Ivory clutched her dress.
Argon scowled. "You invite death with these lies of yours."
"You will kill me?" Wane tilted. "To hide your lies, your stupidity, and failure, YOU WILL KILL ME?" The chamber shuddered again, and again, none moved within the crowd. Almost creating an air of futility in the bursts of force released by Argon and Wane.
After all
Casters of such level had gained expert control over their force. Hence, the trembling was but another act of decorative needs. Bootless, yet Argon was fuming. Eyes wide, breath misting out of his nostrils.
He could not kill this man. Not with this many Attendees, Lords and Regents from the other clans. Regardless of the consequences, this must be resolved without chaos. That was the mental procession gained from the ponderings.
Ivory stilled her heart, fist tightening harder over her dress.
Right here and now...she was losing power over the clans. That and the authority as the next Highness of Valor.
Mist you, old man. Mist you!
Argon clenched and said, "Calm yourself, Wane. You act like a darkCrown."
"And here." Wane points at Argon. "Here, he equates me to lesser men. This is the leader who rules Valor? A man incapable of grasping his own greatness and a niece more stupid than it's worth!"
Ivory turned keenly to Argon, mouthing. "Don't!"
Too late!
"I WILL HAVE YOUR TONGUE FOR THAT!"
No!
A sharp crack resounded through the air. Swift with unknown precision. Sudden. There was a collective gasp in the air. What was it? Ivory turned and saw, lying on the ground was a man: Head turned round, neck tight, and spiraled as though twisted in a circle.
LORD WANE!
He was a slender figure, yet fit, dressed elegantly as befitting his title as the Lord of Wane. Warden of Stone Bastion. Yet there, on the floor, lifeless, he was but a mere carcass.
And above him stood a figure, face covered in a cloth-wrapped mask. His whole body, clothed in that very same fabric. White, maybe, but stained with deep smudges of black soot. Beside him were two buzzing bugs. Dark.
A voice screamed from the crowd. "FERMEN! THEY ARE CRAWLING FROM BODIES!"
What?
Wane twitched. Abrupt. Blood pooling out from beneath him as a hand erupted through his stomach, rearing from his flesh. An almost crimson form. A man, dressed in the same face-covered wrappers. Crawling, both hands used as supports for the slow emergence. He seemed a monster. A birthed evil. He, however, was covered in red, and around him now floated the buzzing bugs.
Fermen had come to the Great Hall!
Danger!
Her hands quivered, sweat trickling down her brow. Be it the accumulated emotions--the anxiety, dread, anger, but right now, staring at these strangers within her coronation. There was only rage.
The beasts called men.
Wane was one of them, a man who sacrificed himself. Was willing to end his life for the belief that some power was owed to his clan. He had failed. But at what cost? Conflict, undoubtedly, had been sown into the hearts of the Attendees. Now, they would question. They would wonder what held truth and falsehood.
Was Wane right? Was Valor colluding with the Theocracy? Questions within questions, one that would inevitably be answered when pried by the multi-eyes of the current audience. They would learn of her secret. They would demand her absolution by one of two ways: Either the sure death of Kabel or her removal as the highHeir.
Argon would not allow for the latter, and Ivory would not for the former! It was a stalemate of desires.
She stood, saw then the chaos that had unfolded within the Great Hall.
Through the space, bodies were sliced clean by blades. Oredite. Men and women dropped dead in the form of shivering corpses. Force-drained, like had nearly been done to Kabel. They were Fermen jumping off the dead bodies--crawling out of the chest, the womb, like monsters birthed in instants. Harrowing.
Screams churned the hall, swords passing through flesh, ending the lives of the wrapped Fermen. Yet, they grew faster than they died. Perhaps if they were reduced to a trio, they would have no choice but to retreat. Fermen functioned in that accordance.
There was so much death. Within Valor, on this day. She was unsure, but perhaps this chaos was on par with the day ringed to her since birth. The Rednight. What is this? Ivory thought, distraught. Is this some reenactment of that day? Was Odium not enough? Now they bring the Fermen. Now they sow discord here?
She screamed. "VALOR!"
A silence lorded through the space.
"YOU DARE COME HERE?" She reached into the dress, traced softly the internal intuition, thought: I AM, time to fulfill your end of the bargain! And said, "HAVE YOU NO FEAR?" Argon stepped close behind her. "THIS IS WHERE YOU CHOOSE TO ATTACK? NOT AT THE SLEEPING HOURS, OR THE QUIET MOMENTS, BUT HERE? YOU ATTACK IN THE PRESENCE OF BARRISTAN NIGHT OF THE HOUSE OF NOCTIS. IN THE PRESENCE OF JULIUS DAWN, THE STARLORD OF THE TWILIGHT SWORD. IN THE PRESENCE OF ROBERT GLADSTONE? Ah, I pity you! I PITY HOW EASILY YOU FORFEIT YOUR LIVES."
Sharply, she turned, facing Argon, who observed with burning fury. Storming Rage. But there was no time to ponder that. Quickly, she took off the white glove and slid the Emerelt into her hands, surging the internal force. Startled, Argon observed this, lips mouthing bewildering words. Indeed, to him, this was far more damning than the revelation of Kabel. This thing--this simple glove was the undeniable attestation to her sins.
After all, the Emerlts could only be made by the church, worn only by the Gresendant Sonitras. This proves everything. What chaos this would bring to Valor. Perhaps, this would be the start of the long-dreaded clan war! She reined in, flexed the fingers, and went inwards.
Power!
Like always, the force was an emergent sensation. A knowing of awesome power that swelled through her body. Within the mind, it heightened the mental procession. The world, everything, slowed as the inputted stimuli escalated. Just a moment was the provided time.
She reached for it, the symbol--whatever it was. The strange chalk that painted reality into another. There it was. Enclosed with a bubble of awareness. She wrenched it, heard then the faint whispers of everything. Countless data imprinting themselves into her mind. Endless. The chalk, blurred into her grasp--a short block of whiteness. A weapon.
It made manifest.
Lines drew across the air as she painted a form into reality. A glove. Like an arm, it bore the sameness as hers; pale, slender fingers with blackened nails. Even a mother would mistake it for hers. But it wasn't.
Regardless, the secret of the glove could not be revealed, lest Valor fall in a day. So what was the choice? How did one mask a lie, a secret that must never be known? Answer: You covered it up. Simple. And that was what she did. Floating in the air, the scripplings burned with a faint whiteness-drawn. She tapped on it, and it flashed, forged into the imagined likeness.
Time was passing. The second, nearly at its end as the surged force faded, or dipped in intensity. But just enough for the needed. She reached for it and gloved the Emerelt hand—pale skin worn over the blackened one.
She turned sharply, reality a now normal motile force. Around, the Casters watched in silence, perhaps. Likely, a few of the casters experienced time in a heightened manner. But if they did, unless by some means, her flesh became transient, they would never know of what had been done. And that was wonderful.
The right arm reared up, pale skin glistening in unknown light. She roared, "THIS IS VALOR! AND WE HAVE GRAVES FOR YOU!"
Violence descended into the hall as the Fermen, renewed by some fervor, battled in frenetic motions. Hacking, piercing, devouring force with those bugs of theirs. But they died also. Now in numbers. Excubitors had cratered into the Hall, oredite blades swinging, cleaving flesh from skin.
This was death!
And Ivory sought to make a name in this moment. She reached for the force, the amount that still remained within, and marshaled it. Into the chalk, which she hoped existed as a blur of incomprehensible symbols to the observer. That was the way in the viewing of higherMnd symbols. Fortunately, no Highness or beings above the Sacred Rank existed in this chamber. That reduced the possibility of discovery.
Even if they could not observe the Emerlt underneath, a simple glance at the used symbols revealed her relation to the dreamShaper. That alone was an implied disqualification from the title as highHeir. Never. Thus, using the chalk, forms of Fermen were painted into the world. Each with parts of the body missing. An Arm. A leg. A head. A face.
Something to cast the illusion of the exiling symbols. A piece of the symbols within the Bladesworn order. Just enough to paint the illusion within the minds of the observers. Done, she tapped it into reality. It flashed, and across the hall, countless Fermen dropped to the ground, faceless, armless—no blood, no slice, just an erasure of limbs.
Eyes drifted to her—men and women of Eastos. The nobility observed this for a moment and launched back into their conflict. There was no time to ponder or consider the acts of a simple brightCrown. Be it highHeir or not. Yet that mere recognition of her actions was enough. Good. Ivory knew now most of them would dismiss the rumor of weakness as nothing but a falsehood.
But what about the one with Kabel? What would end that rumor?