Chapter 16: T.E.A.M.
Iskander
The air inside was thick, not just with warmth, but with the raw, desperate energy of countless ambitions and frayed hopes. It hit me like a physical thing—the cacophony of shouts bouncing off the cavernous atrium walls.
Ascenders. Dozens of them, maybe more, clustered in ragged knots or pacing like caged beasts, their voices a discordant symphony of recruitment pitches, arguments, and boasts.
"Striker needed for a one time Ascent!"
"Shield with Emblem, reliable, accolade cut is negotiable!"
"Instiller! Anyone is a damn Instiller? Third run this week!"
The sheer volume was a living entity, pressing in, demanding attention. Dust motes danced in the shafts of weak light filtering from high, grimy windows, illuminating the worn stone floor and the palpable air of… not desperation exactly, but something close.
Hunger. A hunger for accolades, for advancement, for a sliver of recognition in a world that ground the unnamed into dust and where said recognition from Agrona was everything.
This wasn't the gleaming plaza of the Ascenders' Association, all polished marble and hushed reverence.
This was the underbelly, the place where the edges frayed and the veneer cracked. Perfect. Exactly where I needed to vanish.
The building itself seemed to sag under the weight of it all, the plaster peeling, the air stale with the mingled scents of sweat, cheap incense attempting to mask it, and something metallic, like old blood. Highbloods wouldn't deign to set foot here.
These were the strugglers, the ones clawing their way up from nothing, or clinging desperately to a fading dream. The anonymity was a balm, a shield I could wrap around myself. Here, amidst the clamor, I was just another face, another hopeful or desperate soul seeking passage into the Relictombs' maw.
The man I met before moved through the throng ahead of me like a warship parting flotsam. His broad back radiated an aura of disdain so potent it practically cleared a path. People instinctively shied away from his scowl, the set of his shoulders promising violence to anyone foolish enough to impede him.
He belonged here only in the sense that a storm belongs on a placid lake—a disruptive, unwelcome force. The dissonance between his evident capability and this squalid setting was jarring. Why was he here? The answer, spat earlier, hung between us like a bad smell: coin.
"Where are we headed?" The question left my lips, aimed at that rigid back. My voice felt small against the din, easily swallowed.
He stopped abruptly, forcing me to pull up short. When he turned, his expression was a masterpiece of exasperated contempt.
"I have no fucking idea," he ground out, the words sharp as flint. His gaze raked over me, taking in my nondescript attire, the lack of visible crest or emblem, the carefully curated aura of 'unnamed Blood insignificance'. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
"Never pictured myself stooping low enough to wet-nurse a gaggle of untested Wogarts on their first stumble into the grave. But," he added, the word dripping with bitter resignation, "hey. Coin talks."
Fantastic. The word echoed in the silent space of my mind, devoid of any trace of sarcasm. It was pure, unadulterated relief. Loved it? More than loved it. It was freedom. A chance to breathe, to move unseen. My only imperative, the single, sharp point of focus amidst the surrounding noise: ensure no one died on this first Ascent.
The silence stretched, filled only by the distant shouts and the low thrum of my own pulse. An introduction felt necessary, a thread to bind this reluctant partnership, however frayed.
"Anyway," I began, the name Seris had forged for me settling on my tongue like a familiar weight, "I didn't ask you for a name. I am Iskander—"
I paused, the internal debate instantaneous. Highblood? The risk was immense. Revealing it here, to this man, could be a beacon drawing unwanted attention. But if we were to delve into the lethal embrace of the Relictombs together, secrets could become fatal liabilities.
Trust was impossible, but a shared fiction, however flimsy, might offer a sliver of cohesion. The lie needed to be complete, audacious enough to explain my presence, yet vague enough to deter prying.
"Briand," I finished, the name tasting alien yet strangely potent. "Iskander of Highblood Briand."
The effect was immediate and electric. His head snapped around so fast I heard the vertebrae crack. His eyes, previously narrowed in perpetual annoyance, widened fractionally, then sharpened, dissecting me with an intensity that felt physical.
He scanned my face, my grey skin—the undeniable mark of Vritra lineage. His expression wasn't awe; it was a complex tapestry of surprise, wariness, and a dawning, grudging understanding that warred with his ingrained contempt.
"I feared it," he muttered, his voice lower, rougher, "looking how you seem to have the Sovereigns' own ichor in your veins..."
There was a weight in his words, a recognition of power and the complicated web of privilege and danger it represented.
"That only means I am more than suited, no?" I countered, keeping my tone light, almost dismissive.
"Highbloods don't have coin to waste on multiple accomplished Ascenders maybe with fancy Regalias to escort their precious scions anymore?" The sarcasm was thick, barbed, probing.
"Renhart of Named Blood Byron," he stated abruptly, the words a curt dismissal and a reassertion of his own, lesser, but still significant status. He turned his back again with finality, a clear signal the conversation was over, and rapped sharply on a nearby door with knuckles like stone.
The sound echoed like a gunshot in the relative quiet of the corridor we'd moved into, leaving the worst of the atrium's din behind. We'd ascended to the second floor—a warren of identical, unadorned doors lining narrow corridors.
The door Renhart knocked on didn't open; it was slammed open with startling force. Light from within spilled into the dim corridor, framing the figure standing there. She was short, vibrantly alive, a burst of chaotic energy.
Bright blonde hair, cut in a sharp, practical bob that somehow accentuated her wide, piercing green eyes, blazing with an almost unsettling intensity.
She wore simple white fighting clothes, functional but adorned with what, at a glance, seemed like golden embellishments. A closer look revealed the truth—cheap yellow fabric, cunningly stitched to mimic gilt. The effort, the sheer pretension of it in this place, was both pathetic and endearing.
"Renhart Byron?!" Her voice was a shout, pure, unadulterated excitement, her smile wide enough to split her face. She surged forward, her hand darting out to grab his arm in enthusiastic greeting.
I saw it happen in slow motion. The vein bulging on Renhart's temple, a roadmap of fury. His jaw clenching so hard I feared for his teeth. A low, guttural murmur escaped him, a curse or a prayer for patience, too low and distorted even for my heightened senses to catch.
He recoiled as if her touch would brand him, snatching his arm back before her fingers could make contact.
"It's me," he confirmed, the words forced through gritted teeth, each syllable dripping with ice. "The Ascenders' Association," he spat the title like an insult, "has assigned me to escort three newbies from unnamed Bloods on their first Ascent."
"Yes! Yes! That's us!" she confirmed, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, her momentum barely checked by his rebuff. Undeterred, she tried again, her hand snaking out once more. "But we are two..."
Renhart took a deliberate step back, putting space between them. His voice dropped to a dangerous, controlled register.
"Do. Not. Touch. Me."
The command was absolute, brooking no argument. He gestured dismissively in my direction without looking at me. "He wants to tag in. I couldn't care less if you all hold hands and skip into the Relictombs. Just talk about it between you Wogarts."
"He is a bit too tense for my tastes," I observed casually, jerking my thumb towards Renhart's form. The understatement hung in the air. "Nice to meet you. I am Iskander."
The young woman whirled to face me fully, her green eyes locking onto mine. Then they widened, her breath catching in a sharp gasp. The starry-eyed wonder that flooded her expression was instantaneous, almost comical in its intensity.
"You are one of the Sovereigns' own?!" she exclaimed, the words bursting out like a dam breaking. The reverence was palpable, tinged with awe. "Merciful Vritra, yes! You can come too!" She nodded fiercely, blonde hair bouncing. "My name is Delilah! Unnamed Blood."
"This girl seems just as energetic as you," Sylvia's dry, amused voice echoed in my mind, accompanied by the phantom sensation of a smirk. The comparison, though unexpected, held a grain of truth. There was a relentless, almost terrifying positivity radiating from Delilah.
"She surely is," I thought back, a flicker of genuine amusement cutting through my usual caution. I grasped her offered hand firmly. She reciprocated instantly, her grip surprisingly strong. And then… she didn't let go. We stood there, locked in a bizarre, silent handshake contest, pumping hands with increasing vigor.
One second. Two. Three. Renhart, halfway down the corridor, paused and looked back, his expression a masterpiece of incredulous disgust, as if witnessing two particularly deranged specimens in a menagerie. Finally, with a final, emphatic shake, we released each other.
"Delilah... who are you talking to?" A softer, more hesitant male voice inquired from the doorway. Another figure emerged, peering cautiously around the frame.
The resemblance was striking, yet the contrast profound. Golden hair, a shade paler, less sun-kissed than Delilah's vibrant hue, fell softly around a face dominated by large, watchful yellow eyes. He was slight, shorter than his sister, his posture inherently wary.
His clothes were the same sturdy, plain fabric as hers, but utterly devoid of any faux adornment, emphasizing a quiet, unassuming presence.
Siblings, undoubtedly. He absorbed the scene with an air of deep apprehension.
"Brother!" Delilah nearly vibrated with the need to share. "We have found a new member! He has the blood of our Sovereigns in his veins!" Her voice boomed in the confined space, making her brother visibly flinch, his gaze skittering away from her intensity.
"Oh, Great Vritra," Renhart's exhausted groan floated back from the stairwell. "Get acquainted with one another. Meet me in the atrium of this cesspit in ten minutes. Then we will speak about serious things."
His footsteps retreated down the stairs, the sound fading into the building's background hum, leaving behind a tangible vacuum of his displeasure.
The guy—the brother—turned his attention back to me. He gave a small, formal nod, then a deeper, almost awkward bow. "I am—" he began, his voice quiet, measured.
Delilah cut him off, a whirlwind of introductions. "He is Yorick, Unnamed Blood and my brother!" She beamed, radiating proprietorial pride.
"Like my sister said," Yorick confirmed softly, a faint blush touching his cheeks at the interruption. His yellow eyes, intelligent and deeply observant, scanned me with a quiet intensity that felt far more probing than his sister's starstruck gaze.
"Iskander," Delilah pressed, leaning forward conspiratorially, her voice dropping to a stage whisper that was still far too loud, "are you from a Highblood? Yes, of course you are! Your grey skin speaks for itself! You must be a Vritra Blood!"
"Yeah..." I hedged, the lie feeling heavier under Yorick's silent scrutiny. "I am from Sehz-Clar." The name of the Dominion felt foreign on my tongue, a piece of borrowed geography.
"Sehz-Clar?!" Delilah's excitement reignited like a struck match. "We are from a small village in Etril!"
Etril. The name meant nothing to me. Another Dominion, undoubtedly, far removed from the power centers. The distance, the sheer anonymity of their origin, was another layer of safety. My ignorance was a pitfall, though.
Should I feign surprise? Knowledge? I settled for a noncommittal nod, hoping it conveyed appropriate acknowledgment of the vast distance between Sehz-Clar and their humble origins.
Yorick's quiet voice broke the brief silence that followed Delilah's outburst. His brow was furrowed in concentration. "I... don't sense any mana coming from you."
"Maybe it's because I am still so weak... I only have a Crest, after all." His gaze turned inward, thoughtful. "Yes... someone with an Emblem, or more than one Crest, or even a Crest and multiple Marks, would surely feel your mana signature. It must be masked. Or exceptionally controlled."
He trailed off into a low murmur, seemingly talking more to himself than to us, dissecting the anomaly I presented.
Delilah made a dismissive flapping gesture with her hand towards him. "Ignore him. He gets lost in his head." Her smile was back, bright and reassuring, though Yorick's observation sent a tiny, cold trickle down my spine.
"Anyway," Yorick said, shaking himself slightly, refocusing on the practicalities, his voice gaining a thread of nervous determination, "I think it should be useful if we told each other where our specialties lie." He met my eyes directly for the first time, his gaze earnest.
"I am Sentry." He paused, glancing towards the stairwell Renhart had descended. "We should also ask Mr. Byron about his capabilities... but..." He trailed off, a flicker of genuine unease crossing his face. "He is... intimidating."
"I am a Striker!" Delilah declared, puffing out her chest, radiating fierce pride. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, as if ready to unleash her power right there in the corridor.
The question turned to me. How to classify Creation? Striker? Shaper? Protector? It defied their neat categories. Sevren's words echoed: 'Nothing like I've ever seen or heard of.' Mystery was safer.
Moreover I couldn't tell them I didn't even use mana, but aether.
"I am something like that too," I offered, keeping my tone deliberately vague, gesturing loosely towards Delilah. "Versatile."
"Mystery!" Delilah exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with delight. "I like it! Makes it exciting!" Her enthusiasm was infectious, a stark contrast to the grim purpose that usually drove me.
"Mystery is surely thrilling. Especially if it helps bring down the God of Misfortune." The thought, seeded by her earlier comment, took root.
"God of... Misfortune?" Yorick echoed, his brow furrowing again, confusion replacing his apprehension. He looked genuinely perplexed by the concept.
Delilah, however, leaned in, captivated, her earlier energy channeled into rapt attention. "Misfortune?" she breathed, waiting for the tale.
"Yes!" The word came out sharper, edged with conviction. "Misfortune. Unluckiness. All that insidious bad stuff that chains us, makes us believe luck is a real, immutable force. That destiny is some unbreakable chain you can't fight!" I met Delilah's bright gaze, then Yorick's confused one.
"The Destruction aspect of the world. The entropy that whispers you're powerless. That's the God I fight." It was more truth than I usually shared, a sliver of my real purpose laid bare, wrapped in metaphor. The Relictombs weren't just a trial; they were a battlefield against that pervasive darkness.
Delilah's face lit up with fierce understanding. "That's why we took our Ascenders' exams!" she declared, her voice ringing with sudden, profound conviction. "We want to make a name for our Blood! To shatter the chains of obscurity!" She gestured towards her brother.
"Yorick doesn't seem the type, I know. Quiet, always thinking." She gave him an affectionate, slightly exasperated look. "But he is the most stubborn person I know when it comes to that. To changing our fate."
Yorick flushed slightly at her description but didn't deny it. His gaze, when it met mine again, held a new depth, a flicker of recognition.
"You have found someone as... odd as you, Child," Sylvia observed, her tone softer now, perhaps even touched.
"I sure did," I affirmed silently, a sense of unexpected solidarity warming me. Odd. Determined. Fighting their own versions of the chains. Perhaps this fragile, mismatched team held more potential than I'd first assumed.
Yorick's quiet voice broke the moment, his eyes darting around the empty corridor, then back to me, filled with a sudden, intense curiosity mixed with concern. "Are you talking to someone? Or... with someone?"
The answer came easily, a truth wrapped in a deflection. "Yes," I said, meeting his gaze directly, a faint, genuine smile touching my lips. "To my Mom."
He leaned closer to Delilah, his whisper barely audible but laced with palpable anxiety. "Delilah... are you sure about this? I know he's a Highblood, and that might help us... but..." He swallowed, his voice dropping even further. "He talks of fighting gods of misfortune, he converses with his mother who isn't here... I feel very, very, very insecure about this."
Delilah, however, seemed impervious to his doubts. She clapped her hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet corridor. "We should meet up with Byron now!" she announced, her voice brimming with undimmed enthusiasm. She turned and started towards the stairs, her steps quick and purposeful.
I followed Delilah and the still-hesitant Yorick, the worn stone steps echoing underfoot as we descended back towards the cacophonous atrium.