THE night was silent, the soft hums of the distant animals echoed through the walls of the now destroyed Palace grounds. In the middle, lay a man far more unlucky than anyone else there, he was attacked, not by the enemies, but by his very own healer, that's not something you hear everyday
. Upon waking up and being met with silence, he thought it was all a bad dream, "What happened?" Logan said, waking up to find Lucien towering over him. "Get up. I need your help," Lucien said, already turning back to Hector's body.
"What, why?" Logan asked as he stood up. A sharp sting riddled his body, and the massive blood loss from his injury left him faint. Lucien could heal, but removing the side effects of an injury or a concussion was well beyond him; only a true healer could do that. Currently, the only healer available was knocked unconscious, with Armand and Valeri holding her down, trying to prevent her abilities from spiraling out of control.
"What do you need me for?" Logan asked softly, still wincing in pain as he staggered towards Hector and Lucien.
"I'm going to exorcise Hector, so I need you to protect his body and mine from any potential threat, including ourselves." Lucien's casual words struck Logan so hard he was confused as to whether it was the concussion that made them sound so simple or if it was just Lucien being Lucien. Despite the short time they had spent together, Logan reluctantly knew it was the latter.
"Wait, so maybe it's my concussed head that's made your words sound woozy. Correct me if I'm wrong, but are you asking me to protect you and Hector from foreign attacks, which include the chance that said foreign attacks could come from you and/or him, because you want to exorcise him by possessing him?" The words got worse and worse to Logan as he said them out loud, like a weight of heavy gravel landing on his shoulders the more he comprehended Lucien's request. What did he mean, 'exorcise'? Isn't exorcising removing something? What is he removing from Hector that he has to go into him? And why can't he ask anyone else to protect him? Logan was confused, eager to ask the questions, but he didn't know where to begin. It was all a mess, and the concussion didn't make it any easier.
"You know you're thinking out loud," Lucien said as he took off his sword hilt and placed it on the wall beside Hector's body before laying down on the other side, his head parallel to Hector's. "You may not know this, but Hector has a unique power. He is the inheritor of an ability bestowed upon a dragonkin tribe by the Wind Dragon, granting a select warrior every new generation power beyond their limits. However, said tribe was annihilated a long time ago, and the power began to manifest itself in humans across generations in hard-to-ascertain patterns. Hector gained this power by chance. Now, I think I know why. It would seem the power is trying to fully manifest itself using Hector's body as a vessel, despite the demonic interference."
Logan could feel his headache get worse, but something bothered him. "Hector's… dead?" Logan's voice was hoarse, but even in the brief silence that encompassed the room, his words echoed through. As if on cue, Gale's body twitched, almost reacting to the news, but Armand and Valeri held her down, stabilizing her.
"No, he's not. But if you keep holding me back with questions, he will be." Lucien's low voice grew louder, betraying his urgency. He had noticed the anomaly within Hector, including the demonic energy, but what was strange was how none of the energies were colliding with Hector's own soul. It gave Lucien a window of opportunity to not only save Hector but potentially figure out why the dragonkin clan disappeared all those centuries back. "When I touch Hector's hand, a shockwave will spread and our bodies will become vulnerable. I have made safety measures to prevent many abnormalities like insects or sudden monster attacks, but I still need you to make sure no further abnormalities affect us." Lucien was brief. He was always careful, but sometimes his safety precautions didn't cover all the variables. His failure to save Hector from this fate was one of them.
Before Logan could respond to his instructions, Lucien grabbed Hector's hand. A massive shockwave blew through the room, shaking it to its pillars.
Meanwhile, Hector battled the demon-possessed Arban within his spirit realm. Clash after clash reverberated through his body. Each time, he could feel himself struggling to push through. Even moving and evading became hard; his attacks were slower, less accurate, and it seemed Arban kept getting quicker and stronger after every clash. How can I make this count? was all that rang through his head.
He hadn't noticed before, but Arban's patterns followed a repetitive sequence, something he only caught after the eighth swing proved very similar to the fifth, and the seventh to the fourth. He felt it might have been a fluke, so he kept baiting him through an intentional pattern of his own and noticed a rigidity to the movements, almost as if Arban was fighting by rote memory. Arban was known as the most skilled of all dragon warriors, so skilled he cleared all surrounding clans and monsters with his sheer might, elevating his nomadic clan into one to be feared. And that skill showed itself in their fight.
Perhaps his mind was fractured. Faust could not keep his host's mind steady. Being of dragonkind caused this; preserving a soul through centuries of intended decay, torturing it through the lives it lived like a parasite, had caused this legendary power to become parasitic itself. But all that would change. With Naran as a seedling and Hector as the perfect vessel due to his unique, malleable human composition, everything was beginning to walk according to Faust's plan.
That is, until he arrived.
He floated as if his presence was a grace to all who basked in it. His black hair showed hints of silver strands, and his body glowed with a bright white light as if embraced by it. Appearing behind Hector, his arrival stunned Arban and Faust. Hector reacted slower, more out of confusion and surprise that he might be in the presence of an angel.
When the figure descended, the light that surrounded him faded, turning the area still. The roaming spirits of the previous dragon warriors cowered in a corner, not from fear but from reverence, as if the light called to them and yet they didn't dare move any closer to it.
Faust was confused. He hadn't felt any interference. How could this strange man have gotten into their mental space? And what was that uneasiness he felt from him? It felt almost like encountering an Angel, but it couldn't be. From the clash Hector had with him, Faust knew who it was, but the man wielded a demonic weapon. Angels are tainted when they come in contact with demonic power; they slay demons, but the mark of ruin—especially from a weapon once in the possession of one of the 72 Pillars—couldn't possibly be easily shaken off. He would have felt something during their earlier clash. And an Angel strong enough to easily enter a mental realm possessed by one of the 72 couldn't be in the human realm; it went against all the set rules.
While Faust racked his mind, Hector wasn't as surprised. Although the phenomenon was new, he had held a little faith that Lucien's nosy attitude would eventually lead him to discover something was wrong, which was why he had so desperately tried to stall, giving Lucien time to find him.
"The mental image you're seeing is the last true dragon warrior. They call him Arban. His mind has been tainted by the demon marquis, Faust, of the 72. The child in the incubator is the true successor, the son of Arban. He was put on the brink of death after their clan was wiped out and kept alive by Faust in exchange for a worthy vessel to host the power. The souls chained here are the ones who were cursed as successors in Faust's quest for a vessel, trapped by him the minute they used the power."
It was strange, though. To Hector, the spirits of the dragon warriors seemed to be fading away. They were certainly farther from Arban now, but perhaps the others were too stunned to realize it as they cowered.
"Faust is not a part of the 72 demons, but he is a servant of one. If his master were to be present, even I would not be able to protect you." Lucien spoke in a calm, softer tone, his voice echoing in the same way Faust's did, as if another version of him existed simultaneously. "Faust himself is easy to beat. You just do not realize your own limitations yet. I will help you overcome him. Draw thy spear, foul demon, so that I shall cleanse these ignorant spirits of your deceitful power."
Faust was hesitant. Everything Lucien said was true, and his power compared to his master's was insignificant. He did not carry any heavenly priesthood that could rebuke any and all demons, but that angelic uneasiness Lucien gave him made him hesitant. "You say you can defeat me, foul boy? And yet you still wish to fight me fairly? Is this some ploy to dishonor me? The great demon known for my shamelessness? Of course, I shan't fight–"
Suddenly, he was cut off.
It was silent. A gentle breeze followed that sent goosebumps through everyone present, even though they were spirits.
"KX!A'.sʼ | ǁi-ǁi-ǁi | χŊʰ.kχ || QʼʷÅŁ.sʼ | !u !u !u | Sʷ̃e.' || GǂOR-R-R-R…"
Olden tongue. Or Aethyric, the Tongue of the Root. From before the Realms were fully formed and the first humans tried to challenge God. A language only remembered by the angels who speak it to curse those fallen from their ranks, and by the demons who use it to curse those who now stand above them.
Aethyric was never a language of creation, but of the substance from which creation itself was ordered—a resonant frequency humming in the marrow of unformed matter, the echo of the void before the divine Word split silence with light and law. Before the thrones of angels were raised or the rebellion of demons was whispered, there was only potential: raw, unbounded, and perilous, shaping itself in patterns of energy and concept that later scholars, reaching into shadows, would name Aethyric.
It was not first uttered by lips or will but by the world itself: the grinding of plates not yet continents, the searing of stars not yet named, the slow, blind growth of crystals in the abyss. When the watchers, the mighty ones who straddled heaven and earth, mingled their essence, their offspring—the ancient giants—sometimes heard that deep, restless music and learned to echo it, not to build but to compel, unmake, and corrupt. Thus, it became a tongue of twisting, of madness, a remnant song of rebellion.
Later, when angels fell, they plunged not only from heaven but into the raw fabric of the world. In their despair, they found fragments of this resonance, alien to the Word of Creation, and clutched it as a weapon, parasites clinging to a power they could never master.
So it lingers in fragments: in the chants of sorcerers who stumble upon its frequency in caves older than time, in the visions of shamans tasting the stone's song, in the lips of necromancers whose words unravel more than they bind. For mortals, even hearing it is to suffer a fracture of the soul, for Aethyric is not merely disorder but the refusal of separation, the cacophony of all things at once, a static beneath meaning itself. It is not the equal opposite of God but what lay before Him, the murk over which His Spirit moved.
The Demons wield it not as creators but as desecrators, using its unshaped noise to drag the cosmos back toward confusion, testifying by their very use of it that their power is not their own but a defilement of what was given. The Angels speak it not as their heavenly bestowment but as forgotten brethren of the men that once walked hand in hand with them; it is the root from which the fallen cursed the Creator, the language that holds the curses thrown at the beginning of everything, by the ones who saw the One and yet denied Him.
Hector was stunned. He could not understand what was going on. What language was Lucien speaking? It was eerie, and it resonated like a screech through his spirit. Looking around the dead-silent room, it seemed everyone felt the same way. The warrior spirits couldn't stop shaking, and Arban—or Faust—looked strange, as if they were afraid. He knew Lucien was undoubtedly strong, perhaps one of the strongest the world may ever see, but to make a demon-possessed dragonkin cower in its own mental space was unheard of. Perhaps he was the first and last person to ever formulate such a sentence. And yet… he was witnessing it.
As the mental space still reverberated from the impact of the words, Faust spoke in fear.
"Ŋ!OL… Ŋ!OL… || Kʟ̥ʼAƔ.sʼ | ǂE-ǂE-ǂE || χŊ.kχ ' Sʷ̃e.' || QʼʷÅŁ.' | KX!A'.sʼ ǁi-ǁi-ǁi || …Hā̊̃… Hā̊̃… GǂOR-R-R?"
The eeriness did not carry the divinity Lucien's tongue had held. Instead, it trembled through the space and carried a darkness that nearly consumed the surrounding area. But as if in counter, Lucien retorted back.
"Sʷ̃e.sʼ χŊ.kχ | ǁi-ǁi-ǁi QʼʷÅŁ.sʼ !aʰ !aʰ !aʰ || KX!A'.sʼ ǀ ǀ ǀ Ŋ!OL GǂOR-R-R | χŊ.kχ ' Sʷ̃e.' QʼʷÅŁ.' KX!A'.sʼ || MŊQχ… MŊQχ… MŊQχ… | KʼʷAŁ | !u !u !u Sʷ̃e.sʼ GǂOR-R-R…"
As Lucien spoke, the light that emanated from him spread, consuming the darkness and swallowing Faust and Arban, including the souls cowering in the corner. Hector retreated a few steps away from Lucien, partly out of fear of being consumed, but also because he did not want to impede whatever Lucien was trying to do. The only things that remained present, not consumed by the light, were the incubated shell of Naran and Hector himself.
Staring at Lucien, Hector was enchanted. A faint glow of wings appeared behind him. The words he spoke no longer held the accursed speech, and Hector felt peace listening to it. Then, a figure, human-like yet difficult to see, appeared, forming from the wings behind Lucien as if in a fetal position. It seemed to separate itself from Lucien, or extend from his back. It looked like a struggle between Lucien and the figure, but after a few minutes, everything went back to normal as if nothing had happened. Even Lucien seemed unchanged.
Arban was now split into two spirits, with one fading. Naran was no longer entrapped. And Faust was but a tiny, worm-like creature, crawling on the ground, its voice parched and dry.
Aethyric Translation Key (The Tongue of the Root)
Lucien's First Utterance:
"KX!A'.sʼ | ǁi-ǁi-ǁi | χŊʰ.kχ || QʼʷÅŁ.sʼ | !u !u !u | Sʷ̃e.' || GǂOR-R-R-R…"
KX!A'.sʼ:Foulness/Corruption/Demon/Unwanted Life + Hiss Fracture (contempt, a thing to be despised). ǁi-ǁi-ǁi:Mocking laughter, the chittering of insects, insignificant noise. χŊʰ.kχ:Stone/Earth/Self/Permanence + Guttural Fracture (immense, ancient, terrifying scale). QʼʷÅŁ.sʼ:Edge/Separation/Judgment + Hiss Fracture (violent, precise, cruel cutting). !u !u !u:Pulse/Beat/Rhythm/Unending repetition. Sʷ̃e.':Wind/Sky/Spirit/Breath + Whisper Fracture (fragile, trapped, faint spirit). GǂOR-R-R…:The act of grinding, crushing, pulverizing into eternity. Overall Meaning:A declaration of contempt for the demon's insignificance compared to the true power it has stolen, and a condemnation to an eternity of grinding torment for its spirit. "You contemptible speck, daring to touch what is ancient and immense. A cutting... forever... for as long as your stolen spirit remains... a grinding forever."
Faust's Reply:
"Ŋ!OL… Ŋ!OL… || Kʟ̥ʼAƔ.sʼ | ǂE-ǂE-ǂE || χŊ.kχ ' Sʷ̃e.' || QʼʷÅŁ.' | KX!A'.sʼ ǁi-ǁi-ǁi || …Hā̊̃… Hā̊̃… GǂOR-R-R?"
Ŋ!OL… Ŋ!OL…:A broken rhythm, a flaw, wrongness, being out of place. Kʟ̥ʼAƔ.sʼ:Rank/Order/Firstness/Command/Shining One + Hiss Fracture (a title that now tastes of ash and failure). ǂE-ǂE-ǂE:Breach, shattering, a law broken. χŊ.kχ ' Sʷ̃e.':The Immense Weight/Mountain (The Lord) + The Spirit/Breath/Will made fragile and directed. QʼʷÅŁ.' | KX!A'.sʼ ǁi-ǁi-ǁi:To be set apart for/A thing defined by + Foulness/You + mocking chittering. Hā̊̃… Hā̊̃…:Lost, wandering, roaming without purpose. GǂOR-R-R?:The eternal grinding, spoken with a questioning, confused inflection. Overall Meaning:An expression of confusion and accusation. "You are not meant to be here... First Commander... you have broken... you were meant for that immense power, not for this foulness... why do you roam... with us who are being ground down?"
Lucien's Retort (The Curse):
"Sʷ̃e.sʼ χŊ.kχ | ǁi-ǁi-ǁi QʼʷÅŁ.sʼ !aʰ !aʰ !aʰ || KX!A'.sʼ ǀ ǀ ǀ Ŋ!OL GǂOR-R-R | χŊ.kχ ' Sʷ̃e.' QʼʷÅŁ.' KX!A'.sʼ || MŊQχ… MŊQχ… MŊQχ… | KʼʷAŁ | !u !u !u Sʷ̃e.sʼ GǂOR-R-R…"
Sʷ̃e.sʼ χŊ.kχ:The stolen breath/will/spirit of the immense one. ǁi-ǁi-ǁi QʼʷÅŁ.sʼ !aʰ !aʰ !aʰ:Mocking + cutting edge + gasps of pain/awakening (something stolen by a contemptible thing). KX!A'.sʼ ǀ ǀ ǀ Ŋ!OL GǂOR-R-R:Foulness + (the act of cursing, like driving nails) + the ground/place + grinding to dust. χŊ.kχ ' Sʷ̃e.' QʼʷÅŁ.' KX!A'.sʼ:The spirit meant for the mountain + trapped by + your foulness. MŊQχ… MŊQχ… MŊQχ…:Depth/monstrosity/chain/everything that is hidden and bound (repeated as a drumbeat of doom). KʼʷAŁ:A door closing, a beginning inverted, a moment in time. !u !u !u Sʷ̃e.sʼ GǂOR-R-R…:For all time + your stolen, insane spirit + the eternal grinding. Overall Meaning:A multi-layered curse questioning the theft of power, then condemning the ground the demon walks on, the soul it holds captive, every chain connected to it, the moment it began, and finally damning its spirit to an eternity of conscious torment. "Why do you carry a shard of his power, stolen by a contemptible thing? I curse the ground you walk on to rot. I curse the soul you trap that belongs to Him. I curse every chain that binds you. I curse the day you began. For all time, may your spirit know nothing but the grind."