Tania's hands remained firm while she tended to the cut, on Cassiathon's ribs. The antiseptic burned slightly. Her care was tender. The kitchen fire radiated warmth, sharply contrasting with the grey of the plains.
"A Keth'rak Drudge " she whispered, placing a poultice made of moss and engineered herbs. "He really threw you into the waters."
"He didn't toss me. He observed me sink " Cassiathon muttered, grimacing.
"You swam." She skillfully wrapped the injury with ease. "He wouldn't have allowed it to take your life."
"Wouldn't that be so?" Cassiathon glanced at the archway that led to the rooms, where his father had withdrawn. "His responsibility is, to conclusions. What's one even if it happens to be me?"
Tania's hand halted. She slipped a finger beneath his chin compelling him to look into her eyes. They blazed with intensity. "Hear me out. That age-old stubborn being in the room broke a barrier he'd maintained for ages, on your behalf. He went against the core of his existence. He lacks the words to express it so he conveys it through trials and quiet watchfulness. Don't confuse his approach with lack of care."
The reality of her speech, polished by repetitions at last created a fissure in his bitterness. He recalled the Angel standing still as the Drudge rushed forward. The supreme challenge of faith—both in his lessons and, in Cassiathon's capacity to grasp them at the edge of death.
"I sensed it there Tan " he admitted, his tone lowering. "The rift… it reached out to me. As if it were kin. When I tapped into my power a part of me… welcomed it. The Drudge's bewilderment… I felt it too. What does that say about me?"
"It causes conflict " she stated plainly. "It turns you into human, demon and something different all battling within. Welcome to the group." She gave a weary smile. "The issue isn't what you are, Cass. It's who you decide to be now that counts."
Afterward within the stillness of his chamber—a space of stone and modest furnishings illuminated by a lone magelight orb—fatigue drew him toward slumber. Yet as he teetered on the brink of unconsciousness the murmur arrived.
It was not a sound. It was a pressure in the mind, a sensation of vast, cool darkness, like the deepest trench of an alien ocean.
Child of Ending… and of Chaos. You are a fascinating stain upon the tapestry.
Cassiathon sprang to his feet heart pounding, his energy surging protectively within the space. Yet there was nothing. Just darkness.
Remain calm. I am no foe, to you. I am Night. I am the Ancient Darkness from which even Death initially arose. You may name me Nyx.
The voice was everywhere and nowhere, feminine and ancient beyond comprehension.
The Queen of the Abyss desires a weapon. The Reaper aims to command a variable. Yet what does the variable pursue on its own? A feeling of starless delight. You sway on the edge between dimensions. As you tumble, which world will catch you?. Will you master soaring between both? I will be observing, blot. Your decisions will create designs, on the approaching darkness.
As abruptly as it appeared the presence vanished, leaving behind only a deep, disturbing quiet and the faint aroma of ozone and aged stone.
Cassiathon remained seated in the darkness shaking. It wasn't solely fear. A dreadful awareness. He was trapped not by his father's obligations but also, by the draw of his origins.
He was now a point of interest for forces that made both look like recent arrivals.