Masiki left The Man with Mirrored Eyes to his reflections, grateful to depart from that world of fire, the only prison that could contain his indomitable power. Though she could enter and leave the realm at will, her Master was imprisoned by bonds shackled to the very fabric of his being. But soon she would unravel the cords that bound him. Soon she would earn his gratitude and be regarded as an equal, worthy of standing by his side.
She exited his chamber and strode down the sinuously winding hallway, pausing at a grand mirror that reflected just as her Master's eyes did. The surface revealed a tall, willowy woman with an alluring face, dark eyes and even darker hair that hung in luxurious waves to her shoulders. It was not her true form, but it suited her purposes. It was what she needed to accomplish her Master's will. She smiled at her reflected self. The time was coming.
Soon.
Chapter 1: Alaric
Alaric Aelfvalder cursed the rain. It fell incessantly, a waterfall from a gaping sky that pounded the earth with liquid fists. It was another enemy, reducing visibility and causing every step to be suspect. Alaric's footing was slippery one moment, sucking in thick mud the next.
Yet normality was not a word that applied in Everfell. It shifted, altered, and reshaped itself at the whims of whoever controlled its aether-like nature. Alaric had entered the expanse in pursuit of Leilavin, and she had fashioned her apportioned realm in her own erratic image. Everything — the elements, the structures — all of it was bound to her. Binding properties in that way was more risk than it was worth, but her fear had made her irrational. Everfell was her haven, but at the same time her prison, trapping her in a cell of her own paranoia.
Alaric smiled, despite himself. Leilavin had not feared him at first. She learned quickly, however.
Lightning flickered, transforming each drop of rain into an individually glittering lunestone for one spectacular second. Alaric blinked from the afterglow, trying to adjust his vision. The surrounding courtyard was a twisted maze of haphazard pillars, monuments, and statues in various stages of decay. There was no sign of the specters that hunted him, but he knew they were close. In ordinary rain against ordinary foes, obscured vision wouldn't have mattered. But those he battled were far from ordinary. They were the Reavers. They sought him out, on his trail as surely as hounds that had caught the scent of their quarry.
Alaric had slain three of the six, but he already felt extraordinarily drained from the effort. His triumph and his exhaustion were both credited to the glittering sword in his fist. He had endured much to possess the shimmering weapon, suffered the terrible cost of venturing into Ersetla Tari, the underworld of lies and shifting shadows. Alaric had fought his way past bestial foes and survived games of madness before entering a hidden Threshold and facing something entirely worse.
The Man with Mirrored Eyes smiled, his inky hair flailing across his face from the torrid winds. Behind him was a nightmarish display of haphazard stone and dying comets, almost lost against a backdrop of roiling flame. Yet he was not unsettled by the boiling temperature nor the twisted creatures soaring above. He was in his element, a prince of darkness in the heart of his domain.
His eyes flashed crimson, reflecting the flames. "You wish for the power to defeat Leilavin? I can deliver it if you are worthy, Alaric Aelfvalder, lord of the Co'nane. But is your will strong enough? Can you swallow truths bitter enough to poison the strongest soul?"
"I can face anything," Alaric said. The blistering heat devoured the sweat that poured from his face. The landscape rippled and waned, blurring his vision. He shielded his eyes, trying to focus on the figure in black. "Anything to save my people from Leilavin and her cursed Reavers. What is it that you require?"
"One thing." The Man stretched his slender fingers toward Alaric's head.
Alaric's shudder had nothing to do with the pouring rain. The things he had seen, the truths he had learned…no, he would not think of it. The important thing was he survived, emerging with one of the rarest fusorbs as his reward. A weapon powerful enough to destroy the Reavers and deliver his people. Mothros, it was called. In the True Verse, the name meant Devourer of Souls.
Alaric took the battle to the Reavers, meeting them in the passes of the Dragonspine where he cut their numbers in half. But the sword had its price. Every time he wielded the glowing blade he felt drained, as though the blade fed off his own vitality.
He should have known. Legend said Brandon the Paladin had forsaken the fusorb. The corrupted vessel became parasitic shortly after. Once bonded with, it was not easily cast aside. The skin of Alaric's hands was nearly translucent; blue veins pulsed clearly beneath. He had pushed himself too far, too soon.
He fell back to try to regain his strength, but it never fully returned. The sword that had once been light as a feather soon became heavy as lead. Every step he took seemed to require more effort. He knew he most likely went to his death when he decided to press on into Everfell. But he would not fail his people, even if it meant returning to the horrors he had seen, the unspeakable betrayal that awaited all his kind when mortality reached out to snatch them from their world.
Mothros hummed excitedly in Alaric's hands. He ducked as a black blade whistled by where his head had been only a moment before. The heavy stone pillar he had been leaning against was clove neatly in two. He rolled away as it crashed down, breaking apart against the wet flagstones. Leaping to his feet, he raised Mothros against the rushing attack of the Reaver.
Alaric was tall, but the Reaver topped him by head and shoulders and was twice as wide. Its dull black armor plate was engraved with Glyphs of Sentience, allowing Leilavin to control it by mental command. The intricate runes were scarlet, as though branded into the armor by liquid fire. Spikes studded the heavy plate like thistles, and a great horned helm completely covered its head. Only the narrow slits in the visor were exposed, revealing flaring crimson embers. The black blade it carried was as long as Alaric was tall.
Steam wafted from the ebon metal; the rain that spattered against it sizzled.
The death-blade met Mothros in a shower of sparks, shoving Alaric back. The other two Reavers approached behind the first, drawn to the power of Mothros like vultures to the stench of death. Together they would be too powerful for him, especially in his weakened state.
Alaric rushed forward, heedless of his opponent's blade. It hummed as it missed Alaric by inches. His counterattack caught the Reaver off guard. Mothros hissed as it sheared the black armor, nearly cutting the Reaver in two.
It crumpled without a sound, cracking the paved stones with the impact of its heavy body. The ember eyes flickered out like snuffed candles; smoke billowed from the cracks and cavities in the armor. Alaric knew if he probed, it would only be an empty shell.
The other two froze for a moment, arms outstretched, and a gasping sigh escaped them. Alaric had learned from bitter experience that the Reavers were linked somehow, so the remaining gained in power every time a member of their party fell. The last two came at him eagerly, any sign of weariness extinguished, their pace hastened.
Alaric held Mothros aloft. The blade was brighter than the lightning that flashed around them. "Which of you is next, then?" He beckoned with his free hand as his long, silver-white hair flailed across his face. Once the strands had glimmered like threads of gold, but that was before he picked up Mothros.
The blade drank of his soul but grew more powerful, shining as though he held pure starlight in his fist. With a roar he brought the blade against the first Reaver, shearing through its obsidian sword and continuing into the heavy armor. The resulting flash was blinding as the Reaver simply exploded, the shrapnel of smoking black armor skidding across the stony walkway. Alaric tottered and fell to one knee, chest heaving as he leaned on Mothros to keep from collapsing.