Cylrit
I lay, back pressed against the cold stone wall, on the floor of my hideout in Aedelgard. The rough surface bit into my shoulders through the Adaptarmour, but I barely noticed.
The Adaptarmour, the Lifework of the Djinn I carried with me, shielded me from even my own blood, letting me reason and question without Vritra's influence diverting my thoughts elsewhere
But despite this, things were worse than ever.
I had tried to get in contact with whoever even remotely knew or supported Master Seris's hidden goals and ideals: overthrowing the very gods of Alacrya.
Useless to say, the monster now faking to be Seris executed them all.
Highlord Uriel Frost, the greatest ally of Master Seris's endeavours and closest lord to actually support outright her rebellion against Alacrya was executed together with his closest family.
The most powerful family of all the Dominion of Sehz-Clar, dead in a few days. I had known Uriel since my early years as a Retainer, when he was still a young heir; his death was a hammer blow dealt by the Vritra regime.
Highblood Redwater from the Dominion of Vechor, some of the allies Master Seris had been the most careful around, but that could have resulted in the most useful, were dead too.
But not because of treason—through all the contacts I managed to speak with, I discovered that the heir of that Highblood, Wolfrum Redwater, one of Master Seris's own protégés, had close ties with Scythe Dragoth, plotting something against Seris.
Unfortunately for the kid, him and his family were executed by Sovereign Kiros to set an example. Of what kind I didn't know, but it could as well have been just cruelty from the most barbarian of Vritra.
Sovereign Kiros always had a taste for seeing lessers slaughtered. Hundreds of Vritra-blooded and non kids died in the Court of Basilisks each year. It was a grim parallel to Sovereign Kiros's hated brethren, Sovereign Orlaeth.
Both of them mingled with lessers more than even the High Sovereign. The gods' cruelty was as capricious as it was absolute.
However, I managed to also get useful information. Retainer Caera Vritra was meant to receive her first set of runes from the Obsidian Vault. That, I had to stop.
'Cylrit of Vritra,' the Djinn's voice echoed in my mind as I stood up, ready to return to Aedelgard's streets. 'I have the trinket you gave me ready, the Tempus Warp. We shall reach Focularsa by it should you use it.'
"Understood," I replied.
I had raided a convoy of the Vechori army containing a broken Tempus Warp a few days before, hoping Fatima would be able to repair it.
It seemed the Djinn lived true to her people's fame.
If things went south, I could always escape to Alacrya via the Tempus Warp. There—in the continent Fatima called Focularsa, which would soon become the crucible of the High Sovereign's grand vision—I could map out my next move.
Beyond the Djinn woman's own motives there, I needed to locate Cynthia Goodsky. She was an Alacryan spy hailing from the Dominion of Sehz-Clar, before turning her back on Alacrya altogether.
Goodsky, too, had been one of Master Seris's protégés, taken under my Scythe's wing in the hope of sparking a rebellion against the Vritra. With her, that seed had actually taken root, even if it bloomed an entire continent away.
I opened the door of my hideout. The Adaptarmour shifted on my skin, changing to better hide me, and I wore the cloaking artifact Master Seris had given me long ago.
I delved into the rainy streets of Aedelgard.
—
Cold, icy water fell from the sky like a relentless shower of arrows made of droplets. Aedelgard was the most rainy city of Alacrya, always covered by clouds.
The immense statue of Agrona Vritra, built to "celebrate" the High Sovereign's intervention in the last Bloodwar, looked over the City of Vritra's Desire from its bay.
The statue loomed above everything, a constant reminder of who ruled this land. Its eyes seemed to follow me, watching, judging, waiting for the moment I would slip.
I kept my gaze fixed on the ground, on the wet cobblestones that reflected the grey sky above.
The Adaptarmour took the shape of a tattered black cloak now, as dark as Vritra's horns, long enough to cover my body whole and hide my muscles and features.
I covered my head with the hood of the cloak and bent my back slightly to look less like a threat.
The Adaptarmour, alongside the cloaking artifact hiding my horns and Vritra's features and the beard I still refused to cut, made me look like a beggar of Mainland Aedelgard who had somehow sneaked his way here into the city.
The heavy rain too did an amazing job at hiding me and also at keeping most people inside. The streets were almost empty, the few souls brave enough to venture out huddled under awnings and doorways, their faces pale and drawn.
The only ones that were on the streets were either beggars like me or Ascenders returning from the Relictombs.
I took the secondary streets to reach Highbloods Park, the enclosed lavish area at the centre of the city where the Highbloods of Aedelgard kept their estates.
The Briand Manor was my destination, the place where Master Seris had relocated from her villa outside of Aedelgard. That action was the greatest proof that my master was gone.
Seris would have never returned to the place where she once belonged, before becoming Scythe. The place where she was raised by her foster family—the Briands—before she was taken to Taegrin Caelum.
But the monster wearing her skin still didn't frequent the Briand Manor much. She was too busy doing the will of Agrona Vritra. For that reason, only Caera Vritra and the remnants of Highblood Briand lived in that manor.
I jumped over the high retaining gates surrounding Highbloods Park, using only the natural strength of my legs to do so as I kept my mana usage at minimum.
The rain masked my movements, the sound of my landing swallowed by the constant drumming of water.
There were many Sentries kept around Highbloods Park to ensure only the highest nobility of Aedelgard accessed the place.
I used Pitchaverrer to conjure a dagger of black decay magic and stealthily killed one of the patrolling mages.
The kill... it made something move in my chest.
I swore to myself that after the Court of Basilisks I would have stopped killing if not outright necessary. But my situation as Alacrya's most wanted didn't permit me to take any risk.
I hid the cadaver of the Sentry and gave it at least some respect before I moved on toward the Briand Manor.
The Briand Manor was an old, old building, one of the first ever of Aedelgard. Its walls were weathered, its stones dark with age and moisture. Once I spotted it, I studied the area to see if there were any guards.
Two Strikers, three Shields, one Caster, and five Sentries patrolled the lawn of the manor. But my eyes were focused on where Retainer Caera should have been.
This was not the first time I had looked over the Briand Manor. I had been studying it for the last week in preparation for this moment. Caera Vritra was used to spending half an hour in her room before the afternoon drill. I had to sneak in at that time and... and what? Kill her?
No. I had to avoid her from becoming a thrall of Vritra before it was too late. She was still human, or as human as possible when you had the blood of Almighty Vritra in your veins.
I could be like Master Seris. I could continue her legacy.
I spotted movement in the manor, the guards were changing. It was my moment.
In front of the entrance of Briand Manor there was a young girl, twelve or thirteen years of age, with navy hair. Caera Vritra stood at the entrance of Briand Manor, and—
A portal flared to life, a dark opening conjuring itself from the very air. Five figures emerged from it, clad in long jet-black capes, lined with black feathers at their collars. They each stood, staring at Retainer Caera Vritra like harbingers of death.
The rain sizzled to nothing as it fell on their uniforms, erased rather than evaporating.
My heart sank as I saw them—Wraiths.
What was a squad of Agrona Vritra's private army doing here? What were five Vritra-blooded mages armed to the teeth with Relics and the most advanced weapons in the world doing here?
My eyes returned to the girl. Caera Vritra's look was so familiar to me. She reminded me of the Cylrit of the Court of Basilisks. She wasn't even much younger than when Master Seris had rescued me from that place and made me Retainer.
My eyes then returned to the Wraiths once more. Surely here to escort Caera Vritra to Taegrin Caelum, but why? Did the High Sovereign know I had escaped from the Relictombs? Did he know I would try something like this?
I needed to intervene. But how could I defeat soldiers trained to kill Asuras? To kill deities?
I used Pitchaverrer, and a total black great sword was in my right hand in an instant. I used Nullbash and coated my left fist with black lightning.
I had grown powerful in the Relictombs. Despite almost dying hundreds of times, these last years had forged me into something that not even Taegrin Caelum could create.
"Djinn," I called Fatima. "I am going to engage in a fight. Be ready with the Tempus Warp."
'Understood, Cylrit of Vritra,' Fatima replied. 'May Mordain's light shine on you.'
Mordain? Fatima had explained that Mordain was what the Ancient Mages called the sun: the old deity of their now forgotten religion. God of harvest and life, of science and wisdom, of art and industry.
That was, until they scientifically proved the existence of God.
Not the Asuras, not the Almighty Vritra, nor the High Sovereign, but Peace. Peace was the foundational ideal of all Djinn society, and the true essence behind Mordain.
"And may the Justiciar bless our luck," I offered in response, driven more by superstition than devotion.
At least the religion of the Djinns promised something that didn't involve the eventual extinction of all "lessers."
I was far from a devout man, but in that moment, I quietly hoped that Peace wouldn't turn out to be just another flavor of Asuran tyranny.
Stepping out from my hideout, I engaged in combat with Agrona Vritra's personal executioners.
Perhata Vritra
So, this kid is the Legacy?
I asked myself the question as I looked down at Retainer Caera Vritra, a suppressed grimace twisting my features beneath the shadow of my hood.
The rain fell in sheets around us. This scrawny little girl—with her navy hair plastered to her pale face and her eyes wide with fear—this was Vritra's trump card? I couldn't help but feel disgust curdling in my gut.
The High Sovereign had sent us to take the girl into our custody and bring her to the Obsidian Vault in Taegrin Caelum. From what I had discovered, she was the substitute for the fugitive Cylrit Vritra, the new Retainer under the authority of the traitor Scythe Seris.
A line of lessers bowed before us, their foreheads fixed on the wet cobblestones beneath them, not meeting the gaze of me or the rest of my squad. If they did so, I would have the pleasant permission to kill them—no one could look at a Wraith and survive unless the High Sovereign commanded otherwise.
Not even Scythes and Retainers had the right to stare at a Wraith.
Which made the affront of Caera Vritra staring straight into my eyes, her neck raised, her chin held high, make my blood boil. The audacity. The sheer, unearned arrogance of this insignificant creature, daring to meet my gaze as if she were my equal.
"Cethin," I ordered, making a gesture behind my back to one of my peers. "The Tempus Warp."
Cethin, the Instiller of my assault team, activated the portal-making artifact supplied to all Wraiths. The air behind us shimmered, the darkness folding in on itself to create a gateway that would carry us to the heart of the High Sovereign's seat of power.
"Follow us, Caera Vritra," I told the defiant little girl, a desire to rip that navy hair from her skull burning in my veins.
"Where is Scythe Seris?" The girl dared to ask, her voice carrying a tremor she tried, and miserably failed, to hide. "I won't leave Aedelgard without my master."
My arm snapped forward on pure instinct. I gripped Caera Vritra tightly by the throat, forcing the insolent pest to face me. Her neck was slender and fragile, like a bird's bone beneath my fingers.
She squirmed and choked, desperate for air, her hands clawing uselessly at my wrist, trying to defend herself, but achieving nothing.
The Legacy... what a joke.
I curbed the mocking reflection at once; to question her value was to question the High Sovereign's wisdom, and Lord Agrona's will was as absolute as Almighty Vritra's.
"Your master is an embarrassment to the Vritra bloodline," I spat at her, the words dripping with venom. "The High Sovereign requires you in Taegrin Caelum. That is your fate."
Squeezing harder, I watched with cold detachment as Caera fought for her life, her legs kicking helplessly above the ground. The rain plastered her hair to her face, and I had the pleasure to see the veins in her neck straining against my grip.
She unleashed her Soulfire in desperation, the pitch-black flames erupting from her body like a dark halo.
They licked at my arm up to my chest and in to my face, but they were nothing to me. A mere cool kiss against my skin, a fake warmth that only fed my power.
"Perhata, the High Sovereign needs the Legacy," the Shield of my strike team reminded me, his voice flat and emotionless. "Leave her."
"I am simply teaching her the ways of Vritra, Raest," I said, my grip weakening around the girl's throat just enough to let her take few precious breaths of air. The gasping sound she made was just too satisfying for words to convey. "Just as Mount Nishan temp—"
The dark blade of a great sword cut my forearm in two.
The blade cut through the Basilisk scales of the Standard Wraith Uniform like paper. My severed arm fell to the ground, landing beside Caera Vritra, who desperately coughed and twisted on the wet cobblestones like a worm.
I couldn't help, but look in amusement at the almost poetic sight, ignoring my missing limb. The two of them together: the fallen Legacy and the fallen arm of a Wraith—it gave me a feeling of wonder.
My strike team readied themselves to fight, getting into the combat formation we had been drilled to take by the High Sovereign's personal instruction.
I ignored my missing forearm. With Soulfire, the uniform of a Wraith could reattach every missing limb with ease. My eyes were drawn instead to the Vritra-blooded mage that foolishly dared to attack a squadron of Vritra's enforcers.
Clad in a tattered black cloak, wielding a conjured sword of pure dense decay mana, was the spectre of what once could have been known as Retainer Cylrit Vritra.
I smiled.
I chuckled.
I rejoiced.
I could finally kill the traitor.
Cylrit
I ducked an incoming bolt of acid from the Caster of the Wraith strike team, the projectile sizzling past my ear and dissolving a chunk of the manor wall behind me.
At the same time, the Striker—the woman who was unmistakably their leader, the one who had almost killed Retainer Caera—flew against me, her speed a blur of motion that the rain could not hope to match.
I blocked her weapon, which sizzled with a myriad of black sparks of Rotbolt, with the flat of the great sword I had fabricated with Pitchaverrer.
The impact sent shockwaves radiating through my arms, and the recoil rumpled the carefully curated garden of the Briand Manor.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Instiller and the Shield preparing their spells.
I concentrated on Nullbash, other sparks of Rotbolt coating my right fist, and I punched through my great sword, my fist parting through it as if it were water as I desummoned the weapon.
The blade dissolved into nothing, and my fist emerged on the other side, aimed directly at the Striker's face.
The Striker woman grinned, her sharp canines glinting even in the grey light of Aedelgard.
My fist was blocked by her left forearm, the one I hadn't severed, my Rotbolt clashing against hers in a shower of black sparks. The air around us crackled with opposing energies, the rain sizzling into steam where the two forces met.
"I will grant your death wish, traitor to Vritra!" The Striker cried out in feverish zeal, her voice carrying the ecstasy of a true believer.
I grimaced and ignored her, punching with my free fist, my Regalia once more ready to serve as Rotbolt coated that fist too.
But before my punch could meet her, I was blocked by a thick mist conjured as a protective barrier around her by the Shield.
The flesh covering my knuckles burned through the protections, and it could have been reduced to bone if it wasn't for the Adaptarmour covering my body, changing as I needed it.
'Tread carefully, Cylrit of Vritra,' Fatima's voice echoed in my mind, calm despite the chaos. 'I cannot see your fight, but you are not in the Grand Library of Mausoleia anymore.'
The Adaptarmour transformed from its tattered cloak form into its natural armour aspect, covering my whole body in solid yet nimble plates.
The Djinn is right, I said in my head as I parried the blade of the Striker with a newly conjured great sword causing a sound like thunder to roar as the weapons clashed.
I jumped, moving my back backward as I did so, landing in the middle of Highbloods Park's main road. A vicious blast of decay passed beneath me, crashing against the top floor of a nearby mansion and leaving nothing in its trace.
The building collapsed inward, stone, steel and wood dissolving into dust as if they had never existed.
You are not fighting mindless beasts anymore, Cylrit, I thought. In place of the Striker, the enemy Shield came forward to clash with me, leaving time for his wicked colleague to recover her forearm.
I slashed at the thick mist that surrounded him like a moving, gaseous armour, but even Pitchaverrer wasn't strong enough; the blade melted at the contact, decaying into nothing.
I conjured another, and another, each one dissolving before my eyes, and I felt the frustration building in my chest like a trapped animal.
The Striker didn't take long to heal her arm and soon I found myself forced to fight against both her and her Shield in close range, while the Caster offered a barrage of long-range spells.
Acid bolts, decay beams, and Rotbolt projectiles rained down on me from every direction. I parried, dodged, and weaved through the onslaught.
The Adaptarmour absorbed what I could not avoid, but I felt its limits approaching with every impact.
I struggled to keep up with them as my eyes searched for Retainer Caera. I had to take her and order Fatima to activate the Tempus Warp.
The poor girl was still recovering from having her neck almost broken by Agrona's Wraiths, but she was still awake, her eyes fixed on me with a mixture of confusion and something else—something I could not name.
"Cover!" The Instiller shouted, and the Shield and Striker immediately obeyed, raising the cloaks of their uniforms to shield themselves as they jumped away at the same time.
The Instiller was already moving, his hands weaving a spell of terrible power.
Behind them, moving at frightening speed toward me, was a wall of Gravefrost—the decay deviant of ice magic.
A wall of dark blue ice that withered whatever came in touch with it, burning it with frost. The ground beneath it blackened and cracked, the grass withering into dust.
I jumped, taking flight to rise above the incoming wall.
If Soulfire was a fire that didn't burn, then Gravefrost was the frost that burnt. Whatever vegetation came in contact with the Gravefrost withered instantly, losing all colour, and as the rain that fell upon it only worked to make the construct larger and larger.
The wall grew, spreading across the park like a glacier of death.
The Wraiths took flight to chase me down, the Striker reaching me in an instant. Our weapons clashed, our Rotbolts roared, our Soulfires hissed. The sky became a maelstrom of decay magic, the clouds themselves recoiling from the power unleashed.
'I am ready to activate the Tempus Warp, Cylrit of Vritra,' Fatima said, her voice a steady anchor in the chaos. 'Be quick. The Adaptarmour is not invincible.'
While not individually stronger than me—at least the other four outside the Striker—the Adaptarmour was what kept me able to fight. The way it absorbed and deflected impacts, how it kept Soulfire and Rotbolt at bay.
It was truly worthy of the title of a Relic: an artifact entire Highbloods would go to war to present before the High Sovereign.
My airborne clash raged on, Nullbash crackling in dark, volatile arcs around every strike.
Blood seeped through the seams of the Adaptarmour, serving only to supercharge the conductivity of my Rotbolt.
Black lightning, swallowing light rather than casting it, coiled around my fist as I shattered the Striker's longsword. The remote enchantment woven by the enemy Instiller detonated instantly, bursting into a cloud of Gravefrost particles.
The frost flash-froze the very breath in my chest, transmuting the surrounding oxygen into corrupted ice.
I choked as the biting chill seared my throat, but I forced myself forward.
Fortunately, the enemy Striker was repelled, even as I fell, the mana necessary to sustain my flight devoured by the decay magic. I plummeted, the ground rushing up to meet me.
I landed hard on the ground, Highbloods Park around me shaking as I fell. The impact sent shockwaves through my body, and the Adaptarmour groaned under the strain.
My eyes dashed right and left, searching for my enemies and Caera Vritra both.
The girl was looking at the fight, confusion and something else on her face when she met my eyes.
"Fatima, be ready," I said, gathering all my strength and rushing at the Retainer of that fake monster that was not Master Seris!
The Wraiths, who were already back in formation, cared only about killing me. They moved as one, a well-oiled machine of death, their spells and weapons converging on me from all directions.
I slashed at an incoming glacier of Gravefrost, fracturing it into a thousand shards. I dodged beams of decay, their trails erasing the ground beneath them.
I covered my exposed skin and held my breath, passing through the thick mist of poison, the magic burning even through the Adaptarmour.
Suddenly, I was struck at the side. The Striker emerged from the poisonous mist, her fist connecting with my ribs with the force of a meteor.
I spat blood, bent in an unnatural way, and was sent flying away, the Adaptarmour cracking where I was attacked. The armor splintered, the plates fracturing like glass just as my bones.
'Cylrit of Vritra, my connection with you is waning,' Fatima's mental voice was the only thing I could hear other than my ringing ears. 'I will activate the Tempus Warp.'
"N-n—" I tried to gurgle a protest, but I was choking on my own blood, and the Wraiths were descending on me. Their shadows loomed above, the promise of death written in their cold, empty eyes. "Do... it."
The Vaultlamp flared red, a brilliant crimson that cut through the grey of the rain-soaked city, and a portal came to life behind me, taking me away from Aedelgard and to Dicathen.