Lyre could just about see as his friends continued to collapse, dead. Beneath the shielding hide of his companion, Lyre no longer felt the abyssal tug on his soul, but watching this was horrifying. “Goodbye old friend.” Lyre said to Acheron, as it whined sadly. Lyre closed his eyes to the slaughter, refusing to leave his soldiers behind even in the hopelessness. He tried to reach out with his mind, pull more people away from the grasp of the spirits. Too few, too late. The war was over.
A hurricane of black-violet fire descended from the heavens, so bright that Lyre had to cover his already closed eyes. He heard shrieks and cries as the spirits recoiled and broke their hold on the soldiers. When the light died away, Lyre saw Thorne standing alone, standing alone with the Grand Sceptre in his left hand and his Obsyrian blade in the other. Gathering more of the black-violet maelstrom around him he sent fireballs of majesty and destruction into the spirits. They had recovered from the shock and were now preparing to fight back. From behind the shielding body of Acheron, Lyre watched as Thorne single-handedly fought the void-spirit legion. With a flourish of the Sceptre, a gold light imprisoned the host and held them in place- Lyre could see that the effort was immense, but Thorne managed to speak despite the intense labour. “Who dares enter the physical world? Who would dare attempt to murder my men?” His words had a newfound authority and splendour, the Grand Sceptre adding to Thorne’s already impressive confidence. After a pause his vehement voice again reverberated through the air “Speak! By the Creator, I charge you: speak!” His voice carried magic with it, and a single void-spirit stepped forward to answer.
“This land was ours before the Exile. We were cursed to keep it this way. This cold, magicless existence is our prison. And soon it will be yours.” The creature stepped against the gold shield; Thorne struggled but he could not keep it up. The next time the creatures attacked the Spirit Artists who had recovered from the assaulted lent him their strength. This time Thorne pointed his Obsyrian blade into the ground and a fissure broke apart in the earth, blazing with violet magma. The void-spirits who fell into the fire screamed as they were incinerated- they died: Thorne had found a way to kill the spirits. Using his sword to focus and maintain the fissure, he brought his left hand up in an arc, and the Sceptre released blinding gold lightning that tore into the hordes of demonic abominations. All the other soldiers could do was watch- fighting spirits was a rare and ignoble feat. The Archmage brought his hands together and as the fissure swallowed more and more, he blasted the rest with gold lightning. Striking the sword against the Sceptre, Thorne summoned a wave of black energy that swept the remaining spirits into the abyss. Satisfied that there were none left; moving his weapons, manipulating the ground so that the fissure closed; Thorne released the cursed beings from their torturous existence. He almost pitied them. There may have been more in Chrone, but at least for the time being, they would not pose a threat to the remaining armies.
Thorne looked paler than ever. In the fire of his descent, his outer garments had been incinerated, leaving behind the same robes he had worn in his battle with Nox. His bare chest bore few scars, but there was a terrible blistered burn that ran from his chin to the right side of his ribcage. His black eyes seemed to shine out of his pale face, and his body was as white as the blood-stained snow.
***
Iluminus Iyre was now protected in his home in the Varrasian mountains; from the outside it appeared as ruins where Nox and his followers had attacked and blown apart his home. However, the Creator had restored it and provided Iyre a hidden location to write. Why his words were so important, he had no idea. Perhaps he was merely an observer: a chronicler for the Divine since he had never really belonged to the mortal world. He simply wrote what he saw: the future of Visyria, the deepest secrets of the Power, the dark, terrible War that was coming…
Iyre continued to write, not stopping to eat or drink, sustained by the golden light in his eyes. His divine revelations began to accumulate in his book of prophecy and vision, giving him the deepest secrets of the cosmos. To him, the Alpha and Omega of the universe were as clear as day.
Chapter 18
Sylestra had seen the comet of Thorne’s Power raging all the way across the Isonian Sea from the highest point of her Palace. She felt his strife and his fury as he destroyed the spirits; the bond that had formed between them all those years ago allowed her to feel as he felt, when the emotions were strong enough. She wondered if he could feel her fear, her awe, her terror as the man she loved wiped out a legion of spirits who had nearly killed him only a few months before. The strength of the Sceptre combined with his hybrid blood made him one of the strongest Archmages in history, akin to the legends of old. If he could hold the Kingdoms together when they were his, if he could stop his dream crumbling to dust in his hands, she would be his glorious Queen, riding with him against hellfire and holding strong against the torrents of enemies he would create. There was a chance- just a small one- that Thorne would not become Lord of the Ashes- that he and Sylestra would be the Monarchs of a United Visyria like he had dreamed of all those years ago. His promises in that cave had been breath-taking, impossibly ambitious. Of course, she had fallen in love with him. Two lovers who had nothing and wanted it all.
When Thorne had landed on her tower a week ago, he had been a rebellious, warmongering Grandmage who many thought would be excommunicated- that it was just a matter of time. Now he was Archmage, and he had used her Royal Guard to assassinate all his potential rivals in a single, glorious night. Reports had spread across the Five Kingdoms; it was known as ‘the Bloodless Betrayal’ since all of Thorne’s enemies had either been poisoned, strangled, or killed with magic- no Varrasian blood had been spilled as fourteen Grandmages had been murdered. Thorne was already on his way to return the bow, Sylestra could feel the air rushing past him as he flew, felt the exhilarating sensation as he soared above the clouds.
Sylestra knew she would not be able to stop herself asking him to stay; she knew her heart would be broken by him once again as he promised her to wait for the world. In spite of all she had said before: ‘I’m not waiting for Visyria, I’m waiting for you.’, ‘We could stop, leave make our own life away from everyone else.’, ‘We don’t need the world to be happy, just each other.’ The words hung in her hollowly, and each time he left, her harrowing sorrow was felt across the country.
With his armies assembled and recuperating for the final assault of the war, Sylestra knew he could not stay long. All her pleading, all her broken dreams would one day amount to something. In a rare moment of faith, she let out a prayer to the Creator, begging that her love would keep his promise, that the world would be theirs to look after and protect. As she gazed out over the water, the only thing she felt was a deep longing: patience was not in her nature, and she had already waited years. Godspeed my love. Her whispered thoughts reached him in the sky as he flew to her, knowing he could not stay.
In another graceful, majestic flourish Thorne landed on the roof of the Palace, morphing into human form before he even hit the ground. Sylestra stared at the scars and heat-blisters across his neck before his black armour materialised around him. “It’s nothing.” He said calmly, seeing the fear on her face.
She was not amazed she had not felt the wound when it happened: even in the deadliest situation of Thorne’s life he still had the compassion to shield her from the pain of the attack. It was moments like this when she hoped he would stay with her and give up his incredible ambitions. He saw the same look on her face he had seen a thousand times. For a moment, they lost themselves in each other’s black eyes, deeply relieved to see the other after the peril of the previous week. But Sylestra’s dreams were more fragile than the glass-chandeliers of Anvylla and the slightest turmoil could shatter them. How many times could Thorne escape Death before he grew tired of the chase? Was he really under some divine protection from the Creator?
Handing her the bow of the Hun’thai, he spoke to her in his serious tones and military authority,
“You know I can’t stay long.” She did not answer, she just pulled him close and kissed him before pulling away and staring down to the Arrachsian coast. Thorne followed her eyes to the cave. “One day…” His soothing voice carried the same enchanting strength that had made him catch her eye all those years ago, when Thorne had first come to Arrachsia. “Have I ever lied to you?”
“No.” She spoke quietly, “But you don’t have to. You could still be wrong.” When had he ever done that either? She thought as she struggled to find new words to say to keep him by her side. “We don’t need all those hopes and ideas, stay here. Come home.”
When Thorne turned away, she knew she had failed again. Whether or not Thorne felt that this place was his home- felt that she was his home, it made no difference. He would leave- he would either return with the world in his hand or leave a trail of blood and ash behind him while Visyria fell into Chaos. As the beautiful magenta beams of the Arrachsian sunset started to shine over them, Thorne took Sylestra’s hand. In a moment of indulgence and selfishness, he spoke to her in earnest love, “I can stay the night.” The words fell like nectar on her ears. “We can go back to the cave- or anywhere we want; I can leave in the morning.” Sylestra felt his warmth and strength wash over her as he led her down from the Palace. One night was all she had ever wanted since he left for Arkathor- but she knew once it was over the longing and pain would return. She did not care. He was here. And she was with him. Everything else be damned.
***
Barros and the Vampire Queen were back in the Blood Castle, having flown across the Isonian Sea travelling northwest until they reached the frozen Kingdom and broke through the violet walls of Exile. This time, however, instead of feeling the trap reassume its choking grip, the Vampire Queen was aware of its power diminishing now that something from beyond its borders had entered the prison. The Vampiress turned to Barros before entering the Black Hall with a mock-serious expression on her face. “Now,” She began with a solemn expression that was almost laughably exaggerated, “My husband does not tend to like it when I return with other vampires. It hurts his masculinity, you see. He thinks that I should stay with him all day and never leave his side- but I have hobbies you know? I like going for walks, the occasional fly. I like building snowmen. -
“And biting necks, poisoning people?” Barros was able to find it funny now, strange what the absence of a soul does to your mind.
“Now that. That is most unfair. I mean, it was an accident after all. I didn’t mean to poison you: apparently you can’t drink someone’s blood without poisoning them! I mean, how was I supposed to know. It’s been years since I converted someone. Didn’t know I still had it in me.” Her words were obviously proud, she tried to maintain an apologetic expression. “Now,” She said, back in serious mode, “I am going to lay down some very important rules for speaking with the King: number one. Don’t flirt- with him or me. He doesn’t share my sense of humour.” Before Barros could protest, she was speaking again, “Number two. No talking about how good it is down south; he’s been wallowing for a few millennia and I would not recommend reminding him of ‘the good old days’ as he calls them. He gets very upset. Oh, last thing. He may be the King but remember, he’s not a vampire. Try not to mention it at all if possible, but he is a spirit after all. So, no offensive names: demon, devil etc. He maybe a spirit, and he may be the King of what is, essentially, Hell, but he does not like being called a demon. He is not evil if you ask me. All he wants is to kill every living thing in Visyria and rule a world of undead and spirits- I mean- we’ve all thought about it. He just has the vision to actually see it through. Right, ready?” She opened the doors and called out to the hellish spirit on the throne, with a black crown and a formless, magical body. “Hey hubby!” She called out across the hall and the shapeless energy of his being transformed itself into a man of Thorne’s almost exact likeness. He was taller, and his body had a strange, pulsating sheen to it, but his strong, defined features and pale face were almost an exact resemblance. He strode towards them with the same air of potency and confidence. The Vampire Queen hugged him and kissed him on the cheek. “Shield was very weak today; I think we’re nearly there.” Her grin was intoxicating. “And look! I made a friend!”
Myfisto eyed Barros intently, piercing into him and finding every fibre of his innermost being. “It seems you have made more than that.” He laughed, realising that the creature before him was a rather recent addition to his Vampiric subjects.
She laughed as well. “Yeah! Did you know? When I bite people, it poisons them? I had no idea! I mean, well no I did have some idea, but I didn’t realise it just happened, ya know? I thought I had to do something. Like, venom just leaks from my teeth. I’m surprised you don’t complain more. Oh right, no real body and all, but you can still taste it right?” She shuddered “Gross.”
Barros was having some trouble understanding the situation. He had only just become accustomed to his new, Vampiric body and now he was in the Royal Hall of the King and Queen of Hell- it had been an interesting week, he had to admit. Was this how Thorne did it? Did his Vampiric side make him less aware of the pain he was causing- or care less about it? Hmm, Barros tried imagining murdering some small children and found that he was strangely not repulsed- not as much as he should have been at least. They were still children. But killing adults seemed fine, good even. He was terribly thirsty. Drinking all that blood was just such a lovely thought; he completely understood why the Queen had bitten him that night. Or was it day? Time meant little out here.
“Can he leave?” The King said, with intense curiosity.
“You know, I didn’t think to try. I was all so caught up in bringing him to you. I wouldn’t have thought so though, not now that he’s here. And he wouldn’t have been able to stay alive- or well, you know what I mean- outside of the Kingdom.” She was so hilariously insane sometimes. Her wild smile was beautiful and horrifying.
“But you said the shield seemed weaker- weak enough?” He spoke with such charming malevolence; it was really quite relaxing.
“Not yet. Very soon though, I think if Thorne were here, we would have no problems.”
“You know Thorne?” Barros interrupted, apologising after he realised how rude that was: silly vampire.
“Know him?” the Queen laughed. “I’m his mother, darling.” She laughed even more when she saw the expression of puzzlement on Barros’ face. Myfisto joined in and their laughter swelled to a beautifully horrific climax. The Vampire Queen sighed as she realised, she had to explain. “So, you know how you thought his mother died? Well, I sort of, undied. Quite a long time ago actually, long before he was born- but I already told you a bit about that. Having him was truly astonishing though. You see, vampires can’t have children, at least not with other vampires. But for some reason, vampire plus Aether-spirit equals Thorne. It was one of the most terrifying moments of my life- I was so scared I didn’t even tell Myffi over here.” She ruffled the King of the Damned’s head when she said this. “But I had nothing to fear! We’re going to kill the world! Isn’t that exciting?” She laughed and made a small ‘eek’ sound. Her joy was breath-taking to behold.
While Myfisto did not share her childish glee, it was clear he was immensely proud of his child despite his absence. He had the simple desire of a father to see the man his son had become, intensified by all the years he had missed. After a pause, while Barros considered all the implications of Thorne’s true parentage for Visyria and his own life, he replied inquisitively, “And what does Thorne have to do with the World’s Death?”
The King of the Aether and his beautiful Queen looked at each other for what felt like a lifetime before Myfisto answered in uncharacteristically serious tones, “Everything. He is the Harbinger of our return, as it was foretold. He will lead us to victory against Visyria.”
“What if he does not want Visyria to die?” Barros responded instantly, with absolute faith in his friend.
“Do you know him? Have you
seen the massacre he leaves in his wake? It is said that War will follow in his wake, and that he will bring about the Death of everything.”
“The Thorne I know is devoted to life, just the lives of those he cares for and respects. He has never met you- why would he agree to help you?” Barros tentatively probed for information, realising that he was taking a great risk in aggravating the King.
There was no threat in Myfisto’s reply, only quiet outrage. “Thorne is our son. Loyalty to us outweighs the petty lives of mortals.”
“As far as Thorne knows, he is mortal. He has lived a fraction of your life, and as such he holds more value in it.”
“He will be made to understand!” Barros decided not to press the King further after the outburst, and the room darkened as his Power sucked the heat into his fiery sheen. He sighed, letting the strength fade from the flames. “It is in Thorne’s blood; he will have no choice. Even so he will help us willingly. I see the way Visyria torments him; its mortal people are beneath him. Wars have been fought in his name in which hundreds of thousands have died. He even has the power to wage war in the Spirit World single-handedly: an ability not seen in humans since the Exile. With Thorne at our side, we will be able to shape a new world, free of such pathetic restrictions as life!” He spat, the indignation at his Exile millennia ago still hot as the day they were banished. His heat burned redundantly in the icy fields of Arctas Aeternas, and Thorne would bring him south.
Whether or not Thorne had any choice in the matter was uncertain, but the Aether was bubbling with rage and malice. It longed to topple, spilling its wildfire onto the southern continents and making the world tremble. Myfisto had been seething for a thousand years, waiting for the opportunity to take revenge on the mortal world. Now that the First Seal had been broken, it was only a matter of time.
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