The Will of the Conclave, Book 4 of the Enchanter's Cycle

I will speak now of the Prophecy of the Circle…

A circle of five hearts, five souls, that when brought together, will either save or damn all the worlds within and beyond the Veil.

The First is and yet is not of my blood. She who is mortal, yet she who is not. I know now that this speaks of Elurra; she is the First, born of my blood, and ascended to my sphere in Moonshadow, yet who may cross freely into the Veil, born of it as a mortal.

The Second is the creator, the giver of life to the lifeless, yet who bears only a false life herself. The Second will be born in a great age of strife, and will decide the ultimate fate of Aurora, the human world.

The Third is the destroyer and the counterpart to the Second. He will be the healer who brings destruction, the innocent monster whose path will be forged in fire, blood, and darkness.

The Fourth I know well, yet know not, a life given for a life claimed, the restoration of the natural order of life and death. The Fourth will be the key, who will prime the circle.

The Fifth is the trickster of half-blood, whose heart contains the deepest shadows. It is the Fifth who will complete the circle, and upon their power will hinge either the success or failure of the prophecy, and thus, the fate of all things.

-Surthath

He waited as calmly as he could for morning to come, seated cross-legged over a sleeping cushion.

His room was otherwise barren, the door a series of interlocked iron bars. The window was similarly constructed. Though it could not open, faint moonlight poured through it.

Sleep eluded him, for obvious reasons. His last meal lay in the corner. A fine platter; a bowl of hand-pulled noodles soaking in miso broth with green onions, pork, and a half-leek, vertically sliced.

Beside the bowl was a pair of rice balls, a small bottle of sake, and a smaller box of mochi; an expensive form of treat with sweet red bean paste and a squishy tapioca shell.

It was the finest meal he’d ever been afforded, but it held no temptation. He’d nibbled at a mochi or two largely as a formality; a show of thanks to whoever had made the meal for him.

Tomorrow, at dawn’s first light, his life would end.

He did not despair at this, did not lose his composure as he thought he would. No, it was inevitable. He could not avert this end, his end. He was at peace with that, though he regretted all he would not be able to experience.

He especially regretted failing his daughter when she’d needed him most. She’d looked so lonely, so hopeless, in that horrible place. He wondered what would become of his family, especially her, having failed to free her. Would they be alright?

He hoped so, he truly did with all his heart, and he regretted that he would never know. He wasn’t a religious sort; that sort of unconditional trust had eluded him for most of his life. But now, with his end before him, he wondered, against reason, if there was indeed something waiting for him. He hoped there was. He was not ready to end, wasn’t ready for there to be an end!

“I have lived my life to the best of my ability.” he consoled himself, hands in his lap, “Whether or not this is the end, it is beyond my control. I would be well served to remain calm.”

The guard outside, who had paced the halls an hour earlier, eyed him with a carefully neutral expression, leaning against the wall outside his cell.

“You have been quiet.” Shinabi noted, gaining his attention, and the man shifted uneasily, “I guess so. Long night, is all.”

“Yes, it is.” he agreed, smiling, “It is perhaps the longest, and yet shortest, night of my life.”

Still uncomfortable, the guard nodded, “Long nights are common in this wing of the prison. People...act strangely, when they know what will come.”

Nodding sadly, Shinabi relaxed his legs, favoring the wall, “What is your name, friend?”

“Naotaka.” he replied, “And you are Shinabi Kazeatari. I know a little about you.”

“Yes.” Shinabi said sadly, “I suppose you would. As I understand, it is the guard of the cell who holds the blade the next morning.”

Naotaka nodded, “It isn’t a job you draw straws for, and nobody who would want to ever takes this post. It is...a post of great importance, but not a post of glory.”

Shinabi shrugged, “Well said. Do you have a family, Naotaka?”

The guard nodded, “A wife, newly taken, and our first on the way.”

“To protect them, how far would you go?”

“As far as you did and more. I understand. Those bastard pirates caused this, no doubt. I...I know it means little to you now, but I think Lord Minamoto failed to mete out justice this time. I don’t know what to think about your...err...”

“Daughter.” Shinabi finished for him, “My daughter.”

Naotaka continued, embarrassed, “Your daughter. But you are a citizen of Teikoku. Those men are not. Even stealing from Lord Minamoto...”

“Thank you.” Shinabi said simply, “I want to think that I have done the right thing. Especially now, as daylight is no more than an hour or two off.”

Naotaka nodded again, smiling, “It is good to know you, Shinabi. You are alright...not like most that stay in that cell.”

He sighed, rubbing his eyelids, before something startled him. Shinabi heard a sound, like a rush of air, though there was no wind, and the guard stood at attention.

“Who’s there?!” he snapped, “There is no change of guard tonight-”

He grimaced, drawing his sword, but before it could come halfway from its sheath he paused, a horrified expression on his face.

Naotaka gasped, dropping his sword to slide back into its sheath. Shinabi watched a peculiar calm settle over him. He leaned back against the wall, his face impassive, as if the event had never happened.

“Naotaka?” he asked, and the man said nothing, didn’t even react to what he’d said. His eyes were sightless.

“He sleeps...” a cold, feminine voice echoed from the other end of the hall, to which he could not see, “Illusions have placed his mind in a repeating loop akin to a waking dream. He will awaken when we are done here.”

The woman passed into his sight, and he gasped anew.

“Kaileena?” he asked, for her face was that of his adopted daughter. Her feathers had grown into a mane, thicker and longer than he’d seen just days prior, and in place of the soft violet she favored they were colored gold. She was a little taller than before, but just as thin.

But here the relation ended; she was dressed in black, knitted wool leggings and a tunic in native style beneath a flowing black cloak with embroidered violet patterns of lotus petals, a gold and crystal necklace around her neck, its charms shaped like pointed teeth.

Golden rods were implanted all throughout her flesh, and her eyes. Gods, her eyes...

“Who are you?” he gasped, and that simple statement softened her expression, if only somewhat. In those cold, empty eyes, he intuited a mote of stabbing pain, and a peculiar sadness.

“Once I was Kaileena, your daughter.” she replied, and her expression hardened once more, “Now, you may call me Anathema. I find that it better suits me.”

“But what has happened to you?” Shinabi pressed, horrified, “What did you do to Naotaka?”

She said nothing, lifting her hand and waving it in a shallow pass. With an audible click the cell door unlocked, and she drew him out with a strength that defied her slight frame.

“You are an enchanter.” he stated, not asked.

“No.” she replied, “I am far more than a mere enchanter.”

As she drew him free of the cell, he gasped as his daughter, without hesitation, made a cutting motion with one hand that cleanly severed the other, pitching it bloodlessly to the ground.

“Observe.” she commanded, and as he did just that, the hand began to contract, before exploding outward in a surge of grey clay-like material. The clay expanded, then separated into four lengths which interconnected at a center.

“I am an artificer that it artificial.” she stated tonelessly, watching her limb’s transformation as its lengths took on definition, narrowing into long stalks, “I am a blood magi whose very body is indestructible, whose blood is never-ending. I am a magi whose power is limitless. I am a seer, whose lifespan is eternal. I am Absolute.”

The clay mass that was once her hand now vaguely resembled a Human body. It rose of its own accord, a space between its arm stalks sprouting a rudimentary head. A sequence of symbols formed a ring on its forehead, then its widening chest, and with an audible whoosh, the clay took on his appearance.

He stared without comprehension at a perfect mimicry of his own face, his brown eyes staring blankly back at him. The not-him walked into the cell, and Kaileena closed it, locking it. Her hand, the one she’d sliced off, grew back, surrounded by crackling pink-tinged lightning. Even her dyed nails restored themselves, as did the dollop of sapphire embedded into her palm.

“This doppelganger will take your place tomorrow, replicating your flesh and blood. None will be the wiser as it is beheaded, processed, and buried, save the two of us. Hold still. We go.”

Itaku waited patiently as the medic delivered his report. With two arrow wounds, one still in his gut, any movement pained him.

The battle was won; even now his cavalry was being resupplied with fresh horses and would send word to outlying settlements to flee to Fusestu for safety. Casualties were scarce; thanks to his battle strategy two-hundred and thirty one of his own forces against roughly seven-hundred of the enemy, almost a third of that number made by his cavalry. They did him proud...

Now he wished to rejoin them, his cuirass and pauldrons in a heap in the corner. He rested on a table in the field he’d re-commissioned as a hospice, trying his hardest not to upset his wounds.

“And why is this still here?” he asked, motioning to the arrow in his stomach, to which the medic shifted uncomfortably, “My lord...we need your permission to remove it. It’s too close to an artery, and the head is barbed. There’s a chance you might bleed to death. We believe that pushing it through is not a viable option either; it would get caught on your pelvis or pierce through bowel.”

He grimaced, “Pull it out. Strap me down if you have to, but pull it out.”

The medic nodded, and carried his orders to the team of three that had been examining him...

Controlling his breathing, Itaku considered how many enchanters might occupy the city; not many, for most were still imprisoned atop Mount Renmei. Three to seven, at most, and healing enchantments were scarce. If he did start bleeding out...

Manabu supervised the latest shipment of Human slaves being transported to their base of operations via Way-Gate.

Now lacking a standing army, he, among the other remaining Broodlords, had been commanded by Lady Botsu to rebuild the Skraul invasion force in Aurora. The Koriko, Alaae, and Mrrg were being re-purposed for something more important, and the Orc hordes had been decimated, both by the resident Humans, the damned Te Fukushu, and a new, unknown force mobilized locally.

His charge; two hundred heads of Human cattle, were to be turned or consumed, to be used to invade the nearby village of Higoi. It was his task to ensure all the healthy cattle were properly transported, and thus far everything was moving along swiftly.

The Humans; weak, wretched things, sobbed or averted their eyes when he eyed them hungrily. Mostly females and young, they had been the few noncombatants harvested in the wake of the West District’s collapse.

From what he knew, a Human general had deployed their remaining armies in a failed coup further inland. This had served as a boon to their efforts; now, in this war-scarred countryside, entire villages lacked males, which comprised its standing armies.

Manabu, a powerful vampyre in his own right, was confused as to why Human females were not recognized as capable warriors in this strange land. The Matriarchs, all females, ruled the Skraul empire as direct links to Dur’Artoth’s divinity. A female was a symbol of ruthlessness, cunning, and unstoppable determination. A female could more fully unnerve him than a fellow male on the battlefield...

Shrugging, the Broodlord righted his ornamented plate armor, discomforted not by the chill air but the sense that things weren’t going according to plan. This world should have been a simple matter, but it had amassed an unprecedented number of Surthath’s Djinn as no other world had.

Even Carthspire, an active ally to cursed Moonshadow, had only gained proper reinforcements shortly before God Death had reduced it to a lifeless husk. What was it about this land, this world, that all the cosmic forces had taken notice to? What was it?

“How long is the Way-Gate going to take?” he snapped, ignoring the scratch in his throat, watching his underlings construct a fire pit as the sacrifice struggled with their bonds, whimpering.

“Not long, sir.” one of them replied hastily, “We will be ready in-”

There was a burst of light. That was his only warning.

“At the ready!” Manabu shouted, “We’re under attack!”

And then hell itself descended upon them. The Humans screamed, kept from fleeing only by their interlocked shackles. Manabu drew his sword as dozens of heavily armored soldiers poured through a sheet of iridescent light, each armed with a silvery naginata from which hung a banner. Wait... There was something odd about their faces.

As they struck in perfect unison, in absolute cooperation, Manabu gasped as he recognized the symbol emblazoned on their banners; that of a golden tree surrounded by a clockwork gear.

His underlings clutched at deep puncture wounds, the veins in their bodies burning silver.

“Conclave!” he screamed to his soldiers, who were even then falling by the tens to spear thrusts, “Behead the fallen. Strike these monstrosities between the ribs!”

“Tut tut...” a male chided behind him. Turning, Manabu looked upon a crimson-skinned Elf, a black sword with a wicked green gleam in one hand and a dirk very similar to the silver naginata in the other. His eyes burned blood red. His cloak billowed in the wind, embroidered with lotus petals.

“You have been slated for conversion.” the Oni rasped coldly, assuming a battle stance, “Accept synthesis, or accept judgment.”

He had looked upon God Death’s dark glory, watched the Matriarch’s hordes sweep over mortal worlds, killing millions. He had never known fear until this moment. Death was a return to Dur’Artoth’s embrace...but the fate of those felled by the Conclave...

“I will not go meekly to the iron!” Manabu snapped, assuming his own stance.

“Yes, you will.” another voice whispered, sibilant, and the Vampyre cursed as he realized there were two of them.

This one must have been Ryū. He was a Silkrit with dark red skin and hungry eyes that burned just as brightly as his ally’s. In his hand was a darksteel mace. His cloak was nearly identical.

“Look around you.” the Silkrit purred, “Your soldiers are with us, now.”

Horrified, Manabu saw that his troops stood at attention around him. Their flesh was a silver-grey color with a sickly metallic consistency, and their eyes were blank, unresponsive. The Humans remained as they were, cowering and sobbing.

“Synthesis has removed them from the pain of self-determination.” the Silkrit continued, “And so too, shall we free you. Take a moment, if you will, to study the odd flush of heat gathering at the base of your stomach.”

Manabu did, and doubled over, retching. A thick slime guttered out into his open palm, followed by a bout of nausea so intense that he could only writhe on the ground beneath them.

“In the eternity of cold iron that awaits, remember this moment fondly, for sensation, especially pain, is a thing all too often dismissed. Soldiers, relive him.”

As the iron-skinned soldiers, his soldiers, fell upon him, there was a disorienting rush as their spears struck him, a searing pain as their foul magicka coursed through him, and then a horrible, numbing coldness. Manabu screamed as the icy prison coiled around him, locking away the control of his body...

Things seemed to have settled down in Higoi now that Kaileena, its resident Lord, had absconded with many of her new golem soldiers and clay constructs to parts unknown.

Still, hundreds remained, which were by her order relieving the city’s resident guards, assuming control of the defensive battlements. A second banner, a golden tree before a winding clockwork gear, had been raised beneath the royal crest, proclaiming a secondary loyalty to an unclear faction.

Or perhaps that was the emblem Kaileena herself had adopted. The tree was Anima’s symbol, and the gear a symbol of technology and ingenuity, so it made sense in a way...

Vala tried to be patient, to enjoy her time at rest, but every day in uncertainty of her daughter’s fate tormented her. Tenri, who she had believed to be dead, had seemingly appeared in the form of a Human woman serving Surthath’s thrice-damned prophecy.

Who was this woman? Was it Tenri, or some cruel joke from Surthath, to manipulate her into the prophecy’s threads?

Rubbing her temples, she sighed, basking in the heat of the fireplace.

She sat before the hearth of the inn, watching Kuri as she ate a box of tiny steam cakes atop a stool at the bar area across the room. Her adoptive daughter seemed to have emulated her sweet tooth, or maybe that was common for little ones. The girl had thoroughly infuriated the innkeeper by cleaning out his stock at his lord’s expense!

Smiling at her, Vala considered her more intently. Reputedly the reincarnation of a long-dead El’Dari priestess, her importance to the prophecy was unclear; was she a new vessel for Anima’s power, or the catalyst for something different altogether?

“All this gives me a headache.” she groaned, eyeing the innkeeper and raising her voice, “Bring some hot tea please, and a few more of those steam cakes. No...make that mochi. I’m curious how they taste.”

The innkeeper grumbled, but complied, digging through his stock for the novelty boxes. Smiling, because irritating him had become something of a hobby since being confined to the city limits, Vala signaled Kuri over and whispered in her ear, “Could you check and make sure there are still enough towels in our room. You look like you need a wash.”

Indeed, the little girl had been at play for much of the day, and was covered in a fine layer of dust from tussling with the local children.

“I will, mama.” Kuri replied dutifully, bolting up the stairs loudly, drawing another scowl from their surly host. She smiled and idly scratched her temple, if only to hide the wetness in her eyes.

Still unnerved by the new color of her skin, a light green, the now quite-mortal Orc studied her hands for a time. She’d finally reclaimed her whipblade, Toshisha, from the thief that had absconded with it, but her sword, weary from the weight of its own existence, had pleaded with her to destroy it.

With a heavy heart, she had obliged, and in reclaiming the spark bonded to her being, she had forsaken Dur’Artoth’s dark gift to be reborn as a mortal. Had she still been in her natural form at that moment, she would have possibly become an Elf, but that was just as well. She’d accustomed to the body her mother had shaped for her.

Intended as a curse, to be removed from the Skraul species was among the best things that’d ever happened to her. And now, mortal, she was utterly free from her hated kin, to which she no longer had any relation.

And she’d been able to keep her powers, too. The sword that had slain Toshisha had inherited its properties, even amplified them. Now, for the first time since her dethronement, she could assume her true form, that of raw elemental energy, and increase her combat potential further.

With this new sword, named Fuyuzora in honor of the city she’d ruled as Kogoeji-ni, and with Kuri and Tenri by her side, she would at last be complete. But first, she would have to locate her daughter...or at least leave the city to begin searching...

The Orc was not important. No, no. But the girl...yes. Yes, yes.

Nu studied them both, hidden from detection with Eagle’s blessing. No true invisibility, the aura distorted the perceptions of others, altering what their senses told them. Father might not even be able to see her this way.

All the better. She knew he would be upset if he knew she was meddling in his prophecy, and that she had failed to attend to Moonshadow’s defense. But this was important. So important.

“Only a fool meddles in that which he cannot see clearly.” Fox, her aspect of cunning, whispered in her mind, “And all are fools, for nothing is clear.”

“I know, yes, yes.” Nu replied, “But something else is strange about this girl. Her aura is wrong. All wrong. Too much...yellow. It looks nothing like Anima’s.”

And she remembered it well. No more than a fledgling during her visit to Everbloom, she’d snuck away from her guide and sought out Anima against their wishes.

They’d said that a young mind cannot comprehend the sheer presence of an Old One without suffering harm. She knew better. As the sight of the Old One’s aura had burned itself in her brain, she had perceived and intuited many things. Hidden things. Secret things. Yes, yes.

“Either the girl is a larval form of Anima.” Nu decided, “A mere shadow of what will be...or I am looking at a different soul entirely.”

But how could that be? How could she be Anima, but not be Anima? That would be odd. Odd. Yes, yes.

“Does he plan to sacrifice her? Is this only the vessel for Anima’s soul?”

No. No, no. But...

Nu cringed, considering the child as she sat on her adoptive mother’s lap, nuzzled as she ate little squishy powdery slug things from a tiny box.

Surthath had done more reprehensible things before to satisfy prophecy...

Arteth cast a divination and studied his house. His real house.

Not the seven-floored behemoth situated near Higoi. Kaileena’s two-floored property north of Kazeatari was more of a home than that palace in all its decadence had ever managed.

It was where everything had begun. Where Kaileena had been born, where her parents had reared her before she fell into the care of Shinabi and Hana; an adoptive but equally loving family. It was where they had made their goal of defeating Yokai and restoring peace to Teikoku, where their friendship had deepened.

It was where her first life had ended, when she bonded with the Phoenix Stone to escape her wasting magickal illness.

...It was where he witnessed her fall into madness...

“I have lost her.” he stated numbly, “The whole of my heart, my Little Fox. I have failed her.”

He had failed her... Kaileena’s personal demons had seeped so deeply into her heart that not even he could pull them free. Now... She had called herself Anathema; a grim moniker to match the palpable menace she exuded.

She had surpassed him in strength, and declared all the Veil her enemy. He had seen her Conclave sweep across the South District, purging the vampyre menace as they labored to recover their numbers. He knew soon that they would turn on the Humans they shielded...

“I will try to capture her.” he stated, having already decided upon his course, “I am the Firstborn of Surthath. I have strength yet to challenge her, though I will need to corner her alone, with many by my side.”

“But...” he pondered, making a fist, “But what should I do then? How can I take away such pain? How can I bring her back?”

With nothing left but hope, such strained hope, the Djinn Arcanist called upon his magicka and began to scry for her research on the Pheonix Stone, using the connection to the tower and his feelings invested in it as a focus.

It would be but one of several steps that would allow him to end this madness...

Shinabi walked behind Kaileena as she led him through a strange land, her black cloak rustling in a light breeze.

The air seemed oddly stale in spite of it. The skies were cloudless, and tinted gold. There were no sounds of wildlife. The plants, mostly grass and patches of wildflowers, were oddly metallic, though they felt no different than normal. There was a small stream, but the water seemed...not quite right.

He couldn’t explain the odd incongruousness of the land around him. They began to ascend a small hill, the effort winding him.

“Where are we?” Shinabi asked, confused. One moment he’d stood outside his cell, then the next...there had been a feeling of falling, of weightlessness, and a burst of blinding light, then...

As they crossed the hill there was a path paved with marble that started at the bottom. He hardly noticed this, however.

He fell to his knees, disbelieving. Through the scope of no sane realm of thought could such unfathomable sights be met with anything but sheer terrified disbelief.

What he saw in the sky, now that the hill was behind them, was no sun. Nor was what he saw a moon, though it was a planetary body without a doubt. It was a great circle of gold, gleaming brightly in the cloudless, starless sky.

This ring was serrated; with curving blades expanding outward in a uniform pattern, their movement betraying the slow vertical rotation of the piece as a whole. Within the ring was a gyroscope; a sequence of rings that rotated in unison, making the sum of the parts appear roughly spherical.

Intricate engravings marked the surface of each ring; runes that were not of his language. Within the gyroscope was an orb of light. That it served as the sun in this place he had little doubt, for heat surged from it in palpable waves.

The orb had a black vertical slit in its core that was thicker at the center, and terminated at its tapered points. An iris, a reptilian iris, just like Kaileena’s eye.

“What is this place?” he asked, breathless, “Where am I? What’s going on?”

Kaileena eyed him sidelong, stopping, before turning and laying a firm hand on his shoulder, “Not yet. Come. See what I have wrought, here, in my world.”

Numbly, he felt himself rise to his feet, his rough breeches stained with pollen, though the flower petals appeared to be made of thin sheets of precious metal. He followed this person, this woman, this alien, down the path and towards a great structure.

It was a palace, tiered marble and bronze; a massive tower that was impossibly narrow. There was a second rush of motion, of falling, and he stood in a great hall. The roof narrowed considerably from the dimensions of the floor, so he naturally assumed he was at the base of the tower.

Likewise, since the ceiling wasn’t nearly high enough to account for the peak of the tower, he assumed there were additional floors above, though he couldn’t imagine how to reach them with no visible stairs.

The ornamentation was minimal, focused on functionality; there was a low rosewood table with seven seat cushions, and a wider padded cushion far too large to accommodate a person. There were rows of bookshelves fit to burst, tables of alchemical supplies, a fireplace, and a huge larder.

A massive wolf descended around a corner in the room in such a way that suggested there was a spiraling staircase behind the walls, and plodded over to them, snarling.

Its fur was black with patches of white, and its eyes glowed in a similar manner as Kaileena’s. Likewise, the dozens of golden rods implanted throughout its body also complemented hers.

Shinabi rushed to stand in front of his daughter, which agitated the beast further. It tensed to spring forward, its claws digging into the floor.

“Shinabi, heel!” Kaileena snapped, and the wolf quieted. He eyed her sidelong, and she shrugged, “I named him after you. Take a seat at the table and I will do the same.”

“Now, this is only the antechamber.” she told him as he chose the one furthest from the cushion, to which the massive wolf collapsed upon, eyeing him with naked suspicion and an unnerving degree of intelligence.

“I have a place prepared for you in the upper levels, where my room is also located. Otherwise, this tower will expand and reshape itself as more occupants come to fill it. It will be a fine palace; a base of operations as I populate this new planet of my own creation.”

“You...made this?” he asked, stunned, and she nodded, “Needless to say, we have much to discuss.”

He nodded again, too awestruck to do anything else, as she knelt opposite to him in a cushion, her tail curling to rest with its tip pressed against her knees.

She snapped her fingers, and dozens of square ceramic platters appeared atop the table with a flash of light and the rush of displaced air. On each platter was a dish of exquisite food he had never seen before; platters of staked cubes and odd red, green, and purple-white vegetables, flatbread with an odd fibrous material to dip, bowls of soups ranging from more familiar hand-tossed noodles to tubers to a mashed bean-like material. There were wheels of yellow and white material, hard by the looks of them, with a different kind of bread accompanying.

There were sliced orange, green, and red melons spread in ornate arrangements beside shallow bowls of honey, an odd fruit with yellow flesh and a brown, prickly exterior.

There were nuts spiced with cinnamon, and seed cakes fresh from the oven, and pies with goopy, steaming insides. Not to be seen on any dish was a single piece of meat, but it was the finest feast he could have imagined.

“Eat.” she commanded, “I will speak, and you will not ask questions this way. You look faint.”

Shrugging, for he’d lost his grip on reality and was uncertain if he was still in his cell dreaming, Shinabi complied again, taking a seed cake and a bowl of steaming soup. He tried the soup first; it was slightly salty, but savory, the tuber, which he now identified as okra, melting in his mouth like fine beef. He sighed in appreciation, and relaxed somewhat.

“Now then.” Kaileena said, considering a slice of melon but promptly dismissing it, “I will speak of many things, and I need to finish before you ask any questions. First and foremost, we do not currently occupy the same period in time that you did. In this; the present day, you have been dead for over five years.”

Trying to keep down his soup by taking a large bite of seed cake, he bid her continue, “After I...became what I did, as I will explain soon, I discovered a Human. A woman, named Tenri, who had experimented with manipulating space-time. She had done so with the goal of seeing into the future for the purpose of predicting the desired outcome of a certain prophecy, a prophecy, I might add, that has primarily attributed to our suffering. After we met, Tenri and I, she abandoned her research and disappeared, but her experiments remained.”

She paused, thoughtful, then, “I furthered them with the powers I have attained in order to manipulate time more generally, and have discovered a means to pass forward and backward through time.”

“There are limitations.” she continued, eyeing him oddly, “Time itself offers a resistance to certain actions, and certain requirements must be met to pass. Traveling is normally impossible because it would involve a person acting in a period of time in which they exist beside their past or future self, or even the particles that composed their being. Think of a person not as an individual, but as an amount of matter in the universe.”

She frowned thoughtfully, “When we die, our souls depart, but the substance that comprises our mortal remains linger in other forms, and likewise our bodies were once among other collections of particles, recycled ad-infinitum.”

She held out her hand, motes of power collecting across her skin, “I no longer exist as I once did, for my original body is no more; a mere lump of ash. My essential identity has changed, my particles a product of the stone that comprises my core. A stone that should not be; that defies reality itself. As Kaileena I would never have been able to come to you, but as Anathema...as Anathema I can pass through time as a mere shadow, a wraith, a hidden poison in Time and Fate’s design.”

“...Likewise, in order to make any changes in the timeline, past or future, the original intention must occur. You were fated to die. You did die. Because it has already happened, I could not avert that. But...I could ensure one that time would accept as you died in your place. So I have done. You captors were none the wiser, and the simulacrum I created was beheaded and buried in the very grave that Gatsuyu would later come to pay his respects. An irony, that... Thus, here you stand, dead but yet alive, gone from Teikoku but living, unbeknownst to it, in my domain.”

She stared more intently, “Thus is my experiment in tampering with time a success, and it is not the first. I have tried to meddle in other matters, but Time, a seemingly organic consciousness, seeing an anomaly in its tapestry, forcibly ejected me from the explored period of itself in order to protect itself from a paradox. By appeasing Time, by submitting to it, it is possible to alter it to one’s benefit.”

“And so, you saved me.”

“And so, I will save many. Now that I know I can successfully manipulate time and retroactively recall the dead, I will select choice specimens to populate this planet, which I created from a sizable asteroid, dragging it to a pocket reality that I can utterly control. Weather, atmosphere, openness to magickal portals...all of these things are subject to my will. Thousands will follow your example and populate this world, who you will meet in the coming days.”

“Amazing...”

“As to how I have attained this power...you need know only that I unwittingly gained it in an effort to save and postpone my existence. And that it has cost me dearly. But in achieving this power I have grown in comprehension, and now see all things as incomplete. Through my new philosophy, I will correct that incompleteness.”

“What philosophy?” he asked, and any degree of levity that had existed between them vanished.

Kaileena frowned, “I find that the requisite for peace; for the purest enjoyment of life, is empathy. All empathy, all ability to understand one another, is measured by experience. And experience is acquired through suffering. Pain erodes the individual self; it collapses our defenses that we unconsciously create to define ourselves and in the end close our eyes to others. Knowing and understanding this defect in our collective mortal species, I will bring suffering to the Veil to force compassion and understanding from all those who inhabit it.”

“...I have founded the Conclave in the spirit of this philosophy.” she continued, studying him intently, perhaps judging his reactions, “Each member has become a homunculus; an artificial being, though their improved Phoenix Stones are more...stable...than my own.”

There was a rush of heat, and light, Kaileena’s veins surging with power. He saw, at the heart of this network, a shape, almost a prism, from which the light emanated, “And from their design lesser stones have been developed, bequeathing agelessness, regeneration, and immunity to poison or plague. It is such a stone that I offer you, Father. I can never repay you for what you did for me, all my life, and the final sacrifice you made in an effort to free me from my pain. I offer you your life in return, and I offer you immortality and a place of honor and authority at my side.”

It took several minutes to frame his reply. Everything felt like it was spinning, and he alone was still.

He finally shook his head, “I want no such thing, child. This is wrong, Kaileena, and you know it. You cannot force peace this way; it will only lead to further violence.”

“Anathema.” she replied venomously, “My name is Anathema, Father. I cannot separate from the stone because it is my only state of true being; what you see is no more than living clay. And I will not forsake my task, my duty, to bring justice and peace to the Veil by giving it new life through synthesis. Those who revel in pain will experience it tenfold! Those who seek death upon others will find themselves in an eternity of living death! And the Veil will experience its end and rebirth because its occupants have failed to understand each other and embrace peace. There is no other way!”

She paused, calming, for her pointed nails had dug furrows into the table, “But you need not accept your stone. I offer you that, but I would hope that you try to understand what I wish to accomplish here, and change your mind.”

Finally coming to terms with the last few hours and convincing himself that this was no dream; his imagination wasn’t up to the task of inventing something this intricate, Shinabi sighed, “I do understand, my child, I really do. I know precisely why you feel that justice is something beyond our people, beyond all people. What happened to us was monstrous.”

“What happened to us was unforgivable.” she replied, and he nodded, “But to force peace, to impose your will on our people, on our world, nay, on all worlds is just, is just...”

“Monstrous...” he finally managed, hating the word and hating himself for saying it.

Kaileena crossed her arms, eyes impassive, before replying, “I did not expect you to accept my words, or the changes that have been wrought upon me since last we saw each other. Ponder my actions, I beg you. I want you here, beside me, offering your counsel as you just have, that I retain an understanding of a Human perspective. What say you to this?”

“I will.” he replied without hesitation, “Whatever you have become, you are still my daughter, and...I am very proud of you, to have accomplished so much.”

It was horribly inadequate; she had become immortal, amassed powers beyond even the frightful rumors of The Reclamation, created her own planet and society, and was passing back and forward through time itself and raising the dead.

Her gaze softened once more, “I appreciate it; both your acceptance of this station, and your praise. Eat your fill and more. Your namesake will lead you to your room so you can rest. And you can rest; you are safe here, I promise you. You will always be safe, from now on.”

Itaku writhed in a burning sea, his limbs sluggish, his skin covered in cold sweat.

He groaned, anguished, as wave after wave of debilitating pain wracked his body. It felt as though someone was driving a spear through his stomach, twisting it to loop the bowels inside.

His cries echoed throughout a great darkness above. Looking upon it gave him a bout of nausea, as if he were staring into infinity. He caught glimpses of the pointed roof of a tent, but it shimmered in and out of his focus, disappearing entirely.

“Medic!” someone shouted, “Get in here! Help me hold him down.”

Hands pressed against his shoulders, pinning him. He fought back, seeing the leering faces of fanged demons. He snarled, balled his fists, and struck one in the underbelly, doubling it over. Sworn curses issued, and blackness claimed him.

Yawara called his apprentice back over and they held their lord down until the fit subsided. Itaku slipped back into unconsciousness.

His apprentice, wheezing with the force of the hit to his stomach, checked the bandages to ensure the stitches hadn’t broken. They hadn’t.

“There was no need to give me a stomach wound too...” he complained, but Yawara hushed him, troubled.

There was an infection setting in; removing the barbed arrow from Itaku’s stomach had been a partial success. Itaku hadn’t bled to death; no artery have been punctured. But it had been a very damaging and painful process. Even a battlefield surgeon with his level of experience underwent a certain amount of guesswork when repairing deep tissue and organ damage.

His lord’s abdominal muscles were still fusing back together, becoming the protective net that held in his bowels. His thrashing had likely strained them further, delaying the healing process. And if his fever didn’t break soon he might dehydrate unto death. It was their task to maintain Lord Itaku while the enchanters sought to complete his restoration!

Most were troubled by the recent policies involving the enchanters. Yawara, for his part, only cared that they were helping tend to the wounded. He could forget his hatred for a time.

Many lives had been saved, especially from small and theoretically simple ailments like fever, bacterial infection, and exposure. Healing enchantments lacked the sophistication (save those carried by the most senior enchanters) to repair more grievous wounds, but they allowed their wielders to quickly and efficiently mitigate minor injuries that may have otherwise worsened. It allowed Yawara and the other field medics the space and time to treat the worst cases.

The enchanters arrived several minutes later, just as he wiped the beads of sweat accumulating on his bald pate, his grey hair long ago shaven clean when it became clear he would lose it anyway.

The first was a youth, his face pockmarked and perpetually sweating, his small hands unfit for a sword or for stitching. He walked with a long-suffering air about him, understandable given the fact that he’d probably lived akin to a thrall until recently. His belt held many small pouches, and a slim tanto in a painted wooden scabbard.

His mentor, a woman little order and yet possessed of more weariness followed shortly after, her gentle, cherubic face set in a dull, disinterested frown. He remembered long ago when she had been a sweet girl, who smiled and laughed with abandon.

The memory brought a stab of pain, and then regret, before he silenced his heart’s protests. What was done was done...

She was clothed in a simple kimono of coarse black linen held up by a grey obi, and held a small orb affixed to a chain; a talisman of some sort which emitted a dull viridian light.

He caught, from the corner of his eye, the slim, pale scars marking her wrist; the wounds that he himself had mended after her attempted suicide in Higoi years ago.

“Aoi.” he eyes with a nod, meeting her eyes, then turned to the boy, “Yahiko. Thank you for coming so quickly. I know there is much to be done.”

Aoi nodded, “The army’s upkeep of enchantments is exhausting, but we are both skilled enough to maintain this pace without depleting our magicka. If Itaku has advanced along the process enough, we can complete another stage now. If not, we will have to wait. You understand that healing is not my specialty.”

Yawara bowed, “You have done so much already, and for that I am grateful. Do what you can. I will in turn manage what I can.”

Aoi began her inspection, poignantly showing her back to him. In one hand, she held her talisman, and in the other...she held a strange gold coin, stamped with a likeness that gave him pause.

He shrugged and left her to her work. Sometimes the mundane was not enough. Sometimes he had to call on the reviled of Teikoku to save a life. He wondered if it was worth it...

Jhihro walked in thoughtful silence as he stepped through the magickal portal created by Dokutake, his blood-forged mace.

Crafted by his own hand after his serum had taken effect, its vampyric powers had supplemented his own. He was confident that this, combined with the power of the Phoenix Shard embedded in his chest, put him on equal terms with his former benefactor, Ryū.

That was good; that narrow-minded fool would inevitably become a problem. As would another...

Khurshid, his reticent Oni ally, walked beside him, far less than pleased by the recent developments than he was.

“What exactly happened, to put us in this situation?” he grumbled, sheathing his darksteel scimitar, reputably the fabled Shamshir-e Zomorrodnegar, the blade forged by Morag Toth in an age long passed.

Jhihro had answered this several times already, “Our dear sister Kai-err...Anathema, approached us with an even more palatable arrangement than the one we previously enjoyed, one that would achieve our purpose of universal domination.”

“Better, hmm?” Khurshid groaned, rubbing the spot on his chest where Erinye had inserted his own Phoenix Shard, re-creating him as a synthetic organism. The only obvious change was in his eyes; the red in them glowed, consuming the grays and blacks, leaving only tiny pupils in their centers.

Jhihro had looked upon himself after feeding, and had found his eyes nearly identical. Honestly, he noticed little difference between being a vampyre and being a homunculus, but then, he had only enjoyed undeath for a few weeks.

However, the alterations were deeper than that; as a homunculus Jhihro would enjoy advanced regeneration even in direct sunlight. He could communicate with any other member of the Conclave and command its slave armies; those whose hearts had been judged and found wanting.

“Remember, friend...” he noted dryly, subtly motioning to the impassive shock troops behind them, “That things could have turned out much worse.”

The Oni serving under Khurshid and the mindless half-breed vampyres had been forcibly synthesized, the former converted into living constructs just like the Skraul slavers from earlier, while the second bunch had been freed to aimlessly wander Anathema’s realm.

“That’s...about right, I think.” Khurshid replied, sobered, “Let us see this done, and quickly.”

Jhihro was hardly so upset with his newfound membership in the Conclave. He was, at heart, pragmatic. He wanted a world ruled by the Silkrit. Having to share that world with the other races was tolerable if Anathema and himself were the ones to rule it. Both of them were Silkrit, though their new mistress was admittedly a bit...unstable.

He would see what could be done about the others; he feared that Khurshid might seek out the ally they had previously agreed on...one that would hardly agree with the long-term goals of the organization...

“Be you comfortable with this? Turning your kin to our fold?” Dral’rrche asked as he stood beside his ally on the overlook of a small canyon bordering the North and West Districts, to which Alcharon, Patriarch of the Dead-Knife-Ears-Blood-Drinkers and fellow member of the Conclave, grinned wickedly.

“They are no kin of mine, Ogre. My people were driven to extinction by the first Dread Hammer and that deceitful witch that called herself my mate. What you see here...” he said dryly, motioning below them, “Are the Dread Hammer’s lackeys, nothing more.”

They’d ambushed a large Dead-Knife-Ear hive in the late morning, when the sun fully crested the horizon. Through a powerful transmutation they had turned each of the hidden tunnels surrounding the main fortification into glass, pouring daylight in.

The Dead-Knife-Ears, and their newly made round-ear thralls, became cornered in the heart of their underground expanse, while the Conclave’s iron soldiers poured in from those same tunnels.

It had been a massacre, to which they now witnessed the closing stages. The enemy fought desperately, with blade, tooth, and claw, the thralls flooding the narrow corridors in the hundreds. The purebloods kept the rearguard, or developed makeshift barriers in the central chamber, assisting with spells that flooded the tunnels with toxic fumes, impenetrable shadows, and other, more directly lethal effects.

But their lines were but flesh, whereas the invading force was iron. Poison had no effect. Blindness did not slow them. Pain did now slow them. Fear did not slow them. They pressed with utter relentlessness, each thrust of the spear a deathblow.

And each enemy felled by their synthesis rods immediately became an ally; their minds dominated and added to their mental collective, Anathema’s parody of the fabled abilities of Surthath’s Djinn.

The few slaves not beyond their help were transmuted as well, but vanished before the process completed. They would awaken, right as rain, in Aden, in Anathema’s palace, which would expand to accommodate them for their eternal stay. All innocents would endure the Conclave’s invasion.

It was Anathema’s will, and his own.

Watching the spectacle uneasily, the Ogre came to fully understand how they would defeat the Dread Hammer. While transmuting an Old One was beyond their ability, even with each of The Seven united, the Conclave’s collective energy to draw upon increased with each soul added to their mental collective, either as slave or citizen. It would not remain an impossibility for long...

It was a frightening notion.

The iron soldiers flooded the central chamber, plowing through makeshift barriers and hastily, desperately conjured spells. Fire, cold, acid, and shadowy energies washed over their transformed flesh, their silvery armor, and broke like waves against a mountain.

They advanced, unmindful, unstoppable. Dozens were turned in moments. The innermost defenses crumbled. The last Dead-Knife-Ear to survive, a female, shifted into the faded Veil, and the silvery naginata passed through her without effect.

Dral’rrche took quick notice, dipped his hand into a pouch at his belt, which contained a special ink, and drew a rune with the tip of his claw. Casting a powerful abjuration, strengthened by proximity to his ally, the ink hung suspended in the air, forming the base of the evocation, and flared brightly when he completed it, before fading away as the magicka transferred into the effect he was creating.

The spell latched onto her own and obliterated it almost instantly. She screamed with rage and fear as dozens of thrusting blades pierced her flesh.

“It be done.” Dral’rrche said with relief, dismissing the soldiers back to Aden. Teikoku was now almost completely free of any lingering Dead-Knife-Ear presence; the rest, led by Black-Heart-God, the final Matriarch, or whoever else, would be hunted down once Aurora was secure. A second, final extinction would take them.

He tried not to consider the gravity of that. The Phoenix Shard in his heart was weight enough. He wondered distantly how he would be received when he returned to his home, in the windswept tundra north of ruined Augur, and hoped his people would choose not to fight the inevitable.

Righting his dark cloak, an enchanted artifact given to him by Anathema, the Ogre conjured a portal that would return them to Aden as well, though to a different section of it.

Calling upon his latent magicka he drew a sequence of runes against his other wrist with his fingertip, dipped in ink once more, angling the runes so they formed a circle. Leaving a void at its center, he slid his hand into a pouch belted to his waist and withdrew a thin wand of carved ashwood; the primer for the spell he would cast. He then pressed the wand’s tip against that void, and drew the words from his flesh and into the air.

A rippling distortion manifested about three feet from the ground, roughly the size and shape of his fist. This distortion flattened, then expanded, growing to the size of a kite shield.

Crackling electric currents took shape to either side, forming a pair of long pillars of energy. In a discharge of blinding light the pillars connected to the flattened sphere and activated, forming a rudimentary arch with an opaque doorway in its heart.

Alcharon stepped forward first and slid through the doorway with minor resistance, as if he were pushing through a slim veil. Dral’rrche thought the term to be incredibly ironic, for that was precisely what was occurring...

Hesitantly, the Ogre followed his ally, who should have been an enemy, into the rift.