Chapter 7: Heart and Fog
Iskander
The final incision sealed with a whisper of violet light, the skin knitting together seamlessly beneath my trembling fingers.
Hours. It had taken hours. Hours of white-knuckled focus, teeth gritted against the searing agony of the talon carving paths through my own flesh, hours of forcing thick streams of aether into those self-inflicted wounds, guiding the energy as it burned and rebuilt, forging luminous conduits within muscle and bone.
The pain was a familiar demon, but this was different—self-directed, intimate, a violation born of desperate necessity rather than passive suffering.
Yet, the result was undeniable. As the last channel hummed into existence along my spine and sealed flawlessly, I slumped back against the cold, pearlescent wall of the corridor, utterly spent.
A profound stillness settled over the Office Zone, broken only by my ragged breathing. The carnage around me—the colossal, ruined Thing, the shattered furniture, the drying pools of ichor and my own blood—seemed frozen in the violet gloom.
My body, miraculously, bore no trace of the butchery. No scars marred the smooth, slightly grey skin; no stiffness lingered in the newly woven pathways. The aether's healing was absolute, a terrifying, beautiful testament to the power I now channeled.
A pang, sharp and bittersweet, lanced through me. If only… if only this regenerative power had existed in my frail, failing body back in Etharia.
The wasted hours with Alfred, the strained smiles for Cassian, the crushing weight of missing life… it would have been different. But dwelling on impossible pasts was a luxury I couldn't afford. Survival demanded focus on the brutal, miraculous present.
My gaze drifted to Sylvia. She hovered nearby, her ethereal form dimmer than usual, her luminous lavender eyes tightly shut. Her spectral hands were clasped together, knuckles white with spectral tension, a posture of profound distress.
Shame washed over me, cold and sudden. In my reckless drive for power, I'd forced her to witness a scene of grotesque self-mutilation.
This goddess, this remnant of ancient grace who had endured betrayal, murder, the desecration of her own body, the cataclysmic loss of the peaceful Ancient Mages she revered… and now, the surrogate child she'd reluctantly guided was carving himself apart like a side of meat.
She was sick of violence, saturated with its bitter legacy, and I'd added another layer to her burden.
"Sylvia," I called softly, my voice hoarse from suppressed screams and exertion. "I'm done." I tried to inject lightness, to downplay the horror she'd sensed. "You can open your eyes now. The… sculpting session is over. No more self-butchery. Promise."
Slowly, hesitantly, her eyelids lifted. The sorrow in her lavender depths was deep, an ocean of ancient grief stirred anew by my recent actions. But beneath it, overriding it, was raw, maternal concern. She scanned my body, her gaze lingering where she knew the invisible channels now pulsed.
"How…" she began, her voice thick with unspoken emotion, "…how are you feeling?"
I pushed myself upright, the movement fluid, powered by muscles thrumming with contained energy. I stretched, rolling my shoulders, feeling the new pathways hum in harmony with my aether core. A genuine, if weary, grin spread across my face.
"I never felt better!" The declaration burst out, fueled by relief and the sheer, exhilarating potential thrumming within me. "The aether... it feels like it optimized everything it touched! This body… it feels like it's constantly refining itself, pushing towards some impossible peak."
The euphoria was real, a heady counterpoint to the lingering phantom aches.
Wiping sweat from my brow—the hours of intense concentration and pain had left me damp—my fingers suddenly froze.
Not on smooth skin, but on two small, hard protrusions just above my temples, hidden beneath the fall of my wavy black hair. Parallel ridges, tapering to sharp points. Panic, cold and irrational, seized me.
"Sylvia?!" My voice pitched higher. "What is this?" I probed the bumps frantically. "Is my skull… fracturing? Pushing out?!" The specter of my old body's fragility, of bones betraying me, flashed vividly.
"Horns, Child." Sylvia's voice was calm, a balm against my sudden terror. A hint of amusement touched her lips, banishing some of the shadows in her eyes.
"Don't fret. Your body, though a blend of dragon resilience is fundamentally basilisk in its base structure. Horns are one of their most distinctive features. Yours are simply emerging."
Horns. I traced them again, the sensation alien and unsettling. Small, perhaps three or four centimeters, slightly curved and wickedly sharp. A wave of pure, childish petulance washed over me.
"I hate them," I whined, the sound absurd in the grim setting. "I am not some… horned monster!"
This new body was a masterpiece of stolen divinity—lithe, powerful, imbued with a strange, grey-skinned elegance.
These horns felt… barbaric. An unwelcome reminder of the monstrous lineage Agrona had forced upon me.
Sylvia's chuckle was a soft, musical sound, unexpected and warm. "I find them rather fetching, actually. They lend you a certain… roguish charm. Like a young basilisk lord stepping into his power." Her lavender eyes held genuine warmth, perhaps even a flicker of pride.
My petulance evaporated instantly, replaced by a warmth that spread from my core. If Sylvia approved…
"Well!" I declared, puffing out my chest slightly, my fingers now gently massaging the base of the small horns. "I clearly owe these magnificent protuberances an apology! Several, in fact! Deepest regrets for my initial, uncouth assessment!"
If Dragon Mama deemed them charming, then they were perfect. Annoyance be damned; they were now my crowning glory. Moreover... I could call myself Daredevil now, couldn't I?
Sylvia shook her head, a fond, exasperated sigh escaping her spectral lips. "Honestly, Child…"
I was about to rise, finally ready to seek an escape from this desolate Office Zone, when a glint of deep violet light caught my eye from within the ravaged carcass of The Thing. Nestled amidst the dark, rubbery flesh, pulsing faintly with an inner light, was an object I hadn't noticed before.
Instinctively, drawn by the dense concentration of aether swirling around it, I crawled closer. My fingers, still tingling with the memory of self-surgery, plunged into the cold, yielding mass and closed around something hard and smooth.
I pulled it free. It was a stone heart. Not symbolic, but unnervingly literal—a perfect, fist-sized replica of a human heart, carved from deepest, light-absorbing obsidian. Yet, within its dark depths, veins of pure violet aether pulsed and writhed like captured lightning.
Did the Ancient Mages truly resemble humans so closely? After all Sylvia had said they were akin to humans, not Asuras.
And me? Was I still human? The question flitted through my mind, dismissed almost instantly. Labels meant nothing.
I was Iskander. Consciousness. Will. The vessel might change, stolen and stitched, but the core remained. This obsidian heart, however… this demanded attention.
It thrummed with power in my palm, a cold counterpoint to my own warm core. The aether within felt ancient, dense, potent, yet… contained. Structured. Unlike the wild, ambient energy or the crude vitality I'd consumed from The Thing's flesh.
This was crafted. Purposed.
"Sylvia?" I held the relic up, its violet veins casting eerie shadows on my face. "Any ideas? It feels… significant... I don't know how to explain it. A gut feeling, that is."
Her gaze fixed on the obsidian heart, a complex mix of recognition and sorrow clouding her features.
"That is a Relic, Child. An artifact crafted by the Ancient Mages, imbued with their profound understanding of aether." She paused, her voice lowering.
"Beyond that… its specific function eludes me. They created wonders beyond even my Clan's full comprehension." A shadow passed over her face. "I do know Agrona covets such Relics desperately. He uses the people of Alacrya—sends them as Ascenders into these tombs—to harvest them for him. He cannot enter the Relictombs himself; their defenses reject his presence."
My lip curled in disgust. "Ah," I spat, the taste of the Thing's flesh momentarily returning. "So the mad scientist is also a tyrant. Forcing his own people into death traps like this to fuel his experiments?"
The image of King Grey surfaced—ruthless, warmongering, a monster by Earth's standards. But even Grey hadn't enslaved his populace to harvest alien artifacts from cosmic deathtraps.
He might just be worse than King Genocide back home, I thought.
"Sort of…" Sylvia sighed, her gaze drifting away from the relic, heavy with unspoken knowledge about Agrona's methods, about Alacrya.
"Regardless, Child, you need to focus on escape. You are still trapped within the Relictombs." Her tone was urgent, maternal protectiveness resurfacing. "That power you hold… it's a beacon now, not just to the dangers here, but potentially… to him."
She was right. Escape was paramount. I carefully tucked the obsidian heart into the waistband of my ragged trousers—my only pocket—its cold weight a constant, unsettling presence against my skin.
Grabbing one of the few intact Life-lanterns nearby, I willed a thread of aether from my core into it. Instantly, it bloomed back to life, bathing the gore-strewn intersection in warm, golden light.
"Illumination secured," I murmured. "But my hands…" I looked down at my tattered, blood-stained tunic. No pockets. No belt. Nowhere to carry my precious lantern or the unsettling relic without holding them.
"You might need to improvise a carrying solution later," Sylvia advised gently, her worry palpable again. "But listen, Iskander. Be even more vigilant now. The Relictombs themselves are peril enough, but if Agrona discovers you survived his experiment… that you not only live but succeeded where he failed…"
Her spectral form seemed to shiver. "He will move continents, shatter realms, to reclaim his weapon. And we are deep within Alacrya, Child. His dominion."
"His backyard," I muttered, the reality settling like a cold stone in my gut alongside the relic. "Not ideal. Not ideal at all."
The urgency to escape intensified. Holding the Life-lantern aloft, I ventured deeper into the central corridor, past the junction where I'd battled The Thing, following the path I'd mapped during my earlier exploration. The Office Zone revealed its final secret: a grid-like network of corridors, utilitarian and vast, all converging towards the far end of the central artery.
There, bathed in the lantern's golden glow, was a raised platform. It was circular, seamlessly integrated into the pearlescent floor, about a meter in diameter and elevated half a meter. Its surface was intricately carved with swirling, geometric patterns that seemed to shift subtly under the light—runes of impossible complexity. They pulsed with a faint, dormant violet light, humming with latent power.
"Spatium runes," Sylvia breathed, awe mixing with relief in her voice. She drifted closer, examining the patterns. "Space-bending. This is a gate, a teleporter. You should be able to use this to get away from this zone."
A cold realization dawned. "Then… I was doomed from the start," I murmured, staring at the dormant platform. "Even if I'd somehow defeated the Thing without an aether core… I couldn't have activated this."
The platform felt hungry. It demanded an active flow of aether, a key only a core could provide. A shiver ran down my spine. Without Sylvia's guidance, without my reckless gamble on the aether core… I'd have been trapped here forever, a rat in a cosmic maze, eventually succumbing to another horror or starvation.
The thought was chilling. Though… a darkly humorous corner of my mind piped up, …slicing myself open and flooding the runes with blood-charged aether might have been an interesting, if terminal, alternative.
Shame I'll never get to test that theory now.
Stepping onto the cool surface of the dais, I closed my eyes. Reaching deep within, I touched my newly forged aether core. It hummed, potent but mindful of its limits. Instead of drawing directly from it, I focused outward, extending my will through the newly carved channels.
I beckoned the ambient aether of the Relictombs—thick, potent, swirling invisibly around me like an unseen ocean current.
Come, I willed, not command, but invitation.
The violet motes responded, swirling faster, drawn towards the platform. I guided them, channeling the ambient energy and my own core's reserves, into the intricate network of Spatium runes.
The effect was instantaneous and breathtaking. The carved lines ignited, blazing with pure violet energy. The humming intensified, rising to a resonant thrum that vibrated through the floor, through my bones. The air above the platform shimmered, warping like heat haze, then tore open with a sound like ripping silk.
A vortex of swirling violet and deepest black yawned before me, a window into pure, chaotic potential. The pull was immense, both physical and metaphysical, tugging at my very being.
"Hold tight to yourself, Child!" Sylvia's voice was barely audible over the roar of bending space. Her spectral form flickered, clinging to my consciousness. "Wherever it leads… we face it together!"
I took one last look at the Office Zone—the scene of my death, rebirth, and brutal transformation, illuminated by the golden lantern in my hand and the corpse of my monstrous foe.
No fear, only a fierce, reckless anticipation. Freedom wasn't a place; it was the next step, the next challenge, the next impossible horizon.
Gripping the Life-lantern and the cold obsidian heart at my waist, I stepped forward into the swirling maw of violet and void. The Relictombs dissolved around me, the platform's light flaring blindingly before collapsing into absolute, weightless darkness.
The Office Zone was gone.
The next Chapter of the Relictombs awaited.
———————————————————
The transition was instantaneous, yet profoundly disorienting. One moment, the solid certainty of the teleportation platform's violet light; the next, an absolute, suffocating embrace of grey.
The fog surrounding me was as thick and dense as nothing I have ever seen. It was an haunting presence, a tangible wall of damp, chill vapour that pressed in from all sides, swallowing light, sound, and space itself.
My enhanced Asuran sight, capable of piercing near-total darkness with almost zero light, was utterly useless.
Straining my eyes yielded nothing but the same oppressive, featureless grey. It felt like being submerged in lukewarm milk, blind and deaf.
"Interesting," I murmured, the sound dampened and swallowed mere inches from my lips. The word felt absurdly inadequate against the sensory void. I lowered my gaze, but even my own body was hidden. Tentatively, I shuffled my feet.
The ground yielded slightly beneath my boots—damp, cool, yielding. Definitely mud. Not the sterile shell-material of the Office Zone, but actual wet earth.
The faint scent of loam and decay permeated the damp air, a stark contrast to the previous zones' sterile ozone or ancient dust.
"A Fog Zone, huh?" The name felt fittingly bleak.
"Try to sense the aether signatures, Child," Sylvia's voice resonated clearly in my mind, a lifeline in the sensory deprivation. "Look beyond sight. Feel the sources."
Her guidance was immediate, anchoring me. I focused inward, reaching for the humming violet sun nestled in my core. I extended my awareness, feeling the ambient aether swirling around me—thick, potent, ever-present in the Relictombs.
Violet sparks danced at the edge of my perception, a familiar hum against my skin.
But when I tried to see them, to use that perception to pierce the fog… nothing. The grey murk seemed to absorb the very idea of sight. I could feel the aether's presence, its density, its flow like an invisible river, but the fog remained an impenetrable curtain.
It wasn't blocking the aether; it was co-opting it, weaving itself into the energy field, making it impossible to use as a visual guide.
"Nothing," I admitted, frustration a low thrum beneath the calm I forced myself to maintain. My arms instinctively stretched out before me, fingers probing the unseen. "I'm effectively blind again. Does the Relictombs have a particular fondness for sensory deprivation? First darkness, now this?"
It was a rhetorical grumble, a way to push back against the unsettling helplessness. Sylvia offered no answer, her presence a silent, worried vigil.
Slowly, deliberately, I began to walk. The mud sucked at my boots with each step, a squelching counterpoint to the profound silence. The Fog Zone felt vast and barren. No echoes of my footsteps bounced back. No shapes loomed in the grey.
No scent of life beyond the damp earth and the faint, metallic tang of the aether-infused fog itself. It was a desolate, muffled limbo—a desert rendered as a swamp, devoid of landmarks, vegetation, or even the promise of horizon.
The silence pressed in, heavier than the fog. Was it muffling all sound? Could something be moving just feet away, its approach swallowed by the grey blanket? The thought sent a prickle of primal alertness down my spine.
My senses strained, sight was useless, so I tried to sense for vibrations, for shifts in the air pressure, for the faintest scent of anything other than earth and aether.
My hand instinctively brushed the cold, smooth weight of the stone heart relic tucked into my waistband—a tangible anchor in the formless void.
Then, I felt it. A subtle, almost imperceptible shift in the ambient aether. Not a source of aether like The Thing of I could have been, but a disturbance. A localized eddy, faint and fleeting, like a small fish darting through a deep, murky pond.
It was weak, distant—perhaps a hundred meters away?
Immediately after, a much larger, denser presence surged through the aetheric currents behind it. Massive, predatory, radiating a cold, focused intent that resonated like a physical pressure even through the fog. The chase was unmistakable. Small prey. Large hunter.
"Sylvia," I projected the thought, my mental voice taut. "Is it possible to hide one's aether signature? Completely?"
Her answer was swift, laced with ancient certainty.
"Without an active core? I think not. Not even the dragons of my Clan, nor the Ancient Mages at their height, possessed such an art. Aether is. It radiates from living things, from powerful artifacts, from the very fabric of reality here. A core might allow for… dampening, perhaps? Focusing it inward? But these are only speculations born of your unique existence, Child. Do not stake your life on untested theories."
Her caution was a cold splash of reality.
The smaller signature flickered again, closer now but veering erratically. The larger presence followed with relentless, terrifying precision, closing the gap. The hunter knew its path; the prey was panicking. A surge of adrenaline, sharp and clean, cut through the fog-induced lethargy. Someone is here. And they are in mortal danger.
"Child, you—" Sylvia began, her mental voice sharp with warning.
I cut her off, the decision crystallizing instantly, fueled by a lifetime of helplessness witnessing suffering and a newfound power demanding purpose.
"Whoever it is, it can't be Agrona. So, I'm going to help them." A dark, pragmatic corner of my mind added, "Besides, if the hunter's as full of aether as it feels… lavish meal, no?"
It was a shield against the fear, a way to frame the terrifying unknown as opportunity.
I felt the ripple of her sigh, but beneath it, a flicker of warmth. Approval? Relief that my first instinct wasn't self-preservation alone? "Just… be careful, Iskander. The fog might hide more than sight."
Augmentation surged through my channels. Violet light flared unseen beneath my skin, muscles coiling with explosive power. I launched myself forward guided by the pulsing beacon of fear and pursuit resonating through the aether.
The mud splashed, the fog whipped past my face, cold and wet. I ran, pouring power into my legs, the world a grey blur.
"Is someone there?!" I shouted, pouring strength into my voice. The sound hit the fog and died instantly, absorbed like a stone dropped into deep water. No echo. No response. Only the heavy silence and the pounding of my own heart, amplified in my ears.
Of course. Sound doesn't travel. Sylvia and I… we speak mind-to-mind. Could I…? The thought was a spark, but there was no time to experiment. The predator was gaining terrain.
The closer I got to the fleeing aether signature, the denser the fog seemed to become. It pressed in like cold, wet wool, actively resisting my approach. It wasn't passive anymore; now it felt sentient, obstructive, trying to isolate the prey, to keep me away. Anger, hot and bright, flared within me. Enough hiding.
"Let's dissipate this fog..." I growled, skidding to a stop. Sylvia's memories surfaced—dragon spells, vast manipulations of pure mana to influence the weather with sheer power.
Could I translate that concept? Not with mana, but with pure, raw aether? The theory was reckless, untested. But so was everything else about me.
I focused, drawing not just from my core, but pulling vast streams of the ambient aether swirling thickly in the fog-laden air. I channeled it, forcing the potent energy down the newly forged pathways in my right arm, concentrating it in my fist.
It built like a contained star, hot and volatile, vibrating with power that made my bones hum. Momentum was the gathering force of will. I punched the air the fog occupied, the space in front of me.
I drove my fist forward.
The explosion wasn't sound—it too swallowed by the fog—but pure force.
A detonation of condensed violet aether erupted from my knuckles, a shockwave visible only as a sudden, violent displacement. The fog vaporized in a perfect sphere around me, blasted back like curtains torn aside by a hurricane.
For one crystalline, heart-stopping second, visibility returned.
I didn't see the hunter. My gaze snapped to the source of the smaller, panicked signature. A man. Young, perhaps my age when I died or a little older.
He was running with desperate grace, athletic and lean, clad in practical, dark-grey expedition robes stained with mud and a cloak covering his shoulders.
Olive hair plastered to his forehead, eyes wide and focused—a startling, intelligent brown filled not just with fear, but with a fierce determination to survive.
In his hand, gripped white-knuckle tight, was a dagger with a blade that seemed to drink the light—pure, polished white bone or crystal. He was maybe thirty meters away, angled slightly away from me.
He wasn't looking at me. He was fleeing the unseen terror behind him.
"Come here!" I bellowed, the words tearing from my throat, amplified by the sudden vacuum and the raw power still crackling around me. My voice carried this time, sharp and commanding in the unnatural clarity.
"Before the fog swallows us again!" The edges of the cleared sphere were already churning, the grey mass rushing back in like a tidal wave.
He jerked his head towards the sound. His eyes—those scarily deep brown eyes—locked onto mine. Shock registered first, pure astonishment at the sudden apparition, the violet energy dissipating from my fist.
Then, a flicker of something deeper, colder—fear. Not just of the hunter, but of me. The grey-skinned figure with faintly glowing violet eyes and black horns, erupting from the fog with a force that shattered it.
But the churning fog at his heels, the palpable menace closing in, made the decision for him. Survival instinct overrode suspicion.
He pivoted sharply, abandoning his previous trajectory, and sprinted straight towards me. He moved with surprising speed and agility, a testament to Ascender training or raw desperation. The fog surged, a living wall intent on sealing him off, swallowing him whole before he could reach the small pocket of clarity around me. It thickened between us, a roiling grey curtain.
I saw a hand—pale, mud-streaked, gripping the white dagger—thrust desperately through the encroaching wall of fog, reaching blindly towards the space where I stood.
Without hesitation, without thought, my own hand shot out. My fingers, strong and sure, closed around his wrist. Not gently. This was rescue, not comfort.
With a grunt fueled by augmented strength, I yanked. Hard. He stumbled forward, propelled off his feet by the force, crashing through the last barrier of fog and sprawling onto the muddy ground at my feet just as the grey tide crashed over the spot where he'd been standing.
The Fog Zone slammed shut around us once more, absolute and silent, leaving us blind, breathless, and connected only by my grip on his wrist and the frantic pounding of two hearts in the suffocating grey.