A well-lit room, windowless as usual, did not show where in the abyss Draven was. Following the specter's demise—if it was even alive to begin with—his trip to the city was calmer than expected. No ambushes. No inquiries at the side gate, only conspicuous, complicitous nods.
It did not take a genius to understand that the Sovran guards were members of the Witnesses of the Beyond, but it was hard to swallow. In bed, lying against the soft pillow and staring at the ceiling, Draven wondered just how far the clutches of the organization reached.
A group with such power should not need to remain hidden in the shadows, or at least that was what he thought. Perhaps their foe was strong enough to force them into hiding. He was no genius, and his education left a lot to be desired, but that was the only reasoning that made sense.
Casting his doubts aside, and the pain in his unhealed arm, Draven dived into his soul. The tune of his ethereal soothed the uncertainty of the present. It sang about the possibilities of the future, a far more enthralling perspective.
Perhaps a round of training the Unbreakable Veil was long overdue, but he felt compelled to look at the fruits of his effort—the refined hexion sitting inside of his astra. The pool of liquid had more than doubled its previous size, almost reaching the limit of what the small sun could hold.
Something did not sit right with him. Draven remembered having more refined hexion than this, his astra had been at its limit. Abyss take me, why is it getting smaller? Now there was room for more of the liquid. That shouldn’t be possible. Refined hexion was not supposed to dissipate like the flitting fires that burned on the surface of his astra.
He took a seat inside his soul—the idea of the outrageous act did not surprise him like it used to—and waited. Observed. Watched like a rat waiting for scraps.
There!
One droplet disappeared. Draven tried to trace its path, but the surprise of his confirmation delayed him enough to make it impossible. It was frustrating, but another chance was bound to come.
A few minutes later, another droplet vanished, but this time he was ready. Draven latched his consciousness to it, and followed it outside of his astra into his blood vessels. Confusion and wonder almost made his grip slip, but he held strong.
No one had taught him this sort of awareness; Nevertheless, he followed the thieving remnants of his stolen hard work. It ended up in a drumming chamber that pulsated with decayed power, with hunger. His heart. It may belong to him now, but that was not always the case.
It beat once. Twice. Three times. On the last beat, his heart glowed with the power of hexion.
The droplet arrived at its center and dissolved into tiny streams that merged with its flesh, then dispersed throughout Draven's body. He was unsure if the phenomenon was normal, but he did not know anybody else who walked with the heart of a monster in their chest.
The cycle continued for minutes, then hours, until he noticed a change. His arm, swollen and bandaged as it had been, began to heal. The pain was not so strong anymore; he could move his finger without the excruciating stabs of torment.
It’s healing me.
Without an instruction, no Art performed or inscribed into his will, it acted on its own. Draven appeared inside his astra with a thought, the shining pool of red liquid in front of him undulating with his reflection.
With an idea in mind, Draven uttered a single word, “More!”
The silent thief acknowledged. What had once consumed a droplet every few minutes now took a handful in an instant. Draven's arm burned as if on fire; an irresistible itch consumed his skin, but he did not relent.
“Don’t be shy, you can take it.” It felt silly to speak to his own heart, but as long as his words carried the weight of his will, it would obey. “Mend!”
The handful of droplets became a steady stream. The refined hexion inside his astra dwindled until only half remained. After a few minutes, the flow stopped.
Draven opened his eyes and untied the bandages around his arm—the brown color of dried blood making it rigid and not too fragrant. His jaw dropped at the sight. The hole in the tip of his finger was gone, and so was the swelling, along with the pain it had brought. His arm had completely healed.
Draven grinned, staring at his hand with wide-eyed amazement. Magic! It’s like abyss-damned magic.
“You’re creepy as the abyss sometimes.” Aemon looked at him over the rim of the open book held in his hand. “Just thought someone should tell you and… what the shit? How are you healed already?”
“Secrets of the trade.” Draven chuckled with unrestrained glee. “You know, the Empyrean sort of secrets. Maybe you’ll get to know them one day.”This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.
“I hate you, man.” Aemon shook his head and got back to reading. “Keep staring at your hand like a pervert, will you?”
Draven would not sleep tonight, for he had just found a way to train Dyad Vessel like never before. He would only stop after breaking the barrier that stood between him and the next stage of advancement.
***
The smell of Draven’s burnt flesh inundated the room alongside an unhealthy black smoke that trailed to the ceiling, remaining there as a cloud that hung above his head. He looked down at the burns on his left arm, the swollen flesh, peeled off skin, the red fury of throbbing pain, and nodded.
He was proud of his work. Just enough that it burned, but nothing permanent that he might not heal. The work of an artist.
With a deep breath, he released the Dyad Vessel within himself once. The pain, which had been dormant, heightened with renewed vigor, but it only lasted a moment as the Providence reabsorbed it back into itself.
Once. Twice. Thrice. Until the Dyad Vessel was emptied of all its contents. As a wave of pain tore through his previously blocked defenses, something inside him whined and cracked.
Draven summoned the text with a sweat-covered grin on his face. The scripture appeared in front of him, its blue glow soothing away the torment and presenting him with the well-sought reward for his diligence.
Draven Von AstraisDyad Vessel: Refinement [Lesser]Blood Path: Reverence [Lesser]
“Finally!” Draven smiled as he read the text. “Lesser Refinement.”
By the Abyss! He wished this had come sooner, for he did not know if he could withstand another round of using the firestone against his skin—something about the smoke and smell struck deeper than the cracking of broken bones. It was not an experience he wished to repeat.
Still, going through all the trouble and hardship and not even testing the benefits of his reward felt hollow. With a thought, Draven inscribed his intent into his will, abandoning all notions of safety or the image of an undamaged arm.
No, forget about undamaged. Do your worst!
The refined hexion awoke, a bright line of pain coursing down his arm until a drop of blood condensed at the tip of his finger. Dyad Vessel absorbed the pain, refilling some of its capacity.
Draven aimed the sphere at the kitchen’s wall and stopped, a wince of realization bringing some common sense back into his head. Helvan would not be happy to see him destroying the organization’s property, and the sphere had to go somewhere.
He froze with his uplifted hand. Or does it? Draven remembered what Myra had done.
Refined hexion, a liquid imbued with his will, resided inside his astra. An idea formed in his head, passed down to his will, and carried back to the sphere of blood rotating at the tip of his finger.
“Go back now. But no damage, gentle and easy, just go back to my astra, alright?” he muttered to the inanimate drop of floating blood.
It vanished back inside his arm, treading back the path it had taken, and returned inside his astra. Its passage had not been painless; it still felt like a worm wiggling inside his veins, but it produced no more damage than what had already been done.
“There we go,” Draven said, chuckling as his heart already drank in the hexion to fix the wounds.
He steadied himself and looked proudly at his healed arm. No signs of damage. Good. The burns were fully mended, which saved a lot of explanations and weird looks. His reserve of refined dwindled to less than one-third of its capacity, but that was a cheap price to pay.
Dyad Vessel came to the forefront of his mind, and he released it on himself. Pain burned across his right arm, all at once, minutes of torture converging into a single moment—or so he thought. The torment did not go away like it once had.
Draven looked down at his arm, frowning in confusion. What is going on?
The burns had returned as if they had never been gone. All the damage absorbed by the Providence came back fresh as Sovran bread out of an oven.
Helvan mentioned providences evolve, but Draven never imagined it would reach this extent so soon. If it was already this potent, its next advancement would defy reason. He might face pain on the road ahead, but never before had he so eagerly anticipated the journey.
He returned to his room to find all the lights out. Aemon must have been sleeping, something that a normal person needed to do. Draven was tired after a day of journeying and hours of training, but he did not feel the need to sleep.
Night vision, self-healing, prolonged stamina, a silent instinct—those were but the most notable influences of the foreign organ beating inside his chest. It was wise to ask Myra about it, but Draven was still afraid of her curiosity.
With nothing else to do, he immersed himself in the repetitive process of breaking and creating his shield. The tears in his soul were no longer a problem; he could just will the hexion—not even the refined one—to mend them. Only his mental endurance to the building headache behind his eyes dragged him down, so he stopped after it became too distracting.
The blood mist, the manifestation of his will, had returned in all its majestic glory. But in one hour, it was gone once more, turned into refined hexion that almost filled his astra.
“Where…” Aemon’s voice snapped Draven out of his soul. “Where are you, Aiden?”
“Right here, I was just in the kitchen doing some… hmm, cooking,” Draven said.
“He’s… looking for you,” Aemon whispered. “Where are they… keeping you? Myra can’t… find you”
Draven shivered.
Aemon’s eyes were closed. Sleeping. The darkness did not hinder his sight, but Draven wished it did. Whatever dreams his friend was having, he wanted no part in it.
“Don’t let him find you. Don’t tell… anyone,” Aemon said, his forehead filled with sweat.
To the abyss with this. Draven told himself even as goosebumps traveled along his spine. “Quit messing around, Finn! That’s not funny.”
Aemon stopped mumbling, but did not wake up. Draven was glad he did not need to sleep anymore; he did not fancy the sort of nightmares those words would beckon.