The soldier slammed a blade’s pommel into the base of Cyan’s head, forcing him to smack the table with his forehead. Stars danced across his vision. He was dragged upright by fingers digging into his scalp, the tip of steel now pressed against his neck. The other soldier released the aetheric-bound muzzle. It rattled upon the wrecked table only to be dragged aside by the soldier.
“You waste your time, heathen,” he spat through clenched teeth and blurred vision. “The Pentax will cast you down for your sins.”
“There will be time for that, don’t worry.” Solanine leaned back, legs crossing languidly. “You’ve a zealous tongue, vicar. I like that. Before we get to whomever helped you board Gargantua, let’s get to know one another, hmm? What’s your name, vicar?”
“To the Pit with you, Nocturne’s whore.”
Solanine glanced at the big, sweaty man, smiling. Lethal-like, with teeth. “I’ve heard the pontifex maximus tears out the tongues of those who use such language.” Cyan trembled but said nothing. “You’re the leader of these children, are you not? I know what the bristle upon your helm signifies. I know you lack your Shard Form without access to the mist in your canisters. I know what the vicars truly serve. And who. Don’t make me ask you again. If you value your companions’ lives, don’t make me show you something you may not enjoy witnessing.”
Cyan the Defiant spit in Solanine’s face.
The big man—his face all angry planes—surged forward, slapping a meaty fist across Cyan’s cheek. His head cracked backwards, sending more spots frolicking in his vision like fae sprites dancing between raindrops in the Forest of Calibrath. Harlequin screamed into her muzzle while Amaranth jerked in her chains.
Wiping the spittle away, the deadly smile never faltered. “I see you like to do things the hard way. Me too.” Dainty fingers coated in cruor gripped the tabletop as Solanine leaned closer. “No matter, vicar, you’ll beg me to stop soon enough. You’ll beg me to allow you to speak. You’ll beg me to let you live.” Standing, the chair fell over with a dull thump that echoed around the sterile room. “Evander, be a dear and bring me my tools.”
“What of his aether?” the big man called Evander asked.
Now that he had a chance to gain his wits, Cyan realized the man was the one who fought beside the aetheurgist while Lilia screamed that odd aetheurgy. Evander was the one who knocked Amaranth out cold. Through the folds of the man’s shirt, he noticed a fresh scar upon his breastbone. Void Form.
The poisoned glare from Solanine was answer enough as the big man quickly grabbed a bag and placed it upon the table in front of Cyan, glass within clanking. A blackened mist rose from inside as he opened it, like a font it gushed over the lip, down the table and swirled around Solanine’s feet. Cyan coughed as the mist smelt of death and offal, worse than the corrupted mist from his canisters. Evil smelling. Evander drew forth three glass vessels, placing them on the tabletop. Each contained a powder, colors ranging from bright white to clear as crystal.
Solanine lifted one of the vessels, the substance white. “Acid,” the Fallen’s second said as the blackened mist curled up the aetheurgist’s hips, hugging like a lover. “Mix this with aether and amazing things occur. But you wouldn’t know that, vicar, as the church you call master withholds the knowledge from your teachings. Teachings you rabble have neglected since the Fall of your beloved Eminence.” Solanine popped the stopper and motioned toward one of the soldiers. Cyan fought but the man was stronger, brandishing his manacled hand upon the table. “Now, I’m going to ask you just once more. Be a good boy and answer, should you do so, this will go easy for you. If not…”
“Go to the void.”
A smile more wicked than anything Cyan had ever seen in his life cleft Solanine’s face. It was the rictus smile of a daemon for no Pentax-fearing person could revel such as this. Solanine leaned close, spitting upon Cyan’s flattened hand, saliva pooling. With nary any semblance of sympathy, the aetheurgist tipped the vessel, causing crystals to fall.
The silence in the room broke with Cyan’s scream.
Instant fire exploded from his flesh as the acid burned. His skin bubbled and crackled, split, and pulled away. Unreal agony. He tried to pull his hand free, but the soldier held it strong, the other pushing down on Cyan’s shoulders to keep him rooted in the chair.
Gods, it hurt.
“What is your name, vicar?” Cyan’s mouth opened but no words, only unrivaled pain. The burn was intense, so much pain, so much hurt. Nothing ever felt like this, not even the aether in the mist. Solanine gave a shudder, a delightful shiver. “You still fight for something as silly as your name?” The aetheurgist’s head shook. “You baffle me, vicar. You’ll soon realize this is only going to get worse. Much, much worse.”
Solanine straightened, grabbing the other two vessels, leaving the acid tauntingly in front of him as the soldiers released their hold. He slumped, unable to bear the pain any longer. He cradled his mangled hand to his breast the best he could in his bound state, the skin blistered and raw, his tendons visible, and a knuckle bone poked through the bubbled flesh.
Cyan felt the use of aether as he glanced up under the slickness of his brow. Solanine had moved in front of Amaranth, twirling fingers. The blackened mist blew into a gale of Aere, yanking Amaranth from her chair, flinging her upon the table face first, and splaying her arms outward. The soldier behind stepped between the Pure’s legs and pushed upon her lower back. Hard. A vicious pop, back broken. Amaranth screamed into the muzzle, her legs shaking in paralysis.
“Remove the muzzle, I want to hear her screams.”
By Solanine’s order, the soldier unclasped the muzzle and the broken-backed woman cried. Begging through sobs, “Please, don’t… O Zenith… protect me.”
“One last chance. Give us a name, vicar.”
Cyan nearly bit his tongue in half. This was not the Pentax’s way. I can’t… Justice… I can’t…
“You’re a tough one, I’ll give you that. I like it when you fight.” Solanine unstoppered the pair of vessels. To Amaranth, “This is going to hurt.” Back to Cyan, “You can stop this. All it takes is a name.”
“Don’t give in brother-friend!” Amaranth cried, panting through her teeth. “Remember our training, the Pentax will save us!”
Gods, he had to stay strong. He couldn’t give away his contact. Couldn’t give away the true reason they were aboard at the party. She trusted him.
“By all means, scream as loud as you want,” Solanine said as the aetheurgist poured the contents onto the woman’s broken back.
Cyan was a man of the Scattered Shards, trained to withstand the sight of blood and carnage in battle to the Pentax’s name. He had fought many in the fight for the gods, done deeds for the Conclave of the Scattered Shards. He witnessed his best friend of ten years die before his very eyes when they were young recruits under Icterine the Unfettered’s harsh and grueling training. He did not shy away then, did not mourn until well after his blue-iron axes were won. He had remained defiant.
He had done his best to remain steady when the acid burned his hand, blinding pain erupting within. To remain true to his devotion to Zenith. To Mother Marrow. To Justice, Brio, and Bliss. It hurt, to be true, but he hadn’t given in. It was how he had gained his name after rising to the cassock. Defiant and true. Steadfast in everything. To the core of him, that was his truth.
But the sight before him now made his stomach churn something fierce, threatening to shit out both ends.
Amaranth’s scream reverberated in his bones. The whiff of flesh tearing away from her body was unholy, the smell exploded in Cyan’s nostrils. The woman’s entire body convulsed, arching under the soldier holding her broken form to the table. The cauterization of the chemicals. The body heaved once more and then went still under the man’s grip. The soldier stepped back and Amaranth the Pure fell off the table. Dead eyes staring up at him.
Cyan would never forget that stare for the rest of his life, sooner rather than later it seemed.
The sinner Solanine dropped the bloodstained gown. Upon the aetheurgist’s breastbone from up near the collarbone down to the belly were raised scars in the form of runes. They glistened red with blood. The mist rose all around, reddish glow flickering within.
And then Solanine just disappeared.
Cyan made a sign to the Arbiter with his mangled hand, praying. He would remain strong, remain committed. He would not break his oath. He must protect the Godsblood. He spared a glance toward Harlequin the Bloodless, the poor girl sobbing behind her muzzle.
Strength, sister-friend, Cyan’s eyes told the younger vicar.
Seconds ticked by and nothing happened, waiting for Solanine to reappear. The body of the Pure began to shake, torso heaving. It rose, on its own. Hanging limp, arms lifted. The vacant eyes still digging into his soul, taunting and teasing him.
Cyan gasped.
The mist coalesced as it reached toward the body suspended off the ground. That light of red flashed again in the blackened mist as it coated the body, cloaking around it. The mist became so opaque for a moment, he lost sight of the Pure, but then it quirked as black lightning flashed within, allowing him to witness the skin of Amaranth slough from her bones, but instead of splashing across the floor, the flesh just disappeared into the vaporous void. Then the muscles followed, soon again by the bones, leaving only blood vessels in the shape of a human wiring the dark mist like red circuits.
