Chapter 8: Certainly Not In Danger
Sevren Denoir
The Relictombs. Named such by our High Sovereign in the centuries of ancient Alacrya. Relictombs...
Even the name sent a shiver of ecstasy down my spine, a tremor that was equal parts dread and exhilaration.
Since I was old enough to understand the tapestries in the Denoir Manor in Central Domain depicting figures blessed by the Sovereigns venturing into impossible landscapes, I'd been enthralled.
Since I learnt to read and write at the age of two I started to read everything I could find about the Relictombs. I was truly charmed, enthralled, obsessed even.
Not by the promise of accolades or relics which could even bring an Ascender from Unnamed Blood in front of the High Sovereign himself to be bestowed a powerful regalia, not by the desperate climb for status that drove so many in Alacrya, but by the mystery.
The sheer, terrifying unknown. The possibility of facing something that could make this life a little bit more sufferable.
The Relictombs was the reason why I studied in Central Academy, the most prestigious institute of all Alacrya, and graduated at just thirteen—one of the two youngest students ever to graduate.
Alacrya itself was built on two pillars: the purity of Vritra blood flowing through your veins, and the relics you hauled back from these very structures to lay at the Sovereigns' feet.
For most, becoming an Ascender was the only escape from the drudgery of their caste, the only path to scrape a better life from the unforgiving stone of our society.
Appease the Vritra, serve the will of the High Sovereign, and maybe, just maybe, your bloodline would be Named, your descendants spared the worst indignities.
I was Sevren Denoir. An Highblood. A true noble. Our lineage wasn't merely a Named Blood—descendants of accomplished Ascenders. It traced back, through centuries of carefully curated marriages and whispered secrets, to an actual Vritra ancestor.
That thin, potent thread of divine ichor separated us from the Named Bloods, who owed their status merely to the accomplishments of forebears.
It granted privilege, power, estates sprawling across the Central Dominion, Truacia, Etril, Vechor, Sehz-Clar and the Relictombs themselves.
However it also granted expectations.
And I defied them all. I became an Ascender.
Not for glory. Not to serve an "higher" purpose. But for the raw, unadulterated thrill. For the moment your boot crossed the threshold of an Ascension Chamber, the world dissolving into impossible architecture and lethal wonders.
For the adrenaline singing in your veins as you navigated a crumbling sky-bridge over an abyss of swirling void, or deciphered the logic of a shifting puzzle-room filled with mana-reactive traps and even the mysterious aether.
The Relictombs was the ultimate adventure, a cosmic game of life and death where the stakes were oblivion, and the prize was the experience itself.
My parents, Highlord Corbett and Highlady Lenora Denoir, viewed my chosen path with icy disdain.
For a Highblood heir, especially the eldest son, Ascension wasn't celebrated; it was… vulgar at best. Undignified. We were meant to sponsor Ascenders, to wield influence from the halls of Cargidan, not crawl through ancient dust and monster ichor.
They didn't forbid it—outright defiance of the Ascender's call was unthinkable in Alacrya—but their disapproval was a constant, chilling presence. They hoped, fervently, that I'd tire of it.
That the near-death experiences would outweigh the adrenaline, that I'd return to my proper place.
They didn't understand. The Relictombs weren't a mere hobby. They were the air in my lungs. And they were also the only place I could truly connect with Caera, my adopted sister.
Her own path, under the shadow of that scheming Scythe—Seris Vritra—was fraught with its own dangers.
Exploring together, watching her brilliant mind dissect challenging puzzles, sharing the silent understanding forged in near-misses… those moments were priceless.
Today, thankfully, duty had kept her at that Vritra's side. I was profoundly glad.
This zone… this fog… it felt wrong.
The Relictombs was dangerous. Death was a constant companion; dozens of Ascenders fell daily, their names added to the grim rolls in the Ascenders' Associations halls were the names of the fallen were etched in stone.
I'd navigated countless zones, faced chimeric horrors and reality-warping traps, always relying on my training, my reflexes, my mind.
I'd just clawed my way out of a brutal engagement with a pack of crystalline predators, my robes torn, mana reserves low, hoping desperately for the sanctuary of a rest chamber. Instead, I'd stepped into this… nothingness.
Mist, everywhere. Thick, cloying, grey oblivion. It pressed in from all sides, swallowing light, sound, even the sense of my own body. I couldn't see my hand before my face. My boots sank silently into cold, damp mud that seemed to absorb every vibration.
It was sensory deprivation on a soul-crushing level. Worse, when I reached for the familiar hum of my mana core, the intricate runes etched onto my back—the "gift" of the High Sovereign, the source of our magic—there was… nothing.
A terrifying void. Like a limb gone numb. I strained, pouring my will into the unremarkable pathways, trying to ignite even the smallest effect, the faintest shield. Nothing. Utter silence. Not even a flicker.
"Fuck." The curse was a breath, instantly swallowed by the suffocating grey. Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of my mind. No magic. No sight. No sound. Utterly alone in an alien hellscape.
I gripped the bone-white dagger in my hand, its cool surface the only tangible anchor to reality. My thumb traced the symbol etched near its hilt—a complex, interlocking pattern representing Aether.
The library at Denoir Manor held scant information on the subject, mostly Vritra propaganda, of that I was sure: tales of the "evil gods" of Epheotus wielding it to annihilate the benevolent Ancient Mages who built these structures.
Yet, here it was, the power that seemed to fuel the Relictombs itself, rendered as a mere symbol on my weapon, mocking my ignorance and helplessness.
Then, it hit me. Not pain. Not a physical attack. Not a magic spell. A wave of pure, unadulterated wrongness. It crashed over me like icy water, stealing my breath, tightening my chest with a vise-like grip of existential dread.
Anxiety, profound and paralyzing, flooded my whole self. It wasn't fear of the unseen; it was the horrifying certainty that something was peeling back the layers of my mind, staring directly into my soul with cold, alien indifference.
My thoughts fragmented, coherence shattered. I couldn't reason! I couldn't use what made me able to come this far!
I could only feel the crushing weight of violation, the utter helplessness.
I ran. Instinct took over. Not the calculated retreat of an Ascender, but the blind, terrified flight of a prey animal. The damp mud sucked at my boots, but my steps made no sound. The fog choked me, amplifying the psychic assault.
The closer the presence felt—an oppressive, soul-chilling aura emanating from the grey—the worse the anxiety became.
It was a physical force, constricting my lungs, making my vision swim with grey spots despite the blindness. I was drowning in my own terror.
Suddenly, violently, the grey parted. Not gradually, but ripped away as if by an unseen hand. A sphere of clear air bloomed ahead, and within it stood… Him.
My breath caught. Grey skin, not the sickly pallor of illness, but a smooth, healthy shade reminiscent of twilight stone. Wavy black hair framed a face of striking, almost ethereal beauty, marred only by two small, sharp horns curling just above his temples.
And his eyes… luminous violet, like captured twilight, burning with an intensity that seemed to pierce the lingering dread. He stood casually, one fist slightly smoking, as if he'd just… punched the fog away.
A Vritra Blood. But not like any I'd ever seen. He was nothing like Caera when she manifes—no I don't even have to think about it.
He looked less like a human blessed with Vritra Blood, and more like… a young Sovereign himself stepped from their castles. Yet, I felt no mana radiating from him. Only a profound, unsettling stillness.
"Come here!" His voice cut through the unnatural silence, sharp and commanding, yet lacking the aristocratic coldness I associated with Highbloods or even Vritra Bloods. "Before the fog swallows us again!"
My mind raced. A trick? A manifestation of the Relictombs? Maybe the source of the psychic horror? But the crushing anxiety lessened near him, replaced by a different kind of tension—awe mixed with profound wariness.
The fog was already roiling back, eager to reclaim its dominion. Instinct screamed danger, but the suffocating dread behind me screamed oblivion. Survival won. I threw myself forward, legs pumping through the mud as the grey tendrils snaked towards my ankles.
Just as the fog surged to engulf me, a hand shot out—strong, grey-skinned fingers closing around my wrist with surprising warmth. With a grunt of effort, he yanked.
I stumbled, sprawling onto the cold mud at his feet as the grey wall slammed shut behind me with an almost audible thump.
Silence descended again, thick and absolute, broken only by my ragged gasps and the frantic hammering of my heart against my ribs.
I laid there for a second, disoriented, the damp earth cool against my cheek. The soul-crushing anxiety was gone. Vanished. Replaced by the immediate, visceral awareness of the powerful, horned figure standing over me.
"Are you good?" he asked, his violet eyes scanning the impenetrable grey around us, his posture alert but not aggressive.
Pushing myself up onto my elbows, mud staining my fine grey expedition robes, I tried to regain composure. Highblood training warred with raw shock.
"Y-yes..." I stammered, then added, the honorific feeling both necessary and utterly inadequate, "...my lord."
What was he? A discovered Vritra Blood shouldn't be here; they were whisked away to the High Sovereign's stronghold. A Scythe? A Retainer? Impossible.
"Lord?" He blinked, genuine confusion flashing across his striking features. His gaze swept over me, taking in my mud-splattered state, then drifted down to his own tattered, nondescript clothing. He had no visible weapons, no Ascender's pack, nothing.
Just… himself.
He looked to his right even though I couldn't tell what his was looking at.
"Oh right... just call me Iskander. And let's get out of this Fog Zone." His voice was casual, almost dismissive of the honorific, yet underlined with an unnerving focus.
Iskander. The name felt alien, powerful more similar to the name of a Sovereign than Alacryan traditional naming norms.
Near him, the oppressive atmosphere of the zone felt… dampened. Was it some innate Vritra anatomy? Decay mana? But I'd feel the corrosive chill of decay magic, and there was nothing but this strange, quieting aura.
He turned, his violet eyes seeming to pierce the fog in a direction I couldn't perceive. "Do you have any idea what this place is? Apart from the fog, of course."
He offered a wry, almost boyish grin that seemed utterly incongruous with his appearance and the setting. "Anyway, can I know your name?"
"Sevren," I said, forcing my voice level, drawing on generations of Denoir poise. "Sevren of Highblood Denoir."
Taking a deliberate, steadying breath, I confirmed it: the debilitating anxiety was truly absent near him. Did this zone prey on isolation? Was proximity a shield?
"Nice to meet you, Sevren," Iskander said, his grin widening, showing surprisingly normal teeth. Then his expression sharpened, his gaze fixed intently on a point in the fog.
"The Being from the Fog is coming at us. So be ready." He cracked his knuckles, the sound unnervingly loud in the silence, a look of eager anticipation on his face that bordered on deranged.
Deranged. The thought solidified. Most Vritra Bloods I'd encountered, even before they were taken, carried an air of cold superiority, an innate sense of entitlement.
Iskander had power, undeniable power—he'd punched away the fog—but his demeanor was unsettlingly… human. Just like Caera.
Or like Scythe Seris's calm held a different kind of danger, Iskander's open energy felt volatile. Except Seris was calculated; this felt raw.
"Being from the Fog? You can see something?"
Amazement warred with trepidation. Was he the reason the zone's ambient effect was so potent? Had his presence triggered the hunter?
"I can feel it, yes." He nodded, his violet eyes gleaming. "I will grab it, and you will stab it with your dagger, ok?" He phrased it like a simple plan, looking to me for confirmation.
The casualness was staggering. Grab an unseen horror radiating soul-crushing dread and stab it? Yet, the Relictombs thrived on unlikely alliances. I'd teamed up with strangers before—a gruff Striker from Etril, a quiet Shield from Truacia—bound by shared peril.
It was a rare, precious aspect of the Relictombs, often overshadowed by the greed and backstabbing fostered by the Ascenders' Association's corrupt glory-chasing.
My Highblood status usually shielded me from the worst of it; few dared target a Denoir. Here, status felt meaningless. Survival was paramount.
"Sure," I agreed, tightening my grip on the bone-white dagger. Its aether symbol felt suddenly cold against my palm.
"Where is it?" I asked, trying to sound calm, professional, pushing down the instinctive fear of the unseen predator and the unnerving presence of my "ally."
"There," Iskander pointed confidently into the featureless grey ahead. "It seems it is waiting for something. Let's get closer." He took a step forward.
"Wait!" The word burst out, sharper than I intended. Charging blind was suicide, even with someone who could apparently sense the enemy. "We must think about a plan. A strategy."
"Fiiine," Iskander sighed, the word drawn out with a hint of petulance. He stopped, but his posture radiated impatience. Then he flushed, a faint pink tinge rising on his cheeks. He wasn't looking at me.
"I—I... just stop teasing me about it, Sylvia!" he exclaimed, seemingly to the empty air.
Who was Sylvia? Was he… talking to himself? Hallucinating? The sheer absurdity of it, in the midst of this life-or-death tension, momentarily short-circuited my fear.
A deranged, horned demigod, embarrassed by an unseen voice? I couldn't help it—a sigh escaped me, heavy with disbelief and the surreal weight of the situation.
He whirled back to me, violet eyes wide. "You did not hear anything, Sevren!" he declared, his voice firm but lacking the commanding authority I'd expect. It was the flustered insistence of someone caught out. He was embarrassed.
The sheer humanity of that reaction, amidst the horns, the power, and the soul-rending fog, was perhaps the most shocking thing yet. It shattered the image of the aloof, god-like Vritra.
Maintaining my composure with an effort, I inclined my head slightly. "Yes... I did not," I lied smoothly. "Now, can we focus on the situation we are in? A plan would be prudent."
"Yes, sorry," Iskander mumbled, the flush lingering. He seemed to gather himself, the eager fighter resurfacing. "Any ideas? I can dissipate this fog again, like before." He flexed the hand he'd punched with.
"But I'm still getting acquainted to my new core. It might not be as… controlled or powerful as I'd like." He admitted the limitation with surprising candor.
New core? The terminology was unfamiliar. Mana cores were to power up our runes, but his power felt different. Like the Relictombs themselves.
"Better than me," I conceded. "I can't even use my runes. Is decay magic functional here? Can you use it?"
Iskander frowned slightly, concentrating. "Decay? Hmm… I don't use anything like that." He was genuinely puzzled by the question—strange.
A flicker of understanding sparked. Maybe he had just Awakened here. His physical and strange magical power felt immense but… untamed. His lack of aristocratic haughtiness, his apparent lack of knowledge about basic Vritra magic… it didn't fit the mold.
Was he an anomaly? A Vritra Blood child fostered by an Highblood who'd hidden his Awakening and fled into the Relictombs? The possibilities were many.
A cautious smirk touched my lips. This unexpected, bewildering, potentially unstable Vritra Blood might just be the key to surviving this nightmare zone. And unlike the cutthroat Ascenders jockeying for Sovereign favor, he seemed… oddly sincere in his desire to fight the Being from the Fog.
Perhaps, just perhaps, this bizarre collaboration could work. The thrill of the unknown, the core reason I was here, reignited, mingling with the ever-present fear.
The stakes? Higher than ever. The players? Utterly unpredictable.