Rules For The Bled

Yvain followed the attendant in silence, his boots echoing softly against the ancient stone. He had expected to be led up the tower, into spires and observatories, libraries hung with starlight and spiraling archives. But the path taken was not skyward. It was downward, spiraling beneath the tower's visible foundations, into a place older than the tower itself.

The attendant, a tall, androgynous man with opalescent eyes and robes that shimmered like candlelight on water, spoke not a word.

Yvain could only follow.

He had come to see Lissom Qen by choice, or so he had believed. But now, walking deeper into the subterranean levels of her domain, it seemed increasingly likely that she had summoned him long before he made the decision. That this meeting had been anticipated. Prepared.

Had she scried his coming? It was a troubling thought. Lissom Qen had once aided the rebellion during his father's reign, whispering riddles into the ears of generals and seers alike, never directly leading, but always guiding events toward fracture. If she had conspired to topple his bloodline once, would she now finish what she started?

Would she try to kill him?

And more terrifying still, would he understand why, even as she did it?

Yvain had no illusions about his chances. He was a skilled conjurer, a scholar of necromantic dialects, a diviner in his own right. But against an archmage in their own sanctum? Against Lissom Qen, whose name alone disrupted the threads of fate when spoken too often?

He would be little more than breath and dust.

And then there were the rumors.

It was whispered in certain circles, that Lissom had attained Self, becoming Herself. Something so rare, so poorly understood, it defied even the most ambitious grimoires. If the rumors were true, then she was the first to reach such a state since Saint Zorina, martyr of the Sanctuary and architect of the Dehmohseni downfall, and Tsige Ayenew, the swordsman who bore no sword.

Even among the most devout thaumaturges, Self was more myth than method. It was said to mirror the condition of the Endless before his fall, a continuity of will, of being, an indivisible thread woven through all that was and is.

Some claimed it meant to be in the world, yet not of it, to know one's place in the pattern, but to remain unbound by the loom. Others believed it to be the impossible reconciliation of sovereignty and surrender, to yield fully to one's will and still remain sovereign over it.

It bestowed no powers and was as likely to come upon a poor farmer as it was the ruler of kingdom.

Yvain had studied such theories in passing, out of curiosity more than ambition. His ancestors, great names all, had sought it and failed.

He couldn't even say if he truly wanted Self. He barely understood it.

Their descent ended, at last, before an unassuming door. Narrow, age-warped, and utterly mundane in appearance. No sigils adorned it, no magical wards hummed along its frame. Just old wood, and metal hinges.

The attendant opened it with a nod, then gestured for Yvain to continue alone. He had to duck to enter, the lintel scraping against the tips of his hair. The passage beyond was low and claustrophobic, but it opened quickly into a chamber that swallowed the light behind him. The darkness inside was so thick it dulled even his shadow, it didn't vanish, but dulled into gray, like soot smeared across a void.

He felt her before he saw anything.

Her presence filled the room like incense. Not just her power, but her awareness. The sense of being perceived in totality. Not just his face or body, but the memories behind his eyes, the weight of his bloodline, the thoughts he hadn't dared to think.

Then, her voice, low and serene, threaded with dry amusement.

"Yvain the Younger," she said, tasting the name like a rare spice. "Prince of Nothing."

He flinched at the title. "I prefer just Yvain."

"Yes, you would," she said. It was not unkind.

He stepped cautiously into the darkness, each footfall muffled. "Why did you ask for me?"

A sound met his ears, perhaps a laugh, or a snort. He couldn't be sure.

"It is you who sought me," she said. "You carry a question, though you haven't spoken it, not even to yourself. But I know the question. And I know the answer."

He swallowed. "Then tell me."

There was a long silence, broken only by the low thrum of something ancient pulsing through the walls. Then her voice returned, softer now, but unshakably certain:

"I see three paths in the Web," she said. "Three fates drawn in shifting sand. In one, you die. In another, you become a god. And in the third, you burn the world to ash."

His throat tightened.

"But you have seen this too," she went on. "In dreams that unravel your sleep. You tell yourself they are lies. You tell your bride they are nonsense. But deep inside, you know. It is you the world should dread, not her, not the monsters hiding behind scripture or kingship. You."

She paused, her breath audible now.

"The twin banners will rise again," she whispered, "and you will wage holy war across these lands. You! The God-Flesh Enthroned, Sovereign over the Spear-Kings, Dragonlord of the Pale Flame, Lord Emperor of Babel and the Many Kingdoms."

He staggered back a half-step, chest tightening. "I— That can't—" The words stumbled from his mouth like broken things. "Is this why you brought me here? To kill me? To stop this from happening?"

Her laugh this time was unmistakable, light and sharp like glass chiming.

"I couldn't kill you any more than I could douse the sun," she said, dry and amused. "You are necessary. Though many will loathe you for it."

He turned in the dark, searching for her face, her silhouette, something. But the chamber swallowed all shapes. "Have you—" he asked, voice lowered now, almost reverent. "Have you become Yourself?"

A long breath. Then. "I have always been Myself," she said, "and yet I am still reaching."

"And you see no hope for me?" Yvain asked, barely above a whisper.

"Oh, you foolish child," she murmured, the phrase more tender than dismissive. "You are hope. And you are despair. You are the culmination of a thousand prayers and as many a curse. You are the best your bloodline ever dared to be, and its worst."

Her voice deepened, took on a cadence like prophecy: "You are the embodiment of all your forebears, their triumphs, their madness, their blasphemies, and yet you are their antithesis. You will save the world, just as surely as you will destroy it."

A shiver crawled down his spine.

"When mankind cries out in their dreams," she whispered, "it is you that they see."

Silence fell between them like a veil.

He stood there, motionless in the dark, unable to reply. There were no words left that wouldn't break under the weight of what had been spoken. No denial he could utter that wouldn't sound like a child muttering nonsense to a storm.

She did not speak again for some time. When she did, her voice had quieted into something almost maternal. "Now you have your answer," she said. "And it is heavier than you wanted."

He nodded, though he knew she couldn't see it, or perhaps she could.

Then he turned.

The chamber did not resist him. The door had no magic to bar his path, no guardian to stop his retreat. He traced his path back to the surface, his mind devoid of all thought.

When Yvain emerged through the tower's great gates, the light struck him like a blade. The sky above the Hundred Towers was cloudless, yet somehow dimmer than he remembered. The air tasted of iron and burnt salt. For a moment, he stood motionless, the cold breath of the tower still clinging to his skin like shadow.

Then he saw them waiting at the foot of the steps.

Adeline was the first to move. She crossed the distance in swift strides and wrapped her arms around him. Her touch was gentle, careful, as though he were made of cracked glass and might shatter if held too tightly. He returned the embrace mechanically, his hands resting on her back, but his gaze was distant, fixed somewhere behind the horizon.

"What happened in there?" Adeline asked, pulling back to search his face. Her brow creased with concern. She saw the hollowness in his eyes, the way he moved like someone who had been unmoored.

Yvain didn't answer the question.

Instead, his gaze shifted to Celeste. She met his eyes and saw at once that something within him had shifted. The man who had entered the tower was not the same one who stood before her now.

"We'll go to Necropolis," he said, his voice quiet but unshakable. "Just as you wanted."

Celeste blinked, startled.

"From there," he continued, "I will tour the Crossroad. The full length of it."

He looked toward the city skyline then, as if addressing the world itself.

"And when I am done," he said, "I will judge the world."

The sheer audacity of it of his words left even Celeste breathless.

For the third time since she'd known her cousin, she felt afraid of him. And yet, beneath that fear, something else stirred, pride, and perhaps awe.

"I'm with you," she said softly, stepping forward. Her hand cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his hollowed gaze. "Every step of the way."

Then she rose onto her toes and kissed his forehead.