《The Shattered Warrior (An Epic Military Sci-Fantasy)》


 Epigraph

    It is said there was peace, once, in the beginning.


    But only in the beginning.


    That peace ended long ago, when the Erak¡¯sai summoned Oblivion from the depths of the unknown, killed Vertras, and corrupted the afterlife.


    For ten years the city of Meridian held against the siege of the Enemy. Ten long years of battle, yet it was only a speck compared to what came when it fell. Three thousand years after that collapse the Wars of Endowment still raged, with only the noble Rift to hold back calamity. Again and again the avatars of the Void came, slaughtering thousands, millions, enslaving planets, torturing souls. Finally, Etheri, the last Bladewielder, sacrificed herself to imprison that avatar.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    Peace. It is a fragile thing, but it reigns. For now ¡ª and only for now. In time Oblivion will return, and war with him.


    And yet, in the highest room of the Tower of Foreseeing, known only by the True Eye itself, there is one last hope. The Endowed, they call it. A hero who will defeat the Void, reclaim the afterlife, end all suffering.


    Such will be the salvation of Delti.


    -The Tale of the Wars of Endowment

 Prologue 1 - The Tower

    An end. A beginning. Between it all, death. Oh Okron, when will it end?


    -Anonymous Soldier, circa 500 Post Fall of Meridian


    The bodies heaped in piles on the streets of Toroth Vedd had finally ceased to smolder, but memory of the battle that had created them still lingered. Aiedra Okron, holding a glowing ball of light in her hand, could feel those memories, dancing across her vision, her hearing, her smell, her touch. Even her taste. She could not resist cringing at that sensation. The metallic tingle of another¡¯s blood spraying into one¡¯s mouth was not pleasant, even if there was no blood actually there.


    Nothing about being a memory burner was pleasant, though.


    She extinguished her ball of light as a ship descended from the sky, smoke wreathing its sleek form. The landing gear groaned as the carrier landed atop the scorched cement. This place had been a communal skyscraper once, a home where hundreds of Kiedd had lived together in that odd familial way of theirs. They were dead now, the building so thoroughly flattened during the battle it now functioned as a landing ground for Aiedra¡¯s troops. Their memories haunted this place.


    They were oppressed, Aiedra reminded herself. Life under the Khazath was not life at all.


    It was little comfort.


    The underside of the carrier folded downward, creating a ramp for its occupants to descend to the ground. They did, dozens of soldiers dressed in carbon-fiber chain mail, faces covered by titanium masks. All save one.


    Tall, muscular, and with gray hair tied into a bun atop his head, E¡¯vin Yaenke never wore armor, instead sporting a crisp, tight-fitting nylon uniform. He said he could defend himself better than any piece of metal could, and he liked the extra mobility. Aiedra suspected there was more to it, though. Like her, E¡¯vin wished someone would finally kill him.


    If only it were so simple. She took her own titanium helmet off her head. ¡°E¡¯vin. It is good to see you. The Formless are well?¡±


    E¡¯vin did not answer the question at first, instead sweeping his eyes over the carnage. Over broken buildings, heaps of corpses, and ever-rising smoke. Then he nodded.


    ¡°They survive, so well enough.¡± He waved a hand. ¡°The rest of you will hang back. Aiedra and I have¡­ matters to discuss. Take Dromidius to the wounded. He is needed there, I think.¡±


    The soldiers hesitated, but retreated into the carrier, which took off a moment later. Aiedra watched it go, trying to ignore Yaenke¡¯s eyes boring into her. Finally, when it was gone, the man folded his arms.


    ¡°I hate this.¡±


    ¡°Who doesn¡¯t?¡± Aiedra said softly.


    ¡°The war should be over. We imprisoned Oblivion. Why do we still fight?¡±


    A wistful smile crossed Aiedra¡¯s lips. ¡°You never were a politician, were you? Always a scholar, at heart.¡±


    ¡°The Khazath sued for peace, Aiedra. Why did we refuse?¡±


    ¡°We didn¡¯t. I gave my vote for Mekezia to sign the contract just now. If they still choose to accept, the war is over.¡±


    ¡°Then why? Why this?¡±


    Aiedra forced her expression to become stone. Forced herself to drown out the echoes of the dead, still whispering in her mind.


    ¡°You know why.¡±


    Yaenke hesitated, then shivered. ¡°All this for one visit to the Tower?¡±


    ¡°Not just one. We need to see the future, E¡¯vin. The lack of clarity has cost us too much.¡±


    E¡¯vin hesitated, meeting her eyes. There were tears in his. She tried her best not to avert her gaze.


    She failed.


    ¡°Fifty thousand,¡± he said.


    She winced.


    ¡°Fifty thousand civilians, Aiedra. That¡¯s not even counting our soldiers, nor theirs.¡±


    She closed her eyes. ¡°It was necessary,¡± she whispered.


    ¡°You sound like Mekezia.¡±


    She forced her eyes back open. ¡°Then perhaps Mekezia has always been right.¡±


    Yaenke scowled. ¡°I worried about this. While you were on my side¡­ well, I can wait no longer.¡± He frowned. ¡°I¡¯m leaving, Aiedra.¡±


    She blinked. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Mekezia wants the secret,¡± he said.


    ¡°She swore she wouldn¡¯t take it,¡± Aiedra said.


    ¡°Can you honestly say you think she is wrong to want it, though? Or is it necessary, just as all the rest of this has been?¡±


    She paused, then sighed. ¡°No. No, it is necessary. I cannot force myself to betray you so, old friend, but Mekezia is right.¡±


    Yaenke stared for a moment, clearly shocked, then shook his head, lips curling in disgust. ¡°So be it, then.¡± He turned away, striding down the street.


    Aiedra still did not meet his eyes. She just turned away, too, staring at the Tower. At the reason all these lives had been spent.


    The Tower of Foreseeing, taken back from the clutches of the Khazath. The possibilities now afforded her would be worth the blood she had paid to open them. They had to be.


    It will harden you, too, Yaenke, she thought. Time eventually wears on all of us.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    She closed her eyes, burning memories, then shot into the sky, drifting toward the tower. As she did, she saw men in ragged uniforms stand and salute her. She felt their thoughts, knew their doubt. Who wouldn¡¯t doubt, after what had happened with Arath? But they saluted anyway, weapons held in tight fists, expressions resolute. Three Powers bless them for that salute.


    This battle was for them. Even if it cost their lives, it was still for them.


    Burning more of her Ever, she pushed herself higher, ascending through the thick layer of smog and toward the tower.


    Her eyes drifted toward the ravaged city below as she rose. The flames had gone out, but even in the dark of night she could see the smoke clouds. Large swaths of the city had been leveled, the structures torn apart, then vomited out as rubble by the vortex bombs the forces of Oblivion had so freely used. Buildings had gashes in their sides where Voidlings and memory burners had fought. Heaps of bodies were even taller in places where atom burners on both sides had been allowed to run unchallenged, cutting through human flesh like paper, leaving their victims in two pieces wherever they¡¯d gone. Some of those towers were more than three stories tall, and surviving memory burners hovered above them, lighting the corpses with bursts of plasma from their hands.


    Fifty-thousand¡­


    ¡°A small sacrifice,¡± she whispered, ¡°if we can get what we need.¡±


    She fixed her eyes back on her destination, burning more Ever to race toward it; as much as she desired to wait, there was no time to hang about in anticipation. A pair of fellow memory burners drifted through the air toward her as she approached, saluting and escorting her to the Tower¡¯s highest landing pad. Even more burners waited there, half a dozen memory burners glowing with blue light, and a squadron of atom burners clad in titrite and ablaze with white Purity. Aiedra nodded to them, then ordered them to stand guard as she went inside.


    She wavered, for just a moment, staring down the chrome hallway that would lead to the Tower¡¯s main room. The place where, according to the legends, she would be told her fate. Then, forcing courage into her veins, she stepped forward.


    The bodies of the Khazath soldiers who had guarded this hallway had been dragged out, but the blood stains, tears, and char marks remained. Murals older than Aiedra herself, depicting events no historian had ever heard of, now lay ruined. Artifacts from millennia ago sat shattered on cracked podiums. And this was after Oblivion had scoured the Tower for centuries. Who knew what knowledge had been lost forever, even before today?


    Yet, loss was nothing new, not to Aiedra. So she continued, noting the Surges inlaid into the wall, shining with bright green light, the color of Eternity, the Third of the Three Powers. The Power men called Void now, for Oblivion¡¯s first act had been to corrupt it, tainting those who wielded it and dooming the afterlife forever. The Tower, it seemed, was one of the few places unaffected by that terrible act.


    Finally, she arrived at the gateway to the Room of Foreseeing, two large titanium doors with golden symbols emblazoned on each, though Aiedra recognized none of the glyphs. She could hear nothing behind the entrance. According to E¡¯vin, the True Eye never stirred unless someone summoned him.


    She rested her hand on the door, breathed in, breathed out. Then shoved the gates open with a blast of Ever, and stepped inside.


    The room was dome-shaped, with a ceiling made of pure black marble. Torches held flickering flames all around, though they provided very little light in the darkness that swallowed the space as the doors clanged shut behind Aiedra. Most of the floor was covered in a thin, circular pool of water, a small walkway of smooth granite stretching out into its center. Wringing her hands behind her back, Aiedra strode out onto the walkway until she reached its end, then cleared her throat, then shouted.


    ¡°True Eye, I summon you to speak my fate.¡±


    For a moment, there was silence, save for the crackle of the torches and the soft whoosh of the water in the pool.


    Then glowing, turquoise-colored, almost metallic mist swirled in front of her, twisting and churning as compartments in the wall snapped open, revealing Surges of blue and white and, most prevalently, green. The mist began to coalesce, forming into the shape of a man, and two solid-green glowing eyes burst into existence on its otherwise featureless face. A male voice rumbled, echoing far louder than even Aiedra¡¯s shout within the now-lit chamber.


    I have waited long for you, last Daughter of Meridian.


    Aiedra bristled. Few knew she was old enough to have seen the days of Meridian, and fewer still knew she had helped lead their armies against Oblivion, during those first days of war. It was knowledge she did not like to share.


    I know why you have come, the True Eye continued. I know all things that can be known. But you must voice the question yourself. It is a rule by which I have always been bound.


    ¡°The Endowed,¡± Aiedra muttered. Her heart pounded so fast she could not do more than mutter. ¡°Who is it?¡±


    There was a long pause. Twenty heartbeats long; Aiedra felt each one.


    Do you truly wish to know, child?


    Child. The word made something snap in Aiedra. She spoke, and this time she did not mutter.


    ¡°Six times! Six times we have marched on Dareth Guur, and six times we have failed! Do you have any idea the slaughter those campaigns were? You claim to know all things, see all things, but did you see that? Did you hear the men dying, see the rivers of blood as the ground seized them and squeezed it from their veins?¡± She felt her voice break. ¡°You promised us a hero. Told us to look for them, and that they would end this war. How much longer do we have to wait? How many liars do we have to entertain, before our salvation?¡±


    Another long pause. Longer, this time. Forty-three heartbeats, each one thumping harder than the last.


    The Prophecy of Ever. Do you truly wish to see its fulfillment, Daughter of Meridian?


    ¡°Yes,¡± Aiedra hissed. ¡°Give it to me.¡± A tear dripped from her eye, even as fury raged in her veins. ¡°Please.¡±


    Very well. I am¡­ sorry, child.


    The walls suddenly broke apart into rings, then spun, light pouring in rays from the Surges that lined them. Green flashed before Aiedra¡¯s eyes, and the future, finally, showed itself.


    ***


    Aiedra found herself face-down, floundering in the water. She gasped, took in only more liquid, then spat it out in a flurry of coughs. Tears mixing with the water of the pool, she stumbled her way back to the edge, then sank against the wall. The lake remained calm, but for a moment it seemed to her a raging ocean, waves splashing as high as her climbing fear.


    I am truly sorry, the True Eye rumbled. If I could change this, I would.


    ¡°You promised us peace,¡± Aiedra rasped. She meant it to be a shout, but she could only manage a rasp after¡­ after¡­ after what she had seen. After watching that terrible sword, held up to the storm-filled Ethean sky. ¡°Was that peace a lie? Why lie? Why tell us we would win, when that is in our future?¡±


    You were promised an end, the True Eye said. I do not know fully the meaning of that prophecy, only that it is an end.


    ¡°You said you know everything. Then why? Why this?¡± Her voice broke again. ¡°Please. Tell me why.¡±


    A long silence. In this, the True Eye said finally, you have misunderstood. I know all that can be known, but some things cannot be. I cannot tell you why this must be. I am sorry, Daughter of Meridian. But do not say I did not warn you of this burden.


    The True Eye¡¯s misty form suddenly retreated, then vanished, too quickly for Aiedra to stop it. Furious, she shouted, screamed at the being, but it did not bring him back. Instead, the Surges on the wall slid into their slots, leaving her in darkness, save for the flickering torches.


    Darkness. She felt it around her in more ways than one. She stood, trembling, for too long, before at last she steeled herself.


    So Fate itself was against them. So be it. She would find a way around this, discover some path to fulfill the Prophecy, whether it was false or not. The True Eye might not have been able to tell her who the fabled hero was, but she could locate them herself. She would create a hero if she had to, would find a way to avoid that¡­ that terrible future. She had fought too long, and too hard, to do anything else. She would succeed.


    That was what she told herself. Though, even as she dried herself with a burst of heat, and pushed the worry off her face, even as she strode back to face the corpses of men she had just sent to their deaths for nothing, she wondered.


    For she knew now, with more certainty than ever before, that if she failed, the galaxy would burn.

 Prologue 2 - Living Nightmare

    1,247 Years Later...


    Three Powers, given by the Three Bladewielders.


    Ever, power of the mind, to control our world.


    Purity, power of the body, to shape ourselves.


    Eternity, power of the soul, to harness that which lies beyond.


    Between them, unity. Unity, gone, till the Endowed doth come¡­


    -The Song of the Three Powers


    They came in the night, as killers always do. E¡¯vin Yaenke awoke to the whine of battlecruiser engines, the crackle of plasma bolts striking energy shields. The screams, the shrieks, the whispers of echoes crashing into his mind. The sounds were familiar ¡ª too familiar, so much so he almost didn¡¯t wake. When you had lived through what he had, the nightmares and reality melted together.


    But he opened his eyes, then sat up, slowly, tossing the rough blanket off his chest. Dreams full of pain still danced before him, but he stepped to the window, throwing open the shades.


    Nightmares, reality. As he took in the sight before him, they blended more than ever.


    He cursed. He¡¯d told them. Thaus take it, but he¡¯d told them war would come. That the Confederacy would not interfere. The signs were all too obvious. Larsh had claimed to be the Endowed. She¡¯d breathed a thousand threats against Ethea, subtle, sometimes even in private, but threats nonetheless. Rion¡¯s daughter was gaining popularity. The Church publicly denounced Rion, but did not denounce Larsh. The Talar were rumored to be gathering their forces near Xilia. He¡¯d seen these warning signs before. He¡¯d ignored them then. He hadn¡¯t this time.


    They¡¯d called him a liar, a fearmonger. The Talar were neutral, they¡¯d said. The Confederacy wouldn¡¯t allow open conflict, they¡¯d said.


    War was impossible, they¡¯d said. Well, now it was here.


    Plasma ripped into the hulls of Ethean trade ships, tearing through their thin defensive shields like knives through flesh. The shrapnel fell from the sky, a rain of molten metal, shining an angry orange. Talar fighters, angular and small, glided between buildings, moving with expert precision, taking out guard posts, sending human-shaped silhouettes flying into the night. Other fighters, bulkier and more heavily armored, chased their enemies. They were less precise, often crashing into the very buildings they sought to defend. One would think the militia of a nation eons old could at least hold its ground. Alas, that was not so. Flames spread across the skyline. In the darkness, they almost looked beautiful, flickering beneath the stars. E¡¯vin watched them for too long, numb.


    So it has begun, just as Aiedra said it would.


    For a moment, he was more afraid than he¡¯d ever been. Then he straightened his uniform. The Governor. Where was the Governor? Why had no one alerted him of the attack, and how long had he been sleeping? He snatched a Surgeblade from the wall, then threw open the door to his bedroom.


    The shouts grew louder. There were so many he could not make out specific words, or even specific voices. In the blue-lit hallway, people dashed by, cooks, servants, mechanics, soldiers. Yaenke recognized none of them. He did, however, recognize one sound.


    Plasma fire.


    He swore again, an Erak¡¯sai profanity slipping involuntarily from his mouth. Normally, that would have drawn stares. But today was no day for prejudices.


    He glanced at his Surgeblade. It was a long, elegant weapon, made of gleaming, chrome titrite metal, light as aluminum, more durable than a steel alloy. The blade was longer than most swords, two-edged, sharp enough to cut through most anything with ease.


    The blade, though, was not the defining feature of the weapon. Its actual power came from the jewel embedded into the hilt, deep blue, like lapis lazuli, but glowing with lines of azure light ¨C lines of Ever. The jewel was a Surge, a manifestation of the First Power in the physical world. Yaenke moved his thumb to touch that jewel. For a moment, his skin rested on its icy surface, but nothing happened.


    Then Ever, ethereal energy from the Surge, rushed into his body, making his skin glow with bright sapphire light. Instantly, his mind focused, the initial confusion of the invasion turning starkly clear. The Talar were here. Some of their forces had likely slipped into the palace, judging by the sounds of gunfire nearby. The Governor was supposed to be in his bedchambers. Yaenke formed a route in his mind, then another route, in case the enemy had blocked off the first.


    And if the Governor is already dead?


    Well, he¡¯d deal with that if it came to it. His feet leapt into action, dashing down the hallway.


    Servants slowed their rush, stepping away as Yaenke ran by. Dressed in full uniform, for he always slept prepared, Yaenke¡¯s glowing body was an intimidating sight, particularly with a four-foot longsword in his hand. Even when he encountered a pair of soldiers, who should have been trained to deal with a Surgewielder, they stopped as he approached, eyes widening.


    ¡°Sir,¡± one of them said, saluting with a hand to his chest. ¡°General Krot ordered us to¡­¡±


    ¡°Follow his orders!¡± Yaenke snapped. ¡°I¡¯ll take care of the Governor.¡±


    The soldiers nodded, rushing off in the opposite direction, toward the center of the palace, where General Rion Krot would undoubtedly be commanding the resistance effort. The gunfire was growing louder, and Yaenke swore he could feel vibrations underneath his feet as plasma continued to crackle outside. The Ethean palace had its own shield, but that wouldn¡¯t hold long. In fact, from what Yaenke had seen in his brief look outside, it wouldn¡¯t hold for longer than an hour.


    When it falls, he realized, the only safe place for me is the Undercity.


    He stopped at a fork, hesitating, choices dueling in his mind. He could bring the Governor to Rion, and help repel the invasion. That, of course, was what he was expected to do. Or, he could run. Escape, through the Undercity.


    And protect his secret.


    He stood at that fork for a long moment, alone in the corridor. Voices murmured in his ears; while wielding Ever, one could hear, and sometimes even see, the thoughts of people nearby. They shouldn¡¯t have bothered him ¨C he¡¯d used Ever many times before ¨C but today, they seemed to taunt him. Mocking the terrible choice he had to make. They flashed through his mind, driving him to his knees.


    A Talar slave, one who had never even seen the green of a tree¡¯s leaves, died to a spear through the neck.


    An Ethean guard screamed as plasma struck his spine, leaving him paralyzed and bleeding on the ground.


    A woman nearby fled, trying not to think of the child she¡¯d left behind, yet knowing the infant¡¯s cries would give her away.


    Memories. Decisions. The terrible past, the unbearable future.


    Did he leave, and protect the secret that could destroy the galaxy?


    Did he stay, and die with those he loved? Die, and seal the fate of Delti anyway?


    Either way, he lost. Finally, he forced himself onward. He could save the Governor. Get him to safety, before making his final decision, and keep Ethea from further chaos. His feet moved with uncharacteristic speed, pounding against the carpeted ground, almost as fast as the blood pounding through his head.


    The secret.


    And the boy.


    A red blade, raised in the air¡­


    The gunfire was even louder now. Yaenke pulled in more Ever; the Surge produced it at a constant rate, leaking energy from the Everrealm into the physical world. He rounded a corner, then stopped.


    Here, the hallway expanded into a massive glass dome. Shops lined the edge of the structure, on multiple floors, with gleaming marble supports holding up terraces for the higher levels. A giant chandelier hung from the ceiling, secured by a thick, painted metal chain. The chandelier itself glowed with green, white, and blue jewels, one color for each of the Three Powers. Directly across the dome from Yaenke, a golden archway opened into the Governor¡¯s quarters. It was a grand sight; even the carpet was beautiful.


    Save, of course, for the blood and bodies that now lay strewn across it.


    In the center of the dome, the Governor¡¯s Guard, dressed in blue and silver uniforms, ducked behind furniture, firing blasters at the oncoming enemy. The Talar soldiers, their backs to Yaenke, were dressed in full battle armor, purple and gray, helms covering their faces perfectly. Though they were still human, their armor was vaguely insectoid, particularly the helmets, which had two black spots for eyes, and metal spikes jutting out near the mouth, like mandibles. There appeared to be about four dozen of them. More than Yaenke¡¯s entire guard force ¨C and that was excluding those who already lay dead.


    It did not take long for the Talar to spot Yaenke¡¯s glowing figure. Shouts echoed, and in unison, six of those fighting in the back turned. Immediately, they sheathed their blasters. Ever could manipulate energy, and plasma would do little good against a Surgewielder. Instead, they drew pikes from their backs, then began stalking toward Yaenke, forming a semicircle around him.


    Yaenke forced himself to smile. He let them surround him, let them point their weapons at his chest. He brandished his sword, as if preparing for them to attack. Then, raising his hand, he burned his Ever, expending it to send a bolt of energy flying at the chain holding the chandelier.


    The bolt connected, then exploded, and the chandelier began to fall. Yaenke waved his hand toward the Talar forces, burning more Ever to push the chandelier toward them. Though he could not see the Talar men¡¯s expressions, he felt their thoughts. Felt their fear, as a wave of shards shot outward, stabbing into chinks in their armor, the heavier chunks crushing many of them. Yaenke snapped his sword upward, burning even more Ever as he directed the blast toward the Talar, and formed an energy shield around himself. A couple of shards still flew past that shield, digging through his padded uniform and into his back. He winced.


    When the dust had settled, the Talar force was decimated. A few of the soldiers on the edges of the blast had survived, but Yaenke¡¯s men quickly surged forward, finishing them. Yaenke stood for a moment, glancing at the carnage. At the white, blue, and green jewels shattered on the floor. Even in this, they represented the Three Powers. Broken, perhaps permanently.


    You need to leave, he thought. If Larsh is here¡­


    But first, the Governor. He¡¯d have a better chance if he stuck with the Governor, and the rest of the guard.


    His Ever was almost spent; directing the chandelier¡¯s explosion toward the Talar had taken most of it. He Reached and pulled in more, though his Surge had hardly produced much in the few seconds of fighting. Careful to avoid bits of broken glass, he strode toward the other guards.


    ¡°Governor Lysh? Is he alive?¡±


    A man with long, white hair saluted. Tyrin, his second in command. Though his hair was white, he was only in his thirties, Etheans¡¯ hair was naturally white, even for children. ¡°Alive, sir. Though¡­¡± He hesitated.


    ¡°Though what?¡±


    ¡°Best if you see for yourself.¡± He gestured toward the archway. Strangely, the hallway beyond was dark. Yaenke nodded, and they headed towards it. As they did, Yaenke¡¯s eyes drifted toward the bodies on the ground. Thirteen of his men dead, as far as he could see. His breath caught in his throat, but he reminded himself to grieve later. He had no time now.


    He hadn¡¯t had time to grieve for centuries.


    The glass dome, though not completely transparent, was see-through in parts. Through those parts, Yaenke could see the shield, still holding against the missiles bombarding it. His muscles tensed as the blue sheet of energy flickered briefly, then restored itself. Perhaps they had less time than they thought.


    They arrived at the hallway. Tyrin stopped outside the arch. ¡°Talk to him yourself,¡± he whispered. ¡°He¡¯s already said he doesn¡¯t want to see me.¡±


    Is he throwing a fit again? Blood-cursed vret. Yaenke frowned, but did as Tyrin said, stepping down the short hallway and through the door to the Governor¡¯s chambers. As he did, he Reached for more Ever, mentally drawing it from the Surge and into his body. His blade was a strong one, and he was glowing as brightly as he had been before the skirmish by the time he arrived at the Governor¡¯s door. It was open.


    The lights were out in this room, too, though Yaenke¡¯s glow illuminated it as he stepped inside. It was lavish. Paintings hung on all four walls. There were three dressers, all made of rare violet wood from Artensia. The bed was bigger than any Yaenke had seen, and he¡¯d lived a long time.


    The Governor waited on that bed, legs crossed beneath him. He was a fat man, balding, with pasty skin. The kind of man who had spent too much time with his wine. His eyes were closed.


    For a moment, a long moment, Yaenke twisted the Surgeblade in his hand. This man had been nothing but a nuisance the past year. Taxing the people harder in the name of the cause, then spending it on himself, then impeding any legislature Rion tried to pass to stop him. He¡¯d appointed corrupt Councilors, cut military funding, quietly spread rumors claiming Rion had developed a Soulcurse. This invasion was in no small part due to his incompetence.


    It would be so, so easy to just kill him.


    He raised his sword. Then the palace rumbled. Outside, someone shouted in surprise.


    ¡°Shield¡¯s fallen!¡±


    Yaenke paused, then pushed the thoughts of treason away. More chaos was not what Ethea needed right now. He lowered his Surgeblade.


    ¡°My liege. We need to move.¡±


    The Governor twitched. Evidently he had not heard Yaenke enter the room. But he did not respond.


    ¡°My liege,¡± Yaenke repeated. ¡°The shield has broken. We need to get you to safety.¡±


    Still nothing. Yaenke restrained his anger. Heavens Above, it would be so easy¡­


    ¡°The Talar will be here soon, my liege.¡±


    ¡°I am aware.¡± The Governor still did not open his eyes. His voice was a rasp, clearly damaged by years of drugs. Drugs, funded by taxes that should have gone toward stopping this disaster.


    ¡°Then you know why we need to leave,¡± Yaenke said coolly.


    The Governor snorted. ¡°We will not be leaving, Captain E¡¯vin.¡±


    ¡°This is not the time for drama.¡±


    The Governor¡¯s eyes opened. They were a sickly yellow. ¡°I am not being dramatic, Captain. If I stay, Larsh will come for me. And I will sue her for peace.¡±


    Yaenke blinked, not even sure how to respond to the absolute stupidity of the plan. The Talar didn¡¯t accept surrender. Everyone knew that. He would laugh, if the stunt wouldn¡¯t cost so many lives.


    ¡°My liege, I don¡¯t think that¡¯s wise.¡±


    ¡°And I don¡¯t care.¡± The Governor¡¯s eyes closed again. ¡°Leave me. Try not to get killed when Larsh arrives. Unless you don¡¯t care about your life, like everyone else out there.¡±


    Yaenke stood, stunned. The Governor grunted. ¡°Well? Leave!¡±


    Yaenke stepped back, cursing softly. This is not the time for this, thau it. Legally, he had to obey the Governor¡¯s orders. So did his men. They wouldn¡¯t leave, even if Yaenke told them to; he¡¯d trained them for total obedience to authority.


    But if he stayed, Larsh would get the secret. He shivered as memories flashed through his mind. Memories of darkness, devastation. Of an empty city, smoking and ruined, yet without a corpse in sight. It had been four thousand years, yet they were vivid as ever.


    He decided in an instant.


    ¡°There can be no peace with darkness,¡± he recited. Raising his hand, he burned Ever and sent a single blast of concentrated plasma directly for the Governor¡¯s chest. It struck home, sizzling as it burned through fat, then through muscle. The Governor¡¯s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to scream, but a second bolt took him in the throat. He fell slack on the bed, blood covering the white sheets.


    Yaenke inhaled sharply, hands trembling, then forced himself to exhale. Why, after all these years, did killing still make him shiver? This man had deserved his death. Yaenke had simply administered justice that should have been dealt out months ago.


    Yet, as he watched green mist pour from Governor Lysh¡¯s mouth, he couldn¡¯t help but tremble. The mist turned red, and he swore he could faintly hear screaming; the Governor was in Torment now, the realm of the dead. A place controlled by Oblivion, where everyone was condemned to endless pain.


    The Void is the real enemy, Yaenke reminded himself. He lowered his hand. Beneath him, the ground rumbled again, accompanied by the thunder of a nearby explosion.


    ¡°Sir?¡±


    Tyrin. He¡¯d left the man standing outside Lysh¡¯s quarters. He¡¯d probably heard everything. Yaenke hesitated.


    During his moment of hesitation, Tyrin stepped around the corner. Yaenke hastily closed the door, but not before Tyrin¡¯s eyes widened. He opened his mouth to cry out, but Yaenke burned Ever, using it to stifle Tyrin¡¯s shout, then burning more to freeze him in place. He stepped toward his friend, leaning in close.


    ¡°We both know he deserved it. Get your men out of here, while there¡¯s still time. Leave the palace, leave your uniforms. Pretend you never had anything to do with this. They might spare you.¡±


    He met the man¡¯s eyes, pouring as much sincerity into his mournful expression as he could. He¡¯d enjoyed his time here, even with the threats looming around every corner. These men didn¡¯t deserve death, any more than Governor Lysh, as corrupt a man as he¡¯d been, deserved eternal anguish. Hopefully, they would abandon their post. They wouldn¡¯t, they were Etheans, but Yaenke could hope they would see past their honor.


    He closed his eyes, Reaching and pulling as much Ever as he could from his Surge. Then, glowing blue, he released Tyrin.


    Immediately, the man lashed out with his boot, trying to trip Yaenke. The captain reacted with blinding speed, sweeping the flat of his blade outward, blocking the blow and tripping Tyrin. He clattered to the ground, then rolled, shouting.


    ¡°Traitor! He killed the Governor! He is Worthless!¡±


    Some of the men snapped into action instantly, but others hesitated. Infused with Ever, Yaenke could hear their thoughts. Their Captain, a traitor? A Worthless?


    That hesitation gave him time. He burned all of his Ever at once, sending a shockwave rippling around him. There wasn¡¯t much force behind it ¨C he was aiming to stall them, not kill them ¨C but it was enough to throw all of them to the floor. Tyrin slammed into the wall, and he grimaced. Yaenke met the man¡¯s dazed eyes one last time.


    ¡°Run,¡± he said.


    Then he followed his own advice, dashing out of the dome, sprinting away from the Governor¡¯s wing, then into the black, smoke-filled night beyond.


    ***


    Blood mixed with sweat and tears as it dripped down young Perelor Krot¡¯s face, falling off his cheek and down to the dusty ground below. Most of that blood came from his right eye, which had been slashed across the iris. It stared, dead, at the floor, a scab slowly drying over the wound.


    Perelor¡¯s hands were above his head, locked together with magnetic cuffs. He and his sister, Eliel, slumped beside a broken wall, near a landing pad, heads hung low, waiting, presumably, for one of the cruisers on the pad to take them away. Unless Larsh killed them. She might. She¡¯d already had an opportunity to finish them, yes, but people like her tended to enjoy cruelty.


    Eliel was coughing ¨C there was smoke everywhere, a thin haze that reduced everything around them to silhouettes. Perelor sat silent, cringing at every cough, but helpless to assist her. Helpless to assist anyone. He wished he could shut his ears the same way he could shut his eyes. Wished he could simply not listen to the rattle of gunfire, the rumble of explosions all around.


    Two Talar guards watched the children. One had his helmet off, revealing a short beard and violet eyes that seemed to glow through the smog. The other kept his helmet on. With it, he looked like a mix between a spider and an ant, staring down at Perelor with sharp mandibles and solid black eyes.


    Perelor closed his own eyes, spots dancing across the blackness of his left eyelid, a more pure blackness still dominating the right side of his vision. He felt drained. How long had it been, since he¡¯d fallen unconscious the first time? How long had it been since¡­ since¡­


    Since his father had died.


    Keep your sister safe, son. He¡¯d seemed so confident, even as his hand had fallen slack in Perelor¡¯s hand. Perelor had felt his thoughts. He¡¯d believed in Perelor, even in that final moment.


    In that, he¡¯d been a fool.


    Something rammed into his abdomen. Perelor gasped, eyes leaping back open. It was the butt of a lasertip ¨C the guard without the helmet had smashed it into Perelor¡¯s stomach.


    ¡°Hey! No Reaching!¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t Reaching,¡± Perelor spat. He hadn¡¯t been ¨C had he been Reaching, he would have started to glow. But, of course, the guard didn¡¯t know that. It had been a thousand years since the powers Perelor wielded had been commonplace, and myths, rumors, and downright untruths about memory burning abounded.


    The comment did, however, earn him another smack to the gut. Perelor wheezed, but hung his head, falling silent. His eyes drooped, but he kept them at least partially open. Blood continued to drip down his cheek.


    The gunfire was growing quieter. Perelor couldn¡¯t decide if that was good or not. On the one hand, it meant that the battle was close to over.


    On the other hand, it meant she had won. And that meant he had failed.


    You¡¯ve already failed, a part of him whispered. Remember those ash-filled eyes. He did, and a tear dropped down his face. He didn¡¯t think he would ever forget those eyes, staring upward. Accusing him.


    The guards watched Perelor closely for several minutes, then stepped back, conversing among themselves. Perelor was surprised at how casual the conversation was. These weren¡¯t evil men. They were just soldiers, doing their job.


    And they¡¯d killed his father in doing so.


    His eyelids slid down farther. Sleep would give relief. Better not to exist, than to exist in this Torment.


    ¡°Perelor.¡± That was Eliel¡¯s voice. It forced him from his stupor. Eliel. His sister.


    She was still alive. It felt surreal that she wasn¡¯t dead, and simultaneously, it still felt surreal that his father was dead. His memories were torn in two. His life before today, his life after today, they would likely never fully merge into one life in his mind.


    ¡°Perelor, we have to get out of here.¡±


    He was silent.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Perelor! You¡¯re¡­ better at this than I am. We have to try.¡±


    More silence. He should have said something. He didn¡¯t. The words simply wouldn¡¯t come out.


    ¡°Perelor, please.¡±


    Eliel¡¯s voice was desperate. It broke as she spoke.


    She¡¯s hurting, too, he thought. She lost him too.


    ¡°Alright. We can try.¡± He forced his eyes back open, trying to think. It wasn¡¯t easy, he¡¯d lost a lot of blood. The thoughts he did manage didn¡¯t amount to much.


    I need Ever. Wielding the First Power, even a little of it, would sharpen his mind. Perhaps enough to figure out a plan. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to connect to it, to the Everrealm. For a moment, it worked. Voices flooded his mind, thoughts of the guards, of Eliel, of those fighting and dying nearby.


    And then another voice. A voice he recognized, combined with the ring of boots striking metal. Fear overpowered him, and he lost his hold on the Power. He tensed involuntarily.


    ¡°Larsh,¡± he whispered.


    The footsteps continued, and a moment later, Perelor looked up to see her, Jadis Larsh, commander of the Talar forces, memory burner and murderer, sweeping her eyes over them. Her face was sharp and angular, and though her eyes had faded back to their normal violet, they still seemed to pierce Perelor. She nodded, then turned to the guards.


    ¡°My cruiser will be here shortly. Unbind them, and move them inside. Leave some room. I have other prisoners to accommodate.¡± She glanced at Perelor. ¡°You are conscious, I see. You¡¯re resilient. It will be a good trait, I think, when you are properly broken.¡±


    She didn¡¯t let him reply, instead striding forward until she reached the end of the landing platform ahead, where a troupe of other guards waited. She folded her arms, staring out over the city. Perelor had to arch his neck painfully to see her from where he was, but he did so anyway, staring hatefully at her back.


    She¡¯d caused all this. And she¡¯d cause more, if he didn¡¯t stop her.


    He turned back to Eliel, meeting her eyes, then nodding to the guards. She gave her own curt nod of understanding.


    When the Talar soldiers untied them to move them, that would be their best chance. Perelor could memory burn, and Eliel could at least try to. Then they could fight Larsh, kill her, take her cruiser, and escape. Perelor didn¡¯t know how to fly a ship, but it couldn¡¯t be too hard. He¡¯d figure it out.


    If you make it that far, he noted. The plan was desperate, and not well fleshed out. Furthermore, there was Larsh to worry about. She¡¯d likely kill them before they got the cuffs off. They¡¯d try it anyway.


    This is for you, father. For you, and the oath I swore today.


    He closed his eyes, readying himself to Reach again. He¡¯d have to keep doing so, even after the guard hit him. It wouldn¡¯t be easy, but it was possible. He¡¯d seen Yaenke do it.


    To his surprise, though, even as he relived the memories around him, no spear to the gut came. Instead, a trickle of Ever began rushing through his veins. He smiled, confidence increasing as his mind quickened. If he had Ever, he could make it.


    ¡°He¡¯s here.¡±


    Larsh¡¯s voice rang again in Perelor¡¯s mind. He shouldn¡¯t know it as well as he did ¨C she¡¯d hardly spoken to him as she¡¯d cut through the Ethean guards, then thrown him aside, then killed his father. Yet, he felt as if he knew that voice better than his own.


    And it terrified him.


    His eyes flashed open, and the Ever fled as he failed to relive the memories, caving to his moment of weakness. He froze, realizing Larsh was staring down at him, her eyes now glowing with crimson Void. With the power of death itself.


    ¡°You almost managed that,¡± she breathed. She turned to the guards. ¡°Beat him until he learns his lesson, though don¡¯t kill him.¡± She straightened. ¡°I have another prisoner to take. Stay at your stations, no matter what happens.¡± She shook her head. ¡°Perelor Krot and E¡¯vin Yaenke, all on the same day. A victory indeed.¡±


    She strode away, moving with the same graceful speed Perelor had seen her use when she¡¯d fought the Etheans earlier. As she faded from view, the two guards approached. The bearded guard slid his helmet back on.


    ¡°Now, kid,¡± he said, voice now metallic from the vocoder in his helm. Though it was designed to be intimidating, the way the man spoke, it almost felt¡­ weary. ¡°You get to know what it feels like to be Elekhai. Get used to pain. It¡¯ll be quite familiar soon.¡±


    The helmet lingered on Perelor for a long moment, expressionless. Then the guard reached for his belt, retrieving a slim, metal rod from it, pointed at the end. A shock rod. Perelor¡¯s eyes widened. Eliel shouted, but the soldier thrust the weapon forward. Electricity blazed through Perelor¡¯s body, and despite his loss of blood, despite his grief, despite the tiredness, he began to scream.


    ***


    The palace courtyard was a chaotic field of flames, metal, and corpses. Some of those corpses still walked, lasertips in hand, but they were corpses all the same; battles like these did not end with survivors. Fire gulped down once-green gardens, turning color to ash, cracking the metal of intricate bronze statues. Ethean soldiers, some in blue uniforms, others wearing the clothes they¡¯d slept in, fought against their Talar counterparts pouring through the gates. Though the palace shield had fallen, it seemed Larsh had no intention of destroying the building, at least not yet, for the enemy bombers had not descended upon it, and instead, a steady flow of purple-clad warriors pushed the Etheans back. Most of the fighting was hand-to-hand; both sides had Dispellers, making plasma guns useless. Though Yaenke could not see well in the dim light the flames provided, he felt his boot stick to patches of drying blood as he wove his way through dueling warriors, careful to avoid any packs of Talar.


    His destination, the west armory, was in the center of the courtyard. Though the outside was made to look like an obsidian wedge, it had been cracked by explosives, revealing its cement interior. Most of the inside had been looted; hooks sat empty, and equally empty supply packs lay on the ground.


    Yaenke had expected that. He leapt through a blasted-out hole in the wall, then moved to a specific rack on the east side of the building. Everything had been claimed, save for a few unused Adrellian shots. A body lay here, too, one eye staring lifelessly at the sky, the other stabbed out. Yaenke stepped over it, then pressed his hand to the cement underneath the rack. It was smooth and hard ¨C this wasn¡¯t cement, but a hidden patch of anthrenite. He Reached for Ever from his Surgeblade, then pushed that Ever into the stone.


    The anthrenite glowed, then ground against the nearby rocks as it slid away, revealing a hidden compartment beneath. Inside it lay two more Surges, these without a corresponding blade. One glowed white, the other red. Yaenke set aside his Surgeblade, tucking both of the other Surges into his pockets. One of them, the white Surge, would give him access to Purity, the Second Power. The other would give him access to Void, the corrupted Third Power. He could only use one of the Three Powers at any given time, but it didn¡¯t hurt to have options.


    He rose, snatching his Ever Surgeblade from the ground. He moved behind the obsidian wall, looking outward from a hole at the battle. He couldn¡¯t fight his way to the gates. Even if he succeeded, he¡¯d expose himself as a threat, and the chase would not cease until he was dead. The Talar likely defended the other exits, too.


    I¡¯ll escape through the Undercity, then. Thau it. The nearest entrance to that was back in his apartment, sealed by a similar anthrenite device to the one that had hidden his Surges here.


    For a moment, he hesitated, the screams of the dying Ethean men ringing in his ears. Their thoughts crowded his vision and hearing, desperate, hopeless.


    Could he really leave them? Could he really betray them, as he had the Governor?


    The secret, he reminded himself firmly. The secret so heinous he dared not even whisper it in his thoughts. He¡¯d killed the Governor to protect it. As terrible as it was, these men¡¯s deaths were a small price to pay to keep it hidden.


    By that same logic, you should be dead, too. Killed by your own hand, to protect the secret.


    Coward.


    He cringed, but pushed the thought back. He¡¯d fought that logic a thousand times, over several thousand years, and he knew how to defeat it. He ran back across the courtyard, ducking into a palace entrance nearby. He shut the door, then slid into a side passageway as a troupe of soldiers marched past. He did not want to hurt them, should they label him a traitor.


    He took an obscure stairway up to his apartment, though he still passed several servants, all desperately searching for an exit unblocked by the Talar. They would find none. When the Ethean line fell, the civilians here could only pray Larsh was kind enough to spare them.


    One of those servants, though, was a messenger. He wore a soldier¡¯s uniform, though his included green stripes, indicating his duty. He shouted, loud enough Yaenke could actually hear him over the din of battle and panic.


    ¡°Rion is dead! And his second! Command has been changed to General Vyrik!¡±


    Yaenke paused as the messenger passed. The man seemed too caught up in his job to realize that Yaenke, a Captain, was fleeing. But Rion¡­ dead¡­


    Perelor was supposed to be with him, Yaenke realized. And Eliel, too.


    He hated himself for doing it, but, instinctively, he closed his eyes, Reaching for memories. The Surge could not assist him in this, and he was forced to use his own powers. The powers of a memory burner. Powers that, if others knew about, would put him in even more danger.


    The Confederacy isn¡¯t here, he chided himself. But Larsh is. Don¡¯t be a coward. He Reached harder, mentally pulling with as much willpower as he could muster.


    His mind expanded even more than it had when using the Surgeblade. Ten times more. Hundreds of streams of thought shot through his memory, and though his faculties were heightened by the Ever in his flesh, he still felt overwhelmed.


    But, within that stream of thoughts, he detected the presence he¡¯d been looking for. A young boy¡¯s panicked cries, as he was beaten with a shock rod. Though Yaenke could not feel the pain of the beating, he saw the electricity leaping across the boy¡¯s skin, saw the blood seeping from burns that hadn¡¯t quite cauterized. Saw his sister, sitting beside him, crying.


    He stopped Reaching. His mind slowed. He drew in Ever from his Surgeblade, but it helped little.


    Did he protect the secret?


    Or did he save the Endowed, the very hero prophesied to destroy his terrible creation?


    He cursed. Then cursed again. Then slowed to a stop, making his decision.


    Thau it, but I¡¯ve come to like those children.


    He turned and ran toward the source of Perelor¡¯s thoughts.


    ***


    Agony. There was no other word to describe this but agony. Though Perelor was surprised at how little of that agony came from the burns.


    The guard hit him¡­ three times before ceasing? Four? Five? It could have been hundreds, for all Perelor could tell. His skin seemed to gasp as smoke rose from it, his legs twitching, aching, but too shocked to feel any pain.


    No, the real agony came from the reminder. The memory of his father¡¯s burned body, laying on the floor. Of eyes that were not eyes, just ash. Of a hand, skeletal, stained red and orange and black, reaching to grip Perelor¡¯s own. Words whispered in his mind, words from a ragged voice, one he loved more than anything.


    Keep your sister safe, son. Believe. I love you.


    Love didn¡¯t matter. His father was dead. Perelor was surprised at how quickly he accepted that. It felt like a toxin dagger stabbing into his chest, but he accepted it.


    He forced his one good eye open. Colors swam before him. He could hardly make out any shapes, but he was able to glance sideways and see a long, white blotch beside him.


    Eliel¡¯s hair. Eliel was still alive. That was all that had mattered to his father. It was all that mattered to him now.


    ¡°Should we beat the other one? The reports say she¡¯s a burner, too.¡±


    A long pause. Perelor tensed. Keep your sister safe, son.


    ¡°Nah,¡± the other guard said finally. ¡°The reports say she¡¯s not very good at it. If she tries anything, though, we¡¯ll do what we have to.¡±


    The guard¡¯s mask lingered on the two children for a moment, but then he backed away. ¡°Just a reminder for them,¡± Perelor heard him whisper. He sounded regretful, though Perelor couldn¡¯t quite tell through his thick Talar accent. ¡°Not like things will get any easier from here.¡±


    ¡°Are you alright?¡± Eliel¡¯s voice was high pitched. It was the voice she used when she was panicking, perhaps on the verge of a Soulcursed episode.


    Perelor was silent. Alright? How could he be alright? Father was dead. Ethea had fallen. And¡­


    And she¡¯s just trying to help.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± he gasped. He tried to keep the pain out of his voice. He failed. Eliel leaned forward. He still couldn¡¯t see well, though the blobs of color were starting to form back into shapes.


    ¡°You¡¯re not,¡± Eliel said softly. ¡°Voidlings.¡±


    She was angry. And afraid. And she just sat there, shivering. Were those tears on her face?


    It¡¯s going to be up to me to do this, Perelor realized. They still had to try to escape. And Eliel had never been good at memory burning, even if she had the ability. Drawing in a ragged breath, he Reached again.


    Then froze.


    ¡°Yaenke,¡± he whispered. He could feel the man¡¯s thoughts. He was close. And he was coming to rescue them.


    We might make it. For the first time in several hours, hours that had felt like days, Perelor felt hope leap in his chest. Memories flashed before his eyes, and a moment later, he was glowing with Ever.


    For a moment, the guards didn¡¯t notice. Then, suddenly, their masks swiveled toward him. They immediately stepped back in surprise.


    ¡°What? I thought they couldn¡¯t Reach without¡­¡±


    They didn¡¯t get any longer to protest. Though pain still pounded across Perelor¡¯s skin ¨C Ever couldn¡¯t heal physical wounds ¨C his mind was now sharper, faster. He burned a touch of Ever to release his hands from their cuffs, then threw them forward, burning more to send the two Talar flying backward. They tumbled over the edge of the landing pad, screaming as they fell.


    Perelor stood, then watched the empty ledge for a long moment, wondering if he should feel remorse. He¡¯d just killed two men. He hadn¡¯t killed anyone before today, though he¡¯d been trained to. Strangely, though, he didn¡¯t feel guilt. Not the slightest bit of it. Should he?


    Shaking his head, he turned toward his sister. He snapped his fingers, using a little more Ever, and her bands released. Her head tilted up toward him. His vision was mostly clear now, and he could see her eyes.


    There was hope in them. Awe. Even after everything that had happened today, she still thought they had a chance.


    He stretched out his hand, helping her to her feet, though he suspected she did most of the work, his muscles still quivering from the shock rod. Finally, he turned toward the landing pad, poking around the corner of the wall they¡¯d been chained to.


    They¡¯d been restrained in a place such that the other guards hadn¡¯t seen the incident, and apparently, the din of battle was loud enough they hadn¡¯t heard the screams, either. They stood all around the pad in trios, straight-backed, but didn¡¯t seem worried. Perelor let out a relieved breath. Eliel scooted behind him.


    ¡°What do we do now?¡±


    Perelor hesitated. Did they even try to fight that many guards? Perelor might manage it alone, with his memory burning, but Eliel would undoubtedly get shot if they found her. Furthermore, if they attracted attention here, they might not be able to escape in any of the ships on the pad; they¡¯d just get shot down.


    ¡°We wait,¡± Perelor said finally. ¡°Yaenke¡¯s coming. I felt him.¡±


    To his surprise, Eliel didn¡¯t protest. She just nodded. ¡°Alright. If you say so, I believe you. We¡¯ll get out of here with his help.¡± Her breathing was rushed, almost too fast. She was nervous, no matter what she pretended.


    Keep your sister safe, son.


    I¡¯ll try, father, Perelor thought. I¡¯ll try.


    ***


    As it turned out, the Talar forces had breached the palace. The North Gate¡¯s defenses had crumpled under enemy pressure. Some of the soldiers whispered that a memory burner had helped with that. Yaenke could only pray they were wrong, for there was only one person that could be.


    If it were true, though ¨C and it likely was, knowing Larsh ¨C Yaenke needed to move fast. He could feel Perelor¡¯s echoes still, though they were less tortured than before. He was on a landing pad nearby, one Yaenke recognized. He could get there easily by breaking a window and flying there with Ever. He had that Ever now, too, his Surge had recharged while he ran.


    He hesitated a moment. Was it worth risking himself for this? Worth risking everything for this?


    ¡°God Above curse me,¡± he muttered. He kicked the nearest window. The glass cracked, exploding outward into the night. Yaenke flung himself through the window without another thought.


    He hung, weightless, falling for a long second. Then he burned Ever, pushing his body upward. He had to be careful to distribute the force equally throughout his feet. If he pushed too hard in one spot, he¡¯d end up crushing his limbs. Even with the force equalized, flying was hard. You had to be very precise with how much Ever you burned; too much and you¡¯d shoot upward too far, too little and you¡¯d fall.


    Fortunately, Yaenke had plenty of practice. He raced toward the pad, weaving between plasma bolts fired by soldiers below. Some of those bolts had been fired by Etheans ¨C it was rare indeed to see a Surgewielder fly, and, with his body glowing, most of his allies probably didn¡¯t recognize him. He dodged the blasts easily, though, whether they came from friend or foe.


    It was only a few moments before he arrived at the landing pad. He couldn¡¯t see Perelor just yet, though there were dozens of Talar guards scattered among small cruisers and fighters. They yelped as they saw Yaenke descending upon them, shouting orders in their native tongue rather than their usual Common. Yaenke spotted at least two Surgeblade wielders among them. Those two immediately lit up with blue Ever, pushing themselves into the sky to meet Yaenke.


    They didn¡¯t stand a chance. Both were glowing brighter than him, but he had the benefit of experience. Millennia of experience. He dodged a blast of flames from one, then beheaded the other with a flick of his sword. The remaining soldier¡¯s eyes widened. Clearly, though he was trained, he hadn¡¯t seen battle before. His shock kept him paralyzed until Yaenke ran him through the chest. Their bodies immediately stopped glowing, then fell to the ground below. Yaenke burned Ever to throw their Surges aside; you could only effectively wield one Surge at a time, even if they were Surges of the same Power. Then, he landed himself, burning the rest of his Ever to send a shockwave pulsing outward. The ships rattled, and soldiers went flying.


    Yaenke hesitated. He could kill most of these soldiers himself, between his training and the extreme advantage his Surge gave him. But if he attracted too much attention, he¡¯d be pursued, and eventually killed. Or, worse, captured and interrogated.


    He cursed. He shouldn¡¯t have done this. Not for Perelor, not for anyone. But he was already here. He might as well find the kid.


    To his surprise, the kid found him first. Perelor darted out from behind a crate, dragging his sister behind him. Both of them were bloodied, though Perelor seemed more significantly wounded. Burns covered the teen boy¡¯s skin, and his normally white hair was stained by dark, dried blood. He was, however, glowing with Ever. Perelor was a memory burner, someone able to use Ever without a Surge, and use far more of it than any Surgewielder could dream of. Eliel, his older sister, was technically a memory burner, too, though she wasn¡¯t very good at actually using her powers.


    ¡°You came,¡± Perelor wheezed. ¡°I thought maybe I was hallucinating.¡±


    Eliel frowned. ¡°You said you were sure.¡±


    Perelor shrugged apologetically, eyes darting to the Talar soldiers, who were regrouping. ¡°I may have embellished the truth a bit. Do you have a sword, Captain?¡±


    Yaenke hesitated. Perelor shouldn¡¯t be fighting. He was fourteen. His sister was sixteen. He could see the pain in their eyes, could feel Eliel¡¯s thoughts. They¡¯d been there, when their father had died.


    But then, having a memory burner on their side dramatically increased their chances. ¡°I don¡¯t have a sword,¡± he said finally. ¡°You¡¯ll have to use Ever.¡± He fell into stance as a pack of Talar approached, swords in their hands. ¡°I¡¯ll deal with the melee fighters. You keep their ranged men off of us.¡±


    Perelor nodded, his expression grim. ¡°Got it.¡± He closed his eyes, and a moment later, his skin glowed a bright blue ¨C far brighter than Yaenke¡¯s did, enough it was hard to look at him. A moment later, the Talar attacked.


    It was a massacre. Yaenke lunged to intercept the sword-wielding Talar, burning trace amounts of Ever to throw their swings off base, then slashing through their chests with impunity. Blood sprayed across the cement ground, and onto Yaenke¡¯s robes. Behind him, Perelor sent bolts of lightning flying into Talar gunmen. Within less than a minute, the entire enemy force was annihilated, mostly due to Perelor.


    You taught him well, a part of Yaenke whispered. And for a moment, he was proud.


    Then he saw the corpses on the ground, and remembered. He shivered, then dashed over to the two teens, grabbing Perelor¡¯s arm.


    ¡°We need to move. Before the Talar seal off access to the Undercity.¡±


    Perelor frowned. ¡°We could use these ships.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯d be shot down.¡±


    ¡°If we use a Talar one, we might be able to slip through the siege. Escape.¡±


    ¡°No. We have to retreat. Wait it out.¡±


    ¡°But¡­¡±


    ¡°Your friend is right.¡±


    Yaenke tensed. The voice was not Perelor¡¯s voice, nor Eliel¡¯s. Nor that of any Ethean. That was the voice of Jadis Larsh. Perelor, too, seemed to recognize it, for he stepped back, gasping. Eliel stood silent, eyes widening.


    Slowly, Yaenke turned, heart pounding. Sure enough, there she stood, robes billowing in the night wind, face barely illuminated by the dim lights focused on the pad. She had regal features: thin eyes, a sharp nose, and soft lips, highlighted with red makeup. Though she had killed many today, her purple clothes had no blood upon them. She was glowing a deep red ¨C her skin was Infused with Void, the Third Power. The Power that had been corrupted. She smiled as she met Yaenke¡¯s gaze.


    ¡°I should have known you¡¯d come for him, E¡¯vin. I expected you would be smarter than that, but you¡¯ve never been a practical man.¡± Her smile fell. ¡°Though the world would be a far better place if you realized how dangerous your existence really is.¡±


    Yaenke fell into stance, though he was shaking. Endowed, he was shaking.


    Suddenly, Perelor ran forward, screaming, unleashing a hail of lightning toward Larsh. The lightning, however, deflected away from her, striking the ground nearby, making the concrete sizzle. As Perelor ran, a tendril of red light flew from Larsh¡¯s hand, like a living, crimson snake. It lashed around Perelor¡¯s left leg, then snapped to the side, throwing him to the ground. He rolled, groaning. While he was down, a second tendril exploded from Larsh¡¯s other hand, smashing into Perelor¡¯s head. He fell still.


    Eliel sobbed, running toward her brother. His chest was still rising and falling, but she probably couldn¡¯t tell that. Larsh didn¡¯t stop her. Instead, she stepped toward Yaenke, tendrils still expanding from her hands.


    ¡°You don¡¯t have to do this,¡± Yaenke whispered. ¡°There are other ways of fighting, Jaela.¡±


    She snorted. ¡°That name no longer means anything.¡± Her mouth opened in a smile again. A crazed, uncontrolled smile. ¡°Besides, you¡¯re afraid. You think you can¡¯t win this fight.¡± She seemed to be almost talking to herself, her voice barely audible to Yaenke. ¡°You¡¯re wrong, of course. About a great many things. But when have you ever been logical?¡±


    She¡¯s trying to decide if she wants to fight me, Yaenke realized. Trying to decide if I¡¯ll use the secret.


    He hesitated. He could use the secret. Could end all of this, if he wanted to. With his heart beating fast in his chest, he genuinely considered it.


    But no. In the end, the cost was still too high. In the end, he was still a coward.


    However, Larsh was distracted.


    Pulling in the Ever his Surge had produced while Larsh talked, Yaenke attacked. He threw all of it into a single blast of plasma; though Larsh would probably avoid it, it would divert her further. As he¡¯d predicted, she twisted aside, but as she did, he ran forward, swinging his sword at her chest.


    The tendrils writhed inward. Though they appeared to be made of light, they acted more like a fluid form of steel, blocking Yaenke¡¯s attacks. They weren¡¯t nearly as fast as he ¨C Yaenke was a master swordsman ¨C but there were two of them and one of him, and he couldn¡¯t manage to get a hit in. Within a few seconds, one of them slipped through his defenses, knocking his feet out from under him. He cursed as his knees hit the cement, then yelped as the second tendril struck his head, throwing him in a roll across the ground.


    His vision swam. Desperately, he reached into his pocket, trying to grab one of his other Surges, the ones he¡¯d retrieved from the armory. Before he could, the two tendrils slammed into his arms, pinning them to the ground. He could barely crane his neck enough to see Larsh stalking toward him. Her smile was gone, replaced by pursed lips and grim eyes.


    ¡°Aezer said you would put up more of a fight. Apparently, he was wrong. It¡¯s very rare he¡¯s wrong.¡±


    ¡°Voidlings are wrong about many things,¡± Yaenke hissed.


    ¡°On that, we agree,¡± Larsh said. She stepped onto Yaenke¡¯s stomach, then released the tendrils. She then extended her right hand, and a blade formed in it. A red blade, made of pure light, the way the tendrils had been. Yaenke¡¯s eyes widened. Larsh snorted.


    ¡°I¡¯m not going to kill you. The information you have is too valuable.¡± She leaned in close, her breath against his ear. ¡°But know this, last of the Erak¡¯sai. I will make you wish you were dead. By the time I am done, you will beg for Torment. And I will count it all pleasure, for after the harm you have brought to the galaxy, you deserve far, far worse.¡±


    Fear spiked in Yaenke¡¯s chest. He could see the hatred in her eyes. Hatred he¡¯d only seen in one other person. She meant what she said.


    The secret, part of him whispered. Use it. Better she die, than she know.


    He considered, again, for one treasonous moment. Then he closed his eyes.


    I deserve this, he thought.


    Something cold struck his flesh. Everything went black, and the nightmares began again.


    ***


    Captain Yaenke¡¯s head lulled back, and Eliel Krot¡¯s last flicker of hope faded. She clung to her unconscious brother¡¯s hand, crying. Knowing, deep down, that this was all her fault. She should never have shown Dad her scar. What was she thinking, claiming to be the Endowed? As if she, of all people, could defeat the Void.


    Larsh stood up, though her eyes lingered on Yaenke for a long time. Part of Eliel wanted to run. She¡¯d be caught, maybe even killed, but a blaster bolt to the back would be merciful at this point.


    She didn¡¯t, though. She just kept clinging to her brother¡¯s hand. Perhaps he could stop Larsh. He¡¯d always been better at this than her.


    Finally, Larsh turned toward Eliel. She looked at Eliel for only a moment, though, before her gaze went down to Perelor. Her expression was unreadable as she stepped toward him, lightly shoving Eliel aside. Eliel did not resist. She just backed away. Whimpering, like a veirehound pup.


    Larsh rolled Perelor over with her foot, revealing his face. His nose had been crushed by the cement, and even more cuts and bruises ran across his skin. That skin was growing pale.


    Larsh raised her hand. A tendril leapt from it, snatching something from Yaenke¡¯s pocket, then retreating backward to drop it in Larsh¡¯s hand. It was a small white jewel, a Purity Surge. She pressed it against Perelor¡¯s chest.


    Instantly, Perelor¡¯s wounds sealed. Burns turned back into skin. Dried blood melted, then fell away. Flesh knit itself back together. Within moments, Perelor looked just as he had before the invasion. A fourteen year old boy, laying peacefully asleep.


    Except for one thing. His eye, the one that had been cut earlier. It was no longer bleeding, but a rune had been burnt into the iris. Eliel could not read Talar, but she recognized that rune.


    Elekhai, it read.


    Slave.


    Larsh¡¯s eyes lingered on Perelor a moment longer. Then she turned back to Eliel.


    ¡°Rion said you were the Endowed,¡± she murmured.


    Eliel said nothing. She just trembled. Was this the part where Larsh finally killed her? Where she was defeated, just as every other person who claimed to be the Endowed had been? Her neck burned, as if expecting Larsh to lash out and snap it.


    To her surprise, no death came. Larsh just snorted.


    ¡°For your sake, child, I hope he was wrong. But if he was not, I ask you to save us.¡± Her eyes moved to the sky, watching the battle above. ¡°I wish, sometimes, that I could believe. In the end, though, hoping is foolish. That prophecy has never amounted to anything more than broken promises.¡±


    She was silent for a long time, staring up at the starry, smoky blackness. Long enough Eliel knew she should have run.


    She didn¡¯t. She waited until Talar soldiers rushed onto the pad, binding her, her brother, and Yaenke in electric chains. She sat quietly as all three of them were branded by a green-robed man with a Purity Surge. She didn¡¯t even weep as they were shipped away on a cruiser, away from Ethea and everything she¡¯d ever known.


    Her father had believed in her. He¡¯d thought she was the Endowed, the mythical hero prophesied to destroy the Void, take back the afterlife, and end all suffering. He was dead now. She couldn¡¯t help but wonder if his spirit was watching her, disappointed.

 Prologue 3 - Open Wounds

    8 Years Later...


    They shall be born with a scar already on their skin, and it shall mark them as the Endowed, chosen by the Powers.


    -Excerpt from The Book of Eternity


    Keep your sister safe, son.


    The oath Perelor had sworn that day was all he could think of as he twisted the lasertip in his hands, unsure how best to grip the weapon. It was spear-like, a long staff with a blade at the top. Part of the blade had been cut open to make room for a blaster; this weapon was designed for common infantry, and was a mix between a ranged weapon and a melee weapon. The trigger for the gun was in the middle of the staff, where Perelor¡¯s hand rested now. He had to be extra careful not to hit it by accident.


    He¡¯d hoped his skill with the sword would translate more easily to this, but it hadn¡¯t. His former style of fighting had involved a lot of parrying, and lasertips were downright terrible at that. The weapon was far better at stabbing than slashing, too ¡ª the exact opposite of a sword. The differences were irritating him. He needed to be good at this. His ability to protect his sister, and keep his word, depended on his ability to fight.


    But, this was his weapon now. Larsh had refused to give him a sword, and frankly, he wasn¡¯t sure if he deserved one anymore. So he worked with what he had.


    Unfortunately, he hadn¡¯t been given a teacher, either, not until recently. Few of the slaves here in the Talar camps were even allowed a weapon, and fewer still were willing to practice. So far, Crelang Deonto was the only one he¡¯d found who would spar with him for longer than a few minutes. A tall, pasty man with long black hair, Crelang stood before him now. He was a few years Perelor¡¯s senior, and more muscular, too ¡ª he was a former Herreon soldier, and he¡¯d stayed fit during his years of captivity. There was something off about him today, and Perelor couldn¡¯t figure out what. Right now, though, they stood in a gravel pit set at the bottom of a bumpy slope. It wasn¡¯t designed for sparring, it was just a spot where nothing had yet been built, but it was what they had.


    ¡°You¡¯re going to want to adjust your stance,¡± Crelang said. ¡°Remember, you¡¯re not supposed to focus on defense here. Offense is your best defense with a lasertip.¡± He frowned. ¡°And you¡¯re going to want to stop twisting that handle. It¡¯s a waste of energy.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡± Perelor forced himself to stop. It was difficult, it was more of an anxious tick than a conscious movement. He fell into a more offensive stance, feet forward, the lasertip¡¯s blade pointed directly at Crelang¡¯s chest. ¡°Like that?¡±


    ¡°Close.¡± Crelang stepped forward, prodding Perelor¡¯s limbs to adjust his position just slightly. ¡°There. Like that.¡± Suddenly, he swept his weapon forward, smacking Perelor¡¯s legs and forcing him off balance. Perelor stumbled for a moment but then fell back into the same stance. Crelang squinted, staring him down with a critical eye, then smiled.


    ¡°You got it first try. Good. You¡¯re learning quickly.¡±


    ¡°I have an excellent teacher,¡± Perelor said.


    Crelang¡¯s grin widened. ¡°You¡¯re searing right you do.¡± He fell into stance himself, then began circling Perelor. ¡°Is your blade dulled?¡±


    Perelor nodded, briefly raising his lasertip to show the rubber coating the blade. They¡¯d had to steal that rubber. Crelang had seemed a little too eager when they¡¯d done that.


    ¡°Good. We begin.¡±


    He lunged forward. Perelor parried. The metal staves clanged as they struck one another.


    Most people thought melee fights lasted a long time. If both fighters were skilled, they sometimes did. But, more often, they were over in an instant. The less experienced warrior made a single mistake, and their more experienced counterpart took advantage of it, ending the duel immediately.


    That was exactly what happened here. Perelor was too slow on a riposte, and Crelang batted his weapon aside, then shoved the rubber-covered tip of his own weapon into Perelor¡¯s chest. Perelor stumbled back, gasping. Crelang kicked him, knocking Perelor down. Perelor raised his hand in surrender.


    ¡°The kick wasn¡¯t necessary,¡± he wheezed. ¡°In an actual fight, I would¡¯ve been dead from your first blow.¡±


    ¡°In an actual fight, you¡¯d try to kill me, even after I stabbed you. You wouldn¡¯t do a very good job, but I¡¯d still need to get you out of the way.¡± He smirked. ¡°Plus, in an actual fight, you¡¯ll be dealing with pain. You need to get used to that.¡±


    Perelor snorted. ¡°I know how to deal with pain.¡±


    ¡°Maybe. Most soldiers seem to think they can, but I¡¯ve found few truly do. You need to have been through Torment itself to stay calm when you¡¯ve been stabbed.¡± His eyes grew distant for a moment.


    You¡¯d be surprised what I¡¯ve been through, Perelor thought bitterly. But he said nothing. Crelang was just doing his best to train him. If that meant a kick to the stomach, Perelor would deal with it. He was about to be assigned to the slave squadrons, and he had to survive. Eliel depended on it.


    Crelang stepped back, preparing for another bout. Perelor stood, catching his breath. Crelang raised an eyebrow.


    ¡°Tired? Really?¡±


    Perelor sighed. ¡°We¡¯ve been going for three hours. Yes, I¡¯m tired.¡±


    Crelang smiled. ¡°I¡¯m just teasing. For now. You¡¯ll need to improve your stamina.¡±


    ¡°Of course I will.¡± Perelor rolled his eyes.


    ¡°You¡¯ll need to work on your sass, too,¡± Crelang said slyly. ¡°If you get good enough at it, you can kill the enemy with sheer sarcasm.¡± His face grew grim. ¡°Again.¡±


    His muscles protested the movement, but Perelor fell into stance, keeping a careful eye on Crelang. Though he insisted otherwise, Crelang was incredible with his lasertip. And he knew how to teach the art, too. Though he hadn¡¯t given many details about his past, Perelor suspected he¡¯d been a high-ranking military man before he¡¯d ended up here. He¡¯d won every duel he¡¯d fought with ease, and had survived several raids with the Talar slave squadrons himself.


    Perelor would figure out how to beat Crelang, though. He had to be at least as competent with this weapon as he had been with the sword.


    For all the good it did you that day, a part of him whispered. The voice was loud, and his guard fell for a moment. Crelang stepped forward, stabbing at Perelor¡¯s stomach. Perelor batted the blow away, but awkwardly, leaving him open. He winced, waiting for Crelang to strike the finishing blow. Another bout lost¡­


    Alarm bells rang.


    Immediately, both Crelang and Perelor stepped away from each other, exchanging worried glances. The alarm didn¡¯t always mean the Artensians were coming, but when it did¡­


    Perelor shivered, looking to the sky. Nothing. He let himself relax a little, then even more when a messenger came running by. ¡°Whipping at the North Square!¡±


    Beside Perelor, Crelang, too, let his shoulders slump. Slowly a smile crossed his face.


    ¡°They won¡¯t take attendance, you know.¡±


    Perelor nodded. They wouldn¡¯t; there were too many slaves to do that. They¡¯d send guards patrolling through camp, but those weren¡¯t hard to avoid. Times like these were usually when Perelor and Crelang would practice memory burning together. It was even rarer ¡ª and even more important ¡ª than sparring time; Crelang was the only other competent memory burner Perelor had ever encountered. At least, the only one who would admit to their powers.


    ¡°I know.¡± He hesitated. ¡°Let me get Eliel first.¡±


    Crelang frowned. ¡°Perelor, as much as I love your sister¡­ she¡¯s not exactly good at the whole burning thing. Besides, what if she has an episode?¡±


    That¡¯s exactly why I have to be near her, Perelor thought. Beside him, Crelang nodded in understanding. Perelor chided himself. He wasn¡¯t Infused with any Ever. Because of that, other memory burners, including Crelang, could read his thoughts. That wasn¡¯t a problem right now, but if Larsh or one of the other memory burners she employed came near, they¡¯d be exposed.


    ¡°I see,¡± Crelang said. ¡°Well, get her quickly. They like making a show of it, but they won¡¯t take too long. Got to keep us working.¡± He said the last part bitterly.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be quick,¡± Perelor said. He Reached, burning nearby thoughts to infuse himself with Ever, not much of it, but enough to keep his mind shielded. ¡°Don¡¯t do anything stupid while I¡¯m gone.¡±


    ¡°No promises,¡± Crelang said. ¡°At least, not by your definition of stupid.¡± He grinned again. He did that a lot. Perelor wasn¡¯t sure how he managed it, in a place like this.


    Knowing him, though, that promise was the best Perelor was going to get. Perelor jogged away, off of the gravel and into the dirt-covered streets of the slave camp.


    The camp wasn¡¯t exactly what Perelor had envisioned when he¡¯d first heard of the Talar slave system, back on Ethea. It was hygienic; each Elekhai had enough space to avoid the spread of infection, and there was running water and comfortable enough cots in each of the cement huts. There were restrooms and baths, too, though slaves didn¡¯t wash quite as regularly as Perelor had when he was free.


    No, the conditions weren¡¯t awful. What was awful was the feeling of the place. Everything was perfectly utilitarian. The clothes were all the same, purple and gray uniforms, with occasional variations in the collars and embroideries depending on the slave¡¯s profession. Decorations were not allowed. Each cement hut had the same dimensions, same layout, regardless of who lived there. Even the way the slaves groomed themselves was regulated. The overall message was clear: you are not a person, you are an object. A tool. Outlive your usefulness, and we will throw you away.


    It was wrong. Horrifyingly wrong. The downcast faces of those Perelor passed tugged at his heartstrings. Tugged at his honor. A part of him wanted to light up with Ever right now, and burn as many of the guards as he could to cinders.


    But, of course, that would accomplish nothing. Memory burners were powerful, but they weren¡¯t gods. He¡¯d just get himself killed. There was nothing he could do.


    That was what he hated most.


    Weaving his way through the crowd, which was making its way toward the North Square, Perelor arrived at his cement hut in just a few minutes. Inside, there were four cots ¨C one for Perelor, one for Eliel, and two for the other slaves that had been assigned to this building. Perelor knew little about them, he¡¯d never been able to get them talking. Currently, one was lying on his cot, coughing up a storm. The man was getting old. Perelor worried the guards would dispose of him soon; in their eyes, he was just a waste of food. When they tried that, Perelor¡¯s honor would demand he interfere.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    He didn¡¯t have time to fret about that now, though. Because Eliel wasn¡¯t here.


    Panic rose in Perelor¡¯s chest, though he quickly forced it down. She was probably just at the North Square, watching with everyone else. It would be difficult to find her, but with his memory sense, it wouldn¡¯t be impossible.


    He dashed back into the crowd, which grew thicker as he made his way toward the Square. He had to squeeze and shove to get near the front. He froze when someone he pushed fell over, but another slave quickly helped them back up, and he forced himself to continue onward.


    It was loud here, loud enough Perelor doubted Eliel could hear him, but he shouted her name anyway. As he did, he focused on the thoughts of those around him. It wasn¡¯t easy, with so many active minds nearby, but he could pick out a few voices that sounded almost like her. A young girl, near the back of the crowd, clutching a doll¡­ no, that wasn¡¯t it. A woman, who stared down at her feet, lifted her wrinkling hands¡­ no, Eliel wasn¡¯t that old.


    He focused on the last potential voice, then froze. That was Eliel. He knew the pulse of her thoughts as distinctively as he knew her face. And she was being held by a Talar guard, blood dripping down her cheeks, blood that mixed with tears and sweat.


    Perelor screamed. The sound drew curious eyes, but he did not care, and he couldn¡¯t have contained it if he tried. Growling, he pushed his way through the crowd, shoving, elbowing, doing everything he could to make his way to Eliel. Eventually, people parted for him, and he burst out of the crowd, finding himself in the center of the North Square.


    It wasn¡¯t a beautiful place, not at all like Squares in the cities of Ethea ¨C it was just a large cement pad where slaves would gather to witness an event, usually a punishment. In the center, a small stone cube rose above the rest of the structure, just large enough for a dozen or so men to stand on it.


    Right now, that cube was surrounded by Talar soldiers. On top of it, a man in gleaming insect-like armor held a long, segmented metal whip. It crackled and popped, electricity flowing freely through its center. Beside that man, two more Talar soldiers held a prisoner.


    Eliel.


    As he¡¯d seen with his memory sense, she was already caked in blood. A long gash ran across her forehead, not deep enough to strike bone, but deep enough that she was growing pale. Her eyes turned to Perelor as he exited the crowd. They were wide. She wasn¡¯t even shaking; she¡¯d frozen up, as she often did in situations like this.


    Keep your sister safe, son.


    Perelor snarled, stepping toward the guards surrounding the platform. They leveled their blasters at him. Perelor hesitated.


    ¡°No closer!¡± one of them yelled. ¡°Back away, or we shoot.¡±


    For a moment, Perelor stood still, debating if he should advance anyway. Then one of the soldiers fired a warning shot into the ground. The shriek forced Perelor to his senses, and he stumbled back, raising his hands in surrender ¨C for now.


    They won¡¯t hurt her. They can¡¯t. I won¡¯t let them.


    His eyes drifted toward the whip, and suddenly, he wasn¡¯t so sure. Dread crept up his spine. He wouldn¡¯t lose her. He couldn¡¯t.


    She was all he had left.


    Someone handed the whip master a vocoder, which he placed near his mouth. He spoke, and his voice echoed across the entire Square.


    ¡°Those of you who worked in the mines know well why we are gathered here today.¡±


    There had been gossip before, but now the slaves fell silent. One of them, near Perelor, looked down at his feet. He was wearing a miner¡¯s uniform.


    Maybe he knows what happened.


    The whipmaster gestured toward Eliel. ¡°This Elek thought it wise to try and stall our war effort. She collapsed a vein of ethium, on purpose. Two men died, both of them Elekhai themselves, though she did not seem to care.¡±


    This drew a couple of shouts of outrage from the crowd. One of those cries Perelor could distinctly make out: hang her.


    No! I won¡¯t let you. He almost stepped forward again, but then his eyes fixed on the guards again. Two of them still had their blasters aimed at his chest. If he tried anything ¨C even Reaching for Ever ¨C he¡¯d be shot.


    ¡°I just wanted to help,¡± Eliel mumbled. ¡°I didn¡¯t think I would end up¡­¡±


    ¡°She has been sentenced to two dozen lashings,¡± the whipmaster continued, ignoring her. ¡°To be administered immediately.¡±


    The guards holding Eliel suddenly threw her to the ground, then forced her back onto her knees. She yelped, eyes staring pleadingly at Perelor. The whipmaster stepped behind her, raising his weapon.


    ¡°One.¡±


    He swung downward. The whip sizzled as it struck Eliel¡¯s flesh, electricity burning her cracked skin. She shrieked. Blood flowed freely down her back. Perelor knew instantly from that one blow that two dozen of these lashings would kill her.


    The whipmaster cocked his whip back again. ¡°Two.¡±


    ¡°No!¡± Perelor yelled. ¡°Stop! Stop!¡± He was surprised at the forcefulness of his voice. He stepped forward, hands in the air, an idea forming in his mind. The guards did not shoot, though their hands tightened on their blasters. ¡°Stop.¡±


    The whipmaster¡¯s head immediately turned to Perelor. He snorted.


    ¡°You really think it wise to interrupt me, boy? I will kill you, too.¡±


    Perelor didn¡¯t flinch. Instead, he looked up, meeting the whipmaster¡¯s helm-covered gaze. ¡°I take the whippings,¡± he said. ¡°All two dozen lashings. I take all of them.¡±


    The whipmaster was silent for a long moment. Then he let out a static-filled chuckle. ¡°You invoke the tradition of atonement?¡±


    ¡°I do,¡± Perelor said. It was a Talar thing, and he knew little of it, but he¡¯d seen people use it a few times before. In theory, you could take someone else¡¯s punishment for them.


    In theory. Perelor had learned from experience that, though tradition ran strong here, Talar cruelty was not something to be underestimated.


    The whipmaster motioned to the guards standing beside Eliel. He took off his vocoder, and they stepped away, talking for a moment. Perelor remained standing in the center of the square, hands above his head, the other Talar soldiers still pointing their blasters at his chest. His heart pounded. Would they just kill him, and then whip Eliel anyway? Had he just doomed them both?


    It took several minutes, but finally, the conversation ended, and the whipmaster stuck his vocoder back on.


    ¡°In an intriguing turn of fate,¡± the whipmaster said, ¡°this young Elek has invoked the right of atonement. He shall intercede between death and the girl, as the Endowed shall intercede between Oblivion and mankind. We will lash him until he either dies, or takes her punishment in full.¡± The whipmaster¡¯s head turned down to Perelor. ¡°Should he die, however, the girl will receive the remaining lashes. Justice does not see the hand that pays it, but it will be paid.¡± He paused. ¡°Unless you wish to back down?¡±


    Perelor¡¯s stomach sank. He¡¯d seen beatings like this before. Usually, the victim died at around ten strokes. He might be able to survive a little longer than that, but even if he survived fifteen, that still meant another eight for Eliel. That still might be enough to kill her ¨C she wasn¡¯t exactly healthy, these days, with the lack of treatment for her Soulcurse.


    But then, it was her only chance. Their only chance. He raised his voice.


    ¡°I accept.¡±


    The whipmaster nodded. ¡°So be it.¡± He waved his hand, and the guards who had pointed blasters at Perelor strode toward him. One slammed the butt of his gun into Perelor¡¯s stomach, and he doubled over. The soldiers each grabbed one of his arms, dragging him to the cement platform, then lifting him atop it. In the corner of his vision, he could see another set of guards dragging Eliel away. She looked a little less pale now, though her eyes were glazed over with shock.


    I¡¯m sorry, he thought. I should have stopped this earlier. He met her eyes. This might be the last time he saw her, he realized. Twenty-four lashings was a death sentence, and he¡¯d just taken it.


    Strange, how little he cared about his death, even in the face of it.


    The Talar wasted no time. The guards kicked Perelor to his knees, then stepped back. Without hesitation, the whip master snapped his arm downward, and the electric, metal chain struck Perelor¡¯s back.


    The blow came with such force, he nearly fell on his face. He felt his flesh burn and smoke, and blood dripped down his spine. He gasped as the pain hit him, an explosion of agony lashing across his skin.


    ¡°Two!¡± the whipmaster yelled.


    The whip came down again. Again flesh burned. The pain intensified.


    ¡°Three!¡±


    The whip came down again. And again, and again, and again. Pain became a blur. Black spots danced across Perelor¡¯s eyes. The voice of the whipmaster became distant. He didn¡¯t know how far he¡¯d made it anymore. Six? Ten? His clothes were wet with sticky redness. His thoughts felt disconnected, as if this were happening to someone else. Was this how it really felt to die? Just an increasing numbness, until finally you descended into Torment?


    For a moment, fear gripped him, and he debated rising, and letting Eliel take this burden. Then he remembered his father¡¯s charred eye sockets, and he let out a growl. Those thoughts were traitorous. Dishonorable. He steeled himself.


    But he was not made of steel. And the whip kept coming down. Hit after hit, cut after cut, he felt himself fading. He could have sworn he saw fiery red lines of light, writhing around him, spirits that signaled what was to come.


    Then the whip stopped.


    ¡°Twenty-four.¡± The whipmaster¡¯s voice was not so excited anymore. Now he sounded as shocked as Perelor felt.


    Perelor closed his eyes, bracing himself for another strike. He was delusional, wasn¡¯t he? He had to be. No one survived two dozen lashings.


    Nothing hit him, though. Instead, a guard rolled him over. Perelor¡¯s body ached as it moved, though that added very little pain compared to the agony that spread across his back. Another soldier hoisted him to his feet. He trembled on weak legs, then fell. The guard yanked him back up, and this time, he kept his footing, though his vision still swam. He could hear people talking. They sounded so distant, though he knew they weren¡¯t. One set of voices was the whipmaster, talking with Traegus Yral, the local noble. When had he arrived? The other, though, was his sister. She was crying.


    ¡°No, no, no, no. I¡¯m sorry, Perelor. I¡¯m so, so sorry. This is all my fault¡­¡±


    Briefly, he saw someone moving toward him, though a flash of purple indicated a guard pushing that someone back. Perelor stumbled forward, barely catching himself. He felt so weak. He almost reflexively pulled in Ever; at least then his mind would still function.


    Finally, a hand shoved Perelor forward, hard. He flew off the whipping platform, crashing to the cement below. The skin on his face tore as he hit, opening up gashes in his cheeks, though he hardly cared.


    ¡°The boy has taken the girl¡¯s punishment,¡± a voice declared. Shal Yral¡¯s voice, rather than the whipmaster¡¯s. ¡°His fate will be determined by the Endowed now. The girl is free.¡± The way he said that last sentence implied something different: she is free ¡ª for now.


    Groaning, Perelor rolled onto his left side, the place that hurt the least to lean on. Vision gradually clearing, he watched as the crowd dispersed, moving silently back to their daily tasks. In the background, he heard his sister sobbing, protesting as guards held her back. Finally, he heard Traegus interfere, letting her pass.


    ¡°Perelor! I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m so sorry, I never wanted this.¡± She kept repeating that as she rushed toward him, falling to her knees. Tears streamed down her face, tears that were mixing with sweat and blood. She¡¯d lost plenty of it. She needed medical attention.


    So do you, a piece of him whispered. Lay down. Wait for Crelang.


    But his father¡¯s charred eye sockets disagreed. It took all his strength to stand, but he stood, extending out his beaten hands to steady himself.


    ¡°We need¡­ to get you¡­¡± His voice was a rasp. He collapsed.


    Eliel caught him, then swung his arm over her shoulder. Limbs exhausted, mind numb, Perelor had no choice but to let her walk him back through the camp, then lay him down on the cot.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to get Crelang,¡± she said. ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry, Perelor. I just wanted to save the trapped miners, I never thought it would collapse.¡± She shook her head. ¡°Focus, Eliel. Hang on, I¡¯ll get Crelang.¡± She left.


    Perelor cocked back his head, staring at the gray cement ceiling. It was strange, his mind was so foggy, yet so clear all the same. He understood little, yet he understood what was important.


    Keep your sister safe, son.


    ¡°Okron,¡± he whispered. He rarely addressed the Goddess anymore, but he did today. ¡°Please don¡¯t let me lose her. She¡¯s all I have left. Please don¡¯t let me lose her. She¡¯s all I have left. Please don¡¯t let me¡­¡±


    He repeated that prayer, over and over, nearly delusional from blood loss, until finally, his body gave in to unconsciousness.


    Just a year later, that prayer would go unanswered.

 Part 1 - Of Darkness And Doubt

    There shall come a day when they are born, stronger than all before them,


    Endowed by the Powers themselves.


    They shall rule the throne of death, and all shall bow to their scepter.Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Their enemies shall crumble before them.


    Nations shall they raise up, nations shall they destroy, all according to the will of the Powers.


    They shall unite the Three Powers in glory,


    And end all suffering.


    -The Prophecy of Ever, as written in the Book of Eternity of the Church of Meridian

 Chapter 1 - The One Who Cannot See

    6 Years Later...


    Hope conquers fear.


    -The Rift Code, Line 2


    The Talar slave squadrons were a death sentence, but a simple one. You fought, and you died. There was no hope for rebellion, no chance of escape. You fought, and you died.


    That was the point. The squadrons were not truly a fighting force; they were a spectacle. Oh, the Talar would deny it. Fight the enemy boldly, kill as many as you could, and you could go free. Prove your valor, they said, and you could earn your place in the army.


    As if the Talar knew anything about valor.


    But, Perelor had none of that left himself anymore. Twisting his lasertip in his hand, he swept his eyes over the still-forming crowd, arms folded behind his back, falling into line beside the other slave captains. They were cleanly dressed in their native country¡¯s uniforms, with a camera attached to the side of their heads, just as their masters demanded. Though they twitched uncomfortably, they stood at attention, eyes fixed firmly on the purple-clad Talar guards who oversaw them. None bore any weapons except Perelor; that was technically against the rules until the recording started. No one tried to take his lasertip away, though ¡ª the Talar had learned not to try that a long time ago.


    Strange that this group was so obedient. Slaves who came here were usually selected because they¡¯d tried to fight Larsh¡¯s growing regime. Granted, they were tortured beforehand, and pain broke people in ways the innocent wouldn¡¯t think possible. Perelor understood that far more now than he had in his earlier years.


    The new slaves assembled into a jumbled formation on the dusty ground in front of the captains. Like their superiors, each was dressed in their home country¡¯s colors, creating a chaotic patchwork of hues. More importantly, a camera had been attached to the side of each person¡¯s head. That camera was more armored than the slaves themselves, the cylindrical body covered in a thick sheet of titanium, the lens layered over multiple times with heavy glass, the antenna sheathed in carbon fiber. The slaves didn¡¯t matter, just the cameras. Perelor¡¯s hand tightened angrily on his lasertip.


    The slaves finished forming up, and the choosing began. As always, Cyrla ¡ª the overseer of the squadrons ¡ª asked Perelor if he wanted the first pick, and, as always, Perelor refused. He took the leftovers. He stepped away from the slaves as the others began their bickering, leaning against an old crate. Closing his eyes.


    Keep your sister safe, son.


    Five years. Today was the anniversary of the day he¡¯d failed, and Eliel had been torn from him. Five years of punishment from Larsh, and five years of watching men he wished he could care for die, over and over and over.


    His eye, the one with the slave brand seared into it, burned. His arm ached, too, and the dagger waiting on his belt whispered to him. He hadn¡¯t been able to resist the temptation last night, and his healing Surge was missing a large chunk of its charge. If he weren¡¯t in public, he suspected he¡¯d give in again. The memories were just too strong today. Why couldn¡¯t he just forget, truly and properly this time?


    He twisted his weapon in his hand, drowning out the thrum of engines, the chatter of slaves. The echoes, which still whispered, even if they were too quiet now for him to make out the words. He pushed all the sounds away, and tried to let the memories fade. For a moment, it almost worked.


    Flames.


    Blood.


    Screams.


    Rubble.


    And a blade he so desperately wanted to thrust through himself¡­


    ¡°Okron save us. Okron save us. Okron save us.¡±


    The sound caught him off guard, and pushed the old memories away. His eyes flashed open, darting toward it. It came from a boy, near the back of the remaining crowd. He was trembling, and his eyes were glazed over and scarred.


    Perelor¡¯s teeth ground together. Who sends the blind to war?


    The child¡¯s camera stared at him in reply. Perelor forced himself to relax, then returned to fiddling with his lasertip. The boy would probably end up in his squadron anyway. The other captains always took the fittest slaves they could; it gave them the best chance of survival, they said. As if survival were possible. He tried to close his eyes again, though the boy continued to pray, and the cries kept him on edge. That was Talar the kid was speaking. They even sent their own to die, it seemed. Not that this should surprise him.


    There was a pause as a captain finished making his picks, then marched off with his new men. The next officer stepped up, a man in green and silver Herreon robes. Iravin, was that his name? No, that wasn¡¯t quite right. Irik? No, that wasn¡¯t it either. Names were hard here, with so many deaths in such a brief period. But he recognized the face. This was the Voidling who had tried a charge during the last battle. He¡¯d gotten half of his men killed, yet somehow made it out unscathed. Idiot. He began making his way through the ranks, his expression hawkish as he chose his slaves.


    The boy was still praying, his voice growing louder and more hysterical. Finally, a guard slid in between the crowd, grabbing the kid by his shoulder, then slamming the butt of his rifle into the child¡¯s stomach. The praying ceased, and the guard stepped away, but the choosing captain¡¯s eyes immediately whipped toward the boy.


    ¡°A blind one?¡± he hissed.


    The guard shrugged.


    ¡°Are you trying to get us killed?¡± the captain continued. Iralik, that was his name. Perelor remembered it now. ¡°We can¡¯t take him into combat; he¡¯ll muck up our fighting. I request his execution. Immediately.¡±


    Perelor growled. Killing the boy? For nothing? All you had to do was tell him to hang back. Give him a guide, so he didn¡¯t get in the way. That was all it took.


    The guard hesitated, then shrugged again. ¡°Suit yourself.¡± He grabbed the boy¡¯s shoulder, then threw him to the ground, then tossed a lasertip toward Iralik. ¡°Just do it with your own hands. Don¡¯t need any more blood on my armor.¡±


    The boy whimpered. Iralik pointed the lasertip at the child¡¯s chest, though he hesitated himself, finger lingering on the trigger. Time slowed.


    You know what you have to do, son, his father¡¯s voice said.


    So he can die later?


    Honor doesn¡¯t get to choose its battles, his father replied.


    He paused. Cursed. Then stood straight, snapping his lasertip outward as he strode toward Iralik.


    ¡°Enough.¡±


    Iralik¡¯s eyes turned up toward Perelor. He growled. ¡°He¡¯ll get us killed.¡±


    ¡°Enough,¡± Perelor repeated. Iralik¡¯s expression hardened, and his hand itched toward the trigger, but Perelor was close enough now that it didn¡¯t matter. He thrust his blade forward, forcing Iralik to parry. A quick flick of Perelor¡¯s wrist, and Iralik¡¯s lasertip rammed into the ground. Iralik¡¯s eyes widened with shock, shock that quickly morphed to pain as Perelor kicked him, then snatched his opponent¡¯s weapon from a loose fist. Both weapons in hand, Perelor whirled to face the nearby guard, who stepped back, raising his hands in surrender.


    ¡°Torment! Relax, Krot.¡±


    Captain Iralik rose to his feet, grimacing, then growling. ¡°He¡¯s my pick,¡± he hissed. ¡°I pick him, and I say that he dies.¡±


    Perelor didn¡¯t flinch. ¡°I have seniority. I pick before you. He¡¯s mine.¡±


    ¡°You gave up that right,¡± Iralik spat. ¡°You said you would take the leftovers.¡± He snatched his lasertip back, aiming it at the boy. Before he could fire, though, Perelor slammed his own lasertip like a staff into Iralik¡¯s skull. The other captain tumbled back to the ground. This time, Perelor stepped on top of him, pressing the tip of the blade into Iralik¡¯s neck, just enough to draw a few drops of blood. Then he leaned downward, his breath in Iralik¡¯s face.


    ¡°You know why I take the leftovers, Captain? Because I don¡¯t need good soldiers on my team to survive. I¡¯ve been here five years. You¡¯ll be lucky if you last a few weeks. Cross me again, and I¡¯ll make sure those weeks turn into days.¡±


    For a moment, Iralik¡¯s face twisted with hatred, but then that expression wilted. Slowly, Perelor stepped off of him. ¡°Go finish your choosing,¡± he said. He grabbed the blind boy¡¯s hand, pulled him to his feet, then helped him back over to the crate, eyeing Iralik as he walked. Searing Voidling. Unfortunately, men like him were common here. That worried Perelor. His sister¡¯s ailment wasn¡¯t that much different from being blind, not in war. If she ended up in a place like this, would they kill her, too?


    Iralik finished choosing, as did the two captains after him, and Perelor found himself facing the remaining slaves ¡ª his new men. They were a sorry lot. Half of them were looking at the ground, the other half twitching uncomfortably. The majority were undoubtedly Soulcursed, disabled by the interference of the Void in the physical realm. That made sense; the other Captains hoarded as many of the non-Soulcursed slaves as they could. Better odds of survival.


    Perelor didn¡¯t need the odds in his favor, though. The Purity Surge in his back ensured that much.


    ¡°Listen up.¡± His voice was weak. Tired. It always was these days. ¡°We¡¯re taking Cruiser A today. Lasertips are inside. You should already have some basic training. Unfortunately, that is all you¡¯ll receive.¡± His fist tightened in frustration.


    This was the part where he was supposed to give some grand speech about valor, and how, if the slaves proved themselves, they could escape these camps. He was supposed to tell them why they were in their native uniforms, and that if they fought well enough, they could prove their planet worthy of becoming part of Talar.


    But, it was a lie. And true valor, the kind of valor his father had believed in, that didn¡¯t lie.


    ¡°Men,¡± he whispered. ¡°You are going to die. I will do my best to save you. But I¡¯m also not going to lie to you. We¡¯re launching a frontal assault, and most of you will not make it out alive. I advise you to abandon your hope. It will only serve for sorrow here.¡±


    The men bristled. A few wept. ¡°Okron save us,¡± the blind boy whispered.


    She won¡¯t, Perelor thought bitterly. I wish she would, but she won¡¯t.


    ¡°Sir!¡±


    Perelor turned toward the noise. The speaker was a young man, somewhere in his late teens, who stood with one hand in a fist behind his back, the other in a salute at his chest. Like Perelor himself, he had bright white hair, and wore a blue and silver Ethean uniform. Perelor frowned. He knew little of what had happened on his homeworld since the invasion. This man¡¯s presence here wasn¡¯t exactly comforting, though.


    ¡°Yes, soldier?¡±


    ¡°The Talar claim we can go free if we fight with honor. How do we do that?¡±


    Perelor snorted. ¡°The Talar know nothing of honor.¡± He motioned forward. ¡°Form up.¡±


    The others started clumsily falling into a formation, but the Ethean stayed at attention. ¡°Captain. I don¡¯t intend to stay here any longer than I have to. The Talar say I can go free if I fight with valor. Is that true?¡±


    He raised his voice as he spoke, and the others perked up. Perelor swore under his breath. One of the hopeful ones. Those were always the worst. Given enough time, they ended up like Iralik. Broken, and bitter.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    But, he¡¯d need to address it. Mutinies were all too common here. He cleared his throat, then spoke as loud as he could.


    ¡°What did they tell you valor was, soldier?¡±


    ¡°Fighting the enemy bravely, sir,¡± the Ethean said. ¡°Taking down as many of them as we can, no matter the danger.¡± He let his salute fall. ¡°We can do it, sir. If we fight hard enough, our entire squad can go free. We can see our families again.¡± He turned, meeting the eyes of the slaves. ¡°We just need to work together, fight hard enough. We can leave this place.¡±


    Some of the slaves remained downcast, but others perked up. The blind boy straightened beside Perelor, muttering another prayer under his breath ¡ª a prayer for good fortune. Others muttered their assent. Perelor could feel their echoes, faint, but there, hopeful. They believed this man, as much as they could believe in anything. They genuinely hoped they could go free.


    They placed that hope in a lie. A lie that would simply kill them faster.


    ¡°At attention!¡± Perelor yelled. For once, his voice did not betray him. The slaves immediately snapped into posture, at least, what little posture they could manage. Perelor sheathed his lasertip, then began stalking through their ranks, heading straight for the Ethean. The man¡¯s eyes widened, and he placed his hand back on his chest ¡ª a traditional Ethean gesture of respect. Perelor raised an eyebrow, nodding to the hand.


    ¡°Trying to gain my pity, are you, soldier?¡±


    The Ethean paled. ¡°No, sir.¡±


    ¡°Then put the searing hand down. I¡¯m not Ethean anymore. Neither are you.¡±


    The man hesitated. Perelor growled. ¡°I said put it down, soldier.¡±


    His hand snapped back downward. ¡°Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.¡±


    ¡°You have military training. Shame they wasted it on you. What¡¯s your number?¡±


    ¡°My name is¡­¡±


    ¡°I said your number, soldier.¡±


    The Ethean gulped. ¡°I¡­ N527, sir.¡±


    Perelor hesitated a moment, then made his choice. ¡°Well, N527, you¡¯re demoted. You¡¯ll be on the first row during the battle today. Enjoy Torment.¡±


    He turned and walked back to the front of the squadron before he could regret his decision. ¡°Forward march! Ahek, we¡¯re late. You can thank N527 for wasting our time.¡±


    He moved ahead, and the slaves followed. The blind boy, who was still at the front, stumbled behind Perelor, still muttering his prayer, helped along by a solemn, elderly Herreon man. He was far too old to be fighting. Most of them were not fit for this, whether because of a Soulcurse or their age or just their lack of training. This was no march of soldiers, this was a funeral procession of corpses waiting to die. Perelor wished he could change that.


    But he couldn¡¯t, and so they would die, just as the men who had died before them. The faces of those fallen souls flashed through Perelor¡¯s mind. He cringed.


    I¡¯m sorry.


    Making their way across the dusty surface of the staging ground, the squadron arrived at their troop carrier a few minutes later, grabbing the lasertips that waited nearby. The ship consisted of a belly where the troops waited, along with a single cockpit. It was larger than usual; it had been made from a gutted-out luxury cruiser, though the new additions were nothing to gawk at: the armor was thin, and the only weapons were a pair of pitiful plasma guns at the front. The doors were open, and the slaves filed in, moving to spots on the floor where their number sat scratched into the metal. N527, the Ethean, hesitated, but Perelor shot him a glare, and he swapped out one of the men in the front. Perelor couldn¡¯t help but notice the blind child was in the first row. He pursed his lips. Searing Voidlings.


    You just condemned someone, too, his father¡¯s voice chided him. Don¡¯t pretend you¡¯re any better than them.


    He winced, but the damage was already done. Breathing in, he made his way to the front, inspecting the men as he went. It was an average crew, at least for the leftovers. They¡¯d probably lose, oh, thirty out of the forty? Maybe twenty if he fought hard¡­


    No. Don¡¯t lie to yourself. There¡¯s nothing you can do.


    He cleared his throat, then barked out his next orders. ¡°Split into five groups. Practice thrusts and parries. But be careful. If you wound another soldier, their blood is on your hands.¡±


    The soldiers ¡ª if you could call them that ¡ª obeyed, splitting up by row. Perelor watched as they trained, noting by the hum of engines outside that the fleet was beginning to take off. After watching for a few moments, he turned and moved into the cockpit.


    There, three men awaited, a pilot, a copilot, and Arrus, his second-in-command. He was a thin, tan-skinned Talar teen, no older than sixteen by Perelor¡¯s estimates. His hair was a bright blonde, rather than the usual Talar brown, and he wore a purple uniform, though a large rune at its center marked him for what he was: a Soulcursed. An Elekhai, in Talar terms. Arrus was a strange case here; he¡¯d been born into Talar nobility, but had fallen from grace the moment he¡¯d been discovered to be Soulcursed. Fortunately, his noble birth allowed him to wield a Surgeblade, which he wore now on his left hip. Perelor still wasn¡¯t sure why he was allowed that. Supposedly it had been a gift from a noble from House Magala, though he didn¡¯t understand why any Talar leader would care enough to give one away. He smiled as Perelor entered.


    ¡°Well hello there. You¡¯re in a lovely mood today. Your poor victims might not even be able to pull the trigger.¡±


    Perelor grunted, then sniffed. Arrus was wearing heavy cologne. Where had he gotten more of it? ¡°I¡¯d rather they know the truth. Besides, you¡¯ve seen the people who come through here. Do you really think any of them are going to get out alive?¡±


    ¡°No. But that doesn¡¯t mean you have to tell them that.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll thank me when they know the truth.¡±


    ¡°Will they? They already know what¡¯s going to happen.¡± Arrus sighed. ¡°It¡¯s going to be a bad one, I think. The Miradorans have intercepted our transmissions. They know we¡¯re coming.¡±


    ¡°Then it¡¯s good I¡¯m telling our men the truth.¡±


    Arrus frowned, but said nothing. ¡°We should be leaving soon. I don¡¯t have much else to tell you. Except¡­¡±


    ¡°Except?¡±


    Arrus hesitated, wincing. ¡°There¡¯s a new shipment of slaves coming in. All the way from Xilia.¡±


    Perelor froze. ¡°Have you checked?¡±


    ¡°You know how risky that is for me.¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡± Perelor sighed. ¡°Alright.¡± He couldn¡¯t ask that of his friend. Though I could go myself¡­


    There was a long pause. Then Arrus straightened. ¡°Any luck with your powers recently?¡±


    Perelor scowled.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take that as a no.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a memory burner, Arrus. Not anymore.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think it works like that.¡±


    ¡°I used to think that, too. But they don¡¯t work now, no matter what I do.¡± He shook his head. ¡°I should go tell the men. They deserve to know how they¡¯re going to die.¡± He strode to the door. ¡°Keep yourself out of trouble.¡±


    Arrus smiled, somehow, even though there was worry in his eyes. Pain. Okron, how did he manage it? ¡°According to you, we¡¯re always in trouble.¡±


    Perelor snorted, then strode back into the hold. There, the men were still clumsily practicing with their lasertips. They were horrible at it. Their form was off, their stances were downright awful, and half of them were tripping over themselves. They were cannon fodder, but then, that was the point.


    ¡°Enough practice,¡± Perelor called out. The slaves halted. ¡°Our orders have come in. We¡¯re going to storm the beach, and open up space for dropships. Your cameras will be live, so don¡¯t try anything against regulations. Understood?¡±


    The slaves mumbled their affirmation. Perelor gave them a curt nod. ¡°Fight well.¡±


    And die well, too.


    The ship rumbled, then took off, jerking slightly as it made its way up through the atmosphere. Perelor¡¯s eyes instinctively turned toward the hold window, right behind where he stood. In standard troop carriers, it would cover half the wall, allowing soldiers to see through the ship¡¯s shields and out into the battlefield. Here, it was little more than a slit, designed instead to keep the slaves from seeing the fighting, lest they rebel.


    The ship moved fast, and within a few moments, they were out in space. The wormhole glittered in the distance, a golden pinprick of light among the stars. Once they struck that pinprick, they¡¯d be able to teleport to any other planet in Delti. Then the slaughter would begin once more. He could practically hear the lasertips clashing, the plasma crackling. The scent of flesh burning. And the green mist, pouring out of the mouths of the fallen, turning red as it drifted upward, then faded¡­


    He shook himself from his stupor, cursing softly. The blind boy. He needed to take care of that. His eyes drifted to the child, who was shaking, and despite everything, still muttering a prayer.


    Voidlings.


    He walked away from the window, heading for the Ethean who had spoken up earlier. ¡°N527. To the front. I need to speak with you.¡±


    The young man whitened, but followed Perelor to the window. From there, Perelor pointed toward the blind soldier.


    ¡°You¡¯ve noticed him, I assume?¡±


    ¡°Yes, sir.¡±


    ¡°And what do you think of it?¡±


    The man hesitated. ¡°They¡¯re vret for it,¡± he hissed. ¡°I hope they all burn in the Tomb.¡±


    Perelor nodded. ¡°Good. Because that¡¯s exactly what I think of it.¡± He met N527¡¯s eyes. ¡°Do you know what those cameras on your head are for, soldier?¡±


    ¡°To know if we¡¯ve proved our valor.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the story. But do you know what they¡¯re really there for?¡±


    N527 hesitated, then cursed. ¡°Yes. I know. I¡¯ve seen the recordings, before I ended up here. They¡¯re capturing our deaths, to broadcast as propaganda. To keep people afraid.¡±


    Perelor nodded. ¡°Then you know why I demoted you. We won¡¯t prove our valor, soldier. We can¡¯t. This place isn¡¯t just brutal, it¡¯s designed to kill us.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re right,¡± N527 said. ¡°I thought perhaps I could invigorate them. I¡¯m sorry. That was the wrong way of going about it.¡±


    ¡°No harm done, soldier.¡± Hopefully. Perelor pointed toward the boy again. ¡°But I have a task for you. The child is a liability. I hate to say it, but it¡¯s true. I want you to help him. Switch spots with one of the men nearby, and make certain he doesn¡¯t fire his lasertip, or trip us up. Hang in the back once we land. Bladewielders willing, that¡¯ll increase everyone¡¯s odds.¡±


    N527 nodded. ¡°I can do that.¡±


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Perelor cursed. ¡°Searing Voidlings.¡±


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t agree more.¡± N527 hesitated. ¡°What¡¯s your name, sir? I don¡¯t think you ever told us your name?¡±


    Perelor tensed, falling silent.


    ¡°Sir?¡±


    ¡°Never learn a soldier¡¯s name,¡± he hissed.


    The intercom beeped. Perelor dismissed N527 with a wave of his hand, turning toward the window, thankful for the abrupt end to the conversation. How could he even explain his logic to someone who had not fought here yet? Well, he¡¯d understand soon enough what Perelor meant.


    They were almost to the wormhole. Arrus exited the cockpit a moment later, Surgeblade now drawn. His face was creased with worry, though he pushed that worry away as the slaves¡¯ eyes turned to him, smiling at them and flourishing his blade. Perelor fell into line beside him, yelling to the slaves.


    ¡°To your posts, and stay there. Battle stances. This won¡¯t be an easy ride, but I want you ready at the end.¡± He turned to Arrus.


    ¡°Anything new?¡±


    ¡°Nothing. Command has gone silent. We¡¯ll find out how bad it is when we get there, I guess.¡± He glanced backward. ¡°A blind kid?¡±


    ¡°Yup,¡± Perelor said. ¡°Voidlings.¡±


    ¡°Amen to that,¡± Arrus muttered. ¡°Did you at least pair him up with someone?¡±


    ¡°Yes. N527. Tried to speak up earlier about attacking. Felt bad about shutting him up, so I gave him a job.¡±


    ¡°Huh. Well, hopefully they make a good team.¡±


    ¡°They won¡¯t. But we can hope.¡±


    The sirens grew louder. Arrus tensed. ¡°Endowed save us,¡± he whispered.


    If we can save her first, Perelor thought.


    The ship¡¯s speakers crackled to life. ¡°Preparing for entry. Five.¡± The voice over the intercom was a robotic monotone, unflinching, uncaring.


    ¡°Four.¡±


    Perelor twisted his lasertip toward the slit, relaxing his muscles, forcing his hands to steady, his mind to clear. He drew in Purity from the Surge on his neck, and his skin began to glow an intense white.


    ¡°Three.¡±


    The men behind him breathed in, breathed out. Perelor tried not to think of their fate. Tried not to hope that he could save them. At least he didn¡¯t know their names. It had been worse before, when he hadn¡¯t learned it was better not to know.


    ¡°Two.¡±


    Perelor glanced toward Arrus. The young man¡¯s Surgeblade was bared, and he was now aglow with Ever. Though the glow was dimmer than others he¡¯d seen, it was still fearsome, an azure beacon of hope.


    ¡°One.¡±


    Hope is dead, Perelor reminded himself. At least, until he found Eliel. Somehow, she would bring it back, bring him back. He clung to that.


    ¡°Enter.¡±


    ¡°For Eliel,¡± he whispered, then closed his eyes as they teleported to Torment.

 Chapter 2 - A Flame In The Rain

    Pain is a shield. It is heavy to bear, but it can save your life.


    -The Rift Code, Proverbs


    Perelor drifted in a field of golden mist, eyes closed, and for a moment, he was in the past. Watching as his father came home, hugged his mother, kissed a young Eliel on the cheek. Then picked up Perelor himself, and held him. The illusion felt so real, so perfect.


    That was how he knew it wouldn¡¯t last.


    White light flashed as the wormhole did its work, and Perelor found himself back in the ship, kneeling on the floor. His stomach swirled. Nobody knew exactly how Ancient Meridian had created the wormholes, but teleporting halfway across the galaxy was not a pleasant experience for the gut. However, he was mostly used to it by now, and he quickly recovered, then knelt beside the window, looking down at the planet below. It was largely covered in blue oceans, though black, volcanic islands dotted the entire surface. Perfect for farming: rich soil, and lots of water. It was a beautiful sight. Most planets were, from a distance.


    He didn¡¯t get to stare long, though, for the enemy awaited them, positioned just outside the wormhole, where the rest of the Talar fleet would also materialize. Fighters and battlecruisers held in formation, a sphere of metal and cannons the invading force would have to penetrate. He sucked in a sharp breath. This was the worst part, where everything was chance and his lasertip was only a handle to grip amid the chaos.


    As more of the Talar ships flashed into existence, the Miradoran fighters soared inward, cannons flashing as they attempted to stifle the invasion before more Talar reinforcements arrived. Plasma struck energy shields, resulting in a sinister, unceasing crackle. Several of the slaves retched, the strain of teleportation and combat maneuvers too much for them.


    ¡°Clean up the mess,¡± Perelor ordered. ¡°I don¡¯t want anyone tripping.¡± Arrus nodded, raising his hand and burning Ever to incinerate the slop. He called out to the slaves.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. We have an escort. We¡¯ll be fine.¡± He eyed Perelor, as if expecting him to add his own reassurances.


    Perelor said nothing. The camera on the side of his head seemed to demand his silence.


    A carrier nearby blew apart, its shields and armor spent. Perelor gasped as he felt the echoes of the Talar men inside. Usually, he didn¡¯t feel those anymore, but at war, when men were dying, they were too strong to ignore. They murmured in the back of his mind, flashes of smell, taste, sound, and light, a pulsing cacophony of thoughts, mostly thoughts of fear. He shoved them to the back of his consciousness. The echoes weren¡¯t evil, but there was a chance they¡¯d awaken memories of his past. Memories that could make him hesitate ¡ª and here, those who hesitated paid in blood.


    A fighter soared past their carrier, unleashing a hail of fire that struck the bottom side of the hold floor. Perelor flinched as the bullets exploded. They did no damage; their energy shield was still operational. It was still unnerving. Several of the slaves whimpered and screamed. Arrus called out again, assuring them this would pass, and that the cruiser would survive.


    It would. They had a fighter escort, and the slave squadrons always made it to the ground; a ship¡¯s destruction didn¡¯t give enough footage for Talar propaganda to be effective.


    A shame, really. A brief death would be far preferable to what came next.


    Talar fighters streamed out of the wormhole, then split into groups to fight back their Miradoran counterparts. The carriers moved forward as the invading forces cleared a path toward the planet below. Soon enough, they were about to enter the atmosphere.


    Perelor fell into stance, ready to run, ready to fight. Out the window, he saw a blur of flames as they passed through Mirador¡¯s thermosphere. A vast, blue ocean followed the flames, dotted with islands that were in turn dotted with grain fields and storage silos. As they drew closer to their target, he saw cannons hidden within the wheat, accompanied by men who swarmed in trenches all over the shore.


    ¡°Dropping in ten!¡± the pilot yelled.


    ¡°Be ready!¡± Arrus yelled. ¡°And fight bravely.¡±


    ¡°And say your prayers,¡± Perelor muttered. Out the window, Miradoran soldiers, in black and orange armor, aimed their lasertips and rifles toward the descending carriers. Perelor cleared his throat, then Reached and drew in even more Purity.


    ¡°File out, and do it fast! Then follow my lead.¡±


    The ship slowed to a stop. For a single moment, they waited in silence.


    Then Perelor felt a metallic click to the side of his head, accompanied by a barely audible female voice.


    ¡°Cameras are live.¡± In theory, that meant this battle would be broadcast to the rest of Delti through hacked comms channels, after the footage had been processed. A propaganda machine, to keep nations who had not yet entered this conflict further away from it.


    A propaganda film. These men¡¯s lives would be sacrificed for that, and nothing more. Unarmored foot soldiers would be no good in this fight. But they could die in spectacularly gruesome ways, so here they were.


    The carrier doors opened. Sound rushed into Perelor¡¯s ears, screams and shouts and crackling plasma. Immediately, Arrus raised his hand, burning much of his Ever to create a shield of blue plasma in front of the soldiers as they dropped. The rest of the slaves filed out in an eight-by-five formation, splashing into the water below. Waving them through, Perelor waited until they were all out, then leapt down himself.


    Water rushed up his leg, accompanied by a flurry of sound as the battle began. The ocean was knee-height here. Warm and clear, it pulsed up and down from the shore, the heartbeat of the island. Perelor rushed to the front of his squad as Arrus¡¯ use of Ever slowed. The shield grew visibly thinner. Bolts of energy began flying through it, rather than stopping as they struck.


    And death began.


    An Artensian man to the right of Perelor fell first, shot in the head, bone and sinew spraying outward as he collapsed, his white and gold uniform suddenly stained crimson. An orange-haired Herreon woman behind him died next, struck in the aorta. Liquid exploded from the wound as she fell, and the water swirled red. Green mist poured from both of their mouths ¡ª their souls, leaving their bodies. Perelor felt their echoes as their minds fled into the afterlife. The woman was a nurse, who¡¯d only been taken here because she¡¯d tried to help during a street fight between the Talar and some rebels. The man had a child, back home, who was in his early teens.


    Like Perelor, that child would never see his father again.


    The memories ended, and Perelor returned to the battlefield. Though he¡¯d felt as if he¡¯d spent several minutes reliving those snippets of the fallen soldiers¡¯ lives, it hadn¡¯t taken any time in the real world. The Everrealm was odd that way. He dropped to a crouch, returning fire. They were still far away from the enemy targets, but Perelor had enough experience that he managed to hit most of them. He was grateful he wasn¡¯t close enough to feel the echoes of the men he¡¯d slain. All this time, and he still hated killing.


    ¡°Kneel and shoot!¡± he yelled. The slaves who were veterans of the last few battles were already returning fire, but many of the newcomers just stood, stunned. Their hesitation proved to be a fatal mistake. Perelor saw at least four more fall, stunned silence turning into pained shrieks as fiery bullets tore into their necks and skulls and limbs and hearts. At the very least, though, their deaths made the others snap into action, and the survivors fell into crouches, lasertips flashing as they shot back. Few of the plasma bolts found their mark, but between Perelor¡¯s crew and the half a dozen other squads landing here, the Miradorans were forced backward. Between that, and Arrus¡¯ Ever shields, only four more slaves dropped.


    Only four. Perelor gritted his teeth as their echoes flashed through his head. Only four. Those were good numbers.


    It was hard to reduce them to numbers, when you were seeing through their very eyes.


    He returned to reality again, and attacked with more vigor. Supposedly there were memory burners who struggled with the echoes during fighting, finding it disorienting to jump between combat and thought. Not Perelor. Knowing who he fought for just made him more determined. He ran in front of the blind boy, who, thankfully, was still alive, then fired as fast as he could. They were getting closer to the beach, and Perelor could see silhouettes falling rapidly as he attacked.


    Unfortunately, his accuracy drew eyes. Several riflemen turned their attention solely on Perelor, and plasma bullets flashed in his direction. One struck his shoulder, ripping its way straight through his bone. He winced, but burned Purity. The Second Power took hold, and the wound healed itself instantly, bone popping back into place, flesh knitting itself back together. Purity could shift one¡¯s body in a variety of ways, but quick healing was certainly its most practical use here. Still, blood ran down his arm, staining his uniform, and the impact immobilized him for a moment. Another shot landed, this time hitting his left thigh, sizzling as it burned his muscle. He fell to one knee, skin scraping the rock below. Cursing, he stood back up as that, too, healed.


    N527 was still behind him. To his credit, he seemed to know how to use the lasertip, though his eyes were still wide and his face was pure white. Evidently, he¡¯d fought, but not in anything like this. He stumbled through the water, dragging the blind boy behind him. He was moving too slowly, and they were behind the main squadron. That was dangerous; Arrus¡¯ Ever shields were only effective when he was close by.


    ¡°Faster!¡± Perelor yelled. And, to his credit, N527 continued onward, hoisting the blind boy onto his back, then rushing to meet up with the rest of the squadron. Perelor raced beside him, distracting the Miradorans and taking any bullets that came too close. One of those bullets even grazed Perelor¡¯s good eye. He swore, healing it, then continued onward, blood running down his cheek.


    Ahead, Arrus led the squadron forward, lobbing fireballs into the Miradoran trenches to flush them out. Green mist was everywhere, thin enough it didn¡¯t block Perelor¡¯s vision, but there nonetheless, a constant reminder of death. Perelor swept his eyes over the squadron, taking a quick headcount. Arrus¡¯ Surgeblade was making a difference ¡ª thirty of the forty remained ¡ª but that was still ten lives gone. One of those hadn¡¯t even reached his twentieth birthday. He was scared, and he thrashed violently as Torment took him¡­


    The camera whined, and Perelor snapped back to reality. Fool, he chided himself. Stop caring. There¡¯s no time to care.


    They¡¯re all going to die.


    As if on cue, to their right, another slave squad broke apart, a group of Miradorans suddenly bursting out of their trenches, throwing grenades into the squadron¡¯s tightly knit formation. Bodies flew, then rained back down, some of them in multiple pieces, others charred beyond recognition. The few slaves who survived the initial blast stumbled back, bleeding from shrapnel wounds, then found their own death as they were mowed down from behind. Perelor¡¯s camera whirred faster as he took in the scene.


    Then the Miradorans turned toward Perelor¡¯s men.


    He swore as bullets flew into their side, flanking Arrus¡¯ Ever shield, which only protected against attacks from the front. Men fell faster than he could think, and it took all Perelor had to avoid reliving their echoes. Arrus turned, expanding his shield to cover the sides of the squad, but it was no use. The Miradorans were already rushing toward them, lasertips and daggers and swords in their hands.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°Into stance!¡± Perelor yelled. In the chaos, no one obeyed. The Miradorans rammed into the squad¡¯s already scattered formation. Blades flew forward, and men on both sides fell. Perelor rushed into the fray, engaging three enemies at once. He took wounds to his stomach and arms as he slashed without thinking, ignoring the defensive and simply healing the blows as they came. It was an effective strategy. His spear tugged on his arm as it tore into other men¡¯s flesh, over and over and over.


    Arrus let go of the shield ¡ª the Miradorans couldn¡¯t fire on them anyway, now that their own troops were mixed in the fray. Instead, he spent his energy to send a bolt of electricity arcing between the enemy soldiers. It wasn¡¯t enough to kill them, but it was enough to confuse them into scattering.


    Perelor took advantage of that, lunging inward, cutting down men before they could recover. More blood spurted onto his tattered blue uniform, some his own, most of it others¡¯. Arrus lashed out with Ever again, summoning a large bolt of plasma this time, and a troupe of other Miradorans screamed as they burned to ashes.


    That took most of his Ever, though. He was hardly glowing at all now, and there were still enemies heading toward him, probably hoping to claim the Surge.


    No. Perelor snarled, burning more Purity, enhancing his muscles, making them quicker, stronger. His fist slammed into a Miradoran¡¯s back, with such force the woman¡¯s spine snapped. His spear tore through another soldier¡¯s chest as he spun around, twisting to fight his way toward Arrus, who was brandishing his blade now, preparing to duel a pair of Miradorans.


    I will not fail. Not again!


    A boot lashed out, and Perelor¡¯s head struck the water. A blade stabbed into his chest, then yanked backward, taking a chunk of Perelor¡¯s flesh with it. His lasertip fell from his hand. Gasping, he whirled around, only for a Miradoran boot to shove him back under. Muffled screams filled his ears. For a moment, the echoes overtook him, and he remembered everything. His father¡¯s death. Years in slavery. And that day¡­


    No!


    He pulled himself back out of the water, healing himself and throwing a Purity-enhanced punch at a Miradoran. The man doubled over, ribs snapping, but another beside him quickly snatched Perelor, impaling him directly through the spine. Pain shot up his back, accompanied by the feeling of his muscles locking. In his peripheral vision, he could see Arrus fighting off the two men, barely holding his ground.


    No¡­ not again¡­


    Deep down, though, he remembered, and knew that he¡¯d already failed.


    ¡°Erran naut tak veras!¡±


    Weakly chanting their war cry, another squadron slammed into the Miradorans from behind, slaughtering the rest of their forces in a single burst of plasma. Perelor sighed in relief as the Miradorans holding him fell limp, and his spine repaired itself, letting him move again. Arrus twisted back toward the trenches, burning the last of his Ever in a burst to reactivate the shield as the new squadron filed in behind. Perelor noted Captain Iralik at their head. The man shook his head as he approached.


    ¡°Vret,¡± he snorted. ¡°You almost lost your entire squad.¡±


    Perelor cringed, but swept his eyes over his slaves. Two, four, six, eight, nine¡­


    Nine. There were nine left. Nine left, forty to start. Thirty-one lost.


    The water grew colder. Echoes danced through his head, accompanied by flickers of memories he¡¯d long forgotten. The lasertip felt loose in his fingers.


    This is a bad one¡­


    ¡°Your squad is broken,¡± Iralik snapped. ¡°But this isn¡¯t over yet, and I don¡¯t intend to die without a fight. I¡¯m taking over your squad. There¡¯s more of mine left, anyway.¡±


    Perelor nodded numbly. ¡°I¡­ alright. Tell Arrus.¡±


    Iralik smiled. ¡°Good.¡± He raised his lasertip high. ¡°Forward charge. For valor!¡±


    Perelor¡¯s eyes widened. ¡°No! We need to wait for¡­¡±


    Iralik ignored him, rushing forward. Arrus¡¯ shield broke a moment later, his Ever spent. He¡¯d still be able to use a little of it as the Surge recharged, but not enough. Not even close to enough for an offensive.


    Cursing, Perelor turned backward. Several of the men, both Iralik¡¯s and his own, lagged, wounded. One had a gaping hole in his leg. He was screaming desperately as blood leaked into the water, his skin growing pale.


    You could heal him¡­


    But that was against their rules. He¡¯d tried it, and the Talar had executed his entire squadron as punishment. With the camera still running, it was foolish. And so, he would let the man die.


    The blind kid, though. Where¡¯s he?


    He saw no sign of him. N527, though, stood to the side, kneeling in the water. There was blood on his hands. He was staring numbly at it as it dripped down his fingers, eyes distant.


    ¡°Thaus,¡± Perelor swore. He ran to the Ethean. Bodies flowed all around him, some face down, others on their sides. All of them were taut with the fear of death, a fear now realized. He could hear their souls howling as they descended into Torment. Condemn him to the Tomb, but no matter how faint they seemed, he couldn¡¯t stop himself from hearing those screams.


    ¡°The kid. Where is he?¡± He already knew the answer, but it still needed to be said.


    ¡°He¡­ he¡¯s¡­ dead.¡± N527 shook as he said the words. ¡°They attacked us from behind. I fell into the water, and there was plasma everywhere, and¡­ and then he was dead.¡±


    Perelor nodded. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    N527 looked up, meeting his eyes. ¡°You were right. This is Torment.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­ sorry.¡± He motioned toward the beach. ¡°We need to move.¡±


    N527 was silent.


    ¡°Soldier?¡±


    ¡°They were right,¡± he whispered. ¡°Back on Ethea, they said hope was dead. And they were right.¡± He released his cupped hand, letting the water flow back down his arm into the ocean below. His grip tightened on his lasertip. Tears welling in his eyes, he charged, running fast enough Perelor had to sprint to keep behind him.


    Ahead, Arrus blasted flames into the Miradoran trenches, furiously forcing the enemy out. That was both blessing and curse: on the one hand, it exposed their opponent, on the other, it made the Talar slaves easier targets. Plasma flashed, and men dropped. As he arrived within range, Perelor fired his lasertip, downing two Miradorans before pushing his way to the front, falling into line right beside N527.


    ¡°Get in the back,¡± he hissed. ¡°You¡¯re pale as an Ethean¡¯s hair.¡±


    No reply. A grenade exploded nearby, not close enough to do much damage, though shrapnel still flew toward them, forcing Perelor to step in front of N527, absorbing the metal shards. Though he healed quickly, they still sent sharp jabs of pain racing up his arms and legs and back. Purity might be able to mend his wounds, but it did nothing to reduce the associated agony.


    He was running low on Purity, he realized, between his lapse last night and the sheer toll this battle had taken on his reserves. Like Arrus, if he ran out, he¡¯d still be able to run on the Surge¡¯s generated power, but that was fumes compared to what he had now. If that did happen, he¡¯d almost undoubtedly fall.


    Strange, he realized, how welcome death felt these days.


    ¡°Get in the back,¡± he snapped again. ¡°You¡¯re in shock. You¡¯ll do no good up here.¡±


    N527 ignored him still, instead rushing forward and engaging another Miradoran. He won the duel, barely. Perelor cursed, forcing himself to look away. Nothing he could do if the man didn¡¯t obey orders. Nothing he could do even if N527 did obey.


    His squadron attacked another large pack of Miradorans, attempting to retreat into the fields farther inland. It was a bloodbath. Blades flew forward from both sides, slamming into unprepared chests. Perelor slew three men before the exchange was over. The kills were easy¡ª too easy, the product of years of muscle memory. Echoes danced in his head, terrified whispers of the men he¡¯d just slaughtered. They twisted his vision so much that he barely noticed when the skirmish was over.


    He glanced back. Six more men had fallen, though none from his squadron. Somehow, N527 was alive. With a wound on his upper arm, and caked in blood, but alive.


    There¡¯s no use in checking, Perelor chided himself. Not if he won¡¯t listen.


    His thoughts were interrupted as he saw another pack of Miradorans, taking up position in a patch of trees. Their rifles bristled from the branches, aimed directly at his men. Though they were far off, he could see the barrels well enough to know that those were rapid-fire rifles ¡ª weapons fast and powerful enough to end his entire squad in a few heartbeats.


    ¡°To the trenches!¡± he yelled. He ran himself, sliding into one of the sandy ditches nearby. ¡°Now! Move!¡±


    As predicted, plasma flew from the trees, a hail of fiery death, so hot and furious Perelor was surprised the sand hadn¡¯t turned to glass. Five more men dropped as the survivors slipped down and into cover. And N527¡­


    N527 hung behind, still shaking. A bullet struck his shoulder, and he collapsed. Perelor¡¯s eyes widened, and before he could think, before he could stop himself, he leapt from the trench, dashing toward the boy. The Ethean turned, meeting his eyes. Perelor knew instantly what he was doing.


    ¡°Okron forgive me,¡± he whispered. Perelor couldn¡¯t hear the words, but he knew them all too well. ¡°For welcoming death¡¯s embrace.¡±


    Energy ripped into his throat, and he fell without a sound. More bullets tore into his stomach and chest. Perelor slid to his knees beside the man. Another plasma bolt hit him in the chest, but he hardly cared. He grabbed his comrade, desperately pushing Purity into him, for a moment forgetting the Talar rules.


    Nothing happened.


    No¡­ we almost made it¡­ we almost made it!


    Green mist poured from N527¡¯s mouth, then rose upward, turning red as it dissipated completely. That mist screamed, ranted, writhed. As if the man¡¯s last act had been to condemn Perelor himself.


    Perelor sat for a moment, shocked. Then, another bullet tore into him, then another, and, no longer able to ignore the pain of the blasts, he cursed, then rose. He should have cried. Should have screamed. Should have mourned somehow, someway, for a brother who had given up.


    Instead, he just¡­ left. Slid back into the trench. A moment later, he heard the camera click, and its voice whispered in his ear.


    ¡°Recording complete.¡±


    Arrus walked over a moment later, announcing that they¡¯d been ordered to hold their ground. Perelor let out a relieved breath. They were safe, for now. The real soldiers were arriving, and they rushed onto the beach, slaughtering the Miradoran forces everywhere they went. These Talar were well equipped, in full armor, with grenades and blasters and sensors and all. The purple, almost royal glimmer of their helms seemed contradictory to the Torment of this place. Perelor distracted himself from his failure by watching them, occasionally firing a pointless lasertip blast into the forest.


    A figure came roaring through the front line, cutting through the Miradoran lines with hails of electricity. Traegus Yral, Arrus¡¯ father. Bullets deflected off his titrite armor as he pressed forward, a pack of Surgeblade wielders behind him. As he did, the battle moved further inland, well past the slaves. Perelor allowed himself to fall to his knees, wiping the sweat from his brow.


    Arrus approached him, Surgeblade gone; he¡¯d handed it off to another soldier to continue forward. ¡°You alright?¡± he whispered.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Perelor said.


    ¡°We both know that means you¡¯re not.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± he repeated. It came out more shaky this time, but Arrus just sighed, leaning against the wall of the trench.


    ¡°How many survived?¡± Perelor asked.


    ¡°Six,¡± Arrus said.


    Perelor nodded. ¡°At least I told them.¡± He sighed. ¡°I warned them. At least they were ready.¡±


    Arrus gave him a concerned look, but said nothing. ¡°Voidlings,¡± Perelor muttered. He leaned against the back of the trench, stretching out his legs. ¡°They¡¯re Voidlings for this. Searing Voidlings.¡±


    He wanted to do something. He wanted to lash out, fight, cry, do anything but sit there.


    But he also knew the futility of such a display. He¡¯d learned long ago that any resistance, any hope, any spark of life at all, was fleeting and aimless. Hoping as a slave was like trying to start a fire in the rain. You could fan it all you wanted, but eventually, the flame would be quenched.

 Chapter 3 - Prisoner

    They shall kneel to the Trett, and the Trett shall kneel to them, and together they shall master all power.


    -Excerpt from The Book of Eternity


    Xanala Erdor trembled, and she hated herself for it. There was no reason for her to be afraid. Her father had taken care of everything, the way he always did. The props were here, the stage had been carefully set, and the actors were perfectly manipulated into place; all she had to do was provide the power for the lights, and the performance would proceed as planned.


    And still she shook. Though it was not cold, ice crawled up her spine. Though the inside of the hover car was well-lit, she saw shadows everywhere.


    Hesitantly, she began to twitch her finger, moving it back and forth, back and forth. She poured her focus into that movement, forgetting everything except that singular muscle. It worked. Not well, but it worked.


    ¡°You shouldn¡¯t be worried.¡±


    Her father, Lyrus, leaned against the seat across from her, one eye barely cracked open. Even half asleep he was an imposing man, muscular and tall, clad in the flowing white silk robes of the Second Masked Warrior. Those robes, and the title associated with them, gave him incredible power within both the Confederacy and the Church, more power than some planetary governors. He would use that power today, to kill a man. A Surgeblade waited at his hip, the jewel in its hilt full of white light.


    ¡°We¡¯re headed to Raerok,¡± Xanala said defensively. ¡°What do I not have to worry about?¡¯


    ¡°Everything,¡± Lyrus replied. ¡°You¡¯re not a burner while you¡¯re in that building, not until I say so. You are my daughter, here on a routine visit with me to investigate an escaped prisoner. Understand?¡±


    ¡°I¡­ understand.¡± Xanala swallowed. ¡°You know I¡¯m not good at lying.¡±


    Her father¡¯s other eye cracked open, and he raised an eyebrow. ¡°No, you¡¯re not. But you are today.¡± He closed his eyes again, and his tight expression told Xanala there would be no further discussion of the matter. Xanala¡¯s anxiety was irrelevant, as far as Lyrus was concerned. Restraining a sigh, she moved her gaze to stare out the thick glass window on the carriage¡¯s side.


    They were in Xeredon¡¯s Undercity, below the capital of the International Confederacy, where leaders of most of the galaxy¡¯s nations met in a tenuous religious alliance facilitated by the Church of Meridian. The Undercity, though, was far from any such politics; it was an ancient, buried place, deep beneath the planet¡¯s main metropolis. It was dark here ¡ª few lights still worked after so long ¡ª but she caught glimpses of abandoned buildings, made of cement hard enough to last millennia, not decorated or embellished, but still firmly there. It was the bones of a civilization. The bare minimum needed for humans to survive, but a bare minimum that had lasted long after the rest of ancient society had decayed.


    Supposedly, this place had been built as a massive bunker, designed to keep a few survivors safe in the case of an attack by Oblivion¡¯s avatar. Xanala shivered as she imagined the sheer destruction the god must have caused to merit such drastic action; the Undercity was vast, even by modern population standards. Whatever the Void was ¡ª a god, like the main body of the Church claimed, or a man, like the Talar asserted ¡ª it had terrified these people.


    And you¡¯re the Endowed. If Mother is right, you¡¯ll have to face the Void one day. That thought made the brief flashes of the ruins even more intimidating.


    They sat in silence for a long time before Lyrus shifted, eyes opening again. ¡°We are almost within range of Raerok¡¯s receptors,¡± he said. ¡°I want to review the plan before we arrive.¡±


    Xanala straightened. ¡°We¡¯re here to expose Veridon Elnith,¡± she recited, ¡°and, ideally, get him executed for treason against the Church.¡±


    ¡°And the crime he has committed?¡±


    ¡°Freeing a burner.¡± Xanala frowned, and Lyrus, seeing the downturn of her lips, snorted.


    ¡°He is not our ally, Xanala. The only reason he advocates for the legalization of burning is so he can cover his reputation after that fiasco with his son.¡±


    ¡°I know. But¡­ we¡¯re also killing another burner to do it.¡±


    ¡°An unfortunate casualty. But you cannot change the world without casualties, daughter.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ you¡¯re right. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    The conversation continued as they went over the specifics again ¡ª for the third time today. The basic idea wasn¡¯t too complicated: Veridon had secretly freed a burner, and was purposely sabotaging the search to find the escaped captive. Lyrus, using his authority as a Masked Warrior, would commandeer the investigation, and then he and Xanala would find, corner, and kill the burner, who would, undoubtedly, have evidence on his person condemning Veridon. From there, it would be easy to have their rival hanged.


    Simple, brutal, effective. This plan had all the signature marks of her father¡¯s work, and when her father planned something, events always seemed to shake out the way he wanted them to. Xanala would be a fool to question this course of action.


    Yet, silently, she did so anyway. Veridon had threatened to publicly expose Xanala and Lyrus¡¯ plans for a coup, and she knew logically that, for that threat, he would have to die. But she also disagreed with her father about Veridon¡¯s intentions. From her limited interactions with the man, he appeared to genuinely believe in the cause of freeing burners, even if he wanted to do so through peaceful means, rather than a coup.


    And, somehow, he knew about her scar. He¡¯d made that very clear when he¡¯d spoken with her father. But, unlike most Confederacy or Church officials would, he hadn¡¯t condemned her, hadn¡¯t called her a creature of the Void. Instead, he¡¯d encouraged her father to have her go through the Testing.


    She has a chance, he¡¯d said. Would you deny the galaxy its chance for salvation?


    Unfortunately, he misjudged both her and her father¡¯s sense of honor. To pass the Testing, Xanala would have to kill all three Masked Warriors ¡ª her father included. And she would not betray her family.


    So, she would help her father kill Veridon. Helping him eliminate an opponent was the least she could do, after all he¡¯d suffered to keep her alive.


    Lyrus cut off the conversation as they entered the range of Raerok¡¯s comms readers. After that, it took them around an hour to reach their destination. The Undercity had at least a dozen distinct layers, stretching further and further into the planet¡¯s crust. Raerok, the prison they were headed toward, was in the deepest layer, nearly a mile below ground level. The city¡¯s illumination grew even more sparse as they descended, until, finally, they rounded a corner, and were suddenly blinded by the lights of the prison, its white, chrome walls glimmering despite the shadows. A few minutes later, they landed on a cement landing pad outside the complex.


    The carriage doors slid open. Her father stepped out, then gestured for Xanala to follow. She did, though her heart pounded even faster in her chest. They were greeted by a man in a thick white coat, a bulky plastic mask covering his features, cloth-like carbon fiber armor covering the rest of his body. Veridon, their ultimate target, and the overseer of Raerok¡¯s operations. A Surge sat clasped to his belt, glowing blue, and a troupe of six Eliminators waited behind him, armored in thick metal, wielding toxin staffs and heaving oversized cannon blasters on their backs ¡ª equipment designed especially to kill burners.


    To kill people like Xanala.


    ¡°Lyrus,¡± Veridon said, crossing his hands in a salute. ¡°I did not anticipate one of the Masked Warriors involving himself in this. I appreciate your concern for our well-being, but I must assure you, this is not a situation dire enough to justify such a risk.¡±


    ¡°Anything involving the Powers is my concern,¡± Lyrus said coolly. ¡°I have lived for that cause, and one day I will die for it.¡±


    ¡°But to die here¡­¡±


    ¡°If I die, then it is the will of the Tower. Let me be blunt. I am no coward, and I will not back down on this. That is my final word.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ see.¡± Veridon shot a glance at Xanala, and she could see the panic in his eyes.


    He knows what we¡¯re doing here. We¡¯ll have to be careful. Hopefully Dad placed those bribes well¡­


    They began walking as the two continued talking, discussing the details of the case and the current command structure of the investigation. The Eliminators fell into a march behind Veridon and Lyrus. Xanala had to resist the urge to glance backward at those Eliminators. They¡¯d kill her, one day.


    But not today. Dad has taken care of it. Relax.


    It was easier said than done. She found herself twitching her finger again, even faster than before. What if one of the guards had faked the bribe? There were few here on Xeredon who were truly religious enough to turn Xanala in for that, but they did exist¡­


    Trust Dad. He¡¯s never failed you before.


    Veridon¡¯s eyes suddenly swiveled toward Xanala. ¡°And your daughter? Is this necessary?¡±


    ¡°She is my heir,¡± Lyrus said. ¡°She needs to learn.¡±


    ¡°Becoming a Masked Warrior is not hereditary.¡±


    ¡°Which is why this is even more important.¡±


    ¡°Does she think that?¡± Veridon met Xanala¡¯s eyes. There was pleading in them. His eyes kept drifting to the arm with her scar, the one that marked her as the Endowed.


    He thinks I might not agree with Dad¡¯s plan. Rightly, to an extent. She hesitated for a moment, then hardened her expression.


    ¡°I want to be what my father is,¡± she recited. ¡°It is a sacred duty to defend the virtue of the Powers.¡±


    It was an excuse, of course. Xanala would never become a Masked Warrior. Passing the tests required for that would be impossible as a burner. But for now, pretending to that ambition would draw eyes away from her. For, if the right eyes fell upon her, she¡¯d end up here, rotting in a prison cell, until finally she starved.


    They arrived at a gateway into the complex. It was flanked by a half dozen more Eliminators, whose eyes followed the group as the doors snapped open, let them through, then snapped closed. They passed through three more layers of those doors, each guarded by a half dozen more Eliminators, until finally they emerged into a white hallway. Even more guards patrolled this part of the prison, some dressed in Eliminator¡¯s garb, but more dressed in white suits, holding trays filled with jewels that glowed with white, blue, and red light.


    Surges. That was the main purpose of Raerok: capturing burners, then forcing them to summon Surges. It was a terrible practice, though, admittedly, it kept society well supplied with the artifacts.


    ¡°If you are both determined to assist us,¡± Veridon said, ¡°then come. We will discuss the missing atom burner.¡±


    ¡°Lead the way,¡± Lyrus said.


    They followed the white-masked man down the hallway, and through a maze of similar hallways, passing through several more guarded doors. Xanala noticed that each hallway had scores of cameras on the ceiling, as well as remotely controlled guns waiting to fire downward on the hallway¡¯s occupants. Those guns and cameras became even more common as they passed through the prisoner¡¯s areas, hallways lined with sealed, square cell doors. A screen on the front of each door showed the prisoner inside. Some of them were asleep, but most sat curled into balls, some shocked, some crying, some scratching at their own skin and mumbling to themselves.


    Xanala felt the prisoner¡¯s emotions as she passed, an ability granted by her connection to Void, the Third Power. All around her was hunger, fear, anger. Despair, most of all. It was almost too much to stand. Her eyes followed the door of one particularly broken man. The screen on his door was dark. They¡¯d left him in that darkness for days.


    I could free him. All it would take is a single second of closing my eyes¡­


    Lyrus nudged her, and she moved her gaze away from the prison cell. She was here to lower suspicion. As far as the Eliminators behind her knew, she thought that man was unholy. And though she could break him out, it likely wouldn¡¯t last.


    It was logical to abandon him. And, as her father had taught her, logic was the only constant in the galaxy.


    They rounded a corner, then stopped. This part of the hallway was not white, at least not completely; char marks streaked across the walls and floor. There were holes in the ceiling where guns and cameras had been, and one of the cell doors lay thrown off its hinges.


    ¡°He escaped here,¡± Veridon said. ¡°He¡¯d successfully burned in the past, but never this strongly, and we¡¯d thought raising his drug dose had stopped him.¡±


    ¡°He was acting.¡±


    ¡°Probably,¡± Veridon admitted. ¡°He¡¯s managed to avoid our sight so far. He¡¯s not in someone else¡¯s cell, either, we¡¯ve checked all the cameras a hundred times over. But we do know he hasn¡¯t left the compound.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re sure of that?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely. He has chips in his blood. He can¡¯t leave the compound without us noticing, unless he¡¯s willing to boil himself to do it.¡±


    ¡°He might manage that, if he¡¯s a memory burner,¡± Lyrus noted. ¡°But you¡¯re probably right. He hasn¡¯t left the prison ¡ª yet.¡± He hesitated. ¡°Who is this man?¡±


    ¡°His identity is irrelevant, sir. He¡¯s a burner.¡± That statement was posturing on Veridon¡¯s part. In more private circles, he consistently insisted that the events of the Imperial Age had been misunderstood, and that burners were not inherently corrupt.


    ¡°Yes, yes, I get the religious side of that question,¡± Lyrus said, waving a hand. ¡°But people are predictable, and there is a chance I know him. Who is he? Where is he from?¡±


    Veridon¡¯s mouth opened, but no words came out, and he looked conflicted. He could see that they were maneuvering him into a trap, though he clearly did not know how to escape it. Finally, he spoke.


    ¡°It¡¯s the diplomat, sir.¡±


    Lyrus raised an eyebrow. ¡°The one from Herreon who betrayed us? Ireo?¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Veridon sighed. ¡°Him.¡±


    Xanala briefly remembered the incident. A Confederacy diplomat, working closely with the Church in Herreon, had been caught atom burning a few years back. It had been a huge scandal. Big enough Xanala had been on edge for weeks afterward, and her father had been even angrier than usual. Things like that reminded him what he was risking, keeping Xanala alive. He always kept his word, though, sacrificing more and more to keep her powers secret, directing his anger toward the Confederacy rather than her.


    ¡°Ireo,¡± Lyrus said softly. ¡°I knew him.¡± For a moment his eyes were almost mournful. Then they hardened. ¡°He¡¯ll know about the precautions, then. He won¡¯t try to leave the premises, not without deactivating his chip.¡±


    ¡°Those chips are impossible to deactivate,¡± Veridon said stiffly.


    ¡°Not without boiling his own blood, as you said, but he is an atom burner. If he were a memory burner, too, he could do it. So we at least know he¡¯s not hiding any abilities with the First Power. He¡¯d have used those by now, if he possessed them.¡±


    ¡°He could still be hiding that,¡± Veridon said softly.


    ¡°He wouldn¡¯t. I know Ireo, and the man is impulsive. It¡¯s a wonder he¡¯s waited this long.¡±


    ¡°He is not a man,¡± Veridon said. ¡°He is a thing.¡± His voice was bitter, and he was clenching his jaw. He seemed to hate saying those words, even if he didn¡¯t mean them.


    ¡°Religiously speaking, you¡¯re right,¡± Lyrus said. ¡°But thing or person, he will kill us all the same.¡± He straightened. ¡°I¡¯m leaving. I believe I can track him down, but I do not wish to be weighed down by your staff. They have failed for long enough.¡± He gestured to Xanala. ¡°My daughter, however, will accompany me.¡±


    ¡°A child?¡± Veridon said, eyes widening. ¡°You¡¯d take a child with you to this?¡±


    ¡°She needs experience,¡± Lyrus said. He didn¡¯t elaborate any further. Instead, he waved to Xanala, who followed him as they exited the room.


    They strode down the hallway, Xanala having to almost jog to keep up with her father¡¯s swift pace. When they were out of earshot, Xanala spoke.


    ¡°Do you think he¡¯s dangerous?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s an atom burner. Of course he¡¯s dangerous. That¡¯s why I brought you, and paid the guards bribes so you could use your powers if necessary.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure I can handle a full-on duel, Dad.¡±


    ¡°Not alone, no. But there is only one way to gain experience.¡± He paused, then continued. ¡°If the battle permits, I want you to be the one who strikes the finishing blow.¡±


    Xanala paled. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Ireo will be dead by the end of this. If possible, I want you to kill him. It will be a good lesson. We will not succeed in this coup without you shedding blood. And yes, that person may even be innocent. Lives are the currency used to pay for change, and though we should not relish it, coins are made to be spent.¡±


    Xanala paled further, but nodded. No use in arguing with her father, especially not when his logic was so clear. She began twitching her finger again. She channeled her anxiety into it. Twitch the finger enough, and maybe she wouldn¡¯t have to kill Ireo. It wasn¡¯t a rational thought, and most of her knew that, but somehow it made sense to the worried part of her.


    They wove through the hallways, her father taking winding, confusing pathways, and Xanala swore they were passing cell blocks they¡¯d already been to. They also passed several spawning cells, where burners were tortured until they summoned Surges. Most of those rooms were closed, but one was not. A pale man waited in it, eyes rolled up into his head. He looked as if he hadn¡¯t eaten for weeks, bones stabbing at his near-fleshless skin. Xanala shivered, looking away.


    Finally, Lyrus stopped, arriving at a cell block that tapered off to a dead end. He folded his arms behind his back, pursing his lips, nodding slowly. Then he raised his voice, addressing the workers and guards bustling nearby.


    ¡°Leave us.¡±


    A few heads cocked in confusion, but everyone obeyed. One did not simply disobey one of the Masked Warriors, especially not in the middle of Raerok.


    That left them alone. Save, of course, for the burners waiting in the nearby cells. Xanala¡¯s eyes flickered to the doors. It was silent, but she still felt as if she could hear the captives moaning behind them. They were dangerous, if her father was to be believed, most of them had been driven so feral they¡¯d kill Xanala in a heartbeat for a chance at escape.


    ¡°He should be here soon,¡± Lyrus whispered.


    Xanala frowned. ¡°He¡¯s coming to us?¡±


    ¡°He is,¡± Lyrus said. He smiled. ¡°Ah, Veridon. Predictably, foolishly altruistic. And poor Ireo, always looking out for himself. So simple to manipulate. He really should have let someone else out. I hardly had to pay the atom burner anything.¡±


    Xanala¡¯s eyes widened as things came together. ¡°You hired Ireo, didn¡¯t you? You knew he¡¯d be the one Veridon let free, but you convinced Ireo to double-cross him.¡±


    ¡°I did,¡± Lyrus said, chuckling softly. ¡°You¡¯re getting better at understanding these things. Ireo, beaten as he was, turned out to be an easy sell-out. All I had to do was promise him a ship to Talar, and he agreed to help us.¡±


    ¡°But we¡¯re not going to,¡± Xanala said, voice growing quiet as she realized the actual plan. ¡°We¡¯re going to kill him.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Lyrus said firmly. ¡°I needed to make certain that, when we did dispose of him, he¡¯d be carrying evidence incriminating Veridon. He should have that now. Furthermore, I needed to make certain he¡¯d meet us in a very specific place, so that you could use your powers while fighting him.¡±


    Xanala lit up. ¡°I can use my powers here?¡±


    ¡°I told you I paid bribes. Within sight of this hallway, and this hallway only. And be careful. I paid off or threatened all of the nearby guards, and had the cameras switched off, but I couldn¡¯t get the whole complex secured. If enough guards get involved, you will be exposed.¡±


    Xanala nodded. ¡°I understand. I¡¯ll be careful.¡±


    ¡°Good. Now, be quiet. I do not want Ireo overhearing.¡±


    They fell silent, and Xanala felt a slow twisting overtake her stomach. Another betrayal, and another murder. All in the name of the coup that would make burning legal again ¡ª an act that would itself cost many lives. Her father insisted that the change would be worth the price.


    But she wondered, sometimes. Was this really what she was supposed to do, as the Endowed? Kill some, so that others might live?


    You can¡¯t defeat Oblivion without your powers, she reminded herself. And that¡¯s if the prophecy is even real. And if it¡¯s not, then you have no reason to feel guilty.


    ¡°Prepare yourself,¡± her father whispered. ¡°He¡¯s nearby. I can sense him.¡± He drew his weapon, a wicked, midnight-black sword. To Xanala¡¯s surprise, a Surge waited in its hilt, not a Purity Surge, like usual, but a gleaming red Void Surge.


    Immediately, she felt Oblivion begin whispering in her mind. His voice was deep, rich, the way it always sounded to her. Her father claimed everyone heard a different voice when wielding Void, and that it likely wasn¡¯t Oblivion speaking, just one of his lesser servants.


    Xanala knew, though. Somehow, she knew this was the Enemy himself.


    He will betray you, the god whispered. Even now, he considers it, the thought of your corpse rolling through his mind. It would be so liberating, he muses, to be free of you¡­


    She ignored him. Accusations like that were baseless. Really, for being the god of deception, Oblivion wasn¡¯t very good at lying.


    Ah, but you will see¡­.


    ¡°You snuck a Surge past him?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Of course I did.¡± Her father snorted. ¡°I was trying to trick Veridon, not be a fool myself.¡± He licked his lips. ¡°His desperation is strong. Ireo always was a passionate man¡­¡±


    Xanala¡¯s hand began to quake again. A burner, headed straight for them, who they were about to double cross. She¡¯d been trained for a confrontation like this, but she knew full well the actual thing would be different.


    The lights, suddenly, went dark. For a moment, there was only a single crimson bulb in the corridor. The Void Surge whispered again in Xanala¡¯s mind, the voice of Oblivion even more clear now that the distraction of her sight was gone.


    Kill him, girl. Before he kills you¡­


    The darkness fled as quickly as it had begun, replaced by a man, emanating bright white light as he stepped around the corner. His face was disheveled, his eyes wide and bloodshot. She recognized him from photos her father had shown her just hours ago.


    Ireo.


    ¡°Lyrus.¡± His voice was a rasp, and his eyes darted nervously down to their weapons. ¡°You¡¯re here to kill me, aren¡¯t you? Veridon warned me about this. Told me you¡¯d betray me. I didn¡¯t believe him.¡± He chuckled, a laugh that went on far longer than it should have. ¡°I didn¡¯t really believe you, either. Hard to believe in anyone, after¡­ after¡­¡±


    His eye twitched, and he stared down at the floor, silent, mouth hanging open in a half-smile. Lyrus turned to Xanala, giving her the barest hint of a nod.


    Now, he mouthed.


    They stepped forward, and as they did, Ireo looked up, his expression turning to ice. ¡°So be it,¡± he whispered. Then he slammed the palm of his right hand against the metal wall.


    Immediately, the substance of the wall began to flow away from its frame, grinding as it moved out of the structure and into Ireo¡¯s skin, forming into a glowing, heavenly suit of armor around his chest, then his stomach, then his arms, then his head. He continued to speak, his voice still audible as usual despite the armor.


    ¡°Everyone wants to kill me these days. Everyone, everyone, everyone.¡± He laughed again. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s time I return the favor.¡±


    Lyrus¡¯ eyes darted down the hallway; he was assessing their escapes, Xanala knew. Those were important when fighting an atom burner, especially in such a close space. After a brief look, he closed his eyes, and Void exploded from his Surge, expanding into the air, then doubling back and rushing up his arm, making his figure glow crimson. His countenance shifted, Oblivion¡¯s taint on the Third Power taking hold of his personality.


    Growling, he attacked, tendrils of crimson light writhing from the fingers of his right hand, spirits of the dead manifested into the physical world. In his left hand, he held his sword to the side, another red spirit of light forming around the blade. That soul twisted until it was shaped as a razor-sharp edge ¡ª a Souldagger, capable of cutting one¡¯s very spirit, severing their connection to the physical world. As he summoned it, the tendrils rammed into Ireo, temporarily pushing him backward. Lyrus turned to meet Xanala¡¯s eyes.


    ¡°What are you waiting for?¡± he hissed.


    He whipped back to face Ireo, summoning more tendrils. Ireo was starting to bat them away, the Purity he wielded temporarily boosting his physical strength. That was what Purity did, allowing one to change the makeup of their own body, making it stronger, faster, or even allowing them to fuse metal armor into their skin. In such tight quarters, with no way to avoid a melee fight, Lyrus would lose to Ireo. The Void Surge was powerful, and Lyrus was skilled, but even together they were no match for an atom burner.


    Nevertheless, Xanala stood frozen, the anxiety back, her finger twitching back and forth, but to no avail.


    Is he sure he blackmailed the guards properly? If he didn¡¯t¡­


    Her heart pounded. The voice whispered.


    Does it matter? I can save you. I can free you, Xanala. All you have to do is kill a man who hates you anyway¡­


    She trembled. She felt as if she were being watched. She always did. When your entire life was a lie, there was nothing you feared more than someone else watching you.


    And Okron, the voice was tempting. It touched on her emotions, a delicate ethereal push, a quiet ecstasy that moved her toward giving in. For a moment, she actually debated obeying, killing both Ireo and her father, then running to Talar¡­. to freedom¡­


    But no. She could not hurt Dad. Dad had always been by her side.


    She swiveled towards Lyrus and Ireo, who still dueled fiercely, neither yet able to gain an advantage on the other. Her father was running out of time, though ¡ª his glow had visibly faded, and his supply of Void would not last much longer.


    For an instant longer, she hesitated still, the voice of evil incarnate taunting her. It had changed its tactic.


    If he dies, it whispered, you die with him. Even if he is the man you think he is, he cannot conceal you if he is a corpse. Fear accompanied that whisper, irrational, unnatural fear. Give in, and I will save him.


    That strategy was too much to resist. She closed her eyes and gave in, Reaching for Void.


    The voice flooded her, screamed at her. Became her. Emotions, mostly pain, ran through in a rush, a rush that drove her to her knees, but she survived it somehow. Red light ran outward from her chest, exploding from her eyes, radiating from her body. The hallway was suddenly bright, too bright to see properly. Ireo and her father stepped back, both temporarily shocked by Xanala¡¯s now blazing body.


    Xanala, however, did not hesitate, not anymore. The voice inside her, the voice that was her but was not her all at once, pushed her to act. To destroy. She raised her hand, pulling spirits from Torment, forming them into tendrils of concentrated, Reanimated mass in the physical world. It wasn¡¯t particularly difficult. Tendrils were the most basic construct one could make with Void, and Xanala had always been a prodigy with the Third Power. The spirits, fresh from the afterlife, shrieked in protest as Xanala directed them toward Ireo, but they writhed at his chest all the same, slamming into his titrite armor. He flew backward, crashing into the wall. The sound rang across the hallway. In the distance, alarm bells rang.


    I¡¯m going to need to finish this, Xanala realized. Now. If any of the guards her father hadn¡¯t paid found her, it was over. The fear within grew, but instead of freezing up, she simply let Oblivion¡¯s voice smother it, change it. The terror morphed to fury, and she leapt toward Ireo, throwing more tendrils toward him, pummeling the man with nearly a half dozen strikes. Still, he managed to stumble to his feet. She summoned more, and threw those forward, too. He rose again. She drew even more. He was nearly on his knees now. More.


    Finally, he collapsed. Snakes of red light slithered around his limbs, pinning him to the ground. Xanala stepped toward him, extending out her hand, summoning another spirit from Torment, forming it into a long, wicked blade in her hand. A Souldagger of her own. She rammed it into Ireo¡¯s helm. The two Powers hissed as they struck each other, and the armor exploded, revealing the man¡¯s face beneath it. His eyes were wide with panic.


    Do it, Oblivion hissed. Save your father. Save yourself.


    His voice propelled her forward, pushing her arm forward almost without her choosing. But a part of her, the part that was still herself, hesitated again, staring into Ireo¡¯s wide eyes.


    You are the Endowed, it said. You are supposed to be better than this.


    It was such a small sliver of conviction. She¡¯d never really believed she was the Endowed, and even if she was, she certainly didn¡¯t believe she¡¯d ever live up to the title. But today, that thread of compassion was enough to stop her from murdering her opponent. Her hold on the Third Power slipped, and the Void suddenly fled from her flesh, leaving her feeling drained, her heart sinking in her chest. Soulburning was not a kind process to one¡¯s emotions.


    However, losing her Void left her open to Ireo. She was standing atop him, and as the tendrils vanished he stood up with sudden force, launching her into the air. She hit the ground rolling, and groaned. She managed to rise to her knees just in time to see the atom burner rushing toward her, fists drawn back, a killer¡¯s glint in his eyes.


    Before he could arrive, however, a tendril of red Void lashed around his neck, still exposed from Xanala cracking his helm. It squeezed, and there was a sickening crack as bone snapped violently. Ireo tumbled to the ground, face twitching for a brief instant before falling still.


    There was a long moment of silence. Then Lyrus let out a long laugh. It was a mirthless, dark laugh. He strode to Xanala, smiling, though his eyes had real anger in them. He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet, snorting, shaking his head, biting his lip in frustration.


    ¡°Sometimes I wonder,¡± he said, ¡°what your mother sees in you. You have a long way to go before you are ready for this rebellion.¡±


    There was venom in the words. He meant what he said. Xanala closed her eyes, trying to bite back tears. Thankfully, she succeeded, for a few moments later, Confederacy guards rushed onto the scene.


    They inspected the corpse, found a vocoder linked to Veridon hiding in Ireo¡¯s pocket, and ordered his arrest. Then they attended to Xanala and her father. They did not seem to notice the subtle signs of Xanala¡¯s Voidburning, nor her scar. Not today.


    One day, they would. She closed her eyes as, hours later, they finally left Raerok in a hovercar. At that moment, she made a decision, a terrible decision, but one she had needed to make for a long time.


    Her father was right. She¡¯d been a fool, and it had very nearly cost her. She would never let herself hesitate like that again.


    The Confederacy had kept her in chains her whole life. She intended to break those chains, if she could, by helping her father take control of the Church by force. But one freedom she would keep, whether she succeeded with the coup or not: her life was her own. She would fight for it, no matter the cost. That was the cold determination her father had, that gave him such success. A skill he was trying to teach her.


    And the prophecy?


    Her hand drifted involuntarily toward her scar. For a moment, she questioned her decision.


    Then she scowled. ¡°To Torment with the prophecy,¡± she whispered. Aloud, so that the gods, all three, could witness this oath. ¡°You have beaten me down for too long. I owe you nothing.¡±


    She leaned against her seat, letting out a long breath, the weight of years of expectation lifted off her chest. She smiled. Was this what freedom was like?


    Deep inside her, so deep her conscious self didn¡¯t notice, Oblivion¡¯s voice rumbled.


    Good. You are almost ready¡­

 Chapter 4 - A Test

    They shall defeat the Masked Warriors, and raise their masks to the sky, and declare themselves the Endowed, the Erak¡¯assala, the savior of mankind.


    -Excerpt from The Book of Eternity


    Four days after the incident with Ireo, and on the day of Veridon¡¯s execution, Xanala stood on the balcony of her father¡¯s mansion, looking out on the purple Xeredon sunrise. Contemplating the look on Ireo¡¯s face as that tendril had snapped his neck.


    She¡¯d barely noticed his expression during the fight. She¡¯d been bursting with too much adrenaline to focus on anything but the contest. For some reason, though, the image followed her now ¡ª a man with eyes wide, mouth open in a scream that didn¡¯t have the chance to escape.


    It had been wrong to kill him. She couldn¡¯t shake that conviction, even though she hated the implications. Her father had been wrong.


    She didn¡¯t know how to process that. She didn¡¯t want to process that. So she just stared at the sunrise, remembering the day when she¡¯d tried to escape.


    She¡¯d been thirteen. That seemed so young, though only three years had passed, and little had changed since then. She¡¯d heard, from her schoolteacher, that the Talar not only accepted burning within their borders but welcomed it, elevating those who could wield the Powers to high military status. Her schoolteacher had spoken of that with unconcealed disgust, ranting about how Larsh¡¯s heresy had brought the nation to ruin. But for Xanala, that news had been hope reborn.


    Because of it, she¡¯d tried to run away, slipping out under the cover of night, hoping to steal her father¡¯s ship. She remembered the shame that had washed over her with every footstep as she¡¯d moved through the rainy night, an icy wind whipping against her face.


    Her father, miraculously, had suspected she would try something like that, and had been posting guards near her room for years. They¡¯d alerted her father, and he¡¯d stopped her, quietly telling her that this would not be what she thought it was, informing her of the horrors of the Talar military, and assuring her that their plan for a coup would work, given enough time.


    She¡¯d believed him, and so she was still here. She doubted a few guards could keep her on Xeredon anymore; even her father couldn¡¯t beat her in a fair fight these days. She¡¯d studied Talar culture more, and agreed that it would not be a good fit for her. Trusting her father, she now spent the energy of her frustrations trying to move forward with their plans for a coup.


    Yet today, as she stared at the purple sunset, she wondered. Her father had a Testing today. With a man people kept whispering might actually be the Endowed. What would change, if this atom burner from Kiedd was victorious, subjecting the entire Confederacy to his authority? What would happen if Xanala tried to pass the Testing herself and won? If she did, there wouldn¡¯t need to be a coup. A wave of her hand, and burning would be legal again, freeing thousands to live their lives like normal people, rather than prey.


    But she couldn¡¯t kill her father. And her father refused to resign from the Masked Warriors, despite his superior¡¯s constant nudging toward his retirement. So they were at an impasse, and until they were finally ready for the coup, Xanala¡¯s freedom was heavily restricted.


    Her mother called for her. Xanala heard the sound, but it didn¡¯t register. Her mother called again, louder this time. Wincing, Xanala turned, moving toward the doors into the mansion. She needed to get ready. Today, many eyes would be on her family, and none of them could know the extent of what they planned. Most of all, none of those eyes could see Xanala¡¯s scar.


    Yet, as she opened the door to the inside, she couldn¡¯t help but turn back for a moment, squinting at the blinding sun, before sighing and shutting that door behind her.


    ***


    The Testing was a spectacle unrivaled, as it should be. It was, after all, a religious ritual of unsurpassed importance. It heralded the beginning of a potential hope, of deliverance from Torment. For four thousand years, ever since the ancient nation of Erak¡¯sai had summoned him, Oblivion had controlled the afterlife, and the Endowed was the mythical hero prophesied to end that terrible suffering.


    Unfortunately, the prophecies around the Endowed were vague at best. They had to be capable of wielding all Three Powers, and according to the ancient Trett Zaethin Devaro, they would also be born with a scar already on their skin. Other than that, there were no real identifiers, just speculation ¡ª a fact that led to a plethora of false Endowed trying to use the prophecy to rally political support. The Testing was a way to thin that down; a way, theoretically, to prove that a Prospect was who they claimed to be.


    Now, though, it was more show than anything. The Endowed simply dueled the Masked Warriors, who inevitably killed them. It was not a religious ceremony, nor was it a rally for hope in the fight against the Void. It was just butchery. But it drew crowds, and today, men, women, and children alike swarmed around Xanala in droves.


    She had never loved crowds, and it took everything in her not to light up with Void and run away from the bustling chaos of Xeredon¡¯s streets. Testings, though a solemn occasion for Eliminators and the rest of the Confederacy, were more like a holiday to the common folk of the planet, and that attitude showed in the sheer amount of business being conducted today. Restaurants had lines coming out their doors. Terraces and sidewalks and hovercar stops were all filled with temporary shops, all yelling and waving and smiling to try and sell their wares. The hovercar parking lots, usually half empty, were all crammed full and then some.


    All the people made for many eyes. And, as the daughter of one of the Masked Warriors, a host of those eyes were on her. She was clothed in an unwieldy white dress, and a thin veil covered her face, with a gray rune woven into it, indicating her rank. Her mother walked ahead of her, and their guards, dressed in white, suit-like carbon fiber uniforms for the occasion, pushed on ahead. People pointed and whispered, and sometimes even shouted cheers ¨C or jeers, for those who supported the Prospect from Kiedd.


    The Testing arena was just ahead, a tall, cylindrical building that seemed to tower above the sky itself. A small amount of the public would be allowed inside, but most of the seats there were reserved for Confederacy soldiers, and as they drew closer, the crowd of civilians morphed into a throng of armed men. Though they paid much less attention to Xanala than the commoners, her anxiety still grew. How long until those pistols on their belts were firing at her?


    ¡°Relax,¡± her mother said, falling back to stand beside her. She was a beautiful woman even without makeup, and today she looked so stunning Xanala was surprised that every man in sight wasn¡¯t staring. She wore a dress and veil identical to Xanala¡¯s, though she somehow managed to wear it more elegantly. Taking Xanala¡¯s hand, she smiled. ¡°Father will be alright. He knows how to handle himself.¡± She met Xanala¡¯s eyes, and her gaze told Xanala that those words carried a double meaning. You¡¯ll be alright, too, her expression said. Don¡¯t panic.


    Xanala nodded. ¡°I¡¯m sure he will be, Mother.¡± She began slowly twitching her finger, not focusing on it completely, but using it to push some of her worry away. Her mother was right. Nothing could go wrong if Xanala didn¡¯t panic; Father had expressed the same sentiment.


    They approached the gate, and Xanala ran through the list of preparations again. Was her sleeve up? Yes, it was. Was she Infused, just a little, so no one could read her thoughts? Yes, she was, though not enough the glow was noticeable. Probably. Was her scar covered in makeup¡­ was it? Had she covered it? She thought she had, but was she remembering that from some other time? She tensed, realizing she couldn¡¯t check without pulling her sleeve up. And if the scar wasn¡¯t covered¡­


    Her mother grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly and pulling her forward a little faster as they stepped through into the arena. In the center of the building lay a giant, circular sand pit, with four columns stretching upward into the ceiling. All around the pit were rows and rows of seats, across twenty levels of metal terraces. On the front row of each terrace waited recording men, muon cameras aimed at the arena to produce a hologram of the coming fight.


    Xanala and her mother sat down on the second row, just behind a group of cameramen. Several other of her father¡¯s highest servants and officials waited there, along with, to Xanala¡¯s surprise, three senators. She didn¡¯t recognize them, though they were clearly from Talar, their purple coats with gray buttons gave away that much. Xanala sat beside one of them. They waited in silence for a long moment, him gazing at the arena, Xanala nervously watching as hundreds more people filed in.


    ¡°It¡¯ll be alright,¡± her mother whispered.


    She sounded less sure this time.


    A few minutes later, the Talar senator turned to Xanala, smiling. ¡°So. You¡¯re Lyrus Erdor¡¯s infamous daughter.¡±


    Xanala¡¯s heart pounded. ¡°Infamous?¡±


    The senator shrugged. ¡°Perhaps a bit of an exaggeration. I¡¯m just trying to make conversation. Name¡¯s Traegus Yral. Are you ready for the show?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not a show,¡± Xanala muttered. At least, it shouldn¡¯t be.


    Traegus just laughed. ¡°Everything here is a show, child.¡± He leaned back. ¡°Have you heard anything of this Tenedon? I haven¡¯t paid much attention to Kiedd recently. Don¡¯t think they could produce a competent burner if they tried.¡± He shook his head, eyes twinkling.


    ¡°Just the usual,¡± Xanala said carefully. ¡°Has the scar, can wield the Powers.¡±


    ¡°Only two,¡± Traegus noted. ¡°That should disqualify him, if you ask me. But what do I know of the prophecy?¡± His eyes gleamed, though there was a darkness to them, too. ¡°The Trett just needs another example for her collection. The people are getting vocal. Too many questions about us Talar and our burners.¡± He laughed again. It was a mirthless laugh. Then he turned, meeting Xanala¡¯s eyes. ¡°What do you think of burners, child?¡±


    Xanala swallowed. This man was very forward. ¡°I try not to think too much about them,¡± she said, after a pause that was probably too long, and with an expression that probably betrayed too much. Can¡¯t you hide yourself well for once? Father would be screaming at you.


    ¡°And the Talar?¡± He said it as if he were not one of them, and he seemed genuinely intrigued, but Xanala still shivered involuntarily.


    ¡°Perhaps we should not talk of that,¡± Xanala said gently. What did she have to do to make it clear that she wanted him to be quiet? The man¡¯s grin only widened.


    ¡°Oh, the Confederacy and its politics. So many games, all behind the extra game of religion.¡± He chuckled. ¡°Games upon games. You all would faint if you were put in a room of commoners. The whole thing would be so straightforward you¡¯d have a heart attack.¡± His face suddenly grew serious. ¡°But really, Erdor. What do you think of this? I¡¯m curious, you know. It¡¯s not every day I get to speak to a daughter of a Masked Warrior.¡±


    Xanala shifted uncomfortably, but the man¡¯s gaze did not leave her. ¡°I¡­ wish it were a little less bloody,¡± she finally managed to say, ¡°but it¡¯s a religious thing, so I guess it¡¯s fine.¡±


    ¡°So you do believe in the Endowed then?¡±


    ¡°The Tower is never wrong,¡± Xanala said carefully. ¡°So yes, I do.¡± She really wished this man would relent. Her finger was twitching violently now, though it barely helped.


    ¡°And do you think Tenedon is the Endowed?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Xanala was surprised by the sudden vehemence in her voice. Where had that come from? She forced herself to relax. ¡°He isn¡¯t. And my father will kill him for his blasphemy.¡±


    Traegus nodded. ¡°You¡¯re still hiding,¡± he said softly. ¡°But, fair enough. This whole thing is a game. This whole planet is practically a kara board.¡± He shook his head. ¡°A tank of ethium with a match hanging above it, waiting to burn, all while the Confederacy pretends this is about religion, and nothing more. Larsh will be pleased with my report.¡± He finally fell silent.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    Xanala¡¯s insides twisted; the odd Talar man¡¯s words had irked her. This shouldn¡¯t just be a game. It was supposed to be a grand ritual, signifying the emergence of a being who could save mankind. A bringing together of the nations.


    But then, Traegus was right. It had been twelve hundred years since Oblivion¡¯s imprisonment, and few mortals gave the dark god a second thought until they were on their deathbeds. As much as she wanted to think the Confederacy had any sense of honor left, it didn¡¯t. It was a political organization now. If Xanala ever underwent the Testing, she¡¯d have to keep that in mind, looking out for any way they tried to cheat her into an unfair fight.


    But I¡¯m not going to. I¡¯m not going to kill Dad. We¡¯ll stage a coup instead.


    Yet, the Tower of Foreseeing was always right, and according to it, she would kill her father, if she was, actually, the Endowed. She frowned, though she pushed the thought aside a few moments later. Many had been born with the scar. None had yet fulfilled the prophecy. Besides, she¡¯d forsaken that role.


    She forced herself to relax, and even stopped twitching her finger. She was around a Talar senator, who, considering that nation¡¯s current state, probably had nothing against burners. It was still illegal in Talar, of course. They just conveniently ignored Confederacy law, knowing they had enough power within the federation to force such allowances.


    Ten minutes passed, then twenty. The tension slowly returned. So many people. Xanala was accustomed to a more sequestered life; the Masked Warriors, though powerful, weren¡¯t usually so public, instead functioning as aloof, religious figures, and only occasionally interfering in politics. Today, though, incoming senators and diplomats took the time to stop by her seat, asking her questions and shaking her hand. She was careful not to let her sleeve slip during those handshakes.


    Finally, when the arena appeared full, and the newcomers had slowed to a trickle, the ceiling slid open, pulled into two semicircular halves. It revealed a deep violet night sky, glittering with stars. A moment later, a hovering platform lowered into the arena. On it sat a tall, imposing woman in long green robes. She swept her eyes over the crowd, and nearly everyone fell silent. Then she spoke, her voice magnified so that it echoed across the entire stadium.


    ¡°I am the Trett,¡± the woman said. ¡°Leader of the International Confederacy, elected ruler of all civilized Delti, priestess of the Church of Meridian, queen of kings. I hold the highest authority the Three Bladewielders can give. It is I who, if the time comes, will train the Endowed.¡±


    Traegus snorted at that. ¡°She¡¯s not even a burner,¡± he whispered, quiet enough Xanala was sure she wasn¡¯t meant to hear it. ¡°She couldn¡¯t train one if she wanted to.¡± He shook his head. ¡°All a game.¡±


    ¡°Today,¡± the Trett continued, ¡°we honor a grand tradition. And a solemn tradition. Prophecy, given to us by the Tower of Foreseeing, declares that an individual will be chosen by the Powers to defeat the dark god Oblivion. We call them the Endowed, and today, we are here to determine if they have been found.¡± The Trett paused for effect, sweeping her eyes over the crowd again. ¡°Those of you who can hear me, think long and hard about how your lives may change today. The Endowed may very well be among us. Our salvation may be here.¡±


    This earned a few hesitant cheers. The Trett smiled, though even from far away Xanala could see there was no joy in the gesture. ¡°Tenedon Lukos is today¡¯s Prospect. He has declared himself the hero of the prophecy. He has shown the scar of Erak¡¯assala, a sign given to us by the first Trett. He has mustered an army to crusade into Torment, and now wishes for our support.¡±


    She turned her gaze toward the back of the arena, where a small hatch had opened in the arena wall. ¡°This is your last chance to renounce your claim, Tenedon of Kiedd. You may stay behind those doors, and remain a citizen of Kiedd. Or you may fight, and become the Endowed.¡±


    A long pause. Then, finally, a man stepped out. Tall and muscular, he had long hair and a scraggly beard matted with scars. He held a longsword in his hand, and a white, glowing jewel shone through a hole above his chest in his tunic. Apparently, he was not only an atom burner, but had summoned his own Surge. The Trett pursed her lips.


    ¡°The Prospect has declared his intent. May we honor him, for the bravery he has shown to defy Oblivion,¡± she said. Then she waved to the sky. To the violet-tinted stars that gleamed within the heavens. ¡°However, the Void will not honor him, nor have mercy on any who follow him into the afterlife. So there must be a test. A show of power, to prove that the man you see is truly what he claims to be.¡±


    The Trett waved again, and three more doors opened. One man stepped out of each. Each of their faces was covered, though they wore different clothing: one wore tight-fitting blue robes with a cloth mask, another wore thin, red-painted metal padding and a steel mask, and the third ¨C Xanala¡¯s father ¨C wore an armor set of pure titrite, the helm covering his face. Each of the men had a goggle-like set of two cameras on top of their masks, and each wielded a Surgeblade of a different Power. They moved to the center of the arena, forming a triangle.


    ¡°The Masked Warriors,¡± the Trett continued, ¡°have long been our way of testing those who claim the right of Prophecy. The Endowed must kill them, and if they succeed, they shall advance to the next of the Tests. Remember that the warriors¡¯ faces are covered to represent Oblivion, who, no matter what you do, will never spare you. You are a tool to him. A pawn. And, when death comes, he will torture you the same, wicked or righteous.¡± She swept her eyes over the crowd again, a dark expression on her face.


    We¡¯re all pawns to you, too, Xanala realized. She¡¯s reminding everyone of death. Of the power she has.


    In that moment, Xanala hated this woman more than anything. She, and the organization she led, were the reason Xanala had to hide. The reason the prisoners in Raerok had to suffer. The reason her father was so preoccupied with political games, unable to rest and spend time with his family.


    The Trett was everything wrong with the world, and with a flick of her wrist, Xanala could end her. One day, she would, taking control of the Confederacy and then granting it to her father. She longed for that day, and for a single moment of raw hatred, patience evaded her, and she almost Reached for Void. Almost shot out a tendril of light to snap her enemy¡¯s neck. Almost ran out, and exposed herself as the Endowed.


    ¡°Let the duel begin!¡±


    The crowd roared, and suddenly Xanala was small again. She forced her eyes back down to the arena, focusing on her father, in his gleaming white armor. She twitched her finger as he fought. It didn¡¯t help.


    Tenedon was, indeed, an atom burner, and immediately, he touched the metal wall of the arena, burning Purity and turning his skin to gleaming titrite. Then he rushed toward the trio of Masked Warriors, longsword in hand.


    The Masked Warriors moved with pre-coordinated precision. The Warrior wielding the Ever Surge immediately took off into the air, soaring above Tenedon¡¯s head, then unleashing a hail of firebolts down at him. Tenedon either dodged the bolts or let them hit his armor, where they fizzled out, but that would be a problem for him. An Ever burner in the sky was a nightmare for a Purity wielder to deal with.


    That didn¡¯t seem to faze Tenedon, though. He lunged toward the Masked Warrior wielding Void ¨C Vyrik was his name, if Xanala remembered correctly. Vyrik narrowly avoided his sword strikes, summoning tendrils of spiritual power to knock the blades just barely off course. Xanala¡¯s father engaged next, using his longsword to force Tenedon backward. Lyrus was clearly more skilled than Tenedon, and he managed to break one of Tenedon¡¯s arm plates, then stab the skin as it reformed. Tenedon yelped, then stepped back. A large chunk of the crowd cheered at that.


    The Warrior with the Ever Surge ¨C a man named Irin ¨C saw his opportunity. Raising his hand, he unleashed a bolt of hot, blazing plasma toward Tenedon. It struck his helm, blowing apart the armor piece in a single blast. Tenedon stumbled backward, the skin the helm had been made from quickly reforming, a shocked expression now on his face.


    The shock quickly morphed to anger. To Xanala¡¯s surprise, Tenedon cocked back his sword, as if to charge Lyrus.


    And then, he threw it.


    The crowd gasped as the blade flew into the air, propelled by the unnatural strength Purity granted Tenedon. It rammed into Irin¡¯s chest, tearing through his flesh and soaring out the other side until it embedded itself in one of the terrace walls. Irin sat briefly in the air, bleeding, his expression shocked, his skin pure alabaster. Then, he stopped glowing, and his corpse fell, smashing into the sand below. A faint line of green mist exited his mouth: his soul, descending into Torment.


    Though the crowd¡¯s eyes followed the corpse, Tenedon did not waste any time. He ran back to the arena wall, slamming his hand into another section of it and refreshing his titrite armor. Then he stretched forth his other hand, and a sword formed there: a sword made from radiant white light.


    The crowd gasped again. That was an Atomdagger. They were incredibly difficult to summon, even for an atom burner. It was certainly a sign that this man could actually be the Endowed. However, more important to Xanala, an Atomdagger could cut through anything.


    Even her father¡¯s usually impervious titrite armor.


    Tenedon charged again, and this time the two Masked Warriors split, moving to opposite sides of the arena. Xanala suspected she knew what they were doing: forcing Tenedon to engage one of them on one side, allowing the other to blindside the atom burner. A decent strategy, but a tactic that would likely see one of the Warriors dead.


    Tenedon hesitated a moment, then broke after Vyrik. Vyrik immediately lashed out with tendrils of red light, pushing them against Tenedon¡¯s armor, trying to slow him down. It was little use. Surges, though powerful, were nowhere near as strong as a true burner. Vyrik blocked two of Tenedon¡¯s blows before he fell, head severed by the Atomdagger.


    As they fought, Xanala¡¯s father ran across the arena with equally inhuman speed, then leapt on top of Tenedon¡¯s back. Tenedon bucked, but Lyrus got one, two sword strikes on the atom burner¡¯s helm, cracking it. Tenedon bucked again. Again Lyrus held on, though he didn¡¯t get another blow in on the helmet. Tenedon stumbled backward, slamming into the wall. Lyrus swung around to Tenedon¡¯s front, using one leg to push Tenedon¡¯s Atomdagger away, the other to shove him to the ground. Tenedon¡¯s other hand snapped upward, snatching Lyrus¡¯ neck. Lyrus didn¡¯t struggle, instead slamming his sword into Tenedon¡¯s helm again. It shattered, shrapnel falling across the sands.


    However, before Lyrus could finish Tenedon off, Tenedon threw Xanala¡¯s father backward, with force only an atom burner could muster. Lyrus soared at least twenty feet into the air, then slammed into one of the columns. His broken body slid to the ground. To Xanala¡¯s relief, Lyrus¡¯ crumpled form healed as it fell, shattered bones slowly knitting back together. He was alive, and his Purity Surge was shifting his body back to its natural state.


    She wasn¡¯t sure it would be fast enough, though. Tenedon rushed toward Lyrus, his helm gone, but his Atomdagger still shining bright. He arrived just as Lyrus stood back up, swinging the Atomdagger directly at Lyrus¡¯ chest. Lyrus threw his hand forward.


    And suddenly, the blade stopped. A bright point of white light radiated from the place where Lyrus¡¯ hand met the Atomdagger, and Xanala could see that her father¡¯s hand was Infused with Purity ¨C Purity that, for now, could block the Atomdagger¡¯s energy. He¡¯d only have an instant.


    But that was all he needed. Tenedon hesitated for just a moment, clearly shocked that his attack had been blocked. In that moment, Lyrus thrust his blade straight through Tenedon¡¯s right eye. He fell over instantly, sand parting as his heavy, armored body sunk into it. Green mist poured out of his mouth. Atom burners could heal ¨C but only if they were alive to do it.


    There was a loud silence, then a hesitant cheer. Soon, the entire crowd was rising and clapping. Xanala joined them, if only out of relief that her father had survived.


    ¡°All hail the Masked Warriors! All despise the false Endowed!¡± Some of the masses rushed onto the arena sand, spitting on Tenedon¡¯s carcass, firing rounds into his mangled face.


    Beside Xanala, Traegus did not stand. Instead, he stared at the arena, a bemused smile on his face.


    ¡°They wouldn¡¯t have lasted a minute against Larsh,¡± he said. ¡°Not one of them. Yet they still think they are players in this game. Such fools.¡± He turned to Xanala, meeting her eyes, then leaning in close. Xanala jumped at the sudden movement.


    ¡°It was a pleasure to meet the famed hero of the prophecy. You are meant for more than their games, Erdor.¡± He smiled, and the playfulness fled his face, leaving only cold stone. ¡°When you are ready to accept your role in this, know that Oblivion has an offer for you.¡±


    He turned and left before Xanala could even react. She should have chased him, but she sat frozen in her seat, blood and fear pounding through her head. He knew. How could he know?


    Finally, as she recovered from the shock, her eyes followed him. Now that she looked closer, he wasn¡¯t a Senator at all ¡ª instead, he had a general¡¯s rune plastered on his back. Why was a Talar general here, on Xeredon? Why had he been allowed in the arena? The Talar were technically still a member of the Confederacy, but they¡¯d broken so many rules the federation was seriously considering ejecting them.


    Most of all, how did he know about her scar? And the Void¡­ it couldn¡¯t have really sent him, could it?


    He was gone before she could ask, and others were rising from their seats. She pushed the thoughts from her mind, twitching her finger to take control of the fear. There would be time for questions later. When she was behind closed doors, or in one of her father¡¯s hideouts in the Undercity.


    Something else he¡¯d said bothered her too, though. He¡¯d talked about Larsh, in the arena. Larsh, who also claimed to be the Endowed, though in her thirteen years of rule, she¡¯d never submitted to the Testing. Larsh, who allowed memory burning within her borders, despite the entire International Confederacy¡¯s protests.


    For the first time in three years, Xanala again wanted to flee to Talar. Leave all this hiding behind.


    But, it wouldn¡¯t work. And if it went wrong, Xanala, who, as far as she knew, was the Endowed, would have to submit to the Testing. For if she was found as a burner, her only hope would be to declare herself a Prospect, and fight the Masked Warriors. Even if she was not found, it was supposedly her destiny to defeat the Void ¡ª and this was a necessary first step. A first step she¡¯d take whether or not she liked it, for the Tower of Foreseeing was never wrong.


    She glanced down at the ripped-apart corpse on the sands. At the people turned to animals who spat upon his body. She shivered.


    Destiny or not, if she ended up in this arena, she doubted she would fare any better than Tenedon.

 Chapter 5 - A Blade Calling

    Hope is a weapon, elegant, beautiful, and dangerous.


    -The Rift Code, Proverbs


    We are close, God said in Cyrla¡¯s mind. You have done well.


    She usually did her best not to show any outside reaction to the voice, but the smile that crossed her face in that moment was irresistible. It felt good, to know that things would come to a head soon. That, after all she¡¯d done, the Shadi ¡ª and the Talar ¡ª would finally recognize her for the prophet she truly was.


    Right now, though, she stood in a large, circular room, with holoscreen projectors covering every square foot of the walls. The projectors showed the day¡¯s footage, first-person views of the carnage that had ensued on Mirador. Blood sprayed across many of the screens, and about half of the feeds simply showed cloudy water or blue skies; corpses were not ideal cameramen. But some of them were perfect. Lasertips flashing, grenades exploding, bodies crumpling, men screaming, all captured in crisp detail. Cyrla¡¯s grin couldn¡¯t help but widen as she watched the spectacle. God would be pleased.


    She¡¯d hated accepting Oblivion as God at first. How could God be so cruel? Why should she worship him, rather than the benevolent Okron, or the noble Etheri? But as time wore on, she¡¯d realized the truth: even among gods, dominance was the only accurate measure of morality. With enough power, anything was right. And Oblivion had all power.


    Therefore, Oblivion was God. And because he was God, he decided what was right.


    ¡°Anything stand out, my lady?¡± Tyrus said beside her. A hulk of a man, he, as always, wore full titrite armor, only his helm taken off, and even that was stuffed into his armpit, waiting. Tyrus liked to be prepared. It was a virtue she could appreciate, if one that could annoy her.


    Cyrla waited a moment before replying. ¡°Perelor¡¯s feed,¡± she said. ¡°Where is it?¡±


    Tyrus frowned. ¡°You want to watch the memory burner again?¡±


    ¡°Yes. Which one is his?¡±


    Tyrus¡¯ frown deepened, but he pointed to a small panel on the right side of the room. ¡°That one, my lady. But¡­¡±


    Cyrla raised an eyebrow as she turned to watch the footage. Currently, it depicted young Krot struggling through the water, deep crimson blood dancing in the surrounding current. Cyrla couldn¡¯t resist a grin as she saw the swirling red liquid. They¡¯d think she was disturbed because of it, but let them have their rumors. Kneeling to Oblivion changed one¡¯s tastes in ways a mere mortal couldn¡¯t understand. ¡°But what?¡±


    ¡°My lady¡­ we all agree this obsession is getting out of hand.¡±


    Cyrla snorted. ¡°Obsession?¡±


    Thau it, she thought. They¡¯ve noticed. Not that it mattered. She¡¯d just have to play along with whatever story they¡¯d concocted to explain her interest.


    ¡°Yes. You spend more time on Perelor¡¯s screens than all the others combined. I know he¡¯s a memory burner, and of special interest to the Cunning One, but it¡¯s still getting to be a bit¡­ much.¡±


    ¡°And what would you have me do instead?¡±


    ¡°Well, we¡¯re currently backlogged on our broadcast footage. If you could spend more time approving it, it would help our workflow significantly.¡±


    ¡°Consider it approved, then.¡±


    Tyrus blinked. ¡°What?¡±


    Cyrla sighed, turning and putting on what she hoped looked like a somewhat weary face. ¡°Let me be frank with you, lieutenant. I am no journalist. That is your role. I am here for one purpose and one purpose only: security. I am a Voidmage, and my presence keeps the slaves in line, despite their¡­ predicament.¡±


    ¡°I know that,¡± Tyrus said slowly. ¡°But¡­¡±


    Cyrla raised a hand. ¡°Let me finish. You know what you are doing. Fear-mongering is an expertise of mine, yes, but ultimately, I am not a necessary part of the propaganda team. My role here is solely to reduce mutinies and address those that arise.


    ¡°Perelor Krot is a memory burner. His powers seem dormant, yes, but we don¡¯t yet know if that¡¯s just an act he¡¯s putting on. Furthermore, he is friends with the only Surgewielder in camp. He is more dangerous than anyone else here, perhaps more than all the others combined.


    ¡°So yes, I spend time on his screen. Monitoring his behavior is crucial to fulfilling my role. I ask that you not interfere in this, and in return, I will allow you more leeway in your own area of expertise. Am I clear?¡±


    Tyrus hesitated, then nodded. ¡°Yes, my lady. Thank you for explaining. I will inform the others of your decision.¡±


    ¡°Good. You are dismissed.¡± He walked off. Cyrla watched him for a moment, then crossed her arms behind her back, returning to stare at Perelor¡¯s screen. Her lieutenant had seemed to buy the act well enough. Not completely, but she doubted he suspected her for what she was: a Shadi, infiltrating Talar nobility and working towards the goals of Oblivion.


    She wasn¡¯t sure why the dark god was so interested in Perelor Krot. Yes, the boy was the brother of a potential Endowed, but that was of little consequence now that his planet had fallen. He was a memory burner, though that wasn¡¯t uncommon, regardless of the Confederacy¡¯s efforts to kill their kind. Besides, he never used those powers anymore. He just sat in the slave camps, defeated and downcast and utterly pathetic. Cyrla was surprised he hadn¡¯t killed himself yet.


    But Oblivion had explicitly commanded her to watch Perelor, and watch him she would. So she kept her eyes firmly on the screen, taking note as Perelor failed to stop another slave from committing suicide, then sunk into the trenches, falling silent as the battle moved on. He wasn¡¯t exhibiting any particularly rebellious behavior. Still, she¡¯d send a couple of trusted scouts to watch the man tonight. Best not to risk losing track of him.


    After all, it was not wise to disappoint God.


    ***


    A few hours after the battle ended, Perelor trudged through the streets of an abandoned Miradoran suburb. Arrus, and another man from his squadron, walked behind him; they were the only ones in good enough condition to make the trip, though the other man had an upper arm wound that did not look good.


    The city had been left surprisingly intact; it seemed the enemy had retreated before the Talar had been forced to bomb the streets. There were only a few bodies lying on the ground, and most were already being cleaned up by slaves in purple cloth. The other man from Perelor¡¯s squadron, a Grahalan in red and silver, kept looking at those slaves, a hint of jealousy in his eyes, something not uncommon among Perelor¡¯s men. The other Talar slaves might not live pleasant lives, but at least they weren¡¯t being slaughtered on camera.


    Those cameras were running again, their buzz audible to Perelor now that the shouts of battle had faded to quieter groans of pain. He suspected they wouldn¡¯t run much longer, though ¡ª this carnage was bad, but there would be far worse on other sectors of the planet, and those sites would be the ones that were eventually broadcast. For now, though, they continued onward at a slow walk, led by a Talar soldier in shining violet armor ¡ª armor as of yet unscathed by battle. He did not speak to the slaves. In fact, his expression grew more than a little nervous every time he looked at Perelor or Arrus, his eyes drifting toward their Surges.


    All the slave masters acted like that when Perelor was around. They seemed to think he, with his Surge, was the most likely to try to escape. Well, he could understand that line of reasoning, even if they were wrong.


    Eventually, they came to a stop as the city faded back into farmland. The cameras stopped, and the Talar soldier walked away as half a dozen more soldiers, these in scuffed-up, battle-torn armor, strode up to Perelor and the other two men. Grunting, they handed Perelor three large metal tubes, each with a trigger and a massive barrel at its end.


    ¡°Corpse duty,¡± one of them said. ¡°Your squad has the beach sector, borders are cast to your holoscreen. Get to work.¡±


    They stepped back, though their eyes remained firmly on Perelor. He handed one tube to Arrus, and another to the wounded man, who looked as if he could hardly withstand the weight of it. ¡°Corpse duty,¡± he repeated. ¡°These are mobile disposers. Knob on the left shows charge, top button will dispense the flames. Take any valuables off of any bodies you find, and turn them in to me. Don¡¯t steal, they don¡¯t react kindly to that.¡±


    Arrus sighed. ¡°They really couldn¡¯t just do a bonfire, huh?¡±


    Perelor shrugged. ¡°Keeps us busy.¡±


    ¡°More like keeps us stinky.¡±


    Perelor snorted. ¡°Got a date tonight or something?¡±


    ¡°Well, no. But they don¡¯t know that.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Very rude of them. Stealing that cologne only goes so far, you know.¡±


    ¡°Yup. I smell you every day, so trust me, I know.¡± Perelor straightened. ¡°Let¡¯s get to work. I want to get some sleep tonight.¡±The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    And start forgetting the faces of those men.


    Arrus nodded. ¡°I can get behind that. Let¡¯s get to work.¡±


    They began trudging back toward the beach, falling into silence. Perelor glimpsed the other slave, though, the one with the arm wound. He was looking back at the Talar soldiers, lips pursed, fire in his eyes. The sheer intensity of the gaze made Perelor shiver.


    That one might be trouble. He vaguely remembered seeing this man during the fighting. There was a reason he had survived; the way he¡¯d killed clearly indicated he had military training. But there was nothing to be done about it yet. As they arrived at the beach, Perelor moved away from the others and began cleaning up the wreckage.


    It was a slow process. The Disposers, though able to burn away a corpse in seconds, took several minutes to charge ¡ª a weakness built into this model to keep them from being used against Talar soldiers. And, though they only had to cover a slim section of the beach, there were at least a hundred corpses just in that area. Though the echoes were faint ¡ª most of these men¡¯s minds and memories were well within Torment now ¡ª they still murmured in the back of Perelor¡¯s thoughts.


    To make matters worse, this was the same plot of ground Perelor had fought on earlier. He tensed as he felt N527¡¯s echoes, clear as the ocean water in front of him, coming from a body that lay face up in the sand nearby.


    Better to give up, the suicidal captive whispered. Better to let the quiet take you.


    He knew what it felt like to have those thoughts. And he knew, at least a little, how to deal with them. He should have tried harder to stop the boy from killing himself. Should have done better. For a moment, his hand drifted toward the dagger on his belt, but he quickly retracted it.


    There will be time for that later.


    Kneeling beside N527¡¯s corpse, he got to work.


    ***


    Perelor closed Captain Iralik¡¯s eyes, whispering an Ethean prayer before standing and turning the knob to recharge his Disposer.


    It was nightfall now, and the platoon was nearly done with corpse duty. Perelor had been working near the trenches when he¡¯d found Iralik. It looked as if he¡¯d taken a bullet while slipping into the trench, then fallen inside and died there. His carcass, like most, had a face taut with pain and a figure contorted with fear. His dead eyes stared at the stars.


    And so Perelor closed them. It was an Ethean tradition; the Meridianite priests there said that a man¡¯s soul could still see through his eyes when he died, and the reminder of his former life made Torment all the worse. Perelor wasn¡¯t sure if he believed in the Ethean religion anymore, but he did this all the same. Best not to risk making a man¡¯s condemnation worse.


    His head camera buzzed; apparently, this was bad enough to merit potential footage. Or maybe they just wanted to watch him. They did that, sometimes. Either way, he ignored it. The Talar might own his writ of slavery, but they didn¡¯t own him. At least, he told himself that as he lowered the Disposer and activated it, burning Iralik to cinders.


    ¡°Okron guide you,¡± he said, finishing the prayer, ¡°away from the cold depths of the planets and into the endless warmth of the stars.¡± His eyes lingered on the man a moment longer. Did he deserve that prayer? He had caused even more of Perelor¡¯s men to die. Surely that earned him at least a little of Torment.


    But then, it wasn¡¯t as if Perelor himself hadn¡¯t sat and watched similar slaves die, without even trying to interfere. Perhaps they both deserved Torment. Perhaps neither did. It didn¡¯t matter. Torment was what you got, no matter how good of a person you were.


    It was a disturbing reality of the galaxy, one few liked to think about. There was no point in doing the ¡°right¡± thing, whether you thought it was right to begin with or not. Everyone got the same, horrible reward, so what incentive was there to be moral?


    And yet you still try to find Eliel, a part of him noted. Why? She¡¯ll just fail, like the other Endowed did.


    He pushed that thought away. Maybe there wasn¡¯t a right thing, but he intended to honor his father¡¯s memory, and that meant protecting his sister. Slowly, he moved toward the others; they were done for now. Those who stayed on the island would probably find corpses in hidden corners Perelor¡¯s men hadn¡¯t scoured, but most of them had been properly burnt away.


    Arrus and the other man, N523, gathered around. Perelor collected their Disposers, then nodded northward.


    ¡°We¡¯re sleeping with squad three tonight, and I¡¯ll be subbing in for Iralik until they find his replacement. No further duties until tomorrow. Sleep well, though, you¡¯ll need the rest.¡±


    Arrus nodded. ¡°You need help carrying those?¡± he asked, nodding toward the weapons in Perelor¡¯s hand.


    They were bulky, and the three together were heavy enough he probably could have used the help. But he shook his head.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    ¡°You sure?¡±


    ¡°Yup.¡±


    Arrus¡¯ brow creased. ¡°Well. Just come back as soon as you¡¯ve got them delivered, I guess.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll come back when I want to, Arrus.¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡± he met Perelor¡¯s eyes, flinched, then sighed. ¡°Alright.¡± He walked away, though his eyes lingered on Perelor longer than they should have.


    He knows, Perelor thought. Unfortunate, but it wasn¡¯t as if the younger man could stop him. Grunting, Perelor strode into the trees, found a Talar soldier, and dropped off the weapons.


    Then he began heading for the city.


    He suspected the area they¡¯d walked through earlier would be private enough. All the civilians who¡¯d lived here had been airlifted out during the invasion, and consequently, the residential districts were nearly silent. And, sure enough, as he made his way out of the foliage and into the streets, he saw no one, save for the smoke of a mass corpse burning a few miles off. He found his way to a backstreet, checked for any stray Talar, then closed his eyes, letting his father¡¯s voice call to him.


    You failed, it rumbled. You didn¡¯t keep her safe.


    Perelor shivered, a nightmare beginning to dance across his thoughts ¡ª flames lashing across cement rooftops, blood and mud and dirt flying into the air as fighter planes descended on the streets.


    It was not a nightmare. It was a memory. He fell to his knees.


    You let Larsh take her.


    ¡°No,¡± he said, voice trembling. ¡°I tried. I tried. I¡¯m sorry, I tried.¡±


    You failed.


    You broke your oath.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    Remorse will not bring her back. Remember, Perelor. You lost her.


    He did remember, for one agonizing moment. Then he forced himself to forget. The voices, and the images, faded.


    The pain didn¡¯t. It raced through his veins, pinning his knees to the ground. It seemed to press hard against his chest, as if trying to stifle his heartbeat. For a moment, he wouldn¡¯t have cared if it succeeded.


    Then, groaning, he stood up. Slowly, hesitantly, he retrieved his dagger, drawing it from his belt. His hand shook. He hated that; he¡¯d done this a thousand times, and every time he did it he still hesitated. It was dishonorable.


    He held the dagger in front of his face. The metal blade was well polished, and he could see himself in the reflection. His Ethean uniform was in tatters, torn apart by the battle, and though he¡¯d healed himself, dried blood still caked his skin. An eyepatch still covered one of his eyes, even after all these years. He could heal it, and people often asked why he didn¡¯t.


    They didn¡¯t understand. The lost eye was his punishment. His reminder of how, and who, he had failed that horrible day when everything had changed.


    With his free hand, he swung the patch off his face. Beneath, his eye was barely recognizable as an eye, though the black glyph scarred into it was clearly readable.


    Elekhai.


    Slave.


    Failure.


    He tucked the eyepatch into his pocket. Hesitated, again. Then, grimacing, he began to cut.


    He slashed himself carefully, avoiding any large veins or arteries. This was meant to hurt, but not to disable him, nor to use too much of his Surge¡¯s power. So he slid the blade close to his skin, flaying himself rather than cutting deep. Within a minute, his arm was a mess of exposed flesh, beads of blood dripping to the ground. Most men would be screaming in pain by now, or, at the very least, incapable of hurting themselves further.


    Not Perelor. He¡¯d had years to train himself.


    He switched hands, now holding the dagger in a hand that was itself slashed in several places. His muscles stung as they touched the metal, but he ignored them, carefully repeating the process on his left arm, trying his best to replicate the exact pattern he¡¯d made on the right one. It was difficult. He could push back the pain enough to continue cutting, but his hand still shook, and his brain was reeling at the loss of blood.


    There was one benefit of this, though, one that outweighed the cost a hundred times over. While he cut, the screams were gone. The past itself was gone. There was only him and the blade. Him and the warm blanket of red covering his arm.


    In a twisted way, it almost felt like Eliel was back, embracing him. Almost.


    Finally, he finished. His hand, trembling violently now, gave in, and the dagger slipped from his grip. It clanged as it hit the cement walkway, the sound echoing in the night. Perelor himself sat down, head slumped down, exhausted.


    Slowly, the hurt, the real pain he¡¯d come here to numb, enveloped him. His father, staring upward with charred holes for eye sockets. A whip, ramming into his back, over and over. Dozens of his comrades laying dead on a battlefield. The men from today that he hadn¡¯t known, but had cared for anyway, no matter what he pretended. All of them lost because he hadn¡¯t tried hard enough.


    Most of all, his sister. Gone. Torn from him, five years ago today. The last shred of worthiness he had left, extinguished in an instant.


    The tears overtook him. He did not sob, but they ran freely down his cheeks, raining onto his arms. They stung as they struck the open wounds, and somehow that pain was far more intense than anything else.


    He sat there, alone, for too long, barely able to control himself, barely able to keep the blood from staining his clothes further. In the distance, the bonfire of corpses blinked out, leaving a puff of smoke in its wake. Leaving him almost completely in darkness.


    He rose eventually, though he did not know how much later. Soon enough, at least, that the sun hadn¡¯t risen. Limbs shaking, he closed his eyes and Reached for the Surge in his back. As it always did, the Purity seemed to resist him, pushing almost physically against his mental pull, but, as it always did, it inevitably rushed into his veins. His muscles, once tired, suddenly came alive with energy, and his heartbeat quickened. The pain receded, and within a few moments, his flesh had repaired itself completely, leaving barely a scar in its wake. The glowing white energy also tried to heal his burned eye, though Perelor mentally willed it backward, and it obeyed.


    Keep your sister safe, son. His father¡¯s last request.


    He¡¯d failed.


    The echoes, the screams, returned, the past taunting him. Cursing, he turned and strode back into the night, leaving a pool of his own blood behind him.

 Chapter 6 - The Liar

    In the end, fear shall not overpower them, and they shall stand strong when they face Oblivion.


    -Excerpt from The Book of Eternity


    Xanala waited for several hours for her father to free himself from the watching crowd. Most of those who got close were congratulating him, but a few were supporters of Tenedon, and they cursed and spat and yelled as they approached. One even tried to kill her father. The would-be assassin was swiftly disposed of, the gunshots barely audible over the chaotic chatting.


    Chatting, at an arena stained with the blood of fallen men. It was wrong, but Xanala said nothing.


    She didn¡¯t spend most of that time waiting for her father, either. She¡¯d been nervous for him, but now that anxiety had twisted itself into worry for her own well-being. Still staring at Tenedon¡¯s corpse, mangled beyond recognition in the sand, she couldn¡¯t help but wonder how long she had before someone caught her.


    Not long, she decided. That coup needs to happen soon.


    Finally, her father pushed his way through the crowd to them. He gave Xanala a curt nod, and held out his hand to help her mother as they made their way towards the exit. Eliminators with spears waved away the crowd as they passed.


    ¡°Are you alright?¡± Xanala¡¯s mother asked.


    Her father just grunted, nodding to the door. ¡°Let¡¯s just leave.¡±


    Xanala¡¯s mother¡¯s eyebrows furrowed in concern, but she followed Lyrus as he made his way toward a private dressing room, which had a secret exit on the other side they could use to slip away. Eliminators followed them through the entrance, warding off the throng of people, then shutting the door behind them. They found themselves in a long hallway, lined with decorations, antique weapons, and proverbs in Ancient Meridian script engraved into the walls. As they walked, Lyrus ripped off his Masked Warrior robes, leaving him in a tight nylon-fiber jumpsuit. Soon, the hallway opened into a small atrium, with granite benches for the Warriors to change on. Lyrus threw his Surgeblade onto that bench, then sat down, burying his head in his hands. His breathing was shaky.


    ¡°Lyrus, are you alright?¡± Xanala¡¯s mother asked, more firm this time. There was no reply, though his breathing was growing even quicker.


    He¡¯s panicking, Xanala realized. Just like me.


    ¡°Lyrus?¡± her mother pressed.


    ¡°I almost died,¡± her father spat.


    ¡°I know,¡± Xanala¡¯s mother said, perfectly calm despite the outburst. ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯m asking.¡±


    ¡°Well, thank you, but leave,¡± her father said, turning away. He clenched his jaw. ¡°I¡¯ll be fine. I¡¯m always fine.¡± He was shaking more violently now. ¡°He almost had me¡­ I¡¯ll have to train harder.¡±


    Xanala¡¯s mother frowned, but nodded, softly touching Xanala¡¯s shoulder. ¡°We¡¯re here, Lyrus, if you need us. We always are, you know.¡±


    ¡°Leave.¡± That was all she got in reply.


    Xanala¡¯s mother nodded, and they turned to go, then stopped. Someone else was coming down the hall ¡ª the Trett, followed by the Five High Priests, each wearing the colors of their respective Sect. She gave a curt nod to Xanala¡¯s mother as she passed, then stopped before Lyrus, folding her arms behind her back.


    ¡°Lyrus. You have disappointed me.¡±


    Immediately, Lyrus turned, eyes alight with anger. ¡°Disappointed you? Tenedon is dead. Just as you asked. Tell me,¡± he growled, ¡°how have I disappointed you this time?¡±


    The Trett only raised an eyebrow. ¡°I would advise more respect,¡± she said, ¡°considering I am about to demote you.¡±


    Lyrus went pale. ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°You heard me. You¡¯re demoted. From here on, you will be a trainer for the Masked Warriors. I will pay you a respectable salary and allow you access to a few Surges, but nothing more.¡±


    Lyrus sneered. ¡°You can¡¯t do that.¡±


    Oh no, Xanala thought. He¡¯s not going to take this well. Not at all. And¡­ the coup¡­ this is a major setback. She began twitching her finger, praying to Okron that the Trett was simply exaggerating. Threatening him, to encourage higher performance.


    ¡°I am, actually, the only one in Delti who can,¡± the Trett said. Her voice grew softer. ¡°You¡¯re unfit for this, Lyrus. Admit it. You should have stepped back years ago.¡±


    ¡°I killed Tenedon.¡±


    ¡°You almost failed. Do you have any idea what a disaster that would be? The Khazath are already considering invasion, thanks to Larsh¡¯s antics with the Talar. No one has passed the First Testing in five centuries. The uproar it would cause would throw us into disarray, and the Khazath would pounce. The entire galaxy hung on a thread, Erdor, because of you and your men¡¯s incompetence. Because you, in your pride, haven¡¯t stepped down.¡±


    ¡°I saved us!¡±


    ¡°You did,¡± the Trett said. ¡°And for that, I am grateful, I truly am. But it was too close. We need fresh blood in the Warriors. Especially now that two of you are dead, completely reassembling the team is the best option.¡± She met his eyes. ¡°I¡¯m giving you a peaceful retirement, Lyrus. All the funds you need for a comfortable life. All I¡¯m asking is that you walk out of this. Lead a simple life here on Xeredon. You¡¯ve earned it.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll train harder. Please.¡±


    ¡°No. This is final. Your retirement has been long coming. I will issue the statement tonight.¡± Her voice softened even further. ¡°This is no reflection on you, my friend. You¡¯re almost in your fifties, and everyone¡¯s body wears out with age. I will give you a position in the Assembly, if you truly wish to continue in politics. But I cannot risk invasion just for your pride.¡± She sighed. ¡°We can discuss the details later. Right now, we both should be attending Veridon¡¯s execution.¡± She shook her head. ¡°I really didn¡¯t need another traitor rearing their head, but here we are.¡±


    Lyrus blinked. ¡°You¡¯re doing that now?¡±


    ¡°Yes. It¡¯s a reminder to our enemies, a show of force while they are weak. It will, hopefully, help convince the Khazath we are strong enough to repel an attack.¡± The Trett straightened. ¡°I will give you some time to process your demotion, but I must leave.¡± She relaxed a little. ¡°Good work today, Lyrus. And I am truly sorry about the others.¡±


    She turned and left, ignoring Xanala¡¯s mother completely this time, the priests following her. Lyrus¡¯ eyes followed the Trett for a long time. Then, when she was gone, he broke down, tears of anger and sorrow streaming down his face, his breath long, ragged gasps.


    Xanala recognized those symptoms. He was having a panic attack. Something he¡¯d counseled her through a hundred times. Her heart ached, and she wished she knew how to return the favor, and help him.


    Xanala¡¯s mother placed her hand on Lyrus¡¯ back. He shook it away.


    ¡°Go,¡± he hissed. ¡°I¡¯ll meet you at the execution. I don¡¯t want you to see me like this.¡±


    Xanala¡¯s mother hesitated. We shouldn¡¯t leave, Xanala thought. We need to help him.


    They didn¡¯t stay, though. Xanala¡¯s mother left, and she followed, trying to shut the soul-breaking sound of her father¡¯s sobbing from her mind.


    ***


    Veridon¡¯s execution went smoothly, and Xanala was relieved to find that no inquisitive eyes rested on her during the event. The Trett gave a brief speech detailing Veridon¡¯s conspiracy with Ireo and his crimes, and then he was killed. It was quick, simple, and brutal.


    Xanala felt a strange guilt, though. Veridon, though gagged, had stared at her pleadingly the whole time the Trett had spoken. Part of her knew she should have helped him. He¡¯d just been trying to save a burner. Someone just like herself.


    She didn¡¯t. She just watched silently as the executioner swung his sword, and Veridon fell to the ground in two pieces.


    Her father had approached her shortly after the proceedings had concluded. He¡¯d said only a few words to her.


    ¡°We will need to move up our plans for the coup. Tonight, we train.¡±


    And so, a few hours later, Xanala waited in a private training room deep within the Undercity. It was a secret room, the walls shielded by metal and soundproofing and anti-muon scanner devices. The setup was simple, on the inside, the place was a large metal dome, no furnishings, no patterns on the floor nor the ceiling. Just dull steel all around.


    ¡°Again.¡±


    Lyrus stood before her, his eyes still puffy, but his face now taut with anger. He stubbornly wore the white-and-silver robes of a Masked Warrior, and an Ever Surgeblade waited at his side. He¡¯d have to turn it in before the day was through, but Xanala suspected he wouldn¡¯t turn it in a moment earlier than he had to.


    ¡°I can¡¯t do it for too long,¡± Xanala said. ¡°I¡¯ll wear out.¡±


    ¡°I know,¡± her father replied. ¡°But you¡¯re not worn out yet. Again.¡±


    Xanala sighed, but nodded, then closed her eyes. She Reached for Ever first, burning the memories of those around her. It was difficult ¡ª this place was deep underground, in the farthest layer of the Undercity, and few lived near it even on the surface. But, Xeredon was still a highly populated planet, and with effort, she managed to pull some echoes from far away and burn those.


    Her eyes opened, and she was now alight with Ever. She fell into an attack stance, throwing her hand forward, burning her Ever to heat the air above her palm, then shoot the resulting beam of concentrated plasma into the steel. It sizzled as it struck the metal. She thrust her other hand forward a moment later, sending a similar bolt into another section of the wall. She repeated that motion several times, alternating hands, practicing aiming while shooting them off as fast as she could, all while keeping the attack concentrated into as small a bolt as possible ¡ª a more dense attack would do the same damage while burning less Ever.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    Finally, she ran out of Ever. She closed her eyes again, this time burning Purity. That involved burning her own body ¡ª sort of. You didn¡¯t actually burn yourself, just your connection to the Purityweb, but every person had a limited amount they could burn, and it usually depended on their physical strength. Burning stamina was the slang term for it. Immediately, her muscles quickened, and she lit up with white light.


    While she was Infused with Purity, she could feel the physical world around her, a sixth sense much like memory sense, but one that, instead of showing her others¡¯ thoughts, told her where every piece of matter nearby was, and what it was made of. Atom sense, it was called. Her memory sense, of course, shut off while she was burning Purity ¡ª each of the Three Powers attracted towards itself, and repelled the other two.


    The Endowed was prophesied to unite those Powers, wielding all three at the same time. A feat most would deem impossible, were it not for the existence of Dawnbreaker.


    But she didn¡¯t have time to worry about that now. She knelt, touching her hand to the steel floor, then burned Purity. The steel melded with her skin, flowing into it, forming glowing, heavenly titrite armor. That was what burning Purity did ¡ª it allowed you to shift your body, either moving around the matter already inside you, or adding matter from outside, and using that matter to enhance your physical capabilities. You could use it to heal yourself, too, by shifting your body back into the shape it had been before the wound. And others, if they let you, though that was more complicated.


    She stood up, now covered entirely in a suit of titrite, even her eyes, though she could still sense everything around her through her atom sense. She threw a few punches in the air, then shifted into a collection of training stances, practicing what it felt like to use her amplified muscles.


    After a minute, though, she let the Purity dissipate from her body. The metal seeped out of her skin, then fell away in pieces.


    She stepped back, careful to avoid stabbing herself on the shards, panting. She¡¯d been doing this exercise for two hours now, and it was taking a toll on her; using the Powers for too long always did. She hesitated. This was an exercise in switching between each of the Three Powers quickly, designed by her father, and the next part of it called for using Void.


    He has called the Eliminators, Oblivion said suddenly. They are almost here. I can see them, in the third layer. You don¡¯t have much time¡­


    She froze. The voice wasn¡¯t usually so specific. She paused for a moment, considering if it could actually be right. But no, it was Oblivion speaking. He was lying to her, as he always did.


    ¡°Void,¡± her father growled. ¡°You¡¯re getting slow. Switch faster.¡±


    She hesitated, then shook her head, pushing away the voice. Then she closed her eyes again. It wasn¡¯t technically necessary to do that to Reach, but most burners did so anyway. It only took a couple seconds to light up with one of the Powers, and shutting off your senses helped you focus more on connecting to the proper Realm.


    Burning Void, though, was a far different experience than Ever or Purity. Using the other two could be traumatic ¡ª you were seeing other¡¯s thoughts, or temporarily draining your life force, but there was still a peace that came while Infused with them. A rightness.


    Not so with Void. In fact, it felt the opposite. As Xanala Reached for emotion around her, everything turned wrong. Pain prickled across her skin. Unnatural fear pounded in her heart, a sinking, endless pit of it. And, though she could not see who it was, she felt as if someone ¡ª or something ¡ª was watching her, eyes boring into her very soul.


    Emotions flew through her mind. Emotions of people in the city, tired as they went to bed, some thrilled about the results of the Testing, others resignedly realizing that they¡¯d been wrong to hope again.


    And other emotions. Emotions of two Eliminators, seething with hatred. Hatred directed toward a young girl named Xanala Erdor.


    He is turning you in, the voice whispered. It was much, much louder now. Louder than it should have been, even if she was wielding the Third Power. He has betrayed you.


    Run, little one. Kill him, and run, while you still can.


    The fear suddenly became more intense ¡ª her own natural fear, not a projection of the Void. The emotions of those around her fled as she caved, failing to summon Void. She returned to reality on her knees, gasping for breath, a cold sweat running down her back.


    ¡°There¡¯s Eliminators,¡± she gasped. ¡°I felt them.¡±


    A brief flash of panic crossed Lyrus¡¯ face, so brief that Xanala would not have caught it were it not for the paranoia caused by Oblivion¡¯s constant warnings. A snort quickly replaced it.


    ¡°I covered our tracks well, daughter. We will be fine.¡±


    Xanala hesitated, focusing. No, there were two Eliminators, at least ¡ª there could be more. Seething with the desire to move that often came before a fight. ¡°I think I¡¯m right, Dad. I can feel them really well. We need to leave¡­¡±


    ¡°We will be fine.¡± Lyrus¡¯ voice was just a little too loud. He let out an exasperated breath. ¡°I don¡¯t have the patience to deal with your nonsense today, Xanala. Continue your exercises.¡±


    He is lying. Do not pretend you cannot see it.


    She hesitated, her emotions twisting and churning and raging within her. Oblivion had to be lying. This couldn¡¯t be. Her father had always¡­ had always¡­


    He has always been more abusive than you were willing to acknowledge, Oblivion hissed. The coup is just a plan for him to gain more power, little one. Do not be deceived. He blocks your way to true freedom. Do you not remember the night when he held you back from it? The Talar would have welcomed you¡­


    Her father growled. ¡°Get up. I almost died defending you. You have no right to be lazy.¡±


    He berates you. Denies you your humanity. You are a tool to him, a sword to remove his opponents. He threatened the Trett, you know. She is fully aware of your powers, but she is afraid of your father¡¯s madness, and your loyalty to it.


    But you do not have to be afraid. I can set you free. All it takes is a word¡­


    Trembling, Xanala slowly stood. She checked again with her soulsense, and still she felt the Eliminators rushing toward them.


    Sense your father, little one. He is Infused, but I will assist you.


    Cringing, she pushed harder, Reaching for Lyrus¡¯ emotions. She felt a strange resistance as she did, but, as promised, it puffed away as she pushed firmly with her willpower.


    And there, she found a tempest. Of sickening hatred and fear, though very little sorrow. Most of all, though, there was cold, unholy determination.


    She stepped back, heart pounding. ¡°You¡¯re lying,¡± she said. A part of her could not believe she was saying those words. A part of her knew they had always been true. ¡°That¡¯s why you have the Ever Surgeblade. You wanted to be Infused, so I couldn¡¯t read your thoughts. All so you can hide your thoughts and lie to my face.¡±


    Her father chuckled. He was a good actor, Xanala admitted. He didn¡¯t look the slightest bit concerned. ¡°Perhaps we need to be done. Unfortunate, but it seems you¡¯re cracking. I have always wondered what your mother sees in you¡­¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not answering the question.¡± Xanala was surprised at the vehemence in her voice. How long had she pent up this anger? The stress of hiding, all these years? It was all coming to the surface now. ¡°The Eliminators are coming, aren¡¯t they? You¡¯re having me train so you can weaken me. So I won¡¯t be able to burn for as long when they arrive.¡± She stepped forward, closing her eyes. She burned Purity this time. Armor would serve her best, if she was right about this. When she opened her eyes, she was glowing white.


    ¡°We¡¯re training because you need practice,¡± her father said flatly. ¡°Nothing more.¡± He was still maintaining his act, and doing so well. But there was just the slightest flicker in his expression. The slightest twitch of his finger toward his Surgeblade as Xanala stepped toward him, titrite rushing up her leg and forming into a suit around her.


    He was lying. Her gut told her that much.


    Kill, the Void whispered. He deserves it.


    No, not father. He always backs me. He¡¯s always loyal. He¡­


    He had betrayed her. The one person she had trusted, the one person she had loved, was the same as the rest. Oblivion¡¯s touch finally began to overcome her.


    She stretched out her hand, closing her eyes and burning more Purity to summon a titrite spike jutting out of her wrist. Then, she swept at her father¡¯s neck.


    He reacted instantly, drawing his Surgeblade and blocking the blow in one fluid motion. For an instant he closed his eyes, and Ever flowed from the Surge into his veins, then spread through his blood into his skin. Stepping back, he raised his hand, burning his newfound energy.


    A wave of force slammed into Xanala, but she was ready ¡ª she knew her father¡¯s tactics as sure as she knew his ruthlessness. She burned Purity, turning the metal floor into her armor, then extending her footplates and melding them into the floor for just a moment. The force of Lyrus¡¯ attack whipped against her, and she was forced to lean forward to avoid toppling backward, but she held her position. Then, stepping forward, she batted away her father¡¯s Surgeblade, snatched him by the neck, and pinned him against the wall. Desperately, he burned more Ever, summoning a burst of flame that roared into Xanala, but her titrite absorbed the heat easily. Soon, he was no longer Infused with anything.


    Kill him.


    ¡°Tell me you¡¯re not lying,¡± she hissed. ¡°Tell me they¡¯re not coming, and I¡¯ll stop.¡±


    Kill him.


    Her father gasped. ¡°I¡¯m¡­ not¡­ lying.¡±


    But the act was gone, and she could see his face. His eyes were wide with fear, but his shoulders also sagged with guilt. She trembled, dropping him to the floor. He lunged for the Surgeblade, but she stepped on his back, pinning him to the floor with unnatural strength. She stood there, shaking, for too long.


    Kill him.


    She was angry. She was afraid. Most of all, she wasn¡¯t sure what to do with the voice in her head.


    He deserves it.


    She released Purity, letting it flee without burning it, then immediately Reached for Ever. She burned her father¡¯s thoughts as she did.


    They¡¯re almost here, he was thinking. They¡¯ll have Surges.


    We can still kill her.


    But she saw other things in his mind, too. The Trett knew. She¡¯d known for years now, and the only reason Xanala had been spared had been her father¡¯s repeated, careful blackmail, made possible by his position within the Masked Warriors. Things suddenly made more sense. Her ability to walk into Raerok and kill a political rival undetected. Her father¡¯s panic over his lost duties. Even now, she was only alive because the Trett feared Lyrus would try to have Xanala kill her at the last possible moment.


    It was just as Oblivion had said.


    I warned you, he rumbled. I truly tried to stop this. I still can, if you give in. But if you do not give yourself to me, there is nothing I can do, and you will die.


    Xanala hesitated, but pushed the thought back. The god had been right, but it was still the Void speaking. It was right about one thing, though ¡ª right now, she was alive because of her father¡¯s efforts. And, if she didn¡¯t run, she would die because of them, too.


    Okron, she hated him. And Etheri, she loved him. The duality of those emotions clashed so strongly inside her it took an intense display of will to even move.


    But move she did. Her eyes opened, and she was now alight with blue Ever, her mind sharper, though the voice still whispered incessantly in her mind.


    Kill him. He betrayed you. There is no reason not to.


    The voice didn¡¯t understand.


    She needed to run. All of Xeredon would know about her by now; there could be no covering up such a scandal. She hadn¡¯t been able to get an exact picture of how many Eliminators were coming ¡ª soul sense could only read one¡¯s emotions and Intent, not their physical vision ¡ª but there was likely at least a single kill squad, numbering two dozen men. Combine their expertise with the Surges they wielded, and they would best Xanala easily.


    Still she stood there. Staring down at her father¡¯s face. Hating him.


    She raised her hand, forming a ball of flames within it.


    Good. Do it.


    Her hand trembled. She despised this man, and yet she loved him. Deep down, she disagreed with everything he stood for, yet for the last decade she had spent every minute of every day trying to please him.


    Yes, she needed to run. Not just from the Eliminators, but from this.


    She burned her Ever to throw her father backward, then snatched the Surgeblade from the ground, then dashed away, out into the stiff wind of the Undercity. She ran as fast as she could, but still she heard her father shout behind her.


    ¡°You won¡¯t get away. You¡¯re weak. You always have been!¡±


    He was deranged. Evil. Yet his disapproval still cut her to the bone. So she just kept running, tears and sweat running freely down her face, until his screams faded into echoes, then into silence.