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Alaric sat up, disturbed by the quickly fading sensation of uneasy dreams, cobwebs of darkness that sullied his subconscious mind. The orb lanterns in his room blushed softly with dim light in response to his movements, illuminating his bedchamber in waxen rays.
Serona stirred beside him, her violet-black hair glimmering as it splayed across her face. She murmured, her face reposed and lovely even in slumber. Sleeping was one of the few things they still did together, something Serona fiercely insisted on. She claimed that their bond would heal in time, optimistic despite the fruitless centuries that followed Alaric's return to Aceldama. Her faith in their love never wavered despite every indication that the sword Nemon had destroyed their union, leaving them severed halves of one soul.
Alaric gently stroked her hair, smiling despite the sadness that welled in his chest. It was his fault that she suffered, his choices that stabbed her deeper than any blade could. The solestra bond was supposed to be permanent, with only death able to unravel it. But Alaric had found an exception to the rule when Nemon linked to the fabric of his soul, tearing apart his union with Serona. She had to deal with that loss, fighting to retain the passion and strength of will that defined her. All the while, he drifted, fixated only on his obsession in recovering Eymunder once more.
But it wasn't his guilt over the past that pulled him from the realm of sleep. The feeling was still there, nestled in his mind behind doors he had closed and never hoped to open again. It was a pulse, a heartbeat that only grew more intense. More insistent. He practically heard the whisper tickle his ear, the venomous murmuring of conquest and retribution. His heartbeat quickened, adrenaline roared through his veins so intensely his muscles quivered from the rush. It had been so long, so many centuries had passed since last he had felt the irresistible pull, the adamant demand to obey.
Nemon called to him.
Alaric rose from the rose-colored sea of silk and velvet, unclad save for his loinclothes. Nemon lay in the lowest level of Aceldama, buried as deep as Alaric could manage. On foot, it would have taken him nearly an hour of negotiating elongated hallways and winding staircases before arriving there. But Nemon called, and Alaric was compelled to find a swifter passage. He focused, snuffing the orb lanterns while binding Mental and Aetheric energies together where the gloom was thickest. His Shadowmeld opened; ripples of liquid darkness formed an aperture that he stepped through, immersing himself in clammy blackness.
The only indication of movement was a quivery rush accompanied by the unsettling sensation of passing through a wall of wriggling insect legs. Shadowmelding was not without a certain degree of risk, and the feeling was only a precursor of dangers to come the longer one traveled through the darkness. Fortunately, the distance was not far. The revulsion barely had time to register before it was over; he emerged into an entirely different portion of the palace.
Where Nemon waited for him.
The sword was the only thing in the small, rounded stone chamber. It lay across the bars of the simple wooden sword stand like a jungle serpent: cold, beautiful, and poisonous. The scabbard was heavily gilded with silver carvings of dragons, and dragon wings formed the crossguard, the hilt long enough to be wielded with two hands. An obsidian orb centered the crossguard, glassy and black as wet ink. The fusorb made the sword deadly, the source of its parasitic nature.
Alaric felt its pulse, the whispered resonance that echoed across his mind. The fact that the fusorb reacted in such a manner meant only one thing. He heard the murmur, the deadly harbinger of doom that once again signaled the destruction of his people.
Reaver.
Reaver.
Reaver.
"Alaric, what are you doing?"
Serona stood a few paces away, her eyes wide with alarm. She undoubtedly sensed the Shadowmeld's energy and followed the traces to trail him. He sighed, wishing she was spared the sight of his weakness. He knew it only fractured her anew to see him drawn to Nemon, the very thing that had separated them.
He managed to tear his gaze away from Nemon to look at her. "Contact the Speakers of the Sects, Serona. Let them know that there is to be a Gathering. They are to immediately report to the Blood here in Aceldama. Many issues need to be addressed."
Serona hesitated at the unexpected command. "Which of the Speakers do you wish to see?"
"All of them. It has been too long since they have been under my eyes. An old enemy has risen again to threaten their existence. They will need leadership to survive, and that leadership must stem from the Blood, not their own misguided interests."
She gazed at him, then at Nemon lying menacingly on its unadorned sword rack. Her mouth tightened. "Where is this new interest coming from, Alaric? What is it that disturbs you?"
His head dropped, his eyes fixed on the sword. "It has begun again, Serona."
"What has begun? Why have you come here when you know what that thing did to you the last time you wielded it?"
"There is no choice." Emotion had fled his being, leaving his voice flat and lifeless. "Nemon would only activate if a Reaver entered into this world."
"A Reaver?" Serona's voice quivered, her hand hesitantly drifted to her mouth. "That's impossible. Their creation requires Elemental properties. Leilavin would have to emerge from her hiding place in Everfell to create another, and we both know that she would never—"
"She dared," Alaric said. His smile was mirthless when he glanced at Serona. "Leilavin finally found the nerve to take a risk, something you and I know she would not do unless she was sure of the odds." His eyes peered at the stark walls as if he could see through them and spy her out. "But the gamble will have tragic consequences for her."
"What do you mean?"
Alaric's gaze drifted back to Nemon; the pulse in his head grew only stronger. "I altered her Threshold when last I saw her. Once activated, it will not open again at her command. She is trapped here, unable to slink back into her protective haven and disappear again. Alert the Legion, Serona. Let them know that their mission is Leilavin and that I want her brought to me alive."
"Easier said than done," Serona said. "Leilavin has always been deadly, even before Stygan took her under his wing. She will be desperate, and that will mean a high death count for any who try to capture her."
"The sheer numbers will be enough." Alaric's gaze never left Nemon. He stepped closer, despite every ounce of reason screaming for him to flee the room. "Not even Leilavin is a match for a full assault of the Blood. She will fall, and then she will be brought before me. Give the command, Serona."
She placed her hands on her hips, violet-eyed stare reading him almost as if their solestra bond was still in place. "And leave you here with that fusorb? It nearly killed you the last time, Alaric. I remember how you looked when you returned from battling Leilavin. You resembled a corpse. Your body was crippled, your skin nearly transparent. Your hair never returned to its natural color. You should have died, Alaric." She shook her head, her gaze defiantly resolute. "Where your strength came from, no one could explain. But you survived. You came back to us. To me." The glare she directed at Nemon was pure venom. "I won't let it have you again. You should have never bargained for that weapon. It will be the death of you."
"You speak as if I have a choice." Alaric's voice was soft, barely above a whisper. "The decision was made long ago, Serona. I'm sorry you had to pay such a high price for what I chose to do. But were I to choose again, I would do the same. I saved our people from destruction then because I was willing to suffer for their sake." He met her anguished gaze resolutely. "I am again willing to do so now. No matter what the cost. There is no one else who can."
His hand closed around Nemon's hilt. And like every time before, the rivers of Alaric's soul disgorged, pulling him into the eye of the maelstrom. Power and destruction, life and death whirred about him in the tempest, waiting for him to choose.
One last time, Nemon whispered.
One last time.