Chapter 13: Relictombs City
Iskander
The Simulet grew warm against my palm, humming in sync with Sevren's as we stepped onto the teleportation platform.
A surge of pale golden aether, now the familiar signature of my very being, washed through me—not the violent displacement of the previous jump, but a smoother, resonant transition.
Happiness wasn't a strong enough word. It was a geyser erupting in my chest, a dizzying cocktail of anticipation and profound relief. Sevren Denoir, Highblood heir, my first friend, had just invited me into the sanctuary of his family's estate.
Nobility. The word resonated with echoes of Etharia—of House Hyperion's skyscrapers, of political maneuvering I'd barely grasped, of a life forever out of reach for the boy in the hospital bed.
Now, impossibly, in this world of aether and mana, I was being offered a taste of that rarefied existence. Safety. Comfort. A bed. The sheer, mundane wonder of it was almost overwhelming.
The transition ended. We stood in another vast chamber, but this one pulsed with chaotic life, not serene stillness.
The Descension Chamber of the Ascenders' Association roared.
My senses, heightened by the aether core and my Asuran physique, were momentarily assaulted. The air thrummed with residual mana discharges, the sharp tang of exhaustion, the coppery scent of fresh blood, and the low, constant murmur of hundreds of voices layered with cries of pain, shouted orders, and weary greetings.
Light, harsh and artificial from glowing panels set high in the vaulted ceiling, illuminated a scene of controlled pandemonium.
"Now, few things first, Iskander." Sevren's voice cut through the sensory overload, low and urgent. He turned, his expression stripped of its earlier camaraderie, replaced by the focused intensity of a field commander. His grip on my arm tightened, grounding me.
"The second level isn't a common zone like the ones you are probably used to. It's a city. And a fairly big one for that matter with people coming from all over Alacrya living here. The moment we're out of this chamber, we head directly to the Denoir Estate. No detours. No gawking. Understood?"
His brown eyes held mine, demanding absolute compliance. The playful companion of the sanctuary was gone, replaced by the heir of Highblood Denoir, acutely aware of the dangers surrounding his anomalous guest.
"Sure," I replied, forcing a bright tone and giving a thumbs-up. The gesture felt jarringly out of place amidst the grim efficiency of the chamber. Sevren's eyes rolled heavenward, a long-suffering sigh escaping him.
But a deeper question gnawed at me, one crystallized by the profound introspection forced upon me by the Heart Relic. The vision of Iskander Hyperion—the weary president, the failed creator—had shown me the cost of superficial alliances.
"Sevren," I pressed, stepping slightly closer despite the crowded space, my voice dropping below the ambient din. "Why are you going this far? For me?"
"Don't say it's because I saved your life. I want the truth." The echoes of President Hyperion's political instincts resonated within me. Understand your allies. Understand their motives.
His eyes widened a fraction, a flicker of surprise breaking through the noble mask. He hadn't expected the question, or perhaps the intensity behind it.
He looked away for a moment, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic scene—the teams of Ascenders hauling wounded comrades on makeshift stretchers, the grim-faced Association officials processing returnees, the occasional still form covered by a bloodstained cloak.
"I…" He started, then met my eyes again, the intensity returning, but tempered with a raw honesty I hadn't seen before. "I have always been… curious, Iskander. Too curious, my parents would say."
"About the Relictombs. About the Ancient Mages. About aether. The mysteries this place holds… they're the air I breathe. More than status, more than Blood legacy." He leaned in slightly, his voice barely a whisper now.
"You… you are that mystery. Walking, talking, punching fog apart. An aether core. A golden rune born of insight, not bestowed by Sovereigns. A… dragon in your head?" He shook his head, wonder warring with the sheer impossibility of it.
"You are the key to every question I've ever dreamed of asking. That's why. Even if it means…" He glanced nervously towards an Association enforcer nearby, his voice dropping even lower, "…skirting the edges of what the Sovereigns permit."
"It's good to see not every mind is clouded by Agrona's indoctrination," Sylvia murmured within my mind, her voice a warm wave of approval. "To be truthful, Child, I never liked us Asuras being revered as gods. Not the Vritra, nor even the Indrath. It fosters dependence, stifles true understanding."
Her words resonated with Sevren's confession. He sought understanding, not divine favor. A spark ignited in my chest—not just happiness, but a profound sense of connection. He saw me not as a monster, not as a divine weapon, but as a mystery to be unraveled.
"Then I will try to not draw much attention," I promised, my own voice low and earnest. My hand instinctively rose towards the horns curving from my temples. "Though I don't know what to do about these specifically…"
"Right," Sevren grimaced. "We can pass off your grey skin as an unusual Blood trait, perhaps a distant, obscure lineage. Your eyes… striking, but not unheard of in certain Bloods and surely not of Vritra origin. But the horns?" He shook his head. "They're the clearest marker of an awakened Vritra Blood. Unmistakable."
An idea sparked, born from the golden aether humming within my core and the profound understanding of Vivum gifted by the relic. Creation. Not just healing, but shaping.
The memory surfaced—the comic store, the masterpieces of camouflage superhero stories offered. I thought about a stick insect, perfectly mimicking a twig. An elegant solution, whispering of the Ancient Mages' philosophy: adapt, blend, survive.
I focused, drawing the ambient aether swirling thickly in the chamber. Not the violent surge for combat, but a gentle, focused flow. Pale gold light gathered in my cupped hands, swirling and coalescing.
"What are you doing?" Sevren hissed, alarm flashing in his eyes as he subtly shifted to block the view of my hands from nearby Ascenders.
The aether responded to my will, guided by the insight of Creation. It wasn't about conjuring life—that spark belonged to a deeper mystery. This was about form, structure, mimicry.
The image of a stick insect solidified in my mind—its slender, segmented body, its twig-like legs, its uncanny stillness. The golden light condensed, solidified, losing its luminosity until it rested in my palms: a perfect, inert replica of a stick insect, carved from solidified pale gold aether. Its coloration and subtle curves eerily mirrored my own horns.
"This… is camouflage," I explained, holding it up. It felt cool, smooth, and strangely light in my hand.
Sevren stared at the delicate aetheric sculpture, then at my horns, then back at the insect. His brow furrowed deeply. "It looks… like a very peculiar insect I've never encountered. Iskander, are you sure—"
"Trust me," I insisted, cutting him off. Before he could protest further, I reached up and carefully placed the aetheric stick insect directly onto my head, nestling it amidst my wavy black hair so that its form partially obscured the base of one horn, its angles mimicking the curve of the other.
"Oh, Child…" Sylvia's mental voice was a mixture of amusement and disbelief.
Sevren just stared, his expression a masterpiece of bewildered skepticism. I am not crazy! I shouted inwardly, willing him to understand. It's elegant! It's thematic! It's… Creation!
"You already know I have horns," I reasoned aloud, keeping my voice low. "You've seen them, felt my aether. The disguise isn't for you. It's for them." I gestured subtly with my chin towards the bustling chamber.
"To the casual glance, especially in this chaos, it should just look like… a bizarre hair ornament? Or perhaps some strange relic I picked up? Anything but actual horns."
Sevren closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. When he opened them, resignation warred with a flicker of desperate hope.
"Fine. I believe you. Or rather, I believe in you, against my better judgment." He fixed me with a stern look. "But you stay behind me. Don't speak to anyone. Don't make eye contact. Don't think aloud. Don't… do anything Iskander-ish. Let me handle everything. Understood?"
I mimed zipping my lips and gave a solemn nod, the stick insect wobbling slightly with the movement. Sevren winced. Then, shoulders squared, the mask of the competent Highblood heir firmly back in place, he activated his Simulet.
We stood within the colossal oval of the Ascenders' Association Descension Chamber. It was even more overwhelming than the previous chamber. The scale was staggering—stories high, vast enough to hold hundreds, maybe thousands. A single, massive portal pulsed with residual energy at the far end, disgorging a constant stream of returning Ascenders.
Teams stumbled through, some triumphant, hauling sacks of glowing crystals or strange artifacts, many more broken. Men and women missing limbs, carried on stretchers slick with blood, faces pale with shock or etched with permanent agony.
Others dragged shrouded bodies, the final, grim tribute extracted by the Relictombs for Agrona's ambitions.
The air vibrated with pain, exhaustion, shouted instructions from Association medics, and the low, constant thrum of countless active runes on countless backs.
Why expose their backs? The thought flickered—to display their granted power, their status within Agrona's hierarchy, like badges of servitude. The sheer, institutionalized exploitation hit me like a physical blow.
"Stay behind me," Sevren muttered, his voice tight with tension. He shot a dubious glance upwards at my head. "And let's pray that… insect… works." His tone dripped with skepticism.
"Hey!" I whispered fiercely, reaching up to gently pat the cool, smooth surface of my creation. "It has aesthetic integrity! Even if it's not alive, it's my first independent Creation!"
Sevren rolled his eyes—a gesture I suspected I was single-handedly increasing the frequency of in his life—and began to move with purposeful strides towards one of the chamber's many exits. He navigated the chaotic flow with practiced ease, a shark moving through turbulent waters.
I followed like a shadow, keeping my head slightly bowed, my gaze fixed on his back, acutely aware of the curious, assessing, and sometimes pitying glances directed at the returning Ascenders.
My disguise seemed to work. Most eyes slid over me, dismissing me as just another minor mage or perhaps a slightly eccentric, low-tier Ascender Sevren had picked up.
The stick insect, perched absurdly yet effectively, drew a few puzzled frowns but no recognition or alarm. Sevren's status acted as a shield. While other groups were stopped, questioned by stern-faced Association officials checking haul manifests and injury reports, we passed through the throngs with surprising ease.
A nod here, a brief, authoritative word from Sevren there, and the path cleared. His ability to slip seamlessly into the role of the entitled Highblood heir was both impressive and slightly chilling.
Finally, we pushed through heavy double doors and emerged into open air. The contrast was jarring. After the enclosed, blood-and-ichor-scented chaos, the expanse hit me like a physical wave.
"Welcome," Sevren said, turning slightly, a genuine, relieved smirk touching his lips as he gestured grandly before him, "to the second level of the Relictombs, Iskander."
My breath caught. A city. Not just a settlement, but a sprawling metropolis carved, impossibly, within the depths of the Relictombs. The sky overhead wasn't stone, but a breathtaking, artificial cerulean blue, mimicking daylight with uncanny realism.
The architecture was a fascinating blend—grand, sweeping structures reminiscent of Earth's 18th-century grandeur, built from luminous, pearlescent stone that seemed native to the Relictombs, interspersed with more functional, modern-looking buildings crafted from darker, reinforced materials.
Streets paved with smooth, pale stone thronged with people—not just Ascenders in their practical gear, but merchants in colorful robes, scholars clutching scrolls and artifacts, laborers pushing carts, families going about their lives.
Glowing orbs, subtly pulsing with captured aether, lined the streets, casting a warm, steady light even under the false sky.
It was vibrant, alive, a testament to human resilience and adaptability. Yet, the knowledge that this entire civilization existed under Agrona's thumb, fueled by the suffering above, cast a subtle pall over its beauty.
"The Denoir estate is on the outskirts," Sevren explained, already moving with familiar purpose down a broad avenue. "It won't take long." He guided me through the bustling streets, expertly navigating the flow.
The sheer density of life was astounding. "Why are so many people here?" I asked, unable to contain my curiosity any longer, my voice low. "It's… packed."
Sevren kept his gaze forward, his posture relaxed but alert. "It's a hub," he replied.
"Merchants from every Dominion come to trade materials, information. Scholars study the architecture, mana flows, history—what little we dare to uncover. Artists find inspiration in the strangeness. Writers chronicle Ascender tales, real and embellished. Then there are the laborers who work the safer sections of the first level—mining, harvesting fungi, maintaining infrastructure. Retired Ascenders, those who survived long enough, often settle here, running shops, training grounds, or just… living."
He glanced at me. "It's a city built on the Relictombs' back, sustained by its dangers and its treasures."
I absorbed this, the complexity of this underground society unfolding before me. We moved from the bustling commercial heart towards quieter, more residential districts. Grand estates began to appear, set back from the road behind high walls or elegant fences, each radiating an aura of wealth and power.
Sevren finally turned down a long, tree-lined avenue, stopping before an imposing wrought-iron gate. Beyond it, manicured grounds stretched towards a magnificent structure of luminous white marble, classical columns supporting a stately facade.
Guards in crisp, dark-grey uniforms bearing a subtle crest stood at attention.
"Lord Sevren," the guard at the gate saluted crisply, his eyes flickering over me with professional assessment but no overt suspicion. "Welcome back."
Sevren acknowledged him with a curt nod. "Are my parents currently in residence?"
"No, sir," the guard replied promptly.
A subtle tension I hadn't even fully registered in Sevren's shoulders eased slightly. "Good." He gestured for me to follow and swept through the now-opening gate. I trailed behind, feeling the weight of the guards' gazes, but the stick insect held. No challenge came.
We crossed the expansive courtyard, the scent of unfamiliar, fragrant blossoms carried on a gentle breeze generated by unseen means. The sheer scale of the estate was humbling.
The main doors, towering slabs of dark, polished wood, swung open as we approached. Inside, the air was cool, scented faintly with lemon oil and something floral. The entrance hall was cavernous, floored with intricate mosaics, walls adorned with tasteful tapestries depicting landscapes I didn't recognize.
A woman with vibrant orange hair coiled neatly at her nape stepped forward. She wore a simple but impeccably tailored grey dress. Her eyes swept over Sevren with warm recognition before settling on me with polite curiosity.
"Nessa," Sevren greeted her, his tone noticeably warmer than with the guards, laced with genuine respect. "Good to see you."
"Lord Sevren," she bowed gracefully, a smile touching her lips. "Welcome home. May I inquire as to your companion?"
I felt Sevren tense slightly beside me. Protocol dictated he introduce me. But the memory of President Hyperion, the weight of owning one's presence, surged. Before Sevren could fabricate a story, I stepped forward slightly, meeting Nessa's gaze directly.
I offered a respectful bow, lower than Sevren's status demanded but earnest—the bow of one acknowledging a respected steward.
"Iskander," I stated clearly. "I am Sevren's friend. We met within the Relictombs, fighting a creature of crimson mist. He saved my life, and I, in turn, was able to assist him."
Nessa's eyebrows rose, her composure momentarily ruffled by the blunt introduction and the unexpected bow from someone clearly not of noble bearing.
"Oh, Child," Sylvia sighed internally, a mixture of exasperation and fondness. "Your diplomatic skills need work."
No, they do not Sylvia, I said to myself.
"Pardon Iskander's… forthrightness, Nessa," he said, his voice adopting a light, dismissive tone. "He hails from a remote rural Unnamed Blood in Truacia. This was his first Ascent. He encountered difficulties and I offered guidance."
He placed a hand lightly on my shoulder, a gesture meant to convey patronage. "His actions during an unexpected encounter proved… unexpectedly valuable. He saved me from significant peril. Highblood Denoir honors its debts, and recognizes potential where it finds it." He infused the last sentence with the effortless authority of his station.
Nessa's expression smoothed into polite acceptance, though a flicker of lingering curiosity remained in her eyes as she looked at me, perhaps noting the unusual grey skin, the intense amethyst eyes, or the peculiar golden ornament in my hair.
"I see, Lord Sevren. Lady Caera has been most concerned for your safety. She and her guards, Taegen and Arian, embarked on an Ascent themselves three days ago, seeking word of you."
Sevren's carefully constructed mask slipped for a fraction of a second. A shadow of genuine worry crossed his features. "She would be right to worry," he murmured, so quietly I doubted Nessa heard, but my Asuran ears caught every strained syllable. "I would be dead if not for Iskander…"
"You seem rather satisfied with being acknowledged as a savior, Child," Sylvia observed, her voice warm with amusement and something akin to pride.
I mentally beamed back at her, wishing I could voice my agreement. He said it! He admitted it! But I kept my expression neutral, remembering Sevren's instructions.
Nessa bowed again. "Shall I have rooms prepared for your guest, Lord Sevren?"
"Please, Nessa. The blue suite overlooking the gardens would be suitable. And see that bath supplies are laid out immediately." Sevren's command was smooth, efficient.
"At once, Lord Sevren." Nessa glided away, her footsteps silent on the polished floor.
Sevren waited until she was out of earshot before turning to me. The sternness melted away, replaced by profound relief.
"We are…" he began, then caught himself, remembering my aversion to the word. "…fortunate. My parents aren't here. We have the residence largely to ourselves, for now." He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture betraying his exhaustion. "Nessa is discreet, loyal to the family itself, but… best to maintain the story."
But I was barely listening. The words echoed in my mind like celestial bells: bath supplies. Immediately. The geyser of anticipation erupted anew. "Does that mean…?" I whispered, my voice trembling with a hope so profound it felt ridiculous. "I can finally… try a bath? A shower?" The words were sacred incantations.
"A… a bed?" The image of clean sheets, of sinking into softness, of horizontal sleep without fear of monsters or collapsing architecture filled my vision.
Sevren looked at me, really looked at me—at the desperate yearning in my eyes, at the absurd golden insect perched on my head, at the grime and dried blood still clinging to my tattered clothes.
He saw the raw, childlike wonder warring with the power of the aether core and the weight of the golden rune.
He saw the walking contradiction he'd invited into his home. And instead of exasperation, a slow, genuine smile spread across his face, tinged with something like understanding, perhaps even pity for the depths of deprivation my strange existence had known.
"Yes, Iskander," he said, his voice softening. He placed a hand on my shoulder again, but this time it was a gesture of companionship, not patronage. "You will." He gestured down a wide corridor lined with portraits of who I presumed were severe-looking Denoirs.
"Come on. Let's get you cleaned up. Your first Creation," he nodded towards the stick insect, "deserves a rest too."
There was no mockery in his tone now, only a quiet acceptance of my strange reality. The path to the bath, to the bed, to the simple, miraculous act of cleanliness, stretched before me like a golden road. The fight against the God of Misfortune had brought me here.
Now, Creation began with hot water and soap.