Book of The Dead

Ironically, performing any of the rituals Tyron used to communicate with his patrons would also be damaging to the weave, but far less so than ripping open the Ossuary all over the place. As he made his way back to his chambers inside the underground complex, he idly wondered if it would be possible to repair the weave in a substantial way, or modify his spells to minimise the damage.

It was a fool’s fancy. Tyron may be gifted in the art of magick, but he was not a Dimension Mage. Those existed, but were highly sought after and strictly regulated. Without access to their skills and feats, it would be much more difficult for him to craft magick that interacted with the weave without destroying it utterly, unravelling a tapestry by pulling on a single thread.

Even if he could work it out, he didn’t have the time. Now that he was empowered to create his own abilities, his options when it came to Necromantic research were almost limitless. His mind was constantly buzzing with new ideas and avenues he could explore. Ignoring all of that potential and only focusing on what he already had, there were still hundreds, if not thousands, of hours he could pour into developing and refining his methods.

No, repairing the weave would have to be someone else’s problem.

This early, the drafty corridors below the temple were mostly empty, but there was still the odd apprentice out of their rooms and starting the day. When they saw him, they usually blanched or started in surprise, their faces turning white before they turned and began swiftly walking away.

If the mere sight of his face was enough to intimidate them, how were they supposed to succeed in their chosen field? Be they Necromancers or a support Class, they worked in a field of study that was not for the faint of heart. He would have to have a word with Briss and Richard about it.

Georg certainly would have encouraged the students to be less timid, but then, he himself might have been a little too bold. Tyron wondered what he would say if he ran into his lost student were they to meet again. Considering he would be taking the war to every corner of the Empire, the chance they’d meet again wasn’t zero.

Reaching his own chamber, Tyron entered and closed the door behind him. A stock of ritual materials was kept on hand for his use here, and he idly considered whether or not he should use them. He looked to the floor and realised that the thorough cleaning job his students had done before he returned meant there was far from sufficient dust to draw a ritual circle. Sighing, he reached for the tray resting on his side table. No harm in doing things properly, he supposed.

Hand unwavering and mind focused, he drew the necessary sigils out one at a time, grouping them into arrays that looped and curled around each other. It was necessary to shift the furniture against the walls to give him enough space, but after an hour of work, he was done.

One of the first rituals he had learned, to communicate with the Scarlet Court, was a relatively simple thing, an uncomplicated bridge between realms. Under normal circumstances it would only allow communication, but somehow, he still didn’t know what method they’d used, the Court had coopted his ritual and sent Yor through, the vampire who had travelled with him on behalf of her Mistress.Would they do so again?

Talking to them was dangerous, he was well aware of that, but if he didn’t, they would only continue to haunt his dreams and interfere with his work. They had something they wanted from him, which meant there was a price they were willing to pay in order to get it.

After Yor had coerced him into visiting the Realm of the Court and her Mistress had sunk her claws into his mind, trusting them had become entirely out of the question. Even so, they remained powerful, more powerful even than the Divines. He could remember how it felt to be in the Mistress’ presence, that overwhelming feeling of hunger and power, which was only slightly weaker than that of The Three.

And that was only one of the vampire nobility. To this day, he still didn’t know how many there were.

No point delaying any further, he raised his hands and cast the ritual.

Unbeknownst to him, the moment he began to speak, ripples of his power spread throughout the temple, rattling the stone walls and causing dust to fall from between the cracks in the ceiling. Reality-warping ripples swept throughout the complex, forcing those still asleep to shoot up in bed, while others cringed back from the overwhelming magick.

Richard and Briss both turned towards Tyron’s rooms, wondering what their teacher was working on, but knew better than to disturb him, and turned back to their own studies.

Thankfully, it wasn’t an egregiously long spell and he completed the cast in under an hour. The first time he had cast this spell, so long ago, the blood required had nearly been enough to make him unconscious. Now, he had more trouble getting a knife to break his skin than he did remaining steady as the red fluid drained out of the cut.

How did it work exactly, he wondered as he watched the blood flow. Did his body hold more blood than it did before? Replenish faster? Or perhaps neither of those was true and he simply tolerated the lack of it more easily?

Once it was done and the room was filled with the scent of iron, he bound his hand with a clean cloth and brought an end to the spell.

Red mist rose from the sigils, now stained with blood, faster with every passing moment, gathering and rolling together in a crimson cloud at the height of his chest. He stepped back, watching carefully, trying to sense any interference or tempering with his spell.

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He felt nothing.

Either they had left his magick alone, or he wasn’t good enough to detect their manipulations.

Once all of his blood had converted to that dark smoke, the cloud roiled faster and faster, filling out and taking shape until it formed a perfect, seamless sphere. A beat later and the sphere parted lengthwise, like an eye opening, and he was face to face with someone he had hoped never to see again.

Indescribably beautiful.

Impossibly cold.

Endlessly cruel.

“I remember your face,” Tyron ground out as he quickly averted his gaze. Meeting her eyes may have as well have been a death sentence. Who knew what she could do to him if he gave her an opening.

“You were never supposed to,” she said, her voice resonant and powerful, filling his ears and threatening to drag his eyes back to her face. A person couldn’t sound like that. A voice could not hold such allure and command at the same time.

Yet, hers did.

“Things don’t always go the way we hope they would, vampire.”

“Address me as Mistress.”

A command almost impossible to resist. Tyron grit his teeth. She wasn’t even in the room with him, how could it possibly be this hard?

“No,” he forced out from between clenched teeth, his neck and shoulders tightening, the muscles knotting as he fought to master himself.

It was foolish to antagonise her like this, he knew, but the flashes of memory that arose when he saw her face filled him with fury. He didn’t know how she would react to his insubordination. Rage, indifference, perhaps she would reach out and strangle the life from him without rising from her seat.

Instead, she chuckled, a deep and rich sound that reverberated through the room and set his heart to pounding in spite of himself. Whatever effect Yor had on him, she paled in comparison to her Mistress. Not even in the same realm as her, and it was this difficult to resist her influence. If he wasn’t platinum ranked, perhaps he wouldn’t have even been able to remain on his feet.

“Very well. If you insist, you may call me Aisha,” she said, as if addressing a particularly thick child.

“What do you want?” Tyron said roughly. “There has to be a reason why you would contact me yourself.”

“Oh? It was you who contacted me.”

She smiled, and even from the corner of his eye, Tyron could tell it felt a little off. Yor may have barely remembered the feeling of being mortal, but to her Mistress, the memories had long faded to dust. A perfect face, perfect demeanour, yet the smile didn’t sit quite right upon it, a mask that sat slightly askew.

Mistress Aisha was a monster down to her bones and humans were something she ate, not something she aspired to mimic. Even knowing that, it wasn’t an effective defence against her influence.

Rather than reply, Tyron clamped his lips shut and simply glared, his eyes still focused away from her face. It helped, a little. He could still see her eyes, like red whirlpools the colour of heart’s blood, hunger radiating from them like heat.

“I deigned to speak with you because my expectations have changed,” she said, gaze hardening. “What was appropriate before may not be so now, may hinder future relations.”

Tyron had never expected to hear such an admission from any vampire, let alone this one. She didn’t say she had made a mistake, she certainly didn’t apologise, but she was in the same province.

“What does that mean?” he asked cautiously, ensuring his eyes didn’t wander.

“This. Look at me.”

A command so powerful it smashed into his head like a boulder dropping from a cliff. For just an instant, his will was brushed aside and his eyes flicked to hers. With a forceful grunt, he reasserted himself, his will, his entire body straining from the effort, but it was already too late.

Blood-red and endlessly deep, he was lost, was lost, was lost, was lost…

Then there was fire.

A line of searing heat in his head, just beneath his skull. He doubled over, clutching at his head as waves of pain rolled through his entire body. Whatever was in there, it writhed like a worm, struggling and fighting as it boiled away within his skull.

It lasted for only a minute at most, but it felt like an hour.

When it was finally over, he found himself on his knees, sweating and gasping for air.

“Blood and bone, what have you done?” he growled once his breath returned.

“I have not done. I have undone,” she said, her tone infinitely cold. “There is seldom an occasion where I feel the need to do so. You should feel grateful to have been afforded this opportunity.”

Slowly, Tyron gathered himself and stood, the embers of his anger flaring hot and bright in his chest, giving him strength. If she was speaking the truth, which was a big if, then she had removed whatever manipulations had remained inside his head after the Venerable had finished his work. It was a gesture, a peace offering, and the Mistress was being as generous as she could bring herself to be to someone she felt was infinitely beneath her.

Although he was furious at the high-handed way it was delivered, it was certainly something he had wanted, offered to him for free.

“I am grateful,” he forced himself to say. “And surprised.”

He could taste blood at the back of his throat.

“We did not believe you would survive this long. As a talented Mage with a gift for Necromancy, it would have been a waste of a potential pawn, so certain impulses were engraved into your mind that would bring you to us should your plans go awry.

“Most of these were cleansed, but a sliver remained, a deadening of certain impulses that were judged to be impediments on your path. Perhaps this has helped you along the way, who can say, but now we no longer believe that you will fail, and so must make steps to realign our actions to our expectations.”

They thought he was going to win? A vote of confidence from an unexpected corner. He would be a fool to throw this gesture in her face. He still needed the patrons, for now.

“Thank you,” he said, not needing to force himself nearly as hard this time. “There are other matters I would like to discuss, and perhaps strike a bargain with you. Is that possible?”

“I do not negotiate,” Mistress Aisha said, baring her fangs ever so slightly. “I will send another.”

And then, the ritual was over.