22 Praen #2
Vaelira whispered the final lines aloud. There had been no mention of this in the library’s version. No poem, and certainly no symbol on the cover. Only a dry timeline beginning a decade before the Great Fire. She flipped through and a heading caught her attention.
NAMING
Veritas, Praen, Nexa
At birth, a mage is given two names. The first is Veritas, their true name.
This name is whispered by the mother to the child, in those sacred, solitary moments after birth.
It is never spoken again. Not by the mother, who carries it in secret to her grave, nor by the child, who forgets it as easily as they forget their own birth.
The second is Praen, the name the mage carries into the world. It is the name known to kin, to educators, to allies and enemies alike. The mage will live their life under Praen, never knowing the true name beneath.
The purpose of this naming tradition is protection. Names hold power. To know a mage's Veritas, is to glimpse the purest, unmanifested form of their essensia, the root of their soul. To speak it is to summon their essensia. To wield it is to bind their will.
It takes great strength to wield a Veritas, and even greater strength to resist the wielding. For this reason, a Veritas is spoken only once, and never again. In times of war, it is said mage mothers severed their own tongues rather than risk revealing their child’s name to a foe.
A third name exists, but it is a tragedy.
Nexa, the death name, chosen only when the mage forsakes their former self entirely.
In shedding both Veritas and Praen, they sever themselves from their past, their kin, and their true purpose.
The Nexa is not given but claimed by the mage.
It marks the rebirth of a sinister self, one no longer beholden to the bindings of blood, memory, or mercy.
Such mages are rare. The most dangerous dark essensia wielders of this world have all carried a Nexa.
Vaelira paused. She looked to where Galfri had finally settled at the table, hunched over a large map. It showed a sprawling continent, only the eastern coastline resembling anything she recognised.
“Do you have a Veritas?” she asked, sounding out the word.
“I have not heard that term before,” Galfri said, distractedly. His eyes were still on the map.
She explained, and he looked up, the candlelight catching in the lines around his eyes.
“If I did, I wouldn’t know it,” he said.
“Perhaps the tradition faded, or perhaps my parents weren’t mages.
I was young when they passed.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together distractedly.
“That kind of power, if abused, would certainly be dark magic. Best not to dwell on it.”
She put it from her mind and turned back to the book. She skimmed a few more pages, vainly hoping there would be anything that could help them with the summonings. There wasn’t.
She closed the book, and as she lifted it to the shelves, a loose sheet of parchment slipped free and floated to the floor. She bent and picked it up. The parchment was different, lighter than those bound into the book, but the scrawl was hurried.
Veyrakh is no demon, but a mage. He longs to unleash the horrors of the Abyss.
We know not the reason. We began the search for his Veritas this very evening in hope of using it to destroy him, but time has run out.
This library is no longer safe for us. The seven will bind him at the three peaks.
The Crown will carry this weight for an eternity.
May they remember the sacrifice when they burn our kin.
Veyrakh’s Praen - Maerin Vireldane.
She read it again, but the words refused to make sense. Her mind fought them, rejected them for the history she’d been taught, that the Greater Demon Veyrakh called forth the Great Fire but was defeated by the mages in the end. He was a demon, not a man. Not a mage.
Stiffly, she moved towards the table, book and parchment held between her hands. She dropped into the seat opposite Galfri. Her fingers were numb as she slid the parchment towards him.
He scanned the page and seemed to stop breathing altogether.
“No,” he said, the word no more than a rush of air. “This can’t be.”
Neither of them spoke for a long moment. Finally, Vaelira drew a shaky breath and broke the silence. “Bound,” she whispered. The demon’s words echoed in her mind. Break the lock… unbind the chains.
Galfri was looking at the map now, but she didn’t miss the slight tremble in his hands.
He gave a slow nod and his eyes met hers.
They held a kind of sorrow she didn’t want to understand, but she did.
He shut them, seeming to steady himself for a moment.
When they opened again, they were solid amber, fierce and determined.
“The binding is failing,” he said, with terrifying certainty.
“The demons are growing bolder. Their numbers are rising. This is what the summoners are preparing for. The return of their master.” He hesitated.
“If it fails completely, Veyrakh won’t just return.
He’ll tear open the gate between our world and the Abyss.
He’ll bring a flood of horrors with him. ”
Vaelira sat back in her chair, the realisation washing over her like a tide she couldn’t outswim.
Two mages. One half-trained, one nearly spent. What could they do against the hordes of the Abyss?
Their only hope lay in smudged ink on parchment. A name that had never meant to survive the Great Fire.
Maerin Vireldane.