Discordant Note | TBATE

Chapter 150: Beneath the Masks

Seris Vritra

The mana in the air burned in the aftermath of a fight, lingering wisps of spellfire and disturbance wafting through the space around. All through the city of Fiachra, trace fires burned hotly, a greenish-red gas settling against the stones like mold against a foundation.

I'd need to address that later. Right now, my priority was the source of the battle that had raged across Fiachra. I approached the Doctrination Temple of East Fiachra at speed as I forced myself to move faster and faster, a quiet hope in the depths of my core that I was not too late.

For the barest moment, I hovered over the dilapidated temple rooftop. I inhaled, a small weave of dread coursing through my veins. The levels of power that had been thrown around–that I could sense, lingering in the atmosphere–were enough to put even me on guard.

The battle had already ended. I could only hope for the identity of the victor.

I slowly descended through a break in the roof, scanning the wide expanse of the temple. I traced a path of battle up to the altar, where–

Toren Daen leaned against the altar along the raised centerpiece of the temple, not an ounce of mana detectable from his core. His entire form was caked in blood, dirt, and cuts, the once-proud symbol of Named Blood Daen ripped to shreds over his chest. His hair had managed to escape his neat ponytail, leaving it in a wild disarray.

But when we locked eyes, I was forcefully wrenched back to that time not a day past along the balcony of the Denoir's ball. Where this young man told me of the wonders that were beyond even Agrona Vritra's reach in entrancing detail. Of the things the High Sovereign's greedy malice could never touch.

His eyes widened perceptibly as they held me in place. "Renea?" he asked, the word slow and weak.

For all I had expected and planned for this moment–where I would eventually reveal the true face beneath my cloaking artifact to the man before me so that I might tie him to my plans–I found that I did not know how to respond. As Toren's burning eyes asked–no, demanded–an answer to his question, I realized he'd torn away another mask. Ripped apart another veil that kept me obscured, long before I could withdraw it when I was ready.

Just like he had an irritating tendency to do with every single one of our interactions.

But then he collapsed, toppling toward the altar stairs. On instinct, I blurred forward, catching his unconscious body before it could tumble down the steps. He felt strangely warm; as if his entire body were in the grips of fever, yet he showed no other signs of distress.

Foolish woman, I chastised myself as I realized what had happened. I had not taken the time to think. You are not Renea Shorn right now. You are Seris Vritra.

As I held the Daen man's limp body, I smothered the burgeoning vulnerability that Renea Shorn bore for him, pulling myself away from the mask. I exhaled, adopting the clinical precision I needed to perform my tasks.

I hovered up the steps, resting Lord Daen's body on the altar. I performed a cursory inspection of his form, noting that he had no visible wounds. Only his mana was utterly depleted.

It appears he is merely suffering from backlash, I thought, inspecting the many cuts Toren had over his clothes. The flesh underneath had presumably healed over under the effect of his orange-purple light of aether. That is good. He will be well soon.

I turned my focus away from the young man, instead looking up at what was left of the Vicar of Plague.

I hovered forward, feeling a pit of anger rise in my stomach as I looked over the shriveled, decrepit body. What lay before me would not have been out of place in the deepest dungeons of Taegrin Caelum. The grotesque mutilations across Mardeth's body spoke of the horrible things he had done to himself, open wounds where large boils had presumably burst littering his skin. What was once simple gray skin had been mottled with deep green, adding to his shriveled features.