Fane Mortem stood before the marble fireplace, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes lost in the dancing flames. He often found solace in fire. It was chaos incarnate. The purest representation of the discordance between the world and the forces that sought to destroy it.
"You had him," Fane said, tilting his head to the side, not shifting his gaze from the fire. "But you thought it better to earn glory for yourself than to put the empire first."
"That was not my intention, Emperor. I—"
Fane raised his right hand, and Artim Valdock shut his mouth. Letting out a sigh, Fane unfolded his arms and turned to meet the Exarch's gaze. Fane didn't say anything. He just took the man in, measuring him. The silver-trimmed black robes of an Exarch adorned his shoulders. He wore the typical brazen attitude that came with being a member of the Battlemages; Fane could see it in the way he held himself, in the puff of his chest, and the starkness of his gaze.
"Tell me, then," Fane said, taking a step closer to Artim. "What was your intention?"
"I wanted to extract information, my lord. I—"
"You disobeyed a direct order to bring him to the Dragonguard!" Fane let his anger seep into his words, drawing level with the man. "You sought to gain favour at the expense of your task, and in so doing, you let him escape."
Fane collected himself, unclenching his jaw. He stepped away from Artim and walked towards his desk, which sat at the back of the chamber. Behind his desk hung an enormous red banner that ran all the way down from the top of the wall, falling just short of the ground. At the banner's centre was the symbol of the Lorian empire: the black lion of Loria.
The Exarch stood in silence as Fane's footsteps echoed through the large chamber, his boots tapping off the stone. Fane walked around to the far side of his desk, running his fingertips along the hard oak.
"What is the consequence of failure for a Battlemage, Brother Valdock?" As he spoke, Fane pulled threads of Air into himself, funnelling them into a small chest that lay on his desk. He moved the threads of Air through the chest, pushing and pulling the locking mechanism into place until he heard a click. Once the lock was open, he lifted the lid of the chest, revealing a vibrant red glow that emanated from within.
"I…"
"Perhaps you didn't hear me. What is the consequence of failure for a Battlemage?"
"Death, Emperor." Fear permeated the man's words. Fane could hear it in the tremble of his voice.
"Precisely right." Reaching down, Fane wrapped his fingers around the red gemstone that lay nestled atop a bed of crimson satin. The intoxicating power of Blood Essence radiated from the gemstone, pricking at the edge of Fane's consciousness. "Are you ready to die, Exarch?"
Fane lifted his head, fixing his gaze on Artim's. It was a rhetorical question. Rarely was anyone ready to die. Even in the most courageous of hearts, the fear of death held strong. Even in his own heart, Fane could feel that same fear. But for him, it was less a fear of death and more a fear of the things he would leave unfinished if he were to die.
But a question like that, while standing before someone who was capable of carrying out the task, took on a whole new meaning than if it were an abstract pondering.
"I… I would die for the empire, my lord, but I can be of greater use alive."
"I agree." Fane enjoyed the look of surprise on Artim's face. Though he was sure the man had no concept of the use Fane had in mind for him. Closing the lid of the chest, Fane approached the Exarch. "You would do anything for the empire?"
"I would, my lord."
"Good." With slow and purposeful steps, Fane walked back over towards the fireplace, resting his hand on the marble mantelpiece. "You are to ascend, Artim."
"I…" The fear in the man's voice was replaced with dread. "But I…"
"Is there something wrong?" Fane turned his face towards the Exarch, raising an eyebrow. "Do you not believe in The Saviour? Do you not wish to share your soul with one of his heralds? It is the highest honour that can be bestowed."
Fane turned his gaze back towards the flames, letting the man stew in his own dread. In truth, he would have preferred not to force someone to ascend. But he had no choice. The Uraks were pushing harder than he had expected, and Efialtír was aiding their charge. Fane had known this day would come. Only the strongest could act as the recipients of The Saviour's grace. This was a test, and it was one he would not fail. He needed someone powerful enough to host Azrim once more.
"I just don't think—"
"Let me be clear, Artim. The Primarch wants you dead. You not only failed, but you were selfish, and in being so, you have risked the lives of others. I will not offer you this gift twice."
There were many more willing candidates for ascension. But Fane was hesitant to create too many Fades; their loyalties lay with whatever course fed Efialtír's hunger. Azrim was the only spirit Fane could rely on. They had an understanding, of sorts. And the other prospective hosts were not strong enough to receive Azrim's spirit. It would tear their minds asunder.
"What if I am not strong enough? What if—"
"Then you will die, and the circle will be complete. What say you?"
A tense moment passed, the fire crackling through the massive chamber. Fane watched as Artim stared into the flames, swallowing hard, his tongue wetting his lips.
"I will accept the gift of ascension."
A flicker of relief passed through the back of Fane's mind. It would have been a waste to have killed him. More than a waste, it would have been an inconvenience. "A wise choice. You have a vessel, do you not?"
"I do." The man attempted to hide the tremble in his voice, but Fane had long since learned to see the fear in people.
Reaching within his robes, the man produced a shimmering red gemstone the size of a small apple. Good, that will do.
Turning his back on the fire, Fane stared into Artim's eyes. "Open yourself to the Essence within. Let it flow through you. Let it fill every corner of your soul. And when the heralds call to you, answer only for the one who calls himself Azrim."
Artim's eyes widened. "Now?"
"Now."
"But… I thought I would have more time."
"There will not be a second chance, Exarch. If this is not what you want, Primarch Touran has sent men to escort you for sentencing."
Artim didn't say anything, but he nodded, closing his eyes, taking in a trembling breath.
A few moments passed before Fane felt the Essence igniting within Artim's gemstone.
His lips curling into a half-smile, Fane tapped into the gemstone he held in his own hand – a vessel for the Essence. The gift given by Efialtír. The power to forge something new from death.
Fane drew the Essence into himself, savouring the sweetness of its touch before pushing it into Artim, feeding his connection to The Saviour.
"Remember his name. Azrim."
Fane smiled as Artim drained both gemstones of their Essence, pulling them into himself with insatiable rapacity. The more Essence he absorbed, the stronger his connection would be. The more spirits would be drawn to him.
A shiver ran through Fane's body as the light in the room dimmed, bathing the chamber in shadow. He watched as the bronze hue of Artim's skin faded, the colour draining from his face and hands. Within moments, the Exarch's cheeks were as pale as porcelain, his lips an icy blue.
With a gasp, he opened his eyes, revealing two deep wells of light-drinking black.
[ end of volume three ]