Merrin's mind recoiled from the illusory sight—the gray strangeness, the shifting symbols—all of it shoved away, or rather, he was violently thrown back. And with it, his mind ignited in searing, painful agony.
Mists! He gritted his teeth, fingers unfurling from the axe as it tumbled into the chasm. His hands clutched his head, the anguish eclipsing the burning pain in his palm. Tears welled and spilled, but worse still—his heart plunged.
The man, the slave. He was there, still hanging by the chains… Something was about to happen. He knew it.
Wait, I haven't. Merrin clenched his jaw, trying to push through the angst. However…
A muffled sound, like wind slapping against stone. Perhaps that was what had happened? No, it wasn't.
Merrin watched with trembling arms as the man was suddenly engulfed in bright, reddish flames. He was burning, his skin peeling under the unbearable heat…
"Ahhhh…..Ahh. Ah." Merrin tried to reach through the hundreds of meters that divided them in the chasm.
Fruitless.
Then came the scream. "AHHHHHHH!" the man howled in agony. "Somebody Helppppp!"
Merrin pressed his fingers into his ears, his head slamming against the chasm wall. He would not see it, he would not witness his failure claim yet another life.
Wasn't this meant to be a better start? A caster should have the power to beat all odds, and yet, he had failed. Despite what he wanted, the outcome was the same. Always the same.
I'm still nothing!
His hand burned hotter, but he cared not for the pain. What was his pain compared to that of a man alight with fire? Nothing. Suddenly, however, the chains that held him jerked, flinging him up into the air. The wind whistling past his ears as he hurled out of the chasm, hovering a few meters above the lip. From there, he saw the vast sprawl of the mines—the myriad chasms, and slaves numbering beyond count.
But more pressing, standing at the edge of his chasm, was a figure—a warrior with a glass helm, gripping a chain. A strange chain stretched upward as though it connected to the ceiling. No, it didn't. Merrin, for a moment, glanced down at his waist; the chain in the excubitor's hands was connected directly to him.
It was the same chain!
Mists!
The excubitor pulled, sending him crashing hard against the floor. He screamed; pain and heat surging through him in sharp bursts. But oddly, it wasn't as agonizing as usual. If anything, it felt muted, distant. As though the pain had somehow been pushed away.
Merrin coughed, struggling to his feet despite the lingering heat and ache. Yes, it was dulled, but pain was still pain. Not that—no, that was not the pressing concern.
Before him, the towering excubitor, holding a coil of chains, spoke in a deep, measured voice. "It has not even been half a day, and you already broke your oath to the Gresendent sister."
Merrin panted, his heart still racing from the intensity of it all. From what he knew, outside the events of the mines and the cruciform, this was likely the most extremity he had experienced.
It almost brought a smile.
What am I doing?
Then he remembered: A man had just died. That was no cause for joy. A frown slowly pressed into his face as he glanced at the many slaves watching—possibly hoping to learn why he was entangled with an excubitor.
After all, Excubitors were not known for speaking with slaves. That this one had addressed him at all was enough to spark their curiosity. But even if Merrin wished to explain, what would he say? Aside from whatever an El'shadie was, he had no true answer to give.
He heaved a breath, the fresh memory of the burned man searing into his mind. This must never happen to my witnesses. He thought, then said, "It was a…mis—useless action. I couldn't do anything, and he still died."
"As he should have." The excubitor's voice was cold, detached. "He was already old. His passing meant nothing. However, you were forbidden nonetheless. Do this again, and the ones you saved will be unmade."
Merrin felt a jolt of fear freeze over his spine. "I… I see. Halo," he murmured, lowering his head.
The excubitor loomed over him for a moment longer before dropping the chains and turning away. But suddenly he paused, his back facing Merrin. He then whispered. "To think someone like you is a brightCrown. Unimaginable."
Merrin stared at him for a while. Indeed, all casters were brightCrowns. However, he caressed his hair. I have no white hair.
The Excubitor no longer made such comments, instead proceeded to move away. His steps soundless, like a shadow moving through the earth. Odd perhaps, but It was said that the Noctis clan moved without sound. It seemed there was some truth in that.
As the man disappeared, the slaves' eyes remained on Merrin—not that they had ever truly looked away. He ignored them, stepping toward the chasm's edge, his chains dragging behind him, their echoes resembling distant morns.
In a way, that was fitting.
A man had just died.
Merrin Ashman peered into the depths of the chasm, his gaze narrowing against the darkness now illuminated by the burning white lamps. At the bottom of the massive pit lay a body. Even from this height, he could see it clearly.
A man, head bashed against a rock, smoke curling from his scorched flesh, limbs twisted at unnatural angles. And yet, despite it all, he wore a smile. A weary, age-worn expression, locked in finality—his face blackened, burned beyond recognition.
Yet Merrin could still see that smile.
So you were happy? Happy to die? He recalled the chains stretching from everybody, symbols of something likely. Though he didn't fully understand their meaning, he knew they were related to the currentness.
The man had been chained. Now, he was not.
Merrin clenched his fist. "Why did you only find peace in death? Why couldn't you smile in life?" His eyes shut tightly. He would remember this. He would remember this moment as once again his failure had cost another life. Please, Lord, I wish no longer to see such things!
He would not allow this to happen again. It was bitter that he had only grasped the truth after a man had perished, but now, Merrin knew what he must do. He needed to become exceptional.
The path ahead was treacherous, but he would walk it willingly. No ordinary man could save everyone, so he needed to be something greater. Yes, he had only seven days, but in that time, he would forge himself into something undeniable.
He had to become excellent enough to request that not even the House of Night could refuse. And as for what that request would be…
He turned, scanning the slaves who watched him with a mixture of awe, fear, and rage.
He would ask for their freedom.
Merrin smiled. Yes, this was what he must do.
But you must know that might not work…
If it doesn't, Merrin thought, glancing at his hands, then I will take my witness for now.
They will have to be enough...for now.
The human mind has a means to what it considers reality. But that too is a lie—Recorded from the collective archive of the Gresendent sonitras.
Merrin spat in rage, tossing the stone aside. This was the 4th hour since he had been here trying to get something—anything to work, however, unlike the miraculous events that happened when he tried to save the man, now was something else entirely.
He was seeing nothing. No changes, no symbols, no casting. Even the strength he felt then was gone, almost as if the power had utterly vanished. He suspected that the power to cast had a time frame—what it was though, eluded him.
A teacher in this thing would be better. Merrin picked up another stone, wincing at the heat that permeated it. He pelted it between his hands for a while, blowing at it to quell the fever. When that was done, he cupped it within his palm, eyes widened as he gazed at the rock.
Into water! He bellowed internally.
Merrin felt that this should be the easiest, considering he had seen a caster do it so simply in a few seconds. Surely, he, as the El'shadie, could do it. He gritted, eyes straining to the last limits as he tried to cast…Or at least do anything that showed some progress.
Granted, he had only been a caster for a day or so, however, if he needed to convince the clan to abide by his wishes, this was the bare minimum that would be required. Maybe if I became that sacred caster she talked about, they would listen. He thought idly.
But what exactly was a sacred caster? What was an order? What was a symbol? What was anything…. He had no idea. In essence, he was moving blindly in hopes of some miracle. Like when he tried to save that man,
Tried…
Merrin shook his head, redirecting his thoughts to Moeash and the odd title he had given him—sunBringer. It was an unusual name, to say the least. If any being were worthy of such a designation, it should be the Almighty or one of the gods to be born from the eight clans. At least, that's what the church taught…