Chapter VI - Lissium - Jiro

Jiro was every bit the Wraith that night, but for all his reputation it did little to stop the crusaders from coming. He had taken Shell Street to Salt Way up along the eastern shore of Lissium hoping to avoid the chaos that was sure to be erupting at the Crimson Circle, but for all his cunning, the knights were no less in number. They swung their heavy swords around with reckless abandon as they charged through the streets, but Jiro’s was deadly precise.

Not a single knight that faced him walked away without feeling the chill of Jiro’s blade inside them; his assailants never saw him as more than a blur. It was not their swords Jiro feared, but their words. Every time he heard a cry of, “Prophets guide you,” or, “confess your sins and swear your eternal soul to the Church of Thule,” it sent a shudder down his spine. They repeated the phrases over and over, almost like a prayer. But they had put an end to more souls than they had saved. No religious movement had taken up arms in Phaedyssia in over a thousand years.

He deflected every swing that came his way, dodging some and parrying others. At some he thrust and at some he slashed, constantly twisting and shifting his stance to protect his blind spot, all while attempting to maintain a decent pace on his way to New Hope Keep. Everything was happening so suddenly that Jiro hardly noticed when his vision faded to red.

As one foe fell another rushed at him, stumbling and struggling to keep his sword in both hands in a drunken manner. “C-confess your sins…” he stammered. Jiro was readying his blade to strike when his ears popped violently. A fleeing woman fell to her knees and shrieked, clutching at her ears, and the drunken knight collapsed. Jiro flinched, taken aback, but was unable to keep his footing. The falling blade of his attacker nicked Jiro in the arm as it clattered to the ground, forcing him to one knee.

The very air seemed to thicken around him. A mist of cold sweat beaded at his forehead. Jiro’s stomach clenched, and he promptly keeled over and vomited in the street. The shallow wound on his arm throbbed. Since when have I been blood shy? He watched as the thick blood trickled down his elbow, the same eerie shade of scarlet as his surroundings. Jiro’s head swam. Snippets of his dream the night before suddenly returned to memory. Everybody in this city will be dead. The words seemed all the more ominous now.

The clangor had died quickly, he noticed as he slowly rose to his feet. Only the occasional moan or faint clatter of falling armor could be heard now. The bodies of the pursued and their pursuers alike lay strewn about on the cobblestone, none of them offering so much as a twitch. Am I the only one still awake? Jiro’s ears popped again. Or am I the only one still alive? He wondered if Delphi had fallen pray to the gaze of the bloodmoon as well. If the former were true and the city slumbered, then she would be safe for the time, until everybody awakened and the slaughter resumed. And if the latter is true… He wasn’t particularly fond of either scenario.

“I’ll find you.” Jiro repeated Delphi’s words back to himself. He had to believe that she would be true to her word.

He could feel the pressure of the air pushing him down, but the resolute mercenary pushed back, his ankles straining with every step. The clouds of red haze only thickened the closer he got to the castle. He did not know what it meant but Jiro could only draw one conclusion; if the Church had taken up arms, the Duche was in sure to be in danger.

Jiro heard no footsteps but still felt something following him. He checked over his shoulder but nothing behind him moved except for his own scarlet shadow. The gash on his arm was burning. When he glanced down at it his eyeballs throbbed, and a bolt of terror stabbed through his heart. Thin menacing tendrils of shadow had twisted up from the ground and swirled around his forearm, lapping up his blood and jabbing at his open wound. He swatted at them but they paid him no mind; his hand passed through them as if they were a mere illusion. They lingered at his elbow no matter how fast he ran.

Jiro’s breathing labored as his panic spiked. Another tentacle of shade rose before him, blocking his path. He balked, then slashed instinctively, but the shadowy wisp did no more than waver as the blade passed through it. One by one more tendrils spiked upward at him until he was completely surrounded by dancing shadows. Jiro whirled about with his sword straight out in front of him, looking for a way around, but he was blocked on all sides.

“Stay back,” Jiro panted, stumbling and waving his sword around madly. “What do you want from me?”

As if in reply, the tendrils stiffened, poised to strike. A chilling shriek pierced his eardrums. Jiro cringed and clamped his eyes shut, bracing himself for the inevitable. All that followed was silence. He forced himself to look after a moment, just in time to watch the phantom spikes writhe and shudder and return to the shadow from which they spawned.

“You should be more careful,” A calm voice like ripples on a still pond called from behind him. “Even for those who are properly attuned, myst this thick can be a dangerous thing. It can play tricks on the mind.”

Jiro whirled around and found a man standing there in a flowing cream-colored robe and bare feet wrapped in bandages. The symbols that ornamented the sleeves and seams were the same color as the wisp of his goatee and wavy windblown hair that fell to his shoulders; that same red that swallowed up everything in sight. His voice dripped with an exotic accent that had never fallen on Jiro’s ears before, but the man’s face seemed oddly familiar.

A fragment of nightmare returned to him once more. His father’s hair grew long and his eyes turned to blood, and suddenly, Jiro knew. The cogs meshed together in his mind, and as they spun the prophecy unfolded before him.

“By the time the bloodmoon rises in the sky tonight, everybody in this city will be dead,” Jiro looked the man dead in the eyes as he formed the phrase with a dry mouth. “Ring any bells?”

The robed foreigner opened his mouth but made no reply.

“Y-you were in my dream last night,” he stammered, clutching his sword to keep it from shaking. “The nightmare, the Church’s attack at the festival, and now… this. This is all your doing, isn’t it?”

“I would draw that same conclusion were I wearing your shoes, or any shoes at all for that matter,” The mystery man chuckled. “But in regard to the supposedly holy men of your city taking up arms against its citizens, I am afraid I know as little as you do.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Jiro spoke with cool confidence despite the rapid beating of his heart. “How is it that you’re not dead in the streets like everyone else?”

That only made the man laugh harder. “Funny, I could ask the same of you.”

“He’s been having dreams about you, Zukan. Isn’t that a little creepy?” A female’s voice seemed to resound from inside his own skull. Jiro snapped his head from side to side but could not find its source. His ears popped again without warning, and in a blinding flash the girl materialized next to the one she had called Zukan. She appeared to be younger than her companion by at least half, but her shimmering eyes like uncut emeralds spoke of a wisdom beyond age. Her short cropped hair was akin to a starry night’s sky, and her cloak flowed behind her like thick grey smoke.

Jiro staggered backward and fell on his a*s, his sword arm still extended. “W-who the hell are you people?”

“Now, now, Sayaka. There was no need to frighten the boy. He may still have some answers for us. If he had a premonition about the myst falling I would like to hear more about it.” The mystery man turned to face Jiro where he sat in the gravel, a hand extended. “I apologize if we have startled you, my partner can be lacking in tact at times. I know this may be a lot for you to take in right now, but I can assure you that we had nothing to do with this. The exact opposite, in fact. We are here to help.”

The point of Jiro’s sword did not waver. “You never answered my question. Both of them.”

“Of course, where are my manners?” The robed foreigner pressed his palms in front of his chest and dipped a polite bow. “I am called Zukan, and the girl is named Sayaka. She is my soul familiar… and I am a maege.”

“T-that’s a lie.” Jiro could not even force himself to believe it. “That’s impossible! The last maege died millennia ago.”

“Ah, in this land perhaps, but the illustrious empire of my ancestors extended much farther than you may think. True, the Unholy Wars caused the Eastern Maege Empire to fall, and the Afterfall era washed them from the history of Phaedyssia, but my people still thrive in their homeland far west of here, as they have for tens of thousands of years.” Zukan grinned. “I believe that adequately answers both of your questions, no?”

Jiro was stunned to speechlessness. He could not form the words to offer a rebuttal or any sort of reply at all.

“Well that settles it, he’s definitely not the one we’re looking for.” Sayaka quipped. “We don’t have time for this Zukan, we have to find the real summoner.”

“This will not take long,” Zukan assured her, then turned back to Jiro. “Now that your questions have been answered, I would be eternally in your debt if you would return to me the favor.” He gestured with a hand again. “I would like to know more about this dream of yours.”

“Fine,” Jiro conceded reluctantly, accepting Zukan’s offer to help him to his feet but never taking his hand from the hilt of his sword. How much should I even tell them? He had nothing to lose by telling them the truth. He said they were here to help… But what could they possibly hope to glean from the tale of his nightmare? He decided it would be wise to only disclose the pertinent.

“I’ve been having this recurring dream for as long as I can remember. Each time it ends exactly the same way… except for last night. When I saw my, um… I mean, the person I usually see in the dream, their face turned into, well… yours. Your eyes and mouth started dripping with blood, and then, you know. You told me about the bloodmoon and everybody dying thing.”

“Who was this person supposed to be?” Zukan inquired.

“Is it any of your damn business?”

“A thousand pardons. I did not intend to pry.” The foreigner raised his hands in submission. “Was anything else different about this dream of yours?”

Another fragment came to Jiro suddenly. “There was this ragdoll… twisted, ugly f*****g thing. It looked like a little demon in a scarf and a cloak, and it had this creepy scar in the middle of its face and a mouth full of jagged teeth… It came to life and tried to bite off my arm.” He looked down at where the creature had been latched in his dream but found only the shallow gash from his earlier battle; he had forgotten it was even there. “That’s about it,” he shrugged.

“So, you have seen the bloodkin.” Zukan stroked at the wisp of hair on his chin. “Fascinating. Ah, I forget my manners once more. I do not recall you name.”

“…Jiro,” he eyed them warily.

Zukan blinked in surprise. He murmured something incomprehensible, then asked, “and where is it that you hail from, Jiro?”

“The House Von’faer of Daphos, capital of Elowyr. As in the Holy Elowyr Empire, the most powerful and expansive kingdom in Phaedyssia. We’ve won a couple wars, you may have heard of us.” Jiro was growing irritated. “Is there a point to all of this?”

“I am just surprised to hear you say that.” Zukan replied. “Your soul is quite resilient for an easterner, and your hair… I could have easily mistaken you for one of mine own kin.”

“Maege name, maege hair, maegeblood. Looks like we weren’t wrong,” Sayaka said impatiently. “But unless he’s chanting incantations from a shadowtome, he’s not our target.”

 “Shadowtome?” Suddenly, Jiro was paying attention. A thought occurred to him suddenly, and it hit him like a punch in the gut. “Magyk has been dead for thousands of years, you can read the spells as much as you want but they won’t actually work…”

“Look at the moon, Jiro.” Zukan gestured upward; the crimson orb still shone brightly against the blood-colored sky. “She does not change her color simply because she grows bored of wearing white. If you truly believe that magyk is dead and the maege are gone, the bloodmoon is all the evidence you need to prove otherwise.” The foreigner chuckled knowingly. “The krima you mine and burn for fuel is more than just a mineral; krima is life itself. Krima is magyk. It is in the earth, in the air, in your soul, everywhere you could possibly imagine.

“Krima in the atmosphere, that is, in its natural form, is called myst, and if it becomes dense enough it will form a cloud. When that cloud of myst passes in front of the moon, it turns red. All of this knowledge was lost to Phaedyssia when the last of the maege were vanquished in the Afterfall era, but the tradition of the bloodmoon festival seems to have outlived them. Magyk has not died, only taken another form. It is simply a matter of knowing which source to tap into, and a shadowtome can be a dangerous source indeed.

“Whether you believe all of this or not is up to you, but somebody in this city is using magyk; powerful magyk. The kind of magyk that could only be found in a shadowtome, and the spell has summoned something more foul than you could possibly imagine.”

Jiro gulped hard. “You mean… a zuul?”

“Something akin to that, yes,” Zukan almost looked impressed. “If there is one thing you can believe to be dead, it would be the zuul, but their essence still lingers. I have heard this phrase more than once in your lands, what was it now… if you wish to kill a snake…”

“Cut off its head?” Sayaka finished for him.

“Ah, yes, thank you. Well, whomever coined the phrase obviously failed to take into account all the other snakes that may have been spawned before the proverbial beheading. Spawn though a bloodkin may be, they are no less fearsome and certainly no less dangerous.”

Jiro felt as if his brain was about to split in half; thinking objectively was not as easy as Delphi made it seem. If I put aside my own skepticisms it all makes sense… He took a deep breath. “If everything you’ve told me just now is true, I think I can help after all. I know where to find a shadowtome… and the one who’s been reading it.”

This time, it was the maege’s turn to play the skeptic. “And you did nothing to stop this from happening?”

“I didn’t think the spells would actually work!” Jiro didn’t know why he felt the need to defend himself to these people. “All books of that nature are forbidden in most parts of Phaedyssia, but it always thought it was for political reasons, not because… I’ve gone my entire life thinking that magyk was dead and never to return.”

“Well, magyk is back.” Sayaka the girl suddenly dropped into her own shadow and emerged as a small hound wearing a coat of soot. “Kind of worldview-shattering and all, I know, but we need to stop this spell before everybody in the city actually does die.”

“R-right,” Jiro straightened his spine. “It’s in New Hope Keep, the castle. The gates will be barred but I know a way around.” He procured an ornate bronze key from the chain around his neck, hidden by his scarf. “Follow me.”

“See, Zukan? I knew the source was coming from the castle.” Jiro heard Sayaka bark as they beat a hasty path for the palace. “We could have avoided this detour entirely.”

“You heard the man, the gates will be shut. We would have needed his assistance getting in anyway,” Zukan replied. “Besides, sometimes it is best to have ally during troubled times.”

The gates were closed tightly, as Jiro had predicted, when they approached the towering walls of New Hope Keep; at their highest point they were nearly as tall as the stone walls that surrounded Lissium herself. The maege and his phantom canine companion went up to inspect it anyway.

“So, you’re a maege, right? What the hell do you need a back entrance for?” Jiro asked mockingly. “Couldn’t you just pick the lock and lift the bar from behind with your mind powers? I bet you could even levitate yourself right up and over that wall. The gate’s only wood, why not just blow it up, or better yet just bring down the whole damn castle!”

Zukan laughed heartily. “Why, Jiro, I am beginning to believe you are as lacking in tact as my partner here. I entered this city as a ghost and I have every intention of leaving that way.”

Jiro guided them around the base of the wall and down a staircase roped off by heavy chains. The heavily fortified door at the bottom answered to his key, and with that they were deep inside the catacombs beneath New Hope Keep. It was dark and damp; what little light the moon gave off was swallowed up by shadow only a few steps inside the doorway, and the flames of the sconces on the pillars had long been snuffed out.

Zukan snatched the wooden torch from one and held it to the black dog’s snout. “Sayaka, a light please.” The phantom hound belched up a green fireball and the oil-drenched tip ignited instantly. Jiro tried not to let the eerie jade shadows it cast unnerve him. At least we can see now.

The tunnels weaved around like a maze, but Jiro knew the way. Once or twice they spotted a column of copper pipes jutting up from the floor to the ceiling, like metal stalagmites. Zukan rapped a knuckle against one and listened to its hollow echo.

“How can you truly say that magyk is dead when your city is fueled by the very stuff of it?” The maege mused. “Who was it that decided one way of using myst was any less magyk than another? You can burn it, drink it, channel it, whatever you like. But magyk is magyk.”

Jiro just kept walking and said nothing; after all, he really had nothing left to say. It was only a few more corridors and a series of spiral staircases until they emerged in the brightly-lit foyer, but not even the inside of the palace was exempt from the reddening effects of the heavy clouds of myst.

Zukan snuffed out his torch and cast it aside before entering the enormous hall, and Sayaka transformed into a bird and perched on her master’s shoulder. Jiro still wasn’t used to her impulsive form shifting, but at least she had the courtesy not to track muddy dog prints on the polished marble floor.

“If the tome is anywhere, it will be in the booktower.” Jiro informed them, guiding them toward the south bridge.

“And whom should we expect to find reading from it, another red-haired boy who doesn’t believe in magyk?” Zukan inquired.

“He is just a boy...” Jiro lamented. “But his hair is golden, and he certainly believes in magyk.” He had never really thought about it until now, but up until this point Jiro couldn’t recall ever meeting another person who shared his hair color.

Zukan tensed behind him and stopped short. “We are not alone,” he muttered. “There is somebody standing at the end of the bridge.”

The trio continued along cautiously. The heavy red smog still obscured his vision, but Jiro began to make out the faint outline of a body as they neared the tower. If it had noticed them, it gave no sign. It’s guarding the door to the booktower, Jiro noticed, but even as the bridge ended and the tower began, the featureless silhouette made no movement. Zukan went ahead to inspect, but Jiro was finally at a distance where figure became a man. He was clad in leather armor with one hand resting on his sword’s hilt. His body was rigid but his gaze was turned to the floor. A familiar looking broach was pinned at his lapel. He almost looks like…

“Hold on,” Jiro approached the man. “Syr Corwyn?”

The Duche’s second-in-command lurched his head up, but made no move beyond that. His pupil and iris had faded into the whites of his eyes, and his face gave no hint of expression. Now Jiro knew for sure that Orville was in the booktower.

“Gerod, I knew that was you. Listen we…” Jiro trailed off. Not once had Syr Corwyn’s face offered even a twitch. He waved a hand in front of his eyes. Nothing. “Why isn’t he moving?”

“I have a better question,” Zukan bristled. “Why is he still awake?”

A hand lashed out to grab Jiro by the wrist. Gerod Corwyn had a stronger grip than he remembered, and with his other hand he was drawing his sword. Jiro raised his own steel with his free arm to block a slash from above, but the captain of the castle guard kept the other in a vice. Jiro batted away the knight’s blade and hacked at his wrist; he was free but the disembodied hand remained, clutching his forearm. If anything it only squeezed tighter.

Syr Corwyn reacted as if he had barely felt anything and resumed his forward assault. The onslaught was aggressive and relentless, but it was not the kind of fighting strategy Syr Corwyn normally employed. It wasn’t long before Jiro found an opening. In a blink the one-handed knight was disarmed with Jiro’s blade in his belly up to the hilt, but even that could not put the battle to an end. Syr Corwyn grabbed at Jiro’s tunic and gnashed his teeth viciously, ignoring the full foot of steel jutting out of his spine. Jiro gave his foe a swift headbutt and kicked the zombified knight off his blade.

“It is as I feared,” Zukan spoke up. “Allow me.” The maege strode casually over to where the man had fallen. He was scrambling to his feet but Zukan forced him back down to the ground. He pressed a palm to the man’s forehead, mumbled something under his breath, and with that all of the life went out of Syr Corwyn. He collapsed to the ground with a sickening thud. The disembodied hand unclenched from Jiro’s wrist and fell loose.

Zukan stepped over the fresh corpse and swung open the door to the booktower. “Shall we?”

Jiro was still in shock. “What the hell did you do to him?”

“I did only what was necessary,” the maege replied coolly. Sayaka ruffled her feathers on his shoulder. “The man you may have known was no longer residing in that body. Whatever foul magyk is in the air tonight took over and warped his soul to a point beyond recognition. Need I continue?”

Jiro offered only a weak nod in silent response, inching his way around Syr Corwyn’s body and into the open doorway. The booktower stood only a short flight of stair above them, but he was almost afraid of what they would find within.

Zukan led the way. Jiro’s ears rang as they ascended, popping with each step. The higher they rose, the more the pressure of the air beat down on him, and the more the knot in his stomach twisted.

When at last they reached the final door to the booktower, Jiro nearly choked on his own tongue. The very same menacing tendrils that had threatened him earlier were surging out from under the doorjamb. They licked up at the wood and stone like flames made of shadow.

“There is nothing to fear but fear itself,” Zukan reassured him by placing a hand on his shoulder. “And fear is more powerful than any magyk in any shadowtome.”

And words are only words, Jiro wanted to say. “Open the door.”

Zukan did as he was bid. He only needed to unhook the latch and the myst took care of the rest. It swung open violently and nearly fell off of its hinges when it slammed against the thick stone wall. The thick red cloud of myst swelled and burst through the open doorway, rushing at them like a torrent of water. Jiro felt like he was drowning in air.

The pressure of the air increased again, more intense than any of the others before it, but this time his ears did not pop. It reminded Jiro of the initial drop after taking a hit of lyserg, but instead of exotic colors and fantastical shapes he saw only a blinding shroud of red.

Jiro found that he could breathe again; the open door had acted as a vent and the myst was settling. As features became more clear the endless shelves of the booktower came into view, but the phantasmal black tendrils were no less abundant. They radiated outward, lapping at his boots, the walls, the shelves, even the books; not a single surface in the tall tower was free from the scourge of the shadowy tentacles.

And there in the center of it all sat the Seventh Duche.

His back was turned, legs folded beneath him and his hands resting in his lap. On the floor in front of the boy lay the open shadowtome, its pages teeming with wavering wisps of black flame. Letters and symbols seemed to dance off of the parchment, dissolving in the air.

“Orville…” Jiro called timidly, taking a feeble step forward.

The lordling turned around slowly. His eyes were glazed over like Syr Corwyn’s. “Jiro?” He wheezed, promptly slumping over and falling to the ground like a ragdoll.

At that moment, Jiro wanted to give in to every emotion that clawed at his insides. He would have ran to the boy, but a bird’s shrill squawk startled him back to his senses.

“Look,” Zukan called. “Up in the rafters!”

Jiro lifted his gaze upward and was met with another fragment from his nightmare come to life; the ugly doll that had gnawed at his arm now stood atop a beam above his loft. The resemblance was uncanny, but this one’s scar was more jagged, its smile more sinister, and its gaze more piercing. Instead of buttons, its eyes were two black voids. The creature glowered down at them with a fierce bloodlust in its chilling stare, and suddenly Jiro was filled with a dread deeper than any he had ever felt.

“Son of a b***h!” Sayaka cursed, taking a new form as a slender blade in Zukan’s hand.

“The arrogant b*****d has been waiting for us,” the maege licked his lips. “Jiro, hold back.”

He did not need to be told.

The bloodkin became a blur as it leapt three stories down from the rafters, its scarf and cloak streaming behind. Zukan rushed to meet it in the air, slashing his blade downward hand over hand, but the agile creature whirled away from the edge and landed gracefully on the tile floor. Zukan dodged as it bounded upward and barreled at him headlong, missing his face by mere inches. It readjusted itself in the air and shot back around at him, this time meeting Zukan’s blade. The little demon zipped in and out of the air like a caged bird; it had no arms to speak of, but its ethereal feet were free to take whatever form they pleased. In this instance they chose to become fearsome black scythes that berated Zukan’s shadowy sword. The maege dodged once more when the creature came back around again, and it perched itself on a high shelf, poising for another cannonball.

“We cannot let the bloodkin get near the boy’s body,” Zukan warned Sayaka. “It is merely toying with us right now, but if we do not make an end soon, it will grow bored with us. The bloodkin needs the vessel in order to reach the peak of its power. Once the possession takes place, we are all done for.”

“Can’t you just, you know, kill it?” Jiro blurted. “I mean, for f**k’s sake, you’re a f*****g maege aren’t you?”

“Few spells are potent enough to outright kill a bloodkin, especially one this powerful. There is an incantation I can conjure to seal it away, but I cannot focus on preparing the seal while fending off the bloodkin.”

“How much time do you need?” Sayaka asked.

“Just a few minutes.”

“Let me do it.” The blade leapt from Zukan’s hand and took the form of a girl again. “If the warrior can’t wield the weapon, let the weapon wield itself.”

“Sayaka, it is too dangerous.” Zukan shook his head. “You may have the ability to take a human form but your body is still nothing but myst; bloodkin fodder. And have you forgotten that our souls are bound as one? If anything happens to you out there…”

“I won’t let anything happen,” Sayaka said confidently. “We may have never faced a bloodkin before, at least not together, but I can at least hold it off for a while. You’ve trained your weapon well. It may be fast but I’m faster. You know that, Zukan.”

Zukan looked forlorn but nodded his head in approval all the same. “Use the big sword.”

And use the big sword she did. Shadows twisted in her hand and an imposing greatsword took shape. As if on cue the bloodkin took flight once more, and Sayaka rushed to meet it. The blade was nearly twice her size but she wielded it with skill, blocking with the fuller and slashing with the edge. Jiro could do little more than look on in awe as the shape shifting girl took on the little demon.

The maege had taken a cross-legged position on the floor; a large glowing ring had taken form around him, and a smattering of bizarre symbols had already taken their place. Zukan’s eyes were closed, and scarlet runes danced across his skin as he mumbled incomprehensively and weaved his fingers around to form  complicated hand gestures.

When all eight symbols were illuminated inside the edge of the ring, another smaller circle formed inside of them. Zukan stood, stepping out of the ring, and began to wave his hand around in the air as if he was painting on an invisible canvas. More intricate runes appeared inside the circle; the maege seemed to be tracing them himself.

Jiro cleared his throat. “What is that thing?” He inquired of the maege. He did not want to break the man’s concentration earlier, but he was no longer chanting the strange incantations. “The demon creature… you called it a bloodkin?”

Zukan snorted a sigh through his nostrils, never taking his eyes from the forming seal. “When your people use your form of magyk, the krima is burned and becomes nothing but smoke, gone forever. In contrast, when a maege uses magyk, the myst is channeled through their soul and released back into the atmosphere. However, when a zuul uses magyk… the myst returns to the atmosphere, but not in the same form. It is still myst, to be sure, but it is tainted. It unbalances magkys, it can drive a man to madness, and sometimes it can even give birth to beings most foul.” The maege looked up for a moment, catching a glimpse of the scuffle in the center of the room. “That is a bloodkin, Jiro; a constant reminder of the of the scourge of the zuul eons past. They are foul, bloodthirsty little creatures, always on the prowl for their next meal. They are drawn to large concentrations of myst, because they know that is where the tastiest souls will be.”

“So it hunted down Orville because he was using magyk?”

“Indeed, but now that we have arrived, why would it stop there? Without a doubt, the bloodkin will devour the boy’s soul, but not until it no longer has a use for him. The boy’s soul will be wide open and vulnerable, so it will not be difficult for the bloodkin to enter. When the bloodkin and its vessel are one, it will be able to draw in the vast volumes of myst in the city and harness the mighty power of its ancestors. If that happens, all of our souls will be forfeit.” Zukan shrugged. “It will probably save mine for last. I have heard from multiple sources that maege souls are rather palatable.”

Jiro shuddered at the thought. His attention returned to the battle when he heard Sayaka’s gasp. The bloodkin had been laying into her heavily, now rearing for a final blow. Sayaka blocked, but not fast enough. The little demon slammed into the ethereal blade with such force that it lifted the girl off of her feet and spiraling through the air. The greatsword dissipated as she crashed to the ground, inches from Zukan’s magyk circle.

“Sayaka, are you hurt?” Zukan called.

“Yeah, just my pride.” Sayaka leapt to her feet and brushed off her backside. “Almost done?”

“The seal will be complete soon, just a few more moments.”

“I have half a mind to take this little f****r down myself.” The girl turned up a hand and clenched her fingers. Particles of myst bubbled and twisted around her palm until a gyrating orb of dark green flame took shape. “Let’s see how this tastes.”

The bloodkin had not moved from where it had landed at the center of the room, scarf wavering and cloak billowing; even motionless it was no less menacing. The creature was waiting patiently for Sayaka to make a move, so she obliged.

Zukan bristled. “Sayaka, no! Not that magyk! Not with this myst,” he screamed.

Sayaka rushed forward, blazing arm outstretched in front of her. The bloodkin mimicked and took to the air, turning down into a headlong nosedive instead of falling feet first. When they made impact, the little demon opened its jagged maw and swallowed her arm up to the elbow, green flames and all. The creature twitched, bubbled and swelled, ballooning up in an instant. Still latched firmly to the girl’s forearm, it began to glow bright like the sun.

“Sayaka!” Zukan cried, exasperated. He abandoned his seal and ran to his companion to be engulfed by the blinding light.

“Oh, s**t,” were the last words out of Sayaka’s mouth.

The air condensed, then exploded violently. Jiro shielded his eyes with an arm, but the force knocked him to the ground. Books fell off their shelves and burst into a flurry of papers, bits of the ceiling cracked and clattered to the floor, bricks rattled against the mortar; Jiro feared the whole tower was going to collapse on top of them.

Dust and debris still swirled around as the quaking ceased. The once brilliantly glowing ring next to him was now a steaming cluster of unfinished charcoal runes, and Zukan’s unmoving body lay spread-eagled a few paces ahead. All color had been drained from him; even his hair had faded to a shade of ghastly white. The Seventh Duche had yet to stir, and the girl was nowhere to be seen.

But the bloodkin was standing at his feet.

Jiro felt his entire body tense. The little demon hopped up and hovered closer. The clawlike tassels of its scarf sent a chill down Jiro’s spine as they dangled over his chest. The bloodkin’s stare cut into him, as if peering into his soul. Jiro could have sworn he glimpsed the depths of hell in its eyes.

Suddenly uninterested, the bloodkin spiraled into the air and floated to the center of the room, landing on Orville’s unconscious body. Jiro felt his heart rise to the top of his throat. He struggled to a knee, but was stopped by his own fear. He knew what would happen next. But what can I possibly do to stop it?

The bloodkin became shadow and sank into Orville’s body like living sludge. A series of crimson runes danced across the his skin, from his forehead down to his fingertips. He stirred and eyes flitted open, now glowing red. The boy stood to his feet in the most inhuman fashion; all of his body rose at once, as if his limbs were attached to the strings of an ethereal puppeteer. He stretched out his arms and his body levitated, hovering mere inches from the ground, and a blood-curdling screech erupted from his throat.

The air around them pulsated and churned. The lingering red cloud of myst swirled around Orville, twisting into a vortex as it was absorbed into his body. Zephyrs and gales howled as they rushed into the room through any opening they could find, delivering myst to its devourer.

The sharp winds cut through Jiro’s body; he could feel the myst biting at his soul as it passed through him. He clamped his eyelids shut and gritted his teeth, but found that he could still see; through eyes he had never opened before. Am I looking at… myself? His ears popped. A fountain of blood spurt forth from the top of his head, and he watched as his skin peeled away. Layer by layer, vein, muscle, organ and bone all fell away until only his soul remained. He dove into it and found he was looking at himself once more, floating naked in the white abyss of limbo. A silent crack split the empty sky, and red myst bust in as the pieces fell away. It gushed forth like blood, flooding the entirety of Jiro’s soul within moments. He struggled and gasped for breath as he drowned in the foul ooze, but then he became still, peaceful. Runes flickered down his face, neck, shoulder and arm, swirling into the open wound at his elbow. The shadowy tendrils of blackened flame licked at his skin, but this time he did not feel pain. He felt only power.

When Jiro opened his eyes again all fear had fled from him. He stood straight and flexed his arm. His skin tingled as the runes danced across it, and myst fizzled and popped at his fingertips.

Jiro took one final breath and let the myst take control.