The novelty of vast unknown horizons and chirping birds was lost somewhere along the trails carved in the emerald hills surrounding the ninety-nine Overseer Towers. The amazement at discovering where wood came from stilled to a somber silence as Helvan’s rigid frown ushered them forward with uncaring practicality.
“Look at that one!” Aemon whispered, his eyes filled with the same excitement Draven tried to hide. “These tree things are not just green, that one has some pink parts on it.”
“With so much wood, we’d never need to sleep in the cold again,” Draven said without thinking.
“Dammit, man,” Aemon sighed. “Do you need to be this gloomy all the time?”
After one day of walking in the wilderness, laughter came easier. Corvanis’s words might have faded to echoes in Draven’s memory, but the dull throb of their stab was still present—the accusation in his eyes even more so.
The fresh air in his lungs, the melody of flying birds, and flitting little animals drowned his assuaged thoughts. Though he refused to forget them, dwelling on his mistakes would only prevent him from overcoming them.
“How’s the Unbreakable Veil going?” Aemon stared at the green surroundings.
“And you ask why I am gloomy?” A sigh escaped Draven’s lips.
Shattering and remaking the veil each time improved its integrity, but the process was slow and mind-numbing. But to drain the darkness, to weave it into the making of the shield that protected his soul, was a different task altogether. The inky black refused to heed his commands as if it possessed a will of its own.
Perhaps it did. Draven’s inner voice was not something that originated entirely from himself, after all.
Helvan insisted he could not visualize, but the issue ran deeper than that. The thought was far-fetched, a little insane when he ran his mind over it, but it resonated with the silent voice of his soul. He was incomplete.
Broken.
Something was missing, a portion of himself he never knew he lacked, but its absence was undeniably there. Bringing the matter to the white-haired Sovran was out of the question, so Draven resorted to reading the many books that weighed like feathers in his leather backpack.
“How did you do it so fast?” Draven’s attention wandered to Aemon, who walked beside him, his white uniform now stained with brown dirt near the boots. “You did it in seconds.”
“Huh?”
“The veil,” Draven said.
“Who knows?” Aemon shrugged carelessly, ignoring Draven’s frustration. “I might remember if you tell me how you manage that Gloom Touch of yours.”
Myra and Helvan walked in the front, their silent glances from side to side carving a worrying hole in Draven’s stomach. The two miners, Ed and Cain, walked a few paces behind the two Sovrans with a quiet exchange of excited whispers. None listened to their conversation, but Draven did not trust appearances. After what happened in the Overseer Tower, he was certain he could trust none of them.
“Not here.” The Providence was not a secret at this point; both Myra and Helvan knew about it. Among all of them, Draven trusted Aemon the most, but not enough to disclose the limitations of Dyad Vessel.
Some things were better kept unspoken.
“Come on—”
“Dyad Vessel,” Draven said, shaking his head at the surprise in his friend’s face. “Drop that Gloom Touch or whatever.”
“Dyad Vessel,” Aemon repeated the words as if trying to memorize them. “Gloom Touch sounds cooler, but you’re not ready for that.”
“No, it doesn’t. It sounds like I’m passing some kind of disease to somebody.” Draven lowered his voice, suppressing the defensiveness in his tone. “It’s gross.”
“Buddy.” Aemon’s hand fell on Draven’s shoulder, mock pity on his face. “I’d say that’s a pretty good name for what that thing does to people. It gives me shudders just thinking about it.”
He retracted his hand, looked at it for a second, then sneakily wiped it on his pants.
“It’s not that bad…” Draven remembered the eyes of the masked instructors, pushed down the memory of their deaths, and swallowed his words.
“A deal is a deal, though. But you’ll probably be disappointed.” Aemon hummed, a frown overtaking his features in a whispering tune of consideration. “I mean, it just sort of happened, you know? I did as Gramps said, and everything followed suit.”
“It can’t be that simple.” Draven shook his head and pressed him. “You just will the changes to take place, right? I’m doing that, but the blasted darkness barely moves. I’ve been trying to drain it for a day now, and the shield—which can barely be called that, as that thing breaks with the mildest breeze—is only a little foggy.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, man.” Aemon shrugged, but the hint of a smile annoyingly crept its way into his mouth. “But it does feel good to know I am better than you at something. It’s almost like the feeling you get when you fill your belly. Get what I’m saying?”
He slapped Draven on the back and laughed, a contagious sort of merriment that sneaked its way into the dark mood both felt deep down and made it lighter.
***
The day before faded with the dimming brilliance of the countless torches in the ceiling, some even obscured by floating masses of white Helvan called clouds. The night welcomed them, bringing them together as the warm campfire chased away the tiredness of a day spent walking.
The miners had the worst of it, their short legs and small stature making the trek a challenge to be met with utmost focus, even when the rest of the group actively slowed their pace to accommodate the two short men.
Draven sipped a hot drink and watched the flames dance in front of his eyes. Images formed in the silhouettes of the ever-changing ethereal orange of the fire, gone as soon as they appeared. He tried to fix their image into his mind, to visualize them in clear shape, but his thoughts were a mess of chaotic black.
Aemon claimed to recall images in his head as clearly as he saw them in reality, but the feat seemed unreachable no matter how many times Draven tried. He did not know if empyrean art or personal talent aided the man's ability to instantly dive into the land of dreams.
“...Not there…” Aemon muttered in his sleep, something that was becoming more and more frequent ever since he walked the Sixfold Corridor. “He…moved…them.”
Draven contemplated waking him up, but let the matter rest. If Aemon was so eager to sleep, then the dreams he must experience might also be at least somewhat enjoyable.
“...It’s sooner… Draven.”
Chills ran down Draven’s back at the mention of his name. The dream seemed to fizzle out as he looked at Aemon’s sleeping form. Sweat drenched the man’s forehead, even though the climate was comfortable.
To the abyss with this. He said my name. Draven stood up, walking closer to his friend, intending to wake him up and inquiring about what he saw. Dreams often meant nothing, but those had by a Dreamer were different. They carried meaning, often glimpsing into fate itself.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
“Draven.” Myra walked out from behind a tree that marked the perimeter of their watch.
Draven turned his attention to the red-haired woman. “Myra.”
“Follow me,” she said, walking away from the fire and into the clear night.
The canopy of trees made way as if to pay respect to the peaceful air above, opening in a circle of fluttering leaves that did not hinder the sight of the distant clouds.
“Have a seat.” Her words were curt and devoid of her usual cheer.
There was nowhere resembling a chair, so Draven sat on the ground, assuming a cross-legged posture out of habit. The Sovran kept looking at him in silence, her eyes scanning him from top to bottom, her Presence brushing against his shield and undoubtedly seeing through the poorly implemented technique.
“It’s true, your astra has grown a bit.” The glint in her eyes became filled with accusation, the dry rasp in her voice bordering on anger. “You can channel hexion.”
“So?” he said.
She laughed at his question, but there was no mirth in her chuckle, only resentment. “You take everything for granted, don’t you? Even what should be impossible.”
Irritation stewed under his skin. I take everything for granted? Draven gritted his teeth at her expression, at her words, at her demeanor.
“Fuck off, Myra. Who do you think you are?” He stood up, not sparing her another glance. “Why don’t you go solve your own shit before shoving your problems on me?”
“Y-you! I didn’t say you could leave.” She snarled, and the air surrounding her gained the metallic tang of blood.
To the abyss with this. Draven did not turn back or deign her with a reply.
“Run away, Draven.” Her voice trembled with anger. “Like the ratling you are.”
Draven's foot stood frozen in mid-air. Something primal roared within his chest, and it yearned for blood. For violence. He was facing her before the realization even dawned on him.
“Say that again.” He snarled.
Myra crossed her arms, her caramel eyes bursting with crimson light. “You came from nothing. You were nothing before I put my hands on you—a sniveling little boy on the verge of wetting himself.”
“And you have my gratitude for that.” The sound of rushing blood pounded in his eardrums. “But I suggest you stop thinking you own me. You don’t. No one does.”
Her hands fell to her sides. “Your very existence mocks all the hard work I’ve done. How dare a ratling—”
Draven leaped at her before she finished her sentence, throwing a right hook to her temple, wide, telegraphed—a feint. She raised her forearm to block it, the familiar mad smile that had been absent for so long returning to her face.
He ducked low, his leg arching for a low kick to take her balance. She raised one leg, dodged the kick, and punched him in the face. He rolled away, blood flowing from a busted nose, heat spreading in his face.
“All that talent, and this is all you got?” she scoffed, her hands falling behind her back. “Helvan is mad if he thinks a ratling could ever rival a Sovran. For all the disguises you wear, you can never hide who you truly are. Truth be told, you will never amount to anything more than a miner!”
Draven stood up, anger beating inside his chest in a violent tune—a few deep breaths, and it cooled down to a smoldering rage. Dyad Vessel drank the pain from her blow, but it was not enough to unleash it even once, not after the training he had done the previous day.
Surrounded by powerful people like Helvan and Myra, he never thought he would need the Providence so soon. Now the oversight was reaping its toll.
I won’t make the same mistake again.
If it was empty, he just needed to fill it. Closing the distance, he swung at her, leaving himself open for a punch in the ribs. The blow came as expected, the explosion of pain cracking bone. Not enough! He stumbled back and sent a high kick at her, slow, predictable.
Myra grabbed him by the leg, lifting him with dangerous ease and bringing him down. The ground rushed at him, but instead of protecting his face, he smiled as it came closer. He opened his hand wide and let his fingers spread. It took all his will not to flinch as three of them broke under the impact.
“That’s all you amount to. You can shove all the talent in the world inside a rat, but it will never make for the fundamental difference between it and a superior species. Why can’t you understand that?”
She released Draven’s leg, a parting kick aimed at his ribs. He grunted in pain, in annoyance. It’s not enough. More! He bit his tongue until his mouth filled with blood, then, supporting himself on his forearm, he slammed it down.
The bone broke with a resounding crack and a muffled chuckle. Dyad Vessel tinkled in his mind.
“Are you mad—”
He grabbed her leg with his unbroken hand and let all the hurt inside his Providence flood into her. All the misery, all the resentment he had been bottling down after her teachings, during her torture. He let it all out until Dyad Vessel was empty.
“Argh!” She trembled under his grasp, stumbling back.
Taste it, you fucking madwoman!
“That stings!” She pulled her leg effortlessly out of his grip. “Did you have to break your arm? Are you stupid? You are stupid!” She sighed. “This is why I didn’t want to do this. I’m just not cut out for it. Makes me feel bad.”
“Huh?” Draven pulled himself up, confusion killing his will to fight.
“Cold abyss, Myra. Can’t you do your job properly?” Helvan appeared in front of them out of nowhere. “I told you the importance of your role in this.”
“I know! But I can’t. I just can’t be all, ‘You ratling! You are beneath me, puny ratling!’” She knelt next to Draven, the anger in her eyes gone as if nothing had happened. “Are you okay?”
“What’s… what’s going on?” If he had ever doubted, now he was certain. Myra was mad.
“Someone not doing their job as they were supposed to.” The old man shot an accusatory glance at Myra. “I was hoping the stress and insults would be enough to trigger an advancement to your Providence. It was a mistake.”
Helvan vanished.
“Yup, not cut out for this at all.” Myra helped Draven to his feet. “Hope you didn’t take those things to heart, Draven.” A pink blush spread over her cheeks, and she looked away. “I had to at least try it.”
Draven snatched his arm away from her. Fury. Shame. Betrayal. It all clashed inside his heart. Disdain, hate, oppression, those emotions he could handle. It was all familiar where he grew up. But playing with people’s feelings like this was cruel.
“Give me the cold treatment, call me in the night for a talk, and beat me up—”
“I mean, you started it. Just saying.” She winced.
“Just leave me alone.” Draven picked himself up. He was done involving himself with Sovrans.
He tried to stumble away, the few broken bones steadily filling Dyad Vessel, but Myra held him back. Cool hexion flowed from her fingers into his flesh for the first time since he walked the Sixfold Corridor. It was soothing, full of life, warm.
“I didn’t mean the things I said,” Myra pleaded. “Most of it, anyway. I was annoyed after seeing the level of affinity you had with blood—it made me look like a joke. But I was also thrilled. That was before Helvs came to me with his plan, though.”
Draven refused to look at her.
“It’s cruel, Myra.” He gave up trying to convey why. She was a Sovran, someone who would never understand what it meant to be raised in a Catalyst District. “Forget it, you wouldn’t get it.”
“I know.” The grip on his arm tightened. “Believe me, I understand—”
“How could you?!” Draven turned to look at her, and her sad face only filled him with fury. “Your people will never get what it means to be lesser, to have your life decided as an afterthought. To be worth less than dirt.”
She met his eyes with a steady gaze. “Where do you think Helvs found me, Draven?”
Draven’s eyes widened. He was living proof appearances could deceive, but the idea was still hard to grasp. Before him, his father had undergone a similar process—if Helvan’s words were to be believed.
“I’m a half-miner too,” she whispered in a broken tone.
“B-but…” The words abandoned him alongside his anger.
“I owe Helvs a lot. He rescued me from a life… Well, let’s just say your district is one of the fortunate ones. So if he asks something, even if I don’t like it, I’ll at least give it a try.” She took a deep breath and blinked away the memories.
“You and Aemon are like me. But you guys haven’t seen the world. I tried to prepare you for what’s ahead, but… I failed.” Myra took Draven’s arm again, channeling the hexion to mend his bones and wounds.
“You gave me the body to fight and taught me the skills to use it. But I’d be lying if I said I don’t resent you for that.” It was hard to meet her gaze, to utter aloud the words she undoubtedly already knew.
But it was necessary. Draven had enough of bottling things up.
“I know.” She smiled sadly. “Put me beside the people I once hated, and the past me could not tell the difference.”
Draven wondered how the boy who once sneaked out to see the Gate would react if he saw him now. Resent her as he might, her smile resonated within him, for he knew her pain all too well.
“I can’t help you with your Providence.” Her eyes wandered from side to side as if looking for an elderly man in the shadows. “But I can teach you what I know about the Path of Blood.”
The light drifting from the torches far in the distance illuminated her hesitant face. For the first time, Draven saw Myra not as the unstable Sovran he had assumed she was, but as a broken woman doing her best to hold all her fragments together.
In her eyes, he saw his own reflection.