Chapter 24A Legacy is Born
24
A Legacy is Born
If Elyria could muster a chuckle, she would have. She realized that the other divine candidates had succeeded with every maneuver they made since the very beginning of the ritual.
The six other candidates had already showcased an impressive array of their talents, skills, and abilities for the Moon Goddess to witness. Each had demonstrated their prowess to the fey of Neramyr in their respective class of magic. They all had shown courage, persistence, and solidarity not only as a cohort, but also individually as warlocks and sorceresses.
Throughout the Vitus thus far, Elyria had been nothing more than a spectator, merely watching along with the audience—her calculating nature gained no victories tonight.
She had done nothing, accomplished nothing.
Right from the start, it was evident she was unaware of the other candidates’ strategy. She had been tossed and flung into the depths of the arena more times than she cared to admit. She appeared as a damsel in distress when she took refuge on Sylas’ raft and held onto him for stability. She seemed incapable and helpless as Kerrick dragged her below the waves. Her lone magical counterspell had gone unnoticed, concealed beneath the waters, only for her to emerge as a double-crossed fool who had been poisoned and exploited to the benefit of the Bloodweaver legacy. And now, she found herself kneeling in familiar disgrace, awaiting to be overshadowed once again.
Shame loomed over Elyria like a dark blight waiting to smother her, causing her composure to wither with each passing moment. Had she mistaken kindness for cruelty when Sylas’ spell granted her mind clarity? Elyria’s mind flashed back to seven years ago when her name was announced by the High Priestess as it echoed in the Heart of the Temple. She recalled the crushing silence right before the whispers of bewilderment and denial began, those whispers which then turned into outright rejection and refusal.
The memory of what she endured threatened to shatter her credence in herself. No. She could not do this again—she would not do this again.
There were more fey in Neramyr than stars in the sky that believed she was unfit to be a divine candidate. Why go through the lengths to suppress and contain her like this? Were the others truly so afraid of her potential to be chosen by the Goddess over them?
If so, their fear was poorly placed—it should be directed at her .
Elyria was no longer in control of her movements, but she was still the master of her own mind. Her aura hardened as she drowned out the atmosphere around her. Elyria detached her sense of smell, taste, touch, sound, and sight from the surrounding arena and channeled that focus entirely on herself. She felt the steady rise and fall on her own chest. She heard the calming whir of air filling her lungs and the lulling whoosh as she exhaled. Elyria listened to the steadfast thumping of her heart and committed its beating melody to her memory. She worked to dispel the serithium from her bloodstream, expunging the toxin. She looked inwards and saw the whorls and swirls of her aura, reaching out to its comforting glow. Her aura stirred at the familiarity of her touch. It pained Elyria to see all that she had become, all that she had achieved, now shackled, and bound beneath a spell.
This was not how the Vitus would end.
In her lifetime, she had been robbed of so much and settled for far too little—but the title of primis was hers to claim.
Reaching out to her aura, her life essence, Elyria called to it. At the request, her aura roused to her command, and something awakened within herself. Her mind swept over her body, scouring, and searching for the foreign magic that bound itself to her, ensuring no stone was left unturned.
Before long, Elyria identified each link in the chain of magical bindings that shackled her. She was Elyria Fangwright, a trueborn princess of Neramyr and the blood of the first king of Eriden flowed through her veins. She refused to exist as a prisoner in her own body.
Elyria’s mind seized the magical binds one by one, rooting them out until the very last one was within her mental grasp. She knew her next action had to be performed with precision, aware that she had only one chance—just one opportunity to make it count. She couldn’t be certain how long it would be before Sylas become aware of her efforts.
In the back of her mind, the rhythmic thump of her heart sounded, and she replayed the beat over and over like an unwavering anthem. Elyria recalled the oath she made to herself seven years ago—a promise she intended to uphold until her dying breath. This reminder spurred her into action.
With newfound energy and strength, Elyria called upon her native magic once more, commanding it to break free from the confines of Sylas’ spell. She felt the tendrils of power within her stir, laboring to overcome the enchantment that bound her. Gradually, her magic returned to her, fragment by unfaltering fragment. The sensation was unparalleled, as if everything had been restored to its rightful place. Elyria hadn’t realized the void that had consumed her from the absence of control over her own magic. Throughout her life, her native magic had been an extension of herself, a loyal counterpart. She knew, just as it had always been and always would be—her magic would not falter her now.
With her magic fully under her reign once more, Elyria directed a violent torrent of power at the magical confines that imprisoned her. Elyria’s magic erupted throughout her body, splintering the spelled links one by one in rapid succession as she snapped her head upwards.
Instantly, Sylas spun around, his face overtaken by shock. He abandoned his coordinated assault with Kerrick against the blood-eyed eel and hastily redirected all his magic, channeling into the legacy spell, but it was too late.
Elyria had emerged from her prison of submission, donning a look of venom—wearing it as if it were made of the finest silk.
“How?” Sylas exclaimed in disbelief, his eyes wide with alarm. “That’s impossible.”
Kerrick, noticing Sylas’ sudden distraction, turned to follow his gaze, only to be met with the sight of Elyria standing tall and free from the grip of the Bloodweaver feat. At once, his confidence faltered at the sight of her.
What she did defied all logic—Sylas was correct about that. Yet, there stood Elyria, liberated from the grasp of a legacy spell. Legacy spells were among the most potent and powerful classes of spells, being nearly impregnable, but there were always exceptions—and Elyria was an exceptionally powerful sorceress.
Whether it was that she descended from a royal bloodline, or that she possessed a legacy status herself, or that she sacrificed her soul towards strengthening her magic, all that was certain was that Elyria gave rise to her prevailing outcome, defying the odds.
If Sylas had taken more of her blood to imprison her mind in his legacy spell, perhaps Elyria would still be shackled under his influence. But while the exact reason for her liberation would remain unknown, it was no matter now.
Standing tall on her raft, Elyria thrusted her arms and unleashed a torrent of magic towards the other six candidates. She felt her magic wrap around their minds like iron chains, instantly overwhelming Lynora, Lillia, Iva, Galen, and Kerrick. Elyria had expected most of her competitors to succumb easily, but what intrigued her was Sylas’ strong resistance against her mental manipulation.
Turning her attention to Sylas, Elyria confronted the last mind she needed to bend to her will. His sea-green eyes met hers with unwavering intensity, revealing a psyche admittedly much stronger than the others. If Elyria had remained under Sylas’ legacy spell, he might have been chosen by the Moon Goddess as the cohort’s primis . Almost certainly.
“You’ve been quite busy, Sylas,” Elyria remarked bluntly. “Colluding with the others to bring about my downfall long before I even knew who you were.”
Sylas remained silent, his aura telling of his discomfort. But before he could respond, Elyria continued.
“I overheard your conversation with Kerrick in the Driftmoor castle’s lounge,” Elyria pressed on. “In truth, I was deeply disappointed. I believed you cared for me, but it seems I was merely reminded of the cruelty deep-rooted in the fey of Neramyr. And you, Sylas, are no exception.”
Sylas shook his head before responding. “My actions were driven by one goal, and that goal alone: to be named primis . I do care for you, Elyria, but this is not personal. You, of all fey, should understand the sacrifices required to prove oneself worthy in the eyes of the Moon Goddess.”
Her anger pitched as she hurled her words at him.
“No, Sylas,” Elyria’s eyes flashed with intensity. “You know nothing of what it means to prove yourself worthy to the Moon Goddess—you know nothing of the cost. Pray tell, what have you endured at the judgment of the Moon Goddess? What do you know of the price paid for being seen as unworthy in Caena’s eyes? As you pursued your hunt for divine greatness these past seven years, I have labored my entire life for mine.”
Elyria took an eerie step closer. Her next words echoed in Sylas’ mind and his mind alone.
“ Do not equate the cost of your aspiration to what I’ve sacrificed for my salvation .”
Sylas blanched at her voice in his head, an exchange for only him to hear.
“I didn’t mean to—” His sentence was abruptly cut off by a brusque wave from Elyria, sending a sharp pulse of magic through the air.
Elyria refused to indulge Sylas any longer. With a flicker of her magic, she shattered his psyche, his body stiffening with a vacant expression as she dominated his mind. Then, she directed her attention to the other six candidates, who now stood in a trance-like state under her mental control. An ember of anger ignited within her as she watched them, blank and biddable on their rafts. How could she let herself so easily perform within their playwright? Elyria’s resentment threatened to cloud her judgment, but she refrained.
Now was not the time for rash decisions; the Vitus was far from over.
Her next move demanded more precision and concentration. With all six competitors under her mental sway, she swiftly cast the next spell. Turning her palms upward, she channeled her magic towards them, weaving into their minds, threading through their thoughts until they gave way to her mental siege. With one final maneuver, she managed to completely overwhelm their psyches, gaining total cognitive control.
With her magical grip firmly established, Elyria commanded them with a single thought.
Kneel.
In unison, the six candidates stiffly dropped to their knees on their rafts.
Bow .
Obediently, all six of their heads dropped to their chests, submitting to Elyria.
With what Sylas could only achieve through a rare Bloodweaver feat and a conduit, Elyria had accomplished a similar effect with her own psionic abilities. Yet, there was no victory in her expression. Even through the lens of retribution, Elyria’s expression remained frustrated. Her psionic magic was not enough to garner the Moon Goddess’ attention.
This outcome was not part of her meticulously laid plan—months of training seemed wasted in this moment of doubt and uncertainty. Elyria’s aura churned as she struggled to quell her inner turmoil. What had driven her to turn her magic against her supposed comrades? Would the Goddess perceive it as cowardice, or worse, as a petty act of retaliation? Caena, all-seeing and all-knowing, would surely sense Elyria’s wavering confidence.
Shutting her eyes tight, Elyria tried to silence her spiraling thoughts.
She cursed herself for not staying the course of her own plan, but she conceded it was far too late for that. At this stage in the Vitus , she needed to act now.
It was amidst her contemplation when she belatedly realized the waves within the arena had grown eerily still. Her eyes flung open, hastily scanning the surroundings, yet she found no trace of the blood-eyed eel. When had it vanished? How much time had elapsed during its absence? Elyria cursed her oversight. Undoubtedly, the creature was using this lull to recuperate itself.
Surveying the motionless depths, she clamped her fists in frustration.
The Vitus could end at any moment; there was no definitive duration for how long the ritual would last. As all things were, the timespan was determined by the Moon Goddess. The ritual would end when Caena deemed she had seen enough to render her judgment.
In previous seasons, its length had varied greatly. The most recent Vitus lasted a mere five minutes, concluding immediately after Prince Thomys Bloodweaver’s performance. Within that fleeting timespan, the Goddess severed her connection to the High Priestess, signifying her selection of a victor. In contrast, the Vitus prior to that had stretched on for nearly three hours.
That meant Elyria understood one thing for certain—the Moon Goddess was still observing the ritual. Her decision for a victor had not yet been reached.
There was still an opportunity to execute her original plan. An air of readiness emanated from Elyria as she surveyed the surrounding waters. If the blood-eyed eel was withdrawing from the fight, she would draw it to resurface. Inhaling deeply through her nose and exhaling slowly through her mouth, she turned her gaze to the stars, meeting the radiance of the full moon. A shadow of a smile tugged at Elyria’s lips as she anchored her feet on her raft. Elyria lifted both of her tanned arms with her inkless palms upturned and she invoked the moon’s power.
Suddenly, a crackling surge of magic thundered across the arena. From Elyria’s upturned palms, two fierce columns of flames the color of winter frost erupted. These ivory infernos swelled, illuminating the starlit sky over the arena. As the plumes of flames grew, they began to take shape, morphing into blazing silhouettes of monstrous firedrakes beating their mighty wings in the moonlit sky.
Collective gasps streamed from the crowd as the whispers of one word were repeated in waves— moonfire .
The two blazing firedrakes circled the sky under Elyria’s command as a blistering cold cloaked the air, causing gooseflesh to ripple across Elyria’s skin, yet she continued to guide the glacial firedrakes to the corners of the arena. A sweat broke across her brow, but she siphoned more of her magic into the phantom firedrakes, both apparitions breathing brutal beams of moonfire into the lulling waves below. Where the moonfire struck, the waves froze and crystallized. Spotting the blood-eyed eel retreating, Elyria directed the twin beams towards the creature, gradually encircling it until it was trapped within a narrow opening of water.
Elyria was mindful to construct the open cavity away from the other candidates, confining the blood-eyed eel to the southern barrier of the arena. Above them, her phantom firedrakes hovered the skies in waiting. Elyria bided her time for the moment the eel would emerge from the depths; however, it never came. Uncertainty fell upon her shoulders, but she pushed it aside and concentrated on her goal. Breathing hard, she amplified the power that wielded her arctic dragons, commanding them to unleash a magnified inferno, piercing the frozen waves to lower the water to subfreezing temperatures, coaxing the eel to the surface.
To her satisfaction, her plan succeeded—it was now warmer at the surface of the arena than the depths below.
Suddenly, the eel’s shadow darted from beneath the ice and burst out of the cavity with a frantic shriek. At once, Elyria directed another moonfire beam to seal the opening, leaving the blood-eyed eel with no means to escape. The beast slithered and floundered on the icy surface as it attempted to right itself. It began to spray metallic acid aimlessly and the droplets sizzled on the chilled surface of the arena. Elyria’s aura cringed, finding no joy in the creature’s distress. With a swift maneuver, she released her legacy spell, causing the moonfire dragons to dissipate into silvery plumes of smoke, returning the arena to the dim glow of feylight.
As a Fangwright legacy by birthright, Elyria possessed the unique feat to wield moonfire, a gift inherited from the first king of Eriden. Even among legacies, very few Fangwright warlocks and sorceresses have truly mastered the ability to tame it. Moonfire could only be effectively harnessed at night when the moon’s temperature reached a freezing point. The wielder channeled the rays emitted from the moon, controlling and dictating its powerful energy. Moonfire subsisted at a numbing temperature, piercing enough to suspend the tides of the Swyn Sea ten times over.
Moonfire was as dangerous to the wielder as it was destructive to the target. The wreckage and devastation moonfire could cause was unpredictable—only those with great stewardship over their magical abilities could channel the gift.
Nonetheless, Elyria had conquered this demanding feat, and tonight she was determined to ensure that the Moon Goddess and the fey of Neramyr acknowledged this.
With deliberate steps, Elyria strode from her raft onto the frozen battle ground and stalked towards the monstrous creature. It continued to shriek and flail as Elyria closed the distance between them. Only once she stood mere paces away from the creature did she pause, facing it with certitude. Closing her eyes, she called upon the full moon once more, feeling its incandescent rays caressing the surface of her face.
Harnessing its power, she thrust both arms towards the blood-eyed eel.
A torrent of destructive moonfire erupted from Elyria’s palms, striking the sea creature with unbridled force. The eel staggered backward, engulfed in ivory flames, it’s cries stilled as swiftly as they sounded.
Elyria released her legacy spell, allowing the moonfire to dissipate, leaving shimmering silver plumes swirling in the night sky. Before her, the eel remained frozen in place and where it stood. A groan began to sound beneath it, growing louder as the eel’s body began to slant. It gained momentum until it toppled over, shattering into countless fragments that scattered across the arena.
Elyria released her mind manipulation on the other six candidates, but they remained unmoving even in their liberation. The entire arena fell into a heavy silence as mere seconds stretched into an eternity.
From above, the High Priestess’ voice resounded throughout the arena .
“The Goddess has severed the divine tether between our realms, signaling the conclusion of the ritual of the Sixth Day,” she declared. “The Moon Goddess has cast her judgment upon these seven divine candidates, and her ruling will be announced tomorrow during the Crossing of Kin. Let us commend our candidates for their completion of the Vitus !”
Elyria’s heart was pounding fiercely as she turned to the crowds, her gaze roaming the stands. Finally, her eyes locked with her father’s, the king of Eriden, and she met his steeled expression with one of her own. The arena fell silent around her, save for the sound of her own ragged breaths, but she refused to let the exhaustion unfold upon her face.
This time, Elyria did not cower in the face of their silence.
This time, in the face of Neramyr’s disbelief, Elyria bowed before them with conviction.