Sevren Denoir
The mock fire crackled and popped, spraying embers in a two-dimensional panorama. I stared at it mutely, my mind empty.
The light emanating from the strange, flat box mimicked a flame perfectly, down to the sounds and flares. It was like watching a painting move, except this was too real to be a painting. It was too bright to be oil on a canvas, too, and I felt no mana from the strange construct.
There were similar devices on the wealthier sections of Alacrya; where recorded images were displayed over a wall of pure mana.
Toren had called the box a 'tee vee,' and had briefly explained that my offhand guess on what it was doing was correct. Only instead of paintings, he'd called them 'frames.'
I thought that was foolish. A frame held a painting. It wasn't the painting in and of itself.
I slumped on the luxurious couch, devoid of energy. I watched one of the embers fly from the mock fire, tracing its path across the luminescent screen.
Toren walked in from the kitchen, a couple of those metal cans in his hands. From the labeling, I recognized them as that strange, bubbly drink he'd given me once before.
One of the cans floated over to me, outlined in Toren's white telekinesis. I stared at it for a long while, a quiet war raging within over to take the offered drink. Toren himself sat on a nearby leather couch, popping the tab of his drink with a hiss.
I eventually caved, taking the cold drink. While Toren practically chugged his vanilla Coke like an alcoholic, I had to take more measured sips. The bubbly sensation in my mouth was too strange to go all in like my friend.
"What's the point of that fire?" I asked, tapping my finger against the can. "Sure, it emits light, but there's those artifacts overhead that do that." I still hadn't figured out how those worked, exactly. There wasn't any mana in them. They probably worked through electricity, like those earmuffs from before. "And there's no warmth at all. Just a flat screen."
Toren crumpled the empty can in his hand, then tossed it into a wastebasket across the room with a casual gesture. He was the one who had put on the strange moving painting of fire after we'd buried the ancient mage, using a dark stick that allowed him to alter what was displayed on the tee vee. He navigated through this place like a natural, but it felt so alien to me.
My friend hummed for a moment, before holding out his palm. On it, a fire sputtered to life.
"There are some estates in Alacrya where the entire place is heated by artifacts rather than a hearth," he started. "Fire is a strange thing. So many people view it as a tool of destruction. But it's just as much–if not more so–a tool of life in its purest form. Don't tell me you don't find yourself missing a hearth every now and then?"
I ground my teeth, staring at that flickering mockery of fire. "But it'll never actually emit warmth," I said, my breath a knot in my chest. "It'll try and try to be a fire. But it fundamentally can't. It will keep popping away, sizzling like a flame. But it will never actually reach that goal. It's pointless. Empty."
Toren turned slowly to look at me, his light orange eyes peering into my own. I felt myself tense like a cat as he looked through me, not unlike the djinn I'd watched die.
"Do you think the emotions that faux-flame creates are meaningless, too?" the strange striker asked. "That there's nothing to be gained from it? Someone who can't light a fire can still feel a bit like they're gathered around a hearth."
I scoffed, crossing my arms. "But it will never be what it needs to be," I bit out. "That bit of comfort is meaningless then, isn't it? It's false. A mask for the emptiness."
Toren was quiet. "This isn't about the fire, is it?" he said. "It's about what the djinn said. About your work on aether. How your methods were flawed and inconclusive."
I hissed, jumping to my feet. "And how would you know that?" I snapped. Fire surged in my gut, so much more real than on that godforsaken box. "You've been content to bounce around in your little smidge of a town, fighting a losing battle. For years, I've been in the wider world, trying to find something to change my situation! What do you know about my work on aether?"
Toren looked up at me, something sorrowful in his face. He scanned the room as I stood tense, something inscrutable flashing beneath. "I know what it's like to have dreams and goals that will never come true," he said solemnly. "And your forays into aether haven't been pointless, Sevren. You found me. You found a djinn; the last to live in these Tombs. Perhaps one route is closed. But you do have another, don't you?"
I deflated slightly, thinking of the strange, purple rune the djinn had emblazoned on my chest. I hadn't had a chance to test it out, but part of me didn't want to. One of the ancient mages themselves had told me my entire methodology was wrong. How could I even change that?
I'd relied for so long on my regalia, Scouring Purpose, to give me hints on how to affect aether. And while I'd never outright manipulated the underlying fabric of the universe, I'd found workarounds. I utilized what was already naturally occurring, finding new and interesting ways to reapply those functions. And I'd come so far. I'd even managed to track someone through the Relictombs.
It couldn't be all for nothing. The djinn had been wrong, somehow. Somewhere.
I prodded at the rune on my chest with mana. I felt a reaction, but couldn't tell what it was doing. Besides, the action was halfhearted at best. I didn't have the energy to actually push through.
Toren spoke up next. "The djinn also said the relic you carry would help us both," he said, obviously trying to keep me from thinking too long. "Maybe that will give you a clue on where to start?"
I sighed, rifling through my dimension ring. Inquirers–the artifacts used to detect relics on ascenders when they left the Tombs–were only able to sense their aether for a short time afterward. I'd learned from testing that whatever signature they honed in on diminished once the artifact was outside of the Relictombs for a longer period of time. Thus, I felt a lot less anxiety in hauling it around.
A familiar weight settled into my hand. A small, stylized brooch stared back. It was a tarnished bronze color, the tufts made of intricately sculpted metal. It looked like a single feather. The metalwork was so realistic, the only giveaway that it wasn't a true plume was the off color.
Out of habit, I tried to prod at the strange metal with my mana. There was no visible reaction, of course. There never had been. I wouldn't have even realized this artifact was special without my aether-detecting compass.
Which was also destroyed, now.
Toren perked up immediately when I withdrew the relic, his eyes focused intently on it. There was a strange scrunch to his brows that he sometimes had, as if his mind were elsewhere but simultaneously not.
"That relic," he said slowly. "It has a pulse. I can hear it faintly." My strange friend seemed to be visibly restraining himself from reaching for the relic.
"What do you mean you can hear it?" I asked.
"Every person has a mote of aether within themselves that anchors their soul to their body," Toren said. "That's what your little compass was able to track in me. And I have a unique way of sensing that aether: through sound."
I looked down at the featherlike brooch. "Are you saying this thing has a soul?" I asked, holding it closer.
"I don't think so," Toren replied, moving closer. "The way I engaged that aether portal back in the undead zone? I heard a heartbeat from within and traced that to find where I needed to interact. And I don't think that portal had a soul." My friend paused. "At least I hope it didn't. But the point is, you can have that unique aether signature without a soul to tie in."
He held out his hand. I stared at the proffered limb for a moment, thinking of what I was about to do.
I'd smuggled this relic out of the Tombs a few months back, and Toren was the sole person I'd told. The chances of being reported to a Scythe or even one of the Sovereigns were too high. One slip up and the entirety of my family would be burned to the ground. Everyone I knew and loved would be ash on the wind.
But Toren was similar, in a way. I didn't know where he found that ghostly asura, or what their relationship truly was. I didn't know how he'd come across this other land, where drinks were fizzy and boxes mimicked fire. But we knew our paths were fraught with danger.
I had my secrets. Every person did, and part of me despised the act entirely. If everyone was honest, then there would be no need for covert cloak-and-dagger politics and hidden messages.
But Toren's secrets surpassed even my own. I didn't want to draw too much attention to him from my own family, so I hadn't utilized their information networks to dig up his past. What I did know, however, was that Toren Daen was a talented mage who'd lost his brother in a scuffle with one of the local Blood families of Fiachra.
A few months later, Toren burned their estate to the ground, wiping out the bloodline of those who had assaulted his sibling in one fell swoop.
I understood that. If anyone were to harm Caera, I'd leave nothing behind of their lives, either.
But that left so many holes. Where had he encountered that strange, ghostly Bond of his? When did he visit this strange other land he spoke of? And what, in the High Sovereign's name, was he really aiming for? He was a box of locked secrets, one I'd only just started to unravel. One I wanted to unravel.
But those questions could wait. For right now, I knew I could trust him with this deepest secret of my own.
I let the relic fall into his hands, watching intently for any sort of reaction. I'd been unable to prompt any sort of effects from it since I'd found it, but Toren was different. The young man had an effect on aether that was direct and pronounced. Maybe…
Toren focused intently on the little sliver of bronzish metal. I was about to ask what he was going to try, before his hands lit up with the color of the sky during sunset. The same vivum arts he'd performed during the end of the undead zone flared to life between his palms where he held the feather.
I felt my heart pick up in speed as I watched the small relic absorb the light. Sweat beaded on my temples as I tapped a nervous rhythm against my thigh. This was more of a reaction than I'd ever achieved.
"What are you doing, exactly?" I asked quietly, hoping I could figure out what was happening. The djinn had claimed my methods were flawed. So I needed to understand what did work. "I see that strange light you use to heal, but can't sense anything."
"Everyone has a bit of lifeforce. Heartfire. Soultether. Whatever you want to call it. But we also generate a little bit of excess." Toren exhaled softly, not taking his eyes off the small relic. It drank in the light, absorbing it like a sponge in water. "I'm able to directly manipulate my own lifeforce, and I'm funneling that excess into this relic. It seems to keep wanting to–"
Then the small feather began to glow red-hot. Toren dropped the relic with a surprised yell, the smoking relic singing a hole in the carpet. For a moment, he stooped to pick it up again, his mana barrier flaring into place. Then he paused, an expression of shock and fear stretching across his face.
"Aurora?!" Toren called, suddenly dismissive of the relic entirely, even as it began to spark onto the surrounding carpet. "Aurora, what happened? I can't hear you any longer! Are you safe?!"
I darted toward Toren, grabbing his arm and yanking him away from the feather. I put some mana-empowered strength into it, and Toren didn't even seem to realize I was dragging him away, a distant look in his eyes.
One of the things I'd learned very early on in my experimentation was when something started to glow, that meant it was about to explode. I should've expected this, I admonished myself. No testing! No safe environment! No metrics to keep anything safe! I leapt to the edge of the room, bracing myself behind one of the couches. Toren stumbled to my side, utterly disoriented for some reason.
"Brace for impact," I said, making my body heavier with my regalia, Dictate of Mass, to avoid getting blown away by any force. A darkish hue overlaid my body. The floor creaked as the pressure on it increased.
You're usually much better on your feet, Toren, I thought through gritted teeth, preparing for a blast. If I didn't have to take care of your sorry ass, I'd have jumped out of the window!
I braced for impact. Three seconds passed. Then five. Then ten.
I cautiously peeked around the edge of the couch, peering at where the feather was.
And froze. It looked like molten metal as it pulsed and stretched, elongating in multiple directions. It churned like a bowl of water as it impossibly grew in size, flaring brighter colors in a pattern. It flashed like… like a heartbeat.
I thought I saw the start of some sort of limb; thin and rigid. And a few more feathers, all made of that strange metal. I stared with a slack jaw as this strange transformation took place.
But Toren wasn't so complacent anymore. He rushed past me, blocking my line of sight as he practically leapt at the little construct. Toren knelt down, scooping the still-scorching metal into his hands.
I mutely walked to his side, staring down into his palms.
A little, clockwork songbird stumbled across Toren's fingers, still faintly glowing red. Its feathers were sharpened blades, each that chromish-bronze shade. Gears whirred and clicked along its plated body, small valves along its back puffing purple-orange mist. It's beak was a lighter color, the metal seeming less tarnished than everywhere else.
I remembered and old wind-up toy I'd been given as a child, many years ago. It was a bird, not unlike what I saw before me. I'd crank the little spindle at it's back, then release. The toy would hop on it's own like a sparrow until the compressed tension finally ran out.
But this didn't look like a toy. There was a sleekness to the design that hinted at exquisite workmanship, the stylized dips and curves of the metal only possible from a master smith. Tiny feathers, each shards of metal in and of themselves, adorned the underbelly of the thing. Light the color of a waxing sunset shone from between the gears.
But the eyes. It was the eyes that were most familiar to me. For instead of a bead of glass or a simple sprocket, two churning specks of plasma stared out. Two condensed suns lit up the world from within that little clockwork bird.
"Aurora?" Toren said with a cautious voice. The relic in his hands–which had somehow morphed into what looked like a sparrow made of interlocking metal gears, shards, and plates–puffed a breath of orange-purple light in response.
Toren's body suddenly relaxed as he looked to the side, peering at something I couldn't see. He smiled, that strange look coming over his eyes.
Not too dissimilar to the look the Frost twins had when they conversed over their telepathic link. Is he talking to his Bond? I thought absently. The asura that had latched onto Toren had only been visible to me for the short period we'd interacted with the djinn, and I hadn't had time to question it–her?--about anything related to aether. I assumed she'd simply become a ghost again.
"Ah," a deep, melodic voice said. "Ahhhh," it continued, rising in pitch and tone in an almost sing-song way.
My attention snapped away from the golden-haired striker to the little clockwork bird in his hands. It was struggling to pull itself to its feet, simultaneously making those strange testing noises. Its tiny metal joints shifted and changed.
I moved over, kneeling to look at the relic. It was speaking! Was it some sort of conduit to a djinn? Or maybe it had a recorded message inside?
"This body is strange," the bird said, finally managing to get its little legs under it. "But this is no less wonderful, Contractor," it continued, shuffling to look up at an awestruck Toren. Its wings made a sound like knives being sharpened as they shifted across each other. Clicks sounded from within the frame. "I never thought I'd have physical form again."