(68) Actor
“Ahh!” a man screeched, charging the doorway with a carpenter’s hammer raised above his head. Spittle flew as he charged, veins in his neck bulging in time with his footsteps.
“Uhh!” he grunted, suddenly falling to his knees.
He looked up, saliva running down the corners of his mouth, and beheld the visage of cosmic indifference gazing through pale eyes.
“This inn is neutral ground—a safe space. Leave,” the woman commanded.
The man’s limbs suddenly loosened, and he collapsed to the ground, as if the invisible serpent that had been constricting him let go. He scrambled to his feet, his senses temporarily returned, and picked his hammer up, staring at it for several long seconds.
Eventually, he looked up, meeting the woman’s eyes once again before turning around and wandering off, wiping the drool from his chin and glancing around in confusion.
“So, as you can see, I really cannot recommend your intervention at this stage,” Nephthys declared, motioning vaguely out into the city.
“I hear you, Nephthys, but how can I simply stand by and watch this…this chaos?” Bernard asked, his jaw clenched tightly.
“I feel the same, Bernard, believe me, but your forces will only serve to escalate. This situation is half-riot-half-rebellion. The rebellion portion, maybe you could reason with. The rioters? They need a delicate hand, not soldiers prodding them with spears,” she explained.
“Does that mean you are volunteering for the job?” Bernard asked, his eyebrows raised.
Nephthys turned to look him in the eyes.
“I asked you here for two reasons, Barnard: first, the owners of this inn have been good to me. If you would protect them while I am away calming the rioters, you would have my gratitude.
“Second, I wish for the people of this city to see you. I wish for them to witness you maintaining this safe space, protecting them. They will become accustomed to your presence, and they will respect you not as a ruler, but as a force for order and benevolence,” she explained, turning back around to stare out at the city, whose sky was so black that night appeared to have fallen.
“I see only two ways this can end: either the count crushes the rebels and grips this city with iron, or the rebels slay the count and spend the next several days restoring order. In either case, your soldiers showing up at the gate will only lead to a confrontation with the winner and the city's residents.
“It would be a blood bath,” Nephthys declared, her hands clasped behind her back.
A silence passed between them as she allowed space for her words. After a few moments, she turned back around.
“My suggestion is that you broadcast your presence here, make yourself known to the citizens, but do not attempt to grab power. It pains me to be so callous—I am not indifferent to the suffering surrounding us—but any move you make here will result in further death and destruction.
“Let the citizens see you, let them get to know you, and when, if the time comes, they will welcome your rule. For now, however, simply protect and observe.
“Who knows how it will turn out? I have seen this Jace fellow before. He seems an honest sort, if young and naive. Perhaps his rule will turn out to be just. Perhaps this city will not require your intervention at all,” she said, as if wishing it into being.
“I will do as you suggest, Nephthys, but let us not make all our moves while relying on such optimism,” Bernard said, moving to block the doorway with his body.
“Indeed. We only hope for the best. We do not plan for it,” she declared.
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Lyron stood with eyebrows raised, his mouth agape, staring at the enormous patch of charred land. Miles and miles of earth had been seared black by some unknown force, stretching as far as his eyes could see, which was a significant distance.
Bits and bulbs of green emerged from the scorched earth, though Lyron was unfamiliar with plants and their different species, so he had no idea whether he was observing a future forest or mere weeds.
“What happened here?” he thought aloud.
Why had no one informed him of this wretched scar on the land? Why had he paid that adventurer for information and not heard a peep about such an obvious display of power and destruction? Could it be that Gloamview was unaware? True, it was a ways out, and none but the reckless few ever ventured toward the Gloam.
Still, this was mere miles from the city. There must be someone who knew, and once a single person became aware, rumors would spread like…well, like whatever fire blasted this ground clean.
Lyron shook his head and sighed, resigned. He had not wanted to use it so early, but this had to be reported. He withdrew the small stone from a pocket in his tunic and pressed an indentation on the top of the device, setting it on the ground and stepping back several feet, lest the drawback of his Titan path prevent it from working.
A blue image flickered and fizzled, eventually resolving into the vague shape of Vitrimis, who, despite his distorted and flickering visage, was as visibly annoyed by existence as ever.
“Why—you called me so soon, Titan?” he asked, his voice breaking up in the middle of speech.
Lyron wondered whether it was his fault the artifact was not presenting Vitrimis’ voice clearly, or whether the distance between them was simply too great. He would not be surprised if the answer was both.
“Your highness, I apologize for contacting you so soon. I am in Ashreach and have begun my journey to the Crater. However, just fifty-or-so miles outside of Gloamview, I stumbled across a great patch of destruction.
“The ground for a hundred miles, possibly more, is scarred as if from a great fire. I do not—” Lyron reported, but Vitrimis’ distorted voice interrupted.
“Does this have—do with Nemesis?” he asked.
“I do not know, your highness. I merely thought it prudent to report on such monumental—” Lyron said, head bowed.
“I do not care for trifles, Titan. Your mission is to—and observe Nemesis, nothing more. Do not bother—trivialities. It is Ashreach. There are always destructive monsters or warring barbarians tearing—landscape. I do not care about them,” Vitrimis scoffed, the dismissal obvious.
“Of course, your highness. My apologies for—” Lyron said, but he heard the artifact’s deactivation before he could finish.
With a sigh, he picked it up, placing it gingerly back in his pocket. Hopefully, it was not deteriorating just by being close to him. Lyron had not thoroughly tested how detrimental his presence was to magical artifacts, even without actually using them, so he could not rule out the possibility.
Doing a couple of jumping jacks to get his blood pumping, he readied himself to jump toward the northern mountain range, but as he spun in his calesthenics, he glimpsed a plume of smoke rising from the south.
It was coming from Gloamview.
Without a second thought, he crouched low and, with a mighty leap, cratered the ground beneath him, sending clouds of black dust and debris flying for hundreds of feet. He soared through the sky, and within minutes, his upward momentum ended, and he began his descent.
He landed with a minor earthquake, which uprooted nearby trees, but he had no time to worry about them. A much smaller leap later, and he touched down on the top of the wall around the city. His face darkened as he scanned the chaos, noting the conflicts and fires.
This time, he did not hesitate. After listening and observing for only a few minutes, he grabbed the artifact from his pocket and threw it several feet from him. Vitrimis’ annoyed expression once again appeared before him, his mouth already open, mid-sentence.
“—not make me regret giving you that artifact, Titan,” he said heavily.
“Your highness, apologies for disturbing you again, but there is open rebellion in Gloamview,” Lyron reported.
A moment of silence passed between the two. Lyron had his head bowed, but he could almost picture the expressions that must be crossing the prince’s face.
“Rebellion? What? By whom?” he asked, clearly dumbfounded.
“It seems a citizen rebellion, your highness. The count’s forces are overwhelmed, and only the central-most portion of the noble’s district seems spared from the fighting. I suspect it, too, will fall within the next hour-or-so,” he explained.
Another moment of silence passed, but Vitrimis eventually sighed.
“Get down there, then. This was not your mission, but Sardvend cannot—rebellion, not while the Titan is present. Our reputation—suffer a devastating blow,” he ordered through static.
“Of course, sir. I will reinforce the count’s position—” Lyron started.
“Titan, do not—who you are,” Vitrimis said gravely. “You are the arm—Sardvend. Do not show mercy—traitors. Eliminate the rebels, with extreme prejudice,” he commanded, his words heavy.
“Your highness, I—” Lyron said, but he heard the telltale deactivation of the artifact once again.
With a thundercloud covering his face, Lyron returned the relic to his person and jumped down from the wall, into Gloamview.
——————————
“Pah—what is this foul daught?!” Jace exclaimed as he spat red mist.
“It’s redberry juice, sir. You always liked—” a man murmured tentatively, standing next to Jace with a platter.
“Well, it’s vile. I would prefer plain water,” Jace said, depositing the cup on the man’s platter with a careless clank.
“...sure thing,” the man said, exchanging confused looks with the others nearby.
He departed from the throne, which Jace stood staring at. The count’s audience hall was abuzz with light conversation. Though the battle still raged outside, the portion of Jace’s men present here knew that it was already over. The count’s corpse, sitting in the throne and leaning over the armrest, was proof enough.
Suddenly, the roof exploded in a shower of stone. Before the cloud and debris from the explosion cleared, grunts and gasps, the death throes of Jace’s men, echoed off the walls. Jace continued to stand before the throne, staring at the count’s corpse as if he had not even noticed the commotion.
As the dust settled, Lyron stood at the base of the steps leading to the throne, blood dripping from his hands, staining the decorated yellow rug below.
“You are the leader of this rebellion?” he asked.
Jace finally stirred, turning to gaze at Lyron, his left hand supporting his right elbow, and his right hand grasping his chin in thought.
“Ah, Rek’Na’s inheritor: the Titan,” he recognized.
Lyron made no move, merely waiting for a response to his question.
“Actually,” Jace said, squinting his eyes as he examined Lyron. “‘Inheritor’ is a bit generous. Yes, you wear Rek’Na’s power like a costume. It is not yours.”
Lyron’s brows furrowed, but shoving his unease to the back of his mind, he plowed forward.
“If you will not answer outright, I will capture you as the leader until proven otherwise,” he declared, mounting the stairs.
“Gah!” he grunted, falling to his knees.
His strength fled all at once, and he felt as if he possessed his mother’s wasting disease. His limbs shook, straining even to keep him upright on his knees. He tried to summon his status, thinking he must be affected by some debuff, but no window popped up.
There was no indication the Words had heard his request at all.
Lyron’s mind went blank. The Words were always there. Since the day he was born, they answered whenever he called. They were a part of him, as inseparable as the sun from the moon.
Right?
“Yes, just like all the other lessers, you possess no power of your own. This tool, these Words, has claimed Rek’Na’s inheritance and grants you only limited access.
“Truly disappointing. Pathetic, even. Nothing of our distinguished legacy remains, it seems,” he indicted, his tone scathing as he descended the stairs until he stood next to the kneeling Titan.
“Begone, actor. You cannot stand on this stage,” Jace commanded.
His body glowed a virulent green that seemed to cascade from his eyes, and he grabbed Lyron by the collar, hoisting him off the ground and hurling him through the air, back through the hole in the ceiling he had made originally.
Lyron soared through the air, unable to right himself, unable to summon his Titanic strength and durability, and crashed into the ground outside the city as his world went dark.