In the vast expanse of the emerald colored sky, an island of craggy stone lists, tumbling through the air. It was much the same as the other mounds of stone, moving slowly above the riven earth like a field of asteroids a dozen miles above the surface. There was nothing particular about this single island of rock; it possessed as many broken homes and shakes littering the surface, four massive craters of steel took up the centers of one side, the fires burning within dead and dark like all the other islands. If there was anything that set it apart, it was that not only monsters swarmed over the surface, but natural creatures as well.

The native creatures, three-legged reptilian women whose vibrant scales shift in color with their mood, cried their battle cries, swung their lances, and detonated even their homes to push back the tide, but here, like in so many places before, it was proving not to be nearly enough. The swarm came on, millions and millions of creatures wrought from living mana, pressing ever onward to destroy completely the wonders that the material universe produced.

"They won't make it," Jan says.

Jaela glances at the man. He has changed into his funeral regalia for the day, the fabric of his metallia dyed a sheened white for the occasion. There was no mistaking him as anything less than beautiful; centuries of purposeful attention to his appearance paid off in that regard. Today, as on any such day, the sympathy in his eyes was bottomless. At home, after the day was done, he would weep for these strange people in private. But before any of that could happen, the pantomime must be played out.

"They might still rally," Jaela says.

He looks at her, trying to smile, his eyes searching the blank expression of her metallia helmet. She wore it crimson, as she did every day while in observance of the era's struggle, the color that of way, that of this universe triumphing. But she did not feel any hope for these people. They had lost this fight long ago, when the best of their number had fallen to the endless flood, and then their second-best, then their reserves, until it was up to the young and old to take up arms.

The two humans watch from their spot in the sky, observing as a world dies, as was their mission. She sees something valiant in their struggle, the vital nature of life to struggle even against the inevitable end. It doesn't take too long before those healthy enough to wield the heavy weapons of the reptilian people are cut down. Then those unable to even hold such weapons go forth. They never show an instant of hesitation. After watching this struggle for more than five years, at the end of the road, they do not quit the fight.

The massacre runs on as the two stand in observance. Jan's fingers flex at his side, while the muscles in his cheek bunch. He grinds his teeth to rid himself of the frustration, but when has that ever worked?

"You are the termination officer," he says to her through gritted teeth. "The call is yours to make."

"A moment longer," Jaela says.

The two continue their vigil, observing as the tunnels are breached. The defenses of the island hive activate, culling hundreds of the dark creatures pouring in through the mouths of the tunnel. They watch as bulkhead after bulkhead is breached, and see the last of the adults throw themselves forward to push back the tide for just a moment longer. Then, only the children remain, a room of sixty-three cowering inside a metal box. The swarm is not quick about entering; they beat against the walls, against the sealed doors; their progress is slow but inevitable.

When at last a hole is torn into the wall, the first of the monsters slipping inside, the final moments of the species' story are written. Jaela watches, feeling the final scene coming, but unwilling to dishonor the moment. When, at the end, even the children pick up arms, charging the creatures they have no chance of beating. She watches for that moment, that final shout against the void, the last words of these people written.

"I'm calling it," she says, her voice a whisper. "I have reached my verdict. Talos, destroy this area."

At her command, the metallia she wears like a second skin becomes alive, devices shaped like triangles of smoldering steel fanning out around her like a multi-ringed halo. Light shines forth, and the chain of islands vanishes in a glow of orange light, the fabric of the world itself shaking as a miniature star is born.

The destruction only takes an instant to occur, the final word of the people who once called the stretch of floating islands home vanished in an instant, the courage of their young not sullied by the reality of what the final moments should have been.

"Lord Draeth asked that the cycle of his worlds not be disturbed," Jan says to her.

"If the High Lord has issue with my actions, he can bring them to me himself." Her words are so steady that for a moment she manages to believe that she might not bend beneath the stare of someone like Lord Draeth, but Jaela knows that for the fantasy it is. "We should return."

The two slip away into the folds of reality, appearing a moment later in the citadel. Austere and dark wood decorates the walls, the uniform cerulean slabs of stone making up the floor hewn by rivulets of clear water running into the pond in the center of the chamber, taking their turn in the swirl of the pool before running away back into the walls. A man, dressed in simple clothes of red and brown, sits in the center of the chamber, a titleless book open in his hands. What an artifact for this man to have.

He saves his place with a dove's feather, scratching his short brown beard as he looks up. "You've reached a verdict?" he asks.

"Yes, Captain," Jaela replies.

"Any care to tell me of it?" He always uses those words, each and every time. How many repetitions has it been now, reliving this final moment, trying to make light of the events in which they participate just to maintain some semblance of sanity?

"Extinction, sir." She wants to have other words, but even from the start of this observation, it was clear what the likely outcome would be.

The captain nods, sighing as he pushes himself to stand. He walks to her, laying a hand on her shoulder, her metallia transmitting the sensation despite the layers of armoring between. "Then I shall carry out the sentencing," he says. "Your vigil has ended. Let me carry the burden now."

I stand in a strange and dark room of stone, traces of the vision that came over my mind still fading from my eyes. Everything is still so clear; I feel what they felt, those arbiters of a dying world. There is a wetness on my cheek, the tear not my own.

"You made it through." At once, I recognize the voice. He had spoken to her not even a few seconds ago, the brown-haired man in simple clothing.

Slowly, the echoes of the vision fade, and my awareness expands to encompass the space. This room, if it can even be called that, only consists of stone steps that form a ring around a central dais. Upon the highest platform sits a chair made of the same gray-brown stone as the stairs. Cracks and breaks run through the stone throne, records of time left as damage upon it. Yet, despite how it appears, there is a feeling of majesty the throne exudes, a sensation of standing firm against immeasurable eons, an unwillingness to be fully broken. There are no walls to this place, only a matte black like the night beyond torchlight, somehow deep and flat all at once.

There, on the third of five steps, he sits.

"What was that?" I ask, turning back as if I could somehow see the vision fading into the distance behind me. "What happened to me? Who are you?"

The man tilts his head as he looks down the stairs at me, his eyes flicking back and forth over my face. I see recognition dawn in his eyes, and in my heart know it to be a fact. His expressions, I know them. How that is, I can't say. A hint of a smile passes his lips. "The only way that we could have met is for you to be truly lost. It has been an age since last I spoke to someone, to anyone real, at least, but I felt a connection roil across the fabric of the firmament, felt someone reaching out. Did you not call for me?"

I shake my head. "I don't know. If I did, I didn't mean to. I was adrift, lost, calling out for help. Can you help me? Can you save me?"

He shakes his head, his smile made a sad thing. "I can't even save myself." He groans as he pushes against his knees, standing and walking down the steps. It is then that I notice the difference between the man in front of me and the one I saw in the vision. This man is older, the hair at his ears running gray, the sheen in his eyes having dulled. "But, something tells me that you won't need me to save you."

When he stops in front of me, I find our eyes meeting on level. "Who are you?"

"I have a few names, none of which I like all that much. Before I have been called a brother, a husband, a father, an emperor, a king, the Watcher of the Thrones, and, once, long ago, Captain. I would be honored if you referred to me that way."

"I already have a captain, of sorts," I say. "Though, you seem far more easygoing."

"I find it best to be that way until the going gets tough, miss…"

"Devardem. My name is Charlene Devardem. So, Captain, can you tell me why you have brought me here?"

"Charlene." He seems almost to sample my name like it is an exotic wine. "You seem to be mistaken. I did not bring you here; you were the one who brought me." He half-turns, pointing up toward the throne of stone at the top of the steps. "I am merely a Watcher of the Thrones, I do not guide would-be scions. I felt something as you approached the lost throne, maybe it was your call into the dark, but maybe it was something more."

His implication is lost on me as I stare up at the throne. A familiar sensation comes over me, the golden circlet on my head reacting in a mysterious way to the sight of it. It itches, tightening around my skull, seeming to want to pull me forward toward it.

"How very interesting," the Captain says, staring right at the crown. I only realize now that I have been rubbing it. "Where did you acquire that weapon?"

"Weapon?" I take a few steps away from the man. "This is just a trinket I purchased," I lie.

"No," he shakes his head, his voice more curious than serious. "No, that is a mighty weapon. It sings the same notes as the thrones themselves. I have never seen something made in the material do such a thing before, never the same melody, only its inverse. It reminds me of…No." His eyes narrow on me. "No, she would never take one with blood so close to the origin."

Something in his voice, something in the way that he mumbles to himself, sets my hair standing on end. "What are you talking about?"

"I have been gone from the world a long time," he says. "Has the Mother returned?"

"What is the Mother?"

He nods, scratching his beard, pacing back a step. "You would know her if she were back in the world. It must be a coincidence; perhaps someone else has broken the pattern. It was done once after all, and that was so long ago now."

Before I can ask what he means or think to consider finding a way out of the room, he points at me. "That crown you bear is quite a weapon. That is what it is, no matter what whoever gave it to you says. It sympathizes with the Heavenly Thrones, does it not? You likely can feel the pull; it is what led you here."

My instinct tells me to be wary of this man. I have no idea who he is, no idea of how I came to be here, and his intentions are entirely unknown. But, another part of me tells me to trust him, a part of me feels a kinship with him I can't explain. No matter how rational the suspicions might seem, I can read his face as well as if he were Halford. There is no malice there, only concern, concern for me.

"It…it does call," I say, touching my fingers to the gold of the circlet. "There is something like a pull. It wants me to go there." I look up at the chair of gray stone atop the dais. "You said that this thing is a Heavenly Throne?"

"What do you know of the gods?" the Captain asks.

"Less than I should."

"At least you know it." The man begins an explanation, but I find the words drifting past me.

Pain, like a white hot poker driving into my temple, clouds out everything else. My attention slips from the strange realm, returning for a moment to the struggle of my mind and body. The end is coming; my pathways, so taxed from constant and forced circulation for the interminable days I have been down here, that I can hardly hold onto any mana. In the coffin, a whine reverberates through the magically infused blood surrounding me, the swords growing like crystals of sugar in water. The ones already digging into me grow wider. The ones approaching begin to dig in with their pointed tips.

I struggle in the strange realm, sagging to the side in a stumble, barely managing to hold myself up. When I cough, golden blood stains my palm. There isn't long.

The Captain's brows rise as he looks over me. "You really are dying."

"I've been…holding out…for so long. I can't…I don't think I can do it anymore," I manage to say. It takes a dangerous amount of my focus to move the spiritual avatar lingering here, but the focus here helps keep the pain away. "Can you not help me?"

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Instead of replying, the man moves forward, putting my arm over his shoulder as he leads me toward the steps. I feel like my body is made of lead as we begin to climb, begin to ascend toward the throne made of riven stone.

"I guess you should know the condensed version," he says. Despite there only being seven steps to reach the dais, it feels as if we climb forever. "The Hundred Thrones of the Divine touch this world. Mortals might approach them, but to unseat a sitting god and take its place is nigh impossible. Yet, raise your head, and you might notice something."

The effort to do just that is gargantuan at the moment. A trail of golden ichor follows me up the steps, blood spilling from several wounds over my skin, appearing here as they do in the real world. But I listen, trying to distract myself. "No one is sitting there," I say, looking at the throne.

"The Throne of War has sat empty for some time," the Captain says. How have we only made it halfway there now? "It has been one of the seven lost thrones for a long time now. Well, that number has only been six for some time, I suppose."

"So, you're telling me that if I sit there, I will become a god?" I ask.

He smiles, now practically dragging me forward. "No. Not even close. If you connect to the concept of war, that might give you a bridge to the firmament. Maybe then I will be able to help you. This is not how things typically happen with these divine powers. You are skipping the queue in a way."

The final step is just in front of us. My vision continues to grow blurry, my body dead weight as we stop in front of the dais. "What…what is wrong?" I barely manage.

"I can't go any further," he says. He blows out a long breath, and I feel a shudder run through him. "There is a reason the Throne of War is lost. You have connected to it somehow, brought yourself to its realm, and invited me here to join you. I see you, truly, I do. I see the suffering you have endured drawn upon your essence, pain and cruelty channeled into the reinforcement of your spirit. The stink of Exeter lingers on you, so I know that this must not be the first throne you approached. You must go forward on your own from here. Just a few more steps. Save yourself, Charlene."

It is difficult to understand his words, to understand the meaning behind them. My thoughts keep slipping sideways, the entirety of my will devoted to keeping the swords back. Concepts wander away, my inner world growing so diffuse that time itself seems unimportant. But, it isn't. Golden blood runs down my legs, stains and sticks to my clothes, pools around the bottoms of my boots. There is no breadth left to care about the lofty concepts he speaks of: war, the gods, the divine, thrones, the firmament. In the face of impending death, what can these things account for?

I stumble forward, my toes tripping on the top of the last step. My knee cracks into the hard and unforgiving gray stone. It is cold, but it thumps with something almost like a heartbeat against my cheek. My cheek. I'm lying on the stone. Reaching out, I can just barely register the feeling of the scratching surface against my fingertips. My body scrapes against the floor, a trail of shining lifeblood left as a dragmark glittering on the stone. Sight is gone. In the three realms I try to occupy all at once, there is only the dark now.

But I know the way forward. With only touch left to me, the pull of the crown digging into my head spurs me on like the pull of a magnet. The struggle takes both forever and no time at all. Do I spend a lifetime crawling on the floor, the nails of my right hand cracking against the stone as I drag myself forward?

Out there, another sword plunges into my back, the point separating two vertebrae. The pain as the strands of nerves are pried apart by an ever-growing bar of iron is impossible to describe. The agony is a paralytic. How pathetic I must look, crawling, no doubt crying, as I drag myself forward on the stone. Why do I need to endure even this? Wouldn't it just be better…

"You are almost there, Mistress."

Galea's voice. I can't tell where it comes from, but somehow she cuts through the pain.

"Just a little bit more."

A little bit more, I suppose I can do that. Just drag myself another inch. I owe her that much. Just another inch.

"Just a little bit more," she says again.

Why not? I've already come this far, haven't I?"

"Just a little bit more."

Somehow, her voice crowds out the pain of my body, echoing about in my mind. It is as if she floats before me, the crown leading me towards her instead of some broken chair. She beckons me, and I crawl after.

Time begins to flow once more, the slow drip of golden droplets pooling on my chin, splashing against the floor, the first real sound I can make out. As sight begins to return, I become aware of a change. My head presses against the foot of the rocky throne, the metal of my crown touching it. There is no resistance; the artifact in this strange place makes no attempt to horde its power. It comes flooding forth, a stream of energy flowing from the stone in a river, pouring into my head, clearing my vision enough to see the stone world around me.

Flashes of landscapes, of events I can't even begin to fathom, cross my vision. The power flowing from the throne is a strange thing, digging into my body, brushing against my soul, trying to change its very makeup. Only, something impedes it. The power forms a nebula of disjointed and broken concepts floating around the concentric shapes of my soul. The depths of the iron-colored cloud are too deep to ponder; just looking upon it threatens to break my concentration.

The throne pours power into me, a surge of energy that revitalizes my fight against the impending swords growing around me. I seize that power, trying to force it back, but even as I grab hold of it, it slips through my fingers like water. The pathways are too stressed, I can't even hold onto it for long enough to use. The power itself seems to have a will of its own. It turns inward, flooding through my energy pathways, digging into the walls, trying to change them, strengthen them. The process is too slow. I won't make it, not in time.

"You have done it." I become aware of the Captain as he steps into sight, making me aware of my body at the same time. I lay against the side of the throne, my head lolled against the arm, my spiritual body almost dead despite the vast amounts of raw power flooding through me. The man bends, picking me up, laying me on the Throne of War. "A new Scion of War is born," he says. "Not the usual method, but I believe you can make it work."

"I'm still going to die," I manage to say. In the realm of my soul, I witness a wisp of the throne's power break away, turning sharply to splash into an unseen force. Faintly, I hear Galea scream in my mind. "This is it."

"You will," the Captain says to me, his face dark now, sad. He kneels in front of the throne to bring his eyes level with my own. "I can feel you now that you have connected with the firmament. I will see you through, Charlene."

He reaches out, setting a hand on my shoulder, and I can feel him far more keenly than before. A soothing calm seems to stretch out from his hand, an endless river that seeps into me. I study his face. He wants to reassure me, but it is so hard to feel it.

"You are going to have to let go, Charlene."

He doesn't need to explain. "I'm scared," I confess.

"I know," he says. "But you can do it."

My hand drifts upward, touching his own. "Okay."

It doesn't seem like much of a choice. I can't hold against it much longer anyway. So what does it matter that I drop the fight myself, that I relinquish the struggle? I don't know. But, there is something important about it. I just know that there is.

The world splits. In the same instant that I finally relax, that I finally put down the struggle, dozens of iron swords spawn around me, plunging into me. Lying upon the Throne of War, my soul tries to shriek as my life is cut away, but all that I manage is a dribble of golden blood falling over my chin.

I still see him, this man called the Captain, kneeling in front of me with watery eyes. He tries to smile, but it is a dull thing. His big thumb brushes across my chin, wiping the blood away. "You look so much like her," he says. The man reaches forward, pulling my limp body into an embrace, soothing energy running from him to me. It is like an ocean, myself just a small and empty pond.

As the world begins to fade, a scene stands out along the dark of the walls. In a world where the very sky burns, on a battlefield that runs away endlessly, the cracked and shattered earth stuck through with countless weapons that stand in the burning heat, a spear of silver stands, its crimson tail whipping in the scorching wind. It reaches toward me, the world shifting to bring the spear closer. It wants to fall into my hand. But even as it nears, it begins to fade, fading along with everything else. The final sensation is the ring of metal in the wind.

Deep beneath the city, in a forgotten chamber, a wave of hardly felt force sweeps through, passing over a sphere of iron suspended above brackish water. The whine of iron breaks the silence, one of the hilts that comprise the iron coffin sinking inward. The whine becomes a crashing din as more and more of the hilts crush inward in a cascade, their restrained growth finally released, striking in at the vulnerable creature inside they have strained to reach for weeks. Then, all together, the plunge. The coffin cracks, a flood of deep red blood is made pearlescent in its cascade to the water below, the magic infused within dying the dirty water rainbow like an oil slick. Three pale fingers fall from the crack, carried on by the flow of blood spilling forth. They rest unmoving on the edge of the coffin, lifeless, dead.

The bloody water below ripples, the slow drip of the lifeblood inside receding. That drip, that sound of my essence falling into the water and being diluted, is the first thing I understand. That, and the pain of dozens of blades sticking into me.

My fingers flex around the gap in the shell, an unending scream tearing from my throat as I pry with all of my might to pull it apart. The iron around me groans, shrieking along with me as the eggshell of iron swords is ripped open. I am hardly a person anymore as I tumble out of the inside, splashing into the water below. So much of me is gone, ripped apart by the strike swords, severed and floating in the water along with me. Only, I don't stay broken.

That power as infinite as the sea continues to flow into me from some space far beyond the material. I can't hold onto it, but that doesn't matter. It continues to flood into me, filling up all of my pathways, replacing the spent healing energies as fast as they are drained. I feel it, the strange itch of my severed right arm knitting together, bone and sinew growing from a bloody stump. The power continues to pour into me, making a woman from the broken wreckage floating in the bloody water.

Sight returns in the form of the cracked coffin hovering above me. Feeling returns in the cold lap of the pool I lie in. My hearing returns in a pop, the sound of the water splashing against the walls. Smell returns, but I wish it hadn't.

Slowly, the power begins to subside, retreating away from me, the space between me and its source somehow made distant. I turn over, pushing myself to stand in the thigh-high water that shimmers with my lost magic. I look down at myself, my body naked in the water, but whole.

A laugh begins to bubble out of my throat, a manic and uncontrolled thing that devolves into me hacking up the blood still lingering in my lungs. I throw my head back, shaking with uncontrolled peals of laughter, damp hair clinging to my face. I've done it. Finally, I'm free.

But why am I naked?

Galea appears from the shadow around me, and her appearance cuts my laughter dead, though there was little mirth in it already. Her body flickers in the air in front of me, as if she is barely holding herself together. When she tries to speak, the sound comes distorted, wrong in a way.

"What is going on?" I ask her.

"Dis…dis…unable to incorporate." Her voice is tonal, two layers of speech overlapping. "Reaaaaa….Reaaaaa….repairs required."

Her claws open, a window that stutters into existence appearing between. Then she vanishes, the flickering information remaining in front of me.

Scion of War(Corrupted)

Rqv-5f-1f- -l-R-yuvt&^

Armory of War: <Enhancement><Spacial><Infusement> A disciple of war can never be unguarded; The Throne of War will not allow it. The scion is granted a parallel space in which their equipment is bound, imparting its magic and properties to the scion at all times.

Avatar of War: <Enhancement><Berserking> Climbing the third step, the scion is given the right to channel the throne's power directly for a limited time. Call upon the power of the Throne of War, infusing your body with overwhelming might. Extreme exhaustion and weakness will follow this use of this ability, the backlash dependent upon how long the avatar state is used. Enhancement: +200 All Attributes, +20% All Attributes

I stare at the windows, understanding what I am looking at but unsure of how to feel. That man, the Captain, he had told me the truth, hadn't he? It feels so strange, having someone help me after I struggled alone for so long. I had given up on hope, given up on rescue, maybe that was the best thing to do.

A towel appears in my hand, drawn from inventory so that I might begin cleaning off all the gunk still clinging to me. As I shift in the water, my foot grazes something cold and metallic lying on the bed of the chamber. It is a wing, one of my wings, broken and cut away from me in those final moments.

Only, I feel very little as I look down at it. I feel, I feel rather good actually. Flexing my hand, I watch the sinew bunch beneath the skin, watch as it slowly relaxes as I let go. The overwhelming power is fading, both the strength of the Throne of War and whatever the Captain had done slipping away from me. I'm not the same anymore, am I? I can feel it, feel the difference, but the words escape me. The power of the throne recedes, pulling back into the cloud surrounding my soul, now a part of me as powerfully as any of my essentia. I have been branded, and I can reach out and touch that power as easily as all the others.

A new window opens in front of me as I focus on it. It displays a simplified representation of my body, all of my equipment donned by the representation. I pinch the gloves with my fingers, and as I pull my hand away from the window, my enchanted gloves appear in my hand, as if pulled from my inventory. I suppose that confirms why I am standing naked in thigh-high water. I put the gloves back into the window, feeling their power flow through me once again despite there being nothing on my hands. Luckily for me, I carry an assortment of clothing in my vault, enough to cover myself with before leaving the chamber, at least.

The pulse in the air, the presence pervading every space, I have felt it before. It is so obvious now, the seeping feeling of that monster from the tower, that it makes me wonder how I ever missed it before. That monster has come to Danfalla somehow, changed somehow, but that is it. Illigar said that those behind the beast tide were connected to that thing somehow. The sight of a city burning passes in front of my eyes, a dozen of those horrific creatures running amok, killing everything in sight. I have to tell Illigar.

I take a step, stopping when I realize something is off. There is dread; that thing broke me, almost ate me alive, but I can't seem to summon the fear into reality. It is like the connections in my brain, those recesses of terror that help an animal to survive, have been severed by the blades just as cleanly as the rest of me. I shake my head, trying to clear it, staring down at the rainbow sheen of the water around me.

"How foolish," I chide myself.

Galea would have told me herself if she were in better shape. That, that I have no trouble feeling pain over. Without her steady voice, without her warmth, I would not have survived. I will fix her; I need to fix her, but even she would tell me that I need to focus.

"If that thing is out there, it might've killed me before I accomplish anything," I say for her.

I touch the other part of the power that the throne imparted. It feels like a gate, a simple lock preventing the dam waters from spilling out. With a mental flick, I open the gate.

Power surges through me, an unrestrained release of magical potential that almost knocks me off my feet. I stumble forward, feeling the stone beneath my feet break as I lurch forward. Everything becomes bright, incredibly vibrant, the world snapping into a focus I have never seen before. Then, the windows begin to appear.

THRESHOLD REACHED! 200 VITALITY!! THRESHOLD REACHED! 200 STRENGTH!! THRESHOLD REACHED! 200 DEFENSE!! THRESHOLD REACHED! 200 MAGIC DEFENSE!! THRESHOLD REACHED! 200 PERCEPTION!!

I continue forward, lurching from the room, my legs becoming more and more sure as I stride forward, a wreath of iron-colored power chasing me like a cloud of vapor. An Avatar of War begins to make her way from the levels beneath Danfalla. First, Illigar must know about everything that happened; he will know what to do next. Then, regardless of what he says, I will find those three who imprisoned me here. They are going to pay for this.

Laughter bounces off the stone of the narrow passageways, ripples off the ever-shallower water as I make my way toward the surface. At some point, I realize that it is I who is laughing.

End of Book Two

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