Scala ad Caelum

by GRND

Ages ago, a wizard known as Herpo the Foul defied Death and doomed the world and those who were yet to be born. His ambition was put to an end, yet briefly, for the events of the past are bound to happen again as the ages come and go. It is in the present age, as Voldemort's reign of terror is deemed as over, that the Wizarding World would understand the story had yet to finish.

64. Chapter 60 - The One Ascendant

Hello there, finally! First out of four, done! This one was the most challenging chapter I have yet written, hence why it took so long to be completed. Well, that and the fact I've spend most of my free time watching both the Eurocup and the Olympics, so writing kinda got relegated to a corner. Anyway, off I go!

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The end seemed to come out of nowhere, so suddenly it all felt as brief as the blink of an eye. Truth is it did not. It was a storm which had brewed for so long that we all grew so used to it. A rose's last remaining petal holding tightly to its bud against the furious wind. We saw it as we saw the sun rise each morning. It was a silent companion to us, its hand a lethal yet unseen thing upon our shoulders.

I find it poethic that Jordan, a man who had the entire world after him, a man so ordinary and with so little airs of greatness, a man never thought to become so important to the future of this world, was what kept our bond and Order unbroken.

When he was found, the cord broke, snapped like a dry branch. When he was found, the Order of Merlin died to never be born anew.

When he was found, our dear world changed to never again be the same. For the past met the present on that fateful day, and the future became one of nightmares and shadows.

Lawrence the Third in 'Ramblings and thinkings of an old man,' in chapter 277. The last chapter.

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Chapter 60 - The One Ascendant

It was on a fateful day when the Order of Merlin met its end, destroyed by the ambitions and foul desires of those Masters who once swore to honour and protect it.

That day, as a cold wind carried despair and hopelessness to each and every corner of the world, from the west to the east and from the north to the south, Jordan stood alone in a cave deep under the ground. Its walls, ground and ceiling, which seemed endless in each direction he looked, were of bright and beautiful glass of many tonalities; from a very light blue to a gaudy pink. They reflected—no, they created—a gleaming light which brightened that fateful pit.

On his left hand, around his middle finger, rested the silver ring; almost buzzing in excitement to a nonexistent tune. It was meant to be here, that he knew.

Herpo the Foul, one of the most infamous names in the history of the Wizarding World, would at last grant Jordan his desired wish: the Path to Immortality. Or, as Herpo once branded it, the Ascension. He had betrayed many on his way—enemies, friendly faces, and even those who came to see a paternal figure on him. Those hurt like poisoned blades deep into his heart, but, alas, was not such sacrifice worth the pain?

To be eternal. To get to know each and every civilization; those fated to perish and those fated be born anew. To see the world and its change. To see Magic and its evolution… And perhaps, to even meet Magic herself in her sacred palace of clouds, sand and trees, in a world which was never meant to exist yet it did.

To Ascend and reach Scala ad Caelum…

The ring buzzed yet again, as if it could read his thoughts. If it could, it would laugh at such madness.

Herpo the Foul himself had brought him here, to this remote place deep under Athens. Its entrance had been hidden under a small temple of white stone, one which honoured a mysterious and nameless God. The deeper Jordan had ventured, the more active the ring had become, as if instigating him. Now, many hours had passed since then, and he had yet to achieve anything at all.

Still the ring buzzed yet again.

Suddenly, a new presence could be felt within the chamber. Three of them, to be precise, yet it was one which caught his attention. A magical aura so cold yet so firm, like a blade forged in the old forges the Goblins once built in the depths of each and every volcano. Jordan did not know to whom it belonged, but he was certain of why they had come here. After all, he was not the only man with dreams of greatness.

Jordan turned around, wand ready at hand and the ring coiled around his finger. Then, he waited.

It did not take them much to reach his location. A group of three entered the bright chamber, and their determination was so great that not even such a unique and beautiful picture could make their eyes deviate from the lonely man who stood amidst it all. It was Xaladir the Second who led them, dressed in his silvery robes, of the same shade as his eyes and hair were.

However, the aura Jordan had dreaded so much did not belong to him. Instead, it belonged to one of his Inquisitors, to a short individual who hid his features under a Wolf mask, which ended right below his nose, showing his white, thin lips and his gaunt chin. A short, slim man he was, so much his dark robes hung loose like the skin of a Dementor. If not for the white mask he wore, Jordan would have taken him as one.

Next came a witch who wore a Hawk mask, with her long, braided locks of red running down her back and away from her mask. She was tall, and the way she moved spoke of her as a collected woman. White were the robes she wore; so pale and bright it seemed to reflect the light.

At last they halted. Three pairs of eyes set upon a man never thought to reach so far.

"You are a very difficult man to hunt down, Captain Jordan," Xaladir said coldly. "A scoundrel, more than a man. A traitor to his own, to the men who loved him dearly. But now you stand alone. Weak and alone. Oh, to think a commoner like you would reach so far! Yet fate cannot be changed, and things will always turn as they should. Today I will set the world right. I will lay claim to this world which is being taken from us bit by bit. Land, sea and sky, it all belongs to us Wizards."

"It takes one to recognise another," Jordan pointed out calmly. As of now he stood chanceless of surviving. He needed to bid time for his other pursuers to arrive. Because if Xaladir was here, so would be Isaac. The Ring would seduce them all like vultures to carrion.

"Ah, but I never betrayed my people," Xaladir grinned darkly. "Isaac and Lawrence and Aura, fools those three, never came to trust me. They never gave me a chance. And my family cut all ties with me when I left them to pursue a greater fate. Alas, I do not care. They will all kneel come the time."

It was too soon.

"Adam Dupond, that's your real name," Jordan said then, which managed to surprise the Second Master. It drew a faint smile on the mercenary's face. "So great your ambitions were that not even the name of a Great House was enough for you. Hence you took a name of another age, as you wanted to be just like the Wizards of Old you worship so much. That's pathetic."

Though motionless, a wave of magic came from Xaladir. Jordan managed to protect himself with a Shield, and the tremors he felt went from his toes to the tip of his head.

"Let us not waste more time on this nonsense," Xaladir hissed. "I will offer you a trade: your life, for the Ring. Give me no battle and I will allow you to walk away unscattered. It is a far better fate than that a scoundrel deserves."

Jordan answered with a smirk of his own, then.

"It's too late now, Master," Wolf sighed. "Those bastards are here."

They stormed into the chamber like a furious wave. Isaac the First, paler and thinner than ever, with only one hand, led them with a sick ferocity never seen before in him. Flanked by his two Inquisitors, Dragon and Unicorn, but also by his most loyal weapon, Aura the Fourth, who was also escorted by the Sakai girl. Lastly came Adigele the Fifth, of features so pale they light seemed to gather upon her, and to her sides trailed Snake and Fox, the most pathetic of the High Inquisitors. Raven the Unspeakable was also there, far away from the group.

For a moment there was silence, tense and full; almost dreadful.

"Traitors, all of you," Isaac the First spat. "Worms who do not know their place. You killed off yourselves the moment you turned your back on me. On your very Order."

To see how low a man of Isaac's calibre had fallen did but make Jordan tighten the grip on the Ring. The way his dark eyes ignored all but Jordan himself and the Ring on his hand, the madness they showed… It could only mean one thing—the Ring was the key to his dreams.

Xaladir eyed them for a moment, "So, your mercenary did not come. Good."

"Know your place, Xaladir!" Dragon cut in. "You are vastly outnumbered, also outpowered. You stand no chance. Surrender and lay down your wand. We might allow you to walk away alive, if so."

Xaladir stood emotionless. "Oh, but am I?"

Time stilled, and their heartbeat with it. It was as if a dark presence had descended upon them, and its embrace was an oppressive one. Even to blink was a mighty task. Jordan managed to gulp down a bit of spit as Wolf grinned darkly, "Time to set things right, you fuckers."

What happened next would be remembered for the ages to come as the moment in which the Order of Merlin fell.

There was a flash in Unicorn's hands, and Isaac could but move away when the blade sunk into his back. They all stood rooted for an instant, shock too mighty a thing to even blink. Then hell was set loose upon them.

Jordan fled as Snake and Fox turned against Adigele the Fifth. As Aura did her best to Shield them against the wave of sheer destruction which came from Hawk. As Dragon howled when she clashed against Unicorn, in defence of her wounded Master. As Isaac crawled toward the Ring like a sorry thing, a trail of blood under him.

Suddenly pain swelled within Jordan's back, and the man found himself in the air. His eyes raised to find a huge crow that had him jailed in his talons, which sunk deep into his flesh. "Avada Kedavra!" he chanted.

But he was thrown into a crystal column as the curse missed its target. The impact took the breath away from him, still it wasn't enough to drive away his survival instinct. Jordan managed to cast a Shield as Raven charged against him.

A jet of fire so bright it almost blinded him fell upon Raven. It jailed him, growing into a scorching sphere, and all that came from inside was his pained whaling. Jordan bolted up as another jet of fire came toward him. He hid behind the crystal column, which, much to his surprise, withstood the fire's assault.

"Come to me, coward!" Xaladir bellowed. "Give me the Ring!"

Sweat ran down his face as Jordan considered his options. For much he thought, he found none. He was not a warrior, as his trembling hand proved. He was not a brave man, as the fear which stilled him proved. He was an opportunist who had thought his enemies would kill each other if he were to bid enough time for it.

Now the Ring burned so fiercely against his finger that he thought it would become one with his flesh.

In a sprout of despair, Jordan raised his ringed hand. "Help me, Herpo the Foul!"

The Ring shone like a star then, and set his finger ablaze. Pain went through him like an arrow as his vision darkened. His fingers turned black one by one, until such an excruciating pain came to an end. When he opened his eyes again, Jordan found himself in a jail of crystal. Only then he did allow himself to breathe.

He set his hand on the wall, and found it warm and soft. He could not see a thing from inside, but, strangely enough, he could feel all within the chamber. The fierce battle between Xaladir and Aura; Raven, who had now retreated to treat his wounds; Isaac, still crawling like a baby toward the Ring; the battle between the Inquisitors, once sworn brothers and sisters now split by ambition and resentment.

And there were other presences he could not identify. Three, to be precise, much weaker than all else. To one, he felt a twinge of… was it affection, perhaps? Or even love? To the other, it was pride. And toward the last one, it was rage and contempt.

And the Ring buzzed in delight to it all.

Jordan glanced at his hand. The gangrene ate its way through it; his fingers already consumed, it now travelled up his forearm. For a strange reason, he did not feel scared. In fact, he could not feel anything at all. His jail was a warm and peaceful one. No, his shelter. He then sat down and observed the pristine crystal.

"Where am I?" he asked aloud.

But no one answered.

Again he looked down, the blackness almost reached his shoulder now. He tried to blink it away, as if a dream, but it did not disappear. It was not a dream.

"Foolish wizard," a Voice mused. Whether it came from inside his head or not was a thing he did not know. "Foolish man." It was so cold a voice Jordan did not believe it to belong to any man. Yet it was not emotionless, for a wide touch of them could be noted. There was mockery, of course, but also cruelty, triumph and… Relief. Such one was which reigned above all else. "Now, you shall be bereft of mind and body. Of soul and heart. So I say."

Jordan blinked as the warmth of his shelter was taken away from him. But the cold did not come. Yet blackness did, so deep it swallowed all glimpse of colour from his sight. And then it returned in a flash of grey as he came to stand at the doors of a graveyard.

Jordan knew this place far too well. Hated it, too. It was the place where they had buried his dear sister more than two decades ago.

He found himself walking toward its ample doors of black steel, carried by his own legs; not by choice. They silently open themselves to him. It was just as shady a place as he remembered. Though much worse now, as it all seemed to sink into darkness whenever he glanced aside. He knew the path, too. How could he not? He'd walked it far more times than he cared to count.

"Say her name," the cold Voice beckoned him. "Say it. She is mine, too. Mine to devour, mine to put to rest."

"Caitlyn," Jordan mused hoarsely. "My sweet and brave sister."

He blinked, and the name wasn't there anymore. Gone, as if carried away by the furious tides. It should have made him go mad. It should have made him go berserk in fury. Yet he felt nothing. Emptiness. Even when he came to stand in front of her grave. Was it her grave, though? There was no name nor a date in the swan-like tomb; a figure he'd carved himself into the cold and rough stone.

Jordan kneeled in front of the tomb, not daring to touch it with such sullied fingers.

"Think of her," the Voice ordered. "Of her face. Of her character. Give them to me, foolish man. They are mine, too."

She'd been a sweet and lively girl. Of blond hair and brown, warm eyes. Of round face and easy smile. Pure-hearted, always one to share what little she had. Even what she could not lend. Always so small, so fragile. Her sickness had hit her at a very young age, after all.

"She loved to read," Jordan mused dreamily. "She loved to be told tales. She wanted to visit every corner of the world when she grew old enough. To meet every kind of people and befriend them all. But we were poor. Only had enough to fill our bellies once a day, back then. It did not stop her, though. Often told me that she would make me befriend many people, so gloomy I was. That we would laugh all together, eating delicious food as we sang songs by the bonfire's side. That, as soon as she was to recover from her sickness, we would travel together. And that all we would worry about was being too tired of seeing amazing things."

No one had expected her to live past infancy. Yet she did it, so strong she was. So fiercely she had clinged to her dreams. And then, one night, she was gone. Just like that. No pain nor tears nor shouts. Just one last sigh. Just one last breath.

She had taken a part of Jordan with her to the heavens.

Just as he had gained a part of her.

"Give me more. Give me all of it."

Because Jordan had been a squib since his birth, and her sister had been an able witch. And the day she had died, magic had come to him at last. It was a price he had not wanted to pay, never. A miracle, most thought. A curse to carry upon his shoulders, Jordan knew.

"And you, what became of you after that day? Tell me. Feed me."

What had become of him? A man with a heavy heart. A man alone. A man with a promise to carry out, at first. A man with a most dangerous and sickening ambition, at last. Jordan closed his eyes once more, trying to sink himself back into those dark times. Times in which he'd tried to make his sister's dreams come alive through him. Times in which he'd realised he was a fool and useless man. Times in which he'd decided to become immortal so her deceased sister could see the ever-changing world through his eyes.

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Hikari Sakai tried to keep her sanity as she ran through the battlefield; through all those clouds of fire, smoke and dust. She parried spell after spell with her staffs, but it seemed an endless rain. She tried to glance around, but the intensity of the battle did not allow her so. Her body acted on its own, each move carried out thoughtlessly. Only due to sheer instinct she did survive.

Storming traitors! May Death take you all! Unicorn came after her, his wand set ablaze as countless curses came from it. She barely was able to react in time when a beam of light fell upon her, but not from behind. It was Snake's.

"Adigele, do your damn job!" Hikari shouted into the air.

But when she caught sight of her pale hair, she found the Fifth Master fighting Xaladir the Second at the end of the chamber. Wait, if so, where's Aura? Last time I saw her she'd engaged Xaladir. The Inquisitor shut down that voice instantly. Aura was the strongest; she'd fare well. Time to serve justice, then.

Hikari came to stand between two crystal columns, her two wooden canes set up front. "Come to me, Snake!" she bellowed in rage.

The Inquisitor began to sing then, the melody of her ancestors a beautiful and mighty thing. She became one with the music, and her magic roared euphoric. Stars of light appeared all around Hikari. Some of them rocketed toward those spells which tried to end her life, while few others fell upon Snake in a try to maim or kill him.

And the coward did what cowards do best, running. He used the crystal columns to his advantage, and the light stars broke against them in a rain of sparks. From behind came a subtle presence. Hikari was barely able to turn around and parry Fox's dagger; and his steel drummed against her wood in a stalemate. His mask had been broken in half; his green eyes, bloodshot, showed a picture of such hatred she was caught off guard for an instant.

A very brief instant, however.

"Begone, traitor!" Hikari hissed.

It was so easy for her to overpower Fox in terms of physical prowess, more so when he came at her so exhausted. She seized him by the top of his head, then her left cane went for his arm, and the noise of shattering bone which followed the blow was enough to draw a dark smile on her face. And his wand fell to the ground with a thud.

Once comrades, perhaps, but never friends. Yet otherwise it would not have mattered. Loyalty reigned above all. Even brotherhood.

And loyalty was what they lacked, for no one came in Fox's aid when he needed it most. Hikari could but deal a simple yet powerful blow to his face given such a perfect chance. Bone shattered, flesh yielded, and blood poured from the wound as if squeezed juice of a fruit. She stood impassive as his body fell down. Almost sickened, much to her shame and disgust. Traitors deserved no mercy. Nor mourning.

Traitors died alone and forgotten.

Hikari turned around, then. The battle had not stilled as she had. There was little she could see through the clouds of smoke and the flashes of light. But there was plenty she heard and felt. Snake was nowhere to be seen nor felt; ever the sly rat he would only attack at the best chance given. Adigele and Xaladir were still engaged in battle; her fine and swift style against the mighty prowess of the Second Master.

Footsteps came from behind.

The Inquisitor turned around, her canes in hunger of more blood. She froze mid-swing, for it was Aura Lessard who'd come to her. The parted skirts of her dress-robe, orange as the late afternoon sun, flapped around her tight trousers; yet unblemished by blood. She had concealed her aura for a reason, which had allowed her to leave the battle and then return to it safely.

The Fourth Master eyed the corpse at Hikari's feet. "I see that you have dealt with the weakest of them all," she said. "Ah, to think the day could turn so gruesome. It is far more terrible than my worst nightmare. Well, it does not matter anymore, I suppose. I was able to take Isaac back into safety with Dragon's help, afar from the killing and fighting. I have eluded battle for long enough. I will do that no more."

"We were betrayed by our own people!" Hikari hissed. It was then when the truth really hit her. Betrayed by their own. Those words felt heavier than Fox's death by her own hands.

"We were, indeed," Aura nodded calmly. "I believe this was a dark plot schemed right under our noses, but one to which we turned a blind eye. Perhaps because of our huge ego, or maybe because of a foolish trust in our comrades. It does not matter anymore, like I just said. Truth is Xaladir managed to turn some Inquisitors against their sworn Masters. The promises he made to them, they must have been heavenly."

"They shall rot in the deepest pits of hell for all I care. And I will see to it. To betray a Master, it is the gravest sin an Inquisitor may commit. I would gladly lay my life for you, Aura. So did Tiger not so long ago."

Aura walked past her Inquisitor, shaking her head. "I know it," she lamented. "You are as dear to me as I am to you, my beloved Hikari. But now is not the time for tears nor words. We must seize the Ring from that mercenary, girl. If Xaladir manages to seize it before us, to awake Herpo the Foul from his eternal slumber… I fear the entire world will suffer a cruel demise. You must destroy it, Hikari. I cannot do it myself, as my oath toward the First Master forbids me to go against his wishes. But you are exempt from that oath."

Aura unsealed her magic, then. It came out with a roar, euphoric and anxious. She was a wonder of nature, this woman. The Master to whom Hikari was a sworn sword and shield.

"Oh, to think we fought so fervently against Shana!" Aura said. "She was right, that girl, and saw our Order for what it truly was—a bunch of old fools with delusions of greatness. Shana was far wiser than I, too. I intended to let Isaac die by his own ambitions. I prayed that my efforts to protect him would not be enough. But so focused I was on him that I turned a blind eye to the most dangerous of us. I myself will kill Xaladir the Second today. It is all I can do to atone for my sins, I suppose."

When Aura Lessard jumped into the battle once more, all Hikari wanted to do was to follow her dear Master. Still she remained behind, with Fox's corpse as her sole companion. His dead eyes seemed to stare at her, accusingly.

"The Ring," Hikari told herself. "I must destroy it. Otherwise, there will be no tomorrow."

And in search of the Ring she went.

---

Jordan's introduction to the Underworld had been an undesired one. All he'd wanted to do was to mount a Thestral well above the old castle of Shadowbastion, one of those places of tale and song his sister had dreamed of visiting one day; more a ruin than a proud fortress as of today, however. But he'd been lied to, betrayed, put in a debt he could not pay in a hundred lives.

In debt to a most perverse man.

Jordan had paid a fair price to mount the beast, to a man he'd believed to be a fine and honest breeder. Money he'd earned with a lot of effort and time at multiple jobs, all to fulfil another of his sister's wishes, to fly atop the winged, sombre beast. He should've seen through his lies, through his hurry to get rid of the creature and the little amount of gold he'd asked for it. And through the darkness within his eyes. But he had not. So he'd discovered the truth in the ugliest way.

He'd gone straight for the Iron Tower, where it was said the Maides of Hecate stood one last time against the Nightmares. The rock was charred; darkened by fire and blood. A small layer of ashes, long bonded and dried in a solid surface, gave the walls a tiny touch of grey; as if a grotesque hat. And there, amidst such sombre sight, stood a lonely spear with its tip pointed upward, to the blue sky. Its wood was pale as moonlight, and the tip of a reddish yellow, as if solid fire. It was also said to be one with the Tower, hence why it still stood there. For much many had tried, no one had been able to pull out the spear from its stone sheath.

Jordan had been so enthralled by the mythical weapon he hadn't paid attention to the three riders who came in his search. Wearing black and grey, mounted atop fine brooms, they were quick to swarm him. He considered his options, just to quickly discard them. There were three of them, he was alone. They looked adept at magic, he was a squib in all but name.

"That beast you are mounting, it belongs to Fairlord Oswald," the leader had said in a threatening way. He was a tall and burly man, of short, dark hair and green eyes. "According to the depictions, you are not the bastard who stole it from us. But I don't care. Someone needs to pay, and damned be all if I allow one of my men to be punished. You either come with us, or I take your tongueless and eyeless head to my lord."

No matter how much Jordan begged for mercy, how much he argued that he was innocent, they took him away. They mounted him atop of a broom, back to back with its rider. A blindfold was put upon his eyes, and some chains around his ankles and wrists. And his wand—his beloved sister's wand—was taken away from him. He'd kicked, punched and even spat at them. But all he obtained was a beating.

Jordan gave up, and he was taken to a vile place. A place which later he would get to call home.

Blackdusk was a place worthy of song and myth, too. But one to appear in song to make children scared of the night rather than to make them joy and hope for an adventure. The filthiest corner of the Underworld. And the man he'd had the bad fortune to cross, Fairlord Oswald, was the embodiment of vileness, selfishness and greed.

A short and plump wizard, his hair black as night itself and eyes so as very dark. A man attached to laziness and other pleasures of life; especially that of power over other men. His chambers, as it could only be, were enormous and luxurious. Floor covered by a golden carpet, riveted by streaks of bright jewels. The furniture, all gleaming in silver or gold, made of the finest woods, stones and silks.

And the look Fairlord Oswald gave to Jordan, was that of a man staring down at some bothersome insect.

"And you are the thief?" he asked before taking a bite of a succulent piece of meat. Even the napkin around his neck was of golden silk. "Don't look like such a thing to me!"

"He is the thief, my lord," one of his men replied.

"If you say so," the Fairlord said with a wave of his hand. "Then, he doesn't look like a man who can pay what he owes to me. Look at those rags he wears for clothes! I know poverty and mediocrity when I see it. It hurts my eyes, you see." He picked up a piece of meat with his fork, then threw it at Jordan. It hit him right in the face. "Pick it up and eat it, you bastard! But with your mouth, not with your long hands!"

The soldier at his back kicked Jordan just below his ribs. He could but lean forward in pain and eat it from the floor, earning a mocking laughter from the Fairlord and some of his men. It was delicious, the best food he'd tasted in months, and his shame couldn't change that.

"And a prideless fucker too, it seems. Get rid of him right now, Prava! Send him to the pits of Tartarus or something, I don't really care. I heard they were looking for maimed squibs for the next event. This one doesn't look maimed to me, but there's nothing a sharp cleave and some obedient man can't accomplish. That I know!"

"With all due respect, my lord," another guard started, his voice a tad graver than the others, "he doesn't strike me as a fighter. You may sell them to the Tartarus and earn a bit of gold, sure, but such a poor offering would insult them for sure. And we don't wanna fall in those fuckers' bad sides." He grimaced subtly. "Last time that happened, it wasn't pretty for us."

Fairlord Oswald seemed to consider those words. "Do with him whatever the hell it pleases you, then! But make sure what he stole from me is more than paid! Else, it will be you who we'll ship to that battle of maimed insects!"

Jordan was pulled back on his feet by a tough hand, whose grip felt as if made of steel. The chains around his wrists, which were pulled behind his back, left burning marks in them. "Walk!" the soldier by the name of Prava ordered; he'd been the one to approach and capture Jordan, he noted. "Time to meet your new chambers, you poor bastard. And you better get used to them, as they are all you'll see until your debt is paid."

Chamber was too fancy a word for the room Jordan was given. It was a small hole into a wall, wide enough for him to lay down and tall enough for him to stand up. A solitary torch set it alight, its weak flames barely enough to dispel the absolute darkness away. His bed was a thin rag on the cold floor. There was an iron bucket close to it; his latrine.

Prava closed the heavy iron door once Jordan was inside. A little grille allowed some light to seep into the room; a grille which through the guard's cold, dark eyes stared at him.

"If I were you," he started, "I'd keep my mouth shut and do as I'm told. Your debt is a large one, and the wage you'll be given is so small it will take you years to fulfil it. If you don't use the money for anything else, that's it. And then, about escaping… I can tell with a simple look that you are a weakling. Don't even think about it. If you value your limbs, tongue or eyes, that's it."

"I didn't steal that Thestral!" Jordan said with a raspy voice. Even talking hurt greatly.

"Yes, I know. And I don't care. To the Fairlord, you are the thief, and that's all that matters. Like I said, you'll be given a small wage. Slaves have such a right in the Underworld. But don't be mistaken. This is not mercy, but a further way of cruelty. It's just a way to make slaves believe they have a chance to be free once more, and a game to entertain the lords. Truth is very few get to pay their debts after many years of servitude, and those who do it… Well, the Fairlords aren't fair men, if you know what I mean…"

The guard sniffed at Jordan, then walked away and closed the small grille. There was darkness all around him; his silent companion. He did try to sleep that night, but there was nothing he could do to silence his running mind. What of his dream now? What about the promise he swore to his little sister? Those questions kept him wide awake for many hours.

When morning came, it wasn't announced by dawn. No, it was announced by a heavy knocking on the steel door. "Wake the hell up!" a voice barked from outside. "You are on stable duty today!"

Jordan's limbs ached as they've never done before, and his ribs felt as if made of fire so fiercely they burnt. Moreover, he could barely open his eyes and understand what little words were said to him. Still he pulled through it all as best as he could. Lest he was beaten to a bloody pulp once more, as he feared it would happen undoubtedly.

Stable duty was a simple yet tiring thing.

Fairlord Oswald had quite a luxurious collection of animals and magical beasts. Jordan supposed it was where his fortune came from. He knew many of them, for much rare creatures they were. And all of them were of perfect breeding. Muscular and wide horses and Thestrals. Firecats of gleaming fur. Kneazles large as dogs and agile as smaller felines. Reptiles of both dull and shiny scales, capable of exhaling a misty-like gas which could induce a man into the deepest of the slumbers.

The list could go on and on for hours, for such was the fanciness of the collection. If there was a bit of respite in the heavy duty he was tasked with, it was to witness all those fantastic creatures with his own eyes.

Still, cleaning excrements, filling and emptying the drinking througs, and handling some of the worst behaviour beasts was so monotonous a task his mind could but drift away. And Jordan had always been a curious mind, one to always feel a need to satiate such lack of knowledge.

So the question was voiced out.

"Why don't you use elves?"

Such an improper question—to the guard's eyes, at least—granted him a whipping on the back.

"Because they ain't cheap to obtain and train!" he hissed. "But we should use them, indeed. They won't run their mouths as you do. Now, shut up and work. If you want a warm dinner, that's it."

Jordan saw a very distinctive gleaming in the guard's eyes. He enjoyed this. To finally have power over someone, to not be the lowest and foulest link of the chain. He did as told, knowing himself out of options.

Now, he'd never been a man to know hatred. Sure, he'd always hated his squib condition and the way people talked about him when they thought he couldn't listen. Yet he'd never come to truly hate another person. Needless to say, such an emotion didn't take long to blossom within him.

Each day, he was put onto stable duty for twelve hours straight. He was to work there until his limbs could barely move, only being granted a short rest to drink a glass of water and eat some slices of hard bread and cheese. If he dared to open his mouth, they would beat him with their iron sticks and leather whips. And once he was finished, he was to be locked in his jail-chamber. And pray that no furious guard was to take out his rage on him.

This was the worst, undoubtedly. Tough work made his body hurt, pain kept him alive somehow, but silence and calm made his mind relentless.

Yet for much he thought, he couldn't come up with an escape plan.

This was a cold fortress in which he was never left alone. He'd seen other slaves, all escorted by their guards; the foulest and less bright lot around the place, only a step above the slaves themselves. He could, perhaps, rile them up and rise against Fairlord Oswald. A few soldiers might join them even, as Jordan had also seen resentment in their eyes.

Then he'd taken a bit of time to really look at their faces.

There was hatred, indeed, but shadowed by a most opulent resignation. They had all accepted their fate, for such a cold and hurting embrace it was. They knew it was impossible to fight back, much less disarmed as they were. Jordan himself knew not how to use the magic within him without a wand. He did feel it, as one felt his hair atop his head, but that was all.

From time to time, a slave finally surrendered. It wasn't dramatical, but cold and sad. They would just fall to their knees and refuse to move, too exhausted from labour and the emptiness within their lives. The guards' orders were clear, were that to happen. A knife into a throat; just like that. They didn't deserve the graceful and painless death of the Killing Curse.

So he fell into that pit of resignation. And bit by bit, the promise he made to his sister faded into oblivion as he sunk into it. It was best to forget rather than knowing he'd failed her, Jordan supposed.

His chance came three years after his slavement, however.

That day, he'd been born a second time, for freedom was the sweetest of the fruits. But he'd been cursed too, for it had allowed Jordan to later know about, and believe in, immortality. A poisoned blessing.

It had all started as any other day would. With poor and tasteless food to break the fasting, with a kick on his back to spur the man on his feet, and with a few insults to get him going. He was the only slave remaining from those days in which they'd taken him. All others were new faces, yet the same—empty, hollow and dark. But unlike in all those other days, they took him outside, through the streets of Blackdusk's fourth level.

There was a man who owed a bit of money to Fairlord Oswald, and he'd demanded to make an example of him. Lest word was to spread that he was a weak Fairlord. Jordan wasn't needed for the beating itself, though it was a slave duty to carry the body through Blackdusk so everyone could see the two outcomes of delayed payments—slavery and death.

Oswald's palace was on the fourth level, one of those closest to the surface. That meant he was someone in the Underworld, yet not so important. The streets on this level weren't of mud or dirt—as they were in the two first levels—but of old and cracked stone, though well delimited. Small houses stood to the sides, of one level and simple, made of bricks and klay and with tiled roofs. Families lived here; unhonest people of questionable labours. Here, Jordan saw mercenaries and debt-collectors; and he too saw their children and wives. It was not a good place to raise one's children, but it was where opportunities arose most frequently for their shady kind.

Proof that flowers could even grow in the sombrest places.

Luck had it that they stumbled upon a beggar. Though this man didn't beg with words, but with songs. Some old, wide hat was set before him; already a few coins inside. His face was sunken and pale, cheeks so hollow they showed plenty of bone. But the smile he put on his face as he sang was a wide one. Some families, plenty of children among them, had come to see his performance.

He had a good voice, this beggar, and spoke of things no ordinary man should have known. Of myths and legends put into songs, most of which Jordan recognised. Some were true, others cheap lies to embellish his performance.

Prava sniffed, spatting at the ground. "We didn't have lot like these a few years ago," he grunted. "Beggars and the likes were thrown into the upper levers before one could take notice of them."

"They still are," Tommard pointed out with a shrug. He was a short, grizzled man, of far calmer and kinder temper than most of Oswald's men. That didn't mean he softened his blows when he was to beat a slave. He was as ruthless as every other. "This one probably was a man of this level, who wasn't able to pay his debts. His face looks familiar, now that I think about it. We'll probably be rid of him in a few days."

"He's funny!" Amar snickered darkly. He was a young lad, dark-haired and tan-skinned, with a talent for violence and thuggery. The boy took a bite from his apple, then threw it at the beggar. It hit the man on his face, but all he did was to smile and keep singing. "He lacks a spine! It must be the reason why his debts ate him alive."

"Listen to that nonsense he sings," Prava huffed. "Songs about hidden treasures of old, of forgotten ruins and places. I can't believe people are throwing money at him. God, I wish we'd move down a few levels. This place reeks of weakness."

Amar nodded to those words, grinning. "There's plenty of women here. They like fancy words, more so in songs. Either they give you coin, or they open their legs for you."

Tommard slapped the boy on the back of his neck, strong enough to shake his head forward. "Show some respect, you idiot! There are honest women here!"

They came to stand in front of one another, Amar's eyes several inches above Tommard's. It smelled like a brawl, one Prava would find no objections to. He liked his men strong, and fighting kept them strong.

It was Jordan who put an end to the brawl, however, even if that wasn't his intention. The words hurt his throat as they came out, so long it had been since he last spoke. "They do exist." Three pairs of eyes fell upon him. He gulped down, then resumed, "What he's talking about, they do exist."

The three men shared a glance. Amar and Prava broke into laughter, and Tommard just shook his head.

Prava slapped Jordan in the shoulder; not in a friendly way but neither trying to hurt him. "Oh, you dear fool. I'd forgotten that you believed in that shit. It's the reason why you ended up here, right? Because you bought a Thestral to fly above the ruins of that pitiful castle."

Jordan stood his ground. "They do exist." There was little to win here, more so if Prava was on one of those bad days of his. But those tales his sister had cherished so much, they deserved respect. "That treasure he spoke about, beneath that lake in Nize, it does exist. There was where Prince Maeldrom hid his wealth when his brother Mandraal, whom he hated, took kingship. The Alazthi were known for his riches, all won by right of conquest."

"Yeah, sure he did, lad," Tommard sighed. "Please, let's finish this before morning goes away. I want to have supper with my lady. Take her to a fancy place."

Amar, of course, didn't cease his mockery. "And that Lightkeep he just mentioned, that sure exists too, right? A castle to another prince of yours, maybe? Or perhaps to a king? Hey, can I be a prince too? I'm quite handsome myself, and the ladies love what I do to them! Amar and his royal cock. It sounds good!"

"That does not exist," Jordan said. "That's a lie. I know every tale and legend there's to exist. There is no Lightkeep in them."

Prava turned serious, a malicious glimpse in his eyes. It was something Jordan had noticed. This man hated him, and it was a far deeper hatred, far purer, than Amar's and the likes. Prava hated that he hadn't been able to break Jordan, as he'd broken countless slaves before him. He was like that annoying pebble inside one's shoe; harmless, yet very annoying.

"You care about those silly tales," he mused. "Storms curse me, but you do care! Yes, I can see it in your eyes. There's devotion, alike to that some men feel toward their God. Wait, don't tell me this is what keeps you going? You yearn to earn your freedom and go see these stupid wonders, don't you?"

Jordan said nothing, and that angered Prava. To their sides, both Amar and Tommard had fallen silent.

"Come on! Let's finish this fuckery and go find that man!" the burly man huffed. "And once I'm given a free week, you and I will travel to Nize in search of that treasure. I will come empty-handed, of course, but you will lose your stupid faith too. I will break you, slave. You will regret having eyed us so promptly."

And that time came after two months of hard labour.

One day, Prava came to Jordan's chambers to wake him up. This meant he yanked Jordan up to his feet by the collar of his rags, and then he slapped him awake. Jordan was left confused for a few seconds, even losing sight of his left eye so hard he'd been hit.

"Move, slave!" Prava grunted, letting go of his rags. "Fairlord Oswald has granted me a free week, finally. And you are to come with me. You won't be missed here, since we've been given three more slaves. There's hoping you'll die. Now, if you are to ask me, there's hoping you'll off yourself once I prove to you how meaningless your life is."

Jordan had read about portkeys, how awful they were. Moreover, his late father once told him and his sister how sick they made one. Even so, it was way worse than all the depictions he'd been given.

It was just a dull coin of bronze, but once their fingers came in contact with it, it sucked them inward and the world spiralled around them. All the colours became one, then they became a hundred different shades. Shadows became light, and Jordan couldn't discern upward from downward. Until it ended as abruptly as it had begun.

He landed face down on the muddy ground. The noise of flowing water made him raise his eyes. It was a river, wide and of strong currents. Birds chirped into the forest behind them, and the sun shone so bright he could but shield his eyes with his hand. But its rays? Oh, they felt wonderful! Such a gift he'd forgotten about.

"Stand up, slave," Prava grunted from above. He too looked affected by the portkey, face pale and sweaty. Was he so weak that he didn't feel like hitting Jordan?

Perhaps portkeys weren't so awful, after all.

Jordan looked up, trying to regain his balance once upon his feet. It was then when the voices reached him. He'd ignored the men around him. About six of them, all wearing the black and red of Oswald. He recognised some of them; their faces, but not their names. Tommard was amongst them, and he gave Jordan a faint nod as a greeting.

"What are they doing here?" Jordan asked, gulping down a knot.

Prava gave him a cruel smirk. "Well, I had to tell Fairlord Oswald the real reason behind this little escapade. Thing about our Fairlord is that when he hears any word related to money, well, he kinda loses his mind. The prospect of a treasure excited him, regardless of the odds, and he decided to send a few more men. Just in case, of course."

That angered him, Jordan could tell. Oswald didn't trust Prava one bit.

The burly man took a few steps forward, stretching his body as he took the group's lead. "Let's get on the move, boys. That damned place should be nearby, right? That beggar spoke of the Three Lakes in his song. I brought us here. Now you do your damn thing, slave."

Much to Jordan's surprise, and delight, he'd been brought to one of those places of myth he'd always wished to visit. The Three Lakes, also known as Maeldrom's Joy, where it was said the renegade prince took shelter and enjoyed his life in a peaceful way as his kingdom knew no thriving under his brother's rule.

They certainly honoured their name.

Three big masses of water, like blue holes amidst the endless greenery. The upper one was the largest, where a slightly-steeped hill began; it must have been around three kilometres of diameter. Like a big brother, it oversaw its smaller siblings from afar. The others, smaller and narrower, were half the size, but they were special in another way. Around them had grown a forest of tall, dark trees, going around the water as if keeping peace between the two smaller brothers.

Maeldrom's treasure was said to be hidden in between the two smaller lakes.

Now, most believed it a simple tale for children, like many similar tales, those written postdate, which had served to put a bit of history into the otherwise empty and holed Ancient Times. For those had been dark times, in which barely a record from it had lasted past the War for Dawn and the Doom. Those were but pretty lies to make such an Age look not so distant and awful.

But this one, unlike those all others, was recorded by someone from those ancient ages. It was said that Prince Maeldrom had a man consort, who wrote a biography about the royal—postmortem—who later came to be known as the Coward Prince. In his work, he spoke of their treasure, among many other things. Jordan had read a copy of it, as it was a fairly well-known historical work. He'd read it to his sister, too. It had looked real to him.

Prava pushed him forward, pointing at the lakes with his chin. "Now what?" he grunted. "What comes next in your tale for children? That we must jump into the water and dive to the depths of the lake? I reckon you should do that. With a big rock tied to your ankles."

There was snickering, but Jordan paid them no mind. Words couldn't hurt him anymore, more so when their intention was so clear. Instead he set forth, going downhill toward the two smaller lakes. It was a long walk, one he greatly enjoyed. The sun prickled his skin, like a soft caress, and the wind ruffled his hair in a likewise manner. It smelled of dampness here, but a different kind to that he was used to in Blackdusk, so putrid and sickening. This one, he took delight in it.

Finally they reached the forest in between the lakes. There was a thick wall of trees whenever he looked at, preying upon them as if soldiers from nature. His feet sunk a bit into the muddy ground with each step, just as they cracked little branches into a half whenever he stepped on one.

It didn't take them long to reach a huge clearing within the forest. The sun saluted them once more, now freed of those walls which had jailed him outside. The largest and thickest of trees stood at the far end of the clearing, its thick branches stretching widely around the smaller trees, like a mother about to embrace her sons.

The group stilled, all the eyes set upon Jordan.

"And well?" Saron started—a bald, ageing man who had served Oswald longest—scratching the side of his bald head. "Did you run out of ideas, little slave?"

All in truth, Jordan knew not what to do next. Maeldrom's tale spoke about his life, his self-imposed exile and the supposed treasure he left behind so his brother's loyalist could never find it. But that was the end of it. He said nothing about this, of course, and instead walked around the clearing. A bit of sweat started to damp his face, and it wasn't due to the humid heat of the place.

Wherever he looked at, all the trees looked the same to him. The large one, perhaps? No, that was far too evident. The treasure was supposed to be hidden, but it was also supposed to be meant for one of Maeldrom's loyalist to find it. A faint carving on a small tree got his attention.

It was the drawing of a sword, carved into the wood.

Too evident still. Jordan dashed past the tree, going eastward. Another carving on a different tree; a taller one this time. It was a crown, carved the same way into the wood. A crown and a sword, the man mused to himself. He lacked one piece, he could tell.

Behind him, Prava and the rest limited themselves to observing Jordan. Their faces weren't shy showing their lack of patience, but still they waited. Perhaps they enjoyed his anxiousness, thinking of it as the madness of a troubled man.

Their whispers still reached him, however.

"This is a waste of time," Tommard sighed.

"Of course it was!" Saron grunted. "We were fools to agree with this. Curse you, Prava! I know that you wanted to see this fool crumble, but did you really have to drag us all to this waste of time?"

"If the treasure was real, someone would've found it by now," Dobrev said. "This was doomed to be a failure from the very beginning."

Jordan lifted a wall between his mind and those whispers.

The wings. Where are the wings? He found plenty more carvings in many other trees; swords and crowns all. The crest of House Khol, once royalty of the Alazthi Kingdom, depicted a sword pointed upward, just beneath a crown of gold, and silver wings embracing them two. Sword for their warrior blood. Crown for their leadership. And wings for freedom.

"Freedom," Jordan mused, lost deep in thought.

What did Prince Maeldrom associate freedom with? Per his biography, it was within death that he considered himself free of all duty and regrets. Could he have taken his treasure with him, into his grave. No, he'd repudiated his own heritage through his life. Just as he'd repudiated the violence and leadership his blood had bestowed upon him.

"Wait, don't tell me…" Jordan gasped. He turned around, coming face to face with a furious Prava. He didn't allow the soldier time to speak. "He repudiated them, of course. Don't you get it? He repudiated them! A wand! I need a damn wand!"

The six soldiers shared a glance, not so amused nor angry anymore. It seemed as if they'd finally realised he truly was mad. Tommard let out a deep sigh, offering Jordan his wand. It was longer than the one he'd wielded before, his sister's. That, along with the fact he wasn't skilled in the field of magic, made him fail several times at a spell that even children could perform.

At last, Jordan was able to carve a crest into the muddy ground.

A pair of wings, meant for freedom, kept through betrayal and abjurement to one's birthright. A book, as Maeldrom had once preferred ink over blood, in detriment of the sword and the violence it entailed. And a cloak, as Maeldrom had once forsworn his crown and the leadership it entailed in seek of solitude and the peace it offered.

Jordan drew in a few anxious breaths, almost expecting for the sun to go dark or for the earth to split before him. But nothing happened. Nothing at all.

"I've seen enough!" Prava growled. The soldier kicked the back of Jordan's knees, sending him to the ground. "I'm not going to kill you," he whispered. "I'm going to keep you alive for as long as it takes you to crumble. I won't allow you to kill yoursefl. Not until there's no light left in your eyes, until there's no ounce of will left in your body."

There was silence to those words. Until it was no more.

"Prava," Tommard mused with a trembling voice. "Look there. Beneath that huge tree."

Jordan raised his head, and he felt like crying. At the feet of the largest three of the clearing, golden chests had appeared out of nowhere. In them was carved the crest Jordan had just drawn on the ground, in silver over gold. There were swords and spears, too, handlers embellished by rubies and sapphires. And books, old and dusty tomes of leathery cover. This was what caught his eye the most.

"It's real," Jordan whispered. A whisper meant for him to hear. For him, and for his late sister. "All the stories we read about, they are truly real…"

And if such stories were truly right, all their secrets were too. A certain whisper started to spread through his mind, one he'd always considered but a silly tale. Immortality, Herpo the Foul's greatest sin.

Their day ended back at Blackdusk, summoned to stand before Fairlord Oswald. To say the man was delighted, it would fail very short. His face turned red with greed, and his eyes sunk into two black pits of foul ambitions. This little treasure, as he labelled it, would make him drop a level into Blackdusk; his first after many years. But he wanted more, of course he did. More, to challenge the other Fairlords. More, to keep going down level after level in Blackdusk. More, to one day obtain the crown of the Underworld.

That day, Jordan was pardoned of his debt, therefore he was a slave no more. Instead, the Fairlord made a servant out of him. One very well-taken care of, lavished in luxury and commodities.

"I'm not talented at all," Fairlord Oswald had said, a wide smirk stretching his plump face. "But I excel at making the best of others' talents. Prava's cruelty. Tommard's strict sense of duty and order. Mayrlin's knowledge and love for breeding of creatures. And yours, your talent is your mind, my dear Jordan. You and those tales you cherise so fervently. And I plan to make the best of them too."

Jordan's life changed dramatically, though he had yet to be free from his invisible shackles and chains, which tied him to the Underworld and to a most foul man. But now he saw a chance, almost felt it at the tip of his fingers. One way or another, he would be free, and they would suffer all the pain they had inflicted upon him.

He remembered very well how much he'd cherished feeling his sister's wand once more. To feel what little was left of her by his side. That had been his first request. The other, it had been to have unlimited access to Blackdusk's library or whatever source of knowledge it could offer.

Yet all that happiness and delight, it was nothing when compared to his rage and hatred.

And the Voice resounded from above. "Give me your fighting will. Give me your sense of rebellion. Give me your hatred. Give me all of yourself!"

---

Aura Lessard, albeit the Fourth Master of a dying Order, dashed past countless columns of crystal, ignoring their outworldly beauty which would have enthralled her in another situation. Her quick and ample footsteps echoed around in the form of ample thuds; the scratching of her boots against the gleaming yet tough ground.

She too ignored the flashing spells and roarful presences all over the chamber. She couldn't tell which side the fight was favouring, but she was rather hopeless. Such betrayal had hurt them greatly. And how could it not, she wondered. Stabbed in the back by their very own people. Perhaps they had taken for granted far too many oaths, having thought of their sworn brothers and sisters a brotherhood which never was.

The reason for their betrayal would remain a mystery for the winds of time to carry into oblivion, however. And so would the method by which Xaladir had convinced the High Inquisitors to change sides. Aura had no heart for sorrowful words today, nor for ugly and sharp truths. For the world needed to be saved from those monsters who tried to awaken forgotten powers.

It did not take her much to find the Second Master.

Xaladir had engaged in combat with Adigele the Fifth, and the poor girl could but withstand his cold fury. She'd done well enough, much to Aura's surprise. But just like a solitary hyena could stand to a lion if need arose, only a likely beast could stand to the lion.

And Aura was that likely beast. One which had refrained herself from duty for far too much time. Her presence alone made them halt their duel, as if the coming of a storm. Her own heartbeat was all Aura could hear; a faint sound, like an echo of battle. The thrill of battle also tried to seize control of her mind and body, yet she pushed it away too. A cold mind and cold heart was what she needed.

Their eyes raised toward the Fourth Master.

"Step aside, child," Aura said coldly.

Adigele jumped back with no hint of hesitation, her white robes and golden cape flapping behind. Her strange and thin sword—named Hornet—gleamed with a silvery touch. Yet unblemished. A sword yet to be tainted in red was a bad omen of battle. She gave Aura a firm nod, her glassy and misty eyes, of a bright purple, knowing where to stare despite being devoid of sight.

But Aura paid the girl no mind at all.

Xaladir stared down at her, atop his gleaming rock of gaudy pink. "I always knew that we would come to face one another on the battlefield, Aura the Fourth, for your vows were unbreakable and unavoidable. But I ignored it would be in such a mighty field. Here, in this wonder only proper of the Ancient Times, I will hereby put an end to the Order I once held so dear within my heart. Because the world has already wept for so long. It is time for us wizards to take it by the reins, so we can deliver it to greater heights. Change is bloody and cruel, yet necessary. Needs of a firm and unshaken hand. Let it be mine, I say."

"A traitor's heart is vile and foul," Aura said firmly. "No matter the lavish words he may use, no matter the noble reason he may argue, such evil cannot be masked. Perhaps you truly belong to those dark ages you worship so much, Adam Dupond. Perhaps you truly deserve the meaningless name you took for yourself so many years ago. Let it be known, your savagery is only proper of them. Of those who killed so mindlessly and heartlessly. Of those who failed to enter the upcoming ages, so lost in their bloodthirst they were. Let it be known that Xaladir the Second will soon join the forgotten on this sombre day."

Xaladir gritted his teeth. No further piece of speech came from him. His wand raised, white flames spiralling through his arm. "Begone, then."

It was Sacred Fire, she knew. One of the very few things her Talent didn't allow her to control. Aura casted a mighty Shield, which was eaten away by the even mightier flames. She clasped her hands, bars of molten light dancing around her. It wasn't the best idea to battle Sacred Fire with a weaker version of it, but she allowed them flames to lunge at one another as she jumped away.

Propelled by the winds, Aura landed on a larger yet not so tall monticle of blue crystal. She crouched down and put her hand on the warm surface. It felt alive. And stubborn too, since it refused to mould to her call. The scenery would not be a weapon for her to wield today.

"Are you so full of doubts you refuse to fight me?" Xaladir bellowed.

Violet flashes came at her; curses only known to Xaladir's perversion. She simply jumped down, slithering through the crystal columns as her not-so young legs allowed the witch. I'm at a disadvantage here. Aura's style greatly benefited from using the environment and her foe's magic. Xaladir knew that, so he lunged at her again and again with the sole purpose of killing, refraining himself from unleashing his true magical prowess and instead using simpler and solitary curses.

She hid behind a thick monticle of green crystal. Looking down she noticed small and thin needles of the said material. He imbued her hand in raw magic, then delivered a blow at the point in which they thinned the most. It broke cleanly, fortunately. She was left with a dagger-like piece of crystal to wield in each hand. She wielded one and kept the other inside her robes. Then stepped out of her hiding spot.

There was a green flash that came to meet her. Aura simply parried the Killing Curse with the crystal dagger. She smirked at seeing the green sparks flying everywhere.

Aura made hers the uneven ground. She hid behind the gleaming columns and monticles, suppressing her magical aura as much as she dared without sealing it. To tire out Xaladir wasn't the best strategy, but it was perhaps the wisest. More so given the fact she needed to be aware of any other foe that might come from behind. Wolf worried her, that shady Inquisitor. There was something wrong about him.

To close out the distance as a shadow and strike at the Second Master with her crystal dagger became her objective. And the fight became a game of hide and seek; one in which the loser would die. The bright cavern became her playground. Aura stalked her prey like a hawk, closing the distance between them with each blink of their eyes.

But Xaladir was quite a skilled wizard, and his back didn't remain turned on her for long. He always turned sharply toward her at the last instant, as if taunting her almost.

But at last her chance came.

There was a burst of magic within the chamber so powerful they could but turn their heads at it, surprised. Explosions followed, so did shouting, but most importantly, it served to shadow Aura's presence; like a larger shadow taking a smaller one into its embrace.

She dashed forward, gleaming dagger at hand. Xaladir stood with his back almost turned at her, head crooked to the left. One step after another in a quick stride, and Aura finally raised her arm. She saw fear in his eyes—in the eyes of a man who had never known such foul emotion.

And then the ground in between them was split open, so cleanly it seemed to be carved out with a sharp, hot knife. When there was bright stone, nothing but empty air remained. A crevice as wide as two men were tall, and so deep her eyes could not see its end.

Aura jumped back as Xaladir bellowed, "Wolf!" and the Inquisitor stormed into the clearing from above, hands glowing in white and black. He twisted them around an invisible something, and the nothingness in between them seemed to writhe.

Every single hair within Aura's flesh bristled as she took a quick step to the left. The ground creviced below her once more, just an inch from her hand and leg. There was a sharp intake of pain to which she turned a blind eye, so busy she was fleeing back.

"Coward!" Wolf laughed from afar; a maddening sound which should have not belonged to any man.

Just as his magic, an aberration of nature. Because it was now when Aura understood what had happened. She did as soon as she took a look down at her left hand, where the last phalanx of her fourth and fifth finger were no more. And there was not a single drop of blood, so clean the cut was. Just as there had not been any dust nor rock fragments when the ground was split open.

Because the magic Wolf had wielded was but the art of Apparition somehow turned into a weapon.

But that is impossible! She knew it was not. Who was she to say how much magic could evolve in the hands of men? Did her position as Master of the Order of Merlin granted her such authority?

Sheltered beneath a narrow arc of crystal, her magic long conceived, Aura tried to regain her breath. Battle was going worse than she had imagined—she herself was getting outplayed by lesser warriors. And her initial plan to tire them out and observe how the fight evolved was being proven to be a foolish delusion.

Could it be that…

"Get out and face me!" Xaladir bellowed from afar, his voice but a faint echo. "I thought you were worthy of magic, Aura of House Lessard, but I see I was wrong! You will die a coward, just as Isaac did!"

She stilled for a brief instant, surprised. No, Isaac wasn't dead yet. She could feel it, bound as they were through her Vow toward him. But this game of hers could as well put him in the grave. The more time she wasted here, trying to avoid confrontation, the more chances of their care to be useless on him. A king of old once said that duty was the heaviest of the burdens, and she couldn't agree more with him.

Aura let out a tired sigh, then flared out her magical aura. It came out fiercely, like a lighting bolt amidst a storm. And so her presence was known to everyone in the cavern.

She had a duty toward Isaac to fulfil. An oath—her bane and doom.

The woman straightened her back. "Let us fight truly, then," she mused sourly.

It was a spell she hadn't used in ages, not even in her battle against Elend Shawn. Aura was imbued in wind and lighting alike, almost becoming them herself. Lighting bolts travelled down her limbs, and wind caressed every inch of her body with a grace and kindness so unnatural to such violence. She let out a furious roar, and the chamber seemed to shake and tremble in response.

She became the heart of an enraged whirlwind, crevicing the ground and shaking the crystal columns to her passing through them. She should've been able to see the entire chamber from above, but it all looked so dim across the frenzied storm; as if seen through a misty veil.

Xaladir did not waste his time. Curse after curse came from his wand. All to be devoured by Aura's roaring magic. It was time to take the battle into fields no ordinary wizard could reach. And poor of Xaladir if he was to refrain himself if just a bit.

The Second Master did not refrain himself, indeed, and he answered her call.

---

The Tartarus was just as horrible as Jordan had imagined it to be, if not way worse.

A servant—a young woman dressed in see-through robes—brought them wine and fresh fruit. Fairlord Oswald paid her no mind as he seized a wide cup for himself, but his men did plenty of groping and pinching to make up for it. The girl said nothing, instead bowed her head submissively and walked away as soon as Oswald bid her permission.

"Tell me," the Fairlord began, eyes set on the sandy pit, "do you reckon we could get our hands on those beasts from your stories? Just one, the most dangerous and flashiest of them all." He took a long gulp at his wine, then his eyes rose in search of a faraway balcony, where Fairlord Makkun, one of his main rivals, awaited for the fight to begin.

Jordan feigned to think his answer. There wasn't much to think about, but the Fairlord hated to have his ideas denied, no matter how impossible and foolish they were. It was something he'd learn in the four years under his service; seven if one were to count those as a slave. And it always took him a while to sweet his words.

"Perhaps," Jordan said finally. "But it isn't so easy as to simply go in search of them. We'd need to-"

"Spare me the hows and all that nonsense," the Fairlord huffed with a wave of his hand. "I asked you because you are clever and know many things. Just get it done and don't pester me about it!" One more sip, a more furious and longer one. "I can feel that bastard's eyes on me! He's glancing down at me, from his upper balcony. That fucker has risen far higher than I. Look at him. So tall and proud he stands now!"

The Fairlords of the Underworld didn't distinguish themselves much from their pureblood counterparts in that regard. For them, it was always war and competition against one another. To crush someone else beneath their heels was all they desired for. The mightier a rival was, the more others desired to see them fall. But Oswald was one of the lowliest of them all. There was plenty of rage and envy within him, more so if one of those he considered equals were to raise before him.

Here, in the Tartarus, the more important a Fairlord was, the higher his balcony would be set into the arena. They too had a larger share of the fortunes to be earned in betting. And priority to offer and propose the kind of spectacle to be held. These two privileges went hand by hand, as knowledge assured more chances in making a correct betting.

And talking about betting, an uniformed servant strode into the balcony just then. He was tall and thin, of tanned skin and dark eyes. He was dressed in blue and red, the colours of Fairlord Jovan; the lord who had organised today's event.

"I'm here to take note of the Fairlord's betting," he said.

Betting was mandatory, but it wasn't urgent. One could always wait to see how the battle unfolded. But the longer one waited, the lesser cut they'd take home.

"I know!" Fairlord Oswald huffed in annoyance. "You, do you have any idea yet?"

Jordan remained silent, eyes set on the many slaves about to take part in the event. They were a sorry lot—thin and dirty, with their eyes sunken and hollow. Their faces grimaced in pain whenever they took a step, for the sandy ground was filled with small and sharp rocks, which were eager to sink into the flesh of their feet. They were hopeless, in short. Just as he'd been once. None of them stood a chance today. Not if surviving was the goal, as if often was.

"I would advise you to wait, my lord," Jordan said at last. "I need to see them in action, if just a bit."

"Make it quick, then! This is my money that is at risk, in case you've forgotten. Perhaps a time back in the stables would suit you well. Or maybe you wish to stand with them, down there. Is that so?"

The arena stilled. The slaves stood at one end of the large, sandy pit; the remnants of iron chains still around their ankles and wrists. Some dared to raise their eyes, what little challenge was left of them gleaming faintly. Most remained with their heads low, eyes set on the dark, blood-stained sand. Those were already dead, even if their hearts yet beat. But there was one whose eyes fell upon the wide iron doors at the opposite end of the pit, through where the challenge would come.

He was a short boy, this one, probably in his early or mid teens. Of dark hair which fell over his forehead, of slanted and grey eyes and of tanned skin. He moved around the other slaves with a nervous stride, the heel of his feet barely touching the ground.

Jordan watched him from afar.

But even before the frail could start, a sudden wailing pulled Jordan out of his thoughts.

A pale man, tall and lanky, had fallen to his knees, forehead pressed to the ground. It was soon coated in blood as the words bellowed out of his mouth. "Spare me, I beg of you! I'll pay what I owe and way more! Way more, I promise! I'm useful, too! I've worked under Fairlord Jovan for years! I know-"

There was an unmistakable green flash, and the man fell dead to the ground. It was a well-known rule among the slaves. All those who lacked the spirit to fight, to entertain the Fairlords and their entourage, they were to be executed. Still their heads rose, looking upward, to where the most powerful man in the Underworld sat.

A nameless and unknown figure, hidden under a black cloak and grey mask. The two solitary crimson tears which run down each metallic cheek were a sight to fear and lavish in equal measure. He raised a hand, and the crowd broke free of their stupor.

The doors did open at last, followed by a choir of excited gasps and cheers.

What unfolded next was but another piece of brutality and savagery only proper of the Tartarus; the most horrible place in the Underworld. Grunting and cawing came from beneath the grandstands, loud and beast-like. It was a sad thing to see the colour draining from the slaves' faces. And to see them run and coward in fear when the beasts appeared, it was even sadder.

Bears, large wolves, rabid house-elves, gryphons and firecats came in waves, so many of them that they were almost equal in numbers to those men and women. Hungry, furious and scared, each and every one of them.

The slaves showed many kinds of reactions. Some fell to their knees, expecting a quick and painless death which did not come; because that would have been too merciful an end. Others ran away, jumping into the spear-filled abyss which delimited the pit; and their lives ended in a silent gasp, alone and full of pain, but felled by their choice still. And others, most of them, they stood and fought.

Rings of spears, swords and hammers had been laid all over the battlefield. Magic wasn't a weapon to wield today, and poor of whoever did so. For them, for going against the rules, the worst of deaths awaited.

Jordan set his eyes on the young boy. He seemed to walk on the tip of his toes, barely making a sound as many fell prey to frenzy and fear around him. He seized a spear for himself. A good choice, Jordan reckoned—given his complexion, it was the best. He was surrounded by two other men and a woman when the beasts fell upon them.

And their instinct guided them well, for they stuck together. It was proven useless, however. The tallest and burliest man was first to fall. A large wolf fell upon him, so fast his sword couldn't rise in time to stop those fangs from closing around his throat. Blood poured out like rivers, and the second man lost his spirit to such a sight. He ran, just to be impaled by the spiky tail of a gryphon.

Jordan glanced around the pit. More than a dozen men were already dead. On the contrary, only two beasts had been felled. That tall house-elf, whose head laid apart from his body, and a red-furred bear, whose skull had three spears sunk deep into the bone.

But this young boy, however, he moved in a special way. And cruel, too. A gryphon set after him, and the boy spirited away. Toward another man whose back was turned on them. The poor bastard did not stand a chance. With a loud wailing the gryphon fell upon the boy, who simply dashed to his left, grabbing the man's ragged shirt and using him as a meat shield. Claws and fangs made quick work of his soft flesh among a choir of pained waillings, but such a feast left the beast defenceless.

The lad's spear rose swiftly, and the gryphon was no more. Both man and creature fell down with a plain and loud thud.

Jordan stood up and leaned onto the handrail. "That one," he said to the Fairlord. "You must bet on that boy."

Fairlord Oswald sent him a sideways glance. "Have you lost your damn head, you filthy bastard? That boy is scrawny and short, like a child. Surely he will die in the blink of an eye."

"I haven't, my lord. He will survive. I just know it. Let it be my life, the price to pay were I proven wrong."

For much Oswald wanted to argue back and curse him with as many foul words his short vocabulary could wield, Jordan knew he would do as told. Money was dear enough to him. And pride, too.

"You, servant!" the Fairlord called. The man behind them stepped into the light once more. He seemed undisturbed by the mockery. "I will bet my all on that short boy. The one wearing those red rags. Yes, that one. Ain't he a funny lad? The way he moves that spear, that's it. I like him."

He'd come like a shadow, and like a shadow he left once the betting was done.

To say Jordan enjoyed the rest of the event would be a lie, for he hated and condemned such cruelty with all his might. Now, he did enjoy the way this boy withstood it all. It was like seeing the growth of an artist; one who only knew to use the red colour. Man after man fell, and beast after beast followed. It was astonishing to see how a man could fight so fiercely with so little resources when one's life was at peril. But only one could remain, unfortunately, and that one was no other but that scrawny boy.

After an hour of killing, he came to stand alone in the middle of the pit. His robes were soaked in blood, but not a drop was his. With a breathing so ragged and frenzied his chest seemed about to burst, he raised his eyes, spear aimed down.

Jordan didn't see a boy there. He saw a monster. He saw a weapon. He saw a way out of his personal hellhole.

Fairlord Jovan stood up, then. His balcony was levels above Oswald's, and yet one could see how many more there were still to climb. His voice was acute—too acute for a man, yet too grave and raspy for a woman. Jordan knew this was a woman trying to pass herself as a man.

"Here ends today's event!" she exclaimed, arms opened to her sides. "A most exciting one, as it was proven. And just like always, a solitary man emerges as champion. Now, let the voting begin."

One by one, all the Fairlords rose to their feet. Wands were lit ablaze in green and red—green for life, red for death. It was one of the most one-sided votings Jordan had ever witnessed. They wanted this boy to live. They too had seen such raw and unpolished talent. And those few who wanted him dead, well, they surely had been the ones to lose plenty of wealth.

"Let it be known, then!" Fairlord Jovan clapped loudly. "This boy is to live ano-"

With a swiftness and strength not proper of an exhausted boy—much less of one so weak and thin—his arm thrusted the spear upward like a bullet. The wooden stick, with a steel head, seemed to cut through the air with a faint whistle. It broke just before Jovan, who had fallen down on her back in surprise.

Whispering was short to appear. For a Fairlord had been humiliated in front her alikes in the Underworld.

"Ha!" Oswald let out a loud guffaw. "That's a bastard wishing for an early grave, if I've ever seen one!" He even raised his cup in a mocking sign of respect, "Cheers to that fucker, I guess! He went out with a loud bang"

Jovan was quick to rise to her feet, gripping the handrail of her balcony so tightly her knuckles went white. "Kill him, now!"

One of her guards, a tall and imposing man with a face full of scars, was quick to draw out his wand. He could barely take a step forward, however, for he was suddenly struck by a flash of green. He fell to the ground, dead.

All the eyes raised to the upper area of the stadium. There stood the Fairest of All, the crimson tears in his mask shining as they reflected the artificial light of the gleaming crystals above. All he did was to raise his thumb as his hidden eyes stared down at them all, then walked away in silence.

There was little to see next. The rabid boy was taken away by three of the Tartarus's guards. Not in a kind way, of course, but safe from any harm. He'd earned the respect of Fairest of All, and that was both the greatest virtue and curse in the Underworld. It would also make Jordan's plans much harder, undoubtedly. But at last he saw a gleam of hope.

And the Voice resounded from above. "Give me your wit. Give me your thirst for revenge. Give me all of you!"

---

There was nothing but sickness and venom to blood and war. So did Adigé think.

She had never seen it, nor spoken about what little she had shed. But she had heard plenty of tales of past ages. Ages in which her ancestors wiped themselves out. First in a war for survival, then in war for pride and fear. And still did many songs and tales speak of it so gloriously and mightily. It made her shudder in horror.

But this was her tale, one in which she'd become, willessly, one of the main characters. A tale in which, to be sung and known in the future, she needed to prevent Herpo the Foul, the White Dread, from being born anew. A tale in which she would need to spill blood for the world's sake, no matter how much it disgusted her. To feel it on her own flesh, to smell it and to hear the sickening sound of wailing and whimpering.

"Set those thoughts aside, my golden daughter," Kayle the Essentia almost sang into her ear, her voice always a note shy from being a melody. "We must not allow Herpo to be reborn. Else the entire world will crumble. And your people will all die."

She had an extraordinary talent to read through Adigé's emotions through the Link which bonded them. On the contrary, the young woman couldn't do the same. Kayle was a mystery to her. Almost a deity to her and her people. And also one of the keys to stop the White Dread.

Hornet—her fine and thin Soulblade—tightly clutched on her right hand, she fluttered around the gleaming columns of crystal. She knew of them because Kayle had told her of their shape and colour. She could picture them because she had shared an image of them through their Link. Apart from that, she navigated through the cavern thanks to her Sense. Her magical aura extended forward in every direction, coiling itself with silent fingers around all there was to see and touch. Speaking to her sightless eyes. She felt all those tall columns of crystal. Dead in a way, like any other stone. But also somehow alive, whining to some strange beating.

Her pale skin, features and robes made her resemble a ghost of flesh and bone. And her objective was no other but taking down Wolf, the High Inquisitor who was giving Aura Lessard so many problems.

I need to be extremely careful here, she thought in a rush. Wolf was a mighty foe, far more terrible than any other wizard she'd ever faced. Being so well protected in their forgotten village had made her so weak a witch. Her extreme training under Bloodlord Kaladan had turned Adigé into somewhat of a weapon, much to her mother's horror.

But no training could have prepared her to navigate through such a battlefield. Magical signatures could be felt all over the gigantic chamber—except those of Fox and Hawk, who had been felled, and that of Isaac, who was on his way to meet Death herself. It was a chaos her mind could barely decipher. And then, there were two beacons of light amidst that chaos. Aura Lessard, a tornado of wind and lighting herself, and Xaladir the Second, a wizard who'd bended earth itself to his will. Two mighty forces clashing against one another, making the chamber tremble and collapse.

And her objective roamed about, taking the shadows for himself, just as she did herself.

"That wretched man we now must hunt, he uses the art of Apparition in a way never meant to be," Kayle said, and now the melody turned sadder, yet with a touch of rage within. "An art meant for travelling, for us to join together, and yet he defiled it so lowly. They are all one of a kind, undoubtedly."

Adigé tried not to think of his enemy's powers; she'd seen enough of them already, if just from afar. She too ignored the dripping of blood through Hornet's thin, fair edge. Swords were meant for killing, she knew that, especially a Soulblade, but still… Adigè could not erase the terrified signature of that Inquisitor from her mind. She'd given Hawk a painless death—a thrust through the heart from behind—when she'd been distracted by Hikari Sakai.

But to rid a woman of her own life, it felt far too cruel.

Adigé found the Inquisitor standing atop a tall column, his back turned toward the far end of the chamber where Aura and Xaladir fought—she, a storm of lighting and wind herself, he, the core of an earthquake which creviced and made the ground rise in his defence.

Wolf walked around in circles, humming some strange song to himself. Then he halted so suddenly it made Adigé think he'd somehow sensed her. His voice, a rageful hissing, reached her faintly, as they stood so far away from one another.

"Too pretty, I say! Far too pretty."

Adigé was witness to a most horrific spectacle of magical prowess.

Her magical aura almost sealed within her, Adigé could yet feel Wolf's magic due to her Talent—a Sense so polished and nurtured it served as an overseeing eye, from which nothing could hide regardless of how silent she kept her own aura, and which could decipher all the secrets to one's magic. She felt the space itself compressed in between Wolf's hands. Infinity itself to be wielded by his wretched hands. That infinity was unleashed upon the crystal column he stood atop of. It sucked the great mass of crystal. And it was no more. Gone, just like that, without a spot of dust to retrieve.

Wolf fell down. "Depulso!" His landing was softened by the simple spell. And then he snickered to himself, like a child. "I like this sight better! It was too pretty and too bright!"

He resumed his pointless stride.

"He is not aware of our presence yet," Kayle said, her voice always an elegant whisper into Adigé's ears. The Essentia was not there physically, but she was there, with her. "We must end him quickly. Else I fear his retaliation will be far too mighty for you to withstand. That power of his, it does frighten me."

It did frighten Adigé too, but one could only do as bid when a deity spoke. Her trembling fingers coiled around Hornet's handler, going white and numb. She drew in a deep breath as she crouched down a bit. One spell, casted explosively, and a thrust of her Blade to pierce his evil heart.

Fate had it as it might.

Depulso, Adigé thought as she pointed her wand at the ground. The spell hit, flashing against the ground and cracking it, being cast with such a strong purpose. Her magical aura flared alive, announcing her presence as she rocketed through the chamber like a bolt of lighting. Wolf turned around, but it was too late for him.

Her Blade was upon him. Save that it pierced through nothing. Nothing, save that strange infinity.

Wolf was not there, much to her shock. Instead, the Inquisitor now stood atop a short monticle of rock not so far away from her. The sound of clapping reached Adigé's ears.

"And there she is!" Wolf said, voice filled with mirth. "The blind and mute freak! Oh, to think you would act so recklessly and witlessly! I thought of you a sensible woman, Adigele the Fifth. Then again, what was to expect of you? Nothing, I guess. You were just a replacement for that tramp of Shana." He paused, still motionless. "Now I'll have to kill you, I suppose."

"Ward the place against Apparition!" Kayle commanded.

Adigé crouched down, hand to the warm ground. She hated Warding. It felt as if the area to be Warded was to steal a bit of warmth which was so precious to her body. But she knew it was necessary against this foe. The area Adigé Warded was no short one; a wide circle around a hundred metres in diameter.

It did not seem to discourage Wolf the slightest, however.

"You think my purest art is to be maimed by such simple technique!?" he bellowed madly. "

Adigé had not wanted to believe what her Sense had told her about Wolf's technique. There was no such a thing as infinity, much less for a wizard to control. But that was what she felt. Infinity, twisting all around her whenever Wolf desired.

All she could do was to move away from it. Her Sense was the perfect counter to Wolf's technique. For a thing which could not be seen by the eye, it was hardly avoidable. She was bound to be hit, however. A restless offence, especially one so frenzied as Wolf's, was always proven victorious against utter defence.

Her left leg was sucked into the infinity twisting upon her. And then it was no more. Painless and bloodless for a moment, so clean the stump was. Then it came. A lacerating pain and rivers of blood from the wound. Such an amount of blood could only mean her femoral artery had been severed. Death awaited, if so.

Adigé sent her pain and fear, her suffering and anguish, to Kayle.

"You will not stand alone against this monster, my golden daughter," the Essentia mused. "Bear the Growth, oh thy sacred Growth. The People of the Forest and their fight lives through you. Grow now, my dear."

Warmth was born within her missing limb. And when Adigé stood up once more, she did so with two legs.

Wolf's aura fluctuated, speaking to Adigé. The Inquisitor was in shock, even a bit in dread.

"Impossible!" he bellowed. "How could-"

His shock grew into a dark awe as change occurred within Adigé. She was bathed in a golden light, vollutes of gold streaming off her. A woman of gold, with likewise hair and deep, green eyes stood with her now. Her golden armour showed a leafed pattern carved upon it, that of a mighty tree of countless arm-like branches.

Arms around her neck, their heads side to side, a woman of flesh and an ethereal woman side by side, Kayle was there.

"We shall not lose any further time," Kayle said coldly. Those words were meant for Wolf to hear, Adigé knew. "Herpo shall not return."

Adigé fought with a ferocity never seen in her before. She was spurred by her own fear, but also by Kayle's sense of purpose, revenge and justice.

It was a clash of mights.

Wolf's infinity against her Blade. Two forces which repealed one another. For there was no magical power of use against a weapon of Alazthi Steel, a monstrosity born solely to hunt those of a wizard's same kind.

Chunks of the cavern were sucked away whenever Adigé outran Wolf's attacks. It became a cratered surface. And whenever Adigé dashed past one, the crystal which was bone to the cavern seemed to faintly regenerate. For such was the power of Kayle's blessing, the Growth, able to restore life in everything which belonged to the living. And this strange place, somehow, was alive.

Adigé's fear was long forgotten. Imbued in the Growth, she felt alive, relentless and unstoppable. Like a force of nature, flattening all which laid before her. She was not without fault, of course. Wolf's mastery was too great for her to dodge all his attacks. Once, a leg sucked away from the hips, two other times, her arms below the elbows, and three times various fingers. The Growth mended it all instantly. But it took longer each time. Even a deity such as Kayle was not flawless, unexhausted.

So it happened to Wolf, who changed his strategy.

The witch expanded her aura all around her, its finger-like tendrils touching and letting her know of her surroundings, making their shape and size evident to her. Wolf reached past her aura, and so Adigé lost track of the Inquisitor. She fell into a calmer stance, the hair of her flesh bristling as if that of a cat. Adigé felt about her surroundings—tall columns, cratered and creviced ground, but no sign of another magical signature.

"He has concealed his presence!" Kayle said urgently, though those were evident words to Adigé. "I shall become your eyes, then. Heed my words, and grant me guidance."

To be guided by Kayle, it was a great honour—to become her legs through a realm he could not access on her own. Still, it felt wrong to Adigé to allow another to take her by the reins as if a mere horse. She'd always survived on her own despite her impairments. She'd gotten used to them, embraced them even. But war required sacrifices.

Wolf proved himself a clever man, as he always stayed out of her aura's range. Adigé could expand it further, of course, but then she would lose that sensitivity her Talent granted her. And were she to find the Inquisitor so far away from her, with his magic sealed within, it would be impossible to tell him apart from a piece of rock, alive as it too was, of similar shape and height.

There stood three tall columns to her left, forming a wide triangle. Adigé took shelter in between them. "That man is nowhere!" Kayle said. "And we are in no condition to lose so much time. I know it goes against your strengths, my dear, but we must be more aggressive."

So be it, Adigé thought grimly.

Confringo! She made the ground around her explode. The force of the curse created countless thin fragments no larger than her finger. Alarte Ascendare! Hand to the warm ground, she made it all but herself levitate. Hunt him down. Twisting her hands around herself as if a exotic dance, Adigé split the cloud of debris into more than a hundred tendril-like currents.

They flew allward, moving as swiftly as a hawk, and likewise so eager to devour their prey. Nothing they found, and nothing made them halt. That wizard could not outrun them, certainly.

Wolf gave away his position.

To the far south, one of the currents had stumbled upon him, hiding below a cliff-like ledge, trying to regain his breath. Adigé felt nothing of his presence, so far away he stood from her. Still, his infinity was like a scream piercing a silent night. And when it roared, that part of her spell was casted away into nothingness. So she set off after him, Kayle's eagerness spurring her into action.

And then she truly felt it. Wolf's magic, erupting like a volcano. The wave of destruction came at her with such a mighty roar it almost stunned her out of fear and awe. All those shapes of the terrain she'd felt with her aura, gone to never return; a hole into once a too beautiful canvas.

Adigé halted.

Perhaps she was too slow, barely missing the endpoint of Wolf's spell. Or perhaps there was no way out of that trail of death and destruction. All Adigé knew is that she fell down, as her lower half had been carved out of her, into that strange infinity.

This time, there was pain and blood from the very beginning. Excruciating, lacerating, unbearable. Too much for her body to withstand. Too grievous a damage for the Growth to heal.

A fading voice reached her from beyond, soft and warm. "Resist, my dear. Hold to life. Hold it dearly against your breast. Grow once more. As the flowers of old once did."

Time stilled. It became a frozen river in which nothing escaped from its cold touch. Not a sound nor a breath nor a scent. To hold… life… dearly. Was she to really fall here? To die in such a forgotten and hidden place? To become a memory for her loved ones? It would tear apart her dear mother, undoubtedly. It would make Bloodlord Kaladan break his oaths and set off for revenge. It would mean she had failed, betrayed the oath Adigé swore to her people.

No, that could not, and would not, happen. Adigé held tightly to what life remained within her.

Wolf's footsteps filled the place. Until he came to stand atop her. "What the hell are you, woman?" His voice was but a weak gasp, faint and whistling. "You are still alive! Even though I cut you in half, you yet live!"

I yet live, Adigé thought. I live to fight, so others might not. I live to prevent a disaster, so life remains as it is. She opened her eyes, sightless yet imposing all the same—purple, with streaks of gold within them. She heard Wolf's gasp. Not pained nor troubled anymore. Scared. Of her and the monster she had become.

Kayle's voice reverberated around, for all to hear. "Rise now. Grow into hope. Into life for the living. Into justice for the dead."

And the last of Kayle's strengths made Adigé rise once more. The Growth, all there was left to it, achieved a feat never seen before. Skin, muscle, bones and nerves grew out of that dead, bloody end just above her stomach. Blood ran through her veins once more. And golden light streamed out of her body. There was a kind warmth, then it became scorching hot, and then a veil of ice.

For Kayle did not stand beside her anymore.

"But I am here, my dear," the Essentia's whisper reached her, like a faraway echo. "You did well. You made me proud. Alas, I fear I have reached too far within a world which does not welcome me since long ago." There was a fickle touch of sadness there, almost unnoticeable. "Now, you must end this wretched man. I see a lot of Herpo within him. Their kind must not drag us all down with them."

Adigé stood up, on feet which should not have felt so strong and stable. Her aura roared alive once more, reaching forward in every direction, yearning to grant her a bit of safety within that blackness her eyes had been cursed with. And now, she thought, I will end this.

Hand forward, mist gathered around her arm. Adigé summoned her Soulblade from beyond, to that strange place to where it had run when it thought her dead. Its sharp and thin edge pointed at Wolf, and the chains attached to its handler coiling themselves around her arm.

It revolted her. To feel such warmth and comfort in her Blade. In a thing solely made for killing. This, too, was another curse of hers. So she also embraced it, for it was part of her fate.

Wolf ran away. Like a scared child, he ran. He had tired himself out with that last attack of his—his aura was like a weak flame against a rainstorm, blazing itself to consumption. Again, there was no fault within his plan. No one could have ever expected Adigé to survive it. And that would become his doom.

Adigé ran after him, propelling herself through the flattened terrain. Until she was not.

Adigé's feet found no stable surface to fall upon as the ground shook. No, the ground is not shaking. A sudden dizziness made her want to vomit and scream. For a hand of ice had taken grip of her heart, closing around it tightly.

Kayle shared her anguish, too. "No," she mused in desperation, with a slight touch of fear to her voice. "It is happening… Oh, dear! I have failed yet again…"

A bolt of pain went through Adigé, tearing her mind apart and making her miss her step, falling down into the hollow crevice below. As she fell down, Adigé understood it all well enough. These were not her emotions, nor her pain. They belonged to Kayle. And to feel a being so mighty and deity like her feel such horrendous emotions, it filled the witch with a fear which could not be put into words.

Growth was taken away from her then, slipping through their Link as if drops of dew before dawn. Adigé felt a weakness so numbing as she had never felt before. And she sunk into the void before crashing against the gleaming and enthralling ground.

---

The boy became a sensation in the Tartarus, just as Jordan had predicted.

No matter the challenge, no matter how horrible the odds were, he always survived. Not harmless anymore, as the Fairlords had taken it upon themselves to see him crumble, but alive still. Yet what really amazed Jordan was the fact the boy did not surrender once. He was condemned to fight, bleed and suffer. Still he ploughed through it all with a cold determination. Many others would have surrendered long ago, Jordan himself included. But he didn't.

Also, another reason why the Fairlords wanted to see him crumble so eagerly it was due to how poor the betting had turned. There was little reward to take when everyone was to bet on the same odds, after all. So, event after event, he survived them all. Until his last one came. In the next challenge, the boy would either live or earn his freedom.

Save there weren't happy endings in the Underworld. One way or another, the boy would die.

Because of that, Jordan had finally decided to take matters into his own hands. After more than five years being a servant to Fairlord Oswald, he'd had enough. Now that the chance arose, it was time to either seize it or die. It was a risky plan, true enough. But death was too little a punishment were he to fail, and freedom was too wonderful a reward were he to succeed.

Jordan was granted access to the Street of Fighters, located in the second level, without much trouble. All he needed to move around Blackdusk was to show Oswald's seal to the guards and servants. There were no questions involved. Unless one were to enter certain areas which were off limits to everyone but a few.

He glanced around, taking in the foul smell to rotten flesh, piss, shit and sickness. It was a large hood, almost as dark as night itself, barely illuminated by the artificial light which came from the pale, gleaming crystals from above. Packed with huts of wood and hay. Narrow and tight streets of mud and dust. Jordan moved around as best as he could, trying to not step over the laying men on the streets. They were hardly worth looking at. So defeated the word life was but a faint memory to them. Their lifeless eyes stared at the walls, lost in them.

Jordan came across some guards, who eyed him suspiciously. He asked them about the infamous boy, but none seemed to be able to answer him. The boy was here, somewhere, but no one knew too much about him. A woman saw him near the Alley's entrance this morning, but a man saw him close to the small infirmary at the end of the hood. The other slaves didn't answer his questions. Most seemed to have lost their skill to speak aloud. Others simply eyed him, seeking mercy.

It took him hours, far more time than he'd expected, but at last Jordan found him. Well, the boy found him, better said.

"The hell are you doing?" a voice grunted from above.

In one of the narrowest streets of the place, in which the huts were so close to one another one could use their weak roofs as a road, the boy sat atop the tallest building with his legs crossed underneath. He'd spoken in Thay, with such a fluency only a native to that language could accomplish.

"I was looking for you," Jordan answered. Now, his Thay was far from perfect, though it had improved greatly since his freedom.

The boy's face was covered in mud and dust. Still one could see the way he frowned in anger despite that.

"I know that. That's why I showed myself to you. Word spreads quickly here, you see, and I've got some friends around. I was curious about you, but now I see you are just an asslicker to some damn Fairlord." He stood up, frowning at Jordan. "Get lost, bastard."

He turned around, but Jordan's words made him halt.

"You will die in the next event. Surely you know that, right? There's no way they will actually allow you to earn your freedom."

The boy kept his back on him. "I cannot die, you fool. I'm cursed to survive. Always been. People die all around me, in every way you can imagine. But I don't. I never do. I'm still alive. I will be alive tomorrow, and the day after that."

"Ain't that a wonderful thing?" Jordan argued back. That made the boy turn at him in a furious rash. Still he did nothing but staring down at him. "Not with such a life, of course," Jordan said as he opened his arms to gesture at the poor sight surrounding them. "But outside… Many would kill for such a blessing. I'd kill for it, certainly. And even if you don't believe me, I do understand your hatred."

Jordan leaned his back on the hut behind him. The frail and rotten wood sank a bit, but it held his weight. "I've been a slave to Fairlord Oswald for many years. Then I proved my worth to him, and he made a servant of me. It's a poor life, I know, but much better than that of a slave. More so if the said slave is one to fight in the Tartarus." He halted, taking in the boy's features. There were glimpses of curiosity amidst that sea of hatred. "I hate him with all my might. And I want to see him dead. But I cannot do it myself. Not without you, at least."

The boy said nothing.

Jordan let out a tired sigh. "What's your name, boy? I'm afraid we've started the conversation with the wrong foot."

"Levitt," he said coldly. "They call me Levitt."

"And how old are you, Levitt?"

"Fifteen, I think. It's hard to keep track of time here, in case you've missed it."

"Missed it? I yearn to see the sun once more. It's been a year since I last was granted a leave from Blackdusk. Say, don't you want to see the sun once more? To feel the breeze on your skin? To smell anything other than shit, piss and dead?"

Another glimpse appeared within the boy's eyes. It was eagerness. He even took a step forward, toward Jordan, even if he wasn't aware of it.

Jordan seized the chance. "To kill that fucker of Oswald, it won't be too hard. He has plenty of enemies, you see, and I know who they are. I could make it seem like an accident. I could put the blame on one of his more powerful rivals. I could make it in countless ways. But the real problem is what comes after he's dead. Weak don't survive here. Nor do fools. I'm neither of those, and likewise goes for you."

It took Levitt a while to gather his words. "What… What do you want me to do?" he said with a raspy voice. "I don't care anymore about what happens to me. If this is a trap, well, at least I will take you with me to hell. And if it isn't," he took a deep gulp, "if you get me out of here, if you make me see the sun once more, you'll have my loyalty."

Jordan smiled at him, victorious. "You will die this weekend, Levitt. You will die to be reborn as a free man."

And he, Jordan would bring her sister's dream back to life.

And the Voice rumbled from above. "Oh, I am so very close. I can feel it already. Keep feeding me, my dear. Give me your lies. Give me your treason. Give me your true ambitions. Give me all of you!"

---

Isaac the First crawled forth, toward the Ring, like a bee flying desperately in aid to his queen at peril.

He was spurred by a strength he knew not to have ever possessed. Maimed, with only one hand, stabbed into his side, a well-placed dagger into his liver, bleeding so abundantly blood could but pool around him in a trail as he moved forward. He was going to die. Unless he was to reach the Ring, and know all there was to know about eternity.

A sorry state for the First Master. He would as well relinquish that title, for his beloved Order was no more. Xaladir had made sure of that, the envious bastard. Isaac should have killed him long ago, or at least never recruited him. Such an ambition, such a thirst for power, he was never meant to be a Second to a First. Again, what was to expect of a man who had forsworn of his highborn name, that of a Great House?

To his back, at the faraway end of the cavern, Dragon and Unicorn fought to death in a dance only known to them. As they had done countless times in practice, yet never with such a tragic and sombre purpose. That hurt him, truly. To Isaac, a sworn son and a sworn daughter. To them each, a sworn brother and a sworn sister. To the Order, sworn shields and sworn blades. His two High Inquisitors. Oh, to feel the pain of a tragedy which should have never happened!

A sudden spark of strength bursted within Isaac, dispelling his sorrow, his doubts and regrets. But not his pain. That did not go away.

He was able to raise his eyes from the ground, and his neck was at last able to withstand the weight of his head. The dark veil which had covered his sight was gone, at last. This cavern, it was beautiful. A wonder of this world, of past ages. Isaac could not die here, not today, when his goal was so close at hand. She knew that too, because this sudden surge of vitality was hers.

"Oh, Kassandra!" Isaac said in a breathless whisper. "I can feel it! I can feel it within me! So close it hurts! The Ring! Our dream! I can feel it!"

Isaac set forth, crawling. The Ring would be his, finally.

---

A week past his encounter with Levitt in the Street of Fighters, Jordan thought himself ready to carry out a most dangerous plan.

For months, he'd been brewing a very advanced potion with the help of a guidebook. The tome, written by some deceased potion-maker of old, was a work of art as no other in its field. For moments, he'd lost himself in that sea of words, amazed by the many possibilities the world of potion brewing could offer one.

Jordan was yet an inept at magic, but this, he could do it very well. All it took was patience and the skill to follow orders, and he'd always excelled at that. The former came from his past life, and the later from that as a slave. It was no wonder he was so confident in the aftermath of his work. Not that he had another option, though. Either this worked, or he was a dead man.

One day prior to the most important day of his life, Jordan was granted permission to visit the Street of Fighters once more. This time, it didn't take him much to find Levitt. As it had happened in their first encounter, it was the boy who presented himself before him, not the other way around.

Levitt sat with his back into a wooden hut, dressed in some new grey rags, neck crooked upward to look at the taller man. Even his face looked cleaner than usual. "So, all you need for your mighty plan is a hair of mine?" the boy asked with a frown.

"That's all I need," Jordan nodded, standing right before him.

"Have you lost your mind?"

"Again, I haven't," Jordan sighed. "By the end of tomorrow, you will be alive and free. Just remember to do as I said to you."

Jordan walked away, feeling the boy's glare on his back. The easiest part of his plan was done. Now came the most dangerous one. It took him a while longer to find Tommard. The calm, grizzled man had the habit of losing himself in Oswald's palace whenever he fell in watch duty.

This time, it was Jordan who found his objective.

Tommard was sitting on the rooftop of the palace, a steeped surface of rugged, black stone. He wore a wide hat atop his grey hair, shielding his eyes from the gleaming crystals from above, about ten metres away from them. Their faint and multicoloured light, which had trouble reaching the level's streets, was blinding enough if one were to stare at them from so close.

"The hell do you want?" he complained with a grunt after realising Jordan wouldn't walk away. The soldier had been able to ignore him for almost a minute. "I'm busy here, in case you've not noticed it."

Jordan pressed on. "I need your help, Tommard. You've always been decent to me, even when I was a slave. And I believe my proposition will be of your interest too. Say, aren't you tired of this life? To obey so foul a man as Oswald is? You could do much better than this. Spend more time with your family, as you often complain about. Do more than killing and collecting poor men's debts."

Tommard sat up, lifting his hat from his eyes. "And how, in the name of the seven hells, could you change that?"

Jordan told him all there was to know of his plan, and Tommard listened without interrupting him once. It filled Jordan with dread to see how the man's eyes did not change one bit though his speech. He'd expected surprise, perhaps greed, or even anger and mockery. But they remained cold and sharp.

And once Jordan finished, Tommard only had one question. "Am I free to choose whoever I fancy?"

Jordan blinked, surprised, still nodded in affirmation.

"Then, consider me in. Hell, this is madness, but ain't it better than this sorry life of mine?"

Cards all over the table, the day came, and all Jordan could do was to pray for the hand he'd played.

The Tartarus roared with life that day, as crowded as it had been in ages. The entire Underworld wanted to see that daring boy fail and die. It had become personal, of that Jordan had no doubts. To these Fairlords and all those others who dwelled in the Underworld, Levitt's survival had insulted them. How could a mere and dirty boy survive their best-thought and spectacular challenges? Life was but another currency here. And this one they had yet to enjoy it.

As per usual, Jordan stood to Oswald's left, a few steps from the handrail of the balcony. The Fairlord hadn't requested liquor nor food; that spoke far greater of the day's morbidity that any word could. Jordan, however, would have welcomed it, despite hating booze with all his might. For it had killed his father slowly, like a cruel poison. And yet, without it, who knew for how long he'd be able to keep his hands from trembling?

Before the challenge was to begin, Fairest of All stood up, gathering all the eyes upon his figure. They all mirrored him, as it was due. All he did was to glance around, his hidden eyes as ominous as a rope around their necks, and then he clapped his hands once.

So the festival of death began.

When the heavy iron doors were pulled open, Levitt walked into the arena with a calm stride. He'd been cleaned from all dirt and mud, hair fresh and slicked backward. The clothes he wore were far too elegant for him, full white. White, to be painted in red. White, to make him all the more attractive to Death's eyes.

He never stood a chance.

It was with sheer terror that Jordan eyed the Nundu. One of the most terrifying creatures in the world, if not the most. This one was no bigger than a lion, its fur of a gleaming gold striped with lines of black which seemed to absorb light so dark they were, as if void carved into the skin. It had one long tail which stood firm, spiralling upward, and the longer mane around its neck and head seemed to prickle with life. His stride was that of a predator, so majestic and elegant, even though it couldn't be but a cub per its size.

When the Nundu lunged at the boy, time stilled, for even such an unstoppable force could but witness in awe such a display of lethality. Magic was allowed today, so Levitt raised his hand, a spell unknown to Jordan about to be cast. His face was a mask of terror, however, for even the Unkillable Demon—as he'd been baptised by lowliers of the Underworld—knew he stood no chance.

To see the ever-victorious Levitt fall down, dead, was stunning enough. To see the way his skin rotted and bristled in the blink of an eye was far worse. Jordan had read enough about Nundus to know about their poisonous breathing—Lifescourge, they were known by many in their native Africa. The flesh turned red to green to necrotic black, all in about three seconds.

"Magic be merciful on that boy," Saron whispered solemnly from behind. His face had been drained from all colour, lips drawn to a thin, white line. "No one deserves such a death. Not even him."

Amar, however, did not seem so aghast, and kept his eyes on the feline predator as it had a feast on the human flesh. "Was it a good betting, my lord?" he asked.

Oswald spat to the ground, snapping his fingers so a servant may provide him a drink. "It wasn't!" he grunted. "A damn Nundu! I expected a Dragon, or perhaps a Dementor. That's what I picked, in fact. But this? Not in a hundred lives! Who was the bastard to organise this challenge? That cuckold of Makkun? Or maybe Mad Maararn? Yes, it must've been him."

The servant's footsteps echoed through the balcony, her boots drumming against the carpeted surface. She poured Oswald a cup of wine, of a deep red. "It was Fairest of All himself, my lord," she said suddenly, much to everyone's surprise. "He wanted to make a statement today. To all his Fairlords."

Oswald turned pale at that, ignoring the wine which had always seduced him, while his men wisely kept their hands to themselves, allowing the woman to walk away without groping or pinching. Jordan, however, could but eye what little remained of Levitt.

May he find rest at last, Jordan thought, closing his eyes as if that could shield him from the guilt he felt. Hell cannot be worse than this pitiful life of ours. It just cannot.

That night, a fancy feast was to be held in Oswald's palace. Jordan was his personal waiter and assistant—and somewhat of an advisor—for the soiree. The Fairlord wanted him closer than ever, now that his main rivals were rising in both wealth and power.

Amar, recently promoted to his personal guard, stood just behind them, face unusually cold and grave; wand always ready at hand, despite danger's unlikeness. Prava and two of his men—violent and vile men of lesser strength—stood watch at the door. His features were cold and grave too, though for a very different reason. Such was the face of a humiliated and shamed man, who'd seen another he considered inferior take his place of honour.

The food—peppered beef bathed in a fancy mushroom gravy—was spicy. Spicier than usual, in fact, enough to itch and burn one's tongue.

The expected happened.

Oswald raised his cup into the air, untying loose the napkin around his thick, greasy neck. "Fill it," he ordered, swaying it inches away from Jordan's face.

"Of course, my lord."

Jordan uncorked the bottle. It was Spanish wine, from the vineyards of Lord Castilla. Oswald's favourite. The plump man emptied his cup in one long gulp, then asked for another. He resumed his solitary feast, stopping once in a while to ask Jordan about certain matters such as finances and whispers he may have heard.

One cup followed after another, like an endless pit which could not be filled for much water one was to pour inside. Oswald's face turned a bit red. Jordan's lost all colour.

Jordan's death sentence came next.

"Anything wrong?" Oswald asked, eyes set on his cup. He swayed it from side to side, watching the crimson liquor bathe its golden skin. He then emptied it over the table, darkening the white, silky cloth. "Expected me to fall dead, perhaps?"

The door burst open as Amar jumped onto Jordan. The stronger man grabbed him by the neck, squeezing hard as he lifted him into the air. His oxygen supply was cut short, vision going dark as the seconds went by. Pain swelled within his back as he was sent against the cold wall. Still he caught a glimpse of a face which should not have been there.

It was Tommard, who came to stand by Amar's side.

"Drop him, lad," the grizzled man said, grabbing Amar's wrist. "We need to interrogate him."

Oh, he'd been such a fool! Jordan should have never trusted Tommard.

Amar took his time, enjoying it with a sombre mirth, but he did as bid. Jordan fell down as a dead weight, wheezing as much air into his throat as possible. It burned, just as it also felt wonderful.

Tommard came to stand before Jordan, looking down at him. His wand raised, pointed at the traitor's head. "Were you paid by any Fairlord?" he asked simply. Jordan did not answer, instead eyed him back with a murderous intent never known in him before. "Crucio!"

Wails of pain filled the stance. It was so easy for the men there to ignore his suffering. Until it ended, at last. Weakened beyond understanding, Jordan couldn't even lift his head. Tommard kneeled down, grasping his chin with firm fingers. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be, son. Again. Were you paid by any Fairlord?"

"No…" Jordan said with struggle.

"Then, why?"

"Revenge. I hate you all. Always done so."

"And what made you, ever a clever and calm man, act so recklessly?"

"I feel I could take this fat bastard out now. Then disappear, I guess. Away from him. Into another and better life. I was going to frame Prava, as you already knew. He's been talking to other Fairlords. Everyone knows that."

Prava stepped forward, white-faced and sweaty. "Just to deal with things of my past, I swear!" he exclaimed. "I'm loyal, my lord. I beg you, allow me to kill this rat! I will make him suffer the worst pain imaginable!"

Oswald raised his hand, and Prava held his tongue, nodding submissively.

Tommard pressed on, then. "You and that boy, all alone? With just my help? Please, don't make me laugh! I thought you were cleverer than that! Can't blame me for what I did, though. I just sided with the winning party."

"Levitt," Jordan mouthed raspily. "Where's he?"

"I tried to kill him," Tommard said with a shrug. "Bastard ran away. He's good, that lad. I underestimated him, I suppose."

Heavy footsteps resounded. Oswald pushed Tommard aside, taking his place before Jordan. He raised his left leg, to then let it fall upon Jordan's head, sending him face-down into the carpeted floor. It felt way more rugged than it looked. "You are an ungrateful bastard, that's what you are!" Oswald growled. "Dead by poison. A woman's method, to kill me, a great Fairlord? I'll do this myself!"

It was the first time Jordan ever saw Oswald unsheathing his wand. It was golden, like all he possessed. Short and thick, in perfect communion with the fingers of his hand. It glowed red. This was no Killing Curse. That was too merciful and quick a death for a traitor.

Oswald smirked. "Die, you bastard."

It all seemed to happen in the blink of an eye, though Jordan was certain that could not have been possible.

Tommard was first to turn around, wand pointed at the hallway. Surprise brightened his face, though briefly. Then nothing, not even a grimace of pain, for death took it all away as swiftly as only She was able. Blood poured out as if water from a geyser, from countless wounds all over his body. Prava and Amar fell at the same time, though they let out pained whispers. The two nameless guards, they too fell, also in silence.

Jordan moved, spurred by his drive to survive, and hid behind Oswald as the rain of forks and knives rained upon them. A few found their way into his body, carving blood out of his flesh. Needles of pain all through his legs and arms. But his vital organs were safe.

Now, the end seemed to stretch so much that a few seconds became an eternity. Oswald's corpse fell upon Jordan, too heavy a weight for the man to lift off his body. More footsteps resounded. Did they, by chance, belong to Death herself? Surely not, right? His life could not end here. His dream could not end here.

Jordan was suddenly yanked upward, onto his feet, where a smaller body held him up. "You good?" a voice said. His numbed legs protested, but such firm hands didn't grant them any bit of rest. "Answer me!"

A strong slap on his left cheek made his vision go dark. But it also awoke him.

Jordan blinked. Wasn't this a face he knew very well? One which he'd never expected to see again. "What… What are you doing here?" he croaked.

Levitt frowned. "I'm saving you. That's what I'm doing. Now shut up and walk."

Jordan used the boy as some crutches, eyes falling upon all those dead men. Men he once hated. Men he couldn't care about right now.

"How did you do it?"

The hallway was lit by countless torches, their warm, bright flames raising upward as if they wanted to touch the very ceiling. The walls, once so pale and bright, were soaked in blood. There were more bodies here. Oswald's guards. Plenty of them.

Corpse after corpse, all left in one boy's wake.

Levitt hesitated, but he answered at last. "I can do strange things. Magic no ordinary wizard can use. Strength suddenly surges through me, though I can't control when. I can also push away metals, and pull from them. Sometimes I can, sometimes I cannot. I noticed this long ago. As I fought for my life, both in the Tartarus and the Street of Fighters. That's how I killed them all."

Jordan could only laugh. Maddening guffaws which rose over the silence of the hallway, and over the pain within his body. He'd read of those powers in some tales meant for children. Magic only known to the wizards of old. This could only be a sign from fate itself. Jordan was to live today. Jordan was to honour his dream and the promise he once made to his sister.

All he needed to do was to get away from Blackdusk alive.

No one went after them after they exited Oswald's palace. Levitt guided him with a firm hand, going around the dark streets as if he knew them by memory. He knew when to halt and when to run. Whispers of danger and fear started to spread through the little city shortly after.

Fairlord Oswald was dead, the rumours said. Families took shelter into their houses, doors and shutters tightly closed. Guards and mercenaries did plenty of things. Some abandoned their posts, now that the hand who fed them was no more. Others run toward the palace, to loot and steal anything of value. And others, they caused havoc through the streets, now that the one figure of authority was gone.

That night, blood ran in rivers through the streets of Blackdusk's fifth level. Blood of men without honour and morals, blood of humble men, blood of innocent women and children. Raping was to be expected, too, but Jordan couldn't bring himself to care the slightest. To him, it would be best if this place was to burn until only its ashes were to remain; and whatever god watched from above had mercy on what little innocent people there were.

They were found close to the elevator.

A solitary man came to them from the shadows, dressed in full red. He was pale, of sharp and thin features, almost eaten away by the things he'd done and seen. Levitt tensed, like a feline about to jump on its prey, but they both knew that their luck had run out.

The man did not kill them, however. "Come with me," he said, instead. And turned his back on them, walking toward the elevator. All he did was to wait, cold, black eyes set upon them.

"The hell do we do now?" Levitt hissed in a whisper. "I don't think I can kill him. He ain't as weak as all those others."

There was no wind in Blackdusk to carry the noise and smell of death, but Jordan somewhat felt them at his back. Coming at them, seeking retribution for the hell he had unleashed.

"If he wanted us dead, we would already be dead," Jordan reasoned. He felt more in control of his mind now.

"There are things far worse than death here, you fool." Still did Levitt walk forward, pulling from Jordan as the dead weight he'd become.

The strange man allowed them entrance to the elevator. He then pulled a short knife from his robes, just to make a shallow cut on his own flesh. Blood poured out, just to be slicked on the reddish wall. The elevator surged down, then. For so long it felt like an eternity; an endless voyage. Jordan had never travelled so deep into Blackdusk. Very few had, in fact, and most of those had never returned.

It made sense to him now.

"How?" Jordan asked in a whisper.

The slim man kept his eyes forward. "Your Polyjuice Potion, it was flawless. So was the Imperius casted on that man who drank it. But a Nundu is too deep a horror for a man not to show his true fear. Fairest of All cannot be fooled, much less by such a cheap trick. This boy was to be killed today, indeed, but after a thriving fight and not the sorry excuse of challenge that fake gave. And now you've gotten one of his Fairlords killed. A foolish man, that Oswald, but a fool my lordship greatly enjoyed."

Jordan could only reply Levitt's words in his mind again and again—there were things far worse than death, indeed, and they were about to find out.

Once the elevator halted, the man casted a spell on them. Their sight was gone, replaced by a wall of darkness; another spell unknown to him. The slim man guided them through a steeped road in which silence reigned. Their hearing was there still, it was just there was nothing to hear. Jordan felt the way Levitt had tensed, still pulling from him. He could understand his mind without the need of a word. Come the chance, he would rather attack and die on his own terms.

That was wise, Jordan reckoned, but he could not bring himself to do it. Life was too sweet a poison to forswear it. It was pain, it was tears and shouts, but it held one in such a tight and suffocating embrace that it was impossible to let go of it. No, no matter what, Jordan would live another day.

Their sightless venture ended at last.

It returned to them so suddenly they could only blink in surprise. They'd been led into a simple, small room. Of rugged walls carved directly into the stone, with a great warmth at the end of it, its bright, dancing flames dispelling penumbra away. A solitary man stood near the flames' embrace.

Tall, faceless and dressed in wide, dark robes. His back was turned on them, but Jordan needed not see his front to know which sight awaited. Two crimson tears running down his grey mask. The crest and pride of a vile man. Fairest of All in flesh and bone.

And perhaps because of such a reputation, he expected to hear the voice of a monster; a sound so disgusting and foul, similar to that of scratching glass. "Despite your lack of talent and strength, you did fairly well." A soft voice, so well-spoken. It looked so improper in such a vile man. Akin to that of a grandfather speaking to his grandson. "With a foot on the grave, yes, but alive still."

At last did Fairest of All turn around.

He stared at them for a few seconds, taking in their stance. Levitt's, that of a cornered beast about to lunge, and Jordan's, that of dying fawn. "Do bring these two a seat, my Bloodhound," Fairest of All said. "And a Healer for the man, and food for the boy."

Jordan didn't know what to make of the situation.

Maybe it was because of all the blood he'd lost through his many wounds, or perhaps because it just didn't make any sense at all. All he knew is that time seemed to stretch beyond comprehension. A blurry line of events in which only the soft touch of a woman shed any semblance of relief. Wit and sense returned to him at some point, bit by bit. Despite that, he stood as still as a puppet waiting for its puppeteer to pull from the strings. Eyeing what little was to eye, hearing what little was to hear.

At some point of the night, Levitt asked the question. "Are you gonna kill us, or what?"

Fairest of All tilted his head. "Are you so eager to die, son?"

"If life remains as I know it," Levitt replied haughtily, "then I'm eager indeed. Eager to take as many of you bastards with me, too."

Fairest of All raised a hand. "Hush, my Bloodhound. The boy has known pain and pain alone. Rage and desperation is to be expected." The silent man dressed in red had stalked upon them like the shadow he was. Not even Levitt had felt him moving, it seemed, judging his brief flash of surprise. "And that rage is what will keep you alive one more day."

The boy frowned. "I don't like riddles. I like simple and short words, I do."

"And I thought you were not one to ask questions. That you were who reaped, and this man was who ordered. Say, are you still wounded enough to not say a word? I do not think so. Maryan is a fine Healer, you see, and I do trust her. I did not take you for a man to be so easily shocked, also."

Jordan managed to sit up from his couch. "What's next for us?" he asked raspily. The pain of his wounds was still there. Though numbed now, like a faraway echo. "I thought you would want us dead. Then this man of yours came to intercept us, and I thought we were to be tortured here. I don't think so now. Hell, I don't know what to think anymore. For much thinking I do, there's always worse behind the corner. Perhaps I've grown tired of looking behind the corners, like Levitt said."

Fairest of All laughed, much to Jordan's surprise. Because it was an honest laugh, not one full of mockery or cruelty like those he'd grown so used to.

"You are a witty man, undoubtedly! It's no wonder Oswald bit the dust by your hands. He was an oaf, that one. But he had a talent for cruelty and vanity, you see, one to even praise. I considered him a toy of mine, one which you two stole from me. But again, when a thief is around, people tend to thread their actions more carefully. And if they do not do so, then they deserve to die."

Jordan's eyes fell upon those two crimson tears. "You wanted Oswald dead."

"Now, that is a bold assumption on your behalf. Again, I thought you were clever. Do not make me change my opinion."

There was a piece amiss, Jordan could tell. And he had no mind nor heart to solve the puzzle as of now, so exhausted he felt. But those crimson tears, it felt as if they were staring into his very soul. A word amiss, and they would meet their end.

"Your Fairlords have grown weak, and you want to send them a message. One written in blood and ashes, and one written by a hand from the shadows."

"See, that is much better. Now, have they truly become weak? Some of them have, indeed. Most, well, lazy and comfortable would be more idoneal words. Do you see the problem?"

Jordan saw it very clearly, like the sun on the cloudless sky.

"You need them to compete against one another. To win and to lose. To loathe each other. It will make those who survive stronger, and those who don't, they are to die and be forgotten. Your seat of power depends on that. On their hatred and ambition, but also in their fear of a knife from behind. Of them being so scared of one another, and of you, that they shall never defy you nor your throne. Never too shy and meek, never too proud and forward."

Jordan remembered some words which fit perfectly here. "A crown won by blood is a crown only kept by blood."

"A man well-versed into ancient lore, I see." Fairest of All came to stand before them. Their necks crooked upward, to stare into his hidden eyes. There was a gleam of yellow within the darkness of his mask and what it concealed. "Ah, it has been ages since I was last blessed with someone so interesting as you two. Perhaps since that fool of Jin the Stranger left to never return—to serve that bigger a fool of Isaac the First. Anyhow. You got it right, lad. And since you blessed my ears with such a wise citation from old, allow me to give you another. This one from a man I respect dearly. Because as King Graandal Khol once said, 'Let chaos bring its wise reign'."

His last words came out as a whisper, one to be carved into their minds forever. "And I say, let it be known what happened to Oswald on this fateful night. And poor of those who strive to reach such great heights without deserving them. Poor of those, I say! May chaos take over their souls."

That night, as blood of innocents and vermin alike fell upon their shoulders, they were granted food, drink and a warm shelter. Jordan and Levitt were both killed that day. And buried, too. And they were also reborn. Not into free men, as they had wished so fervently, but into freer men still.

Into men with a purpose. To strive for their own dreams, and to become the remembrance of chaos for all those Fairlords who had forgotten their due place.

There were plenty more corners to turn, and many horrors to stumble upon. But now, however, they could take a path they willed among close crossroads. Because this was chaos's age to reign, and they were but a part of it.

And the Voice resounded once more. "Give me what you left behind that day. Give me your shame. Give me your regrets and doubts. Feed me, with that humanity you rid yourself of. Give them all to me…"

---

Jinhai Hao drew in a deep breath, feeling those annoying drops of sweat which ran down her face. Her limbs felt heavy, exhausted, too strained already for a battle which had just begun. It did not hurt, however. All that hurt was her heart, and that alone.

Hurt because of her dying Master. Hurt because of betrayal. Hurt because of a dear brother she must kill.

"It does not have to end this way," Unicorn said softly. He too hurted from the unavoidable deadly dance. "Come with me, Dragon. Xaladir the Second will accept you. A witch like you, so powerful and dedicated to magic, of such a noble birth, belongs to the new world he plans to build."

"You betrayed us," Jinhai said, taking her Dragon mask off her face. There was no need for it anymore, as the Order of Merlin was no more. Her hair, one half silver and another half black, stuck to her head in a sea of intricate braids. Her silver eyes held the eager tears at bay. "You betrayed me. And now I must kill you."

Jinhai dropped her mask to the ground. It broke in countless fragments, the hardened clay too stubborn a material to resist such a deep fall from atop the crystal monticle she stood.

Unicorn did the same. His tanned face was revealed to her, even though they had known one another for almost twenty years. He was older than her, hair so full of white streaks one could no longer guess its original shade. She'd always pictured him to be a firm and strict man beneath his mask. And that's what Hao found. Hardened and sharp features, blue and cold eyes.

"I did what I did for a reason," Unicorn said firmly. "I know you will not understand my reasons, nor do I pretend to make you understand. My conscience stands free of sin, at peace with myself. It broke me to make this decision. For going against my beloved Isaac hurt me in a way no other wound could. Still, it must be done. If I live today, I promise you that both your lives were not sacrificed in vain. And if I die today, well, I will pray for you all from hell. One day you will hopefully understand me and my actions. I know you will. Only then will I be able to rest with no regrets."

His wand rose to stand above his head, left hand before his body. She knew of his stance; had seen it countless times before, after all. Hers was a way more aggressive one, wand and hand alike before her body, left leg forward, bearing most of her weight. Time stilled, for neither of the two Inquisitors seemed to know how to begin this one last dance of theirs.

It was Jinhai who put an end to such doubts.

The witch opened his mouth as wide as possible. Even she had trouble discerning what came next. If the bright torrent of flames, or her head turning into that of a horned dragon, of reddish scales as tough as iron itself. As it may have happened, the outcome was the same. Death unleashed upon Isaac's enemies.

"Protego!" Unicorn bellowed from inside the river of molten destruction.

As she knew very well, Unicorn's Shield was a mighty one, yet to be breached by her fire. The change came as quick as before, though reversed. He was a woman whole again. Winds around her, Jinhai jumped forward; the air against her face was a feelight she took delight in. From her back were born wide and beautiful wings, its membranous flesh of a faint, gleaming red, crowned by scales of a darker shade.

The Dragon roared in rage, for unlike the woman she was bonded to, she held no love for the traitor.

Never before had Jinhai attacked with such ferocity. Unicorn's wand was a blazing beacon in his hand, casting spell after spell, trying to stop the onslaught. Jinhai, however, solely made use of her Partial Transfiguration. Hands and nails to be transfigured into sharp, long claws upon reaching distance. Her fragile human legs, into thick limbs full of tough muscle. Her back, into wide wings. And her small head, full of black and silver locks, into that of a monster feared by mankind since ancient ages. Quick changes, they were, but lethal and mighty enough.

Never a whole Dragon, certainly, for that was a feat not even Jinhai could accomplish.

Too moved by rage the Dragon was that Jinhai allowed herself to be hit. The curse, of a faint blue, had gone unnoticed by her eyesight. And now she was rendered motionless; wings wide-open and jaw unclenched with the embers of molten fire coming from within. Its effect got weaker with each instant, for the Dragon was too mighty a creature to be halted with a simple spell.

Unicorn pressed his hand on the column to his left, turning into dust. His eyes stared challengingly into her reptile-like ones, pupils of gold. He too was a master of Transfiguration, his gaze said. All those countless specs of dust were turned into long spears of crystal. With a waive of his hand, they rained upon her.

Jinhai was quick enough to direct her wand at her breast. "Finite!" Nothing happened. Instantly she felt her body with the Sense, searching for any strange signature. She found a little one, near the end of her left hamstrings. She twisted herself, as much as her partial transformation allowed her, and her wand came in contact with that remnant of magic at last. She broke the curse as the first two spears dashed past her, leaving trails of blood in each of her arms.

Her powerful wings flapped, halting the fall. She came to land atop a wide rock of gaudy pink, becoming a whole woman once again. The cuts were long and ugly, yet neither deep nor wide. Only the flesh was affected.

Unicorn stared at her from below. "And yet you commit the same mistakes as always, my dear Dragon," he said. "Emotions are to be used, not to get lost in them. Rage can only take one so far."

Jinhai sniffed. "Same can be said about you. Once more, you proved yourself too weak of will to kill. You are not a warrior, you mongrel traitor. And erudite and a Healer, that's who you are. You are also to die here, in the name of my Master. Let it be these hands of mine which serve justice."

Unicorn tilted his head, blue eyes showing icy resolve. "Your hands, or your claws? You rely too much on your Partial Transfiguration, my dear. Your faith and honour in your House's prophecies will be your doom. There is no Dragon. Only a woman never meant to be whole again."

Jinhai would have loved to shout back at him, telling Unicorn how wrong he was. More so, she would have loved to bathe him in fire, to melt his treacherous flesh and bones. To truly act like the Dragon, as a trueborn Hao was fated to. Instead she casted that flawful form aside for the time being, raising her wand as any other witch would. Ordinary yet all the same lethal.

Jinhai drew in a long gulp of air. "This is a pointless dance to perform. We've fought one another countless times, yet always fall into a stalemate. I cannot kill you. You cannot kill me. I know that for sure. Let us not hold ourselves back anylong, and use the forbidden to change that."

Her left hand came to stand atop her wand. "I shall erase you, banish you from even the Written Fate." Black smoke started to ooze from her forearms, gathering around the point in which her wand and hand met. There it gleamed darkly, almost becoming a light-absorbing void. "No one will remember you. Not even me."

"I see," Unicorn hummed calmly. He was far too collected for a man who was about to answer her in sin and blasphemy. Wand atop his head, wielded by his two hands, he gleamed in white. "This saddens me greatly. To see you resort to such horrific magic to kill me. But I am afraid you will not get to fulfil such a daring oath. Fiendfyre is to destroy, not to erase. Why, Sacred Fire is erasing. Let it be known it was you who made Earth cry, not me."

"It will be quick and painless," Jinhai hissed. "Far too merciful a death than that which you deserve. A death to cleanse your sins of betrayal. It is the last favour I may do to a brother of old."

The flames met one another.

To behold such a foul encounter, in which two powers which should have never come to exist met one another, it made Jinhai shudder in tremor. Fiendfyre and Sacred Fire—one to surge within chaos, one to surge within order.

They were two sides of the same coin, and she could only make use of the chaotic flames. Which one came to exist first, to that question Jinhai knew no answer. All she knew is there was a reason why these two magics were forbidden in the ages of old, even before the War for Dawn, when the Alazthi lords brawled with one another until death was to take them.

Fiendfyre, because its hunger knew no limit; always eager to devour all there was around, even its own caster. Sacred Fire, because it could erase one's being from existence, even those memories other people had of them come the time.

And when they clashed on that fateful day, Jinhai felt the world itself cry in anguish. White, blazing flames, as if molten light, and a furious torrent of black, void-like river of fire. Each trying to devour their ancient enemy, to reign at last in their ancestral dispute. It was a stalemate for minutes, as it always happened when Jinhai and Unicorn fought.

Jinhai felt the Fiendfyre's whispering, leashes of rage and hunger, instigating her to destroy. It was hard to control it. No, it was hard to submit, for there was no other method to use such a power. It yearned to devour Unicorn, the fool who dared to use its ancient enemy against it. It yearned to devour Jinhai herself, too fool a witch she was to resort to Fiendfyre. It yearned to destroy everything.

Jinhai submitted it to her wishes still—to destroy the traitor and nothing else. The Fiendfyre hissed in rage, yet followed her command. The void-like flames gathered, strengthening, devouring its lightful counterpart. Unicorn put more of his magic into his Sacred Fire. His magical aura was majestic, but there was a faint scent of fear to it. It was the first time Jinhai ever felt it.

It was hard to not let go of the leash. Between the Fiendfyre and the Dragon's nature, her Occlumency was overwhelmed. If she didn't end the fight in the next few seconds, Jinhai feared she'd lose control.

Jinhai roared, parts of her skin turning into scale-like flesh, for the Dragon could not be contained anymore. The Fiendfyre took delight in her newly found desire to kill. It too hissed rabidly. The flames of chaos advanced, and the flames of order could only retreat. Inch after inch, second after second, until the flames were upon Unicorn.

A whisper of repentment carved its way through her mind. She could not do this to Unicorn, kill him in such a definitive way. Shame Jinhai was no more in control, as the Dragon knew no regret. Not even when she felt that last glimpse of terror within Unicorn's aura.

A beastly roar shook the cavern. A roar of victory, a roar of death. And then came silence, deep and heavy. Black tongues of fire, remnants of Fiendfyre, licked the gleaming ground; draining the colour and beauty out of it, turning it into a charred mass. There was no corpse to retrieve. Unicorn was no more, simply as that.

Even so recently consumed by his own Sacred Fire, Jinhai had already forgotten things about him. The colour of his eyes, his first words said to her. The process of erasing would take years to complete, as their history had many details to it. But Unicorn would be erased from her mind one day. Even his sin of betrayal. Perhaps it was for the better, to have known this end.

Jinhai fell to her knees, exhausted beyond words. She allowed herself to spill a few tears, now that the Dragon was confined within her once more. They run down her burnt, swollen flesh, soothing her pain.

Because the death of a loved one, even of one who was not of her same blood, hurt as no other pain known.

---

The birth of the Wings of Liberty was, for them, the beginning of a new life. It also was a solitary drop of water of the rainfall of chaos to which the Underworld plunged into after Oswald's death.

Jordan and Levitt became men of fame in the Underworld. Men to avoid for the powerful, as if a foul scourge. And for the weak and lost, men to gather around. Because they were the embodiment of the impossible in the Underworld. A slave who now was free, and a challenger of the Tartarus to outlive it.

It was easy to rise through Blackdusk dark and bloody steps. When you had a man so talented for blood and death like Levitt, it was. The boy had grown stronger now that he was well-feed and allowed into the sunlight as much as he wanted. Not taller, though, as he barely grew a few inches. His talent for martial magic was unparalleled, and his cold, furious character was like a brewing storm, ready to be unleashed upon those of foul nature.

Levitt had his morals, however, about who and who not to kill or hurt, and Jordan respected them. The boy developed such blind faith in him, such fervent devotion, that Jordan made out of him a fine sword for him to wield. A contract of killing here, of debt-collecting there, a few of protection or thuggery, and gold started to flood into their vaults. Men did, too.

The new-founded company grew in numbers and might. What started with the two of them alone, turned into laughter and joking at night, more than a dozen men around the warmth. Jordan felt a connection to those men. Saw parts of himself in them. They were haunted by their past, yes, but also too stubborn to surrender. Week after week, contract after contract, that mistrust and need which bonded them all became a semblance of identity. And the need to gather them under the same flag arose.

It was never a debate in Jordan's mind.

Maeldrom's wings, to represent their freedom. Blue cloaks, as if the sky painted on them. And a name, most importantly. Wings to strive for freedom—therefore the Wings of Liberty came to be born officially.

They found a gold mine in the pureblood affairs. Violent, arrogant and vile people, most of them were. Not so much as the Fairlords of the Underworld, still. Their disputes were not so bloody and deadly, most of the time, and mere threats and hostages were enough to earn their pay. Jordan sent his men everywhere gold flowed. Always trying to avoid the riskier conflicts, though he couldn't avoid death for too long. This was a bloody business, after all.

In the meantime, he took shelter in the shadows, afar from the fight. His hand was meant to wield books and quills, not swords or wands, and his men knew that very well.

With part of the gold they'd won, Jordan was able to start a collection of his own. Books and tomes and tales from past ages, of each and every kind. Written by renowned scholars, and folklore stories of questionable veracity. He devoured them all, and he learned plenty. First and foremost, he was able to put a name to Levitt's skills.

The boy, it turned out, was an Allomancer. Wielder of a power believed to be almost extinct by the scholars of the present age, its secrets buried alongside those wizards and witches of old who once made use of it. Very few were blessed with it nowadays, and most were descendants of those Alazthi families of olds. Purebloods, in short, though Jordan was sure Levitt was not one of them.

Jordan was also able to visit many of those wonderful places he'd read to his sister, and many more he discovered anew.

Still, for much he learned and did, there was a whisper within he was never able to silence. If all those stories and legends were true, that meant Immortality was too. Jordan tried to push that whisper to the far end of his mind, thinking a foolish ambition of it. Many had tried before him, all had failed. All but one. And the name of Herpo the Foul became the loudest whisper.

So he even forced himself to abandon erudition for a time, jumping into the mud and dust his men knew far too well.

Jordan shared plenty of dinners with his men. He heard their tales, took delight in their laughs and pity in their sorrows. He was able to put a face to each name, and vice versa. There were kinder and fouler men, braver and quieter, prone to violence and with a talent to it, and men of different and useful skills.

Michael, a charming young man became one of his trusted ones. He had a talent for ordering and organising, for he never acted too mighty and was always ready to do whichever work the men despised. He was also one to enjoy the night, women and the many wonders life could offer. Sometimes, he was able to make Jordan forget that whisper. Just sometimes.

Kouji, on the other hand, was just the opposite. Kind, silent and one to favour order and laws. Men in his garrison adored him. So did Jordan, for the Japanese man was always delighted to accompany and guard him in his many expeditions. He was quite knowledgeable about his country's history, also, and often guided his Captain through its many wonders.

Because that was what Jordan was to them now. Their Captain.

And Levitt, the dirty and ever-furious boy he once met, turned into a fine, strong man. Silent and distant still, but one to care and protect instead of hate and forget. He grew a fame for death and might within the Underworld. That of a man whom no one may ever kill or defeat.

But there was way more to him than that.

One day, he came to Jordan with a wish. He wanted his own squad, men and women of his choosing, to order them around as he pleased. Shortly, it became evident what kind of people he wanted under his sight. The loners, the broken and the rejects. Surely he saw himself in them. And for how tough and distant he acted, their few deaths struck him deeply. Sinking himself into pits of old each time. Yet Levitt always went forth, despite his many regrets.

Year after year, the hole within Jordan's soul was filled with happy and sad memories alike. With triumph and loss, happiness and sadness, with laughs and tears, with light and darkness. With life as it was, in short. His sister would have been incredibly proud and happy, for this was what she once wanted for them.

And yet that foul whisper refused to retreat, gaining more and more force with each day. Because, to see and know every person and wonder to already and yet exist, one needed time. Loads of it, enough to survive its cruel final caress, that of one's death.

Was not Immortality needed to honour such a dream?

And that whisper, it led him to a name. Herpo the Foul.

And the Voice resounded once more. "Give me your love. Your happiness and delight. Give me those whom with you shared a laugh or a tear, a drink or a bite. Give me their names and their stories, too. Give them all to me."

---

Magic sealed within her, Hikari came to stand before the chrysalis in which Jordan the mercenary had taken shelter. She ran her hand through its crystal surface, testing it. There was blood oozing from its walls, warm yet a shade too dark; more akin to black than red.

She'd expected resistance, she'd expected fighting to get here. But there had been none, so busy everyone was trying to kill each other. It saddened her greatly, to see how a mighty Order, so beloved to her and the Sakai family through many generations, had met such a tragic end. Brothers and sisters were not meant to fight among themselves, even if they didn't love one another.

And all because of some cursed Ring. Because of Isaac's and Xaladir's ambition, so different yet alike.

"It's unbreachable," a voice said from behind, startling her.

Hikari's magic roared alive once more, her duelling canes before her body as she turned around. The voice belonged to Raven, the mysterious Unspeakable. He sat with his back against a column of dark green crystal. There was blood just below his ribs, on his left side. His hand was pressed there, trying to stop the wound which had already soaked his black robes in blood.

He followed her eyes, glancing down at his wound. "Oh, this? I've had much worse. But still, to think I'd be taken out of the fight so early, so easily… I was never much of a warrior, that I know, but this was humiliating. That man, Xaladir the Second, sure is a menace."

Hikari raised her left cane, pointing it at the wounded man. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you, you scoundrel of a man," she hissed. "You aren't one of us. You wished to see our Order fall, and just because we stood in your way. Don't you think you can fool me."

Raven laughed mirthlessly. "Your beloved Order is no more, storming woman. Felled yet not by my hand, but by those of its very Masters. You were betrayed by your own brothers and sisters, and yet you dare to accuse me of treason. Oh, you truly deserve to fall so shamefully!"

Hikari conjured a gust of wind, one blunt and strong, which hit Raven on his not-so-wounded side. He gasped in pain; a noise which raised above the faint cracking of his ribs. The Inquisitor smiled darkly, walking toward the Unspeakable. He didn't even try to run, and limited himself to stare at her with bloodshot eyes which could be seen through his mask.

Hikari did something she'd yearned to for many years. She seized his mask and yanked it from his face. It offered little resistance to her augmented strength. And the face it had covered so dutifully, it was one she hadn't expected.

Raven was a very pale man, skin so white he resembled a ghost. His eyes were of a shade of brown so dark they looked black and hollow, like two endless pits of emptiness. There were deep bags under them, too, and his lips were thin and white. His hair was straight and black, stuck to his forehead so damped in sweat it was.

There was not a single emotion in his face. Not even when she grabbed him by the collar of his robes and yanked him up. All he did was to let out a pained gasp as she pressed him harder against the column.

"Ain't you a sorry thing?" Hikari spat. "This is all your fault, even if you did not betray us. It was you who whispered such poison into the First Master's ears. Who filled his mind with delusions of immortality. This cursed venture is all your fault, Raven."

He laughed once more, though much weaker. "You think I'm so important?" He gave her a bloody smile. "Please. Even before I was born, Isaac already knew about Horcruxes. Already dreamed about them. All I did was to water his seed of ambition. To make the most of it. I don't desire the Ring for myself, even if you don't believe me, but I don't. I'm not so foolish a man to commit such a mistake. Oh, but I do desire to see it, to know its secrets. That's all I want."

Hikari tightened her grip on his neck, making him fight for his breathing. "You think I care about that? I'm not a merciful woman, unlike my beloved Master. But I'm not stupid either." She then glanced at the chrysalis, and made the man do so. "The Ring lays just beneath this pile of crystal. I can feel it somehow, so sombre a presence it has. Help me, Raven. Help me to get and destroy the Ring, to save the world, and I will grant you a second life."

His hand rose to fall upon hers, trying to lower the pressure of her hold. But it was so weak and it trembled so much he could only softly nudge at hers. "Kill me, then. My pitiful life is worth nothing if I cannot, at least, see the wretched secret the Ring harbours. Look at me, damned it all! Look inside my eyes! Do you think of me as a man who cares about his life? I don't give a damn about this cursed world. I will let it burn to ashes, if that means I could finally rid my family of the curse we bestowed upon ourselves centuries ago."

Hikari's heartbeat increased, sweat running down her face. Why did she feel this nervous so suddenly? So reticent to kill this man?

"Explain yourself."

Raven finally managed to plant his feet on the ground, which granted him a slight relief. "We were a humble family centuries ago, farmers and workers of steel, but then a Graves man was born with a curse, that of curiosity. He was clever, too much for his own good, and curious too, like I just said. He saw no pride nor worth in our humble labour, so he left and abandoned his own kin, ashamed of them. One day he came across a strange creature, a woman-like spirit, and she poisoned his mind with sweet promises and myth-worthy tales. He was never the same.

"He took upon himself the duty of discovering one of the most wretched and forbidden secrets of magic: the Path to Immortality. He cursed us all! Every generation of Graves, one of us is born with this curse. And we are unable to fight it. We must discover this secret. And if we cannot, we must continue our lives and have children of our own so they can take upon this duty themselves. We are cursed! Cursed!"

Spit and blood foamed out of his mouth, and Hikari freed him of her hold. He fell to the ground, slipping down the column, wheezing for air amidst violent coughing.

It took Raven a few seconds to regain his breath. Then he opened his eyes, and looked past Hikari. First they showed a picture of awe, face going even whiter than usual, if that was even possible. And then he laughed aloud. Hikari knew it was the laugh of a man who had lost his head for good. Perhaps his story was but a tale he'd imagined in his last moment of sanity.

Then she heard a soft thud from behind. Followed by another, and another.

She turned back, just to glimpse the pathetic way in which Isaac the First crawled toward the chrysalis. His breathing was a sorry thing, a weak and dry wheezing. There was a trail of blood after him, long and narrow. He was about to bleed out.

Hikari rushed toward the First Master, in his aid. Then she halted abruptly. This foolish man had condemned them all, dear Aura included. The Fourth Master had a duty toward the First, a Vow of protection and servitude. But Hikari did not. Could she, perhaps, free her beloved Master from her heavy duty? No one would ever know it was her. It would be a heavy weight to carry, but one too light when compared to the rest it would grant Aura.

No one would ever know what decision Hikari would have taken, however.

For Raven's maddening laughing allowed some words to flow through it. "That's her! That's the woman! I wasn't crazy! She's real!"

Hikari stilled, looking at Isaac once more, yet seeing nothing. But there was something. There, over the man, stood an ethereal silhouette. It took her a mighty effort, her eyes so focused on the shadow she became unaware of all else. It was a woman, truly. Tall, of long hair and dressed in simple and plain robes. And she shone with an ethereal, purple gleam.

The spirit walked forward, abandoning Isaac to his fortune.

"Oh, Kassandra," the First Master whimpered, curling up in a ball on the warm ground. "Don't… Don't leave me! Your… Your strength. Your wisdom… I need them…"

She became more real, more tangible, as she closed the distance with the chrysalis. Until she stood right by its side, and her hand was pressed against the hot crystal. "Oh, my beloved Herpo!" the spirit lamented. "Why? Why did you do it? Was it not enough, all we had? Was I, perhaps, not enough?"

Hikari took in her shape. The spirit was a woman, there was no doubt of that now. And she was old, yet beautiful. There were wrinkles around her eyes, but faint. Her hair was dark, filled with grey streaks, though it gleamed with that purple light.

"What are you?" Hikari mused, so confused she could only stand like a fool, doing nothing as the world's fate was decided within the cavern.

The spirit kept her eyes on the chrysalis. But when she spoke, her words were meant for Hikari to hear. "I am many things, witch of this present age. I am a woman, as you are. I am a mother, and a sister, and a wife. I am an erudite, a friend, a companion, a member of an Order. I am loyal to the eyes of some, a traitor to the eyes of others. I am a bunch of promises and oaths, all broken beyond repair. That is what I am."

Her hand caressed the chrysalis with a tender touch. "And I am willing to sacrifice this world and its people, if that means I can finally know his reasons and rest in peace." She pressed the side of her cheek against the mass of crystal. It cracked, slowly, sombrely, shafts of multicoloured light gleaming through the cracks. "I want to ask my beloved if it was worth it. All his sacrifices, all his dreams. He is so very close, my dear Herpo. To be reborn, as he once dreamed of. To finally Ascend. To finally reach Scala ad Caelum."

Hikari felt a kind of fear so oppressive as she'd never felt before. Her limbs seemed to be made of stone, so heavy and still they felt. She wanted to fight, to kill the three of them. But she was unable to move, as if her entire body had gone numb. Numb with fear.

The spirit sunk her hand into the chrysalis, grasped something from inside, then pulled it outward. It was the Ring, dull and brightless, split into two identical halves. "Was it worth it, my dear?" she asked weakly.

The chrysalis bursted, fragments of gleaming crystal flying away in a colourful rain. A shadow emerged from the cloud of smoke and dust.

The silhouette of a man.

---

The day Jordan was introduced to Shana the Fifth was the day his fate changed to never be the same. Like a first ray of sun breaching past the overcast sky.

A young and fierce woman, she was, barely past her teen years. Sometimes her character was simply that, immature and playful like any other teenage girl, with rare touches of seriousness and coldness. But there was more to her. Way more. She wielded powers no ordinary witch was meant for. And her ambitions, they were very similar to Jordan's, although of a different nature.

Jordan knew nothing of this af first, of course. In her, he saw a way to get closer to the Order of Merlin, in which precious knowledge and connections may reside. It took him little to understand that the Masters weren't close to one another, instead they were enemies. From what little he grasped, Shana was trying to stop Isaac the First, whose plans could endanger the very world.

And then Shana took them to that cave, where Herpo's letter to a dear friend had laid for centuries. Even to this day, Jordan still wondered how she wasn't able to see his ambition gleaming in his eyes, or the way his hands had trembled as if victims of a seizure. There it was, his way to Immortality. Proof that there existed a man who once accomplished it.

That day, Jordan swore to get to the end of it. No matter how many lives were lost to achieve such an end. Even those of his own people.

Fight after fight succeeded. Victories some of them, defeats in equal amounts. The Order of Merlin was a mighty force, but so was Lord Elend Shawn and his people. Jordan knew himself surrounded amidst two storms, and each gust of wind meant the death of a dear friend.

Many died, and he made sure to remember each one of their names. He would write them in stone once he was immortal, to take them with him through his eternal voyage. Levitt, Michael and Kouji questioned him plenty of times, of course, but they still trusted him with a blind faith.

That would later become their gravest mistake. One to always repent.

Kouji was first to fall. Kouji, always brave and kind. Felled by the blade of Jin the Stranger. They were never able to retrieve his body. Still, and much to his shame, that wasn't what hurt him the most that dark day. The Horcrux they'd expected to find in that dead city, it was but an empty and dead obsidian dagger. So many deaths, and just to fall upon a dead end.

Jordan's dream met an abrupt finale. Yet a brief one, unfortunately, for Shana swore there was one more Horcrux out there, lost in the vastness of the world. She had no piece of evidence to back up her claim. None but the firmness of her words. Jordan believed her, of course. That fire within her eyes, despite their most recent defeat and her gruesome torment by the Stranger himself, could not be faked.

Still, Jordan knew he stood no chance by her side. He needed to ally himself with the Order of Merlin. And when the Wings of Liberty's contract with Shana expired, he did not renew it. It was betrayal, to a girl he'd come to like very much.

His men lamented it, too. They'd all come to appreciate the feisty girl as one of their own. That girl who, despite her status as a Master, treated them as equals instead of subordinates. That girl who had given them a fair and just reason to fight. To them, to that bunch of rejects and loners who had always served a pureblood lord and their petty frails. Jordan saw it in their faces. They thought a betrayal of it.

And the day he'd dreaded for so long finally came. About to meet with Isaac the First, he realised, and acknowledged, that his foul ambition had eaten his once innocent desire. Jordan still held his sister's dream close to his heart, but there was a frenzied desire alongside it which hadn't been there before. It made his hands tremble at night, when he thought about it. It made his mind relentless, and hurt as if he was an addict cut from his drug. It had been there for many years, since he became a servant to Oswald. Only that he had suppressed it for so long.

Jordan could do that no more.

He ignored his men's whispers, held his head high and proud despite their sombre looks. More men died, and some started to abandon the company. The most loyal and useful of them remained, of course, so he too ignored that. He could live with solitude, as long as Levitt remained by his side. His most trusted and lethal weapon.

Then, one day, Jordan rid himself of his emotions—of his fear, of his love, of his regrets. He broke his word, made his company one of oathbreakers, abandoned his men to their luck. No one would ever believe them. Again, Jordan did not care about that, for he no longer needed them.

Dear Shana and Elend Shawn defeated, Isaac maimed and sunk into a fit of madness, Jordan obtained the Ring for himself.

"What have you done?" Levitt had mused that day. Sombre words, those were. Proper of the overcast sky, cold and windy as no other Jordan remembered. "You've killed us all, your men. Your friends and family. And all for this ring? I cannot believe it."

Jordan just seized the Ring from his weapon's hands. There was no fight with him anymore, and so he let go of it. But Levitt's eyes, they did not let go of their accusatory stare. Nor of their disappointment and betrayal.

"Every story must end, Levitt," Jordan said firmly. For much his hand had trembled to the mere thought of the Horcrux, it had not shaken that day. "Ours met its end today. Not a happy one, unfortunately. But again, they rarely do."

Jordan had turned around, the Ring tightly coiled around his first finger. "Farewell, my friend. Take care of yourself, and of all those I leave behind. I hope our paths will never meet again. You don't deserve such pain."

The Ring fit like a glove. Immortality would feel the same.

From that day onward, a veil of mist covered Jordan's memories. All he could remember was to follow the Ring's commands. Simple hunches that came out of nowhere. It had guided him here, to this cave of gleaming crystal. But that veil of mist now felt way more oppressive, as if needles upon his skin. It hurt him, it burned his skin, it drained all strength within him.

Jordan was an empty husk, for he'd given his all to that voice.

A hole within the misty veil allowed a bit of light to seep through it. He turned his back on it. Not fearful, not mistrustful, but just because the Ring implored him to do so.

"And to think you would fall so low," a voice said through the narrow hole. It was filled with contempt. "Thought you were clever enough."

Something within Jordan spurred him to turn around. He came to face Levitt, not the weapon he'd turned the soldier into, but that scrawny boy full of hate who had roamed the streets of Blackdusk. His face was full of dirt, but his eyes could still be seen through it. Just as hateful as he remembered.

"Was it worthy?" Levitt asked with disdain, pointing at the Ring on Jordan's finger.

Jordan held his gaze. "Are you even real?"

"Of course I am real!" the boy huffed. "Is it really me, or a product of your mind? I don't know, nor do I care. Have I not killed enough men in your name? Have I not obeyed enough of your orders? Weren't you the man who freed me? The man who saved us and gave us a family and a purpose?" He spat at Jordan's feet. "Though I too have trouble believing that. The Jordan I knew would have never allowed a damn ghost to control him."

The Voice resounded around. Weaker now, like the echo of a faraway thunder. "Kill him, my chosen one. You have rid yourself of all that mattered to you. This boy is but a sorry and desperate attempt of a weak mind."

Levitt frowned at that. "We are all but weak, you fucker."

"We?" Jordan repeated.

More holes appeared within the veil of mist. More light seeped through it. It allowed Jordan to glimpse two more silhouettes.

Michael, the young, charming man he'd met in the streets of Varsovia, where the night reigned. "And you really left us for this?" he asked, opening his arms widely as he sneered down at Jordan. He was a hard man to anger, but Jordan had somehow made it. "What is life but emotions, but memories and laughs and tears? It ain't pretty sometimes, fuck me if I don't know that, but that's just a bump you need to jump over. Share your dream with us, Jordan, and I swear we will make your sister proud."

Kouji, ever kind and loyal, set his hand upon Jordan's shoulder. It felt warm. So warm all he wanted to do was to embrace the man to whom it belonged in search of more of it.

"You don't need to do this to make her proud," he mused with a soft smile. "You have us, your people. We will help you. Searching all those places she wished to visit, finding more tales to read about, meeting exciting and incredible people. Why didn't you trust in us in the first place? We've helped you, had you told us. I hope you know that, right?"

Their words made something shift within Jordan. Tears streamed down his face, still he felt nothing. He should have felt shame, regret and sadness and anger. But he felt nothing. Nothing!

The Voice resounded far closer. "You have given them all to me. Your whole self. Your memories. Your emotions. Your life. It is far too late to repent. Curse your weakness of soul, if you may, but it is far too late for you"

The veil of mist closed those holes carved upon it, filling it with darkness. Levitt and the rest grimaced, streaming off into a rain of light sparks.

Levitt raised a fist, as if to punch the voice. "You think you've defeated us? Please, don't make me laugh! We don't surrender so easily."

The three of them morphed together, becoming a shapeless mass of light. It grew into a smaller silhouette. Wait, was that a girl what it depicted? It had no face, for it was an ugly body full of irregular angles and roundness. But when it spoke, its voice made Jordan fall on his knees, horrorized.

"Don't do this, brother. Please, don't do it. Live. Live for me, but also for yourself. Enjoy it for me. Enjoy the sun and the wind. Enjoy people and the bonds toward them. Enjoy friendship and love, but also sorrow and anger. It's all I would have wanted."

The voice was that of a stranger, so was its shape. But Jordan knew very well to whom they belonged. How had he dared to erase all memories of her sister from his own mind? How had he dared to shape the Voice with them?

No, this could not be the end.

Jordan raised up, as he refused to give to the Voice what little there was of him. "My sister," he grunted. "Give her back to me! Keep all else, if you need so. But do not dare to steal my one reason to live!"

The veil closed at last, and light was no more. The shapeless silhouette was carried away as if dust by the wind.

A shadow morphed in front of him. At first, it was that of an old man. He then grew in height and width. And Jordan found himself staring into a copy of himself made of shadows. Its eyes glowed red, a likewise grin showing crimson teeth.

"At last, I am back!" the shadow mused with Jordan's own voice. His finger raised to point at the man. Wait, did he have a name? Who was he? "Oh, but you do know who I am, right?"

That he knew.

"You are Herpo the Foul."

He also knew that it was far too late for him. Whatever act of repentance and rebellion he had tried to hang onto, it had failed. He had been too weak. He had given his all to this monster of a man. Had the gangrene eaten his whole body already? It seemed so, as wherever part of his flesh he could glance at, it was all black and dead. He closed his eyes one last time, knowing himself defeated. Two solitary tears streamed down his face.

It all ended with a whisper.

"You are mine, now. Too great an honour bequeathed upon such a lowborn man. But I do respect your ambition, Jordan White. It led you to me, after all. You shall Ascend, at last. You shall become Immortal. Though in a different way that you thought of. Become my legs and eyes. My heart and mind. Your soul, to be devoured by mine. Your dreams, to be forgotten, conquered by mine. Become eternal, as my shadow."

---

Herpo the Foul walked through the cloud of smoke and dust with a slow stride. He drew in a deep breath, taking in the wonderful feeling of being alive once more. He glanced down, at his hands. Strong and firm hands, they were, like the rest of this vessel's body.

The smoke dispelled, and he was left face to face with three individuals.

He knew them all, from the vessel's memories. The pale woman of slanted eyes and dark hair was a warrior, sworn to an even more powerful witch. The frail man sitting against the column was another erudite, like Herpo himself. And like a proper erudite, he ignored the gravity of his wounds to sit up and stare at Herpo. A worthy witch, a worthy wizard. They deserved the honour bestowed upon them. There was another one, also. A dead man. A man whose ambitions had proved to raise far higher than his talent. But also the man who had moved heaven and earth to find his Horcrux.

Herpo ignored them all as the insects they were.

So he came face to face with Kassandra, his beloved wife. A woman he himself had murdered.

"It has been long, my dear Kassandra," Herpo mused, a touch of affection in his otherwise emotionless voice. "Far too long, and still I wish it would have been even longer. I feel no desire to confront you."

Kassandra gave him a soft smile. "I do not wish for confrontation either, my dear. All I want is the truth. That, and to finally rest. It has been too long for me. Cursed to wander around as the ages passed. Alone and forgotten. Give me what you owe me, and I will sink into eternal slumber."

Herpo glanced past her, to where other familiar presences could be felt. Konstantinos, his most loyal apprentice, was also here. He too had somehow avoided Death. There was another person from his past here, also. Kayle, ever relentless in her revenge. She had hunted Herpo when he was yet alive, she had hunted him when everyone thought him dead.

"I will grant you that," Herpo nodded, opening his arms in a wide arc. "To you, and to those who once stood by my side. Let us reunite once more, I say!"

---

It was an unusual night at Hogwarts.

There was a stillness to the castle so improper to it, just as the day had been colder than many others before. Unlike Ron's mind, which had run relentlessly today for a reason he could not understand. He'd almost expected for something to come out of a corner and attack him.

It was not because of Umbridge, he knew. It had been a week since she expelled Hermione and broke Neville's wand. Since she sank Harry in a pit of despair and self-blame. But Ron had known of a way to stop her through the entire week. An extremely risky plan which could end very bad for him and Hogwarts. And the worry and anxiousness he'd felt these past days, it had nothing to do with all he felt now.

Gerd had not been better, much to his worry. She'd remained perched atop his shoulder the entire day. Like a shadow, so silent and distant. He'd had no heart to confront her, because it was rather evident that something was happening. Something grave. And he was scared of whatever answer she may give to his questions.

Once he'd finished dinner, Ron had ignored Tracey's worried glances and had set for his dormitory. It was very early into the night, and still he felt no desire for anything else than laying down and closing his eyes.

It hadn't taken the boy much time to sink into slumber; a deep one. And when he opened his eyes amidst the night, he wasn't in Hogwarts anymore. He stood in that colourless world of lights and shadows—at the Soul Sanctum. The sea's waves caressed his nude feet, as if seeking his warmth. Save he had none to share.

Gerdnyaram stood in front of him, with that bearing of royalty and pride so proper of hers, moonlight dress waving to the nonexistent wind. Her emerald eyes were set on the beach, unlike his, which were set on the endless ocean. Her face was rid of any emotion save one. Rage.

Ron did not dare to turn around, for he knew they were not alone this time. He could feel each and every one of their companions, bonded as they somehow were for some reason he could not understand. Seven humans. Seven Essentias. Friends of old, enemies anew. A sea of emotions flowing through them. A cold fury was most noteworthy, shared by most. But there was also worship. And fear. And love. That one shocked him the most.

"At last we meet once more, my old and dear companions," a voice raised above the sepulchral silence. "The Seven Precursors, in company of those men and women of the present age they chose to bond. A day fated to occur. A day which not even Death could forbid. Let us settle this, once and for all."

Finally did Ron turn toward the voice, a semblance of courage filling him. Although it disappeared the moment his eyes fell upon a tall man of short, blonde hair. There was a long, thin scar going down his face, through his left eye. He was too young and too human to be the man Gerd feared so much. The man who killed her so long ago. But deep inside him, Ron knew this man was Herpo the Foul in flesh and bone.

Herpo the Foul too stared at that scared boy of fiery hair who did not belong there. To that reunion of monsters. And still did Ron hold himself tall and proud, like a true Weasley. Because evil was not to be feared. It was to be fought.

Herpo smiled darkly. "Fate, indeed. Fate brought us all together once more, even the unworthy. And who am I to forswear such a chance? Let us talk one last time. Before this Age meets sempiternal change."