1. In Reckoning
In Reckoning
On the last Starwake of the year, Iridias Savarax—the Resh’Agar—returned home to Krystopolis after an absence of fifteen years.
He and his Kelvasari crossed the vast expanse of the Maw using the Arc of Mourning, a single narrow bridge which crossed the bottomless chasm and ran up to the only gap in the city’s Shields.
Once, the Shields had encompassed the entire Maw.
Then, it was known as the Mar District. Living souls had called it home — thriving, praying, trading.
Until, one day, the Shields began to shrink.
Century by century, the magic dwindled, contracting and leaving whole Districts unprotected from the elements.
Rifts devoured some during Cycles of Dark. Others froze during Ice and never woke again. Most recently, a Cycle of Growth birthed roots from the deepest part of the earth. They grew until they filled the Daesa Major. Only the Shields kept the city from their ravenous fangs and acidic blood.
But the Rae District had been swallowed whole, and once the plants were finished with their feast, they withdrew to hunt elsewhere.
In their wake, the earth collapsed, forming the Maw.
Years were spent recovering. Building the Arc of Mourning; finding a way to stop the Shields from withering.
Yet centuries later—even with the Resh’Agar to feed the Shields' magic—the Lattice had no answer to the threat.
“Your Quintessence,” a rough voice called behind Resh.
Thrassus, his loyal second. A Reskala with lineage and prowess that could have rivaled Zarrek’s once. He wore a thick fur coat to protect him from the last vestiges of the Cycle of Ice.
Resh needed no such thing, for his body was immune to the elements. The rune, Hjarta, blazed along his arm, ensuring his core temperature never dropped too far or rose too high.
‘Welcome to the Crystal City,' Thrassus signed. ‘Void bless us. Void keep us. It has been an honor to serve.’
Resh did not acknowledge the Reskala. He adjusted the fanged half mask on his face, then drew his blade and dismounted from Astenos’s back.
He raised his hand, calling Vor'tha. The runes wrapped around his knuckles, and each finger glowed dark blue.
Astenos shifted his six legs, glowing eyes fixed on his master.
The massive creature snorted, and several Reskala nearby tensed.
Black hooves pawed the ground, and Resh settled a hand on his neck to still him.
The glowing azure veins flowing beneath the horse's black fur pulsed in time with the rune on his fingers and hand.
Astenos was a summoned creature, bound to his magic.
But he could not exist within the Shields.
Something in the ancient magic interfered with their tether.
Resh stroked the creature's neck, his chest tight with gratitude. For it was Astenos that had helped unseal a part of the memories the Rite of Scars had taken. He could not say how it was that Auryn's magic lingered in the beast's veins decades after the battle at Stonewake, but it had saved him.
In a moment during a decisive battle in the Campaign, the ground beneath them had given way.
Creeper Vines during the Cycle of Growth had eroded everything around them as they erupted from the ground.
He and Astenos would have fallen into the abyss had it not been for a surge of silver light that had given Astenos wings.
And with it — memories. Like a river breaking through an impenetrable wall of stone, pieces and fragments had flooded Resh's mind.
His heart had nearly stopped when he realized that he'd gone two decades without a single recollection of Auryn. That he'd left Krystopolis for this accursed Campaign without telling her a thing—without an embrace, without a kiss, without a single promise to return.
I remember, brother—Resh assured Astenos through the link in the magic. Thanks to you, I remember just enough.
The steed snorted, managing a single blink before the magic called his physical form back into the Vor'tha rune. Astenos settled, sealed now in the Resh’Agar’s body. In the symbols etched into his flesh.
They stopped the procession before the city’s main gate—the Threshold of Kings. Carved from veined black marble and crowned with pale stone quarried from the very heart of the Endless Dark, the gate towered higher than any battlement, broader even than the parade grounds of the Reskala.
Two colossal effigies flanked the gate, each one a monstrous tribute to the Destroyer—to the Void. The Kaos. The Righteous.
The statues’ mouths were agape, open in silent wails, stone tongues lashing skyward, fangs bared as though devouring the air itself. One held his hands out, casting an intricate rune matrix. The other held a broken sword as tall as his entire body.
These were not guardians, but enforcers.
On the arc above them was carved a message.
“Through Order—freedom. Through sacrifice—power. Through lineage—sovereignty.”
Resh read the words as he had a thousand times before.
He removed his gauntlet and vambrace from his right arm, then lifted it and drew his blade across his forearm.
The blade did not pierce his skin. It dipped beyond, leaving no visible wound.
Blood—red, dark—seeped upwards through the blade's ghostly form and dripped onto the effigies.
“The Resh’Agar bids the Threshold open,” he bellowed. “By the Runes in my blood. By the chains on my body. By the power of my soul.”
The mechanisms powering the Threshold hummed to life. Buried deep within the city’s foundation, they groaned as they opened the gate to let the Kelvasari inside. Loud, grating—as though Elendria itself was being ripped apart from deep within.
As the gates yawned wide, the sound reverberated across the city like a dirge. The Shields shuddered and allowed them entry. From the center of the city, the Horns of Reckoning roared in celebration.
Thrassus brought another horse to him. One of the Kelvasari war steeds with crimson eyes and a muscled pitch-black body.
Smaller than Astenos, but it would do. He mounted it in a single leap, subduing its restless sidesteps with his thighs alone.
The beast quieted, its red eyes wide, and its nostrils flared.
Ahead in the city, a path had been laid out in gold for Resh, streaming like a shining banner through a maze of emerald Polis, polished stone, and mirrored obsidian.
He guided the horse inside.
The Shields enveloped him in their ancient magic, digging their claws into his mana, ripping through Morvane’s defenses and melting into his veins. The pain was expected, and he did not flinch. His heart continued its steady beat unhindered.
But with his next breath, all of Krystopolis breathed with him.
The weight of every single living soul within the Shields burned into him.
Each light, young and old, flared in his awareness.
If he wanted to, he could have searched any heart linked to the Flaeme and known their intent.
Not as thoughts, but as disruptions to their faith.
He bore the weight of their lives. Each and every one.
Except for my starlight. I cannot see her, yet her soul is the only one I wish to carry.
His runes hissed in protest as the magic adjusted. They did not like to share his mana with the Shields. Particularly the Master Rune on the nape of his neck. It stung, and Resh resisted the urge to scratch at it.
A voice came.
Deep and ravenous—
Iridias…again, you have returned. My accursed vessel. My pitiable prison. Tell me…have you remembered the origin of that hollow ache within your chest? Or am I the only one who still recalls her silver eyes?
Resh did not answer, for to reply to Vargrún when they were this close to the Flaeme was to give him a path to control. Apathy was safety, and Resh held his silence as he had for hundreds of years past.
Lifting his arm in a signal for motion, he guided the procession forward, passing hundreds of people kneeling and prostrating themselves in adoration and terror.
Rank did not matter here. All would kneel.
He was Resh’Agar—war embodied, wrapped in onyx aethersteel, armed with volatile magic and a blade sharp enough to cut through any threat.
The Arm of the Void.
The closest thing to the Destroyer aside from the Sovereign Flame and his holy consort, the Sokar.
Aside from her.
His hand clenched at his side when her face flashed in his mind. Blurred and faint, but there. An image he’d clung to on the Surface. Long, flowing silver hair. Gossamer skin. Eyes like long-lost galaxies. He could not recall her voice, her warmth, her scent.
The Rite of Scars had nearly taken her from him. But now, he vowed never to forget again.
Auryn.
His Auryn.
He could hardly wait to see her.
Touch her.
Feel her.
Already, the Bond blazed like lightning in his chest. Thank the Void.
He was close enough now. Close enough for the magic to reach her.
Once he’d crossed the Threshold, it had found him again.
More memories came with it. Still blurred.
Still confusing. But alive. Recovered. Tiny lanterns lit one by one to lead him to his heart once more.
Within his nape, the rumbling voice spoke once again.
I feel it too, Iridias. That longing. I do not understand it, but I feel it all the same. What is this thing that binds you to that soft and fragile emberling?
You will tell me this time.
You will show me.
And I will feast upon her essence, just as I do with your Companions in the Estar.
Resh ground his teeth so hard he tasted blood, but he gave no outward sign of his frustration.
Nor did he answer.
As the Kelvasari wound through each District in turn and approached the Jade Lattices, the People were given permission to begin the chant. Like fires in the night, the leather chokers on their necks lit up with emerald light, freeing their voices.
“Resh…Resh…Resh…”
Drums began to beat, faint at first, then loud enough to sunder skies. The walls of the Daesa Major shook with the pounding rhythm.
Beating.