Weight of Worlds

Ranvir began drawing space around him. Every millimeter was suffused with anima. The material was old as time itself; the behavior worn deeper than any he’d felt before. It felt like wrestling an oiled up swine, yet it gave way slowly.

“It’s not enough, is it?”

“It’s a start,” the man said. Something fluttered behind him, the size of a fully spread hand. Wings of midnight black flowing into a deep maroon, a band of void black dark as the surrounding space, tiny eyes of purest blue suspended within. At the very edge of the wings was a gilded line, gold so shimmery it couldn’t be real.

The man held up a hand for the butterfly to land on, its wings fluttering once before folding together. It was the biggest Ranvir had ever seen, yet emanated no mana at all. To his magical senses, it was less present than a tree, less alive than a rock.

“This isn’t over,” Ranvir said, eyes narrowed. “I will find you again, Stratos.”

“Good luck,” the man said, a small smile twitching his lips. Then space engulfed Ranvir, and he was off.

Without Stratos’ presence, and Ranvir was certain it was him, it felt as if his body suddenly doubled in weight and all his aches tripled in hurt. Chill seeped through every pore of his skin and fiber of his muscles. His hands, what was left of them, shook and his eyes hung half-lidded, unable or unwilling to rise any higher.

He found the beacon pressed forward. Emerging into Vednar’s space, Ranvir stumbled. Snow crunched underfoot. He’d appeared in the middle of an empty street. Distantly, cries could be heard throughout the city. Soldiers yelling at the top of their lungs, civilians begging for help, and beyond that, the roar of power. He could see the fight cast in reflected light on the Queen’s palace’s walls and towers.

Yet another song was calling to Ranvir. Closer, begging him to approach. He stepped forward, the beckoning like pounding through his body and soul. Effort blurred his vision, and his breath grew into a loud bubbling rasp. Each slow step preceded by the squelch of a wet, torn and battered boot, the drop-drop-drop of blood, and finally crunching snow.

Stairs nearly took him out. The agony racing through his side with each step, the stiffness settling in to his leg that nearly brought him to the ground. The descent grew steeper as he grew closer to the bottom of the Virrel. He could see it. Almost, he could reach it, if he still had hands to grasp it with.

One step. Blood sloshed in his boot, leaving a stain on where he’d last been. Another step. This one he was surer of foot. He’d long since lost the sensation of cold on this foot, his bare heel no longer caring for the environment it touched.

He slipped. Bloodied boot slid out from under him. He reeled back, head slamming into the stairs, his leg folded beneath him as he slid to the bottom. Agony raced up from his knee, tears sprang forth in his eyes.

Swallowing hard, he tried to rise. His left leg, now underneath him, shrieked in pain. Gasping, Ranvir fell back. His hip was going numb, yet his injured thigh felt as if it was about to burst into flame. Blood piled in the back of his throat, darkness encroached as he spat it out.

Snowflakes fell onto him as he stared up at the pedestal. The cube sat right there. Crying out for him. Begging him to take it. Ranvir blinked weary eyes. “A little more.” With a groan, he rolled onto his front.

The sudden turn sent oil into the fire at his thigh and he cried out, breaking the silence. Howling with pain, he hooked a stumpy limb over the top of the pedestal. Supporting with his good leg, he rose slowly. Gasping, weeping and bleeding, he stared down at the damnable rock. Perfectly square, it seemed to reflect the light wrong. The angles were off, as if it was turned ninety degrees.

Blood seeping from his face onto the stone and pedestal, he laid the end of a stumpy forearm onto it. Beyond it, through it, he found a new world. With an effort of will, it opened to him, swallowing him whole.

He was falling. There was no air, only dark rushing smoke, cloying and choking. Blinding and biting, the acidic nature of the vapors tearing his skin. Then the cloud passed, and he was falling through fresh clean air, into an apocalyptic space.

The ground was a churning mass of stone. Rocks, dark as the night sky and glassy as a mirror, spun, broke, reformed and ground together beneath him. Resembling more freshly turned soil than hard rock. Obsidian was razor-sharp and deathly ready to attack.

Through the stones, carved paths of icy blue and pale-blue greens. Ice shattering chunks of rock, pushing them aside, or simply freezing over them. Avalanches a kilometer wide and a hundred meters tall. Glacial rises broke through the stone, spires rising into the smoke clouds above.

Tiny suns roamed the sky and ground. Motes tall as a man, melting the ground underneath and each bright enough to blind a man. Ribbons and patterns made from lights rippled and wove their way through the air, concentrated enough to tear apart the smoke, or explode the spires of ice should they touch.

Trails of purple flitted through the air almost as often as light. Wide barricades of interwoven space, stopping all movement. Light slammed into one such barrier, finding it immobile, and unwilling to even let the energy through.

Deadliest of all slashes of rainbow light. Whip-quick and impossibly sharp. Deadly incarnate.

Everywhere, the world roared as if out to destroy him and through it all, Ranvir felt the echo. Of something greater. A will lingering, partly waiting, partly… for the taking.

Closing his eyes, he honed his will. The only tool left to him and he seized the lingering will. It arose to challenge him and they fought, yet the motes of something were pulled to him. Anima, Second Order material. The reforging had begun.

Kirs staggered away until she backed into the wall. Saleema hadn’t looked away, despite the sudden threat on Kirs’ life. She could see Es’ eyes open, those chill rainbow eyes keeping a lethal calm. Or perhaps, barely restrained fear.

Please remain calm, Es, she prayed. To the Triplet Goddess, the ancient spirits of old, the gods of Korfyi, anyone that would listen and might heed her.

Beyond Saleema, Dovar lay on the ground. A pool of blood had spread around his stomach, a trickle escaping from the corner of his mouth. His dull eyes saw nothing anymore, and the blood had stopped spreading.

“Could you be of help to me?” Saleema hesitated, purple eyes growing distant. Her eyes took on a far-off look and cracks opened inside, revealing the yellow light of the royal bloodline. She jerked, eyes refocusing. “I felt that!” she whipped around her, coat falling down to her elbow. Her skin was bare of injury. She could have come straight from the bath rather than a fight. Decades long as it felt at this point. Yet, there was one thing.

Dark and spindly, it wound across her shoulder and back, spreading onto her neck. “You will not reveal yourself,” she muttered, lowering her arm to a ready position, as if she still had her sword. The frost spread slowly, inching its way forward, a thin rime on her otherwise unblemished skin. Though it looked different, it felt like Sansir to Kirs’ senses.

Saleema reached up to cup the injury with her free hand, the other still clutching at nothing. Her spirit convulsed, turning on itself on the infection of ice. It shattered with a sound like glass falling away in thin flakes.

“Pesky, little rat!” she seemed taken with anger for a moment, putting her hand down to reveal a speck of dark frost on her shoulder. “Oh well,” she shrugged, tone even once more. “I wear it down.”

But breaking the ice seemed to have warned the others. Kirs felt their attack start up and Saleema looked over, snarling. A dark rush slipped through the gap and into the tower. Sweeping Grevor away in an instant. Kirs blinked, staring at where he’d lay.

Ayvir unleashed his mana. Enough to burn the entire story to ashes, yet Saleema raised a hand and flickered her power. Es exploded from the tub, seeming to leap directly into her outstretched hand, as if offering his throat to her.

Smoke whirled into the gap. Saleema’s spirit snapped and Pashar struck the ground at her feet. Purple eyes burned as she picked up Pashar as well. Es’ fingers sparked rainbow warp mana, yet any attempt immediately diffused into the air. Slowly, Morphos descended into view.

The old man stood with bowed shoulders, his gaze lowered to her feet. He carried with him the air of defeat, age wearing him down further. Saleema didn’t notice the oncoming dark water flushing through the door behind them. It seized Kirs and dragged her out of the room. She caught just the barest hint of something approaching the gap.

Dark and vast, it soared toward the opening of widespread wings, gliding the last dozen meters before settling on the wall with a clatter of talons. Ten feet tall, if it was an inch, head hunched low on its sinuous neck, almost folded against the slumped shoulders. Sharp beak made to hatchet meat from bones. It shifted gray plumage as it gazed at Saleema. Purple eyes broken and shot through with gray and yellow. On the horizon behind it, a swarm rose glinting purple of their tough carapaces.