Page 254 of Of Empires and Dust

The man snapped his gaze back to Fane, eyebrows twitching and lips curling. “Apologies, Your Majesty. I’ve not slept. Barely eaten, if I’m honest. But I was right. The runes are carved with Essence itself. Essence worked directly into the flesh, infused within the wounds. It’s wondrous. A tether to the force of life joined with the flesh of the living. It’s no wonder the Bloodmarked can bear such power – with the correct runesets, of course. What you asked. We can do it now. I’m sure of it. Absolutely sure. We need to bind the Essence to the Spark. Give the runes purpose. I’m sure of it.”

“I’m happy you’re sure, Brother Pirnil. But given the state some of the previous rune recipients have been left in, I do feel it prudent that your theory be tested prior to application. We will only have one chance at this, and I would prefer the candidate not end up like the others.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course. I will… I will need more. We’ve run out of the current stock.”

The word ‘stock’ didn’t sit right with Fane. He understood the need for sacrifice, the need to look past the flawed perception of morality that was so commonplace. He understood that more than any living soul. But life was still a precious thing. At the core of it all, that was what mattered. He could allow a hundred to die to save a million or a million to die to save everything. But that didn’t mean those sacrificed should not be remembered with respect and dignity. It was a precarious balance, life and death. And at the end of everything, at the breaking of time and the sundering of worlds, perhaps Fane would look back on his life and find himself the truest of all monsters. Perhaps everything he had done and everything he would do was wrong.And perhaps he would shroud the world in darkness instead of bathing it in light. But he knew that the world would burn if he did nothing, and so even the slightest chance that his actions would save it was all he required. He would be the monster. He would make that sacrifice. And he didn’t care how his name was remembered so long as he knew within his heart that he had done all he could.

Fane plucked himself from his own thoughts, realising that he had become lost in their gravity. Brother Pirnil simply stood there, staring at him vacantly and scratching at a rash on his neck. The man would lose himself soon.

Fane let out a sigh. “There are rebels we captured after the attack. I will have them sent to you.”

Brother Pirnil bowed even deeper than before. “You have my endless thanks, Your Majesty.”

Fane inclined his head, thoughts wandering again to what Brother Pirnil’s discovery might bring. This had been the missing piece. The one obstacle standing in the way. If Pirnil’s theory could be proven and replicated, then the perfect path could be walked. Everything would be worth it.

“You are welcome, my Brother. Now, as much as I am eager to see your work continue, it would do neither of us any good if you were to die of hunger or deprivation of sleep. Go to the baths. Wash. Visit the kitchens and eat your bodyweight. Then sleep. In the morning, we will see if the power of the gods can truly be harnessed.”

With Brother Pirnil gone,Fane left the High Tower and walked through the streets of Berona, the pale pink light of the moon shimmering in puddles left from the rainfall.

He didn’t bother to wear a hood or cover his face. Most of Berona’s citizens had never laid eyes on him up close. And eventhe ones who had weren’t likely to recognise him as he wandered the city at night. Even in Al’Nasla, roaming the streets had been something he took great pleasure in. For hundreds of years, the people of Loria had been safe in these cities, safe from Uraks, and elves, and the ambitions of the over-entitled. That was a safety he had created, wrought with his own will. And there were days when he needed reminding of it – or nights. Nights like that night. Nights when doubts crept into the depths of his mind.

The streets were quieter since the attack, but many inns were still full, the sounds of song and dance drifting from within. He had half a mind to stop and join, to just sit in the corner of a dark tavern and drink ale while the bards sang and the people danced. It was something he’d missed in his younger days, his nose buried in books, his mind refusing to sit still. But for the same reason he had not partaken then, he walked on now: there were greater things on the horizon, and all great things required sacrifice. He repeated the mantra in his head.

He carried on, walking the streets until he came to a squat house with red shingles on the roof in the southern quadrant, framed on either side by tall white structures.

On first glance, the door to the house looked like any other, except for the small fact that it lacked a keyhole.

Fane pushed thin threads of Air into the door, working them just below the handle and sliding them through the locking mechanism built into the wood. He received a sharpclickfor his troubles, and the door swung out an inch or so. He stepped inside and reconnected the locking mechanism behind him.

The lock wouldn’t stop someone from breaking in if they truly wanted to, nor did Fane consider it ingenious. No, the reason for it was much more mundane: Fane always lost his keys, and he hated carrying things in his pockets. This solved both problems.

He moved through the dark house, not bothering to light any candles. With a flick of his wrist, threads of Air shifted the solid wood dining table a few feet backwards, legs scraping against the floor.

He produced a small green stone from his pocket – precisely the reason there hadn’t been room for a key. One thing in his pocket was bad enough.

Fane funnelled threads of each elemental strand into the keystone, admiring the filaments of light that came to life at their touch, swirling within the stone. The art of Jotnar runecraft and glamour construction was something that had fascinated Fane from a young age, something he had become obsessed with. And in his experience, when obsession was mixed with dedication and perseverance, the end result was often mastery. The Bloodmarked runes had been the missing piece he needed.

Before him, a section of the floor was now gone as though it had evaporated into thin air, and in its place was a staircase that sank into the ground. Fane created a baldír as he descended, the pale light guiding the way.

The stairwell led to a small antechamber Fane had carved with the Spark. The antechamber was grey and austere with only a single door. And just as the door at the front of the house held no keyhole, this was the same. It was black and wooden, and a blend of blue and red light creeped around its frame.

Fane opened the door with the Spark.

The room on the other side was four times larger but similarly sparse.

He laid Kiralla Holflower and Brother Pirnil’s research on the desk to the right, next to an array of Essence vessels that glowed a deep red. And then he turned to face the true reason he had created this chamber in the first place.

There, kneeling on the far side of the room, was one of the Chosen – a Vitharnmír – stripped bare, arms outstretched,rune-marked manacles closed around each wrist. Chains forged from repurposed Antherin steel connected the manacles to bolts of the same metal fused with the ground.

More runes were inscribed into the stone ground, marked into a circle that bound the Vitharnmír at its centre. The alternation of blood runes and Jotnar runes was one of Fane’s own discoveries, augmented by Brother Pirnil. It cut the connection between the Vitharnmír and Efialtír, severing their connection to both the Spark and Essence while also binding them in place. Even without the manacles, the creature would not have been able to cross the circle, but Fane was cautious by nature.

The creature knelt with its eyes closed, its chest rising and falling steadily.

“The arrogance of your kind knows no bounds.” The voice of the Vitharnmír layered over that of the man who had volunteered to be its host. Even for Fane, someone who had seen more than his fair share of the world’s horrors, that voice set his hairs on end. “What do you think will happen to you when our god discovers what you have done?”

Fane approached the kneeling Vitharnmír and sat on the ground before it, folding his legs beneath him and staring into its black eyes. “If I were you, I would be more concerned about my own fate.”

Chapter 58

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