Ascendant: Chronicles of the Red Lion

By Fulton Reed

Centuries ago, a cataclysmic event forced the concept of death into a tangible form, and the Legion was born. The Legion's birth balanced the concept of life, and those who live are in a perpetual state of danger. As the Law of Equated Measures dictates, all things must bear balance, except there exists one who would like nothing more than to tip the scales in his favor - the Iron General Bastille, commander of the Legion. He would see success if not for one obstacle.

When Amalia Anders makes the decision to unravel the mystery of her nightmares and phantom memories, she discovers an existence, a world, and a whole universe completely unknown to her - in addition to eight others.

Plagued with delusional memories of a life she doesn't remember living, she soon discovers elements of that non-life which appear to be true. As her account of her own personal history is tested, she doesn't know who to trust or what to believe.

Will she fulfill her destiny? Or defy it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Reed
• Release date: May 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736251829

Book preview

Prologue

My father tells me not to talk about the light beams, the boy said. He was short for his age. Scrawny and knobby, he had too much legs under not enough torso. A field of light brown freckles peppered the olive skin of his cheeks and nose. His long loose curls, black at the roots, and blond along the ends, shifted in time with the wind.

A man, advanced in his age, sat atop the hill, surrounded by long, supple golden blades of grass. They rippled around him like waves folding over an active sea. With legs crossed and eyes closed, the man pushed out a slow breath. And why not?

The boy shrugged. He said nobody else can see them, so I shouldn’t talk about it. Or they’ll call me crazy. His voice trailed off. And they’ll take me away.

Your father sounds like a wise man, although he’s wrong about this, the old man replied. His voice came out harsh and grating. The wet, gravelly sound of accumulated phlegm scraped across his pronunciation in choppy bursts until he cleared his throat. Because others cannot see a thing does not mean that thing does not exist. It just means they cannot see it.

The sudden strength in his voice enclosed around his words like an iron casing. There was a vigor to his presence that belied his sparse white hair and weathered skin, cracked and creased as old boot leather. The man pushed his hands out of the sleeves of his robe and clasped them in his lap. Besides, it’s good for me he gave you that advice.

Why?

Because had he told you not to talk to strangers, it certainly would have made my job a whole lot more difficult.

The boy hesitated with a frown. Moments later, his curiosity gave him the courage to explore. Are you making that light beam? he asked, gesturing to the anomaly before them.

Ah, so you can see it. The old man said with delight. And if you can see it, you can no doubt feel it. That’s a start. More than I expected.

The boy regarded him with a mixture of wonder and distrust. After a few moments, he moved to leave but struggled against the overwhelming urge to sit down. To stay. To make himself comfortable, or available, or even vulnerable. He couldn’t explain the desire to stay any more than he could explain why he was there.

It pulls at you, doesn’t it? the old man said over a smile, his eyes still closed. I also think, little one, that this, he said, nodding at the shaft of light, is the reason you are here. The reason you have defied your father and risk being called crazy and hauled off to who knows where.

He motioned for the boy to sit, pointing to a spot in the yellow grass next to him. He waited for the boy to approach, who only squatted next to him, perhaps so he could dash away at the first signs of trouble. To answer your question, I am indeed making that light beam. It is a gateway to another existence.

Why are you making it?

Because I need to get home, he said, opening his eyes and looking at the boy with an appraising eye.

Your home is through there? The boy pointed at the shaft of light that seemed to split the horizon in two.

Yes. I must go back to my home. Of all the places in the aetherverse, this is the most damnable of the bunch, despite its serene beauty. He inhaled deeply and grimaced, recoiling from the scentless, fresh air. This place is poison to those of us who enjoy poison. I don’t know what to make of air that is so clean it has no smell. How do you find your way around?

The boy giggled. You need to smell to see?

The old man nodded. My plane of existence operates very differently from this one. He squinted into the daylight, thoughts caressing the forefront of his mind. There are nine streams of consciousness, but only one can be accessed at any given time. Did you know that?

The boy stared at him as though he spoke a foreign language.

Of course you didn’t. Something perhaps your father planned to keep to himself. Well, besides all that, I have found you, the man said with a nod and a smile. The boy who sees what others do not.

I’ve seen the light beams before, the boy said. The gateways, I mean. He sat straighter, proud of his experiences with the beams of light, and prouder still to share. He did not understand if his revelations to the old man would help or hurt, put him in danger, or protect him. The boy was just glad that the old man didn’t cuff him across the ear for speaking about any of it aloud, much like his father would have.

I’ve no doubts you have seen them. You can thank your mother for that ability. The old man smirked under his bushy white eyebrows.

The boy’s gaze dropped to his lap. He snatched up a small white flower. My father told me my mother died when I was just a baby. I don’t remember her. He began tearing the petals off, one by one, thumping them into the wind.

I see. A shame. The old man sighed. In that case, would you like me to tell you about her?

The boy’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise. You knew my mother?

I did, the old man nodded. He paused. What is your name, little one?

Rendan, the boy said.

Ah. Rendan, the old man intoned with an approving nod. Verellen for ‘courage.’ You speak Verellen, son?

Rendan shook his head. My father said it’s a dead language and nobody uses it anymore.

The old man smiled again, casting a furtive glance up at the fluffy white clouds drifting through the sky. Call me Aturos. The old man extended his hand to Rendan.

The boy stiffened upon seeing the mangled hand which was missing the tips of the ring and pinkie fingers. His eyes grew wide and a sliver of terror crept up the length of his spine like a cold, rusted nail across a sheet of metal. He wanted nothing more than to shrink himself into a tiny speck of dirt, to flit away on a gust of wind. His father warned him. How could he have been so easily fooled?

To fear is to run, Rendan thought, his father’s tone and seriousness ringing in his head.

Not one for shaking hands, Aturos nodded, studying Rendan carefully. I don’t blame you, he chuckled. I don’t know where my hand’s been either, and it’s been securely attached to my arm all day today. Now. About your mother. Where should I begin? Aturos turned toward the horizon. "I believe it was about the time that —

Rendan hopped to his feet when the will to flee filled his body with adrenaline, shocking him into a quick sprint. However, the hand that flashed up and grabbed his wrist set him in place.

Why so eager to leave? You just got here, and you have heard none of my tales about your mother. You want to hear them, don’t you? Aturos said, scanning Rendan’s face. He smiled at the frightened, panting boy. You still have the fear, he said, moreso to himself. No point in trying to run. I’m much, much faster than you are. You wouldn’t believe how fast I am.

Rendan’s breaths heaved out in panicked skips now, the old man still holding him. I have to get back home. My father wants me home for an early dinner. I have to go. Please let me go.

Nonsense. We’ll wait for this sourceway to open, little one. It seems to take a while, doesn’t it? Aturos stared into the boy’s wild, frantic eyes. While we wait, I will tell you about your mother. That will no doubt calm your nerves. Perhaps I’ll tell you a little about your father too, although I don’t know near as much about him. And when this sourceway formulates, you’ll be going through it with me.

Rendan felt the desire and the urge to escape drain out of him as the old Aturos talked. His posture slackened and a worried frown cascaded over his features as his hopelessness overtook his desperation. Please, he squeaked in a quiet whisper. Please.

Aturos smiled into the sun as it set, his hand still closed around Rendan’s wrist. He closed his eyes, the golden rays bathing him in warmth. Might as well sit, son. It’s kind of a lengthy story. He waited for the boy to plop down next to him, defeat playing over his features and hunched shoulders. Now. Doesn’t that feel better?

I’m a little hungry.

Is that so? Well, we don’t quite have the luxury of food right now. Chew on a blade of grass or something. He watched the boy puzzle over his suggestion. Waving with an impatient flick, he growled, Go on. You’ll find it tastes like melon. Thank me later.

Aturos shrugged, pulled a long blade of yellow grass from a nearby tuft and stuck it in his mouth. His eyebrows shot up on his forehead as the tiny grass blade burst into flavor.

Now then. It was about the time that the single most important plane of existence died a sloppy, disheveled, inglorious, and humiliating death. We needed to decide the fate of the rest of the athersphere after that. Then I went and got myself banished, like a greased idiot. He paused, grimacing. So I couldn’t stop them from making the biggest mistake in all of sentience. They created the infinity particle, the damnable pack of stubborn-arsed fools.

What’s the infinity particle? Rendan asked.

Hush, boy. This’ll take eons if you ask questions. We’ll get to that soon enough. He frowned at Rendan to give a visual to his irritation, discouraging him from future questions.

Fast forward — well, fast forward a lot of years, and the mistake of it all became clear, not only to us, but to the bad guys too. And that’s when all the hells break loose, but not right at once. We had time to prepare.

So far, this story is terrible, Rendan said, looking irritated and disappointed. He poked a row of holes in the dirt with a small stick.

What? Aturos shrugged, his tone defensive. What do you want? I’m not good at telling stories, okay? I wasn’t expecting to entertain you.

Rendan glanced back at him, still frowning.

Fine, I’ll skip to the good part, Aturos sighed. I think I liked you better when you had the fear. But before I continue, I must say your command of the Verellen language is far beyond you being able to understand just a little.

I don’t speak Verellen.

That is most definitely not the case, little one, Aturos said. For we have been conversing in Verellen this entire time. Or didn’t you notice?

Chapter One

First Sergeant Lariss Asirra turned her face toward the twilight that formed over the far horizon to the west, her chin dragging against the ground as she did so. Wispy purple haze, a trick on the sun’s lighting, hung at the world’s edge in a thick heavy mist. The sight might have been beautiful if she were not lying against the ground with one cheek pressed against the dirt-dusted stone.

The vanishing sun’s light enhanced the silhouettes of the army that occupied the deep ravine below her as the spray of salty waters peppered her face from the west in light sheets. To the east, hills rolled as far as the eye could see, cradling the broad valley that held the Legion.

Thousands upon thousands of soldiers moved along the valley toward their destination. An inevitable military confrontation with the Legion caused her distress and regret, but she was a soldier in the Crimson Bloodguard, guardian of her home and realm.

Miles of land grew poisoned beyond redemption as the Legion moved. Ruined cities, war, and the turning of innocent souls to the black harbored generations of embittered and orphaned children. The Legion devoured everything, as was their nature.

Had she not seen the collection of monstrosities with her own two eyes, she’d have called the one reporting sights reserved for a terrible nightmare a liar. The wind scooped up and stirred the sulfurous and oily stench of decayed flesh and brimstone, testing her gag reflexes constantly. The sounds made her fear. But the sights made her believe.

The Legion, a corporeal manifestation of the idea of life’s end, was as real as the insects crawling about in front of her nose. It’s unstoppable and indestructible nature also played on the metaphor that death spares no soul.

Razor hounds, fire ravens, and creepers, the blackness of decay clinging to their rotted bodies, plagued the skies and ground. Remotely operated cadavers, or ROCs for short, lumbered within the ranks of the other soldiers with an awkward and twitchy gait. They also sported metal straps across their chests and shoulders that bound their bits of flesh and chunks of bone together. The chest cavity held volatile explosives linked to an electromagnetic detonator which doubled as an approximation of life through its pulses of current.

Necrotrancers took up the rear of the formation. A line of thin-limbed once-humans, gray skin taut over their bodies, controlled the lesser beings with action and inaction, like masters of some great dead, stinking puppet. They animated the dead and ensured there were living beings and the unturned to feed upon. That absorption of life fueled the black and drove it forward. Anyone who succumbed to the hunger of the Legion became a part of the Legion, thus completing the cycle.

Steelbacks, monstrous transports that resembled giant black and red beetles, dragged their shells through earth and stone with long, serrated hook-like appendages. This action flattened the areas which needed flattening, and widened cramped areas along the valley to allow the Legion to pass with relative ease. The operation saw that a gentle rumble persisted as the Legion moved, albeit at a glacial pace.

For months upon end, the Legion transversed the terrain south, and for months, Asirra’s contingent of scouts tracked them. They hadn’t moved very far, for the size of the Legion was great, choking the valley with a blanket of bloated, rotting and crumbling souls.

The essence of death, or the black, as it was also called, coalesced either as a thick billowing cloud or an oily bilious slime. It dragged itself along in a gelatinous liquid but could solidify as pitch black shards harder than obsidian under the right conditions. The solid form appeared so dark that the surface seemed to swallow the light. The black always took the form and function best suited to its purpose.

Asirra had become separated from her team. Their task was to surmise an approximated account of the Legion’s troop types and overall numbers over the past several weeks, chart their direction of travel, and report on general activities.

Destroying the source of the Legion’s power was their primary task. Often referred to as a gatespire, the structure gave direction to the black, and thus provided momentum to the Legion. The recon outfit’s secondary task was the elimination of the Iron General Bastille, the Legion’s highest commander.

The Iron General did not always accompany the Legion, but the Legion always accompanied the black. The Legion and the black were insistent upon one another. But until now, the Legion lay dormant for centuries along with the black. Fact turned over to fiction, and fiction turned over to legend in the time since anyone encountered the undead monstrosities. Now they moved.

Asirra paused for a moment, listening intently to the faint strangled cries of the living realm as the black devoured it. The essence of death fed on the essence of life. The wrenching sound constantly reminded her of what was at stake, and therefore boosted her resolve to continue, but it also weighed her down with its slow and systematic stripping away of life. Her task remained grim, but no less imperative. Fear found its way into her soul as she prepared to descend the cliff into a wide valley filled with animated death in search of the gatespire. Finding the Iron General would confirm the worst of all her fears, and a part of her hoped he did not show.

A group of sentry stood watch at the perimeter. There were four of them, bulky and covered in corded muscle, with coal-black skin that crawled with green luminescent runes where veins might have been. The sentries resembled a living, sentient representation of the onyx-like gatespire they protected.

Each one of the four stone segments that made up the gatespire hovered above the next and rotated in a slow cadence. The base segment of the gatespire, shaped like an inverted pyramid, pierced the ground, releasing a blue-black darkness into the surrounding areas like a great greenish hued dagger jutting from the spine of the earth itself. Darkness slowly hemorrhaged from the damaged earth and crawled across the ground in an imitation of life, its black tendrils clawing and gripping and pulling. Heavy and gas-like at the point of origin, the dark aether formed a blanket of void that covered and consumed.

Dark aether’s opposite is the construct of life. The black survived by taking the life essence from other living things. The gatespire served as an anchor and an integral piece of the organic machine that perpetuated the death of all life it touched. The destruction of the gatespire would grind the Legion’s advance to a near halt, if not stop them altogether.

Dark aether smothered and choked the trees and the ground, causing the environment to atrophy into a lifeless black dirt. Tendrils of the fog-like aether extended from the obelisk and wove through the flesh and bones of the Legion, inexplicably linking them to something greater.

Sergeant Trazk Tamir nodded and pulled himself forward across the dirt and rocks. He reached the edge of the cliff and stretched his neck to peek over and into the valley with a quick sweeping glance.

Rubble blocked the roads of the makeshift encampment, which stretched out over at least a mile, its surface pockmarked by dozens of orange and yellow fires. Behind that front encampment lie another series of defenses, and the ruined earth beyond that, the earth touched by dark aether. Tamir counted at least four battalions, each containing thousands of legionnaires. The scorched and blackened armor they wore was a testament to the commander they served, not to mention the black that encompassed them.

Rocks shifted beneath his fingers, sending a shower of noise and debris down the cliff side. Following a few tense moments in which the perimeter guards diverted themselves to investigate, he exhaled the breath he held as he watched them return to their posts, grateful for their arrogance. The thought of discovery created an anxiety which sat like a lump of lead in his gut. They didn’t search for very long, quickly placated because no one in their right frame of mind would approach the entire Legion.

Only then did he spot the gatespire cloaked by the shadows of the night, but betrayed by its glowing green runes. He signaled his squad mate, Gavyud Kasan, to close to his position.

The reconnaissance mission was Kasan’s first. Command considered it wise to pair him with the more experienced Trazk Tamir and Lariss Asirra, two of the best reconnaissance scouts in the Crimson Bloodguard.

There, Kasan whispered.

I see it, said Tamir. The gatespire.

They watched for a moment, far enough away to avoid detection, but close enough to make their observations. The position of the gatespire shifted often throughout the Legion. At first, the recon team charted the gatespire’s location over time, only to find that it appeared and disappeared at random intervals and locations. Trying to predict and ambush its next location quickly became a futile effort. Their only option was to attack it as soon as it showed up.

Do you feel that? Kasan asked in an unnecessarily hushed whisper. A low vibrating hum persisted in the periphery of his mind, just present enough to notice. What do you suppose that is?

Yes I feel it, Tamir said. The cries of the dead and dying, brother. Our ancestry calls to us. It is the sound of the Legion’s hive mind seeking to gain entry. Surely you have heard of this before.

I didn’t take you for a superstitious old fool, Tamir. Kasan snorted a chuckle. I’ve heard tales of this… this call, mostly as a child. I always thought it meant to scare me into behaving properly.

After witnessing the Legion’s army slowly chewing its way through this plane of existence, and now that scratching at the base of your skull like a rodent skittering about behind the walls of your basement. One can only help but wonder, Tamir said. The old folk used to say since we are Natai, that makes us spawn of the liquid death. Because of that, technically we are a part of the Legion. The part that exists apart from the Legion. We are not bound to the black, nor do we need it to survive. But it still calls to us.

I don’t believe it, Kasan snorted. I’ve never believed it. Superstition for old men like you and older women, like my Great Ginga Leita. She believed in that nonsense.

Then what do you hear? Tamir asked defensively. What do you feel? What do you attribute that scratching at the base of your skull to?

Kasan flicked his hand dismissively. After failing to appear nonchalant, a worried fear crossed over his face. He squinted into the darkness at the Legion as they continued their glacially paced crossing of the land.

Tamir, always the father figure, pursed his lips and stared. He cared for Kansan, protected him, and even loved him. He would do what needed doing to see the younger Natai emerge from the experience unharmed. But protecting and sheltering against the thoughts of another had a way of being deceptively difficult.

Look to your front, brother, Tamir whispered. A sea of dead bodies that walk the lands. If that doesn’t force you to believe, then what will? The pale gray color of our skin? The blackness of our eyes? Our immunity to toxin and disease? Our people have always possessed a substantial resistance to the effects of the dark aether. Where do you think that resistance and immunity came from? We are spawned from the black itself. The only difference is that it does not control us.

Kasan pursed his lips and shook his head again. The black. Vir’sakul, in the old Verellen tongue. The living death. All myths and conjecture.

Why the hells else do you think we Natai are given those tasks involving reconnaissance of the Legion? Tamir burst forth in a harsh whisper, his temper flaring hot at the boy’s ignorance.

I once heard it was a tek art created by the Black Montef monastery. They supposedly use nanites to corrupt cellular structure, which gives the appearance of decaying flesh. I’m more inclined to believe that over what you are saying. Kasan shook his head as he scanned the terrain for an opening they could use to approach undetected. I’m not convinced. We are just as susceptible to the black as any other living being. We may have a small advantage, but we are not immune.

I’ll advance and flank left at that far cliff, Tamir said, pointing to a heavily forested cliff overlooking a narrow passage. It’s obvious we will not solve this great mystery between the two of us. But by the gods, I hope you’re right. He pulled himself toward the thick brush without a sound, not bothering to look back at Kasan.

I know I’m right, Kasan muttered. Superstitious nonsense.

Kasan waited for Tamir to signal he was in position, but even after several long minutes, no signal came. An icy chill traversed his spine. He listened and watched, and there came no sound. An unnatural silence stretched over the once subtle rustle of leaves and chittering of insects. The chill did not subside, so he put a hand to his short rapier as he hazarded a glance over his shoulder.

The attack caught him by surprise. His jaw reverberated with pain and the bones in his neck and spine shook in his frame as the thundering blow knocked him flat on his back. Someone, or something, lifted him by the leather armor covering his chest. The excruciating thudding in his jaw lanced out at the barest of movement, giving him pause. He tried to call out, but found his voice lacking. The only sound he could make was a weak gurgle around a mouth full of blood. The overwhelming pain exploding from his face in a rapid rhythm attuned to the galloping of his heart led him to conclude that his jaw was broken.

From his periphery, he could just make out a hunched, lumbering figure dragging behind it a limp body, the head twisted to an unnatural angle, flopping and swaying at every lurching step. He concluded in his clouded, jostled mind, the broken body must belong to Tamir, however much he hoped and wished it did not.

Asirra posted herself on a limestone overhang, well within view of the glowing gatespire. She wanted to signal her team and let them know what she found without giving away her position, although she suspected they already tracked the gatespire too. As she contemplated her options, two figures approached from behind the gatespire breaching the dark of night and passing between the statuesque sentries. They walked with a stiff, jolting gait. The dark aether clung to their feet and calves like viscous, black mud.

Asirra gasped aloud when she recognized the features passing under the light of the moon. A wave of impulsivity folded over her like a nauseating, brackish sludge, then receded. Kasan and Tamir shook and convulsed, the head of one rolling around on its shoulders while the head of the other flopped against his chest like a gaudy, oversized piece of jewelry.

A lone figure approached to join them. Although his face remained hidden by the shadows, she and her team had identified him as the Iron General’s side officer, Major Dravus Rennier.

Rennier’s lean, muscled frame belied his strength. The lopsided grin he wore also spoke to his tendency toward absolute cruelty. His sadistic nature preceded him enough that the world shied away from him to avoid his exceptionally inventive experiments. Still, there were more rumors that he killed slowly those whom he liked, intimate in his sharing of their agony like a pair might share cake and tea on a lazy afternoon.

Rennier stepped behind the shuddering pair of Natai and drew a sword from his scabbard, the blade flashing a silver line in the darkness. Without hesitation, he thrust the sword into Tamir’s back, his head flopping around on the broken neck from the forceful thrust. The tip burst through his chest and sprayed the ground with black ichor and gore. Aside from the force of the steel breaching his chest, Tamir barely moved at all and said not a word.

Rennier yanked the sword skyward, tearing the man from somewhere in the center of his chest clean through his shoulder. Bloody black bile sailed through the air in a violent arc, spattering the rocks and dirt. He then slashed hard at waist level, nearly cleaving the Natai in half. Tamir’s torso toppled over and away, folding at the part of his body that remained connected to his waist. He crumpled into a broken heap. Rennier watched the black grab at the severed halves and pull them apart, enveloping the corpse and feeding from the remnants of life essence.

Kasan stood limp and motionless as the dark aether stretched itself in his direction, encasing his feet. Soon, much like the ravenous devourer it was, the dark aether crawled and clawed up his legs. It took to his arms and pulled him to the ground, snapping one of his wrists and tearing muscle from his calf.

A horrified Asirra could not avert her eyes. Rage simmered within her, but her fear completely dwarfed any notion of heroism.

Rennier watched Kasan struggle against the black as it crept over his body. He rolled over, but the liquid death held fast to him. He appeared to strain to free himself and struggled to pull his head away from the black, but to no avail. The liquid death crept up the sides of his face and forced its way into his throat and wiggled past the crevices at his eyes as he let out a mangled, muted scream.

Rennier grabbed Kasan by his breastplate and ripped him free of the dark aether with one hand. With the other hand, he closed it around Kasan’s neck, pulling him close.

The girl, Rennier began in a rumbling voice.

Asirra strained herself to hear them, but maintained her position and remained quiet.

Kasan croaked through gasping breaths, liquid black oozing from the corners of his mouth, snaking and inching its way up to the crevices of his eyes and toward his ears. As much as he wanted to retaliate, his broken, shredded arms were useless.

"The one who has the—

The words fell short as Kasan pelted his face with a slug of bloody spit, laced with strands of the black.

Rennier grimaced and squeezed harder, mildly surprised at the resolve and fortitude of the dying Natai. You seem to be a bit…resistant to the black. Interesting.

Kasan gagged and gurgled and kicked, feeling his consciousness waning as it slipped away in a wave of pain. He wrapped himself around Rennier’s upper arm and shoulder, still choking while he struggled to separate himself. With the strength he had left and ignoring the pain that coursed through his wrecked vessel of a body, he wrenched himself straight, stretching the arm through the joint. He had hoped to break it.

Rennier regarded the Natai straining around his arm as though it were nothing more than a mosquito about to plunge a proboscis into his flesh. He tensed the arm to halt the strain and brought the heel of his hand across the Natai’s face in a swift, violent stroke. Surprisingly enough, Kasan still held on, but the strength of the grip weakened and faded at every heartbeat.

Rennier hoisted the helpless Natai and then slammed him back to the ground.

The wind left Kasan’s lungs in a hurried rush. A spray of bloodied black shot from his lips through pained, ragged breath. He rolled over and tried his best to push off the ground to move, but the black latched onto him and held him still.

Rennier wiped the spit away with the back of his hand, his face a contorted mess of anger and contempt. Grabbing the struggling Natai by his ankle, Rennier swung Kasan overhead, crushing his body against the ground in one swift motion.

I might have let you go with the proper cooperation, he said to the broken, twisted body that lay before him. After a heartbeat, he smiled. No matter, little Natai. I will find her. I will find her, and I will kill her slowly. And this pathetic plane will finally dissolve from the aethersphere.

The intense pain and internal damage was such that Kasan felt none of it. He closed his eyes as the liquid death crawled over his face, its