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Grey
"We need to form some sort of response," said a pudgy man with an intricate mustache, his fingers tapping in a rhythm on the council table. "We have their ambassador hostage, but we can't push too far."
"And how, exactly, do you think we should respond?" a thin man with heavily decorated epaulets said, his hawklike nose twitching as he stared at the first councilman. "There isn't much we can do to Trayden, not with their trade embargos along the Mississippi. Any sort of retaliation can lead to conflict and lives lost, Councilman Breeze."
The aforementioned pudgy man–one of the most powerful people in Etharia–snorted in derision. "We all want to avoid a war, Councilman Stint," he said with distaste. "But the conditions of our treaty and agreements were clear. This ambassador tried to abduct one of the participants in our King's Crown Tournament–and if we let that slide for fear of retaliation, then we're nothing but cowards who dig our heads into the sand."
The heated discussion continued on as the Council of Etharia flailed back and forth, each member trying to come up with a response to Trayden's breach of our alliance. Yet the words flowed in one ear and out the other as I watched, a numb sort of emptiness clutching at my gut as I watched the men squabble.
It hadn't even been a week since I'd "claimed" my victory at the King's Crown Tournament. My ascension to King–my one goal for the past several years–had been accomplished. Here I stood, ready to take action. I had the power I'd always strived for. The position, the resources, the prestige…
And when I looked down at my trembling hands, all I could see was red. Cecilia's blood–the blood of one of my closest friends–couldn't seem to wash away. The image of her head lolled in a sickening matter within my mind on an infinite loop whenever I closed my eyes, Nico's distraught face as I ran his fiance through the chest burned into my retinas. I hadn't slept in several days, because whenever I allowed myself to dream, I dreamt of the mistakes I'd made. The future I'd ruined.
Whenever I closed my eyes, I imagined myself taking Nico's offer–from before my final match with Cecilia in the tournament. Before she'd committed suicide using my own sword. I imagined myself taking his hand–dismissing Lady Vera and helping him with his plan. What would have changed if I did so?
The entire reason I'd sought kingship was so I could wreak vengeance on those who had caused Headmaster Wilbeck's death. But I'd slain one of my closest friends. How… How did I continue? What did I do–
"King Grey," a voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, "what exactly can you tell us about the ambassador, boy? You were her apprentice, after all. She used you to infiltrate the King's Crown Tournament to seek the Legacy. You should enlighten us on what could make her crack."
I blinked rapidly, feeling the attention of all the Council on me as Councilman Stint singled me out. Their eyes flashed in an almost malevolent manner, wicked gleams like candlelight flaring all around.
I swallowed, feeling small. My very first session as a member of the Council proceeded far differently from what I expected. I didn't want to be here. I wanted… What did I want? The Councilmembers looked at me like hyenas that had found waiting prey.
"I don't–" I started, feeling wrongfooted.
"Bah, don't ask the boy such questions," another man interrupted with a sneer. "He's barely been functional after he won the tournament–which we still know was by a fluke. He shouldn't be here in the first place."
I gnashed my teeth, feeling anger rise at the dismissive nature of the words. I restrained the urge to slam my fist into the table.
"If my words aren't needed," I said, feeling my hands clench at my side, "then I don't see a reason to stay in attendance."
I pushed off from the table, turning on my heel as I felt the sneers of the Council digging into my back. They all came from families who'd held generational power within Etharia, some even claiming lineages back to the Gilded Age of Technology. Before the world's population was eradicated by war and combat.
I stalked out of the Council chamber, feeling like a child that had been scolded. The position of King wasn't nearly as influential as I'd initially been told. I was more a glorified gladiator, sent to beat every other kingdom's gladiator into the dirt. Perhaps I was afforded a position on the Council with all the rest, but who would ever treat me like a true voice to be heard and respected when my only saving grace was hitting things?
I didn't know how far I walked, but I eventually couldn't move my legs anymore. I stumbled to the side, sliding down an intricately painted wall. I buried my head in my hands, resisting the urge to weep.
Absently, I found myself wondering where Nico was. During my training with Lady Vera, I'd never had the time to interact with my best friend. But no–that wasn't it, was it? I'd been pushing him and Cecilia away. There were plenty of times I'd had the chance to leave Vera's compound and interact with my friends at the military academy.
But I'd been afraid to pull them further into my revenge. Into the pit my drive had become.
I'd given it all up. Everything that still mattered to me, I'd sacrificed so I could be laughed out of a room. I'd deluded myself that being a King would let me avenge Headmaster Wilbeck, but I would never be able to do anything.
My shoulders shook. Where are you, Nico? I thought, feeling tears gather at the corners of my vision as I clawed at my scalp. Are you alive? Or have I doomed you, too?
"I don't think the people of Etharia should know their King is curled up against a wall," an unfamiliar voice said from above me. "You need to stand tall, Grey. Then they will start to respect you."
I raised my head from my knees, looking up at the person addressing me. They wore the traditional garb of Etharia's Council–a white military uniform streaked through with royal purple along the trim, with golden epaulets and a gray pin on the brooch bearing our country's flag.
I recognized the man: Marlorn, one of the oldest members of the Council. The man's silver hair was long, reaching to his chest in a clean manner. His mustache and beard were similarly long, giving him the wizened appearance of some sort of martial sage.
I felt suddenly embarrassed, my humiliation made twofold by the fact that I'd been discovered pouting against a wall. "Apologies," I said hastily, a waver barely audible in my voice as I pulled myself to my feet. "I am not… I will be better, Councilman."
Marlorn scrutinized me sharply. "They disrespect you because they think they can, King Grey," the wizened councilor said. "Appearances are paramount in politics." He paused. "Though I doubt many of those old bats would be nearly as sound of mind if they had slain their own childhood friend in single combat, and then had their entire view of the world upended not a minute later."
I swallowed nervously, averting my eyes. It wasn't uncommon knowledge that Cecilia and I were childhood friends. The spectators at the King's Crown Tournament had used it to drive a sort of destined rivalry narrative that they sold to the masses on live television. And while Lady Vera–the ambassador from Trayden, and the woman who had taught me nearly everything I needed to know to be a contender for king–had been captured quickly after her attempted sabotage, doubts about my own loyalty were strong.
Truthfully, I didn't know what to say as I watched Marlorn. He seemed to be gauging me, each of his narrowed eyes inspecting me with emotion I couldn't discern. "Walk with me, King Grey," he said after a moment, turning on his heel.
He began to stride away, leaving me in the yawning hallway. In that instant, I hesitated. I couldn't afford to trust this councilman, could I? I'd… I'd trusted Vera. And look where that had taken me.
Foolish boy, I chastised myself as I hurried after Marlorn. As if just walking with someone will condemn you.
"Do you know why they're so hesitant to take any sort of action in the wake of Trayden's betrayal, King Grey?" Marlorn asked, walking at a leisurely pace. He didn't turn back to look at me.
I furrowed my brow. "Trayden sent an official edict denying any sort of involvement with Lady Vera," I said automatically. "That makes it difficult to try and pin anything concrete, right?"
Marlorn huffed. "We all know those were empty words, King Grey. It's not Trayden's initial response to the attempted sabotage that haunts them. It's what they might do after our retaliation."
"But that doesn't make any sense," I said, feeling slightly frustrated. "They attacked first! And now we refuse to strike back because we're, what? Afraid?" I said, surprising myself with my disgust.
Marlorn turned back to me for just an instant, inspecting me with a deeply knowing look. "You're young and brash, King Grey," he chided. "You know why Paragon Duels are supported as an institution, do you not? The loss of life and decline in population and available resources in the wake of the end of the Gilded Age made wars too costly to conduct. Conflict–even with spears and swords–became a matter of utter extinction."
"I know," I replied. "And to resolve disputes, Paragon Duels were implemented. A representative from each country–a King–was selected to settle disputes with their steel and blood, instead of the blood and steel of our populace."
"The actions taken by Trayden through their ambassador were tantamount to an act of war on their own," Marlorn said in response. "That proves that Trayden is willing to cross lines in response to whatever we come up with. But how many lines?"
The aged councilor shook his head. "Regardless, you will either learn to understand these intricacies as King, or you will be devoured like a minnow amongst sharks in the bloodied sea of politics."
I felt my shoulders slump as I stared at the floor, feeling a wave of despair roil through me again. How naive I was, to think I could ever avenge Headmaster Wilbeck? Nobody wanted to take any steps forward. And if I wanted to do anything, I needed to prevent my own head from being chopped off first.
Marlorn stopped abruptly, causing me to nearly run into him. I blinked, looking up in surprise.
"We're here," the man said succinctly, gesturing a hand.
"What do you mean?" I asked, observing the rooms in front of me. In front of one of the doors, I read the scrawled letters.
Holding Cells.
"Vera Warbridge is held in the cells just ahead," Marlorn said simply. "We haven't been able to get much out of her, but a few of the Councilmembers–myself included–think that you might have more of an effect."
I felt my blood run cold as my eyes widened. "I didn't agree to follow you for this," I said sharply. "I want nothing to do with that woman. Not anymore; not after what she did."
Marlorn shrugged. "Suit yourself, King Grey. But I know she has answers to questions of your own–questions not entirely unrelated to the ones we want answered. After all, it was one of her lackeys that ordered the murder of one Olivia Wilbeck."
I focused on the counselor with such intensity that I was certain he might go up in smoke just from my gaze. His lips creaked into a smile just a bit at the edges, like a rusty hinge swinging open. "You don't know when you'll get another chance."
—
I stared at the door to Lady Vera's cell, feeling a strange sort of numbness suffusing my limbs. The letters over the door seemed to swim and distort as my own chaotic mind struggled to come to some sort of decision.
Marlorn had made a perfect point. I wasn't a King; I was a Pawn. Someone to be moved and shifted across the board as the councilors saw fit. That was why I was here right now, wasn't it?
But also… Also, I needed answers. Lady Vera knew more about Headmaster Wilbeck's death than any other. But also…
She'd adopted me, becoming my legal guardian. I'd worn the crest of House Warbridge with pride, thinking myself a part of her family. I had to face her. Face what she'd done.
I raised a limp hand, swallowing as I pushed open the door.
When Lady Vera first took me under her wing, one of the first things that struck me was the lavish nature of her lifestyle. As an orphan who'd grown up on the streets, things that she treated as simple–like a dedicated yard and even a pond with live fish–were alien and novel. Marks of high society; a sweet honey I'd never tasted on my palette before.
The insides of her cell could not have been more different from that. It was bright–nearly unbearably so. High-power LED lights blared white anger onto the bleached white walls. White stone, white metal, white chains… White was everywhere.
I squinted my eyes, struggling to focus them as the light hit me.
"You know, if you wanted to try again, you'd only need to ask," a painfully familiar voice muttered, sounding strained. "Come on, I can–"
I locked eyes with Lady Vera from where she was chained to the white walls. Her red hair was mussed and greasy, tatters and tears across her clothes that revealed signs of intentional torture. Yet from her eyes, it was easy to tell she hadn't broken yet.
"Oh," she said, blinking in what seemed like genuine surprise.
I opened my mouth to speak, took a shaky breath, then closed it again. What… What did I say?
"So, kid," Vera said with a half-smile that revealed a few missing teeth, her jovial tone jarring painful memories from the depths of my soul, "I'm guessing those councilors sent you in to try and interrogate me, hmm?"
"They did," I admitted weakly, struggling to reconcile the image of my mentor with this tattered scarecrow.
Vera scoffed. "Pathetic, really. They should've thought of something with more of a chance to work." She squinted, her eyes flicking to a little bit of tech in my ear. "And they've got an earpiece in your ear, too. Please. Take that out, kid."
On instinct, I raised my hand to my ear, just about to take the earpiece out. Then I paused, noticing Vera's easy smile. I grit my teeth, forcing my hand down from where it had almost obeyed her command.
The red-haired Warbridge chuckled. "See, that's the mistake they made. They assumed I might care for you or something. But I trained you–like a dog. You still move to answer my call, don't you?"
And suddenly, I felt anger suffuse my pain. Like a syringe of liquid fire injected directly into my veins, I felt it building, pushing towards a crescendo.
"This is more than she's ever spoken at once," a voice–Marlorn's–said through the earpiece, steady and calm. "Ask her what you were told, King Grey. She's trying to deflect her true thoughts. She's trying to assert control in negotiation. Do not let it work."
Those words settled inside my skull. I noticed them. Understood the logic within. But even though I knew what I needed to ask, knew what I had come here to say, I found something else leaving my mouth instead.
"That's all I ever was to you?" I found myself asking, my voice raw and painful. "You trained me day in and day out. Fed me, raised me to be a King. You… You believed that I could do it, didn't you?"
Vera blinked, her eyes flashing behind her greasy red bangs. Then she laughed. "Kid, you're still a naive fool!" she said, chortling as if I'd just said the funniest joke she'd ever heard. "I don't know how you killed the Legacy with your pathetic skills. It should've been impossible. But you were marked to be our pawn from the moment I burned down that orphanage and shot that headmaster whore."
It took a minute for her sentence to register. I knew what each word meant individually, but when they came together, they didn't make any sense. My legs trembled as the fury in my veins was suddenly suffused with ice colder than any winter. My mouth shook as I tried and tried and tried to make sense of this.
Vera had… to Wilbeck… but it couldn't be.
"No," I said, rejecting her words. "No, you're lying. You're… You're just trying to hurt me. To get inside my head," I accused. My vision swam, the words barked through my earpiece indistinct and murky. A deep ache pounded inside my head, each thundering pulse trying to splinter my skull. The white of the room seemed to become an inverted black hole, sucking all into its blankness.
Lady Vera watched me with a tilt to her head. "That much is obvious, dog," she said, that tone jovial and uncaring. "But can you tell for sure? Are you absolutely certain? Maybe I'm lying to you. Or maybe I'm telling the truth? It would make sense if I'd done it though. You're a reasonably smart kid when you want to be–and I know you met my associate with the mismatched eyes."
I stumbled to the side, falling to my knees as nausea churned in my stomach. Tears blurred my vision as it all built and built and built. Cecilia's blood on my hands; the strangely relieved look in her fading eyes. The horrified expression of Nico in the stands. My… My other mother, trying to infiltrate to steal away my childhood friend, but screaming in rage as I bled her instead.
And Olivia Wilbeck–my mother before Vera–laying limp, a gunshot wound in her chest. The orphanage burning behind her; the perpetrator never found.
The images came in flashes. One after the other after the other. The sorrow and anger and confusion swelled within me as I vomited onto the cold stone tiles, bile tainting my mouth. It was… too much. Far too much to feel it all. What did I… What did I do? How–
"And it would've been an ironic twist, hmm? To give a boy–who so desperately needed a mother–the woman who'd slain his first one," Vera said, her tone quietly mocking.
Something inside of me cracked. I wasn't sure what, at first. Maybe it was my mind. Maybe it was my heart. But there was a hole in some part of me that yawned open at Vera Warbridge's words. And then that void expanded, swallowing all like a ravenous beast.
My heartbeat–which had been thunderous and fast enough to charge an engine–began to slow as the void consumed all. My anger went first, taken and folded into oblivion as the raging fire was met with something greater than it. Fury wasn't logical. It wasn't borne of reason. Why should I keep it, then? Such emotion blunted an edge more than it ever sharpened it.
I discarded it. It wasn't necessary. I cut the emotion away with the sword of my mind, feeding it to the yawning pit of gray in my mind. Next was the sorrow. The wrenching agony of Cecilia bleeding over my blade, the realization I'd slain my childhood friend causing me more pain than any wound a sword had ever given. Nico's haunted eyes were fed to the ravenous pit next, taking my guilt with them.
I didn't need guilt. Sadness hindered me. It made it hard to focus. Made me sloppy. A sword was dulled by sorrow. Guilt made one hesitate to swing, leaving an opening for the opponent.
And finally… finally, happiness and joy edged near that void. And for the first time, I hesitated.
Memories of the old days–of days with Olivia Wilbeck as she ran the orphanage, caring for those with nothing but her inborn altruism–flashed before my mind. I remembered scavenging with Nico, the slums our very own kingdom as we slowly learned. Cecilia's introduction to our group, the brown-haired girl slowly growing to fit our squad.
I remembered all the kids in the orphanage. Each and every one, smiling at me as we played at being Kings. How Wilbeck would watch over us all with a chuckle, then scold us whenever we got hurt.
They shined so gold, so bright. And I found myself at a crossroads. The void waited. It wasn't hungry, but it would still swallow all I fed to it.
And then I remembered the scent of smoke as it ravaged my nose, the crimson coating Wilbeck's dead body. How everyone forgot her afterward, moving on and leaving her behind.
"A weakness," I said quietly, my voice even and dead. Once, I might have winced from the pain in my throat. "I can have none."
I fed the golden light to the void, allowing it to finally subsume it all. As it left, I became calm. The apathy… It was what I needed, after all. If I wanted to achieve my goals, I needed to be a weapon. It was what was necessary.
I slowly pulled myself to my feet. They didn't tremble anymore. Why would they? I wasn't flesh. I was steel. A sword.
Vera was chuckling to herself as she watched me rise. "Wow, that was quite the display, ey kid? Do you think–"
"You mistake yourself," I said simply, walking forward at a slow pace. "We aren't here to talk about me, Lady Warbridge."
Why hadn't I been able to see it before? At first, I'd thought this room an expanse of endless white. A painfully blank canvas that glared from how empty it was.
But really, it was all gray.
Lady Vera opened her mouth, no doubt about to say something else, but then she saw my eyes. Her mouth clacked shut. "What the hell?" she said, her voice trembling for a moment.
"Grey, you are to leave the premises this instant!" Marlorn's voice said over the earpiece. "You are not to interact with–"
Calmly, I raised my hand to my ear, removing the earpiece. I gently put it into my pocket.
"I've never tortured anyone before," I said calmly, my eyes never blinking as they stared into Vera's. "But I killed Cecilia; ran my sword through her chest. It shouldn't be too difficult to find out what will and will not leave you breathing, Warbridge."
"Kid," Vera said, starting to sound more panicked. "Kid, I don't know what's going on in your head. But you won't get anything from–"
I raised a gentle finger to Vera's lips, silencing them. "I'm thinking, Vera," I said. "You told me once that everyone should give themselves time for a deep breath. Give me a moment, then we'll talk once more. I need to gather myself just a bit more."
As she was absorbed by my eyes, Vera Warbridge trembled, but remained silent.
She didn't scream at first. After all, she'd taught me methods to avoid yelling out in pain in the midst of combat. But those could only work for so long.
Eventually, Vera begged for mercy.
Arthur Leywin
I surged forward in bed, gasping and clutching my chest with eyes blown wide. Sweat beaded across my skin, soaking every inch of my body. I heaved gulps of air, my hand clutching my heart as I gradually returned to consciousness.
It was a dream, I thought rabidly. A memory, nothing more. You can still feel. You are still human.
I swallowed heavily, taking a moment to breathe. I allowed myself to rest in silence for a few minutes, just centering myself.
That last memory… It was particularly bad. Maybe the worst. The vivid recollection of how I'd thrown everything that made me human into the gaping pit made me shudder.
I'm not Grey anymore, I thought. He's gone. He'll never return.
I looked around the room I was in, my heartbeat finally settling down as I regained a sense of calm. I appeared to be in some sort of medical ward, the walls sterile and the scent of chemicals invading my nose.
I furrowed my brow. My body felt strange, like–
"Papa!" Sylvie's voice radiated across my mind. "Papa, you're awake!"
Blinked as I saw Sylvie's little fox form bound up onto my bed. She radiated joy as she barrelled into me, hugging me with her little paws.
"H-Hey, Sylv," I said, patting her on her head as she nuzzled into my chest. "It appears your foxy nature still hasn't become any more draconic," I quipped, trying to further wash away the agony of Grey.
Sylv looked up at me, her small brows furrowing in concern. "Arthur, what exactly do you remember last?" she asked over our bond, her tone surprisingly serious.
I blinked, then furrowed my brows, realizing the discrepancy. "I remember… losing to Spellsong," I admitted with gritted teeth. I remembered his finger, pointed at my skull as fire and sound mana built along the tip. I'd seen the indecision in his eyes, but I'd fallen unconscious immediately after.
Except I thought I did remember something happening after. A hazy mist of something blanketing my thoughts, the sensation far, far too much like Grey. And then three flames in the darkness, each calling to me like the fire of a hearth. One was pinkish-purple, slashed through with streaks of orange, and the others were deep reds. But while the first flame was brilliant and dazzling, it was the others that drew my attention. Somehow, deep in my soul, I could follow them, like a man dying of thirst following the sound of a stream.
"And after that, just… darkness," I said slowly. I thought I remembered something. Scattered words…
Because your anchors are here, Arthur.
Sylvie trembled slightly, and for the first time, I felt that something was different about our bond. She felt not necessarily weaker, but maybe less full? It was hard to describe the difference I could feel, but I was immediately struck by a bolt of fear.
"Sylvie, what happened to me? What happened to you? And where are we right now?" I asked hastily, raising my hand as I tried to move. The blankets over my body were thick and smothering as I tried to pull myself from them.
And then I saw my palm. The acclorite that Wren Kain IV had embedded into my hand–which had accompanied me for years–was gone. Vanished, leaving only a scar.
"You fell deeper into Realmheart than you ever have before," Sylvie said quietly, almost mournfully. "But you weren't ready for it. Your body wasn't ready for it. And… And it started to kill you. But even as that power claimed your body, it spurred the manifestation of the rock in your hand. The weapon that was developing."
I furrowed my brow, adjusting in my bed. I was about to ask what weapon, but then my words cut off.
Because I knew. On some instinctual, fundamental level, I knew what I had been granted. And once I'd connected the two, I understood what had happened to me.
I held out a hand, calling to something deep within myself. With barely a flash of energy, Dawn's Ballad settled into my palm, reflecting the light in the small hospital ward. I called to it in a way I just barely understood, summoning the familiar weapon to my side.
Except Dawn's Ballad had changed. Where before, the translucent blade had been a startling teal that seemed to be a reflection of my cerulean eyes, now it was the color of deepest amethyst. I never thought I'd seen a shade of purple so true, so pure. I'd never seen a weapon to compare to the asuran-forged edge of Dawn's Ballad, but as I stared at the reforged sword in my hand, I knew its quality–its essence–to be far, far beyond what it had been before.
And I knew the other change, waiting just beneath the surface of my skin. The weapon that had manifested from the acclorite… it hadn't truly become something new. No, it had spread across my muscles and bones and veins, grasping them and becoming one with it.
I was the manifested weapon. My body was a blade, my mind the hilt.
I swallowed, that realization inching too close to the memory at the edges of my mind. Where I'd resolved myself to be simply a sword, fit to be pointed at those I needed slain.
I needed to focus on something else. To find a different train of thought. I could process this later, when I had more time to understand everything.
I released Dawn's Ballad, the violet blade shimmering away into purple mist, before that too phased away. I knew I could call to it once more if when I next needed it. After all, it was… a part of me.
"Sylv," I said in an uncertain voice, the changes to my body unsettling me deeply, "what happened after? I remember three fires–each calling to me. Wrenching me from the darkness. And you said that I was dying because of this power of mine. But I'm alive; safe. I need to know what happened with Spellsong. I need to know why you feel diminished."
Sylvie backed away, settling herself closer to my knees as she stared up at me. Her topaz eyes sparkled like gemstones as they cemented with resolve. She stood resolute in her little fox form, and though she did not look like a dragon at that moment, she carried the grace of the asura in how she held her head and met my gaze.
"Arthur, there is no easy way to explain what happened," she said solemnly. "But to start–"
The door to my medical room burst open, cutting Sylvie's words off. I turned to see who had so abruptly barged into my room, frowning slightly as I instinctively held my hand out, ready to summon Dawn's Ballad once more.
I locked eyes with Tess, the elven princess's emerald pupils piercing my own.