The forest seemed to part before Draven's momentum. The night was the only time when sitting down to eat and rest was allowed; Helvan made sure any delays were swiftly dealt with. The fast pace was not enough to shave away the stamina of Draven's hexion-forged body, but it sure took its toll on the miners.
Ed and Cain were still reluctant to start any conversation other than amongst themselves, yet Aemon had a way of drawing people out of their shells. The exhaustion probably aided in overpowering their fear.
“Cain, are you good? I already said told carrying you for a bit is no big deal.” Aemon slowed his pace to check on them.
“No, lord. That’s not…” Cain, their youngest, stammered between breathless gasps.
“Drop the lord thing, man,” Aemon shook his head, frustration at repeating himself apparent on his face. “Aemon is enough.”
“Y-yes, lord—I mean, lord Aemon.” The youngster shook his head again. “I meant Aemon.”
Aemon frowned, whispering complaints about his name to himself, but kept on walking. Cain and Ed looked at his back, and even a fool could see the wariness in their features; how rare it must have been for a Sovran to treat them like people, how outlandish for one of them to offer help.
If Draven were in their shoes, he would have seen the action as nothing other than a trap. The same thought must have been crossing their minds.
Red hair floated in the wind on Myra’s wake, free and vivid as living fire. She strode forward, her steps ready, devoid of hesitation, and filled with a grace only those who mastered the art of combat could achieve. She turned her head, as if sensing Draven’s gaze and smiled.
Draven looked away faster than a child pulling his hands away from a hot piece of coal. What’s her deal? The conversation they had the previous night was still clear in his mind, but he struggled to make sense of her words—or the offer she made.
Was it a trap?
He laughed as soon as the thought came to mind. Of course not. But maybe she had another motive, a hidden goal or a mission that Helvan ordered her to follow. A plan within a plan. Even so, a chance to learn about the Empyrean Arts, to use hexion in ways other than to heal the damage he consistently dealt to his soul, was tempting enough to make the possibility of refusal a fool’s choice.
“I wouldn’t recommend it, man.” Aemon winced and shook his head as if trying to shake some fleas loose from his hair.
“Huh?” Draven said, drawn out of his musings.
“She’s pretty. Nobody can deny that, but come on.” Aemon came close enough to make his whisper secretive. “She is not right in the head, my guy. And not in a cute sort of way, more like I'm gonna kill you in your sleep, sort of crazy.”
“It’s not like that!” Draven’s voice came out louder than he intended.
Myra and Helvan looked back. A ripe blush spread through Draven’s cheeks.
“Can’t fix crazy, Draven.” Aemon patted him on the shoulder. “Why is it that only you got the cool name?” He whispered to himself again, his face souring.
The wind blew gently against Draven’s back as the trail into Elysium deepened amidst the cover of trees and life. Mountains speared the air in the distance, small silhouettes of flying animals casting shadows on those who walked below, yet only one thought occupied Draven’s thoughts—a single-minded aim that he could not afford to forget.
Get stronger.
Dan and his mother depended on him; Helvan’s vow was not enough to inspire confidence in their safety. Their well-being, their very life and future, lay in his hands, and Draven knew his strength was lacking. He could not save himself, much less other people. It was time to change that, even if that meant abandoning the warning that blared in his mind.
He did not need common sense; it was power that he needed.
“Myra,” Draven forged ahead, ignoring Aemon’s misguided whisper of encouragement.
“Draven? The name is still a bit weird, not gonna lie. It’s not too bad, though. Almost sounds like driven… or craven. Oh, hm, forget that last one.” She motioned to her side, her figure falling behind Helvan. “So?”
“That thing you said last night? I’ll take it.” Draven met her eyes and forced himself not to look away. “Please teach me about the Path of Blood.”
“Took you long enough.” Her pure, sincere laughter did not fit the twisted smile on her face. “The first thing you gotta know—”
“I’m not done.” Draven interrupted. “I need your help with something else.”
“Offer a hand and you take the whole arm, hm?” The smile fell from her face as she examined him closer. “Why do you look so pale?”This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Overseer Travor did something to me before.” The memory of that still sent waves of phantom pain crawling beneath Draven's flesh. “It was like something chewed my body from the inside. I don’t know how to explain it..”
She whistled and looked away. “Yeah, I got the gist of it. Sovrans hard at work, can’t say I’m not familiar with the concept.” They slowly drifted apart from the group, and her voice fell into the comfort of secretiveness. “But there shouldn’t be any damage left after your heart procedure. I’ve checked.”
“I feel fine, and that’s the problem.” With a sigh, Draven braced himself, and took a step toward a path of no return. “I want you to do the same to me. Worse, if you can.”
“No.” Her voice was clear, her answer brooked no disagreement.
The refusal caught Draven off-guard; it did not fit the image of the red-haired Sovran he had in his mind. Myra, as he knew her, would have delighted in causing others pain. But the twisted smile he had grown familiar with was nowhere in sight; instead, she looked like she was about to vomit.
“I won’t do… this sort of stuff.” When she looked back at him, there was fury in her caramel eyes. “What kind of person do you take me for?”
“I… It’s not like that.” Draven tried to find the right words to salvage the situation, but the damage was done. Still, like a fool who did not know when to cut his losses, he insisted. “I need to train my Providence, Myra. It’s my best chance of saving my family.”
“If you need it that badly, Draven, do it yourself.” Her anger was silent, her tone unaltered, but her face was stone cold. “I’m not taking this on my consciousness. I’ll teach you how to channel, weave, and emit hexion, but I won’t walk around torturing people.”
“Myra, listen—”
“We’re done, Draven. Find me when the torches dim, not a second before.” Her mind was set as she rejoined Helvan at their silent pace.
Draven’s steps carried him to Aemon’s side, a gloomy expression no doubt plain for all to see. He took the hint and asked no questions, a small mercy after what had just happened. Draven was noticing just how much he had misjudged Myra, and how little he knew of the person who made him what he was.
You won’t help? Fine, I’ll take your advice.
Draven took a small knife from his backpack. Aemon’s eyes took on a dangerous glint. He plunged the metal into his left forearm, ignoring the hot sting and the blood that dripped around the knife. His hand refused to move, though his mind ordered it to twist the instrument of pain.
Something instinctual stopped his muscles. The primal need for survival, the fear of pain kept his hands frozen as he walked. With a grunt, he tore down the restraints. Tears stung his eyes as the knife slowly twisted, carved, stung, and bore down into his flesh. The white uniform’s sleeve took on a healthy crimson hue. Dyad Vessel drained the pain away like a bottomless pit of hunger unending.
“Dude, what is wrong with you?” Aemon gripped his hand, stopping the blade from cutting further. “Did you completely lose it? Snap out of it!”
“I’m fine, Finn.” Draven looked at him and blinked away the tears. “I’ll do what I have to do.”
Aemon’s eyes widened, his grip on the knife’s handle loosening. Draven took the handle once again and began methodically inflicting agony on his arm. Pain was not torment; it was the shackles the strong used to imprison the weak in eternal servitude.
Draven refused to remain a prisoner of himself. Pain was the stone that would pave a way to the power he needed, and he would forge each brick in blood.
Bandages wrought his arms in blood-stained patches. The terrified glances of the miners dissuaded any notion he had of making conversation with them, but the looks from Myra and Helvan regarded him with no hint of surprise or disgust.
Aemon had fallen silent for once.
It had become a habit to unleash the Dyad Vessel in short bursts against himself. Even as he walked, it took only a nudge of his will to make the Providence comply. It had become an instinct deeply engraved in his body and mind, something akin to the movement of a limb. His steps faltered with each release, but Draven got better at handling the pain.
Draven Von AstraisDyad Vessel: Corruption [Greater]Blood Path: Reverence [Lesser]
The reward for Draven’s efforts—another stride in the path to power. Greater Corruption. Helvan had said advancing past Greater was a threshold hard to break through, for it required something other than routine and diligence to be surpassed.
Yet there was only one way to know for sure.
He felt Dyad Vessel within himself. It was nearing full capacity after an entire day of cold knives carving against his arms. Two uses. So long as he had one of them ready in case of an emergency, he could continue to cultivate the Providence without fear.
Pain coursed through his body, the sensation of steel cutting flesh, burning bright lines of torment in both his arms. He clenched his hands and steadied his step to prevent a stumble, and not even a grunt escaped through his teeth.
Draven inspected the Providence with his mind. It was like feeling something with eyes closed—ethereal hands traced the outlines of his power and observed any noticeable changes. It remained the same.
The geezer was telling the truth. What he faced resembled a bottleneck, a barrier that prevented progress, a tier of power that required something else to cause growth—something Draven had not experienced before. Pain. Different pain. The answer came easily, though it was nothing but speculation at the moment.
The Providence had fed on broken bones, wounds caused by blunt bruises, and cuts. But there was so much more when it came to getting hurt. Fire. Needles. Poison. They all approached the body with a distinct touch, and he had to become familiar with all of them.
The thought was enough to make him shiver, but not to falter his resolve. Draven rummaged through the contents of his backpack and retrieved a needle. Its original purpose was to sew, but the stiff piece of metal would know a new role today.
“Abyss take me, man,” Aemon whispered at his side. “Did that woman’s madness pass over to you?”
Draven ignored him and got to work before his mind conjured up excuses to make him stop. The Providence drank greedily as the needle pierced his skin, sharp stings sending cramps forming around the wound.
Under his nails, between the joints of his fingers, through the stringy tendons of his clenched fist. He could not hold down the grunts after minutes of the gruesome task, but he could feel it was working, and that alone drove him to seek more.
When he unleashed Dyad Vessel once more, something within him buckled. It did not break, not yet. He was close, a vast collection of injuries caused by distinct methods the only ingredient missing to fuel his breakthrough.
Draven did not look forward to it, or so he told himself. But something within him craved the power pain offered. If enduring it was its only price, he would pay it gladly.