The grand chamber of the Val'dora felt entirely different than the day O'nor had stood before them in his bloody armor.
The senate was restless. The war against the Anai in the western valleys was grinding into a bloody stalemate, and the lords of the Beh-REET were losing patience. Dak'nor stood in the center of the obsidian floor, flanked by his father, Kal'nor, who watched him with eyes full of grim suspicion.
"You demanded a progress report, Honored Elders," Dak'nor said, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. He looked gaunt, his skin stretched tight over his cheekbones, but his eyes burned with a manic, obsessive light.
"You have locked yourself away with the empire's greatest prize for weeks, Scholar," Elder Tor'val sneered from his high seat, looking eager to finally humiliate a member of the 'nor family. "And our armies are bleeding in the mud of Ne-HE-miah . Have you found a way to forge the beast's fire, or have you simply ruined the carcass?"
"The fire is out of our reach. For now," Dak'nor stated flatly, ignoring the angry murmurs that rippled across the dais. "The power of the dragon—the true power of the gods—is a speck of light walled off by an ocean of absolute darkness. Reaching the light requires a spiritual fortitude that I have not yet mastered. But... in my attempts to reach the fires of creation, I have mapped the wall that protects it."
Tor'val scoffed. "You mapped a wall? You offer us a barrier while the Anai offer us swords?"
"I offer you an understanding of the Void," Dak'nor countered, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
He reached into his robes and pulled out a small shard he had chipped from the dragon's crystal.
"The dark is incredibly easy to access," Dak'nor explained, his tone shifting back to the cautious warning of a scholar. "It requires no strain. It only requires a mind willing to surrender its warmth. But it is not a weapon of creation. It is the absence of life."
"Show us," Tor'val challenged.
Dak'nor closed his eyes. He simply let himself fall backward into the cold.
The temperature in the grand chamber plummeted instantly. The breath of the politicians plumed into the air as frost rapidly crystallized over the polished obsidian floor, creeping outward from Dak'nor's boots. The grand, roaring torches lining the walls dimmed, the light actively eaten by the sudden, suffocating pressure filling the room. The silence of the Void pressed against the eardrums of every man present.
Kal'nor took a step back from his son, his hand dropping to rest on the pommel of his sword. His war-hardened instincts were screaming that there was a predator in the room.
Dak'nor opened his eyes. They were entirely black, the whites consumed by the shadow.
He returned the shard to his pocket and unsheathed his blade. Moving with chilling, silent grace, Dak'nor approached the Guardian of the Val'dora. The Guardian was a man who towered over all others, a seasoned killer whose prowess with a blade was legendary.
Dak'nor spoke, but his words were hollowed out by the stillness he held. "Draw your blade, or die," he stated with flat certainty.
The Guardian, taking the threat seriously, pulled his massive blade without hesitation and began his assault.
Normally, Dak'nor—a skilled enough swordsman, but ultimately a scholar—would be no match for the Guardian of the Hall. No man was. But inside the Void, his earthly limitations vanished. He caught the flat of the massive steel with his own blade and casually shoved it aside with his free hand.
The Guardian's face reddened with heat and exertion. Before he could attempt another strike, Dak'nor pivoted with otherworldly speed. He flanked the giant, bringing the heavy pommel of his hilt down hard against the back of the Guardian's skull, rendering the massive man instantly unconscious.
The council of the Val'dora sat in stunned disbelief. But Dak'nor wasn't finished.
He turned his own blade inward and violently slashed his own wrist. Kal'nor shouted in shock, lunging forward to strike the blade from his son's hand.
"No, Father," Dak'nor commanded, his voice a low, muted tone utterly devoid of feeling.
Kal'nor froze, his face a picture of disbelief. As Dak'nor spoke, the lethal wound began to stitch itself back together, the flesh knitting shut in seconds.
Dak'nor blinked, and the absolute black of his eyes rapidly receded. The torches flared back to life. The oppressive weight lifted, though the frost remained on the stone.
Dak'nor swayed on his feet. His teeth chattering slightly as the warmth of the room rushed back into him. "It hollows the user out. If we use this, we risk—"
"We risk winning the war," Tor'val interrupted.
Dak'nor became a stasis field of movement, looking up at the dais. Tor'val wasn't horrified. He was leaning forward, his eyes wide with a ravenous greed. The other lords of the Val'dora mirrored his expression.
"Elder Tor'val," Kal'nor rumbled, his voice like grinding stone as he stepped in front of his son. "The boy said it hollows you out."
"The boy said it is effortless," Tor'val corrected, rising from his chair.
Tor'val looked down at Dak'nor, pointing a trembling, eager finger at the scholar.
"You will stop reaching for this mythical 'light,' Scholar." His lips spoke the word like a distasteful meal. "You have found a way to weaponize the Stillness. You will take this discovery, and you will teach our elite guard how to reach into this darkness. You will give our soldiers the Void."
Dak'nor looked at his father, seeing the horror dawning in Kal'nor's eyes. The King of Battle did not understand this darkness, but he knew that kind of power was a danger to all.
Flesh and Duty
The air in the rented room, mere blocks from the hall of the Val'dora senate, was thick with the scent of their bodies and crushed jasmine. O'nor lay staring at the ceiling, his chest rising and falling in a slow, sated rhythm as the distant, muffled sounds of the Bellows Tavern drifted through the flooring.
A sharp, urgent rapping at the door shattered the quiet.
"Lord O'nor," a muffled, breathless voice called from the corridor. "A message from the Val'dora. Your father and brother are departing the grand chamber. The Council demands your immediate presence."
O'nor sighed, the relentless machinery of the war dragging him back to reality. He shifted his weight, preparing to rise, but Jo'val moved to corner him. Before he could pull himself from the tangled silk sheets, she reached out, her hand sliding down his hip. Her fingers wrapped firmly around his manhood, gripping him with a possessive, grounding pressure that halted his retreat.
She looked up at him through a mess of dark hair, her eyes flashing with a mix of fierce desire and irritation. She didn't say a word, but the demand was clear: Stay. The senate and the war could wait for the man who had brought them a god.
O'nor looked down at her, a weary, affectionate smile touching his lips. He leaned over, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, and kissed her deeply.
"My blood is my duty, Jo'val," O'nor murmured against her lips, his voice rumbling with quiet certainty. "And it binds me to this world. I cannot ignore the call."
Jo'val held his gaze for a long moment, her hand beginning a slow, deliberate stroking motion. O'nor felt the heat of her skin, the temptation to simply stay, to let the war burn without him. He gripped the edge of the mattress until his finger began to go numb.
O'nor refused to be captured by the pleasure of the moment; he looked her directly in the eyes, fighting the surge of sensation she inflicted.
Her irritation warred with the deep understanding of the man she had chosen. With a heavy, annoyed sigh, she released her grip, letting her hand fall back to the mattress.
"Go, then," she muttered, pulling the silk sheet over her shoulder. "But do not let those old men in silk forget who won their prize."
O'nor dressed with practiced efficiency, the heavy leather of his armor acting as a shield against the lingering warmth of the room. He stepped out into the streets, the biting chill of the city air severing as an immediate reset for his senses. By the time he reached the main thoroughfare, the man who had lingered in the silk sheets was already fading, replaced by the soldier the Val'dora demanded.
O'nor didn't have to travel far. He found Dak'nor leaning heavily against a stone pillar near the main thoroughfare. The Scholar looked like a corpse. He was trembling slightly, his hollow eyes fixed on a patch of unnatural frost still clinging to the leather of his boots.
"Brother," O'nor called out, his strides echoing off the stone. "The messenger said the council convened. What did I miss?"
Dak'nor looked up. "O. The senate... they don't want the fire. They want the Stillness. They ordered me to teach the elite guard how to wield the Void."
O'nor stepped closer, his military mind immediately searching for a countermeasure to his brother's frantic panic over the Val'dora's decree.
"If you are going to teach my soldiers this darkness," O'nor said, his voice hardening into the authority of a battlefield commander, "you will teach me first."
Dak'nor blinked, shaking his head. "O, you don't understand—"
"I understand that I am their commander," O'nor interrupted fiercely. "I will not order my men to step into a dark I have not tested. Teach me how to reach it. Let me be the anchor."
"The anchor?" Dak'nor repeated, a harsh, bitter laugh escaping his throat.
"Yes," O'nor insisted. "I will stand between the Void and the men. I will draw it in, take the weight of it into my own blood, and allow only what they can endure to pass through to the ranks. I will carry the toll."
Dak'nor shoved his brother's hands off his shoulders, his face twisting in frustration. "It doesn't work that way! It is not a river you can dam, O. It is an ocean of nothingness. You cannot 'anchor' the absence of life. If you reach into it, it can hollow you out just the same as the lowest foot soldier!"
"My will is stronger than a conscript's!" O'nor roared back, his voice echoing off the columns. "I am the blood of Kal'nor! I am the man who pierced the beast's scales and dragged it from the sky! If this curse is to be our weapon, I will master it. I will suffer the agony of taming it, so my men only have to wield it."
He stepped into Dak'nor's space, his eyes blazing with a stubborn, arrogant heroism.
"You will teach me, brother."
Dak'nor stared at O'nor. He looked at the unbreakable resolve that made his brother such a terrifying warrior, and a sinking horror twisted in his gut. O'nor didn't understand. Kal'nor's youngest son truly believed he could wrestle the Void into submission with nothing but a sword and his own stubborn pride.
Dak'nor exhaled, his breath coming deep and labored while raising a hand to rub his burning temples.
"We are debating about something outside our world, O," Dak'nor muttered, his voice dropping into a defeated rasp as he turned away in retreat towards the 'nor estate. "I cannot argue this with you tonight. I will explain the rest... but I need to rest. So do you. We begin this madness tomorrow."
O'nor watched his brother shuffle away into the moonlight of night.