Chapter 3
TASK
NEXARIUM
Task sits in the hard, wooden chair across from his uncle.
They are seated in Draven’s study, surrounded by dark obsidian walls and illuminated by floating orbs of light interspersed across the ceiling.
There are two flickering torches on the walls beside Draven, casting him in an eerie, orange-black glow.
Task attempts to avoid eye contact, though he can feel his uncle’s eyes boring into him.
“Task.”
Task is forced to look at him. The orbs cast Draven’s undereyes in shadow, highlighting the gauntness in his face.
He’s lost more weight, Task thinks. But even in his weakened state, Draven is pressed, poised — forever the Governor of Nexarium.
He wears a black tunic buttoned up to the square collar at his throat, a small metal pin of four interlocking squares at the base.
His wavy black hair falls over his forehead, though Task thinks it looks duller than usual.
He hates seeing his uncle like this — less than.
“You understand this is the most critical mission you will ever undertake for Nexarium. For us.” Draven’s voice is soft, almost gentle.
“Failure is not an option.” He reaches across the desk, as if to put his hand on Task’s forearm, but he stops himself.
“You’re strong, Task. I made sure of it — that you would always be able to do what needs to be done. ”
Task looks back at him, careful to maintain a blank expression, despite his heart twisting itself in his chest. Draven’s not wrong — he did raise him that way, hence the meticulously crafted mask he’s wearing. Nothing on his face. “I am aware, governor. I will not fail.”
Draven stares at Task, violet eyes searching his face.
Task knows this look, has seen it countless times over the years as Draven has sifted through the thoughts of his prisoners, of criminals, of enemies of Nexarium.
He is trying to look into Task’s mind, to see what he’s thinking, to elicit a guarantee of success.
He won’t get it. He has tried time and again over the last twenty-two years, and has faced a wall of blackness every time.
He cannot get through. Task’s mind is impenetrable.
Task doesn’t understand how, or why, but it must have something to do with the pain, the way he compartmentalizes it.
He thinks this is one of the reasons Draven keeps him close, appointed him to his High Council, made him his Hand — besides the fact that he is a fucking good assassin.
“There’s a lot at stake,” Draven says finally, fidgeting with the label of the potion bottle on his desk.
He doesn’t have to tell Task. He is more than aware of what’s at stake. The stability of Nexarium. Draven’s life. Life as Task knows it, really.
Task has lived on Nexarium with his Uncle Draven for the last twenty-two years.
He has little recollection of the time before that, of his parents, of anything that doesn’t have to do with Xaria.
Draven took him in after Task’s parents were killed by rebels, and has been as close to a father figure as he’s ever had.
“Once we have her, there will be no need for any of this.” Draven puts the potion bottle down and gestures around him, to the desk with various instruments and vials. He glances at the healer standing in the corner of the chamber, almost regretfully.
Task knows what will happen once the healer has worn out his usefulness, once Task has the real solution in hand.
While some might think it cruel, Task knows it’s necessary.
This is how Nexarium thrives; this is how the Consortium thrives.
It’s what his uncle has been so careful to instill in him — everything has its purpose, until it doesn’t.
Nobody can know about Draven’s condition, and they’ve been careful to keep it a secret.
Letting this get out would be detrimental to the stability Draven has worked so hard to cultivate on Nexarium, create fear, and offer an opportunity for Draven’s enemies.
When the time comes, it will be Task who ends the healer.
Task sees the healer fold into himself, just slightly. “Governor,” he says, bowing his head.
“Did I say you could speak?” Draven demands, slipping into the voice of his office. The one that instills fear in his subjects, his staff. Task, on occasion.
The healer steps back, alarm on his face. Task wonders how long he has worked for Draven. He must be relatively new if he doesn’t have a grasp of the protocol, of the spoken and unspoken rules Draven’s staff must follow at Xaria.
Draven looks back to Task. “You will get her.”
“Of course,” he agrees, nodding once. “And the alliance?”
“It will no longer matter,” Draven says. “Once we have her, nothing can be done to stop us. We will have no need for the alliance.”
Draven can be impulsive and easy to anger, which doesn’t always make him the best strategist. As his Hand, Task is supposed to provide his opinion, his perspective, help to guide him in the right direction.
But he’s learned that in instances where his opinion is perhaps misaligned with Draven’s, it’s best to keep it to himself and attempt to remediate the situation on his own.
He still has the scars from the last time he’d suggested a different course of action.
Draven calls it educating; Task remembers it only as surviving.
But Draven raised him, protected him, made him strong, shaped his power. He owes him everything.
“You are dismissed.” Draven looks back to the papers on his obsidian desk, drawing one from the bottom of the stack to the top.
Task stands from the wooden chair, straightening his uniform, checking to ensure his two lumi-daggers remain sheathed at his side.
He picks up the surge-saber from where it rests against Draven’s desk and slides it into the holster along his back.
He glances over at the healer still hidden in the shadows in the corner.
He nods to him, silently wishing him luck.
Seven Years Prior
Task knew that Draven had been waiting for his power to manifest. It happened at different times for citizens of Nexarium, but it almost always occurred between the ages of fifteen and eighteen.
Every day that Task didn’t manifest, he felt like he was letting Draven down.
He knew how much was riding on what he’d ultimately wield.
His place in Draven’s court, his entire future, was contingent upon how powerful he was.
That was how Draven worked, how it had been for Task’s entire life.
Draven surrounded himself with powerful people, had hand-selected his High Council to complement each other and ensure its longevity.
So, as soon as Task had felt it — the glimmer of something — he was elated. That was before he understood what it would to do him, what kind of thing it would turn him into.
He’d been sparring with Voss in the orange-red dirt outside of Xaria, getting the hang of using the new surge-saber he’d been gifted from Draven on his eighteenth birthday.
It was much more powerful than the one he’d had previously, so he kept overdoing it.
This time, he felt like he’d started to understand it, had gotten used to the weight in his hand, the way he could change the pulse of energy emanating from it with a mere tap of his thumb.
He held up the blade, pulsing with purple-light energy, and lunged for Voss. Voss mistimed the block with his own surge-saber and Task pierced through Voss’s shield, the pulsing energy from his surge-saber searing across Voss’ abdomen.
“Fuck!” Voss had shouted, dropping his surge-saber and covering the burn with both hands.
“Shit, I’m sorry!” Task had said, rushing toward him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Are you alright?”
And then it happened. It was like being lit from within, a stab of pain so overwhelming, it was as though he’d been knifed with a surge-saber himself. He gasped, dropping his hand from Voss’ shoulder. The pain retreated.
“Let’s get you to the infirmary,” Task said, horror in his gut. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Voss said through gritted teeth, still clutching the wound, which was starting to bleed through his shirt.
Task grasped Voss’ upper arm to help him walk there, when it happened again.
A stab of pain in his lower abdomen where he’d accidentally nicked Voss, but also something else.
He felt the pain from the tumble that Voss had taken out of the tree six years ago now, when he’d broken his arm.
He felt Voss’ grief when his mother had perished during the Three-Years War, tortured and killed by rebel groups allied with the Revs, the contingent of Lows on Nexarium who’d been responsible for the continued uprisings.
Task keeled over, his hands on his knees, his eyes screwed shut.
“What the —” Voss said, still a bit breathless and clutching his abdomen, but giving Task a puzzled stare.
“I don’t know,” Task had replied, though he was already wondering whether this was it. His power somehow breaking through. “You go ahead to the infirmary. Something strange is happening.”
“Strange?” Voss asked, managing to lift a brow.
Task breathed out, waiting for the overwhelming sense of pain to pass before replying.
“I think I might be manifesting. But it doesn’t matter right now.
We need to get you to the infirmary.” Task was lying — it mattered.
A lot. But his friend was hurt, by him no less, and he could wait an hour to tell Draven.
“Let’s go,” Task said, motioning to Voss.
“But you’re manifesting!” Voss said, an excited look in his eyes.
“And you’re bleeding,” Task said evenly. “Let’s go.”
Once Task was confident that Voss had been settled into the infirmary and that a healer was tending to him, he went to find Draven. He wove his way up from the sub-floor of the building to Draven’s quarters on the fifth floor.