Fallen Ambitions

by Vann, Eric J.

  It struck the barrier with a deafening boom and an unending glassy shriek emanated from the point of impact as the beam continued its assault.

  But Aziel stared at it in awe. Somehow, Helena was stopping it.

  His mother grunted, the strain apparent in her expression as her feet began to sink into the earth. She kept her trembling hands held high as growing streams of golden mist flowed out of her fingers to reinforce the barrier.

  “Impressive,” said the Archivist, his calm voice cutting through the violent scene. “And yet, still not enough.”

  Aziel watched the black masked figure moved closer, his right hand extended to one side as a brilliant blue blade made of pure energy formed within his grip.

  Aziel held his own blade up. He knew deep down that he could not do anything to help, and yet his body moved of its own accord. He had to stop this man. Aziel charged, his speed closing the distance between them in moments, and lashed out at the Archivist—but his blade went through the man as if he were a mirage. Aziel was helpless, just an observer of events long past. How cruel to make him witness his mother’s struggle, only to watch her perish in the end.

  Helena fell to one knee, her barrier beginning to crack under the weight and pressure of the immense power attempting to flatten her. But Aziel saw something there—something which caused the Archivist to suddenly halt his advance.

  His mother was smiling. Under the glare of the beam and in the face of her imminent death, she was smiling. Her spear, which had been unleashing a constant flow of gray mist, suddenly exploded, and a dense ball of soul mana was funneled into her barrier. Aziel watched as the cracks along its surface reformed and with his mother’s strength pushing against it, the whole thing began to tilt forward.

  Helena screamed, unable to maintain what must have been a strain unlike anything Aziel could imagine. His jaw dropped when the immense energy within that beam—that red beam of light which promised death to all it struck—began to shift inch by inch, before being deflected in its entirety.

  Its new target didn’t have a chance to react. The beam struck with its full force, and the ground beneath the Archivist cracked and parted—then exploded as if a volcano had just erupted from its depths.

  Ash, fire and dust filled the air.

  Aziel reflexively shielded his eyes, hearing his mother’s scream and the clang of metal striking metal, but when he opened his eyes once more, he found himself back in the dark vaulted tunnel of the Underdark.

  His blade was held in front of him, ready to strike, his conjured Soul Wisps hovering above his head. To his confusion, the stairs to Soul’s Rest were just behind him. It was as if he had not taken a single step since descending them.

  Aziel glanced wildly around the tunnel. What had happened? The images he had seen were too vivid to be merely a product of his imagination. And yet…

  In the silence, he lowered his blade, its tip clanging against the rock floor. Was his mother truly dead? If she wasn’t, then wouldn’t she be here, with him? Aziel had not let himself think about it before now. Perhaps he did not want to know the answer.

  He glanced down, his eyes finding the diamond-shaped mark of the World Seed on his wrist. If that masked man was the Archivist, then he wanted Aziel dead. But it was the Archivist who had saved Aziel in the white room. Why would he inflict so much death just to find him, only to save his life when Aziel was at his mercy? Not only that, it was the Archivist who had given him access to his log and the faction he now worked so hard to strengthen.

  Aziel squeezed his eyes shut. There were too many unanswered questions; so much was shrouded in the past.

  But there might be one way to find out. The ancient races—they held the key to his memories and secrets hidden within them.

  Taking one last long look around the tunnel, he turned to face the stairs, which was when he felt it once more. That itch in the back of his mind. Aziel shuddered and his muscles tensed. A voice, a whisper, sounded in his head.

  “You peer into my dreams,” it said in a breathy, faint tone. Aziel screamed in pain and fell to his knees, the words searing themselves into his mind like a hot iron against skin.

  “You… I know you… you return, bound…” the whisper continued. “Bound and weak.” Its voice rose in strength as rage colored its words. “Enslaved, yet not imprisoned.”

  Aziel fell to the ground thrashing, his vision turning white.

  “Freedom is his name, yet beholden to masters unknown. The brightest of the light serves with the peoples of the stars. For so long, I waited!”

  Aziel couldn’t think; he was at this voice’s mercy, and he felt a hot wetness on his cheeks and chin. But then, another, more familiar voice broke through the wreck of his mind.

  “Grove Master!” it called.

  Aziel heart sank, his skin prickling as he sensed the vessel of his most recent follower sprint down the stairs. Fighting through the pain and using all the strength he could muster, Aziel pushed himself onto his knees and cried out, desperation overwhelming him, “Niyela, stay back!”

  It was too late.

  As soon as her name left his lips, he heard her screams of torment, followed by cracks and thuds as she tumbled down the spiral stairs. Aziel screamed once more, his frustrations exploding out of him. “Leave her!” he bellowed, and his mana erupted from within. Still blind, Aziel tracked Niyela’s vessel through his senses instead—only a vague approximation, in his current state, but there was no time, not if he wished to save her.

  He directed his power first into surrounding her with a Soul Screen, trusting he had not misjudged her location. He then formed the rest of his mana into thick tendrils and thrashed at everything around him, hoping he would hit something, anything to make the voice stop. He needed this thing to release him. The cracking and shattering of stones came from all directions.

  But the voice—which he now realized was the same voice that had come from the crown—didn’t care for his struggles or his concerns. Instead, the presence grew stronger and Aziel whimpered at the pressure it was inflicting upon him. It was too much.

  “Pawn of pawns. Have you no shame at such weakness?” the voice whispered, calmer now, but that did not reassure Aziel. Something hot pressed into his wrist where his mark was.

  For a moment, nothing happened, but then the voice let out a long breath and pain radiated from his wrist. The sensation was almost as if his blood was boiling. The wave of excruciating pain climbed his arm, and gray notification runes formed before him, but they were random and jumbled to read. They made no sense at all.

  “Please…” Aziel was able to cough out. “No more…”

  “Wiped of the past, and a future decided…” the whisper went on, ignoring his pleading. The searing pain accompanying its words caused him to cry out as he writhed on the ground. Aziel could sense rage, frustration, even resentment, but he knew it was not his own.

  “A chosen Sovereign, infused by the Nexus’s power—my power—yet so fragile as to be damaged by my simple words. You are not ready to carry the burdens of thy crown, not until you are free…”

  The pain from his wrist retreated so suddenly that Aziel wondered if he had been imagining it in his madness.

  Then his head exploded in pain once more as the voice continued to speak. “Play their little games of power and control. Mingle with the native and planted races who interest you so. Gather your strength and lay claim to what is yours by blood and soul—if not by love, then by fear. Make them quiver, and the betrayer proud, as they watch your rise from their seats among the stars. Seek the aid of my Herald and the most loyal of your servants.” The voice was rising again, gaining a momentum that threatened to split him open. “When they come to end your reign once more, seek your destiny and become the terror which fills their dreams. Join with me and take your place among the Lords of Realms!”

  It let out a long breath.

  “For now, the Sovereign’s Throne remains dormant.”

  With what little c
ontrol he still had over himself, Aziel gathered himself to cry out, “W—what are you?”

  The presence retreated, its grip on his mind dissipating before disappearing entirely.

  Aziel lay there, his body throbbing, his mind numb. “Niy—” he coughed, now tasting the blood which coated his mouth. “Niyela?” His voice was barely audible. The Soul Screen he had weaved around her was gone—he could not have hoped to maintain it under such assault. He had no idea of her current state, but… there! Her vessel still pulsed weakly.

  She was alive.

  He used his elbows to crawl painfully across the rock to where he sensed her lifeforce. Every movement was met with protest, his body shuddering and weak. He heard shuffling before a pair of hands grabbed him and pushed him onto his back, the sudden force causing him to grunt.

  “Grove Master, y—yes it’s me!” Niyela wept, her tone frantic. There was a pause as Aziel felt her prod his body. “Can… can you open your eyes?” she said, her voice now soft, subdued.

  Aziel forced his eyes open, but all he could see was red.

  “It’s going to be fine…” Niyela was saying. “I won’t lose you so soon, I won’t allow it…” Aziel felt her soft hands on his face, her thumbs moving in a circular pattern as she began to massage the space just beneath his eyes. Her touch was warm and mana infused, and came with a much-needed sense of calm.

  Aziel relaxed into her care. He did not know how long they stayed this way, but slowly, his vision began to clear. It was like a veil being gently pulled away, to reveal Niyela, her brown eyes looking down at him, her smile gentle yet strained.

  “Welcome back, Grove Master,” she said between heavy breaths. Aziel noticed the slight tremble in her hands as she held him. The sweat which dripped from her forehead. The small streaks of blood coming from her nose and mouth.

  The Dryad finally let go of him, before losing her balance and sitting down heavily beside him. Aziel raised himself onto his elbows and gazed dazedly around, unable to understand what he was seeing.

  He was in a pool of blood—so much of it. His hands, clothes, and face were drenched. It was as if he had bathed in the stuff.

  He glanced at Niyela, who was using her arms to help keep herself upright as she struggled to catch her breath. Even without trying, Aziel could tell her vessel was drained of mana.

  “You healed me?” he asked as he pushed off the ground to get back on his feet.

  “I tried…” she said, between deep gulps of air. “I felt your suffering, so I went looking for you.” She collapsed backward, still struggling to breathe. “When I found you, you were already on the floor…. Blood was everywhere, it flowed out of you like a river… There was this loud noise and I couldn’t think, it was so strong.”

  From the quantity of blood on the ground, there was no doubt in his mind. He should be dead, or very close to it. Niyela’s intervention had saved him. No—more than that. She had completely healed his wounds. He was physically fine, but given how little mana she had remaining, any more healing would have pushed her vessel to breaking point and killed her in the process—or her incarnate form, at least.

  Aziel took a step toward her, his boots splashing through the bloody ground. He leaned down and reached under the shaking Dryad before scooping her up to cradle her against his chest. She didn’t react or try to hang on. She was barely able to keep her eyes open. Aziel didn’t waste a moment more: he sprinted up the stairs and back into Soul’s Rest.

  * * *

  Niyela was unconscious by the time he reached the crystal chamber and placed her on his seat. Not a moment after he had done so, she melded into the branches, becoming one with her tree once more.

  Aziel shuddered as he surveyed his blood-soaked armor and coat, as well as the trail of bloody footsteps he had left in his wake. What had just happened? Several Grauda males had followed him into the chamber, their weapons at the ready, clearly concerned by his state.

  “I’m fine,” he told him. The Grauda looked at one another, then at the one female behind them. She didn’t seem convinced.

  Aziel closed his eyes and used his Nature Sense to rebuild the mental map of his surroundings. That void below was still there, but this time he did not attempt to interact with it. Whatever that voice represented, it was far too dangerous and powerful. He had learned that lesson now.

  Opening his eyes, he glanced up at Niyela’s tree. It would take some time, but with the help of the Capital Crystals, he had no doubt she would fully recover.

  Ignoring the Grauda, who were still watching him in silent concern, Aziel strode from the chamber. He couldn’t gather his thoughts into any coherent order. First, an all-controlling force in the skies—and now a being whose voice alone could make him bleed and beg for mercy. It was all too much. The truth was, he didn’t know where to even start unravelling this puzzle.

  Aziel stepped onto the levitation platform and paused just before touching the stone which activated it. His hands were shaking. He forced his fingers into tight fists before slowly releasing them. The shaking stopped, but the underlying fear remained. That thing, the voice, it had sounded like it knew him. And if that interaction in the underground throne room had all actually occurred, then the voice did.

  How was he supposed to absorb all of this? Not only was he a product of some unknown power, but he was also the result of a bargain between his mother and—well, he didn’t know how to describe what his father was. A spirit? A force of nature?

  “Sovereign’s Throne,” he muttered to himself, as he turned his palm face up. Both his personal and faction marks were now surrounded by a faded bruise in the shape of an eye, reminding him of that underground crown. There was no pain, but the fact that the bruising remained even after Niyela’s intensive healing said something about its source.

  He had never heard mention of a Sovereign or its Throne, and yet… there was something there. A familiarity… a longing even. Aziel dropped his hand.

  The voice had also said something about a seat in the stars. Perhaps it meant those giant mountain-sized constructions he had seen when he was taken by the World Seed. But who exactly were they? He was only aware of the Overseers and the Archivist. But now that he remembered that white room, both experiences had something in common.

  They had both referred to something called a Nexus.

  Aziel felt suddenly drained. He knew too little to make any sense of it. And as much as he wanted answers, they would have to wait. He needed to focus on more practical matters now.

  First he would bathe, and wash his blood from his suit. Then he would pay Vhal’s study a visit to check what the lich might have decrypted from the nature grimoire. When that was done, he would continue with his original plan: the Arachne had to be pacified, and the Sister Groves integrated.

  Once these tasks were completed, he would meet the Ogre’i with the full force of the Fallen behind him. And the ancient race would tell him all he needed to know.

  Aziel had planned to wait for Celia’s return, and send her and Astrel to deal with the Arachne. But now, thanks to Niyela’s significant contribution, he could easily move around the Central Wilds. And with threats of such magnitude intruding, there was no more room for hesitation.

  No, he thought, activating the stone pillar and bracing himself as the platform began to rise. He would not wait any longer. He would deal with these threats personally.

  Chapter 11

  “That’s Fes,” Issac announced, pointing.

  Two days after the Wervins’ defeat at Git, Celia and Issac, accompanied by a full division of one hundred Grauda, had begun their journey to the largest human settlement in the Central Wilds. Vhal had elected to stay behind to coordinate the scouting efforts and locate the Wervin lair. They had encountered few people on the way: a scattering of human shepherds tending to their flocks on the wide-open land, and what appeared to be groups of refugees seeking shelter.

  Raising a hand to block out the sun, Celia followed Issac’s finger. Even at
this distance, it was easy to tell that the settlement on the hilltop was considerably larger than the small village of Git. Celia estimated it was perhaps twice the size of Whiteridge, in fact. More importantly, Fes was also surrounded by a well-built wooden palisade— but what caught her attention was the sprawling refugee camp stretching outward from the perimeter of the town, dwarfing it in size.

  Celia’s gaze drifted, following the many plumes of smoke rising from behind the walls of the distant town. “Is it burning?” she asked.

  Issac chuckled. “No, of course not. While most other villages, like my own, are focused on farming, Fes is more… industrious, as they say. The smoke is coming from the metalwork forges. It’s quite difficult to breathe on those streets. We had to get our tools from somewhere.”

  “And that somewhere is Fes,” Celia concluded, as she lowered her hand. Whilst she had visited some of the smaller villages in these parts before she had to venture deeper into the Wilds to hide, Fes was not one of them. Even if she had passed by it, she would not have entered. The town was far too large, and large towns usually had guards with well-developed Inspection skills.

  She had just started forward, the Grauda column following closely behind, when Issac called out, “Celia!”

  She paused as the older man hurried to her side. “Maybe you should let me go on ahead. You know, to tell the others of your arrival and make proper introductions? It might avoid…” He eyed the Grauda. “Misunderstandings.”

  Celia crossed her arms firmly. “You think they would attack us?”

  “I don’t know,” Issac said, straightening. “But these are dangerous times, and danger makes people do foolish things. I would rather not risk it.”

  Celia admired the confidence he was trying to project in order to protect what he considered to be his people. But even with his back straightened, he was still a head and a half shorter than herself. “You have until sunrise tomorrow, Issac,” she said. “I do not wish to stay here long, so make sure they prepare a place to call this meeting. There is a larger mission I need to complete.”