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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, that was to be expected in Everfell. It shifted, altered, and reshaped itself at the whims of whoever controlled its aether-like nature. Alaric had entered the expanse to pursue 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 dangerous, but her fear had made her irrational. Everfell was her haven, but at the same time, it was her prison, trapping her in a cell of her own paranoia.
Alaric smiled, despite himself. Leilavin had not feared him at first, but she learned quickly.
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, his 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.
He had slain three of the six, but he already felt extraordinarily drained from the effort. His triumph and exhaustion were because of 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. After fighting his way past bestial foes and surviving games of madness, he had entered a hidden Threshold to face something entirely worse.
His 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. Nemon, it was called. In the True Verse, the name meant Eater 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 it 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, revealing blue veins pulsing clearly beneath. He had pushed himself too far, too soon.
He fell back 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.
Nemon 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 cut neatly in two. He rolled away as it crashed down, breaking apart against the wet flagstones. Leaping to his feet, he raised Nemon 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, 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.
The rain sizzled upon touching the ebon metal, and steam trailed its every movement.
The death-blade met Nemon in a shower of sparks, shoving Alaric back. The other two Reavers approached behind the first, drawn to the power of Nemon 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. Nemon hissed as it sheared the black armor, nearly cutting the Reaver in two.
It crumpled without a sound, cracking the rocky earth with the impact of its heavy body. The ember eyes flickered out like snuffed candles, and 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 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 Nemon 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 Nemon.
The blade drank of his soul but grew more powerful, shining as though he held pure starlight in his fist. He attacked the first Reaver with a roar, 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 gravelly walkway. Alaric tottered and fell to one knee, chest heaving as he leaned on Nemon to avoid collapsing.
It was then the last Reaver attacked.
Alaric barely dodged the first swing. His vision swam, but he held his ground despite the strength that fled with each deflected blow.
If you fall, your people will perish.
With a cry of rage, he spun past the Reaver's stabbing attack. The ebony blade grazed his armor, parting it like rotted fabric. Ignoring the shallow gash it opened across his side, he swiftly counterattacked. Nemon flashed, cleaving through the Reaver's armored forearm with ease. The severed member struck the flooded ground, still clutching the massive sword.
Undaunted, the Reaver struck with its other gauntleted fist. Alaric felt his ribs crack as he sailed backward. He hit the muddy ground hard, skidding until he tumbled into a wide, overflowing puddle. Half-submerged, he sputtered and groggily lifted his head.
The towering apparition was barely visible in the pouring rain, but it stalked toward Alaric in an unhurried manner, producing another weapon from behind its back. The razor-edged scythe was long and wickedly curved, gleaming dully when the lightning flashed. The Reaver's steps squelched, splattering mud and water as it advanced. Greenish light wafted from the stub where its forearm had been, but the wound was either unfelt or ignored. The Reaver's eyes flared behind the helm, matching the lightning that flashed as it raised the dripping scythe blade.
Alaric rose, catching the weapon as it fell. The wind howled as he grappled with the towering death-knight. The storm beat against them, tossing their garments and pounding them with stinging rain as they struggled to overcome each other. Alaric pitted both of his arms against the Reaver's one and was still nearly outmatched.
He glared into the Reaver's ember eyes, matching hate for hate, teeth gritted in a snarl. With all the strength he had left, he pivoted and hurled the Reaver aside. It sailed some thirty spans before it crashed against the rocky hillside. A portion of the hill toppled, burying it.
Alaric exhaled a cloud of vapor, barely able to stand. His ribs pulsed, every throb of agony intensified as blood ran freely from the gash in his side. The rain beat down mercilessly, forcing him to shield his eyes and squint to see the damage.
The Reaver emerged from the rubble, shrugging off the massive stones as if they were pebbles. Raising its monstrous helm, it gazed at Alaric as though unimpressed. Hurling the debris away, it advanced—an unstoppable juggernaut that would not rest until its target perished.
Alaric stood on unsteady legs, waiting for a fate he couldn't stop. He had given everything, but the Reaver was too strong. Alaric had failed, and he would pay the price for his defeat. He prayed his people would find another way to survive. Perhaps they could find a way to prevail where he could not.
Something on the ground pulsed with light, like a glowing heartbeat.
Alaric looked down and saw Nemon, gleaming as if newly forged. It took all his concentration to focus Transference, linking his mind to the weapon. He couldn't use the Craft directly against the Reaver, but a simple bind from mind to metal caused the blade to lift as though by an invisible hand, humming its song of bloodlust and death.
The Reaver hesitated for a moment as if uneasy. Alaric motioned, and the sword flashed as though born of the storm. It hovered in the air one moment, and the next, it impaled the Reaver to the hilt.
The Reaver tottered, struggling to step forward. Its gauntleted hand outstretched toward Alaric as though its last thought was to complete its mission to destroy. The eyes flashed, and then a bellow escaped it, a roar of rage and defiance, a scream of sheer animal hate. The great helm exploded, revealing only greenish, flickering light before the armored shell crumpled in an explosion of glowing dust and smoke.
A gale-force wind shoved its way through, forcing Alaric to clutch one of the pillars to keep from being swept away. The wind died as quickly as it came, and when Alaric looked up, all remnants of the Reavers were gone as though they had never existed. Nemon remained, planted into the stones as though by a mighty hand. It flashed once more as if demanding to be used again. Alaric tottered over in obedience. He felt thin, his skin paper, his bones brittle glass. Yet he had never felt so alive, so capable of doing anything he desired. He was losing himself, he knew. He was dying.
But not yet.
Alaric turned. The Threshold was in front of him, the gateway that would take him to Leilavin's last place of refuge. Alaric placed Nemon on his shoulder. Its weight almost buckled his knees, but he somehow managed to stay upright. Water rushed across his boots as he ascended the vine-covered stairway. One step at a time, he approached the Threshold.
One step closer to death. One step closer to salvation.