Chapter 13 #2
The heavy canvas tore with a loud, violent sound.
He pulled his left arm free of the crude sling, gritting his teeth against the blinding spike of pain from his collarbone.
He shrugged the ruined grey uniform off his shoulders, letting the heavy, blood-soaked fabric fall to the polished obsidian floor.
He stood bare-chested in the warm, golden light of the Sanctum.
He was severely underweight, his ribs prominent, his skin pale and scarred from a lifetime of abuse.
But the golden circuitry didn't stop at his shoulder.
The geometric tattoos crawled across his right pectoral, tracing the path of his clavicle, stopping just short of his heart.
He turned away from the mirror.
Set into the wall a few yards away was an ancient armory alcove, sealed behind a pane of thick, transparent crystal. Inside, suspended on an invisible aetheric stand, was a garment.
It was a heavy, floor-length leather duster.
The material was pitch-black, but it absorbed the light rather than reflecting it.
It was embroidered heavily with geometric, runic patterns in faded gold thread.
It had a high, structured collar and reinforced, armored shoulders designed to distribute the weight of the Lexicon's kinetic feedback.
Riven walked up to the glass.
He didn't ask the Lexicon for permission. He didn't search for a key. He simply looked at the crystal barrier and willed it to open.
The glass dissolved into a fine mist of aether, vanishing completely.
Riven reached in and pulled the heavy leather duster from its stand.
It felt incredibly heavy, yet the moment he slipped it over his shoulders, the weight vanished.
The ancient fabric reacted to the golden circuitry on his skin, actively drawing itself tight against his frame, adjusting its dimensions to perfectly fit his lanky, battered body.
He pulled the collar up. It smelled of old magic and impending violence.
The Unattuned sweep died on the floor with the canvas overalls. The Mirror Stage was complete. He was Riven Cale, the First Architect of the Crucible, and he was done hiding.
"Architect."
Riven turned. Vael was standing near the drafting table, watching him. She wasn't looking at him with the disdain of a highborn noble looking at a servant. She was looking at him with the calculating, respectful gaze of a soldier assessing her commander.
"The coat suits you," Vael said, her voice flat, pragmatic. "But you're still bleeding on my floor, and your collarbone is grinding loud enough for me to hear it from here. You can't lead a war with one arm."
Carys looked up from the Codex. "The Sanctum has a localized restorative field," the scholar explained, pointing to a circular dais slightly elevated above the main floor, ringed with glowing green aether-crystals.
"It's a passive medical bay. It uses the ambient friction of the mountain to accelerate cellular regeneration. But..."
"But what?" Riven asked, walking toward the dais.
"But the field only accelerates natural healing," Carys winced, pushing her glasses up. "It knits what is there. Your collarbone is severely displaced. If you enter the field now, the bone will heal exactly as it is—jagged, overlapped, and permanently crippling."
Riven stopped at the edge of the dais. He looked down at his left shoulder. A sharp, jagged lump of bone was visibly pressing against the skin from the inside.
"It needs to be set," Riven said quietly.
"Yes," Carys swallowed hard. "And the First Builders didn't leave any anesthetics in the room."
"I'll do it," Vael said, stepping forward. She stripped the heavy steel-weave gauntlets from her hands, letting them clatter onto the obsidian floor. "Sit on the edge of the dais."
Riven didn't hesitate. He sat on the raised lip of the stone circle, his feet resting on the floor.
Vael stepped up to him, standing directly between his knees. Up close, without her gauntlets and halberd, she smelled of sweat, adrenaline, and the faint, coppery scent of Gloom-Hound blood. She looked down at him, her golden eyes entirely devoid of sympathy. She was in her element.
"This is going to hurt worse than the fall," Vael stated, her tone entirely clinical. "Your muscles have clamped down around the break in spasm. I have to physically force them apart, realign the fracture, and hold it perfectly still while the field kicks in."
"Do it," Riven said, gripping the edge of the dais with his ruined right hand, the golden circuitry flaring as he braced himself.
"Bite down on this," Vael ordered. She pulled a thick, leather strap from the buckles of her bodice and shoved it into Riven’s mouth.
Riven clamped his teeth down on the tough leather.
Vael placed her left hand firmly against the center of his chest, anchoring him to the stone. She wrapped her right hand around his upper left arm, her bare fingers digging into his bruised biceps.
"On three," Vael said, her eyes locking onto his. "One."
She didn't wait for two.
With terrifying, brutal strength, Vael violently yanked his arm outward and pushed upward simultaneously.
The sound was horrifying. The jagged ends of the fractured collarbone ground together, a wet, snapping crunch that echoed loudly in the silent Sanctum.
Riven’s vision instantly went completely white.
A scream tore up his throat, muffled only by the thick leather strap trapped between his teeth.
His back arched violently off the stone, his spine bowing in absolute, transcendent agony.
He tried to thrash, his survival instincts screaming at him to pull away from the source of the pain, but Vael’s grip was like an iron vise.
She held him perfectly pinned against the dais.