Weight of Worlds

Es growled low in his throat as he fell back. Earth and tile sprayed into dust, pulverized by the power surrounding him. Saleema stood at the center of the cloister, her eyes narrowed to violet glowing slits, barely visible through the lights flashing around her eyes. Her tether-sense scouring the surroundings as well.

The second phase of the restraining ritual was fully active. Obsidian and dirt churned about her feet, ice shackling them together, and more, yet she seemed not to care. The sword in her hand flickered and sparked before returning to a full blooming rainbow. For a moment, the vulnerable innards of her blade were revealed.

Off-white ivory yellowed with age, riven through with cracks. The faintest gleam of copper shining around the ground down joints making up the length of the blade. There were a few naturally occurring sources of warp-mana within Vednar, but none were so big or as strong as her sword. Esmund could only wonder at the process, but it could only really be the spine of a human.

Scowling, she cursed in Kisi. Her search was rudely interrupted as a ray of utter darkness struck her, igniting hair and clothes on contact. Lights and spark raced off the impact zone, the rain steaming around the searing heat. She raised a hand, keeping Ayvir’s attack from her eyes.

Already, Esmund was soaking wet, Morphos was putting his foot down with his Ability. Never had Es felt it so strongly before. Like a thousand minuscule shoves, pushing him forward.

He flashed into action again. Lights flashed and the skin on her raised arm broke, spraying blood from a thousand knife cuts. Snarling, she drove the sword upward, forcing Es to catch it. Heat erupted as warp struck warp. Again they clashed. Bursts of light and power illuminated the broken courtyard as the few remaining tethered regrouped.

He caught the sword again, locked against his forearm, the two powers erupting back and forth. The mana in the blade straining, cracks further eroding the foundation of the sword. Snarling, Es diverted his energies. Warp snapped and snarled, blowing him backwards.

The churned ground of the courtyard flew by as he flipped end over end. He struck the pillars supporting the breezeway, slipping through in clouds of ground up dust, landing and sliding through the snow on his feet. Out here, the rain lessened noticeably, making the localized shower extremely noticeable.

Inhaling sharply, Esmund felt the power surging deep throughout him. Seeping into his being. Raw power. After he’d left Kirs, he’d taken some time for himself. Returning to Ankiria and the refugees. But first, he’d followed Grevor’s feat.

It was not the power of a second-stage tethered that now raged through his soul, but a master. He’d actually thought this would put him on the same level as Ranvir. Made him the equal of his friend. And he was sure he could’ve matched him, at least for a time, before this prolonged siege by Saleema.

Achieving Mastery had been a long time goal, even if it hadn’t always been a priority. As a seventeen year old kid, he’d figured that would be the height of his achievements. The heights of the world. Then they’d told him about his talent. ‘Unmatched’, they’d called it. How he’d wanted to cheer, yet he still felt the agony for his friend.

Ranvir, who was the only one alive with his power. Ranvir with a mediocre talent and no teachers. Es felt as if he’d agonized over Ranvir’s situation more than Ranvir had. Perhaps it was a lack of understanding that drove Ranvir onward, allowed him to attempt and therefore achieve all that he had.

Es looked down at his hand. The lines were faint now, from his time under the Ankirian sun, but he could still make out the slight change in color where his ring used to be. Nothing really dulled that pain. Becoming a Master hadn’t helped. Earning spiritual alignment — on his own, just like Ranvir — hadn’t worked. Though the pain was certainly different, it still hadn’t shifted the soul-deep ache of his child. Even now, some part of him just wanted to curl up on the floor.

He and Kirs hadn’t really seen eye-to-eye since then. They tried to make it work, but thing didn’t fit together the same as they used to. When they found out that she was pregnant, he’d been over-joyed, and she hadn’t. She’d never really been enthusiastic. As the trimester carried on and her symptoms got harsher, she got worse at hiding it. Then she’d gotten sick and the blood…

Es shivered and looked away from his hand. Saleema flailed with Ayvir, Dovar, and Grevor. From this far away, it was much easier to feel the effort of Morphos, the sheer force of his Ability. Support it may be, but it was powerful. Smoke blasted down from on-high and Pashar joined the fray. Beyond them, he can make her out by glyph-light. On her hands and knees, scribing on the floor.

He resented her. He was the eldest of the family. Protecting his little sisters was important, so he’d learned to hide his feelings. A skill he’d refined after Frey’s accident, Ranvir had been so frail back then. So he’d hid it from her. He thought he’d get over it.

Life had returned to her. She’d engaged with work like she’d rediscovered an old passion. Attacked any problem she discovered with vigor and force. The dome, the travel-ritual, to an extent even these rituals here.

Kirs didn’t want children. He did. He’d figured they’d work out a compromise. One child wasn’t too bad. He’d used to take care of his youngest sister. It was work, but not that much. They could figure it out. Many people didn’t want a pet only to get one and love it fully. But she won. She got it her way.

Again, guilt assailed him. This was wrong. Kirs didn’t ‘get her way.’ She’d nearly died. She thought she could read him, even when he didn’t want to. And perhaps she could once, but that was a long time ago now. Listening to her comfort him after the Purists attacked the school again.

She inadvertently drew back the curtain, revealing the gaping maw between them. The hole that had once been their relationship. A rotting wound, unhealed and unhealable. A small unnamed child lying at the center spreading rot into the both of them.

Above the chaos of the cloister, Kirs straightened, wiping at her brow before peering into the courtyard. Es’ heart stuttered at what she might see. Her head scanned the area, then hesitated and grew more frantic. She expanded, looking around until. Even from this distance, he could see the tension leave her shoulders, the hand coming to rest against her mouth. Was she choking back relief?

He turned his gaze to the fight. Only moments had passed, but already things were worsening. He would die on this day. They would follow Ranvir and Sansir on the long path down. Es’ stomach churned a riotous storm inside. All he felt was regret that he hadn’t tried to span the gap between them.

Could he not have reached across, somehow, get a hold of her? If he had a chance to do over, that was what he’d change first.

Once Saleema’s sword broke, she’d be forced to use her powers. Restrained by the ritual, the sword was more convenient, but it was time to stop holding back. It had served him well early in life, but he wasn’t a teen anymore and it had only hurt him since them.

Warp flashed underfoot, and he blasted forward, kicking up clouds of snow, grass, and soil. Mana roared through his tether, bursting to his fingertips. The concentration of all three of his Disciplines, channeled through perfect alignment of spirit and body.

Dovar was attempting retreat, both his own powers and Pashar’s smoke straining to pull him back as Saleema swung for him. Grev slammed into him, dragging them both to safety.

Es caught the sword with an echoing clash, the sounded ringing off the palace walls and towers. His tether roared with power restrained for but a single moment longer. He let go. All of it. Screaming, he unleashed all the terrible destruction of warp mana onto the sword and Saleema.

Heat and light, then he fell. Arms caught him and he was soaring through the air. Blinking his eyes clear, he saw Grevor’s strained expression as they alighted on the tower.

Saleema’s presence was still around, but Es couldn’t pinpoint it. Regaining his feet, he peered through the hole in the wall. The courtyard was mostly gone. A thirty-foot circle had disappeared, cutting through the soil and stone, revealing the rambling corridors of the palace cellars. A large portion of which had also simply vanished into dust.

Others landed on the roof, Pashar and Morphos. Ayvir and Dovar clung to the walls.

“Where is she?” Es asked, still blinking spotlights from his eyes. In the hole, the earth still ran and settled. Mud was sliding from the rim and into the cellars. The tower groaned and noticeably shifted. Kirs wasn’t the only one to gasp, but she was the one who made him turn around.

Reflexively, he stilled his expression, calming his face as he looked at her. Yet… this was wrong. He withdrew the mask. He let her see the anxiety, fear, and pain he was feeling. Let her also see the joy and love he felt as seeing her.

It should’ve been liberating. Arousing his sense of self and passion for life. It was just nerve-wrecking. There was no exuberance. In some ways, he felt worse.

“She is reconstituting.” Grev’s voice was as a death knell to the moment, and Es turned away.

“If the tower doesn’t fall, then I’m done.” Es snapped around to look at Kirs.