“A domain is the physical reflection of a god’s dominion—a symbolic connection to our realm that strengthens their power. The Risen One, for instance, needs his followers to bask beneath the sun and revere it. Thus, he bathed Ignathar in solar fire and heat, forming the Sunscar—a desert where the sun is both the bringer of life and of death. And yet, our world has not become an ocean of sand and sun. Why?
Each god guards their domain not only from the threat of the abyss, but also from their divine kin. To trespass upon another’s domain is to risk a war in heaven—an echo of violence so vast it would rip apart the divide between our realm and the realm of the Old powers. And so they restrain themselves and rule over limited territories, settling their disputes through the blood and zeal of their followers. A silent Accord, born not of peace, but of necessity.
And it is this restriction that is their greatest flaw—and their greatest weakness. For the mortals who worship them are foolish, jealous, and vile. And so easily manipulated. In their blind ambition, they create the paths the old powers need. The Archdemons need not strain against the Divide—the mortals will do it for them.
It is our task to make sure they succeed.”
— Excerpt from a banned text in the House of Thought, by REDACTED
Alric swiftly moved through the Hold, taking only enough time to make sure the coast was clear at each corner. He'd made sure Brandt and his cronies were still in the middle of their meal before leaving, but he felt anything but safe. If that man had managed to pull enough strings to be let into the sickbay, who knew what other tricks he had up his sleeve. The way to his cell was not very long, but long enough for unexpected 'accidents' to happen,
Alric had taken a detour to throw off any potential pursuers and went through the back set of stairs down to the hold, but unfortunately that would also give anyone who knew were his cell was a headstart to reach it. Hopfully Elara was already in their cell, and could ward off any disturbances to her nighttime schedule.
Alric chuckled a bit at the irony. He was escaping a wolf by going into the lion's cage, and yet he couldn't wait to see Elaras beautiful yet chilling features soon enough. Moving swiftly, he soon reached the cell door, and not seeing anyone nearby, he gave a relieved breath as his hand pushed on the iron door. And then his face contorted.
If he had a gold crown for everytime his plans were ruined by a damned door in the same day he would have two, but it was weird it happened twice. The blasted door didn't budge. He peered inside to see if he could get some assistance from his resident murder wizard, but Elara was nowhere to be seen. Alric had made sure she had left the mess hall before leaving himself, but it was as if she had vanished into thin air. Or more likely, was taking an even more extended nighttime stroll than him. Fuck.
Deftly fishing out his lockpick, Alric wielded the unfamiliar tool with as much finesse as a drunken badgermole, but as he inserted the sharp tip to search for the tumblers, he noticed something even more disconcerting. The door wasnt locked. There was no metal bar blocking his entry.
Steps were approaching from the stairs, as more and more people began returning to their cells. Alric quickly stowed away the contraband tool, and took a few steps back, preparing to bust into his own cell. Not something he'd ever imagined doing, but irony wasnt something he was lacking in today. He didn't have much space for a proper build up, but despite his nicknames and youthful face, a month at the oars eating the nutrient charged slop - even if he didn't remember it - had kept his body in a well toned shape.
With a much louder crash than he hoped, Alrics respectable mass collided with the metal bars, and pain shot through his shoulder as the impact knocked him flat on his rear. Picking himself off the floor, Alric gazed with disbelief at the door that hadn't even moved an inch from his charge. What abyssal kind of rust was making this door so resilient?
Just as he began to make a second pass at the door, a rough voice, hoarse from shouting all day, made him abandon his plans. "What are you doing to this cell, Maggot?" The first mate and quartermaster, Korvan, was standing not far behind him. Alric had him burned well into his memory, after all he was the one who had saved him from Crom on his first day, and was the one handing out the assignments every day. And thankfully, out of all the acolytes, he seemed to hate the cursed the least. Despite his over the top yelling.
"Honored blessed," Alric began, remembering how people used to address Owen. "I am simply trying to get into my own cell. The door is stuck, and I wanted to dislodge the rust."
The first mate scoffed as he approached. "This alloy is made specifically to rust slowly if at all. You should find a better excuse, maggot, lying to a blessed will add 5 more lashes to the punishment for trying to break into other prisoners cells."
Alric shook his head in false reverence. " I am not lying, honored blessed. This really Is my cell. I was the prisoner that blessed Crom from saw fit to punish two days ago. You were the one who stopped the punishment."
Recognition lit up in the quartermaster face. "Ah. Yes. I remember." He scrutinized Alric once more, before stepping towards the cell door. "Very well. Out of the way, you'll be back behind bars where you belong shortly."
With eyes wide as saucers, Alric watched as the flesh around the arms and back of the blessed began to wriggle like the surface of boiling water, before twisting and morphing into 4 black tentacles. Each was as thick as his thigh and at least 3 steps long, sporting the hallmark suction cups of an octopus, but lined with purple spikes along the sides. Alric took a step back, but two of the tentacles merely attached themselves to the floor, while the other two gripped the bars and door respectively. Curiously, Alric could have sworn he saw the metal bars shimmer for a second in resistance, but it was over in a flash as a loud creak ripped the door open.
The tentacles rippled, and morphed back into the blessed's sun-tanned flesh, as he began leaving without much of a word. A bit nonplussed, Alric just stood there for a moment, before noticing that the quartermaster display had not only caught his attention, but drawn plenty of eyes from around the hold. And so the door closed once more, but this time with him safely behind it.
Once inside, and well out of eyeshot of the blessed, Alric shuddered at the memory of the massive tentacles. He was lucky that Korvan wasnt as ill tempered as the other blessed on the ship. If he had been, Alric wouldn't even have been able to scream before being ripped to pieces by that powerful manifestation. Determination burned in his eyes. He had seen little of manifestations, but the little he had seen already made him desire learning how to use his own with a burning intensity. If only people weren't so damn tight-lipped about them. And he wasnt wearing a collar. And he wasnt a prisoner surrounded by equally powerful manifested.
Sighing at the many if only's Alric turned his gaze towards the door. He was more than a bit suspicious. An unlocked door had no business being stuck, and even if it did, not that strongly. There was also the issue of the flashing. He was sure he didn't just imagine it. And so, he inspected the lock and door from the inside.
The floor was clear of debris, and as he traced the metal of the door with his hand, expecting some indication of what had caused it, he found nothing. Only once he got to the lock did he notice something was off. On his hand was some sort of reddish residue. It was a bit too sparkly to look like rust, and was on the underside of the lock, not the inside. Kneeling, he inspected the bottom, and saw a reddish smudge he had dispersed with his fingers when checking the lock just now. He tested the door again. It swung normally, if creaking like a wounded boar. How strange.
Alric went to his cot of rags, and sat down. He wondered what the hell was going on with the door. Did someone cause the door to be jammed? But for what purpose? And how would they even have done it? Thinking on it for a few more minutes, but coming up with nothing except for crazy theories that weren't helpful, he decided to quit.
It would be lockdown soon, so he had nothing to worry about from Brandt for the time being. Elara would no doubt return soon too, and he really didn't feel like he had it in him to do another groveling session. He was too tired and frustrated by his misadvenutres with doors to control his rowdy tongue, and letting it slip in the presence of that scary woman wasnt something he wanted to risk. So he decided to sleep instead. It gave him an excuse to avoid her, and hopefully wake up with a clearer head to set his plan in motion.
Tightly griping his lockpick, he allowed himself a smile, as he curled up in his rags. They would do great things together tomorrow.
That night, Alric dreamed of the fog, confounding and and endless, as it suffocated him with its invisible weight. Countless doors were suspended within the thick fog, each pulsing with a different pull, each whispering promises of power, of purpose, of destiny. Their promises slithered to through the mist, each destiny they offered sounding more and more tantalizing, more fantastic than the last.
But Alric didn't care about them. He only cared about one door. It was behind him, hidden under layers and layers of thick fog. A lone door, battered, broken, yet irresistible to him. He felt such familiarity, such a desire to go towards that door. To return to his past, to throw it open, to know. But no matter how he struggled, wading through the thick haze to reach it, it always remained just out of reach, tantalizingly close, yet just not close enough. This door didn't whisper of temptation like the others. It laughed. A mocking, irritating laughter. Worst of all, was that he recognized it. It was his own voice, laughing at him from beyond the fog.
The sound of laughter still faintly rang in his head, as he stirred from sleep, blinking against the dim light of the crystals. The cell felt strangely empty, and after a moment he realized why—Elara was gone, having slipped out without a sound. Slightly unnerved by the fact he had both missed her coming and going, he got up, still hazy from his strange dream. Ever since he had awoken on the vessel, his dreams had been strange and symbolic. Most he wouldn't remember, but some were harder to shake. Nothing a crisp slap wouldn't fix however, so with slightly reddened cheeks, Alric began heading up to get breakfast.
The morning passed in a blur, stale porridge, tacticurn Silas and the now familiar and even enjoyable banter he had with the fiery eyed man. He found out the Ignatharian was not one for gossip. He listened intently, but aside from some oh so wise platitudes he had little to contribute in the way of drama. Bah. At least Mira would be a fun gossip. He was looking forward to seeing her again, even if the thought of getting close to the mountain of muscle that was Elaras brother put him slightly on Edge.
When Korvan called out duties again, He couldn't help but laugh at Silas's envious gaze as he was once again assigned to the porters. A short exchange of jibs later, wich ended with Silas giving him a rude gesture before going off to row, Alric was en route to the Rope room. He made sure to avoid Brandt and his cronies, who were busy shaking down an easier target, and gave a wide berth to the more irritable acolytes, as he reached the small room.
Mira and Dorian were already there when he arrived. Mira greeted him with a small wave and friendly grin, Dorian was his usual expressionless self, and stubbly Jim had somehow managed to put on even more of a scowl. Alric noticed faint cuts on his face, especially the neck. Bad shave it seemed. Alric rubbed his mostly smooth chin with satisfaction, happy to not have a rats nest of a beard like some of the other inmates.
Jim wasnt much for talk today, and only grumbled something about, "Big ones to the starboard side," Gesturing vaguely towards a stack of ropes that could only be described as monstrous, before shuffling off, rubbing his sore neck. Alric wasnt even sure if ropes was the right word for these behemoths. He had already seen them the day afore, but somehow seeing them up close was even worse. Each one was thicker than his legs and stretched at least 20 paces long. And there looked to be at least 15 of them to be hauled.
He exchanged a grieving look with Mira, both of them dreading climbing the stairs with those humongous bastards. But if there was one thing that could give him the motivation to carry the blasted things, it was the location they had to be hauled to. Those ropes were meant for abovedeck. For even a brief escape from the oppressive, stale air of the hold, he'd happily tackle even a snake of that size.
"Well, now I know why he's called Stubbly Jim," Alric chuckled under his breath, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the acolyte was well out of earshot.
"Exactly," Mira grinned back. "Rumor has it his chin hairs chip every razor, and Korvan already refused to issue him any more. That’s why he's in such a foul mood today. So let’s get moving before he decides to take it out on us."
Alric and Mira had a much tougher time wrestling the thick coils of rope than they did with the crates of fish, mostly because the rope’s weight shifted constantly, making it a battle to keep it from sprawling everywhere. The struggle only grew more frustrating when they glanced over to see Dorian, who had managed to wrap the entire rope around his torso and lumber up the steps as if it weighed nothing. At least they only had to haul it from the middle deck and not the hold.
After a good twenty minutes of grumbling and muttered curses, during which Alric discovered that Mira's repertoire of swear words rivaled his own, they finally wrestled the first coil up to the main deck. The mundane sailors above took the rope from their hands under supervision of the acolytes, and despite Alrics attempts at some friendly banter, they remained silent, many slightly shaking with fear. It was almost as if they thought he could corrupt them with his words or something. Ridiculous, if disheartening. Deep within him, Alric still had held hope to be able to walk normally amongst the mundane, and live a simple life. Oh well. just another hope to throw to the wolves.
Yet even that couldn't dampen his mood, or the thrill he felt standing on the open deck, feeling the wind and sunlight on his skin. The open air, the distant horizon, the smell of salt on the breeze —it was more exhilarating than anything he could have imagined. The flame of desire in his heart roared, and Alric's cheek once again had to suffer the merciless bite of his own teeth, as he felt the fog in his mind roiling in excitement, responding to his desire for power and freedom, whispering to him, drawing him with its insidious promises. Thankfully the runes on his collar lighting up for a brief moment was hardly visible in the bright light of the sun, and disappeared so quickly that only one of the mundanes was startled.
The rest of the morning played out much like their first haul, with Dorian handling most of the load while Mira kept up a steady stream of gossip, this time countered and directed by Alrics own scuttlebutt. Alric gently directed the flow of conversation towards Zain, the handsome blonde, and one of his potential choices for groveling under that he knew nearly nothing about. And as it turned out, he was a bigshot in many more ways than one. Not only was he the primary heir of the House of Thorne, a powerful highborn dynasty that controlled an entire city, his mother was on the empirical council, and should she pass, he would be next in line to become an Elector Duke, and with it, gain the qualification to become emperor himself. His denouncement -by his own mother, no less- was the talk of the Emprie for months after his imprisonment.
If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.
As if that wasn't enough, not only did he hold some political power, he was also one of the most magically powerful cursed on the ship. Mira cheerily divulged that he was the only one aside from the captain that the Vale siblings were wary of.
And it got worse. While he did not look it, if the rumors Mira was repeating were true, Zain was the posterchild of what the churches would consider a vile and ruthless cursed. He was a blood manipulator —or at least that's what everyone thought when the prisoners that crossed him began ending up as dry husks— with well known propensities for bloodhed. His family was just as bad. It was said that the Thornes took blood baths (literal ones), and routinely emptied the prisons in their territory for new 'materials'. Serathis was also the only city in the empire that still used stakes to deter criminals and cursed. Their political rivals often ended up meeting strange and unexplainable demise.
His rampage across the ship got so bad that he was put into 'special containment', while the captain came up with a new prisoner position that would keep him both satisfied and isolated. Mira estimated he was responsible for at least half the deaths on this vessel, most of which were arbitrary and hadn't done anything to deserve his ire. Well according to common sense at least. Zain wasn't known for his well-adjusted mental state.
But of course, the flood of gossip escaping Miras gullet could only be directed, not stopped, and so Alric became privy to all sorts of scandals or interesting happenings. She covered everything from the captain's inexplicable disdain for shirts to the sailors' recent sighting of a Giant Urgamak fin trailing the ship. Urgamak were massive Eldrovora that resembled Ordinary fish — if fish grew to the size of a house and sported a monstrous, beak like maw.
Alric weighed in with his own remarks, from silly rumors and opinions he had spent yesterday unearthing, to complaints about Crow's weighed dice. He and mira shared a good laugh over one Acolyte that had paired green dyed pants with an amber necklace, an unforgivable offense to fashion.
In such good company, the morning seemed to fly by, and despite the occasional fearful look of the Sailors, Alric found himself enjoying carrying those blasted ropes more than he would have expected. By the time lunchtime rolled around, he bid Mira and Dorian farewell and headed off, carefully avoiding Brandt and cronies until he found himself in the safety of his trusty meatshield Silas.
To his surprise, Silas Had a mocking glint in his eyes as he looked at Alric approach with the porridge, and none of the usual exhaustion and grumpiness that would follow him after rowing. “Welcome, great warrior. I have heard you wrestling with your foe this morning. It must have been quite the battle. Truly, there is no shame in getting bested by a snake. Even by one made of rope with no teeth."
Did the dour bastard just make a joke? Alric stared at Silas, a bit dumbfounded, before breaking out into laughter "Ha! You got me this time, bastard. I'm surprised you could hear anything over that horrific mewling you call a manly grunt that escapes your mouth on every pull of the oar. Ive been abovedeck, and I swear on the gods above that the sailors think you're some kind of strange mermaid following the ship"
Silas just gave him a deadpan stare. "There is no point for a cursed to swear on the gods Alric. They have forsaken us the moment we became touched by the abyss. And mermaids are a fanciful invention of some sailor boy too long removed from a bathhouse wench."
Alric laughed, "You mean someone like Stubby Jim? True, he isn't in the sanest state of mind, especially for having an intellectual like me waste his talents on hauling that comically large rope. Mira said he was on the hunt for the person that keeps chipping his razors all morning, ignoring the obvious culprit on the bottom of his face. I wouldn't be surprised he invent's some razor-blunting monster to blame it on."
Silas just raised a brow. "You, an intellectual? If wisdom hit you in the face with a hammer, you wouldn't sport a bruise. You Thalorians may be taught to read and write as children, but you make so little use of this ability you might aswell not have.
Alric just sneered at him. "As if you're any better. You speak my language, yet you hammer your words into others with as much finesse as a poleaxe."
Silas laughed a genuine laugh "I suppose I must concede this point to you. There is no one more adept at weaving hidden meanings into words than the Thalorin, even peasants such as yourself. It is not for no reason yours is the only country where the profession of wordsmith exists. Yet, it is in mine that you find the House of Thought, greatest receptary of all knowledge axioglyphic and abyssal. And I happen to be a decorated graduate."
Alrics eyes shone with greed, which he barely managed to conceal before Silas noticed. Probably. All knowledge axioglyphic and abyssal he says? Well he didn't know about the first word, but the second one certainly sounded promising. "A master of Lore eh? Too bad you lack the refined looks of a scholar, and more resemble a.."
Alric didn't get to finish his sentence as first mate Korvan kicked open the doors to the mess hall. This guy and his dramatic entrances. "Line up for duty, maggots! any latecomers get no dinner." He bellowed, ruining Alrics purely benevolent intentions towards Silas, who had just been promoted from meatshield to library. And perhaps, once Alric would get over his trust issues, friend. But he could sort out his complicated feelings towards the strange foreigner after he broke into his cell, not before.
After most of the prisoners had left, and Alric had done his now customary check for any Brandt or Crom related issues, Alric made his way down into the hold, his hand nervously fingering the lockpick. This wasnt going to be easy. Ironically, the acolytes would be the least of his problems. The hold was too dark to be spotted from the storeroom, and the guards didn't care to patrol the hold in the slightest. His real hurdles would be twofold.
First, the lock. He had a lockpick yes, but having one and knowing how to use it was not the same thing. Thankfully, the keys were pretty uncomplicated, they only had 3 teeth, which in turn meant only 3 tumblers, so he had a good chance to figure it out. But he would need to be able to do it quickly, and the reason for that was the second issue.
The other cursed with free time. Unlike the guards, they didn't follow any scheduled route, and could be anywhere. Some of them were more predictable like Crow, who would certainly be in his usually spot playing dice, but many of them could be anywhere. If Alric got caught breaking into Silas's cell, it would only be a matter of time before the man learned of it. And Alric didn't want to ruin his relationship with him.
Of course, the easiest way to not do that would be to simply abandon his plan, but doing so was at least as dangerous as making Silas his enemy, and the prospect of gaining secrets or inciminating information was much more important than keeping Silas on his good side. He was currently powerless, and while Silas was willing to tell him tidbits, that wasnt enough. Alric wanted to — needed to — become powerful. And for that, he needed secrets of his own to leverage. It wasnt as if Alric hadn't tried to learn more about manifestations and the abyss through conversation, but it had quickly become apparent that all cursed jealously hoarded their knowledge about that, and only a bond of strong trust, which Alric didn't have time to build, or an equivalent amount of secrets could lift that barrier.
So, his only choice was to act. He had around two hours before the guards would switch who was standing at the storeroom, during which he would practice his lockpicking. Once the guards passed his cell to switch, he'd try to make sure the coast was clear as much as possible before breaking into the cell. Alric made sure Crow was in his usual spot, and returned to his own cell. Of course, as he shared it with bigshot Elara, the guards always locked it during the morning and afternoon, only opening it before the evening meal when the guards returned to eat. Which meant, it was currently nice and locked, and even if he was caught, breaking into his own cell wouldn't be too problematic.
After a good amount of time fiddling with the blasted thing, Alric learned that lockpicking was nowhere as easy as he had thought. The pick only helped him push the tuples in, and it took him an embarrassingly long time before realizing he had to twist the lock with just enough force to keep them from falling back out. Alric used his splinter for that task, the only use he had gotten out of the makeshift shiv so far. Eventually, it clicked, and Alric used the remaining time to familiarize himself with the lock further, until he heard the telltale thud of Acolyte boots passing to relieve the old shift.
After making sure the coast was clear 3 times — the gamblers had gained a crowd and were currently fleecing a bunch of schmucks for at least 10 more minutes, the loner he had seen hobbling around this morning was sobbing in his cell, and there was no one in any adjacent corridors — he made his move. Walking normally, but consciously stepping light, he made his way to the cell, as if on a stroll. Once he made sure no one could see him, he quickly got out his lockpick and splinter, and got to work.
His training had paid off, as he got that lock undone much faster than the previous one. Alric was sure now that Silas had locked it himself, there were faint grooves in the metal from regular lockpicking, and Alric took full benefit of letting himself get guided by Silas's much more competent hands into opening his cell door. But just as he gingerly tried to pull it open, the frothing pile of feces and flotsam made a screeching noise that put even Silas's hollering at the oars to shame. With a curse, Alric quickly entered and closed the door behind him before any curious soul would investigate the sound.
He heard the gamblers stir, and remained still, not even daring to breathe. But gamblers being gamblers, it wasnt long before someone swapped the dice around, and a shouting match began, taking any attention off the squeaky door. Alric thanked the gods for that old codgers propensity to cheat, and turned his attention to the cell.
The room was very tidy for a cell. Silas had folded the sheets he slept on into a neat rectangle, almost making Alric feel self-conscious about his tangle of rags. He had neatly folded two sets of clothes—which, Alric supposed, everyone except a mind-lost like him had been given—and other than a small stool, and the chest with the amulet on top he had seen before, the room was absolutely empty.
That didn’t deter Alric; one didn’t find secrets lying in the open. He carefully checked the sheets and neatly folded them back, and did the same for the clothes, but to no success. He then turned to look at the chest and the amulet that was on it. He lifted the rusty amulet and checked it for any hidden compartments, but found none, and put it on the sheets. The chest, unsurprisingly, was locked, but its make was thankfully even worse than that of the doors, and soon a telltale click signaled its defeat. Alric gleefully lifted the coffers top, exited at the prospect of finally finding secrets. But he was destined to be disappointed.
Seriously? A fucking prayer book? The book was the centerpiece of what looked like a collection of junk. A small bag that smelled of spices, some metal shavings, and weird sparkly sticks of chalk was all he found in the chest. Still Alric wasnt discouraged. That blasted book probably had all kinds of coded messag.... His face deadpanned. The Ignatharians may be known for being zealots, but this prayerbook was seriously taking things too far. 'Burn out my eyes so that I might only gaze upon your brilliance'? Sheesh. he leafed through the book, dismay growing and growing. If Silas had hidden any coded information in this book, it wasnt something he could find out without stealing the thing.
Aagh stupid zealots. Closing the coffer with a bit too much gusto, and putting the rusty amulet back in its original position, he suddenly paused. Rusty? A divine amulet could not be rusty. Rust did not dare set its grubby fingers on divine iconography, especially not that of the god of purity and sun. Alrics heartbeat sped up. This could only mean one thing. His brow furrowed. This amulet was a fake.
But how did that make any sense? Ignathars official god was the risen one. To carry a false amulet was nothing short of blasphemy. Why would Silas not believe in his country's god?
A thought flashed in Alrics mind, as he paced around the cell. The veiled temptress. He still remembered how cold Elara had become at the mention of this title. He remembered how Silas had employed it as a honorific much like Alric used the Tidebringers. This must be what Silas believed in, despite his portrayal as a believer of the Risen One. And of course, Elara had known that aswell the moment he said it. Shit. But who was the temptress? Another god, a foreign one? Or... a shiver went down his spine. An Archdaemon?
Soft footsteps brought Alric out of his theorycrafting, and he nearly cursed. Silas's cell wasn't that well lit, but if one paid attention, Alric's silhouette was completely visible. Alric, stiffened, crouching and pressing himself against the wall of the cell where the shadow was densest. He held his breath, feeling his pulse thundering in his ears. And he saw the last of Elaras cohort — the weasely old man — shuffle his feet as he walked past him, visibly annoyed by something and mumbling under his breath.
"Steal this Garek, steal that Garek, ugh how many more times do I have to get supplies for that brat." He tsked "All for the grand plan she says. And they tell me and that cute redhair nothing. bah. If she didn't have that scary brute of a brother.."
He snickered to himself, before suddenly stopping. His eyes began darting about, as Alric quickly averted his eyes. Thieves often had some sort of sixth sense for getting peeped on due to the nature of their work. He held his breath, as the weasely man looked about, thankfully already having passed his cell. But after a while he just shook his head, and shuffled off.
Finally taking a breath again, Alric sighed with relief. The crouched position he was in really beginning to strain his legs. To avoid noise, he let himself fall backward onto his behind, which, endowed by the gods as it was, cushioned any sound his fall might have made. And that was when he spotted a curious sight. The glowstone cast a dim light into Silas's cell, obscured by the bars and corners of course. But in the middle of the ceiling, Alric, in his lower position with neck tilted upward, saw a shadow that shouldn't be there. Perfectly round, looking like a moon locked behind the long shadows of the iron bars, it defied any sense. There was nothing between the glowstone and the ceiling that could cast a shadow like that.
Confused, Alric positioned his hand so that the shadow it cast was hidden by the other one, and stretched upward. And around half an arm above his head, his hand disappeared from view. It took all his willpower to not scream, as his arm now looked like a perfectly cut stump, and he quickly pulled back his hand. The gods were merciful, and his hand was intact. But not empty. There, in the middle of his palm, now was a single folded note.
Hand trembling, be it from excitement or fear, Alric unfolded it.
“As per your request, I have investigated Elara Vale and the mind-lost codenamed Alric.
Elara Vale's identity is an unimportant heir of the Thalorin House of Vale. But there are many discrepancies in her official story and arrest. Her talents with axioglyphs is prodigious, and there is a very real chance she has attempted to breach the divide during the incident in which she gained her manifestation. Her apparent sanity and actions strongly indicate contact with greater powers. There is a high possibility Elara Vale is a chosen of the Whispered one, and that the Aspect of her manifestation is beckoning. We strongly believe her presence on this ship indicates a conflict between your target and Elara Vale. Avoid her at all costs. Our mistress cannot intervene in the domain of the other gods, as you well know.
The mind lost individual was found washed up on the shores of Serathis one year ago. His shipwreck was littered with carvings of the name "Alric Winrow" and words like "forget" among more cryptic ravings. Our records did not find a match on anyone with the corresponding name and age in the Empire. His background is unknown, but his recovery from the mind-loss condition indicates exceptional mental fortitude, and thus a likely manifestation of the aspect of mind. If he showed signs of bypassing the collar after mere days of sentience as you claim, he might be a valuable asset.
I remind you once more that your mission is to understand why the mirror queen denounced her own son, and arranged for him to be sent to Eirathor. This takes precedence over all, do not let yourself be distracted. We believe that the presence of Elara vale on this ship indicates a much higher degree of importance and danger to her move than previously assumed. Be on your guard, void navigator S.
— D.”
Alric went through the note, his eyes growing wider and wider with each line read. As he finished reading and was just about to try to put it back, the parchment almost seemed to shiver, and then rapidly darkened as though devoured by invisible, heatless flames, leaving his fingers empty of all but air.
Dazed, he looked at his empty hand, his roiling with many thoughts, but there was one in particular pushing itself to the forefront.
He had emerged one year ago. One year. Not even Silas's mysterious backer had been able to identify who he was. All was lost to the fog and to obscurity. He had no past, no truth. Only a name carved in the throes of madness, a nightmare that echoed in the hollow of his memory, and a question that refused to leave his mind, even as time to escape the cell ran thin — Who am I?
