense, Tarrhis-Mrelliks, but where we're going is potentially crawling with Thrall packs. I can't guarantee safety for anyone tagging along."

"Mine-son is an able warrior."

"He is," Kiphoris added quietly. "And bright. He would serve you well."

"... Very well," Ikharos said at length. He didn't like the idea of babysitting a noble's child. Though, his single meeting with the Vandal was encouraging enough; Raksil seemed the level-headed sort, if a tad overeager. He hoped that would transfer well into fieldwork.

"When will you leave?" Tarrhis inquired of him.

Ikharos shrugged. "When I get those Pikes requisitioned and my new sword forged."

"Then you shall join me as I meet the elf-humans?"

"I will."

"Your support is acknowledged and welcome, Kirzen."

"Respectfully, I won't be much of a help," Ikharos admitted. "Most elves don't find me particularly agreeable. I'm too..."

"Stubborn," Formora offered.

"Prideful," Kiphoris added.

Ikharos closed his eyes and slowly breathed in and out, if only to assuage the growing sting of ANNOYED. "I was going to say 'different,' but thanks for that."

Tarrhis rumbled again. It took Ikharos a solid moment to realize the Baron was chuckling. "Your presence is enough, Kirzen. None shall challenge us."

"That's..." Not the point, died on his lips. Tarrhis had already moved on, flicking the hologram southwards to Surda and the bottom of the Broddring Empire.

The Baron splayed a hand towards a small archipelago to the west of the continent's southern edge. "Mine-people's fate lies here. The Monoliks-Syn fell upon these territories. Krinok claimed them for himself and those murderers who swore allegiance to him. I would see it all returned to proper order and those curs put to the blade. You swore to help me, Kirzen."

"I did," Ikharos replied cautiously.

"In time, I will call upon you. By the Great Machine's graces, I will reclaim mine-Ketch and mine-House. I will need you to do so."

"I'll be there. But... I'm sorry, but not now. The Hive take priority. If we don't deal with them, we're all dead."

Tarrhis growled - though not at him. "I know this; we will slay them all. Harmony, Hive, Shade, Exo - these Dark creatures will fall. I will make trophies of their defeats. Their riches will be ether-bounty for our hatchlings. Our victories will be sung for eons."

Ikharos said nothing. They were venturing somewhere he wasn't quite comfortable with. Bravado was one thing, but Tarrhis was, dangerously, trading his realism for optimism. That, and Ikharos wasn't sure what kind of 'bounty' could be drawn from dead Hive. Probably nothing good.

In the aftermath of laying down a plan, Ikharos was left with naught else to do in the meantime. He forwarded a message to Palkra via the resident Splicers, but beyond that he was free. It was in that free time he decided to try his hand at magic again, if for no other reason than to increase his array of spells and test the limitations of what he could and could not do.

The book Formora gave him, Convocations, was very helpful in that regard. It read more like scientific papers than anything else, and the author, Nuada, drew attention to how the laws of simple everyday physics could be warped to a spellcaster's liking.

With Convocations open beside him, and a wide clear space in the event of a spell going wrong, Ikharos exercised both his vocabulary in the ancient language and his imagination regarding the weaving together of separate physical elements. His first action was to empty out a canteen of water and quickly say, "Adurna reise."

The water stopped falling and rose up to hover in the air before him, stretched out like a crystal-clear curtain.

"Garjzla, snúa hrygr."

What light shone through the water refracted a full one-eighty, depicting him and everything behind him. Formora stepped into view beside him, wearing a bemused expression. "You've made a mirror."

"I have," Ikharos replied. He felt rather proud of himself. "Has this been done before?"

"It has." Formora caught sight of the flicker of disappointment on his reflection's face and smiled sympathetically. "Your initiative is impressive, but the spell itself is not. Elven children are taught this when their magic begins to manifest."

There went his pride. "All the better to figure out how to make themselves more beautiful, I suppose," he grumbled.

"In that respect, we are vain. Beauty is everything to an elf. Such is the effect of magic upon us."

"Perfectionists," Ikharos muttered with a fond sort of soft derision.

Formora shrugged with a single shoulder, the movement so slight that he wouldn't have spotted it if he weren't paying attention. "Physical perfection is something each of us desires, but the image of what perfection entails differs between individuals."

"Where does perfection stand with you?" Ikharos questioned. The effort of keeping the mirror alive was minimal, barely worthy of notice. Water weighed little, and light not at all. He could feel it drawing on his strength, but it was a trickle of a trickle seeping out of a shuttered sieve.

Formora raised an arm and rolled back her sleeve. She muttered something in the ancient language, something complex and full of exotic phrases, while running a hand down her forearm. Her fingers ghosted over bare skin and left shining green scales in their wake. It was a bewitching display he couldn't take his eyes off of, and it left him morbidly fascinated. She stopped when she reached her wrist and held it up for him to see. "Wherever my whims take me."

Ikharos exhaled. "That's frightening."

"Is it?"

"It is. That's a lot of power for any one person to have, let alone an entire race."

Formora removed the scales with another intricate spell he couldn't make sense of. "It doesn't have to be frightening. All you need to do is dispose of those misgivings holding you back."

"And exult in my power? I'm comfortable with my Light, I'll admit, but unreserved power is a delirious, maddening thing. Your gramarye is a splendid magic, but I cannot pick and choose what power with which I free myself. I keep these qualms alive so that I remain in control. Consider how you felt with that shred of Arc Light."

"I felt powerful." Formora's smile fell. She looked directly at him via the reflection. "I felt free."

"But you held on. And you don't hold on with Arc. Not unless you have the power to hold it back."

"Failing that?"

"Loose it. Expend it. Immediately. Solar is passion, Void is absence, but Arc is the flow. The others can slow, Arc cannot. It needs to go on. It needs to fight. It needs to change and evolve. Getting caught up in its rivers is addictive, I know. I've spent the past century or so as a Stormcaller, but here and now I temper myself with the nullscape. Arc is a tool, but never a crutch. If I lose control of myself, then the storm in me will come crashing out - much to the detriment of myself and whoever has the misfortune of standing nearby."

"Then loose it," Formora told him. "Somewhere it cannot hurt anyone. And don't let it back in."

"Impossible, that. Arc is not conscious, but's a clever thing all the same. There'll always be a strand of static embedded in my chest, a seedling from which a new hurricane can sprout. I can't dispose of it, even if I wanted to."

Formora quirked an eyebrow. "You profess how dangerous it is, and yet you refuse to even try sealing it away?"

"It's still a handy tool. Besides," Ikharos smiled grimly, "it's so easy to fry Hive up with a concentrated Arc stream."

He expected distaste and disapproval, perhaps even a scolding retort, but instead he was rewarded with nothing more than thoughtfully troubled look. "The Hive... To think I once considered all life deserving of some measure of sanctity, but them... they are truly hateful creatures."

"They are," Ikharos echoed. "I detest them. For all they've done. For all they will do. Harsh, uncompromising creatures. Their faith is a Dark one, but even then they chose to be evil while practicing it. To be cruel. To be-" Something brushed against his leg. He looked down. Formora's little beast stared right up, one of its forepaws on the toe of his boot.

Ikharos crouched down and presented his hand. He'd heard that dogs were more trusting if someone offered them a chance to sniff them. He wondered if the same could be applied to-

The little monster clamped its jaws down on the tip of his index finger.

"Ow!" He jerked his arm back, almost pulling the pup with it. It let go at the last moment and he swore it was grinning as it did. Then the water from the makeshift mirror crashed down on both of them.

The beast yelped in surprise and shook itself vigorously, spraying water droplets everywhere. Ikharos swatted at what water had gotten caught in his hair and wiped his face down.

"You lost concentration," Formora observed. She sounded amused. Ikharos glanced at her, noting that she'd taken a tactful step back - just in time to escape his collapsing spell.

"Your mutt attacked me," he replied. He scooped the beast up, ignoring its little battle cries, and presented it to her. "Go on, tell it off."

Formora took it and gently chastised the beast, saying, "Nireith, líka ach néiat bita Ikharos-Vor. Älfr er aí fricai."

Nireith struggled in the playfully rebellious way all puppies did, eternally seeking the dreamlike concept of 'fun.' His pudgy limbs shook in the air to be put down, and a series of unnecessarily loud yaps emanated from his squashed, toothy face. The only indication Nireith gave of having heard his owner was that he no longer snapped his jaws solely in Ikharos' direction.

"Spirited young thing," Ikharos murmured. "You'll have your hands full with him."

"He's strong." Formora carefully put the hound down and looked back at him. "Apologies. We've interrupted-"

"'s fine," Ikharos interjected. He stepped over to the opened Convocations, dried his hands on the front of his robes, and picked it up, then flicked over to the neck page. "So water mirror - that's a basic spell."

"Not quite, no, but it's a simple introduction to the finer applications of magic."

"So you've made clear."

Formora tilted her head. "... You were pleased with yourself, weren't you?"

Ikharos nodded with a glumness he really didn't feel. "My poor pride, all bruised."

"You could move on..."

"And try another? What a splendid idea. But where to begin?"

"How about scrying?"

"That's... the spying spell, right?"

Formora laughed. "A spying spell? Perhaps. It certainly could be. Or it could be a lens through which to see meaningful places left behind, to reflect on the changes of the world, or even track the ongoings of Alagaësia at large and plan accordingly. Here, watch." She stepped forth, splayed out her fingers, and muttered, "Adurna."

The water on the ground rose up once more, forming a vague circle in the open air.

"Draumr kópa."

The water shifted, turning black. Then, not a moment later, an explosion of colours raced across to form an image full of shapes. Some of those shapes moved. It was a courtyard. Their courtyard. Where they'd convened for a solid month to trade in secrets and words of power. Three wraithlike owls perched on the far wall, silently shrieking and hooting to one another. Two of them were just as they should have been, but the third was nothing more than a blotchy silhouette.

"An unaltered scrying spell can only be used to view what the caster has seen before," Formora explained. "Though it can be improved upon to grant sound and even the capability of communication across vast distances. Enchanted mirrors are key to the latter."

"Can it be blocked?" Ikharos asked. His good mood was gone - replaced by the cold fear that his enemies could have been watching him right up to that moment.

"It can."

"Can you teach me-"

"I have already made the effort of constructing such a ward for you."

"You... You have?"

Formora nodded slowly, hesitantly. "Apologies. I should have told you. It slipped my mind."

"When?"

"As we arrived in Cirrane. I did not want to chance our foes following us through use of magic."

"Right. Thanks." Ikharos crossed his arms. "I'm not angry."

Formora's posture relaxed. "It's frowned upon for a person to cast a spell over another without permission," she explained. "Particularly among my people."

"But I'm not your people. As long as the spell's for protection, doesn't endanger anyone, or infringe on this precious concept of mine I like to call privacy, then I don't care."

Formora gave him a look he couldn't decipher. "You are obstinate in the strangest of ways."

Ikharos flashed a small smile. "I'll... take that as a compliment?"

"If you see it as one, feel free to do so."

"Was that an insult? I don't know what you're referring to. Obstinate how?"

"I cannot describe it. Once you've placed your trust in something, you refuse to let that trust falter even if it threatens your own welfare."

"I like to believe I have a good understanding of how reliable everything and everyone around me is. Failing that, I simply won't trust them."

"But you trust me. What if I'd cast a spell to interfere with your Light?"

"Impossible."

"Are you certain?"

"The Light is multitudes more powerful than lesser magics. It's an integral force of the universe, and I'm a conduit for it. The only way you could interfere is by damaging my physical body - and that's a whole other matter."

"Let's hypothetically say that my magic could affect you."

"But you wouldn't do that."

"Are you sure?"

Ikharos dropped a hand on Formora's shoulder. The muscles beneath tensed for a split-second. "I do trust that you wouldn't do that."

"Is that wise?"

"Like I said, I'm under the belief that I'm a good judge of character. And I've judged you to be worthy of all my trust." He pulled away, so as to not overstep any boundaries he wasn't ready to cross. Ikharos marveled at the contentedness and muted joy he felt in that moment. It was... special.

"SEE?!" Xiān cackled into his head. Ikharos didn't hesitate to shove her out and block their bond. A boiling indignancy drifted through the edges of the barricade. She wasn't pleased with being evicted.

His reverie well and truly broken, Ikharos turned to the still-running screen of water and said, "Adurna frósja. Waíse edr."

The floating disc of water froze. And, to his dismay, the image within disappeared.

"It's not so easy," Formora chided gently. Her voice was low and even - she sounded at ease and unbothered. "You have to approach the matter of the light of the image filtering through it as well."

"So I've noticed."

"But there are other ways to capture an image. Have you heard of fairths?"

"No."

"They are an art form we älfya hold in high regard. It commands the purity of the ancient language to intertwine with the tinted filter through which our mind sees an image and shepherd it into physical form."

"Like a sculpture?"

"Not quite. It more closely resembles a painting, but full of the emotion and wonder an artist would normally be unable to manifest in any other work."

"That sounds... intriguing." Ikharos felt something tugging at the toe of his boot. Nireith was chewing on the plasteel with mindless determination. "How does one make a fairth?"

"With treated slabs of slate filled with ink. I have none here, but if we are to accompany Tarrhis to Ellesméra, then I might be able to allocate some for our uses."

"That would be welcome. Thank you." Ikharos grabbed the floating disc, briefly held it in front of the tiny war beast, and tossed it aside. It cracked into a dozen pieces. Nireith raced over to investigate, teeth flashing. "Since we're on the matter of magic..." He raised up his book. "Anything to recommend?"

"Yes. We could begin with the physical symbols."

"You mean the Lid..."

"Liduen Kvaedhí. Indeed." Formora unstrapped her sword and turned over the sheath. "See this?" She asked, pointing to a silver symbol etched into the hardened leather. It vaguely resembled an arrow with wings, and it had been crafted in a flowing style. "Vaeta. The glyph of 'hope.'"

Ikharos nodded. Orúm's sheath had something similar, but it was more akin to a winding river. "How many glyphs are there?"

"Thousands. But they are formed by forty-two basic runes"

"... Oh. That's... not quite the walk in the park I was envisioning."

"No," Formora remarked. A glint of amusement shone in her eyes. "I imagine it's not."

Ikharos gathered both himself and his resolve. "I'm still up for it."

"We will need paper for this, mind you."

"None spare. Will a datapad do?"

"It will have to. You may enjoy this; there is much to be learned from the formation of written words and phrases in regards to spellcraft."

Ikharos took her word for it. His interest was piqued; he'd found some enjoyment in transcribing Cabal, Eliksni and some Hive texts in the past, and this wasn't all that different. He had Xiān transmat his datapad into existence, though she only did so with the most extreme of reluctance, and proffered it to Formora.

"Who is this?"

"Ikharos pak Kirzen, Warlock of Earth."

"Kirzen?"

"Yes. This is Palkra-Veskirisk, correct?"

"Eia. You are with mine-Baron, Kirzen?"

"Yes?"

"Has Sundrass killed you yet?"

"Uh, no?"

"Psekisk. You've lost me Glimmer, human."

"I'm... sorry? You bet on me dying?"

"I bet on Sundrass killing you. She has not. Her rage over your survival sounded so genuine... Bah, they must be playing me for a fool."

"Who?"

"Sundrass and Kiphoris! Lovestruck psesiskars. They worked together on this, I'm sure of it. Cheats, the both of them."

"... Let's start over. Captain Palkra, I need use of Pikes. Tarrhis pointed me in your direction. He said-"

"Do not touch them."

"What?"

"Do not touch mine-Pikes. They are precious."

"It's not me who'll be riding them."

"Who?"

"Beraskes, Javek, Raksil, and Melkris."

"Melkris? He still lives?"

"Have you lost another bet?"

"Nama! I merely did not expect to hear his name again! That psesiskar does not know the difference between humour and provocation!"

"No, he does not. The Pikes?"

"I'll give you one."

"I've got people to move. Six."

"One."

"Six."

"Then I want Glimmer, human. Replace what you lost me."

"I didn't lose you anything."

"You lived!"

"Yes?"

"Your fault."

"For fu- How much?"

"Eight hundred cubes."

"Five hundred."

"Then you'll only have two Pikes."

"Five hundred cubes is worth more than that. Four Pikes at least."

"Hah! Bargain struck! I expect five hundred cubes waiting upon mine-return, human."

"Psesiskar..."

"Oh, and your friend greets you, Kirzen."

"Who?"

"Tellesa-Fre'Hus."

"Ah! She's well?"

"Eia."

"Good. Tell her I said hello."

"I will. It has been a pleasure, Kirzen. Keep that Glimmer nearby."

The radio cut silent. Ikharos sighed and glanced around the tent. The Splicer operating the communication's array respectfully averted his gaze. Xiān had no such inhibitions.

"I like him," she said decisively. "He sounds like good company."

For a night and a day, Ikharos pored over both the texts Convocations and Súndavar, as well as what saved tabs full of gramarye glyphs Formora had left him with following his initial lessons. He exercised his ability to draw connections between concepts and linking them to the physical realm, and in turn came upon the realization that true names were the basis by which the ancient language, the Harmony language, operated.

It wasn't news to him, but neither was it something he had given much thought. Now, though, he could afford it the respect it deserved - and the fear too. The ancient language was limited only by the vocabulary and creativity of its wielder, and that made it exceedingly dangerous in the hands of the intellectually gifted. Elves were exemplary mages, of that there was no doubt, but a spacefaring species with close understanding of advanced scientific workings? Creatures like the Eliksni or the Psions would thrive on it, even if they were limited by the same standards humans were - that those born with the capacity to become a mage were exceedingly rare.

Though a part of him wondered if Psions were even subjected to that. For all intents and purposes, they were almost identical to elves. Magic wasn't new to them, and they relied heavily on the reach of their powerful minds. More than that, they could form semi-hiveminds and instantaneously carry on new information to other individuals up to miles apart. All it would take would be one to learn the ancient language, and then they all would. Another worry to keep track of. Another potential threat down the line.

But where the magic promised him no end of stress, it also gave him a newfound freedom full of philosophical thrills. Each word in the ancient language was a true name for something. More advanced items required more wording - especially living creatures. While the true name of a species did apply to said species, it carried no weight with an individual.

That wasn't to say it did nothing. One discovery Ikharos made was the true name, or at least part of thea true name, of Risen as a people: Eld domia dauthné un eld galasön-máttr, which translated as 'Dominator of the avoidance of mortality and the gift of the singer.'

It was quite the mouthful. He preferred Dauthné. It was simpler. And it didn't feel like his soul was being tickled.

As a name went, it was pretty self-explanatory. Many phrases in the ancient language had that. The name for a dragon was Skulblaka, or 'scale-flapper,' while a bird was fethrblaka, or 'feather-flapper.' Finding it was relatively easy - the most notable traits of a Risen was that A) they didn't die and B) they had Light. The only real difficulty he had was trying to find the word or phrase for Light. 'Gift of the singer' was still too mouthy for his liking, and though it worked, he had his suspicions there was a more precise word out there. And, of course, calling the Traveler singer didn't feel quite right, but it had been one of his many guesses as to what the Harmony called their old patron god.

At least the name had no effect on Light itself.

After that, in a reckless search for more power, Ikharos delved into related topics concerning the differing elements. In that he found only limited success, but it was exhilarating all the same. Arc was beyond him, as per its erratic nature, but Void and Solar were simpler. There was more than one phrase for fire in the ancient language, from brisingr to istalrí, but Ikharos divined via little tests of Light in conjunction with his spells that there was a slim difference between the two. Brisingr was fire and that was that, but istalrí drew more energy from him to form particularly aggressive sparks. He deduced that the latter was, in some way, more closely related to Solar. Alas, Nuada's writings didn't reveal anything on the matter and he was left stumped as to where to go next.

Void, on the other hand, was simple. While he didn't know the direct translation of the word 'void' in the ancient language, he did know another sharing the same general meaning. Néhvaët. Nothing. And what was Void but the yawning absence of existence?

What flames were sparked during his attempts to produce Solar without Light were extinguished the moment he uttered the word. The space in front of his face grew colder, leached of all heat. Ikharos doused the spell the moment he understood what was happening. His ears popped as the air around him rushed to fill into the space once occupied by a growing nothingness.

Ikharos remained still for a long time, marveling and panicking in equal measure. That the essence of Void could be drawn so easily was disheartening and worrying, but after all the time he'd spent trying to find Solar it was a treasured victory nonetheless. With a start, he jumped to his feet, scooped up the nearby dozing form of Xiān, and planted a kiss on her uppermost fin. His Ghost awoke with a yelp, wildly wriggling her pinions as he crushed her to his chest.

"WHAT THE HELL?!"

"I've got it! I've found Void!"

"Ike, let go!"

With an unrepentant laugh, he released her. She angrily flew up to eye level and bonked him on the head. He hardly felt it.

"Little warning next time!" Xiān grumbled. "Ass."

"I've done it!"

"What? Void? You already had that, moron."

"I've found it! With magic!"

"Yeah, that's kinda... Oh. Fine, well done, whatever, leave me alone." Xiān drifted back to her spot by his pillow and nestled in. "Don't do that again. Or I'll drop a warhead on you while you sleep."

It was no idle threat, but he didn't care; such were his feelings of triumph. All he needed to do was find a way to drill into the seal of the vacuum and harness the limitless energies within. He refused to think of the ramifications of such a powerful spell being so easily reached, and instead focused solely on the sheer potential it opened up. It was weaker than his Light by miles, and to draw on the spell he would have to siphon from his own stores of stamina, but that he could reach it was in itself cause for celebration.

Oryx had taught him to hone every edge. Ghaul had shown him the value of conserving every spare bullet. Both lessons had been hard-wired into his brain after months of hardship and horror; it was simply unfeasible for him to avoid following them to the letter. Every weapon, from knife to pistol to Gjallarhorn, had its uses. Every weapon was to be gathered and hoarded in preparation for the dreaded moment he would find himself powerless and vulnerable.

He experimented with it further, losing track of time in the process. It wasn't until Formora and Melkris (along with a bumbling ankle-high Nireith) arrived to collect him that he remembered that that was the day they were to accompany Tarrhis to Ellesméra. He hastily packed up, throwing everything he owned into his and Xiān's vault, barring what he had on his person, and left with them to find the Baron's Skiffs. They met Raksil by his father's personal ship and boarded it together.

As the engines thrummed online, Formora took Ikharos' datapad and took over from where she left off the day before. Ikharos played along, genuinely interested in what she was teaching him, but he couldn't help thinking that she was a rather impatient teacher. Too stern by miles. His only saving grace was his familiarity with languages.

As a runic alphabet went, the Liduen Kvaedhí was straightforward, and Ikharos noted a similarity between both it and Eliksni script. Both consisted of combining different glyphs together to create new meanings, and both could correlate to the English alphabet for the most part. Most notably of all, both languages represented the races that spoke them in a remarkably accurate manner - the Eliksni script was elegant if sharp, feral yet sophisticated, while the ancient language was a soft language full of soulful meaningfulness. It made Formora's expectant exercises that bit more enjoyable.

Besides, she spoke it with such gifted mastery, accentuating every strange pronunciation with lilting, melodious tones. It was pleasing to the ear.

Ikharos felt a shift in the air the moment the Skiff entered Ellesméra's airspace. Magic not his own brushed against the blaze of his Light, rife with caution and suspicion. He shared his observation with Formora. She took the news with grim acceptance.

"My people are on edge," she explained. "No one other than elves have trekked through Du Weldenvarden, let alone our capital, for a century and now foreigners pass through in the dozens."

"Are they going to be a problem?"

"I don't know. You have to understand, it depends entirely on the political environment Islanzadí entertains. Her mate, King Evandar, was fair and reasonable, but it has been a hundred years since he fell. Her decisions may be guided by lingering grief and a distrust of the unfamiliar."

"I can't imagine I helped with that." Ikharos locked his Ahamkara bracers on his wrists. The bones and feathers had a calming effect; they helped his Light flow more smoothly, reassuring him that even if worse came to worst he still had some measure of control.

Formora briefly moved to the other side of the Skiff's hold to rummage through the container they'd brought with them. She pulled out three swords of exquisite make and handed them over. "If you need more brightsteel," she explained.

"Thank you." He allowed them to be transmatted away, hidden with the rest of the materials and supplies he had in waiting.

"Whatever is left please leave to Rhunön. It is my gift to her."

"I understand. Again, thanks. I'll probably go through a few trials first off, just to see how the metal reacts to my methods."

"You'll forge it alone?"

"Of course. This is just as much applied philosophy as it is metalworking, and Rhunön doesn't strike me as someone who's studied the Books of the Sorrow for months on end."

Formora gave him a bemused look, though she said no more on the matter. Ikharo grabbed a handhold as the Skiff steadily lowered. A dull clank resonated through the hull, marking the moment when the docking clamps engaged. The rear of the Skiff opened up. Tarrhis and his retinue of spear-and-rifle toting guards swept past to disembark first. Ikharos patted his hip to ensure the Lumina was still there and followed them out.

It was the same clearing in which Sundrass and Drotos had landed before. Already, the grass of the clearing was flattened and muddied from repeated Skiff activity and milling Eliksni. The sun was in full swing, up in the centre of the sky, and for a minute Ikharos remained in the merciful shade offered by the Skiff's tail. He looked around; there wasn't much of a welcoming party, just curious elves and busy Eliksni. Another two Skiffs landed beside Tarrhis' vessel to let loose Kiphoris and his retinue, as well as the Pikes and supplies Ikharos had requisitioned earlier.

"This time tomorrow," he said to Formora, "is when we leave. We gather here at noon. Tell the others. And get Kida if you can; I want him in on this."

Formora dipped her head in acknowledgement. "If I can find him. I will help Tarrhis negotiate with Islanzadí first, and then I have to meet with my family and speak with Oromis, but I promise I'll find you later."

"Maybe. I've a feeling I'll be working all night."

"This is your decision. No one's pressing this on you."

"Decision hints at a choice. I have no choice. I need a weapon. Something with substance and power." He caught sight of movement. A group of elves in bright, fine clothes had appeared by the treeline and marched forth. Islanzadí was among them. Arch-Priest Drotos and Obleker walked with them. Or, in the Servitor's case, floated. "Here we go."

"Don't antagonize her," Formora whispered. "Stay out of this if you can. Let Tarrhis and Kiphoris do what they came to do."

"Easier said than done." Ikharos straightened up, folded his hands behind his back, and set his lips in a thin line. He stepped forward to join the waiting Baron and Captain. Tarrhis didn't look at him, but Kiphoris did, and his fleeting glance was full of wary trepidation.

They'd screwed up and they both knew it.

"You bet on me dying? Seriously?"

"Now is not the time, Ikha Riis," Kiphoris groaned mutedly.

"You owe me."

"What?"

"Palkra made me pay for him losing the bet. I want compensation."

"How much?"

"Five hundred cubes of Glimmer."

"Nama. Too much."

"Talk to Palkra in that case. Convince him to lower his price."

"He will never budge."

"Then neither will I."

"Silence," Tarrhis growled.

A moment passed. And another. Then, a whisper: "I'll speak with him."

"You better."

Tarrhis craned his neck around. They both shut up. "Kelekh'i...," the Baron muttered.

The opposing representatives arrived. Drotos strode over and took up position on Ikharos' other side, trapping him in. A part of him rebelled against the very idea of getting caught in a group of Eliksni, while another stressed the necessity of it. His fingers twitched; it took all he had not to draw a gun there and then.

Obleker remained between them, humming and warbling in his Servitor-language. A soft wave of weightless Void flickered against Ikharos - a greeting unseen by all other parties. He returned it, glad to have something to take his mind off the irrational instinct to break away.

Then Islanzadí gave him a look, and all his warm feelings were gone.

"Ikharos," she said curtly.

Remembering his manners, he brought his fingers to his lips. "Atra esterní ono thelduin, Islanzadí Dröttning. I apologize for being so... discourteous. It was not my intent to cause insult."

"But you did," she said quietly, bitterly. "You brought war into our homes uninvited."

"With all respect, the war arrived long before I did. You just didn't see it for what it was."

"Oh? And you would know?"

"Eka weohnataí," Ikharos told her. I would. Islanzadí's eyes widened a fraction. He continued, feeling as if she was finally, maybe, beginning to listen. "The Hive are here. And I'm going to fight them. I'm going to kill them. There's no other choice. They are killers. They would sooner see everything in Alagaësia burnt to the ground than engage in something as heretical as negotiating."

"Again, you drag your battles into our forest unwanted." Back to her old stance she went. In a way, he couldn't help but agree with her. He understood her argument completely: Islanzadí wanted to keep her people safe. She wanted out of the quarrels dropped onto her by the other races. She wanted peace, even if it meant to cut away their link to the outside world.

But there was no peace to be found. Not as long as the Hive and Harmony lived.

"My course is set. There is no avoiding what is to come. We all have our parts to play, whether we like it or not. If you choose to shepherd your people away from the fight, I will respect that. But the Hive won't. And as soon as they realize you're here, they'll come for you."

"They are no foes of ours. This is not our war."

"It's everyone's war." Ikharos pushed his growing temper down and softened the tone of his voice, for all the good it did. "This doesn't give me any pleasure. I'm trying to help everyone. But... I need some cooperation. Please. Just hear me out. If we don't take the Hive seriously, people are going to die. Human, elf, dwarf; everyone's going to suffer."

"So say you."

"So say I..." Ikharos sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He leveled his breathing in an attempt to calm himself, lest his anger break free. "Fine. Suit yourself. Your business is your own. Except... did you send warnings to the humans cities about the Hive?"

No reply.

"Did you at least evacuate the west of your nation?"

Nothing. Ikharos looked up. The elves eyed him either blankly or with blatant disregard. Islanzadí was leading the charge of the latter. Her distaste was so palpable he could hardly breathe.

"You cannot expect us to-"

"Can't I?" He challenged, and instantly regretted it. Ikharos sighed. "I'm not here for you. And I realize I've completely derailed this entire meeting. Again, my apologies." Ikharos first dipped his head towards the elves, then to Eliksni. "Ne zes ba'des, Tarrhis-Mrelliks."

The Baron motioned him onwards, dismissing him. "Da frer, Kirzen."

Ikharos made to slip away. Formora's hand shot out and caught his arm. "Wait," she said, and turned to address her kin. "Islanzadí-Elda, please listen-"

"This is not the time, Formora of Rílvenar." The queen's voice cut through Formora's objection with cold indignation.

"Scry the land! See what has befallen the Kuasta and Ceunon!"

"I know this already."

"No you don't. I have seen the monsters who now reside in the Spine." Formora's expression was hard and stormy, like a battlemask. "I've fought them. They care not for borders or laws. All they desire is to kill us all. They are-"

"Wasting your breath," Ikharos muttered. He extricated himself from her grip. "Don't bother trying. Look, I'll catch you later."

Formora gave him a helpless look. "I can't just-"

"Where are you going?" Islanzadí questioned pointedly, cold and cutting. Oh, she was livid. Trying to hide it too, but failing and failing miserably.

Ikharos mentally prepared for another argument. "I've got to-"

"He is to accompany me," a new voice cut in. It was as enchanting as birdsong. Ikharos turned his head. Four golden eyes leered back with bared hunger. Gleaming fangs flashed from within a thin beak-like maw as long as his arm.

"Arke," he greeted warily. He hadn't noticed her approach. Ikharos heard the Eliksni nobles muttering with shock and wariness behind him, but he ignored them. The dragon took priority.

"Come, o Guardian mine," the Ahamkara sang. She was still in the same form as before he'd left, feathers vibrant and dark in equal measure. She may have grown a few inches too, but that could have been his imagination. "Your new blade awaits." And she cast a feathered wing over him, shielding him from the merciless glares of both the sun and Queen Islanzadí.

000

Succulent thought, sweet desire, all within reach once more. All barred away with weightless chains formed of oath and threat. The chains were strong. The chains were binding. They kept her from her limitless hunger. Kept her from breaking her oath.

The chains were good.

Arke showered the godchild|godkiller|godprotector in attention. She lavished him with a loyalty her very nature rebelled against. She gave him everything. He hardly noticed - but even a sliver was enough, was more than enough, was that mattered.

"I'm not surprised," he said, and he wasn't. She saw it clearly. He knew to expect her. His lazy prediction of the unpredictable was tantalizingly frustrating. Arke drank in the displeasure and dedicated it to her kneading claws. Ivory talons slid through dirt, leaving marks even a child could follow. No child would. Her claws boasted hunger and strength and all the qualities of a folktale monster. And though she was anything but, the lack of trackers suited her. Just for a night. Just one.

Then, tomorrow, she would find her feed. There was still some frogspawn north of the woodland city. Oh, how those little tadpoles wished they could hatch. She would love to enable them.

"Do you think I'm right?"

Arke, had she not caught the scent of the question, would have been startled he would even ask her. So she feigned startlement, to appease his mortal half into thinking that yes, she's another lifeform like me, I will talk with her. And Arke laughed, laughedlaughedlaughed, you fool, I am not like you, I am nothing like you, I am everything you could wish me to be but I am not like you.

"I think..." She paused briefly, tantalizingly, "that it is in your nature to act in the moment, while it is in Islanzadí Dröttning's to act in the month, in the season, in the year. Your life is an unfettered blaze. Hers is a carefully tended hearth. To which will the elves gather around for warmth?"

Ikharos groaned. "It's not about that. I'm not looking for sway with them. I'm looking to convince her and them. We need unity. Why are they stubborn? How do I convince them?"

Arke smiled and loosed puffs of air in small-minded mirth. "It is already done."

The Warlock|Exile|Kingslayer|Hivebane looked at her in stark puzzlement. "How?"

"Tenacity leads to doubt. Doubt leads to curiosity. Curiosity leads to discovery. They will see, o Lighted one mine. Soon."

"I hope so. For everyone's sake." He walked on, neither closing the space between them or distancing himself. He was confident. He was wise. Affection was nowhere to be seen. Fear was a forgotten memory. He walked the blade-thin path of unfeeling caution. Amused, shortsighted, desperate - all of that applied, and all of it failed to toss him over the edge.

Arke wondered if he would fall in time for the pocket of cold data to be discovered. She could not see. The aura of his potential was too bright to peek past. As bright as the burning ball of death|life she sheltered him from.

They reached the forgemaster's temple and delved into the ring of trees. The elder-elf hammered away at a suit of chainmail, but when she looked up she quit her work. Feelings broiled within her mind - distrust, frustration, respect, intrigue. Arke could taste them. They were delicious. Elven desires were as close to Singer-worship the humans could manage, and she cherished it.

"You have returned," said Rhunön of Alalëa. Her eyes flitted over to Arke only briefly. They had crossed paths before, twice. Arke hadn't paid the old elf much mind. Her wants were still clouded with the dull taste of mortality. Less appetizing than those of her fellows.

"I have." The Light-Child gestured to the smithy. "May I?"

And Rhunön nodded, for she desired to see what could come of the inhuman human's work. Arke drank it in, feathers fluttering and pupils narrowing. Sustenance was sustenance, and she had a night of temptations to perform.

One wish was all she wanted. All she ever needed.

Just one.

"Then to work I go." Ikharos took a breath and summoned his other half. The one-eyed spirit laid out all they had prepared onto the stone floor of the elf-smith's hut. Brightsteel swords, shards of ascendant crystals from the Sea of Screams, needles of glass formed from cosmic dust, vials of hadronic essence, tinctures of Queensfoil, shavings from flower-shaped crystals located only on the half-melted fields of Venus, flakes of empty hadium, slivers of royal amethyst groomed in the heart of Vesta, and finally the mutedly screaming heart of hearts belonging to the predator of predators.

Arke lowered her snout beside the sphere of deep blue marble. It shone dimly with residual consciousness. She hoped it could sense her. She hoped it appreciated the irony just as much as she did.

"You hunted us," she whispered. "From the garden. You stalked us between the stars. And now... now I watch you fall."

It shrieked without sound. Arke exulted in every nonexistent note of terror and panic. It was the fear of lesser-death. The fear of ending like lesser creatures.

"You knew it?" Ikharos inquired.

She laughed. What a question! How could he ever understand, having never flown between the concept-trees of the Before? His mind showed its true colours - mortal in creation, mortal in resurrection. He could have been so much more, but mortality's scars were lasting. "I did. And I am glad for you. Harvest this heart, of Child of Light, and empower yourself with the death of the undying."

He stared as conclusion after conclusion raced through his once-dead brain. The scope through which Ikharos gazed at the universe was small. He could not grasp the meanings she offered him. Not truly.

"We make our own fate," he said at length. His eyes lit up with grim amusement.

Or perhaps he could grasp the meanings. Arke shivered with delight. Her coat of soft feathers turned sharp for a brief moment, arching out like steel blades. "Forge away, o swordbreaker mine."

His expression fell, replaced by dull distaste. He assumed she meant his old blade, but Arke named him for courageous feats over insignificant failures. He was the crag upon which ascendant waves blunted and cracked, and through the Deep's weathering he would become a sharpened headland.

"Righto," he breathed, and studied everything laid out before him. A knife was drawn - her knife, the Exo's knife, the knife that haunted him, the knife he clung to like a lifeline, the knife over which he'd spilled so much blood. It wasn't a remarkable knife, though sharp and resilient it may have been. It's true treasure was identity, and the identity of the knife was only of value to him and him alone.

Ikharos grasped one of the tinctures, uncorked the vial, and scrunched his eyes shut as he gulped down the Queensfoil with reluctant determination. When he finished, his irises were flashing with red, black and violet. His gaze had been expanded - he saw beyond the veil of the material plane.

He began with the swords, cutting with Void and melting with Solar. Wards were dismantled. Extraneous materials were scoured away. Only the gems in the hilts survived, and those were tossed aside without any consideration. Rhunön made a startled, disgruntled sound as he did so, but she refrained from involving herself. Her oaths held her back.

Ikharos hammered a weapon out of broken swords and an Aphelion's heart beneath Arke's velvety wing, utterly enraptured by the task set before him.

He could have wished the weapon into being. It was a bitter thought. It wouldn't even cost him a drop of blood! All she wanted was a taste, a single morsel of his thoughts. But the desires of Kepler's sole Guardian were more closely hidden than those of the fear-stricken and death-enraptured Harmony.

"I could do it all myself," she offered. She added, "O confidant mine," as an afterthought. One day he would slip up, and she would see what dark things lurked behind those exhausted grey eyes.

"No thank you," he muttered pleasantly. She could see his love of work. His love of seeing the magic dance beneath his fingertips. It was a desire plainly laid out in front of her, but she couldn't find the origin, couldn't nibble on the concept.

She was in the form of a Fanghur with resplendent silver scales as evening fell. She so loved her cousins the Fanghur, fools though they were. Their desires were near as bright as the creative apes who ruled the land, but their cunning was low enough that their minds were as an open feast. Dragons, the fearsome Skulblaka, were better yet, though they were intelligent and cunning and were aware of trickery. It was difficult to fool a dragon.

That didn't stop her from attempting to do so whenever the opportunity arose. Oh, how she and Saphira riddled with one another. Oh, how she and Glaedr tested each other. They were few, but they were more than enough. Almost-kin, almost-feast. A duality to adore. A duality to keep from tooth and claw.

As of late it appeared that almost all her meals came from similarly harmless tricks. She had sworn not to attack those named allies, or those who were innocent. Ally was a loose term and innocence was subjective, but she kept her word. An oath under duress was an oath all the same. She had tried to poke holes in her bindings before, but Arke had learned that freedom was not quite what she envisioned it to be.

Freedom was death. Freedom was unsated hunger.

She didn't seek to be left as a mere feather again any time soon, and she had been hungry for so very long that every meal - even those little harmless bites - was to be savoured. She stayed in her chains and did as she was instructed, but even she couldn't help her need to feed from the brightest of minds.

Eliksni were sly and elves bright, but they were all insects. Mere moths floating in the Darkness of Kepler. They were drawn to the Light, the glowing torch of benevolent immortality. Arke could see them from where she lay by the working Risen. Elves, the odd werecat, birds, spiders, foxes and others watching the demigod with open wonder. They were hidden and distant, and the elves few, but they were there and they watched.

She narrowed her many false-eyes and curled closer to the man she prodded day after day for a wish - just one wish!

The heat of his Solar-infused hands warmed her scales and the brutal clamour of his Light's brutal hammer against brightsteel was pleasant to her ringing ears. The screams of the unborn Aphelion were a delight she never expected to be blessed with, and she basked the glory of the moment.

"How the mighty have fallen..." She whispered.

Ikharos paused. "Everything rises and falls," he said. It was a moment of profound wisdom, rarely shared. He was a miser with the workings of the universe. He feared that if others, those he did not trust heart and soul, learned the truth then they would tread a Dark path. "No one is exempt."

She almost told him that the real truth was nothing of the sort. But that would be telling, and the game set out before her was too exciting to ruin.

He laid out the hilt, a grand work of carved Reef-amethyst and Light-filled hadium. It was wrapped in the leather of sapling-bark from the second garden, the patterned garden, and it was smooth and rough at the same time and made to fit his hand as it would no other. At the core of it all lay the skeleton of Orúm, full of killing power and without a medium to utilize said power. But it would, and very soon, have a window through which to spend its true death-sanctified edge.

A crossguard in the shape of a crescent moon was fitted to one side of the hilt. They were serpent-fangs. Fangs to catch other blades. Fangs to bite back.

For the other side of the hilt, the pommel, came the part she had been looking forward to for weeks. Months. Years. Centuries. Millenia. No gem was fitted in. No gleaming rock of shallow value. No mark of wealth. Only power. Ikharos wielded his knife like an artist, cutting at the Aphelion core and sculpting it into a finer shape, a stronger shape, a more suitable shape. His knife was guided and empowered with victor-earnings, for otherwise the crystal would have proven indestructible.

What little thoughts had banded together within the orb screeched as they were torn asunder. Life persisted, for life was energy and strength, but there was no mind to direct it. The core became a tool. It became a repository of power. The first power, and only power, to be forced into the heart was that of the bleakest emptiness, the slathering jaws of nonexistence. And, without ritual or ceremony, the core was placed into the pommel and locked in with claws of Void-charged hadium steel.

The blade itself was next. Rhunön guided him with gruff barks and softer hints. The elf-smith saw his quality of workmanship and approved, though she never voiced it. She taught him how to form brightsteel, how to herd it into shape. Ikharos went on from there, forming five metal rods and binding them together in slim threads of glass and flakes of ascendant shards. His Light roared. Flames coated him, formed folded wings on his back, and fell from his hands upon the steel. With deft fingers, he pinched together the brightsteel rods and whispered to them in languages mortals should never have possessed. The metal eagerly jumped to do his bidding; fusing together, drawing out, solidifying.

Another tincture was opened. Half Ikharos drank. The rest he lathered over the glowing blade, cooling it, opening it up to new realms of possibilities. He shaved down the edges with his mind alone, whetting it with purpose. The blade took form - straight-edged, smooth, as dark as night and flickering with gleeful stars and bright trajectories. It slid past the crossguard, embedded in the hilt, and the power of the stalking core lanced up to the fields of ripe potential within the blade. It surged.

Ikharos extinguished his Light and grasped the weapon by the hilt. He held it aloft at arm's length, gaze running down the molecular-thin edge. The feathers of his bracer twinged in tandem with the heart and the blade. It became an extension of his limb - not just physically, but paracausally.

Ark lifted herself up and shook out her cramped wings. Dawn was approaching. And so was Rhunön.

"You used magic," she accused. There was no sting in her words.

Ikharos nodded. "I did."

"... I have never seen magic like that."

"Pray you never have to again." He lowered the longsword. The metal - ordained in otherworldly power - hummed as it cut through the air. "Thank you." Ikharos gestured to what pools of brightsteel remained, cooling off in pots of wrought iron. "Formora instructed me to leave you with all that is left. I intend to do so, to return the favour of helping me and sparing the tools of your forge."

"You butchered my swords," Rhunön said hollowly. "I cannot forge another. Not even with all the world's brightsteel."

At that Ikharos smiled. The Queensfoil still danced in his eyes, still sung from within his blood. "Then make an axe. Or a spear. Or a quiver full of arrows. C'mon, get imaginative. I'm sure you can manage it."

Rhunön scowled. She held out a hand, expectant. With a slow nod, Ikharos handed her his new sword. The humming cut off, bereft of the Light and mind that made it what it was. "A fine weapon," she said begrudgingly. "What will you name it?"

"It's not Orúm any longer," Ikharos noted uneasily. "It's something new."

"Indeed."

"... I could call it nothing."

"You will not name it?"

"No. I mean nothing." The Risen cracked a grin. "As in... Néhvaët."

The blade thrummed. The Void within flickered to the sound of his voice.

"Néhvaët it is." Ikharos held out his hands. Rhunön delicately returned it to him. He stepped away, into the open grass surrounding the unwalled hut, and gave it a few testing swings. It sang. His smile grew. "Perfect."

He swung, again, but wider this time. Arke watched transfixed as he forced his power down his arm, into the hilt, and through the blade. The swipe took shape, took form, and flew. The tree he aimed for cracked and groaned as violet power sliced through its trunk. The ancient pine toppled over with a crash. What birds had been nesting nearby took to the air with frightened screams.

Rhunön clucked unhappily, but there was a glint of hard-earned approval in her gaze. "Get out of here," she ordered brusquely. "Stop destroying my home."

Ikharos laughed. He strolled away, full of hope and joy. Arke chuckled with him and kept pace. He hadn't wished. Not once.

There would be other chances. Or so she wished.

Néhvaët
"To kill gods, one must employ godly powers." - Ikharos Torstil, Kingslayer

AN: Massive thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!
Forgive the flavour text at the end, just me getting carried away with the idea of making an Exotic weapon.

Thanks to everyone for reading. I never expected this many people actually deigning to go through my scrawling attempts at a feasible story, nor anyone finding any enjoyment in it. The feedback on this has been wonderful, so again, thanks for that.