Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Thancred’s heart teeters on the verge of surrender. 

He should by all rights be dead, stemming the flow of his aether to cloak his movements while hanging on to life by a thread. His gasps are quick and shallow, excruciating pain so widespread that it has ceased to mean anything at all. His consciousness flickers, but he refuses–he refuses to let it fade. Nothing he is feeling right now matters in the slightest. Not as Ryne kneels above him, speaking in a voice that is not her own.

“Hold– Hold on.” Though his arm shakes and rebels, he seizes hold of the girl’s wrist. “Hold on…a godsdamned second!” 

The girl’s eyes fall from Azem back upon him. By sight alone, they are the same solid blue as they were the entirety of the time he knew her as ‘Minfilia’; and yet, the bearing behind them is wholly alien. These are not Ryne’s eyes, nor even those of a girl. They are a woman’s eyes, a mother’s eyes, possessed of solemn dignity and smothering purpose. They are eyes with no right to exist upon Ryne’s gentle face.

“Rest, my child,” she chides with a shake of her head. “This battle has left–”

“You’re truly Her?” he exclaims, though his voice’s volume begets ripples of pain. “You are Hydaelyn?”

Ryne– No, Hydaelyn does not so much as balk at his tone. Instead, She gives him a simple, silent nod. Something in his weakly beating heart shatters, melts into a scorching fury, and he jerks his head to look at the girl standing by Hydaelyn’s side. 

“Gaia,” he pleads. “What happened to Ryne?” 

Upon Gaia’s face is a web of emotions he cannot so much as begin to untangle. One thing is certain, though, from her apprehensive stance–she is no more at ease with this turn of events than he. 

“I’m– I’m not entirely sure,” she admits, shaking her head. “Some ways down the mountain, Ryne just suddenly collapsed. When she woke up, she was…like this.” Gaia frowns in Hydaelyn’s direction with a bitterness that catches Thancred off guard. “She commanded the rest of us to continue on our way down, but… I refused, and took off after her.” Gaia clenches a fist. “You… Hydaelyn. Ryne’s not– She’s not yours to just puppet around as you please! Get out of her head, or I’ll… O-Or I swear, I won’t…”

The girl’s unfinished threat is met with something unusual–a smile. Not mocking but full and true, the slightest hint of mischief leaving Thancred to wonder if he is truly looking at the same being as moments ago.

“At ease, Gaia,” She says warmly. “Ryne will be safe. It does my heart well to see your passion once more unclouded. After all of these years...”

Gaia’s eyes grow wide, and she seems stunned from further words. So instead, Thancred squeezes at Hydaelyn’s wrist. 

“What does that mean? That she’s ‘safe?’” he demands. “Tell me!”

Hydaelyn’s smile dims back into solemnity as She looks at him. She purses Her lips, seeming to consider Her words.

“My chi– No,” She interrupts herself. “Thancred. In the brief time which I shared with Minfilia, I heard much of you. Yet you’ve proven yourself a braver man than even I imagined you would become.”

Breath hitched in his throat, Thancred feels the slightest quiver of his lip. Before he can speak, She continues.

“Perhaps you think of me as the one who stole Minfilia from your side. Ryne has but briefly offered me her vessel that I may speak. I’ve no plans to wrest her away from the mortal plane.” She closes her eyes, head lowering. “It is understandable…that you may be reluctant to trust me, after the grief my designs have caused you. I ask, then, that you hold your faith in them.” Her eyes open once more, brimming with sincerity. “In Ryne…and in Minfilia.”

Faith in them… Thancred takes a breath, letting out a sigh. Of course. Their decisions… Their paths… Were never his, nor Hers, but their own. Despite the lingering tightness in his chest, Thancred gives Hydaelyn a feeble nod. 

She smiles, though it is faint.

“Young Ryne pleaded for my intervention, and this… May well be my final chance.” Her gaze rises, once more landing on a figure Thancred had nearly forgotten yet lingered. “All of us here, our desires are one in the same. To return to us the heart we once held so dearly.”

How impressive that Azem held her tongue through that entire exchange. Though… Perhaps it is not her, but that fleeting vestige of Sahri which trembles before the sight of Hydaelyn. The goddess Herself… She is the truest fear Thancred had ever known Sahri to express. She clutches at the light-soaked wounds with which he inflicted her… But he knows well they remain superficial without the aid of the white auracite. 

Did Hydaelyn…intend to finish the job?

“Don’t believe a single honeyed word which escapes from her lips!” Azem exclaims as all attention is now returned to her. “Hydaelyn is the deceiver… The source of all tragedy upon this Star! She may well flee Ryne’s vessel, but Ryne will never be free from her. Not so long as she continues to possess that damnable blessing.” 

A weight shifts above Thancred, Hydaelyn rising to her feet. She delicately steps around his ailing body, allowing no more barriers to exist between Her and Azem. Still guarded, Azem takes a half-step back. 

“Sahri Rhoshaan. My wayward warrior,” the goddess speaks. “Young Ryne may not have chosen to be born as the Oracle of Light… Yet every trial she has faced, every joy she has cherished, every step she has taken… They lead her to the path she now chooses to walk. Just as Minfilia did before her. You, of all people, should know the truth of such resolve.”

“Resolve…” Azem scoffs. “Is that what you call it? The voice with which you have implanted us?” The Asican stands straighter, pointing a finger in Hydaelyn’s direction. “You are a primal no different than those which mortals conjure. You take pitiful, sundered victims and entrap their souls with your light, tempering them into instruments of your will. Now that I have broken free of your influence, you seek to craft Ryne into your next champion. Or am I wrong?”

Tempered to Hydaelyn’s will… Even now, Thancred can vividly recall the night Sahri first suggested the idea. What was for him near a decade ago in Ishgard, long before Emet-Selch made his claim of Hydaelyn and Zodiark as primals. Her sincere terror over what had transformed Minfilia into the “Word of the Mother,” the fate which might befall her if she continued on as Hydaelyn’s champion, they had left him utterly numb. 

Now, as she hurls those fears-become-dogma at the one who originated him… He cannot help but detect a hollow ring which was never present before. 

“...Sahri.” There is a hint of impatience in Hydaelyn’s voice. “Would you truly consider what you are saying? Were my chosen but slaves to my will, my blessing a font of aetherial corruption… Would you ever have had the choice to take Emet-Selch’s hand in the first place?”

She allows the question to hang in the air, the gravity of its simplicity sinking into his chest. He swears under his breath, watching Azem’s face freeze. Had she truly never considered the question? He catches movement out of the corner of his opposite eye, finding Gaia with arms folded. Head clutched in her palm. She seems to ponder this question just as intently as Azem…

“When Emet-Selch stripped you of my protection, he did so with the intent of enthralling you to Zodiark,” Hydaelyn continues. “Even clouded by His influence, you must have realized that fact. What it is you have become.” She shakes her head, Azem shrinking back. “My blessing… It was only ever meant to protect you.” 

“Th-that’s not true… That’s not true!” Azem clutches her head in both hands. “Learning of my past… It empowered me to overcome you. But even as I came to know the truth, I heard it! I heard the voice which you implanted in me. It clawed at my mind, desperate to deny what was so evident before me. That your decrepit world must be restored to the glory it once held!”

Melancholy descends over Hydaelyn’s face.

“Why are you so certain that voice was mine?” She asks. “Not that of your own justice?”

“Stop it! Just– Stop!” Azem throws out her arm. “You cannot fool me. I know what you are, and I know what you did to this Star–to those I held so dear!” With both her arms, she gestures to her chest. “If you are displeased with what I have become, Hydaelyn–remember who it was that tore my soul in twain! Who shaped the life I lived as this… This wretched, incomplete self. Anything I am now…” Azem snarls. “You’ve only yourself to blame, O Mother!” 

A faint smile crosses Hydaelyn’s lips, and she… She nods.

“On that… We are agreed, my child.” Her eyes close. “None of this has proceeded how it should have, and the fault can only be my own.”

Passing shock crackles into electric glee upon Azem’s face. 

“Then you admit it!” She gives Hydaelyn self-satisfied sneer. “Finally, you admit it to me! That you are no benevolent goddess, but the destroyer of life itself!”

“To use your words… I know what I am,” Hydaelyn responds, eyes reopening. “I have carried the weight of my deeds for time immemorial. Despite what you may think, I am not here today to persuade you of my own justice.” Her gaze lowers, placing a hand over Her heart. “Trust is not so easily repaired through an intermediary, and in truth, even speaking like this has expended far more energy than I can afford. No, my purpose today is this.” 

She meets Azem’s eyes, stretching out Her hand.  

“I wish to extend you an invitation.”

Again, She allows Her words to settle in the brisk night air. It does not take nearly so long for Azem to respond.

“An…invitation.” Azem narrows her eyes. “To where, exactly?”

Lowering her arm, Hydaelyn lets out a small sigh. There is a pause, Hydaelyn’s brow shifting, and Thancred must wonder if she is reconsidering what she is about to say. She says it regardless.

“Deep beneath Old Sharlayan… There is a facility known as Labyrinthos,” She explains, and Thancred may well have jumped was he able. “In its heart, researchers have accomplished wondrous feats of engineering… Not the least of which being a man-made entrance to the Lifestream. One far more direct than the Antitower you once traversed.”

“You’re bloody serious?” Thancred cannot help but exclaim, the information sending his mind turning. “Is that the reason the Forum keeps the place under such lock and key?” 

Hydaelyn affords him a small glance back, nodding.

“One of many. The others…are not so relevant now.” 

“Why…are you telling me this?” Azem asks, mouth slightly agape. “You don’t mean to suggest…”

“I do,” Hydaelyn quickly affirms. “Seek out this entrance, the one known as the Aitiascope. So long as no harm comes to the researchers, I will allow you–and you alone–access to the Lifestream, in spite of the Ascian nature of your soul. There we may speak candidly, and for as long as we wish. Just as importantly, Zodiark’s hold on your soul may begin to be unwound.”

Is this goddess damn well mad? Thancred’s eyes nervously dart to Azem, fully anticipating her to lash out some bout of petulance or rage. 

She surprises him yet again.

What can he possibly make of the pointed grief that overtakes her instead? A grief which burrows into his heart as if it were his own?

“Candid conversation in the den of the beast…” Azem hangs her head, voice monotone. “And all it took was to swear myself to another god. Why should I believe your words this time? After the lies you spat to me through the ‘Word of the Mother’… Clearly you mean to overwhelm me with your light, mold me back into your servant. Or perhaps dispose of me once and for all.”

“It is as much a risk for me to invite a servant of Zodiark into the Lifestream,” Hydaelyn counters. “And yet, I do anyway. For you, Sahri.” Her eyes narrow. “This is precisely the opportunity you’ve desired for so long, yes? Surely you do not mean to deny it now that it stands before you.”

Ah. Expertly laid bait–this goddess has a way with words Thancred must admire. It’s hardly a stretch to imagine why Minfilia found her so compelling. And surely enough, balling her fist, Azem raises her head.

“…No. Of course not. Whatever your game, I will be ready.” The Ascian’s arms tremble. “You…you will regret your arrogance, Hydaelyn. We…We will meet, and I will make you know our pain. Amaurot’s…and mine…and…” She takes a breath, posture steadying. “I will liberate this star from you once and for all. And then–”

“Persephone, stop it!”

There is a sudden clatter of footsteps accompanying Gaia’s voice, and all at once she darts past Thancred. 

Persephone?

Dread pools in Thancred’s chest when she comes to stand in front of Azem. She takes one of the Ascian’s hands in both of hers, familiar despite her frantic demeanor. 

Ah. He’d…truly hoped this wouldn’t be the answer. But from where else could spring a darkness of her power?

“Just… Just stop it,” the girl repeats. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m not letting you do this anymore. Just look…” Her eyes fall upon the glowing wounds Thancred inflicted upon Azem. “Just look at how you’re hurting yourself!”

Azem’s face…turns soft. Soft in a way so identical to Sahri he can hardly stand to look at it.

“G-Gaia… I suppose this means the end of our little charade.” 

An exasperated smile breaks across Azem’s lips. She places her free hand upon Gaia’s shoulder.

“Do not worry for me. These wounds are but fleeting things. I believe… I understand now. Why I have felt this…tumult. What purpose Lord Zodiark has for me.” She closes her eyes, reflective. “I am a broken thing… And that is exactly what I must be to vanquish her. As her former champion, it is my responsibility. With her death, I can finally move past her, put a rest to this whirlwind in my heart–”

“We both know that’s not true!” 

Gaia’s interjection wipes the smile clean off Azem’s face, her arm falling back to her side. 

“Sister…?”

“Persephone, I… I’ve had a lot of time to think since you gave me the crystal of Loghrif. And I’ve…been especially thinking about our conversation last night.” Gaia squeezes her ‘sister’s’ hand harder. “You…you keep trying to cling to ‘purposes,’ but they don’t stick, because you don’t really know what you’re doing. Do you? I don’t know what hurt you so badly… Hydaelyn, or something else… But you just keep lashing out at whoever’s near. Your old friends, Hades, now Hydaelyn, and every time it makes you worse. Less like the sister I remember…and less like ‘Sahri’ too, by the sound of it. If all you know how to do is burn bridges…the only way left will be off the side of a cliff. You know?”

She garners a silent but stupified face from Azem. The dread in Thancred’s heart parts as quickly as it found purchase, though, listening to Gaia speak. This girl…

“Maybe Zodiark really is what’s making you like this, and Hydaelyn actually can help you. I have no idea. I’m just as confused as you about…about the past and the present, and what we should do about it. What we are now. But even though neither of us are exactly like the sisters we knew…” A weak smile rises to Gaia’s face. “I…love you…like my sister. And that’s still real…right?”

Again she pauses, and again Azem is quiet. Her expression has settled into something vexingly neutral, her eyes boring into Gaia. The tentative smile falls off the girl’s face. 

“You could at least say something… Maybe I’m not making any sense.” Gaia averts her eyes. “I just think…you should slow down. Even if you managed to kill Hydaelyn instead of her killing you… Would that really fix anything?” A shake of her head. “I’ve…really been wondering. If we do go through with Emet-Selch’s plan. Rejoin the shards and kill everyone to bring back Amaurot… Would that really be Amaurot anymore? Could we really live like we did before? Or…would all the killing just make us empty? Would we even be able to trust each other again?” Once more, she meets her sister’s eyes. “You’re already doubting Emet-Selch, aren’t you? Instead of just continuing on like we have… Maybe we just need to take some time to think about it. What’s really the right thing to do here. What would really make us happy. Please, Persephone.” 

Again, silence. Thancred wishes he could smile– It seems Ryne had deeply touched this would-be Ascian’s heart. Yet, ‘sister’ or not, is she really doing more than speaking to a wall?

As if to answer his question, Azem closes her eyes. 

“I…believe I understand, Gaia.” 

The girl’s smile returns, more genuine than anything he’s seen out of her.

“You do?”

“Yes…” When Azem reopens her eyes, moonlight catches off the tears glistening in them. “I’ve made…a grave mistake. Now, you…”

She extends her free arm to her side, and… 

And with a swirl of darkness, the Ascian’s scythe returns to her.

“Now even my own sister is lost to me.” 

What happens next happens in a flash– A literal flash of light which momentarily blinds him. 

The sight it fades back into flings Thancred into a fit of panic. Hydaelyn-in-Ryne wields a magnificent azure shield, blocking Azem’s attempted swing of her scythe. Wings of light burst out from behind the goddess, protecting Gaia–the poor girl having fallen to her knees, trembling. 

“You would interfere with even this?” Azem spits the words as acid. 

“Your quarrel is with me, not with her.” Hydaelyn is the very picture of resolve. “Do not extinguish my remaining hope by striking down this girl who calls you sister. Else my invitation is rescinded, and I will have no choice but to return you to the light with the rest of your wretched brethren.”

Azem grits her teeth, eyes darting to Gaia, to Thancred, and back to Hydaelyn. She frowns, closes her eyes, and lets out a deep sigh. 

“Fine. I only hoped to put her out of her inevitable misery. But it is like you to make her live and bear it.” 

She withdraws her weapon, returning it to nothing. Along with a step back, she wipes the remaining tears from her face. 

“Once I’ve replenished my aether, I will come for you, Hydaelyn. And you will regret ever having tried to claim me as yours.” 

For her part, Hydaelyn also stands down, her shield and wings vanishing.

“And I will be ready to receive you, my child. Though…” The slightest upturn of her lips. “Expect that I will not be the only. My Warrior of Light has touched the souls of so many that have come to find their rest.”

Eyes bulging, Azem’s hands turn into fists. She tilts her chin up at Hydaelyn, voice causing Thancred to shiver.

“They mean nothing in the face of what was.” 

And with a whirl of darkness, she is gone. Well and truly gone, the crushing weight of her presence fading from their surroundings. Atop Mt. Gulg, all is still, once more truly quiet. 

Thancred flexes his muscles, putting the entirety of his focus in attempting to sit up. Ignoring all the signals his body screams at him to stop. He struggles even as he begins to feel lightheaded, and it is only the weight of a gentle hand upon his shoulder which causes him to stop. 

“Strange. My healing magic will not come.” 

He opens his eyes to find Hydaelyn once more kneeling over him, a perplexed look on her face.

“Oh. R– Right,” Thancred stammers. “Actually, there should be a switch on my belt you can flip off.”

“A switch…? Ah.” It does not take long for her to identify, and Thancred hears the telltale click. “That is a potent device.”

Thancred gives her a strained smile. 

“Yes, it–”

Whatever he had to say is immediately washed away by the flood of healing magic which pours through his body. It is by far the most potent he has ever been on the receiving end of, nearly overwhelming in its bliss, and he must stifle a gasp at his relief. The flow ends as quickly as it started, and when he tries to sit up this time he does so with ease.

“I feel better than when I woke up this morning,” he admits, flexing the wrist Azem had impaled and finding no resistance. “Actually, I…  Hold on.”

There’s something…more than feeling revitalized, isn’t there? An energy coursing through him… Not unfamiliar, but something he has not experienced in ages. It… It couldn’t be…

He holds out his palm, attempting to concentrate the energy to a single point. It…it obeys him, and in moments he can see a faint blue light glowing atop it. 

“You…restored my ability to use aether?” he asks, breathless. 

Hydaelyn nods.

“Consider it a boon for a fight valiantly fought. You will require every advantage to overcome the new Lightwardens without Sahri by your side. Speaking of…” 

She holds something out to him–the white auracite which Azem had knocked from his hand. Giving it a quick lookover, it seems perfectly intact. 

“You will likely require that in the future.”

“Yes… I’d have to agree.” Thancred stows the crystal away, turning a skeptical eye towards the goddess yet inhabiting Ryne. “Are you certain you know what you’re doing, inviting her to your home like that? That…monster isn’t Sahri anymore. Surely you recognize that. It’s thrown away everything that Sahri was.”

“Everything?” Hydaelyn smiles, and it is a sorrowful thing. The kind of smile a mother would give a child who is yet too young to understand. “It says much of the esteem you hold her in that you believe that.” 

He does not get the chance to interrogate that statement, for a new sound floats into both their ears. That of a quiet but sustained sobbing. 

Gaia continues to kneel where she once stood before Azem, hands folded before her face as she cries. Without a spare thought, Thancred rolls to his feet, making haste to her side. He kneels to meet her at her level. 

“Gaia–”

“I’m no different from her!” she suddenly yells, mascara streaking down her cheeks. “I threw away everything to become Gaia again, and now she’s left me behind too! I don’t…” She slumps, arms falling to her sides. “I don’t have anything left…” 

After a moment’s consideration, Thancred places a hand on her shoulder.

“You still have us, don’t you?”

The girl gives him a scathing look, as if he is completely and utterly daft.

“You must have pieced something together from all that,” she grumbles. “She’s the one who put me in your group. As a spy.” 

“Oh, so you’re just a spy? Then who was that girl who was crucial in taking down Innocence, and who over the last month has provided Ryne with some sorely needed company besides?” 

There is a flash of shyness on Gaia’s face, and she averts her eyes. Thancred cannot help but crack a small smile. 

“Contrary to what you may think, I was actually listening quite closely to that conversation you and Azem shared,” he continues. “And you sound like no foe of mine. A girl with a good head on her shoulders, and certainly no Ascian.”

“Indeed, she is not.” Hydaelyn approaches the two, inserting herself into the conversation. “The last bearer of her soul was one of two Ascians which my champions on this shard struck down.” 

The goddess kneels as well, lowering herself to their level, and her eyes are focused on Gaia.

“Perhaps due to the recency, you have inherited much of that woman’s power–as I am certain you have noticed. And yet you are no thrall to Zodiark. His power, wielded with a free heart… You’ve the potential to accomplish remarkable things, Gaia.”

The girl glares daggers at Hydaelyn.

“What, for you?” She scoffs. 

Hydaelyn shakes her head.

“No. For young Ryne.” She holds a hand over Her chest, and Gaia’s eyes go wide. “I can sense how long she has yearned to meet someone such as you. You care for her, yes?” Her smile is playful. “Then use your power to protect her. With Oracles of Light and Darkness walking hand-in-hand, the First can surely yet be saved.”

Gaia frowns, though Thancred spies a faint rosiness to her cheeks.

“If that’s what you think, then let her go already,” she chides. “You’ve puppeted her around enough.”

Hydaelyn positively beams.

“You’re right, of course. I do not belong on this mortal plane. That is something I gave up long ago.” She lowers her head, her eyes falling shut. “Farewell, then, to the both of you. I do not know whether we will meet again.” 

There are so many thoughts churning through Thancred’s head, so many things he could think to ask this goddess. About Herself, about Minfilia, about the fate of this star… Yet each and every one is caught in his throat. And so he remains silent, and when the eyes before him blink open, they are once more those of a girl. 

“Ryne?” he asks, placing a hand on her back. She looks at him blearily. 

“Than…cred,” Ryne mutters in acknowledgement. Then all at once she sits up straight, snapping her full attention ahead of her. “Gaia!” 

“Ryne?” Gaia asks with a hint of disbelief. “She really–”

She cuts her sentence short when Ryne surges forwards and pulls her into a squeezing hug. 

“You have a place with us, I promise,” Ryne tells her, leaning over the other girl’s shoulder. “Whatever your past is. Please… Please believe that.”

There is a brief lull as Gaia considers this.

“...You knew about us, didn’t you? Before today, I mean.”

Ryne draws back, meeting Gaia’s eyes and giving a small nod. 

“Yes… But I didn’t know how to help you. I’m…” Guilt flares onto her face. “I’m…sorry. How things happened with…your sister. I hope Hydaelyn can…bring her back to us.”

A pained look flashes through Gaia’s eyes, and they fall from Ryne’s. 

“Yeah… Me too.” 

A clap on each of their backs interrupts their mutual gloom. 

“There’s no time for moping,” he tells them, affecting as much energy as he can muster. Both girls look at him with shock. “We’ve still a long trek ahead of us, and gods know you’ve both earned a long rest in the plushest beds Eulmore has to offer.” 

As their gazes settle upon him, the shock on Ryne’s face ebbs–a quiet, smoldering fury rising to replace it.

“Thancred.” Uh-oh. “You promised me you would be careful. And instead, you… You tried to fight Sahri all on your own?”

“I…did. And I am sorry,” he tells her. “Admittedly, I didn’t account for the intervention of a goddess. If you mean to chew my ear off about it, at least do so on our journey down.” 

Just as Ryne seems poised to continue, Gaia stands to her feet. She crosses her arms.

“He’s right. I don’t want to stay up here a moment longer than I have to.” 

The other two rise to join her, and Ryne places a hand on her arm. 

“You’ll come with us then, Gaia?”

Gaia’s lips part in surprise, but she makes an effort to press them back together. 

“...For now, at least. It’s not as if I have anywhere else to go.” 

The smile she receives from Ryne is… Well. He decides to do anything but dwell on that intensity for now. Especially as Ryne begins to lead Gaia forwards by the arm. The three trudge out of the crater left at the summit. They eventually make it back to stairs which haven’t crumbled under the weight of Azem’s attacks. 

After a moment, Thancred stops and watches the two walk. It is a heartwarming sight, the unison with which they tread under sparkling stars. It should bring a smile to his face. It should fill him with relief at the end of a series of hard-fought battles. And yet doubt gnaws at his heart. 

Today, two battles were fought.

The Scions’ battle was a victory. His own was not.

Whatever the circumstances, he failed to kill Azem. Failed to kill the monster born of Sahri’s husk. And even with a goddess on the case, he cannot find any sort of peace in his heart. 

He lets out a quiet sigh, continuing after the girls.

Thancred can only hope his failure will not come back to haunt them.

………………………………………………………………………………..

“Again, Taynor.”

“What? But… Master Matoya. You…you look so tired. Maybe we should stop there for today…?”

Attempting to conceal unsteady legs, Y’shtola leans back against the wall of the cavern she and Taynor have been training in. It is only with practiced discipline she yet controls her breathing, though it seems this boy is yet keen enough to see through her. The toll this spell takes on the soul is grave indeed. And yet… The potent magical energies woven through Taynor’s aether seem no less dim after grueling hours of practice.

She ruffles through her personal effects, retrieving the crystal gifted by Emet-Selch. The nebulous beacon which has guided her efforts since parting ways with the Scions in Kholusia. It is emblematic of the very office of Emet-Selch itself, a fact that the memories of the phantom Hythlodaeus had filled in for her. Comparable to a modern job crystal… Though its power surely runs far deeper.

As she has many times over the past week, she holds the stone in her palm, running her thumb across the grooves forming the symbol atop it. 

The pace at which events had proceeded in recent days may well have left a woman of lesser experience feeling dizzy. Since journeying to Amh Araeng with the bounty hunter Cerigg, her greatest hopes had proven true near immediately. The “hollows” summoned by the sin eater Phronesis, one of the Cardinal Virtues born from Norvrandt’s former Warriors of Light, were voidgates—and potent ones at that. Even more remarkably, a voice had cried out from one of these gates, and from its depths she guided a boy. A boy who had been trapped in the flow of the Rift Between for over a century. A boy with intimate knowledge of the living Nyelbert and the Rift-crossing spells he weaves, bred to wield the same magic for himself.

And so Phronesis could be slain, for she had gained something far more malleable than a wandering sin eater:

A pupil.

Were there such a thing as fate, it would surely be looking down on her with a wry grin. 

I’ve given you all the pieces. Show me if you are truly worthy of the name you carry…

“Master Matoya?”

She jerks her gaze up from the stone. Taynor stands closer to her, and she can vividly imagine the pitying look on his face.

Y’shtola pushes herself back to her feet.

“I am perfectly able to continue,” she tells him. “Remember why we do this. We’ve not the luxury of time.”

Taynor seems to lower his head.

“Yes… To save our home, and help Nyelbert and his friends rest in peace.” He quickly perks up. “You know, it’s remarkable that you’ve been able to open a hollow of any size with me. It took Nyelbert and I years of practice to channel our magic together like that! Your skill is absolutely incredible! Maybe…” His voice is conciliatory. “Maybe it would help if we focused on improving one aspect at a time? The size, or the sustainability?”

“We will need to build on both and more if the void is to be part of the First’s salvation.” She folds her arms, still clutching the crystal of Emet-Selch. “…Though I take your suggestion. Let us attempt to make a voidgate which is larger.”

“Okay!” Y’shtola can hear the smile in his voice. “If we focus all of our energy on that goal, we might just be able to do it.” A pause. “You’ll be ready if another one of those…voidsent? Comes through, right? If we succeed, it could be a lot bigger than the last few.”

“That is exactly my hope. Now— Begin.”

The two turn in tandem towards the far back wall of the cavern. She readies Nightseeker, and together, she and Taynor begin to work though the arduous incantations.

Y’shtola feels a wobble in her knees almost immediately, but she refuses to break her concentration. She is so close—so close to a meaningful milestone. For the Night’s Blessed, for young Ryne, she refuses to allow weakness to rule her. Her magical reserves border on depleted by the time the hollow finally begins to coalesce. And yet, perhaps due to her exhaustion, the gate manifests smaller than any of she and Taynor’s several previous attempts.

No. She will not settle for this. She will not . A drop of sweat trickles down her brow. Even with so little left to give, she must put forth yet more. Wherever it needs to come from. Whatever it takes. She will put everything on the line. She…

Darkness roars to life in her hand, the crystal of Emet-Selch suddenly scalding in its intensity. Her focus nearly breaks, but she steers her mind back on course. 

This is it—exactly what she needs.

Y’shtola channels the churning energy surging through her staff.  All at once the hollow explodes to ten times its previous size.

Taynor yelps beside her, but he too manages to retain his concentration. They do not have to wait for long. Drawn as a moth to the light of the First, a dark presence begins to claw its way out of the gate. It hisses out in spoken word.

“Fiiinally… Fiiiinally, luck favors me!”

“Th—they can talk?!” Taynor exclaims.

The moment the voidsent fully emerges, Y’shtola releases the spell. The hollow vanishes instantly. Despite its strength, such a portal was merely a flash in the pan… But they have more pressing concerns at the moment.

“Fear not, Taynor,” she reassures. “This creature is not nearly as formidable as Phronesis.”

“Mortals, why have you opened the gate? Do you seek— Agh!”

A bolt of lightning jolts from Nightseeker and shoots the monster through. With magic far more practiced than that of opening voidgates, Y’shtola lashes out with wind and stone in turn. Fragments of rock tear at its form in a whirlwind.

“Y-you fools…!”

“Bring him down, Taynor.”

“R-right!” 

The wind carries the voidsent directly into a potent fireball slung by Taynor, and already the voidsent’s life begins to grow dim. Taynor does not relent, providing her just enough time to charge the coup de grâce. A flare streaks down atop the beast, earning a mighty shriek as it delivers its target’s end.

There. The critical moment.

When a voidsent dies, the darkness which comprises its form begins to unravel. But she will not allow this aether to disperse. Extending Nightseeker forwards, she reverses the flow of aether— Siphoning it towards her. This is a far greater quantity of astral aether than she has previously attempted directing, and at first it proves resistant. Yet it soon yields to the greater will, a trickle becoming a torrent flooding into her staff’s focus. 

A focus is meant to channel aether, not to store it. The darkness continues its surge, crackling into its final destination– Y’shtola’s own vessel. The darkness weaves itself as part of her, and all is still.

If only for a moment.

“Master Matoya! Was that the power of the stone you carry?” Taynor’s tone oscillates between excitement and concern. “That hollow grew larger than I thought was possible to conjure!”

Y’shtola gives the stone another look over, finding the rampant energy departed as quickly as it arrived.

“…T’would seem it makes for a powerful aether battery. Though it can surely be utilized for far more than that,” she muses. “The gate was large, true, but unable to sustain itself. We ought— Ngh!”

A torturous ring pierces Y’shtola’s head. Stone and staff both clatter to the ground, and the woman suddenly finds herself on her knees. 

“M-Master Matoya! What’s wrong?!” 

Hunger. Chaos. Y’shtola clutches her chest, stifling a scream. The astral energy which she stole from the voidsent joins with the traces of its brethren from her previous experiments, and in unison they rebel against her. A roiling desire for freedom claws at her heart. Not freedom from her , but from any and all restraint, emotion unfettered and id unbound to enact its whims. For what is the astral but kinesis itself? 

“Taynor? Matoya? I heard– Wicked white!”

The now familiar sound of Cerigg’s voice echoes from the cavern’s entrance, and in moments there is a firm hand gripping at her shoulder. 

“Matoya, are you alright? C’mon, get a hold of yourself!”

Get a hold of herself… Y’shtola cannot agree more. She lashes back at the defiant darkness with her own essence, willing it to assimilate once more. It would become a part of her– Not she a part of it. She is no voidsent, so eager to scheme and gorge itself on life-giving aether. She is Master Matoya of the Night’s Blessed, and night will not consume her. 

The revolt fades, the chaos in Y’shtola’s heart subsiding. Her arms slump to her sides, and she pants while she reigns in her unsteady breath. 

“Matoya?”

“I have weathered worse.” Y’shtola rasps, shrugging off Cerigg’s hand and retrieving her dropped items. “Though I believe we’ve reached our training’s limit for today. Taynor, go and rest.”

“But–!” Taynor crouches, leaning closer to her. “Matoya! Shouldn’t we talk about what just–”

“Taynor.” She looks directly at the boy, jaw firmly set.

She earns a small sigh, and Taynor withdraws. 

“Fine. But you’ll at least have supper with us tonight, won’t you?”

A memory of another dark cave, of a woman hunched over her books, hair unkempt and bags set deep under her eyes. Y’shtola tugs at her robe.

“Master Matoya! Come on, already! It’s well past time for dinner!”

“...I believe I can manage that,” she allows. 

Taynor gives a slight bow. 

“We’ll talk more then, alright?”

He sets off for the cavern entrance before she has time to respond—a tactic which stirs a hint of mirth in Y’shtola’s chest. How many times has she employed just the same strategy? Thus far, she had been vague to the boy about her intentions in summoning the voidsent. Perhaps it is time to give him a clearer overview of her working theories.

The mirth soon fizzles, for even without sight the telltale sense of eyes boring into oneself never truly fades. She turns her focus onto Cerigg, who continues to silently kneel at her side. 

“Yes? Have you something to say, Cerigg?” 

The man rubs at the back of his head.

“Look– Hey, are you able to stand?” 

He rises to his feet, extending a hand down to her. She studies it momentarily, but instead pushes herself off of her knees. With more exertion than she would care to admit, she manages to stand on her own, bending to brush the sand from where she imagines it gathered on her dress. Cerigg pulls back his hand, crossing his arms instead.

“Look,” he begins again. “We both know I don’t fully understand the magic you and Taynor have been practicing. I’m perfectly happy to stand guard and keep people away from this place. It just kind of seems like you’re hurting yourself.” He pauses, but she provides no rebuttal. “Are you…sure this is all necessary? You heard about how night returned to Kholusia a few days ago, right? Maybe those Warriors of Darkness have got this under control. Maybe–”

“Their solution is impermanent,” Y’shtola cuts in. “They may bring temporary relief, but the light will blanket Norvrandt once again. This attempt is even more ill-fated than their last.” She musters a frown. “Our research has the potential to provide a permanent solution. Although… I cannot blame you for wishing to live in hope. Should you wish to abandon our endeavor…”

“You kidding?” He waves his arms in front of him, dismissing the idea. “I’m in this with you and Taynor ‘til the end. If you say we need this, I believe you. You haven’t steered us wrong yet. Never would have bagged Phronesis without you.” The man puffs out his chest. “Still, you’re not saving anybody if you just keel over. I’m not about to let my good buddy work herself to death. You need rest too, so come on. We’ll all walk back to Twine together.”

Good buddy… A smile threatens the corner of Y’shtola’s lips. This Cerigg… He may be a straightforward man, but he is certainly a reliable one. He is rather like Runar in that respect. Still, she gives him a shake of her head.

“Not yet,” she tells him. “There is one more matter I hope to devote some time to, but you have my word I will not overexert myself. Go on and escort Taynor back. I will follow shortly.”

Wisely, the man chooses not to argue. Instead, he shrugs.

“If that’s what you want. But if I don’t see you in town in the next half a bell, I’m circling back around.”

She nods.

“Understood.” 

With a small wave, Cerigg too sets off. She watches his aether weave around a corner, following his path through the passageways until distance causes the rocks to blot it out entirely. 

She returns her staff to her back, then gives the stone of Emet-Selch another turn in her hand. Though its reaction earlier warrants further investigation, there is another crystal which may hold far more immediate relevance. She produces it from her pouch: a large prism with lingering traces of umbrally-aspected lightning aether. The crystal which Phronesis left behind in the wake of its defeat, from which Nyelbert expressed his final regrets.

Based on its shape and properties, it seemed to be the type of crystal which Hydaelyn bequeathed to Her champions, albeit cracked and utterly exhausted of Her power. Something absolutely remained within, however–the memories and sentiments of the Warrior of Light who once carried it. How far back did such memories span? Could they hold insight into Nyelbert’s seeming mastery over the art of opening voidgates? These questions gnawing at her mind, she has attempted to find a way to attune to the crystal’s contents–yet each and every time, it has proven resistant. Is it the nature of the crystal, or do the memories themselves simply not wish to be beheld? 

Whatever the reason, she cannot help but reflect on the visions of those awakened to the Echo. The likes of Krile… Of Sahri. When they most required insight, the Echo would grant it to them. To experience history through the eyes of another… To understand their heart without the need for words. Words are exactly what she finds carrying from her lips.

“Could I only see these memories so plainly as they…”

“It would be a useful ability, would it not? As Hythlodaeus, you certainly could have delved into that crystal’s secrets.”

Every hair on Y’shtola’s neck stands on end. She slowly lifts her head from Nyelbert’s crystal, finding an unwelcome presence which did not exist moments before. Violet plunged in terrible darkness, and a voice which pricks at her heart with every new word. 

“Emet-Selch. State your purpose.” 

“Oh? That is a far more subdued reaction than our previous encounter.” Satisfaction drips through his voice. “You will not force me to seize your staff again? Perhaps we truly did make a breakthrough.” 

Our previous encounter… A shudder runs down her spine at the memory. How easily she had ceded so much of herself to this man… How much he still held, dangling the memory of Hythlodaeus over her head. And of Sahri… She…

She wills calm. This encounter will not proceed as the last.

“Given the circumstances, I doubt you are here to pose any physical threat,” she explains. “I imagine you wish to share another conversation, yes?”

“Ah, excellent. We understand each other. In that case…” He steps forward, extending his hand with palm upturned. “Allow me a closer look at this object of your fascination.” 

Y’shtola’s grip on the crystal tightens, and she narrows her eyes into a piercing glare. She earns a sigh in response, hearing the roll of his eyes when he speaks. 

“Come now. I have simply never been afforded the opportunity to examine one of Hydaelyn’s boons up close,” he insists. “I’ve no reason to steal the thing from you. This is an endeavor I rather hope you succeed in, after all.”

She cocks a brow.

“You wish me success in sparing the First its demise?”

“That part I could do without.” He briefly waves his other hand. “Yet if you somehow manage to restore the void in the process? It would be more than worth sacrificing the strives we’ve made towards this Rejoining.”

His words prove difficult to dismiss… Again, she runs her thumb over the groove of Emet-Selch’s stone. After brief consideration, she hands him that which he requested.

“There we are.” 

He seizes the crystal, bringing it close to his face. He spins it in his hands, studying it.

“These have an awful tendency to become unrecoverable after their owner’s deaths. It is remarkable to find one so tangibly intact. Perhaps an effect of this shard’s light,” he thinks aloud. “Still, the Blessing has all but fled from within. Though I imagine that’s not quite what you seek from it…”

Y’shtola crosses her arms, ears tuned to scrutinize his every word.

“Am I to assume you’ve kept a prying vigil over my every action since arriving in Amh Araeng?”

That earns a hearty chuckle. 

“Goodness, no. Once more seizing the reins of Garlemald has left me with scant little time to myself.” He must notice the question blooming on her face, for he responds before she asks. “ That is a subject for later. For the time being, allow me to see whether I have the story straight. You believe you may counter the First succumbing to light with the abundant darkness of the Thirteenth. To that end, you pursued one of the so-called Cardinal Virtues and stumbled across a miraculous little boy. Plucked from a time before the Flood of Light, he possesses intimate knowledge of a school of mages which perfected the art of opening voidgates. Now you wish to study this art and master it for yourself. Yes?”

“…That is correct. You…” She looks at him askance. “…wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with that ‘miracle,’ would you?”

“You wound me,” he scoffs. “Had I known such a boy was wasting away in the Rift Between, I would have advised Elidibus to make use of him.” He pauses, tone becoming more reflective. “Well… He is a boy in form and spirit, certainly. Yet his consciousness lingered in the Rift from the moment he was first trapped there. How ‘long’ must that experience have seemed to him? Surely his mind is wizened far beyond its ostensible years. You must know something of it, given how eagerly you submit yourself to the flow.”

Flow… Her eyes drop. In the wake of the incident in Ul’dah, she had indeed been left incorporeal, drifting to the whims of the Lifestream. In truth… The experience robbed her of more than her sight. Several months passed above the surface, yet from her perspective, time had ceased to hold all meaning. Mhitra’s warm hand carried her back to her senses, but Taynor…

“...Perhaps it is a mercy his memories emerged fragmented,” she states just above a whisper.

“Your definition of mercy is clearly different from mine,” Emet-Selch snaps back with sudden intensity, immediately redrawing Y’shtola’s focus. “As is your idea of prudent use of magic. You do realize what voidsent are, yes? What exactly was your intention behind the reckless stunt you pulled earlier?”

Ah. He sounds dangerously close to being concerned. Y’shtola taps her cheek, contemplating how to explain. 

“...Indeed. They are the Thirteenth’s equivalent to sin eaters. As beings of astral energy, they are wont to resist control. I surmised the most efficient way to utilize the void’s darkness would be to wield it myself.”

“Wield it? My, you’re even more ambitious than I had imagined.” He lowers Nyelbert’s crystal to his side, though does not relinquish it. “Far be it from me to lecture you on the art of darkness, sorceress, but there seem to be a few holes in such an idea. Namely, you lack any special ward against aetherial corruption akin to Hydaelyn’s champions. In fact, you are likely more susceptible given your separation from your true body. Only your magical prowess spared you from becoming one of the voidsent’s ranks, and it will not avail you again.”

Y’shtola’s eyes are closed while she continues to think.

“...Indeed. I would only ever offer myself to test the viability, but my vessel is clearly not suited as it is. There is a lack of available Warriors of Light on this shard… And I highly doubt you would be willing to offer yourself.”

“And put myself at the mercy of your crass experimentation? Your doubt is well founded. Still…” He leans his head on a fist. “Luring them to the First does solve one issue. The cycle of life no longer properly functions upon the Thirteenth, you see. Souls do not pass unto the Lifestream. When one voidsent consumes another, they become a crude amalgamation, souls bound to work in synchrony when they were never willing. Killing them here allows their souls to pass, sparing any vessel that little crisis of identity.”

“Even so,” Y’shtola continues, “the aetherial devastation of the Thirteenth is more acute than that of the First. Even with her Blessing, Sahri could not contain the Lightwardens without beginning to turn herself. Any vessel, living or material, would surely rapidly deteriorate attempting to contain any substantial portion of the void’s darkness.”

“Yes,” Emet-Selch agrees. “Such a vessel would be incredibly fleeting, and any flash of full control would require one to push their willpower to their very limits. One could hope it lasts long enough to enact a mirror of the Exarch’s folly and throw it into the Rift, yet that would serve this shard no aid.”

“That would be senseless,” Y’shtola nods along. “Hades, do you surmise–” 

Her voice catches in her throat the moment she realizes what she has said. A dreadful warmth stirs within her, tugs at her heart, and she curses the ease at which the name had slipped her lips. How natural it is for their rapport to slot into place…

She hears a soft, regretful laugh.

“Isn’t this nostalgic?” Hades’ voice is a faint echo of that warmth. “Were you only Hythlodaeus in full. Then, perhaps, we could have truly solved this dilemma.” 

She chooses to blame the phantom Hythlodaeus’s memories for this sense of loss. Although… What at first seems one of Hades’ typical attempts to ingrain self-doubt does not sit quite right in her mind. There is something…else. She realizes what it is at the same time she realizes she is squeezing the stone she continues to hold.

“...You must have some faith in my potential,” she retorts. “Otherwise, you would not have come here to check on my progress. Otherwise…” She holds her palm flat before her, displaying the stone upon it. “You would not have granted me this.”

There is no doubt a sour expression on his face as he studies her.

“I specified what that was for,” he tells her. “To serve as a convenient avenue to return to my undersea Amaurot.”

“Do not act the part of fool.” She narrows her eyes. “Your Hythlodaeus’s memories reminded…informed me of what this truly is. The stone of your own office.”

Hades clutches his forehead, shaking his head with a sigh.

“So that’s what happened to him,” he grumbles. “If you remember that, you ought to remember that your original self was considered for the position before I.”

“That’s correct. But he considered his friend worthier.” Despite herself, Y’shtola smiles. “His friend, one of the greatest mages the world had ever known, well-versed in every aspect of aether and its functioning. A man of great humility, who consistently aided his fellows without a moment’s hesitation. A man of the world and its people.” Her smile falls. “Were I only able to meet such a man.”

Hades grows still.

“Hmph. Touché.” 

“Even so,” she continues. “It is a position you took great pride in. Unless I severely misunderstand the kind of man you are, that pride could only have grown into devotion in the millennia after Amaurot fell. Why, then, would you give me this item of such symbolic importance? My mind continues circling to one possibility. That…you intend to relinquish your seat.”

“Relinquish it? What, to you?” he spits venomously, and his glyph glows to life before his face. “Your arrogance confounds me. I will never relinquish my duty. I am Emet-Selch, and my convictions will carry me to the day the sun again graces the skies of Amaurot.”

Y’shtola shakes her head.

“I must agree. You would never willingly pass the seat along–and certainly not to a fractured, sub-human soul. Sundered Ascians only exist by sheer necessity. Thus I am only left with more questions.” She takes a step forward. “I could derive alternate hypotheses. Is there a particular power you hope for me to draw from within? Is exposure to the stone simply an effort to make me a thrall? Is there a social incentive, an attempt to pry the attention of one of your fellow Paragons? And yet, my thinking always comes back to your duty. So I must ask…” She pauses. “Hades…do you foresee being unable to continue your service as Emet-Selch?”

A pointed quiet. Hades makes no moves, and the silence lingers until she tries again.

“Hades—”

“So many questions,” he interrupts. “Allow me to pose one to you. What is that crystal’s primary aetherial aspect?”

Y’shtola furrows her brow, the question impacting her with blunt force. To her aethersight, such a question is as simple as asking its color.

“What? It is…darkness, of course.”

“Quite right. A fact which was true long before the creation of Zodiark. Next question, then.” 

Suddenly, he is but ilms in front of her. She cranes her neck upwards to follow his head, which seems angled to glare down upon her. Anxiety coils around her stomach when he grips her shoulder. It is anything but tender. 

“What happens when a feeble little mortal holds a crystal of darkness in the presence of an Ascian?”

By the time his words register, it is far too late. 

Emet-Selch’s aether surges forward, surges inside of her, and Y’shtola is roiled by a darkness unfathomably deeper than the one she claimed earlier. She cannot scream. The grip on her shoulder releases, and there is a massive impact as Emet-Selch’s body falls to the floor. 

Crimson aether glows to life before her eyes, then all is black.

………………………………………………………………………………………….

Y’shtola awakens in a void. Not a space filled with dark-aspected aether, but one which contains absolutely nothing. That nothing stretches onto the horizon, so instead she looks down upon herself. 

She can see her hands. Truly see, not approximate them by the aether they emit. Her subconscious never truly forgot what it meant to see the world in all its vibrant beauty, even as one year without it has ever dragged on to the next. 

Meaning: this space is not real, but a construct of the mind.

“Ah, at last I manage to stir your consciousness. Welcome back, sorceress.”

The voice booms from every direction at once, echoing through the imaginary space. Emet-Selch’s voice. Emet-Selch…

That’s right.

“Release my body at once!” she cries to nowhere in particular. “I would sooner die than serve as vessel for your schemes!”

“Don’t you worry. I’ve no use in commandeering this body of yours for long ,” his voice replies. “ The path you wish to walk is clear, sad shadow of Hythlodaeus. As you are now, you are woefully unequipped to walk it. I plan to amend that. You should be thanking me, really.”

Y’shtola casts a dubious look, hoping he can see it.

“And that generous end necessitated seizing my body for your own?”

“Only briefly. I would have attempted without, but unfortunately, aethersight alone will not suffice. Now, if you are finished complaining, turn your gaze upwards for me.”

With little other recourse, Y’shtola complies, angling her gaze to where she imagines the “sky” would be. At first, it holds the same nothingness as everywhere else. Yet soon, there is a glow– A faint golden-orange glow which much more clearly defines a sky. A sky at sunset, or even…

Bright points of light twinkle into existence and begin to streak across the newborn sky. A meteor shower. One which does not seem to relent. Due to the saturation of aether which shines down from the heavens, stars and most skybound objects have long been rendered invisible to her aethersight. How many years has it been since she could witness a meteor shower…? The shower persists, and as she watches, a peculiar ache tugs at her heart–one which goes beyond simple nostalgia. There…is loss in this sky. The loss of her sight? Whatever that loss is… She furrows her brow.

“It is a beautiful sight,” she calls out, “but is there something I’m meant to derive from it?”

A huff rings through the air.

“Oh dear. Is that not enough to stir it from you?” Emet-Selch’s voice asks. “You continue to be stubborn in every aspect. No matter. There are more direct ways to awaken that scar on your soul.”

All at once the meteors in the sky explode, so blazingly bright that they engulf her surroundings. When the light fades, every muscle in her body seizes. 

She is alone in the middle of a city street. A city which exceeds even Old Sharlayan in its development and sheer density of structure. At a glance, it seems uninhabited. Where Sharlayan architecture is white, this city is black and gray, most buildings reaching up into a sunny, tranquil sky. The sun’s rays reflect off panes of glass, accents of crystal and gold, leaving the street level flooded in a comforting light.

“This is…”

It is familiar, and yet she is certain she never witnessed such a place while light still resided in her eyes. Aethersight avails her not in a mindscape. Though given the stylings of the architecture, the towering height at which these buildings stand, perhaps…

When she turns her head, a flash of purple catches in her peripheral vision. She quickly turns her head the opposite way, and though she sees nothing, she feels a softness pressed between her shoulder and neck. Eyes darting low, she finds her answer–a braid of purple hair down her front. Her own hair. Her body is lankier than she is used to, and of paler complexion at that. She wears a loose black robe, and on her chest hangs a white mask…

Ah.

“How does it feel to see your home again, Hythlodeus?”

Y’shtola folds her arms, finding more room to do so than usual.

“So this is Amaurot,” she says, voice an octave too low. “It possesses a completely different majesty when viewed with light. But I do not understand. You’ve already given me free reign of your recreation.” 

“Ah, my dear. It is one thing to witness. It is entirely another to remember.” 

The loud crack of fingers snapping is swiftly replaced with a chorus of deafening screams. 

The smell of fire and death chokes Y’shtola’s breath, and the sky has returned to the one Emet-Selch first showed her. Its true nature is now evident–its hues are not those of a sunset, but of flames reflecting off a stifling blanket of black smoke. Meteors streak through the heavens, but her attention is quickly drawn from them when a beast the size of Amaurot’s tallest towers darts across the sky. It emits an ear-splitting roar. 

These are Amaurot’s Final Days… These, too, Emet-Selch had her experience, walking through burning streets alongside his conjured Hythlodaeus. Why, then, is the emotion rattling through her so radically divergent? Then, it had been a mournful procession, but here… What is this terror which rips her heart? It cannot simply be the difference of sight. No, this… This sight is uncanny, and she… She feels a faint throb in her temple…

“Do you remember death, Hythlodaeus? ”

She nearly falls off balance when something shoves past her shoulder. Her eyes fall back to the street, immediately spotting the source: a panicked crowd fleeing past her in terror, each individual clothed in the same black robes as she. Corpses and debris litter the path, beasts looming in the distance slaughtering those not fast enough to escape. Hades’ phantoms seemed abstracted in shape, several times taller than even a Roegadyn, but these people–they are just the same as she. There is no denying the reality of their faces, of the blood and flesh and sweat and tears which compose them, of the unabashed fear filling their eyes even from behind their masks. 

“Do you remember the death of our people? The death of our home?”

The initial surge of civilians passes, and yet she is left frozen, gawking at the sight. There can be no outlet for the excruciating frenzy of emotions which feel ready to burst from her chest. The tears involuntarily streaming down her face prove woefully insufficient. All the while, the throbbing in her head gains the intensity of a hammer.

“You must remember. Not learn, not comprehend, but remember. The scar on your soul writhes for recognition.”

“Chief Hythlodaeus! Run!”

Y’shtola barely registers the figure charging at her before she is knocked off her feet, shoved backwards with force. She is not yet on the ground when a terrible cacophony of clattering and rubble overloads her ears, a thick cloud of dust surging over her surroundings. Instincts activated, she scrambles to her feet, emitting a blast of aether to clear her vision. It does not take long to understand what has happened. The massive pile of black rubble fulms in front of her was a building which once stood overhead. And peeking out from underneath that mountain is the front half of her savior. 

She is a woman of round face and auburn hair, hood torn away and mask thrown to the ground. Her eyes could be called a calming blue, were they not framed by a face dripping blood and caked in soot. Y’shtola does not know her name, but something deep in her heart is certain she is well known to Hythlodaeus. 

“We…cannot afford to lose you…” Lower half crushed under debris, the woman reaches out her arm, smiling weakly. “Flee… You must…”

Blood explodes from the side of her neck as a blade is driven into it. The life fades from her eyes in an instant. 

“Remember death, Hythlodaeus.”

She clutches her head, the pounding only growing more intense, beginning to put cracks in…something. There is the flash of an image, but she cannot make it out. Instead, her eyes follow the blade impaled in her savior’s neck, finding it attached to a whip-like tail. It belongs to a creature about her size and with the rough body plan of a coeurl—were the coeurl’s face instead replaced with layered maws of teeth. Said teeth tear a chunk off the dead woman’s side, then slowly turn to appraise their next target.

“Remember your death .”

The beast lunges, knocking her to her back with appendages more like hands than paws. It has her pinned, and she hears the crack of one of her ribs when it shifts its weight. It dangles its tail-blade above her chest, poised to strike the moment it concludes taking her measure. 

Would that she could raise a hand in her defense.

Instead, her nails dig into her scalp, the throbbing of her head joined by a persistent, high-pitched hum. Her eyes remain locked on the mortal threat above her, the horrific familiarity of the scene growing more palpable by the second. She begins to notice a fever burning under her skin, each pulse of her head taking her sight with a new image. They linger too briefly to make out, but it feels as if someone is prying open the cracks that have formed, trying to let something out. Something in .

(The scent of fresh rain on the Dravanian Highlands.)

“Remember.”

(The soft rumble of croaking as she tries to find slumber.)

The beast roars, rearing back its tail.

“Remember. ”

(The sight of golden eyes and the soft lips which accompany them.)

The blade whips forward, aimed straight at her heart.

Death is coming.

Death is imminent.

“Remember.”

The scrape of blade piercing flesh and bone, the trickling of warm blood, and a wail which signals demise. These are not memories. 

Or are they? 

The creature’s tail-blade falls short of its intended target. A new figure stands over them both, a man with shoulder-length white hair and entrancing golden eyes. Of course, he wears a black robe. He holds a claymore in both hands, plunged deep into the back of the now-slumped beast.

“In truth, this is not the day you died,” Hades tells her. “But it seems it was enough.”

The scene around them dispels as if a glamour, floating away as particles of light along with every trace of the Final Days. She is once more her proper self, and the man in regal attire glowering down at her… His face is featured in many a tome of history. 

“That was quite a trial to pull from you. Now allow your feeble mind its expansion.” 

At his words the searing, the quaking of Y’shtola’s mind reaches its crescendo. The final pieces of the wall flake away, and finally, she understands.

All life contains a tether of temporality. A past, present and future woven through its heart, never to fully fade. Always possible to be rediscovered and embraced. This is the truth of the Echo.

Her pain ebbs somewhat, images coming into greater clarity. Revealing themselves as scattered scenes, scenes of her life… And his. Voices float into her mind as well, but her sense is not yet developed enough to match them…

“Look, Master Matoya! I conjured a familiar all on my own!”

“My name is Hades, and is the woman who has hounded my every step since childhood.”

“When did the light fade from your eyes?”

“She met her end in our home across the sea. We thought she ought to be returned here.”

“I will be waiting, Shtola, however long it takes you to find your way.”

“If you are truly resolved to this, Hythlodaeus… I will weather the long storm, and you will serve as the beacon at her side.”

Among them creeps in a different sort of voice… One that does not belong. 

“ Hear. Feel. Th –”

“Oh, no you don’t. Hands off.”

The sound of shattering crystal fills Y’shtola’s ears. She opens her eyes, finding the last remnants of a blue glow fading into violet. Emet-Selch looks off into the distance, an annoyed expression on his face.

“That… That last voice…” Y’shtola mutters, her first words in minutes. 

“Hydaelyn. She is proactive about claiming those who awaken to the Echo– All the easier to keep them out of our hands. However, I did not invest all this time and effort to hand her another devotee of light.”

Y’shtola finally lifts herself from her back, stumbling to rest on her knees. She pants, exhaustion weighing her down. Memories continue to manifest and process in the back of her mind as she watches Emet-Selch scrutinize her. He backs a few steps away from her and reaches into his coat. He retrieves something from it, setting it to float before him.

It is… Nyelbert’s crystal.

“Now, let’s see what we can do with this.” He ghosts a hand around the crystal, and a faint darkness begins to surround it. “Surely it is not so difficult to replicate her ward. One crystal for each element, and…”

Gathering aether in his palms, Emet-Selch draws back his arms before abruptly shoving them towards the crystal. Darkness swirls and fully envelops it, a swirling sphere with crackles of each element sparking from its interior. He turns his hands so his palms face outwards, pushing at the air as if parting heavy sliding doors. After much exertion, the ‘doors’ give the rest of the way, and the dark storm frays into six streams. Six streams which dash towards her, landing on the ground at six equidistant points comprising a circle around her. 

Glowing red sigils manifest underneath Y’shtola, taking a shape so fundamental to aetherology she can identify it immediately: the Elemental Wheel. A circle runs through the pockets of darkness, two inner triangles charting their interconnected nature. Surely enough, from each pocket manifests a solid crystal of corresponding elemental hue. Instead of glowing, however, each pulses with an inner darkness.

“...This is not meant to enthrall me,” she concludes, earning a deep sigh and a shake of Emet-Selch’s head.

“Of course it is not. If you’ve any chance at succeeding, you require complete clarity of mind. Hence me granting you this protection. Though…” His frown intensifies. “What is this? It is not nearly the strength of what I stripped from Azem. I suppose I must add my own touch.”

He snaps his fingers, and the sigils set below her glow with greater intensity. The circle surrounding her expands, gains more intricate texture, and the ones which surround each crystal explode into glyphs. Emet-Selch’s glyph, each crystal embraced in its lower reaches. (It is now her turn to roll her eyes.) The triangles akin to the aetherial wheel disappear, each crystal now bound to the other with a series of spiraling curved lines, leaving the impression of a flower. Further copies of Emet-Selch’s glyph decorate the inner and outer circles, until finally, the changes settle. 

Emet-Selch gives an approving nod.

“Ah, much better. Now, then…”

He again holds a hand towards Nyelbert’s crystal.

“Sorceress, receive of my blessing. This Blessing of Darkness.”

A jet of astral energy flies from his palm into Nyelbert’s crystal. With a few moments’ gestation, it emerges from the other side–and swiftly pierces straight into her chest. Y’shtola cries out in pain, and again when each crystal joins in pouring aether deep within her.

The pain subsides, but the power surging through her does not, power of a magnitude she has never before felt course through her. Darkness remakes her, weaves itself into the fabric of her soul, and she is left with the sensation of warmth. A protective presence, not invasive; a strength to command, rather than to command her. Darkness cradles her, and when the infusion of energy runs its course, her heart is left with a lingering comfort. The crystals of her boon depart their designated order and move to enclose her, fading into aether and taking residence deep within.

“That ought to do,” Emet-Selch declares, snatching Nyelbert’s crystal from the air. 

Y’shtola…is tired. So tired, she feels her consciousness begin to ebb. The edges of her vision blur.

“Here.” Nyelbert’s crystal lands on the ground in front of her. “You wished to know its secrets, yes? Allow your Echo to teethe on it. I believe I am going to take a nap.” 

He turns his back to her, beginning to walk away. On instinct, Y’shtola reaches out her arm.

“Ha…des.”

Hades stops. He turns his head back to look over her. His frown is sour, yet in his eyes, there is something…forlorn.

“Do not squander these gifts,” he tells her in a quiet voice. 

He parts his lips again as if to say something more, but nothing comes. He instead looks forward and begins to walk again. He leaves her with a wave behind him, and despite its casual nature, she is left…with a sorrowful prick of finality.

Exhaustion progressing, Y’shtola slumps forwards, gaze now entirely angled towards Nyelbert’s crystal. In but a moment she hears its whispers… The whispers of time, seeking to share their tale. The crystal erupts into blinding light, and Y’shtola feels herself swept into an ocean of memory…

……………………………………………………………….

Y’shtola’s eyes snap open, the woman jolting to a seated position.

“Ma–! Master Matoya!”

The world… The world is aether again. She is awake. Quickly, she looks down and examines herself. There is in fact a new darkness layered into her soul, not at all dissimilar to the glint of Hydaelyn’s chosen…

“Master Matoya? Are you alright?” 

She feels a tug at her sleeve– Taynor is by her side. And on her other…

“You gave us a real scare, you know!” Cerigg’s voice carries. “When you didn’t show, I went back to the cave and found you collapsed on the ground…”

She…is in a bed, she realizes.

“...How long have I been unconscious?” 

“Almost a full day!” Taynor replies. “It… It didn’t seem like a very peaceful rest. And you refused to let go of that crystal…”

…Ah. Nyelbert’s. Then, all she experienced once Emet-Selch departed…

“We must return to our training at once, Taynor.” 

“Huh?”

Y’shtola pulls the sheets off of her and swivels to stand from the bed. 

“Where are the rest of my belongings?” 

“B-By the door, but…” Cerigg approaches her. “Hey, I know you’re a motivated lady, but did you hear what we said? I’m not sure I can let–”

“I will do as I please,” she snaps, stopping the thought in its tracks. “Accompany me or do not.”

She identifies her effects, scooping them up and returning Nightseeker to her back. She hears the boys continue to speak behind her.

“Not sure we have much of a choice here, Taynor…”

She strides out the front door, once more greeted by the stifling light of Norvrandt’s skies. Somehow, it seems to beat down harder than before. She holds her hand aloft, finding it now forms a distinctive silhouette against the sky. A bastion of darkness in unending light.

The Flood of Light’s tyranny will fall, whatever she must become to achieve it.