A red sun burned before Draven, its dwindling flames never stretching far from the crystalline shell that fueled it. No matter how much hexion he beckoned from the rift, it all faded away as the fire grew stronger, larger, daring enough to venture beyond the safe reaches of his astra.
The space inside it was beyond sight—all but a step away from his consciousness. Draven could enter it as he pleased. But there was no need, for the hexion was bound to answer his beckoning, regardless of where his projected image stood.
So he called it.
The hexion answered in a stream of blood that burst into red flames the moment it exited the sphere. What had once been a small sun expanded to three times its original size, its flames roaring and stretching their bright tendrils inside it. Some strands of hexion touched his cloud of will, but they recoiled at the contact, refusing to mix like water and oil.
A thought set his will into motion. If the Second Tenet meant melding the two forms of energy, then the feat was possible. Draven refused to let the nature of hexion dictate the course of his life. It would bend to his will, one way or another—its power was his, and it was time to take it.
The blood mist attacked the flickering flames, its intent directing each movement with a mixture of primal instinct and calculated decision. The ignited hexion recoiled, fled, and shied away from the contact. It did not want to submit, yet oddly enough, it did not flee through the rift.
If you want to stay… you will submit. If you choose to heed my call, then become my weapon.
The hexion whistled a tune that resonated with his soul, a melody that conveyed more than mere words ever could. Draven smiled as his will surrounded the burning sun until not a speck of light escaped through its thick veil. He closed his grip around his astra, and his will clashed with the hexion’s flames from all sides.
This time, it did not recoil. It did not reject his intent. The crimson fire of the small sun consumed his will, used it as fuel to burn brighter, to condense. The flames diminished, though their hue only grew stronger.
A burst of irrational fear made Draven question if he screwed up, but the answer lay just in front of him—he did not need eyes to see, for he felt it with his soul. What had once been scarce and transient became abundant and everlasting.
The roaring flames of his astra melted into a deep crimson liquid that was neither hexion nor will. Perhaps it was both. Its glow revealed the true might that lay hidden inside every Empyrean’s soul, the strength that the Sovran used to reign unquestioned.
The liquid revolved around Draven’s astra, as if exploring every corner of the perfect sphere—its new home. Satisfied, it pierced the crystalline red shell without difficulty and entered the astra, where it lay dormant, like a puddle of shining blood.
This is just the beginning. Mom, Dan, just wait for me.
Even amidst exhaustion, Draven hardened his resolve and repeated the process. Ten times. One hundred times. Until he lost count. Until the red cloud of his will—once vast beyond measure—became no bigger than his closed hand.
He could perform the Second Tenet no more, as his will was all but used up. The voice of his soul told him it was dangerous to try using what remained. So, with a shuddering breath, Draven let it vanish into the deep recesses of his being.
Pain stabbed between his brows. Exhaustion weighed down his limbs heavier than lead. Light shone behind his closed eyelids. Draven deserved some sleep after all the mind-numbing work he had done.
“Time to move.” Helvan’s voice echoed in the physical world.
No way. Draven opened his eyes, and sure enough, the light of the torches above already welcomed another day. He had lost track of time. His body felt rusty, each joint stuck together after hours of motionless training.
“What is the matter?” Helvan spoke. “You are not one to sleep this much.”
“I didn’t sleep. At all.” Draven forced his eyelids open.
“I take it Myra taught you the Tenets.” It was not a question, but the old man expected an answer‌. He found it in Draven’s wince. “Good. How successful were you in executing the second?”
“I don’t know.” Draven shrugged, folding his sleeping bag and attaching it to the bottom of his backpack as he spoke. “Hard to judge when she didn’t teach me how to do it or what would happen if I did it right.”
“Hey! Why is he the only one taking some private lessons?” Aemon burst to his feet, the pack already fastened to his back. “What kind of discrimination is this? Am I right, Cain?”
The miner nodded, then his eyes widened, and he shook his head. He did not know which side to support or which Sovran’s temper would end quicker. In the end, he just looked at the ground and whispered unintelligibly to his father.
“No one here is suited to teach you the Dream Path, Aemon.” Helvan shook his head. “Your training will begin—”
“Not fair. What the abyss is this?” Aemon rambled, oblivious of Helvan’s words. “Draven, you owe me one. What do you say about teaching… whatever she’s teaching you to me?”
“No,” Helvan’s emotionless voice edged with impatience. “It is not the place of the unlearned to pass down broken knowledge to—”
“My contract didn’t say anything about unfair treatment.” Aemon ignored Helvan.
Helvan’s patience ended, his mouth stretching into a thin line, and a deep frown settling on his already wrinkled forehead. “So be it.” A sword appeared in his hand from thin air.
Aemon’s face froze amidst his complaints. He took a step back and raised his arms in the air. “Let’s take a breath, gramps. It was all a joke, right, Cain? Draven!”
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“Helvan, you know him,” Draven said, taken aback by the sudden threat. “Finn is just messing around.”
Sweat formed on Aemon’s forehead as Helvan casually walked up to him. Draven’s body froze; the liquid within his astra lay dormant, unable to be used. Even if he trained for years, stopping Helvan still seemed like a wild dream. Aemon must have been thinking the same if the terror on his face was any sign.
“You wanted to learn,” the elder spoke, his voice ice itself. “Then it’s time I teach you a lesson.”
“Abyss, man, I was joking. Just joking.” Aemon took a step back and stumbled.
Helvan’s icy scowl broke into his usual emotionless expression, but there was a hint of something on his lips. “So you don’t want to learn the sword?” A smile. A broken, incomplete smile.
It sent shivers down Draven’s skin.
“What?” Aemon stammered.
Helvan helped him to his feet and offered him another sheathed sword. “Forgive me, Aemon. I have forgotten what it is like to…” He hesitated, sighed, then looked at the distant torches on the ceiling. “Never mind. You made a reasonable argument. For that, I’ll teach you the sword.”
“Walk with me, Aemon.” Helvan left without waiting. His words required no answer; his will was absolute in a world where power meant everything.
When Helvan’s figure could not be seen, Draven asked, “Happy now?”” His heart drummed loudly inside his chest. “Can you not do this sort of stuff again?”
Aemon wiped the sweat from his face and gave a tentative smile. “I guess that’s what I asked for.” His lips trembled. “But… What in the abyss is wrong with that guy?”
***
A shrill scream echoed through the forest. It traveled amidst the quietude of the wind and singing birds in a melody that overtook them both, a wave of motion that left silence in its wake. Birds and other small creatures took to the air in a cloud of moving bodies.
It was the third time it had happened in the days they had spent traveling to the city of Anaverith, and its coming brought waves of anxiety to the faces of regular people like Myra and Corvanis. They knew what that scream was, and which sort of creature it belonged to, but their lips remained shut whenever Draven inquired.
Helvan, however, did not seem bothered—few things could bother the elderly man. Aemon was one of them.
“Like this?” Aemon spoke for the tenth time, emulating a swing of his sword that came frighteningly close to touching Helvan.
“No, no, no,” Helvan almost snarled, a testament to the regret he felt at his offer. “Bend your knees lower and avoid blocking your sight with those flailing arms. Do you want them to kill you this easily?”
“If I go lower than this, I’ll scrape my butt on the ground, Gramps,” Aemon retorted but did as instructed.
Their training kept going as the group braved a fresh path amidst the endless green. They stopped only at night, no exceptions. If the pacing shaved at the miner’s stamina, one of them would carry the duo along—it was nothing taxing to the strength in a Sovran’s body.
Myra carried Cain like a living backpack that occasionally moved from his exhausted sleep. Sweat drenched Ed, but he kept moving, placing one foot in front of the other, his breath coming in an even rhythm that struggled to keep up with the strain on his muscles.
“Myra, it is time,” Corvanis appeared from the side.
“Wake up, Cain,” she whispered to the sleeping miner.
Myra stopped walking and put the young man down, a steady hand making sure he would not collapse as soon as the support was gone. With a white cloth, she patted down the sweat on his forehead. Red light flashed in her eyes, and Cain’s face gained a measure of lucidity and strength.
“Thank you, Lady Myra.” Cain nodded and started walking with the help of his father.
“I’m going for my turn then.” Sadness tinged Myra’s smile as she looked at the miners struggling to keep pace with the rest of the group.
“No need to worry,” Corvanis spoke, even though his eyes did not meet hers. “I will carry them as soon as I have attended to some personal matters.”
The red-haired Sovran vanished into the forest, where she began her scouting turn, a common occurrence in their daily trek toward a city Draven never seemed to reach.
“Draven.” The Overseer emphasized the name, his tongue spitting out each letter with bottled emotion. “This belonged to you.”
Draven’s stomach dropped at the words. He did not need to see what the Sovran held in his hands, for the words could only mean one thing, but curiosity won out over fright. Sure enough, the worn leather of the book rested against the Corvanis’ gloved hand.
It all began with the Gate. Draven winced at the memory.
“I’m surprised you still have it.” Draven moved to pull the book from his hand, but Corvanis retracted it beyond reach.
“But of course. This book, old as it might look—only a scrap, truth be told—contains more mysteries than both of our minds can comprehend.” The Overseer’s eyes hardened on Draven. “Imagine my surprise when it was found in the possession of a kid.”
“I already told you, my dad found it in the ruins.” Draven did not trust any of them, least of all his father’s executioner. “He would confirm it had you not killed him with your own hands.”
A wince of pain spread through the Overseer’s face, gone in the fleeting moments between heartbeats. It pained Draven to use the memory of his father as a convenient excuse. A lifetime's worth of shame overwhelmed him, but he either persisted in the lie or told the truth and risked facing consequences beyond his ability to manage.
“I’m no Weaver, so it is difficult to distinguish lies from truth, especially from one who has used them to avoid death so often.” He put the rune book inside his jacket, stifling Draven’s hopes of retrieving it. “But common sense dictates that this would never have been found in such a mundane place as a Catalyst District. It is laughable to even entertain the notion. Even Korvax would not dare carry such a thing.”
Corvanis might be suspicious, but as long as the origin of the book was the only thing in question, Draven still walked on safe grounds. It was a diversion, after all.
“A book depicting the forbidden runes found in the hands of a miner.” The man suddenly burst into dry laughter.
“What’s so funny?” Irritation laced Draven’s words.
“I suppose you would not know. It is not your fault, but rather that of those who call themselves your instructors.” His features steadied until they became an imitation of Helvan’s. “If you do not know, allow me to educate you. In the entirety of the Haven, only a single Empyrean holds the power to pierce through the veil of the runes—only he can gaze at their mysteries.”
“Your father was a talented Empyrean, Draven. No one who knew him would dare question his power or his ability to retrieve items from dangerous places.” Respect filled Corvanis's voice.
It was odd, Draven thought, considering the Overseer had been the one to kill him.
“But even he would never dare step foot in the Ark’Ennir Citadel. Only a fool would do so.” The dread on his face did a good job of depicting how tremendous such a feat was. “After all, to acquire this book would mean stealing from the Maker himself.”
He left, true to his word, Ed and Cain both piled over his shoulders like bags of coal. The weight did not seem to bother the man; the frown on his face was not from effort, but from a series of questions whose answers defied common sense.
Questions also plagued Draven’s thoughts as he kept up with the group’s pace, but those of a different nature. Another person can see the runes. For the first time in his life, he felt the weight of his secret diminish from his shoulders.
But why is keeping drawings of runes taboo? Why is it a crime so great they punish us with cleansing?
It made no sense. Draven remained just as clueless as he had always been, but for the first time, he knew where to find the answer.
Ark’Ennir Citadel.