Chapter Rewrite/Addition -- Book 2

[ hiiii I promise promise promise you lovely people are gonna get 2 chaps this week, i've been super busy with my insane 15+ hour/day week (just this week, for grad school kick-off!) but the chap that you guys were supposed to get on monday is almost done. i'm gonna be traveling a lot of friday and should have time to write that chap too, so i still expect it to be on time. no matter what, by end of the month/patreon billing cycle, y'all will have all the promised chapters.

thank you for your patience and understanding! <3

while waiting, here's a heavily modified chapter from book 2. i'm going through and editing now based on feedback from readers and one key change people requested was more lead up into achemiss' introduction (so it doesn't feel so random).

the context for this scene is that ian has just met with ezenti to hear his opinion on what needs to be done -- either delivering ian's head on a platter as a peace offering & the prince marrying maria, or going to war.

ian then goes to eury to discuss his frustration with ezenti's comments. the two go to sleep, and that's when the biggest change happens. before, nothing happened when ian slept. now, i added a whole dream sequence where ian gets a whiff of what's to come.

i copy-pasted the whole chapter to show the context, but feel free to skim/skip to the first break (❖❖❖), as that's where the dream sequence begins. ]

Later that evening, over dinner, Ian brought up his meeting with Ezenti.

“He seemed to think that the Eldemari would absolutely refuse a peaceful option,” Ian ranted. “That she’d never consider just evacuating Pardin and one day reaping the debt that I would sow.”

“You know, you’re quite animated when you’re angry,” Euryphel observed.

Ian shot him a disapproving look before continuing. “Besides, it’s all the Eldemari’s fault anyway, funding the Infinity Loop. What did she expect to happen if she went about researching how to awaken an army of latent practitioners?”

Euryphel covered a budding smile with his sleeve, his eyes creasing with mirth. “In her defense, she certainly wouldn’t have anticipated you.”

“Well maybe she should have,” Ian argued. “I’d believe someone like me wasn’t meant to awaken at all. And yet, her Infinity Loop project went and awakened a sleeping beast. Y’jeni, Eury.”

Euryphel’s expression suddenly grew stern. “Stop being absurd,” he replied. “It’s not her Infinity Loop project; she’s just given the experiment a bit of funding, to see if its hypotheses about the nature of awakening affinities possess any merit.” He paused, frowning.

“But in response to what you first said, about the Eldemari not evacuating Pardin,” Euryphel began again, taking in a deep breath. “It’s not as easy as you make it sound. It’s possible she’d need to evacuate all of Pardinia. Can you imagine the logistical nightmare of relocating over a fifth of Selejo’s populace, providing them food, shelter, facilities? Can you comprehend the economic impact of destroying Pardin, Selejo’s capital of commerce?” He crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.

“Well...”

“Would you ever be able to pay back such a debt?” the prince asked, fiddling with a lock of hair. “Likely trillions of auris in combined damages and economic slowdown, at a bare minimum. Not to mention the crippling of Selejo’s defenses along the Bay of Ramsay, which would be a small disaster in its own right.”

Ian crossed his arms. “Seems pretty hopeless.”

“You seem to be seriously considering the possibility that you’re going to ascend,” Euryphel said, giving Ian an appraising look.

How could I not consider it? Ian thought. “You said that there’s only a chance, that it’s not a sure thing, but that isn’t how you and the other primes have been acting.” Ian sighed and turned away, looking out the window of Euryphel’s parlor. “I suppose it’s useless denying that I’m significantly more powerful than any one member of the princes or Guard, even when including a ninety-nine percenter like Ezenti.”

While Ian spoke, Euryphel fetched two glasses and a tall handle of liquor with an ostentatious “SELEJO” import label. After pouring out an approximation of a shot, he walked over and handed a glass to Ian.

“Cheers,” Euryphel said, clinking his glass. “If nothing else, we can celebrate the return of Selejan liquor.”

Ian sniffed, then tilted the glass back to take a sip. “Whiskey?” he asked, licking his lips.

Euryphel nodded, sitting back down in a parlor chair. “It’s an undeniable fact that Locuda province has the best whiskey in the West.”

Humming, Ian leaned back and let his head fall limply over the chair’s crown. “Prince, isn’t there anything you need me to do?”

The prince’s eyebrows rose, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Haven’t you been looking into uses for that large soul gem you made?”

Ian nodded.

“Well, that’s something,” Euryphel said. “If you can develop something similar to the glosSword, that would be of huge benefit.”

Ian opened his mouth, then looked up, as though mulling over his words. “You can’t really believe that this is the best use for my talents, right?”

Euryphel’s brow twitched. “Obviously,” he muttered after taking a sip of the whiskey. “Ian, to be fair, you’re a bit difficult to deal with.”

“How so?”

The prince sighed and shifted his position, pulling his legs up onto the chair. “You don’t want to do what I need you to do,” he stated. “You don’t want to go into Brin, or Godora. You don’t want to assassinate enemy spies or scouts. To be frank, you’re quite unwilling to engage in any action against our soon-to-be-hostile neighbors. It’s put me in a difficult position.”

“You never—” Ian was about to say “asked,” but stopped himself. Knowing Euryphel, he’s probably asked me numerous times in countless different ways.

“You really need me to do those kinds of things?” Ian asked quietly, looking down at the patterned rug.

Euryphel was silent for a few seconds. “When war eventually makes its way to Zukal’iss, I have faith you’ll join me to fight. The problem is that acting defensively is acting too late.”

“Is conflict inevitable?” Ian asked, finally meeting Euryphel’s eyes. Ezenti had said as much, but he wanted to hear it from Euryphel himself.

“Yes.”

“And you believe that acting first will minimize harm?”

“It’s the best way to preserve ourselves; it’s also the only option that might force the Eldemari to capitulate,” the prince replied. “If she leads the offensive with the other Ho’ostarian nations at her side, she will have all the momentum she needs to wipe us out.”

“So in a sense, you want me to stop the war before it begins. With decisive violence.”

Euryphel cocked his head. “In a sense.” The prince stood and walked over, collecting Ian’s finished glass and returning it to the empty kitchen.

“Is there any way to be sure that I will ascend?”

“Not that I know of.”

Ian nodded, then stood up and stretched. “And the longer I wait to be sure, the less time we’ll have to act.”

“And the longer she’ll have to come to the same conclusion as us,” Euryphel stated coolly. “The Eldemari’s End affinity is more potent than mine: Don’t underestimate her ability to interpret the web of destiny.”

The prince walked over to the door, opening it to reveal Ian’s room. “Give it some thought.”

“Sleep well,” Ian replied, voice tired. When the door closed behind him, he drifted to the bed and collapsed.

I didn’t become a practitioner to win wars, he thought. I didn’t become a practitioner to turn the political landscape of the West on its head.

“Too bad you can’t always get what you want,” he whispered, closing his eyes.

❖❖❖

Ian found himself in darkness.

Not like the darkness of night, with moonglow and silvery silhouettes, but darkness like a cave, or a coffin. He tried to move, only to find himself bound by what felt like Dark affinity tendrils. Despite his immobility, he felt strangely calm. It was as though he was a corpse in a sunken ship, with nothing to see, nowhere to go, just bobbing with the fish and weeds.

The serenity of death. He tried to speak, but found a pressure constricting his jaw.

Despite the absolute darkness and unsettling pressure, Ian thought that he knew where he was: Menocht Bay. He could sense nothing and no one, but his intuition screamed that this city in which he’d died hundreds, thousands of times was now his grave.

It felt inevitable. He’d been stuck here for so long, begging for release—had he finally gotten it?

But I must not be dead, he thought, his mind hazy. I wouldn’t be thinking if I were dead. Or would he? It’s not like he’d truly died before. Perhaps there was something after—a domain of death, an afterlife...something pertaining to the soul.

Focus, he chided himself. Postulating without information was pointless—he’d sooner lead himself astray with false assumptions than come upon the truth.

Ian didn’t have control over his practice in this bizarre space, but as time moved forward, he slowly resisted the omnipresent pressure. He regained sensation and control of his limbs and realized he wasn’t underwater but in a closed room. He dragged himself across the carpeted floor to find a wall. He found it quickly—the room wasn’t that big—and followed it around until he felt a dip in its surface. He found door hinges, then found a handle and twisted it.

Ian pushed on the door and it swung open. He narrowed his eyes into the lightless beyond. Outside the chamber, the darkness was variable, like light filtering down into ocean depths. He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, but the shifting darkness was singularly distinct. He walked forward into the murk, looking for signs of life.

As Ian moved forward, the shadows began to coalesce, forming a distinct silhouette of shadow on void. The shadow palace didn’t look like the kind of structure that belonged in Menocht Bay. As Ian watched the palace solidify, he began to recognize it. He’d walked through the classical pillars at the entrance, frequented the spires rising from its center.

It was unmistakably Ichormai, the SPU’s Palace of Fortitude.

Suddenly, as though cut from darkness itself, an indistinct figure emerged, towering over everything, even the palace’s top-most spire. Its head was out of view, extending into the void of the sky. Ian felt every hair on his body stand up, his body tensing instinctively. The pressure covering the area redoubled, and shadowy tentacles encroached over the ground, writhing like snakes. Ian flinched as they ensnared his legs and advanced up his torso. In the distance, Ian saw the tendrils coil around the palace like overgrowth.

Ian struggled, but the increased pressure rendered him feeble; the tentacles advanced over his body, wrapping him in constricting, cold coils. His thrashing continued to weaken as the tendrils sapped his energy, filling him with torpor.

Then, unprovoked, the figure began to laugh. It was triumphant and cold, like someone gloating victory over an adversary, blade pressed against the enemy’s throat. It was so domineering that the entire space began to shake, the tendrils writhing in response, coiling even tighter. The palace cracked and began to capsize under their power.

The titanic, laughing figure reached over the ruined palace, fingers extending inexorably toward Ian’s bundled form. The decemancer was only standing because the shadowy tendrils locked him in place and anchored him to the ground.

Ian flinched, waiting for the fingers to touch him, each fingertip larger than his head. He had the sense that the power in those fingers was enough to destroy this place and wipe him from existence.

Defiant, he resisted the urge to close his eyes. The die is cast—now I wait.

The moment the furthest finger touched his forehead, Ian felt an intense pressure, and everything went black.

❖❖❖

Euryphel lay curled up on his bed, unable to sleep.

I didn’t become Crowned Prime to break my father’s peace, he thought somberly. “Is it too much to want to rule fairly and effectively? Too much to want to hold on to what good we have?”

He held out his left hand, his eyes tracing over the form of the arrow embedded within. He looked away and turned his focus to the arrows connecting him to the rest of the world and more generally, the network of fate binding all of the citizens in Zukal’iss. “Stability is already starting to slip,” he murmured. He could feel it all around him, that ominous feeling of something coming that Maria had mentioned when they last spoke. If it weighed on him, it certainly was weighing on her.

And if she found out about Ian, it wouldn’t matter that she favored Euryphel. She would descend faster and harder than a descendant toward the SPU’s heart, a vortex of fire and fury.

With every day that passed, Euryphel felt that the world was coiling tighter around him. The Prime of Fives, in particular, antagonized him at every opportunity, as though honing in on his indecision. They, in turn, reached out to their connections in the military, effectively causing every one of his generals to question his unwillingness to put his new personal retainer to use. The General Assembly was meeting in a few days, and Euryphel had no doubts that the assembly would demand answers and accountability.

Telling them that the decemancer didn’t feel like dirtying his hands likely wouldn’t go over well.

Euryphel sighed, envisioning the domineering, unrestrained form of the decemancer, looming like a deity over a flaming Menocht. His cold face was utterly untroubled by the destruction, indifference justified by the impermanent impact of his actions.

The prince clenched his fist. “Ian...I hope you grow up.”