A plain field, barren and devoid of any form of vegetation that stretched for as far as one could see. A harsh mountainside covered in snow and blasted with violent blizzards. The remains of a long-forgotten world, now reduced to nothing but dust and ash. No one is to tell which depiction is true in this secluded place within the realm of the dead, to which not even the denizens of the afterlife are granted access. Its location is ever-shifting, accessible only to those who have been here in the past or to the current wielder of the infamous blade forged here: Urostmarn, the Lifereaper. A weapon of great power left behind by the First Consciousness shortly before its unexplained disappearance from existence. A direct construction of the Creator that predates all species of existence, including angels and demons alike, known over the course of countless eons as the Forge of Souls.
Within this secluded place, Thaidren entered for the first time, standing as one of the extraordinarily few mortal beings to witness this construction with their own eyes while still anchored to life. Alongside him, Nez’rin remained unshaken by the sheer magnitude of the grand empty citadel that stands before them. The young warrior shivered uncontrollably, yet the sensation seemed dissimilar to that of simple coldness.
“Nez?” he spoke while his teeth chattered.
The lich slightly turned his skeletal head in his direction. “Yes, master Thaidren.”
“It may sound redundant to ask, but… why is this place so freezing? And why am I feeling it? I’ve hardly felt any coldness in my entire life, even when atop mountains.”
“What you are experiencing now isn’t a matter of low temperature, my liege. Do not become alarmed by what I am about to say.” Despite his preemptive warning, Thaidren had already imagined the worst. “This realm is within that of the dead. Your presence here is… unnatural to it, in a manner of speaking. As such, the very nature of this realm is trying to correct it.”
“By killing me?”
“Fear not, master. Ever since you were an infant, Lady Wizera and I have placed numerous barriers on you to enhance your body for such conditions.”
Thaidren raised an eyebrow. “Wait, you did what? You and Mother experimented on me?”
“You misunderstand. To experiment is to test what reaction certain spells, potions or rituals would provoke. We used only known and previously tested methods to help you develop into a more resilient version of yourself. It is not such an uncommon practice as you might think. I heard that even the paladins and some mages undergo such treatments.”
“I still don’t know what to think about that…”
“Had we not gone through with such methods, you would have hardly lasted over twenty minutes in this realm. Yet, it matters not for now,” answered the lich. “We must make haste to the forge.”
“Why are we in such a hurry?” asked the young warrior. “We still have around a day and a half until I have to face Serathra.”
If Nez’rin had had a face, it would betray a doubtful expression on it. “There is one more aspect that you should be aware of, master Thaidren. In this world, time passes differently than on Earth. We have but an hour or two before you must confront Kina’s disciple.”
“You should’ve started with that. Let’s pick up the pace.” As they continued to march on, closing in toward the enormous structure made Thaidren feel smaller with each step.
***
Since Thaidren and Nez’rin’s departure, Haara had desperately tried to convince Aramant to surrender his reckless thought of taking back Viz’Hock to no avail. His stubbornness bred a chain reaction that enraged her all the more, making the earthen sorceress less rational and too emotional for her usual persona. Elarin was on par with her logic, yet she preferred to not express her opinion for the time being. For Thraik, Haara was annoying enough as she was, like an emotionally driven banshee as he would think. He chose to give it a go with the young ‘lad’ when or if the equally stubborn ‘earthen nuisance’ would give up to convince him herself. Until then, he’d enjoy his probably last two days of drinking.
About half an hour later into Haara’s shouting, the earthen sorceress gave in to tiredness and headed inside the house. Aramant used this opportunity to clear his mind, temper his anger, and at the same time visit the place where Nez’rin had hidden the weapon. The lich was more cunning than he expected. After he and the other group members witnessed how Nez’rin sealed the demonic artifact, he figured he’d find it encased in the same block of ice shrouded within the runic-inscribed cloth. As it turned out, that was not the case. The lich had sealed Viz’Hock in one of the buried chambers of the ancient ruins that lay in the mansion’s vicinity. He dug into the ground with his powers and created a room completely encased in darkness, giving the impression to an untrained eye that it was merely a burned-out stone wall. The young paladin reached out to the chamber, yet he did not retrieve his hammer immediately. He turned around and leaned his back against another dilapidated wall, reaching out to his bag from where he drew his father’s book and shuffled the pages. His thoughts wandered away from the contents of the book. What if she’s right? She hasn’t been crazy nor wrong about it, but… I still feel like I should somehow get past this obstacle, not avoid it. A part of me almost wishes that my father had struggled with its unleashed power once… He felt guilty for harboring such thoughts. While continuing to shuffle through the book’s dusty pages, Aramant found an earlier passage that stirred his curiosity.
The hammer continues to plague my mind with whispers. Sometimes, I can hear it as clearly as I would a regular voice. Other times it is either cryptic or impossible to distinguish. In my most recent fight, I almost gave in and relinquished my will to it. The one thing that the foul creature inside it has is time. And patience. Yet when I utter the prayer of Reinhold, its violent nature seems to subside, albeit for a brief period. Even if it’s a short-lived moment of peace and relief, it still helps…
The prayer of crusader Reinhold… Aramant knew of this. A nostalgic flashback took him to a distant memory, back when he was a child. At that time, he was too young to start attending classes, yet his father would recite a different prayer at his bedside each night. However, the one of crusader Reinhold was the sole exception that he would repeat from time to time. To this day, the young paladin remembered its exact words.
May The Light grant me the serenity to accept the aspects I cannot change
The courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference between them.
Aramant stood still in front of the sealed chamber for several minutes. He thought over and over about what claiming back the hammer would bring back in his life. The young paladin was not as naïve as to believe that there wouldn’t be occasions when the demon might pass its influence and intoxicating power back into him. He was even questioning his own judgment for having been influenced by the artifact’s corrupt nature in the first place. He took a deep breath and cleared his thoughts, meditating on his motives as he calmed down the raging storm inside his heart. As far as he was concerned, some aspects remained certain: he did not want to retrieve the weapon, he merely considered it to be necessary; he did not crave its power; he aimed for either its containment or for it being used in the service of righteousness; lastly, he did not want to leave it unguarded, yet he was hesitant of carrying it himself as a burden. After taking all these aspects into consideration, Aramant reached a decision. It is my legacy, my burden… my duty… He channeled The Light’s power within his body and launched a small beam toward the wall, piercing it and removing the dark seals that kept Viz’Hock hidden away. Its demonic form lay on an ancient pedestal, still bearing the same pitch-black color when he last wielded it. If he hadn’t known any better, it could have been mistaken for a fragile historical artifact that would crumble at the slightest touch. Aramant raised his hand toward its hilt and unclenched his fist. Upon holding the sword, he heard an agonizing scream as he felt the demonic energies of Viz’Hock coursing through his body once more. With his right hand shaking from the power, combined with an urge to stop resisting it, Aramant closed his eyes, concentrating on controlling his breathing. “You will not sway me again!” he shouted before reciting the prayer of crusader Reinhold, at first in his mind, then with a whisper.
***
During that time, after taking a short nap, Haara went to the mansion’s basement in search of the dwarf. Thraik was not drunk enough to be pleased by her presence, but he was aware of her troubled mind, so he allowed her to take a seat nearby. He looked at his half-empty mug of ale, then toward the earthen sorceress.
“Ye want one?” he asked.
She sighed and grabbed herself another jug before heading toward one of the large barrels. “At this point, sure… why not.” As she took a seat near him, she chugged down her brew.
The dwarf smirked. “Ye got me fooled, lass. Didn’t picture ye as a drinker.”
“I’m not,” replied the earthen sorceress. “Usually.”
Thraik sighed, betraying the closest thing to a sentiment of compassion that he could express toward Haara. “He’s not Nalys, Haara. Ye have ta accept dat.”
“He may not be, but he’s heading toward the same path as he did. I don’t expect you to understand how this makes me feel. You weren’t there.”
Her bitter words somehow managed to sting the dwarf’s heart. “Y’re right, I wasn’t,” he murmured. After taking another sip from his jug, Thraik burped. He expected the earthen sorceress to comment on his uncivilized behavior, yet he received no such reaction. He pushed away the jug and turned toward her. “Look, I agree with ya. Da boy shouldn’t take da hammer. But if I’m not mistakin’ it, Wizera told me dat the same was told to his pa in the past, right? He may not hav’ unleashed da power of da monster inside, but we both knew ‘bout his lifelong struggle ta keep it at bay.”
“That’s exactly my point, Thraik,” added Haara. “His best-case scenario consists of a life in which he can never let his guard down. Wiz and I aren’t going to be here forever to cleanse him of the corruption when or if he goes berserk again.” I’m not even sure that I’d want that to begin with, she thought.
“Well, da old sack o’ bones already told him where ta find it. If he’s goin’ for it, there’s not much we can do ta stop ‘im.”
“Hold on, where is Aramant now?” she asked.
“If we can’t find ‘im, ye know where he is…,” replied the dwarf, pulling the jug toward him and taking another sip.
The earthen sorceress’s tone turned angry. “Mark my words, Thraik: if he’s getting the hammer back, after we get to save Wizera I won’t be a part of the group anymore. I just can’t.” Amidst their discussion, the sound of Elarin’s footsteps coming down the stairs interrupted them.
“I wanted to inform you that Aramant took the artifact back.” Haara refrained from betraying her obvious disgust, with the dwarf remaining silent and chugging his brew.
He’s reckless, plain stupid, or both, thought the earthen sorceress. He doesn’t even play a role in the duel. Thaidren does. Despite her opinion and her previous emotional response toward the matter, however, she found herself reaching a point of unusual tranquility. Perhaps she had come to a stage of acceptance. Or perhaps she had reset her emotional state to that of indifference. Either way, her ultimatum toward Thraik was taking root in her mind with each passing moment. Wizera, forgive me, old friend…