III-68 Grievance (I)

All Pathbearers dream of reaching Legendary-Tier. To most, it is the pinnacle of power. Yet, this power is rarely understood so well. Let us

All Pathbearers dream of reaching Legendary-Tier. To most, it is the pinnacle of power. Yet, this power is rarely understood so well. Let us put this into perspective—do you know that sixty percent of the energy generated by the Twilight Republic comes from two Aeromancy Legends? The other forty are provided by countless Heroes, Masters, Adepts, and Initiates.

This disparity should demonstrate the sheer gulf of capability between a Legend and the cultures they hail from. And this also demonstrates the sheer importance of a Legend. It goes beyond just power and threat potential. A Legend is a major portion of a nation’s economy, a major source of its arts and technology. Indeed, the Yellowstone Republic is blessed not only by the thirteen Ascendants that protect and guide us, but also by the sheer wealth of Legends that makes our land the greatest place to live on Integrated Earth.

And it is because of these Legends that you live in relative comfort and security. Consider the desperate struggles assail our cousins in Lone Star. For all their temerity and defiance, they are at a deadlock against the orcish menace. For all the sheer quantity of Heroes and Masters they possess, they desperately lack Legends. And such a deficit has cost them immensely.

But understand that Legends are rare for a reason. For to become a Legend requires something beyond determination, beyond genius, beyond experience. We have Heroes who have served for three centuries on, and they stand bottlenecked at the precipice, struggling for decades to gain singular levels in their strongest skills.

No. To become Legend requires you to survive. Survive the impossible. To be part of Legendary clashes—moments that scar the pages of the world’s history and ignite the fires fueling the system. Legends are forged through conflicts above all other conflicts, and more often than not, the rising of a new Legend has come at the price of them slaying an older one. This, statistically, is the most common way Legends cement themselves.

Yet, the numbers are against you. Against you with the ambition to reach Legendary-Tier, as you must cast yourself in the flames of desperation and bloodshed. And against those of you who simply wish to live gentler lives. 

You do not have forever. Understand that the average life expectancy of a person in the Yellowstone Republic remains at 112 years for a reason as well—with only Adepts and below perishing most often from natural causes.

The system demands that we struggle and fight, and though we live in prosperous, gentle times, war is the constant—peace is the anomaly. Without power, your end will come by blade, disease, spell, or disaster. And they are coming. They are always coming.

Nothing is promised, Pathbearer. So, our suggestion is that you burn. Rage. Rise. Do not wait. The system will seek your life in one fashion or another. Force it to take it from you.

-The Paths of Ascension, Essential Reading at Phoenix Academy of The Yellowstone Republic

III-68

Grievance (I)

A sudden rush of air flooded Roland Arrow's lungs. Light splashed into his eyes. The world came into shape. First he saw dappled blurs, but then they solidified. Colors peeled apart, and soon he began to recognize shapes hovering over him. The shapes of people—of faces he still couldn't fully see. He could hear his name chanted on desperate lips. 

He tried to move. He tried to say something, but all that escaped him was a long groan. His cells were suffused with agony. Every part of him hurt, and every fiber of his being was exhausted.

Respec 433 > 447

But he was alive. He thought, at least he hoped he was. If this was an afterlife, then Roland would be supremely displeased. He had already suffered immensely while he was alive, and he had no desire to continue that process in death.

"Back away, back away; his brain still needs more blood flow," a deep rumbling voice chided. Roland followed the sound and craned his head upward. A series of cracks sounded through his neck, and the Town-Lord whimpered. As he blinked, his vision cleared ever so slightly, and he found himself staring up at an ugly gray face sporting a pair of spectacles. Roland beheld his savior: an orc of all things. An orc currently weaving a strange series of biomantic helixes. Crimson mana spilled out from the orc's hand, washing over the Town-Lord's body.

A bead of confusion and disbelief spread through Roland. What happened? 

And then a pair of warm hands were pawing at his cheeks, and another face came into view. This one he recognized. This one he saw on a picture frame beside his bed, but also in the depths of his dreams. She had been dead for almost two decades now, but here she was in the flesh before him, her teardrop-shaped face feeding a building ache in his heart, her violet eyes glowing ever so faintly even in the light. Her hair flowed like rivers of silken blood, cascading along her collarbone.

Roland swallowed, and once more he contemplated if he was truly dead. He wouldn't mind now, not even if he had to suffer this pain for the rest of eternity. He had yearned for this moment. Roland had prayed to the Starhawk and to any god who would listen, who would grant him a reunion with the one he lost, and here she was again. Roland couldn't believe it. He almost didn't want to accept it, and ultimately he uttered a slurred prayer, blessing whoever delivered Rose back into his life, swearing a vow of fealty and honor to his yet-unknown benefactor.

"Rose," Roland whispered, "you… is this a dream.”

"Do I feel like a dream, you damned fool?" Rose asked. Her voice was on the verge of a sob as well. She pressed her hand tighter against his face, and then she slid her arms around his neck and held him, just held him.

Roland tried to lift his own limbs, but they felt heavy, like he was trying to budge small mountains. Even so, Roland Arrow managed. It didn't matter if his arms felt like they were trapped under rubble. There was no force in existence that would stop him from holding his wife once more. She shook slightly, and so did he. 

For a moment, peace and joy prevailed over pain.

As he clung onto her, he saw his son staring at him. Adam's eyes were wide, his face was white and there were faint trails on his cheek.

"Adam," Roland wheezed. There were so many questions the Town-Lord wanted to ask, but he decided against voicing any of them. Instead, he held out a shaking hand and his boy walked over and grasped him. In that moment, despite suffering from unspeakable pain, despite the unexplained orc Biomancer doing everything he could to keep Roland alive, the Town-Lord was a very happy man indeed.

But then he saw the rest of his chamber. It was utterly devastated. Glass rained down from above. The walls and windows were all shattered. A long piece of structural rebar jutted out from the corner of the room, and a body hung limply from its jagged tip. A body that Roland recognized. A pang of sorrow pulsed through the Town-Lord. That had been one of his Biomancers, Master Kareva. He was unmoving. He was dead.

Starhawk… Can I truly protect no one…

As Rose finally pulled away from him, Roland surveyed the rest of the room. Yet even moving his neck was a struggle. The destruction, the damage inflicted upon Starhawk's Perch was severe. It seemed like a colossal impact had struck the building. A faint aura of star-bright fire fizzled out from the cracks that lined the ground and the walls. 

There were several people piled together, moaning in pain as Roland's remaining Biomancer did what she could. But she did so laying down as well. She had suffered her own wounds. One of her legs was rigged in a makeshift metal splint, and she had a stump for a left arm.

Nearby, Roland's captain of the guard, along with the remainder of his personal retinue, stood watch. Their hands were on their weapons, and their postures were tense. One of them was glaring at the orc healing Roland. The others were focused on another group of orcs not far away. 

There were three of them. One of the gray-skinned bruisers was dressed in midnight robes that glistened with Dimensionality mana. Another was an extremely large orc, wearing what seemed to be melted automata. That orc also lacked actual humanoid legs. Rather, he had mechanical appendages jutting out from the bottom, a sort of tetrapod-like build. And finally, there was an orc who was actively smoking right now and holding two wands in his hands. He wouldn't stop spinning them, and he eyed Roland's personal guard as if they were easy prey.

And behind the orcs was another figure. No, two other figures. One Roland recognized. That was Georges. A feeling of gratitude swelled through Roland as he laid eyes on the chef. Georges had done everything he could with his Heroic-Tier cooking. He turned crumbs into feasts, and he magnified the caloric density of every bite and morsel of food held within the Perch's pantry. It had been the only place unaffected by Sullain's vile Biomancy. And without Georges' aid, many more people would have died. Many more people would have starved.

Beside Georges was a figure Roland hadn't expected to see. He didn't know who she was, but after a brief moment of observation, Roland was certain of two things. The first was that she was an Umbral, and the second, more chilling fact, was that she was a Seeker. He knew those colors leaking from her eyes. He knew the touch of the Outside, had faced it more than once in his life. Yet, she didn't seem mad or malicious. Instead, she was looking beyond the broken windows, casting her gaze over the ruins of Blackedge and something else beyond.

Suddenly, the red mana pulsating from the Biomancer orc's hand faded. He adjusted his spectacles and looked Roland up and down. "You should be able to stand under your own power now, but I would recommend against any strenuous activities if you value your life. But if you are going to kill yourself overchanneling a god’s power through your soul, do make it explosive. It’s always the most theatrical way to die.”

Rose snarled at the orc. “Go fuck yourself. He’s not going to die.”

“Statistically, everyone inevitably dies,” the orc Biomancer grinned. “Some of us just come back.”

Orcs weren't known to save people's lives, not unless there was something to be gained from it. "Why?" Roland asked, curious to know what the orc desired of him.

"Why what?" the orc replied haughtily. "Why are you still alive? Well, that surprised me as well. When I got to you, your body was in a dire state. Your organs were all withered. Your skin was practically peeling off of your bones. Your muscles were so over-flooded with acid they were practically melting. And your brain was damaged from ischemia, of all things. Your oxygen and blood flow had been so blunted by your prolonged combat strain that it was a miracle you hadn't died a week prior." And then the orc chuckled, "But it was magnificent learning about how you sustained that damage. A near month of constant combat against an entire enemy army, against a rival Legend."

The orc Biomancer clapped, and the other orcs joined in. Their pride and respect for him was genuine, as was the predatory gleam glistening in their large eyes. "The Starhawk chooses his servants well," the midnight-robed orc commented.

Roland breathed in and out. The situation was odd. Things were bad, but he was still alive. He gave himself a moment to acclimate, and then he grunted as he tried to stand.

"Roland, stop. Fucking stop," Rose shook him. Her expression was slightly frustrated. "Look at me. You are in no condition to do anything."

And despite everything Roland wanted to say, he just smirked at his love, as he had in his youth. "Well, I don't think it's up to me anymore. I'd rather lie here. But I suppose someone must save the world."

"And right now that someone isn't going to be you," Rose chided.

"Help me up," Roland said.

Rose narrowed her eyes at him, and a faint shiver of slight fear and extreme pleasure danced down his spine.

"Please," he breathed.

Rose sighed, and she began to pull. But though she let out a growl of effort, she couldn't quite lift him. And Roland's eyes widened slightly. Rose had achieved Adept-Tier Physicality. It wasn't her specialty, but she was particularly strong for a mage. Her Toughness, meanwhile, ended up near Master, which made her far more durable than most mages. It also made her more durable than Roland for a time.

Then, they descended into the Abyss, he got changed, and everything went to the deepest hells.

Where Rose flagged, Adam triumphed, and he pulled his father up with barely any effort at all. Roland rose to his feet, but as he tried to bear his own weight, he nearly collapsed. He nearly did, but Adam grasped him. Wings extended from Adam's back. They manifested like inverted pyramids. Roland counted. There were six of them, six, and he knew the skill.

"The Vectors of the Eternal Ascent," Roland murmured. The fires of pride combusted inside the Town-Lord. "My boy is a Hero."

Adam coughed and looked away. “Well. Yes—I—yes, it’s—I.”

And that was when Roland noticed it: an azure sphere hovering just behind Adam's head. "And what's this?"

"A Unique Skill. A lot has happened, father." Adam coughed, trying to keep his voice clear of emotion. "A great deal."

"I know," Roland replied. Even so, he reached out with a hand and squeezed the young lord's shoulder. "I know, and I am beyond proud of you. You came back. You did everything you could to come back. I saw you. I saw what you were doing. And I saw… and I saw…" Roland trailed off as he remembered the Omenborn. Shiv. Tanner Lowe. He had been with Adam. They were fighting side by side as comrades, as… 

Roland didn't want to think of the Omenborn as Adam's friend. As Vera and Harlon’s shadow. The thought was physically painful, and so he avoided it.

But Adam didn't. "Yes, Shiv is here too." Adam paused. 

"Was here. The giant surfacer woman flicked him off the town like he was a gnat." The large, automata-wearing orc grunted. "She threw him directly at the Tarrasque. That was the last we saw of the Insul."

"He'll be fine," the cigarette-smoking orc said. "It's going to take more than a world-ending beast to kill…" The orc paused to make sure. "He stays dead. I'm pretty sure he's getting killed right now. Probably getting killed more than he's ever been killed before."

All the orcs chuckled.

"But we're getting favored after this," the automata-wearing orc laughed as he rubbed his large hands together.

Roland was speechless. He thought about all of Shiv's bodies. Thought about how he obliterated Shiv practically a week ago, only for the Omenborn to return.

"As I said, Father," Adam repeated, "a lot has happened."

The Town-Lord wanted to ask more, but for the first time he caught sight of Blackedge, or what remained of Blackedge, and the sorrow within him grew a thousand-fold. There were no buildings left intact by the Tarrasque's devastating attacks. The few structures that were still standing had been stripped to their very foundations. There were people out in the street, but many screams echoed from all corners of the town. 

Children were crying out for their parents. Parents howled for their children. Mechanical voices joined organic ones, and Roland could hear his name on their lips as well. They were begging him, asking him where he was. Some were shrieking for him. Others could only muster whispers, for they were trapped beneath tons of rubble. 

Worse yet, entire sections of the town were missing. Vast chasms carved chunks and residential clusters out of the town. If Blackedge was a plate, it was shattered and missing at least a fourth of its pieces.

Nausea flooded Roland. He didn't want to know how many of his people were dead, how many he lost, but there was no avoiding the nightmare present before his eyes. He had pledged to protect them. 

He had done everything he could, and he had failed. He had failed so many of them. Beyond the edges of Blackedge, he also noticed another problem. There was no more sky, no more sun, no more shock waves, or even clouds sailing over a canvas of faint blue. Instead, he beheld a sea of static blackness. 

An entire pocket dimension caged the remains of his town.

"Where are we?" Roland asked. "What has happened to us?"

"After the Titansbane swatted the Insul away, she swung her great blade through the town and trapped us, along with the town itself,” the orc Biomancer sneered.

And that name hit Roland like a cannonball to the stomach. Titansbane. Jessica Hawgrave. Legendary Pathbearer, Widow. And a woman who promised Roland that the next time they met, she would rip the upper half of his skull away and use it as a mug. 

Roland had tried to explain things to her, had written to her over the years, but she never responded. And what was once a dear friend became a bitter enemy. She didn't know what her daughter was involved in, what the Inquisition had dispatched her to do down in the Abyss, down near the Umbral Wilderness. And when Hawgrave joined the Inquisition herself thereafter, Roland accepted that he was going to have to kill another of his old friends in the future, if she didn't kill him first.

And Roland knew where he was now. He looked up into the air, and he drew in a harsh breath.

"Rusty?" he called out. His voice was hoarse with exhaustion and injury. "Rusty, can you hear me?"

He noticed a slight quiver along a certain spot of Dimensionality. It was like something was trying to burst through the mana. But then it calmed.

"I can," the sword said. Its voice was heavy and thick, but it made no attempt to hide its loathing for Roland. "I was hoping that you would have perished, Town-Lord. I was hoping that you could have died blissfully in ignorance and spared my wielder the heartache. But as with all things, you are an offense and a disappointment, Roland Arrow."

"And you're a cunt sword that can't separate the difference between an asshole and a sheath," Rose snarled on Roland's behalf. She pointed a finger up at the sky, up at the Dimensionality engulfing Blackedge. "Listen Rusty, I don't know what in the broken fucking moon happened while I was gone. But you will not keep us here. We are citizens of the Republic. I am a lady of a noble line. Roland has served as the Starhawk's enforcer and a hero to our nation. So I wish to know by what right are we being held?"

The sword hesitated before responding. "You are dead," it said, flatly, dully, but also with a faint hint of surprise. "That… then you must be an illusion. How low of you, Roland Arrow, to summon a mirage of your late wife to attack my virtuous heart."

"I'm not a cock-sucking illusion!" Rose almost shrieked. "I came back to life recently because…" She made a series of frustrated hand gestures, and for an absurd moment, Roland couldn't help but smile at her warmly. He missed her anger. He missed how her desire to express herself exceeded the limits of her verbalization. 

"It's complicated!" Rose finally shouted. "It's very complicated, but I was resurrected. Now, you can continue doubting me, or you can let us out and have Jessica see for herself. In fact, I want to talk to her. I want to stare her eye to eye." Rose paused. "Well, she could stare at my chest while I look down at her forehead, that short, stunted wench. And she could tell me why she has participated in the destruction of my home and the wounding of my beloved."

Adam stared, slack-jawed at his mother's outburst, and Roland realized that the young Lord Arrow had not known this side of his mother very well. Rose Van Erren was a fantastic diviner, an excellent jump mage, a masterful overall mage, and a woman with a volcanic temper.

Rusty was hesitating for another moment before it finally responded. "I will inform her of what is happening. Should we survive."

"Should you survive?" Rose narrowed her eyes and looked about. Her expression was one of utter incredulity. "What do you mean, should you survive? Jessica's a Legend right now. You're both Legends." Rose adjusted herself. "My congratulations, aside from other matters.”

"Thank you," Rusty replied. "It happened some ten years ago. Jessica wished you could have been there."

"Well," Rose said awkwardly, "I wish I could have been at the ceremony too, but the rest of this…"

"We are being attacked by a Tarrasque," Rusty explained, interrupting Rose. "And right now, we are…"

And just as Rusty was about to respond, the veil of Dimensionality surrounding them shuddered violently, and suddenly a gap was torn into the mana. A gap that shuddered, ripped, and expanded wider and wider until a colossal shape wriggled its way in. A loud cry of pain sounded from all around them, and Rusty shuddered as its internal composition was torn asunder. 

But that was second to the fact that a Tarrasque, sporting a multitude of injuries, missing several limbs, and with an obsidian shield lodged through its skull, was swimming through the static mana, coming right for them.

"Holy fuck," Rose breathed.

But then, a large gauntlet coated in Inertium reached in and tore the Tarrasque free. The giant beast let out a primal roar as it was flung out from the insides of the pocket Dimension. A moment later, the rip sealed.

“Rusty?” Rose called out.

A low metallic groan shook the world. “We… Must focus.”

And that wasn't something Roland wanted to hear. He was in bad condition. And a battle between him and Jessica Hawgrave would have been a desperate struggle. Even in his prime. Even with Starhawk's Perch feeding him divine power. But a Tarrasque… a Tarrasque was a beast on another level of danger. Worse yet, this Tarrasque could resurrect like a certain Omenborn Roland knew. It had taken him searing his very soul, over-channeling his being to destroy it before. And it simply recovered thereafter. 

Roland had no idea how they were going to kill this creature. Over and over again. Tarrasques could adapt to specific attacks as well. Over time, its resistances became more like immunities. A juvenile one had been a nightmare enough.

"Starhawk," Roland rasped. His soul was damaged, but the skill connecting him to his god was still there. "Starhawk," Roland said louder.

Something stirred in the depth of his soul, and the divine essence leaking from the cracks of Starhawk's Perch stilled. A large shadow emerged behind Roland. It possessed four arms, a wide expanse of flaring wings. But it was ultimately colorless, shapeless, aside from its eyes. Its eyes that glared from the contours of a helmet. "Roland, my champion. I had feared you fallen after the feat you just performed."

"Almost," Helix said, looking the Starhawk up and down.

The god regarded the orc for the briefest of instants, and then turned away. The orc responded in kind, huffing at the god, as if the Starhawk was nothing more than a lesser noblewoman who spurned his attentions.

"I need…" Roland choked on his own pain. "I need your power. I need…"

"Roland," the Starhawk interrupted him. "No."

It was like his patron lord had slapped him across the face. Roland couldn't accept it. He just couldn't. "My god, please!"

"Roland," the Starhawk said, not as a master or divine, but more as a pleading father. "You must stop. You cannot do anymore. You are wounded, inside and out. If you even channel the slightest amount of my power, of my grand blessing, there will be nothing left of you. It will be as if ashes cast to the wind."

Roland heard another scream rise into the air, and the sheer magnitude of suffering in that note made the Town-Lord shudder. "I need to do something. I need to," Roland begged. "My people, I need to help them."

"There is nothing more you can do, Roland," the Starhawk continued, trying to comfort him. "You have done all you could, more than anyone could ask of you. But sometimes… sometimes, the world is unkind. Too often the System will simply take."

Roland's eyes misted, and he felt more wounded than ever before. Blackedge had served as more prison and place of exile for him, rather than a desired refuge or a realm to rule. But in time, Roland had come to care for the people there, had fostered communities away from the capital, and learned the value of even the weakest Pathbearer. He'd vowed to protect them, to guide them, to make their lives as good as he could. 

And his vows were all meaningless now, for he couldn't even spare them from the weight of his bygone sins.

"Tell me what to do," Roland begged. He looked at the Starhawk as a student would his master. "Tell me what to do, what I have to give, and I will do it."

"There is nothing more you can give, Roland," the Starhawk said. "It is not a question of your devotion or your power. You have already given everything you possibly could, everything and more."

"Then what about me?" Roland's eyes widened and he looked at Adam. The Young Lord was standing tall. His gaze was fixed upon the Starhawk, and rather than awe, there was an expression of resolute devotion upon his features. "What about me? If my father cannot carry your divine burden, then let me stand in his stead."

The Starhawk gazed upon Adam, and the fate of the ascendant sighed. "I do not doubt you in any capacity, Adam Arrow. You are your father's son, and you are your mother's son. But most importantly, you are a good man, despite being System-favored."

"System-favored?" Roland whispered. Dread consumed him. Now he understood why Adam was a hero, how he'd grown so fast, grown so powerful.

"Then why," Adam asked, clenching his fists, "why? Is it because I'm not powerful enough? Is it because I lack the proper skill?"

"You found the point," the Starhawk replied. "You lack the proper skill, but more importantly, you lack the uniqueness of that skill."

And Adam's mouth fell open. "The uniqueness? Then my father's ability to channel your blessings…"

"My blessings are not like that which swells within your friend. I am bestowing my power directly upon Roland. I am using him, in effect, as an outlet for my true might. This allows him to operate at the very limits of power within your world's ambient mana threshold. And it is only possible due to the years we have amassed together, due to the histories and legends we have composed. He has served me for long ages, for campaign after campaign, and the devotion he expressed toward me, and in my name, is unrivalled by any other Pathbearer in all Integration."

"I am sorry, Adam," the Starhawk said. "But for everything you might be able to surpass your father on, his devotion to me is not one of them."

"I can swear vows, I can offer years of service," Adam's expression tightened in desperation. “Centuries.”

"And the System would see that for what it is," the Starhawk replied, "bargaining. I know the truth inside your heart. Your faith is shaken. You do not know who to trust. You do not even know if you can trust me, and I do not blame you." Still, Adam looked ashamed. "Do not quail before my words, little hawk. This is not your fault. It is simply the inevitable outcome when we, greedy Path-bearers desperate for power, made ourselves into unworthy gods. We thought we could gain wisdom and truly forge a better tomorrow. But ultimately, we are what we do. Such is how our skills are shaped, and such is how our legends grow." But then the Starhawk paused, "And our legends are not truly our own, not in their entirety."

"But there are other sacred relics here," Adam said. "Truly they can offer something."

"Not when they remain forgotten and slumbering—when their owners are trapped within our own progenitor," the Starhawk replied. "They will only become conduits once more, if they are allowed to be reborn from the Great One—the only entity that could bring them back to existence. And besides that, you will not want the power of my former comrades. They would demand more than your soul, more than you can offer in a thousand lifetimes. Some were forgotten for a reason."

"Alright, great, fine, we can't do any of that. So what in the fuck can we do?" Rose hissed.

Adam's jaw dropped at his mother's casual profanity before the Ascended, and Roland just sighed. Ever since Rose was exposed to truly foul language by Vera, there was no going back. Not when speaking this way made the late Lord Van Erren incomparably furious.

"Wait," the Starhawk said, "wait for an opening. Recover. And prepare to flee thereafter. The blade is strong, but the wielder is foolish. A Legend alone will not be able to overcome an undying Tarrasque. This dimension will be sheared through, and when that happens, it will be time to disconnect the Perch from the rest of the town and take flight.”

Roland closed his eyes. “You cannot ask that of me. You cannot ask me to abandon them.”

“I must, Roland,”  the Starhawk replied with a somber breath. “Gather what survivors you can. But you must flee. There is no survival left here. But scant thousands remain. Blackedge is slain.”

“But the false-god-Ascendant-bastard offers only one path.” A new voice interrupted the Starhawk. All heads turned to, and all eyes settled upon, the only umbral in the room. Yet her mouth was unmoving. Her helmet had been removed, but the voice was coming from her eyes, and a slight expression of fear lined the Umbral's features. 

Roland examined her for a moment. She had a short crop of hair, only slightly shorter than Rose's. A faint scar ran along her mouth, but the rest of her features were sharp and rather fierce for that measure. But ultimately, it was her eyes that were her most prevalent trait. Her eyes containing the colors of the Outside, and the Outside that was now seeping into Integration from within her eyes.

The Starhawk took a single step toward the Umbral. "Dreamtaker," the Starhawk said. He sounded like a man describing a cockroach infestation in his home. "You dare sully my sacred relic with your presence?"

"Fear. Loathing. Scorn. Hate for us. Irrational right now. You need every option-choice-escape that you can have. And you yourself are out of power, servants-divine mana-slaves."

The Starhawk fell silent for a moment, and the Dreamtaker continued. "This place is no cage for me, or my light. Dimensionality is rules based on patterns, patterns that entrap you, but patterns that you can pierce, exceed, bypass. You have the skills, and you have the power. The power to open a way for a few, or potentially to save yourself, alone."

And the Umbral hesitated. Her posture shifted to one of discomfort. Suddenly, her mana strand shot out through the air and splashed into Adam's mind. Roland moved, trying to intercept her, but his body screamed with pain, and he doubled over.

"Father, no!" Adam gasped as he caught Roland before he could fall over. "She's with us. She's with me. She's a friend." And Roland knew that was at least somewhat true, because as the Umbral's Psychomancy locked itself in place within Adam's mind, he wasn't laid low in any form or fashion. He didn't even seem to be compromised. In fact, Adam looked comfortable, as if he had done this many, many times before. That's what had happened to his son in his month of absence.

"Uva, we can talk directly," Adam said, a slight hint of exasperation lining his voice. "There's no need for telepathy."

“Isn’t there?” Uva said. Her posture was tense, and her eyes jumped between the Starhawk, Roland, and even the orcs.

“I mean you no harm, Sister Uva of the Arachnae Order,” the Starhawk said. “But know this: I will not allow that taint you carry within you to touch my champion or my phylactery.”

“Words are not truths,” the Uva replied to the Ascendant. Her voice was cold and her guard remained high.

“Uva—” Adam began.

“I trust you, Adam. You are battle-brother. You. Valor. Shiv. Can Hu. My sisters. The mothers.” But she didn’t mention anything about anyone else, and Roland got the message. He had the explicit feeling she didn’t much like him in particular for some reason. “But there isn’t the time. We cannot wait. Shiv struggles alone beyond this place, and we must aid him.”

“Agreed,” Whisper said, nodding appreciatively at the Umbral’s aggression. “To delay is to surrender our fates to the system. And we all know how that ends.” The orc smirked at Roland. “The Starhawk seeks to preserve his Perch. And from the sounds of things, it might be capable of flight under its own power. Is that true, Town-Lord.”

Roland didn’t answer, but the Starhawk did.

“It will not rise on your whims, spawn of the Challenger,” the Starhawk said with a rough growl. “Banish whatever vile schemes you are concocting.”

“Oh, but I am not the one scheming here.” The orc turned to Uva. “Sister. What does your Outsider benefactor desire.”

Uva hesitated. But the Dreamtaker didn’t. “I wish to fill and fuse and bless the Starhawk. I wish to taste the wrongness of his ascension—and merge my offspring with his divinity-anchor-phylactery. The Gate Lord cannot sustain his power. His soul is wrong-shaped. But we are shapeless, and the Seeker’s potential can be unbound.”

“Impossible,” the Starhawk replied. His voice was calm but resolute. “I know what you desire—to infest Integration so that you can colonize the system as much as it colonizes you. But your colors will never settle within me. You will never have me. Not in this life. Not in any life.”

The Dreamtaker just hummed melodically. “But that is not up to you. Your champion is spent. No more flames can pass through his burned channel. And you are parted from the world without his presence, without his will. Too much power—and not even your own. The system will not allow you to reach through directly. And so you are vulnerable. And desperate. No lies from us: we want you. And we want to give you colors. And through you, the Great One themselves.”

And that drove a breath from Uva’s lungs. “No. I will not accept that.”

“But why?” The Dreamtaker genuinely sounded confused. “Why not—”

“I will not betray the progenitor of my Lady Arachnae to your influence. Even if you have come to my aid in my time of need. Even if you can offer me all the power in the world.”

“Beyond the world,” the Dreamtaker said. “And not the power to corrupt. To change. The Great One dreams. But this dream is so crude-broken-sad-ephemeral. Why can things not improve? Why do the Weavers have to suffer their maladies? Why do you have to live in fear from the other Faiths? Why did your mother have to die?”

Uva stiffened, and for the first time, Roland’s protective instincts extended toward her as well. He had a hard time telling her age, but with the way she turned in hurt, he knew she had to be young. Too young for the brutality of this world.

“Never use that against me again,” Uva hissed. Her fury was cold, and the Dreamtaker’s response was devoid of rancor.

“Apologies-confusion-why? I do not swear falsehoods. I want change-mutation-new colors. But that can be up to us. We have an opportunity. A bridge for proper power. The Starhawk’s champion is wounded. But the source of his power remains. We can sustain the source if the Starhawk allows it. And you can carry this skill as a betweener. Your presence is perfect. The system will smile on this arrangement. And so will we.”

“I do not,” the Starhawk replied again. “And I will not let you perform any action that will jeopardize what must be done. The fate of the Republic—and this world—is paramount above all.” He glided across the room and came to hover before Uva. Yet, before the Starhawk reached her, Adam leaned his father against a wall and arrived between them.

“Adam,” Roland choked.

But the Young Lord was unshaken by his act. The Starhawk looked upon Adam with surprise as well, but waited for him to respond.

“I have bled alongside her, and she has given near all for me,” Adam said, staring both his father and god down. His nervousness was plain, and his doubt was deep, but his resolve shone brighter than the dawn rising over his head. “That is more than iron. That is more than anything I can put in words. I trust her. And I would ask that you refrain from even thinking about threatening her, my Lord Ascendant. Respectfully.”

The Starhawk regarded Adam, and nodded. “I will grant your request, Gate Lord Adam. Within reason.”

“And I can ask no more from you, Starhawk,” Adam replied.

A look of gratitude flickered on the Umbral’s face. For a moment, Roland wondered if there was something more between them—feared it. And that brought another uncomfortable thought to the forefront of his mind.

I haven’t even told Adam about his fiancée. She lay in my personal infirmary, writhing from one of the many plagues unleashed by Sullain…

“Thank you, Adam,” Uva said quietly.

He offered her a weak smile. “Now. Please tell me you’re not even remotely thinking about the Dreamtaker’s mad plan.”

“Why is the plan mad-insane-incomprehensible?” the Dreamtaker asked in confusion. “It is simply efficient.”

“And unwanted by the Starhawk,” Uva replied on the Ascendant’s behalf. “There is no path to achieve your mutual colonization if the Starhawk himself refuses to lend you his might.”

“Why?” the Dreamtaker asked again

Uva frowned. “There are times where you seem beyond divine, and others that you have the awareness of a toddler. Do you know this?”

“Perhaps it might seem so to you,” the Dreamtaker answered.

“Right. Fine. But—”

Just then, a small mob rose into shape in the corner of Roland’s vision as the elevator connected to the top of the Perch arrived. The Town-Lord turned and found a group of people huddled together. They were guardsmen, and all of them sported brutal wounds. Among them were several orcs. Most of them were armored in organic material, and they were actively healing the survivors. 

Among them was Roland’s Captain of the Guard, Master Leinen François—recently promoted after Roland’s former captain died of the plague. Within him was Chris, Roland’s personal Psychomancer, and beside her was someone entirely unexpected. A lich hovered at the center of the group, his body a faint outline of corrosive mana. Within his right hand was a half-burned skull. Roland recognized the make of the melted helmet around the skull. It was an Inquisitor’s full-plate helm.

The Town-Lord’s first instinct was to call out to his own people, confused as to why they were so relaxed with the lich and orcs around them. But he was interrupted by a whisper of misery that came from the skull in the lich’s hand. “No more of us… You have slain us all, Great Valor. You have taken the only thing I have left that matters to me. Please… Release the shadow of my spirit. Please…”

Valor? Roland breathed.

“So be it,” the lich said for the first time. He closed his right fist and the skull shattered. Necromancy crackled around him, and then faded. And finally, he turned to regard the others in the room—and noticed the Starhawk first. “Ah. The Town-Lord has survived.” The lich’s burning eyes fell on Roland, and he involuntarily shuffled back. The Abyssal recognized him. “And you have been summoned as well, Matthew.”

“Matthew?” Roland breathed.

The lich regarded the Town-Lord for a beat. “And you have never told your faithful your true name? How cruel. Truth be told, it eluded me until I laid eyes on you once more…”

The Starhawk turned away from Uva and his shrouded form tightened with tension. “Legend Valor Thann. So. The town is cleansed of all remaining Necrotech holdouts?”

The name pierced Roland’s mind like a blade from the sky. “Thann. Valor Thann! Udraal Thann’s father?”

“The very same,” Rose whispered to him. “But he hasn’t harmed me. He’s been with Adam all this time, and he hasn’t harmed him, either.”

“It is,” Valor said, and he glided up to face the Starhawk. “And now, finally, we get to speak. Speak about your original sin. About how you and your ilk inflicted all this madness upon us, you light-cursed worm. I want to know what you have done—how you became a god, and what you will do thereafter. And I want to know just what you took from the Great One to pervert your nature so.”