Chapter 15: Ascender's Badge
Iskander
The word hung in the vast atrium, sharp and final.
"No."
Seris Vritra didn't flinch. Didn't rage. Her alabaster face remained a flawless mask, but the obsidian depths of her eyes… they didn't narrow in anger. Like dark water freezing over in an instant they stilled.
"Seri—" I started, the instinctive shortening of her name slipping out before I could catch it.
Her glacial gaze snapped to mine, sharper than any blade. The unspoken command was a physical pressure against my skin.
"From now on you will call me Scythe Seris Vritra," she enunciated, each syllable precise, brittle, and utterly devoid of warmth, "in public."
The emphasis was a whip-crack reminder of the chasm between us, of the role she wore like a second skin even while offering rebellion. Hypocrite? Or master strategist playing a role so deep even her allies see only the mask? A part of me rankled.
Was this woman, spouting defiance against a tyrant, still so entrenched in the system's pomp that she demanded her full, dreaded title? Could she truly be free of Agrona's shadow if she clung to its trappings?
Maybe Agular would be a better mock-name, I thought darkly, Agular sounds cooler, less dictator, more… disgruntled minor noble. But Agular didn't fit the chilling reality before me.
Relax, Iskander, I told myself, forcing a breath into lungs that felt tight. From her point of view, you're probably the most erratic, infuriatingly unpredictable anomaly on... Earth.
I made a mental note to ask Sylvia later what this planet was actually called.
Yet, Seris didn't leave. Instead, she shifted tactics with the ruthless efficiency of a seasoned general facing an unexpected obstacle.
"Very well," she stated, the glacial edge softening minutely into cool pragmatism. "But you will use the cover I provided. Iskander Briand of Aedelgard, Sehz-Clar Dominion. Foster child of Highblood Briand."
It wasn't a request this time. It was a condition for continued existence.
"It is the bare minimum required to navigate the system without immediate scrutiny. Refuse that, and even my influence cannot shield Sevren for long."
The logic was undeniable. We were, technically, on the same side of the fundamental conflict: Agrona was the enemy. She despised him as a mad god-scientist-dictator, a cancer consuming her world.
I hated him for Sylvia's murder, for crafting this body as a weapon, for the looming threat of his nightmare laboratory. For how similar to King Grey's Etharia this world seemed to be because of an individual like him.
Our goals aligned.
So, we forged a compromise, a treaty written in glances and promises. I would remain within the relative safety of the Relictombs, focusing on growing stronger—a desire burning as bright as my golden core. In exchange for this autonomy, I would be available as… contingency.
A hidden blade Seris could call upon if her own intricate plans against Agrona crumbled into catastrophic failure. "In case of urgency," I emphasized, the word heavy with the weight of potential doom I didn't fully grasp.
Seris, in turn, would solidify my false identity and provide the accolade currently clenched in my fist. A simple glamour charm to conceal my horns. Reluctantly, I tucked it into a pocket of my borrowed trousers, still mentally defending the aesthetic superiority of my aetheric stick insect, even if it had failed its primary purpose against Seris's discerning eye. It had much more character.
The next step felt surreal. We were going to the Ascenders' Association on the Relictombs' second level. Not to flee, or hide, but to register. To become an official cog in the very machine Seris sought to dismantle, under her direct, albeit hidden, supervision.
"Sorry, Scythe Seris Vritra," I said, layering the title with a thick veneer of mock reverence, dipping into a shallow, deliberately imperfect bow.
The theatricality of it made Sylvia sigh internally—a sound tinged with exasperation but also a thread of profound relief that I wasn't actively trying to get disintegrated.
"What I meant to say," I continued, straightening, meeting her obsidian gaze with a spark of defiance barely concealed beneath the performance, "was: I am not a kid being dropped off for his first day of school."
"That," Seris stated, her voice devoid of inflection, "is one of the most idiotic analogies I have ever heard."
She turned, her robes swirling with regal disdain, and began walking towards the atrium doors. "You are without an Ascender Badge within the Relictombs. Your presence is an anomaly, a question mark that invites dangerous scrutiny."
"Fortunately," she added, not looking back, "my presence here will expedite the process considerably. Try not to undo that advantage."
"You are being petty, Child," Sylvia chastised, her mental voice firm but laced with an undeniable maternal concern. "This is necessary. Lay low and learn. And for the sake of the skies above, behave yourself."
Yes, Mom, I sighed inwardly, the thought carrying a surprising warmth amidst the tension. Following Seris out into the Denoir courtyard felt like stepping onto a stage under a blinding spotlight. The guards snapped to even stiffer attention, their eyes wide with terror directed solely at the Scythe.
We walked in silence through the strangely quiet streets of the Relictombs city. Seris moved with an effortless grace, a force of nature parting the sea of humanity before her. People froze mid-stride, conversations died instantly, faces paled.
A palpable wave of dread rolled ahead of us, silencing the vibrant hum of the city. My own presence grey skin and intense eyes, was utterly eclipsed by the sheer, terrifying aura of the Scythe. I felt simultaneously invisible and hyper-exposed.
"Any suggestions on what I actually have to do once I'm an official Ascender?" I asked, breaking the heavy silence as the imposing, utilitarian structure of the Ascenders' Association loomed ahead.
Seris didn't break stride. "You will find a team," she stated, her voice clipped. "For your first 'official' ascent."
Before I could voice the obvious question—why complicate things?—she anticipated it.
"Solo Ascenders draw attention. Unusual attention, especially for a newly registered individual, even one fostered by an Highblood. Teams are the norm. They provide plausible deniability, shared responsibility, and camouflage within the herd." She glanced sideways at me, her expression unreadable. "Word will spread that I recommended you, which carries its own weight and scrutiny. However, it is not unprecedented for Scythes to tutor promising mages they encounter. Coupled with the Highblood Briand connection…"
She left the sentence hanging. The cover story was layered, intricate. She really had thought this through, probably long before finding me. The efficiency was impressive, almost Alfred-levels of meticulous planning, though Alfred orchestrated tea services and diplomatic luncheons, not deceptions against god-kings.
"And this Highblood Briand?" I pressed, needing to understand the role I was to play. "What do I need to know? Any charming family traits I should emulate? Favorite colors? Allergies?"
For the briefest fraction of a second, a micro-expression flickered across Seris's impassive face. A subtle tightening around her eyes, a minuscule twitch of an eyebrow. It was so fast, so controlled, I might have imagined it. Something about Briand unsettled even the unflappable Scythe.
"They were one of the most prominent Highbloods in Sehz-Clar," she explained, her voice regaining its cool monotone. "Their influence has waned over generations, but they retain significant holdings and respect within their specific domains." She paused, then added, anticipating my next thought, "And no, they do not maintain an estate here within the Relictombs."
We arrived at the plaza before the Association. The chaotic din died instantly. Utter silence descended, thick and suffocating. Hundreds of eyes, wide with primal fear, locked onto Scythe Seris Vritra.
The air crackled with suppressed mana, not aggression, but sheer, paralyzing terror. Ascenders froze mid-gesture, merchants dropped their wares, laborers halted their carts. The vibrant city life turned into a tableau of terrified stillness.
"Stay here," Seris commanded, her voice cutting through the silence like shattering glass. She didn't wait for acknowledgment. She simply walked forward, the crowd parting before her like wheat before a scythe, leaving me utterly alone in the center of the petrified plaza.
The silence was deafening. The weight of hundreds of stares pressed in on me, a physical force. I was a beacon in the sudden, unnerving stillness. My grey skin, my unusual features, all suddenly felt hyper-visible.
"Sylvia," I said looking at the cerulean sunless sky above, "what do you think we should call the party I'm apparently going to form?"
"A name for a party?" Sylvia echoed, her mental voice laced with affectionate exasperation. She shimmered faintly beside me, a comforting presence only I could see. "You truly do enjoy naming things, don't you, Child?"
"I sure do," I replied.
"Justice League… Avengers… X-Men… Lanterns Corp…" I mused aloud, the words feeling familiar and comforting in the tense silence. "I have no idea…"
My contemplation was abruptly cut short. The paralysis broke. Not into noise, but into a sudden, cautious surge of movement directed solely at me. Like iron filings drawn to a magnet, Ascenders began to converge. Hesitantly at first, then with growing boldness, they formed a loose circle around me. The fear directed at Seris had vanished, replaced by intense, speculative curiosity focused on the anomaly she'd left behind.
"You!" a burly Ascender boomed, pushing to the front. He wore scarred plate armor and carried a massive axe slung across his back. "You know the Scythe? How? Who are you?"
Before I could formulate a response, another voice, sharper, cut through. "Are you seeking a team for your first Ascent?" A woman, lean and sharp-featured, her dark hair tied back severely, stepped forward. She wore practical leathers and had twin daggers sheathed at her hips. Her gaze was shrewd, analytical. "Named Blood Heathcliff would be honored to sponsor you. We have a delve planned next fay. Your connection… could be mutually beneficial."
"Don't listen to her, newcomer!" the burly man countered, puffing out his chest. "My group, we handle the real challenges! If you need a team that knows how to handle the deep zones, look no further! We'd be honored to show you the ropes!"
More voices joined the chorus, a rising tide of offers, questions, and blatant attempts at recruitment. Pretty faces smiled invitingly, seasoned veterans offered gruff endorsements of their teams, scholars offered to share maps and lore. I was suddenly the center of a very polite, very intense bidding war.
"You seem to be very popular, Child," Sylvia observed, her voice a mixture of amusement and deep concern. She watched the jostling crowd with a wary eye. "A popularity born solely of proximity to power. Remember Seris's warning. Remember why you need the team. Think carefully before you leap. Please."
I'm not that impulsive, I protested inwardly, even as I offered a non-committal smile to a woman. I know how to be cunning.
The memory of the Heart Relic's vision surfaced. I could play the game. But the visceral desire roared within me: this life shouldn't be like that. Not scheming, not politicking. Yet, the chilling truth settled like lead in my stomach: with an enemy like Agrona, freedom might be the most dangerous game of all.
Seris's single word—"Begone."—cut through the clamor like a blade of aether.
It wasn't shouted, yet it resonated with an authority that vibrated in the bones, silencing the cacophony instantly. The press of bodies around me recoiled as if physically shoved, stumbling back several paces, faces paling as they remembered the chilling presence that had momentarily departed but whose shadow lingered.
Without a word, she pressed a small, cool object into my hand—a slim card of dense, dark material etched with glowing, intricate silver lines that pulsed faintly.
My Ascender badge. It had everything, name, height, hair and eyes colour. When did she—
"Take this. You are officially an Ascender."
"Thanks, Scythe Seris," I managed, dipping into another shallow, performative bow. The urge to roll my eyes skyward at the absurd pantomime of deference was almost overwhelming, but I swallowed it.
She didn't acknowledge the thanks. She simply turned, her robes whispering against the cobblestones, and walked away, the terrified crowd parting anew before her like reeds before a shark.
The silence held for a breath, two… then the dam broke.
The stares, the whispers, the renewed surge of hopeful, ambitious faces lunging back towards me was immediate, suffocating. It was like being the last scrap of meat thrown into a kennel after the alpha wolf departed.
"Maybe it's better for you to go somewhere more secluded," Sylvia's voice cut through the rising din, laced with urgent practicality.
"Excuse me! Pardon!" I called out, not waiting for acknowledgment, using my augmented physique to gently but firmly shoulder through the tightening ring.
"Scythe's orders! Important business!" I bluffed, invoking the dread name like a shield. It worked. Hesitation flickered in their eyes, creating small gaps I exploited, breaking free from the epicenter of unwanted attention.
I ducked down a side street, then another, moving with purposeful speed away from the plaza.
I emerged onto a wider avenue—Vritra Avenue, according to a grand, wrought-iron sign. It was lined with imposing buildings and strange, beautiful trees bearing leaves as white as bleached bone, casting dappled, ghostly shadows on the paved street. Less crowded, but still too exposed.
My eyes caught on a towering clocktower of dark stone at the avenue's end.
I made a beeline for it, slipping into the shadow it cast across a narrower side street. Here, the ambient noise faded, replaced by the rhythmic ticking echoing faintly from above and the rustle of the white leaves.
I pressed myself against the cool, rough stone of a building corner, breathing deeply, trying to shed the claustrophobic feeling of being hunted by opportunity.
"Damn Seris," I muttered, leaning my head back against the stone. "She didn't just put a target on my back, she painted it neon and hung a sign." The frustration was sharp.
The teams clamoring for me back there? They weren't seeking Iskander. They were seeking the Scythe's reflected glory, a shortcut, a patron.
Finding genuine companions, people I could trust at my back in the lethal dance of the Relictombs, felt impossible under that kind of scrutiny. A good team… it needed to be forged in shared struggle, mutual respect, maybe even begrudging tolerance.
Not auctioned off in a plaza. I wanted to go down in the Relictombs alone, but I agreed with Seris and I really really desired making my own team.
"You should ask around now," Sylvia suggested, her spectral form appearing beside me, leaning casually against the clocktower as if it were solid. "Before the entire city knows you're Seris' apparent protégé. Find a team before the legend precedes the man."
Her lavender eyes held a spark of cunning.
"Trust built on ignorance of your connection might be more honest than trust bought with it."
She was right. Brutally, cleverly right. If I could find a group before my association with Seris became common gossip, I stood a chance of them seeing me first.
Taking a final steadying breath, I peered back around the corner onto Vritra Avenue. The coast seemed clear; no one scanning the alleys for me. Yet. I stepped out, blending into the thinner flow of pedestrians.
The Ascenders here moved with a different air—confident, purposeful, their gear gleaming with obvious enchantment, powerful runes proudly displayed on their backs like badges of elite status. Too polished. Too established.
Not the raw, desperate, or simply inexperienced energy I was looking for. I needed fellow newcomers, or veterans not yet jaded by politics. I turned away from the avenue of white trees and prestigious armor, heading deeper into the city's less gleaming arteries.
The streets grew narrower, the buildings less ornate, though still crafted from the Relictombs' stone, now worn and smudged with city grime. The air smelled less of ozone and expensive perfumes, more of damp stone, cooking food from open windows, and the faint metallic tang of poorly maintained mana conduits.
I walked, scanning faces, groups, looking for… something. A spark. A sign. Sylvia walked beside me, a silent, watchful companion.
"For how long do you intend to wander, Child?" she asked after perhaps twenty minutes of fruitless searching. The city was vast, a bewildering labyrinth carved from impossibility. Apart from the Summit Estates and the Ascenders' Association hub, I was utterly lost.
"Until I find somewhere I can find a team," I replied, stubbornness edging my voice.
Then I saw it. A flicker of movement down a particularly grubby alleyway. No sign, no fanfare. It looked functional, maybe even slightly seedy. Perfect. Instinct tugged me towards it. I pivoted and strode down the alley, the sounds of the main street fading behind me. I reached the door just as it was swinging shut behind the last Ascender.
I paused, peering at the worn wood, the lack of identification. What was this place? A dive bar for Ascenders? A shady recruiter's den?
My contemplation was interrupted by a low, gravelly voice dripping with impatience.
"Care to move away?" A tall figure loomed beside me, having approached silently. He was easily my height, maybe taller, with a wiry strength apparent even beneath a simple, slightly stained white shirt and practical trousers.
Brown hair, messy and parted sharply to the right, fell over a forehead creased in annoyance. His eyes, a startlingly dark blue, scanned the entrance behind me, pointedly avoiding meeting my gaze.
His skin was a deep tan, but only on his face and exposed forearms; a stark line at his rolled-up sleeves revealed skin as pale as mine beneath.
My eyes snagged on the thick, ropy scar that ran from the back of his right hand, snaking up his forearm and vanishing under his sleeve, only to reappear as a brutal, jagged line slashing across the left side of his neck.
He shifted his weight, the massive, well-worn mace slung casually over one shoulder thumping softly against his back. His boot tapped an impatient rhythm on the cobblestones.
"I have some Wogarts to bring on their first ascent," he grumbled, jerking his head towards the closed door. "So please. Step aside."
Wogarts. Sevren told me it meant new Ascenders. And this man… he escorted first-timers? A Principal, like Sevren mentioned? The irony was delicious. Exactly what I needed.
Before Sylvia could voice the obvious question forming in my mind—"Child, why this man? He radiates impatience, not camaraderie!"—the answer bubbled up, pure and instinctive.
"I like this guy," I said aloud, the words escaping before I could filter them. I held up my brand-new Ascender badge, the silver lines catching the dim alley light. "I just got my badge too…"
The man froze mid-tap. He stared at the badge, then slowly, deliberately, lifted his dark blue eyes to mine. For the first time, he really looked at me, his gaze sweeping over my grey skin, lingering briefly on the horns partially obscured by my hair.
A flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes before settling back into profound weariness. He let out a sigh that seemed to come from the soles of his worn boots, a sound of utter, bone-deep exasperation.
"The High Sovereign doesn't pay us Principals enough for this," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose beneath the messy fringe of brown hair.
"So," I pressed, unable to keep the eager hope out of my voice, "does that mean I'm in?"
He dropped his hand and fixed me with a look that was equal parts disbelief and utter resignation. "Do whatever," he sighed, the words heavy with the weight of dealing with yet another problem.
"But step out of the damn doorway. I have the rest of you Wogarts to meet with." He emphasized the 'you', lumping me firmly into the category of troublesome newbies.
"Right behind you!" I chirped, stepping smartly aside, a grin spreading across my face despite his gruffness.