Liron didn't sleep well that night. The noise from downstairs never died down, drunken howling haunting the night until the Silver Moon rose. Angin had pledged for Zonis, but the Qilesh remained a source of discomfort for Liron. When he saw him, he saw hundreds of depictions of the Fleshdancer. He heard the Warpriests' warnings of humanity's eternal enemy. Whenever he turned his back to the Qilesh, Liron wondered whether it would be the last thing he did.
Zonis didn't match the drawings Liron had seen of the Qilesh. His eyes didn't reflect death, a promise to bring a future bereft of life. Each motion and word said indicated care and concern. His hands, while strong and sharp, touched all with kind intent. Yet Liron imagined the mountains of corpses scattered all over Sannara. The dead's bodies violated to make the Fleshdancer more powerful. Angin had admitted the Qilesh to be a threat. Liron's eyes found proof for his master's claims of Zonis, but his heart spoke differently.
When Liron and Angin walked downstairs, eating breakfast, alone except for other guests spread throughout the inn, he had questions needing answers.
"Zonis," Liron said, keeping his voice low. "Is he… a man?"
Angin played with food, a plain soup, stirring it with his spoon. "Yes… in a way. The Qilesh don't have a sex or gender the way we do. Many associate with being a man or woman, but many don't bother, choosing something else entirely. Zonis considers himself what we might call a man. There are many things that influence this. Most Qilesh don't get a choice at all."
"Why?"
"The Qyoral is separated into different castes. The Cyoon, you know of. They are at the top. Below them are Xiar. They're like highborns and generals of the Qyoral. Then comes Zruns, fighters and farmers. The Empire is fighting them for the most part in Sannara. The bottoms are Yams and Punts. Yams are forced to become creatures, beasts of war, or just furniture. Punts are nothing but mass to be used, having no function beyond being taken by other Qilesh.
"Only members of Xiar or very powerful Zruns can model their appearance more freely, expressing their identity. As the Qyoral has copied the Empire in many aspects, so have several Qilesh copied our appearance and our... bodies. This is why you will find Fleshdancers that consider themselves a man or a woman. But, like I said, this is not a law. There are enough Qilesh that have no interest in mimicking our sex or genders."
Despite his reluctance, Liron spoke with Zonis a few times, choosing lighter topics. He wanted to grow accustomed to the Qilesh's presence and discard another weight cast upon him by the Empire. But as so often before, these convictions had laid deep roots inside him, refusing to go without a fight. Zonis knew, never taking insult in Liron's glances or the unease that drenched his words.
For the first day, they decided to make two groups, each having a different goal. Angin and Zonis would explore Kupferrang, getting a thorough picture of the city. To save Emma, they needed to understand the battleground. Liron and Jean would explore the lost agent's house and determine what had happened to him.
"Do I have to go with him?" Liron asked Angin, glaring at the man's back. "He's such an ass."
"Oh, that he is," Angin said. "But this is not about liking anybody. The Resistance consists of many people from all walks of life. You need to work with them all, no matter what you think of them. And have some patience with him. He's a Homunculus."
"A what?"
"I've mentioned a Magnum Opus to you already, right? Think of them like a master seal for an Alchemist. They are the pinnacle of Alchemy. They are supposed to prove one's worth and can only be pulled off by masters of the craft. A Homunculus is such a Magnum Opus. They are artificial humans, created through Alchemy. Very time-consuming and resource-intensive. The results are often quite something. Depending on the Alchemist, the Homunculus can gain supernatural strength and endurance or other aspects that we could only dream of. The downsides are… well, they tend to be… weird."
Liron pursed his lips, frowning. "That's… fucked."
"Yeah, I'm not the biggest admirer of them either. Homunculi are frequently abused by their creators and forced into shitty situations. Jean… is a strange case. Even for a Homunculus. So, that and it's his first mission. Don't be too hard on him. And there's something that you'll like. Jean is a Wizard. He can explain this whole nonsense to you better than I ever could."
Liron wanted to know as much as he could about himself. But talking to Jean wasn't a prospect he relished. But he agreed with Angin that he needed to learn to work with him.
As they prepared for the objectives, Zonis pulled a mask out from his belongings, appearing like a face. Pale and soft like human skin. He put it around his face, his flesh shifting to fill it up. The mask wavered, undulating like water on a stormy day. Zonis guided the process, kneading his flesh into proportions. When he was finished, the Qilesh's alien appearance was gone, replaced with a man's head attached to a Fleshdancer's body.
All Qilesh were shapeshifters by nature. They could manipulate their bodies as they saw fit, twisting them into whatever shape they desired. Human, beast, dragon. Their mimicry knew no bounds. There were certain limitations on their abilities. A Qilesh could never change the color of their skin, their eyes, or their mouths. All that, Liron had known before. But based on Zonis, they couldn't change the fins on their backs and their gills.
"They help me breathe," Zonis explained to him. "Thanks to them, I can live underwater and over ground. I don't rely on them, of course. They are also… like hair, I guess. Each Qilesh's gills look different as do our fins."
"But isn't it dangerous to have them… outside your body."
Zonis chuckled. "Certainly, but as I dance my flesh, I have to drastically change my innards. Often I stay in a formless state to move through tight spaces. Or when I change into something more complex, it can take time. I need to breathe air as I transition."
"That's why parts of you never change when you… you know, become something else."
"You could describe it as such. Dancing one's flesh includes altering your mind. We need something to anchor ourselves. So we don't forget who we are."
"But could you? I mean… dance your flesh into something entirely different."
Zonis shook his head. His eyes remained still, but his mouth twitched. "No, I can't. No Qilesh can. Cyrar… the Silver Moon created us in such a way…"
Liron struggled to read Zonis's emotions, having to watch the motion of his mouth. There was not much love for the Silver Moon.
As Zonis couldn't turn into a human with his abilities, he had to wear this disguise, dancing his flesh to fill up his mask. "I made that for him," Angin said, smiling from ear to ear. "Watch, Liron. Do you see how it moves with him? It functions like human skin, but it offers real support, making it look like a real face. I couldn't just use skin. I had to create a replica that doesn't just appear as skin but also feels like it to the touch. To accomplish this, I…"
Liron refused to listen to the details, finding no joy in indulging in them like Angin did. It all appeared wrong, an insult to humanity. By reflex, Liron mouthed several prayers to himself, calling for Harras' blessing. A habit he hadn't grown out of yet, cursing each time he noticed he had done it again.
But Liron would have preferred joining Zonis, bearing witness to all his alien behavior, over accompanying Jean. The Homunculus never said a word, keeping his eyes forward as he guided them throughout Kupferrang. Each attempt Liron made to start a conversation, Jean ignored. He had only described where they would go and how long it would take. The missing agent lived on the other side of the city, near the bureau.
As they walked through Kupferrang, Liron noticed the tension at the heart of the city. At night, when the celebration was high, he hadn't seen it. Kupferrang had attracted people from Nordland and Lorsos. Folks from his homeland preferred heavier coats and darker colors. Something grim that reflected their spirit and the land they grew up in. Liron had thought this to be the core of the Empire, but the Lors proved him wrong. They wore colorful clothes, lighter in their weight. Layers on top of one another to keep them warm. Where the Nords carried a cultivated melancholy with them, Lors strolled with an ease that struck Liron as alien as Zonis.
Both people shared a space, but neither enjoyed the company of the other. They exchanged glares like hidden attacks, and where they wouldn't suffice, they exchanged fists, too. Liron and Jean passed several fights, always between Nords and Lors. The guards beat the aggression out of them. How could both be part of the same Empire?
Liron forgot his ruminations as fast as he heard his name mentioned. To be expected, as his sister was to die, but hearing it said by strangers felt eerie. Jean never stopped, keeping a quick pace. Liron caught only pieces of what people said about him, but they all painted the same picture. A demon, marked from birth, that brings nothing but death and destruction. The purest of his kind. A Ravenspawn to rule them all. Drom's direct Scion as the Emperor was Harras's.
Ravenson.
He heard the name no more than three times, but it pursued his mind with unfailing vigor. A bastard, he was. Drom's son? That had to be exaggerated.
Liron kept his temper on a short leash, ignoring the rumors as best as he could. But as some old man claimed that Liron had brought ruin to his hometown, he ground his teeth, awakening a venom inside him that had slumbered until now. He pinched his leg, focusing on the way ahead. He pushed aside the picture of the old ass's bloody nose. No matter how pleasing it was.
How was he supposed to have destroyed Eisenrahm? Listening to Angin's many excursions on the Empire was one thing, leaving a certain impression behind. Witnessing them firsthand, being the target of the lies and propaganda, left something more potent. Calling him a Ravenspawn, he could handle it. A mass murderer, though, a slayer of children, was something else.
The lack of Nexuses among the population was a boon for these stories to spread. How was the truth supposed to catch up if it had remained in Eisenrahm? The Empire knew why it forbade them from the normal folks. The facade couldn't be allowed to be weakened. Ravenson had killed all in Eisenrahm, justifying the murder of his sister.
The taste of a violent threat spread in Liron's mouth, promising to become reality. Their current mission wouldn't benefit from a caved-in head or two, though.
"Jean," Liron said, "can I ask you something?"
As always, no answer.
"Angin told me that you are a Wizard, too. Could you… explain it to me?"
"Anginseran ordered me to do so," Jean said. "So be it. Ask."
"Well, I know what a Conduit and a Gate are. But… what's with the ranks? How do they work?"
"There are five in total. The first, Apprentice. Here, you have selected a Conduit, and you summon your Gate through it. Next comes Initiate. The connection between Conduit and Gate is strengthened, which allows you to summon your Conduit through whatever substance that is similar to your Gate."
"Like needles out of a fire?"
"Correct. Furthermore, you can manipulate your Conduit to a greater extent. Next comes Mage. At this stage, your understanding of the Conduit has increased, furthering its potential. This necessitates a more in-depth comprehension of the Concept linked to your Conduit."
"What's a Concept?"
"It's in the name. A Concept describes the idea that you yourself associate with your Conduit. You gave a needle as an example. What are needles used for?"
"Stitching things together?"
"Correct. Stitching things together could be associated with the Concept of healing, repairing, or creating. This would allow you to use your Conduit to gain new abilities based on that Concept. But by choosing one, you will have to discard the rest. To become a Mage, you need to specialize in one Concept. This will limit your set of spells and maybe prevent you from using abilities you could before. But what you gain in return will be stronger than what you had before.
"The fourth rank is a Master. This stage can only be achieved by completing the connection between your Conduit and Gate. They will become one, changing both in the process. When you summon your Conduit in full, it will be immense. Many describe them as a Magetower, but I find that highly inaccurate. Barely any of them resemble a tower."
"And… what's the last?"
"An Archmage."
"..."
"..."
"What's the difference between an Archmage and a Master?"
"I see no reason to explain further. It is highly unlikely you will make it further than a Mage."
No insult, just a declaration of truth as he saw it. No different from describing the color of the sky.
"Thanks… but, can you explain something else?"
"What?"
"How do I know what my Gate is?"
Jean stopped, Liron bumping into his back. The Homunculus turned around, frowning. The most genuine emotion Liron had seen in his face. He appeared… concerned?
"You have become an Apprentice, and you don't know your Gate's shape?"
"I mean… I do. It's smoke and ember."
"That is not your Gate. That is its property. A Gate is a reflection of you, giving form to aspects of your core."
"Alright… how can I… see it."
Jean studied him, his frown deepening. He took Liron by his collar, pulling him into a side alley.
"Close your eyes," Jean said, "and focus on your breathing. Next, you…"
"Wait, wait," Liron said. "What is this? Are we…"
"No time. Close your eyes and focus on your breathing."
Liron followed his command reluctantly. "And?"
"Next, you picture the property of your Gate."
As Liron thought of his smoke and ember, they appeared. A thought, part of him, yet independent. Like a limb with a mind of its own.
"Focus on it. It will spread. Let it."
Clouds of dark expanded in front of Liron's inner eye. Crimson lights shone at the black sky like newborn stars. They pulled Liron deeper into them, into a part of himself he hadn't known. Jean's voice faded, and a new frontier expanded. The horizon reached for him, forging his surroundings.
Within moments, a field had appeared around Liron. It reeked of death, blackened as the sky it lay under. An inferno had raged here, burning all. Nothing but scorched husks remained, smoldering. Smoke rose from all places the flames had scarred, embers of the destruction lingering, threatening to give birth to yet another fire.
The heat pressed against Liron, and he heard the faint hammering of the forge. He turned around, a furnace towering over him, not meant for human hands. Despite no one working it, it roared. The flames that had destroyed all were alive still, giving the furnace the energy to continue. To what end, he couldn't say. Unwavering in its devotion, it would work until its lifeblood had run dry. And should such a fate loom over it, the inferno would lash out again, finding new victims to sustain itself.
Liron tore his eyes open, panting. He slammed against the wall behind him, holding on to it. The echo of the hammering persisted, and the stained taste of smoke and sweat remained for a moment. He thought it would never stop until he realized it was his heartbeat he heard and not the ever-starving furnace.
"Have you seen it?" Jean asked. Neutral as always.
Liron nodded. He hadn't expected any concern, but he would have been gladly proven wrong. "Yeah… fuck me, I saw it."
Jean watched him for a moment, having nothing to say.
"You said… they are a reflection of a part of us, right? The Gates. Of what exactly?"
"Of a part of you. It's different for each Wizard."
Jean, having served his purpose, walked out of the alley. He didn't wait for Liron, forcing the younger man to follow. The first steps were uneven, his legs trembling. He had to readjust to his body, feeling lightheaded.
What a horrid sight his Gate was. Fields of ash, smoke drowning out the clouds, and embers biting all that had survived. All to feed the great furnace. What had died to fuel something without purpose? Something that could only burn? What had been there was a thing of the past, forgotten and discarded. Ravenson was a fitting name for what lived inside Liron. Perhaps this is what the influence of Drom looked like. Senseless destruction that would claim another world if he let it.
The taste of smoke didn't leave Liron's mouth. "Ehr… Jean… what's your Gate?"
Jean marched forward, finding a way through the people wandering the streets of Kupferrang. "It has no importance to you."
"Why not? Shouldn't I know what you can do?"
"Any knowledge you possess of my Gate, Conduit, and spells would hinder me."
"How? How is me knowin' anything supposed to hinder you?"
"You will act on what you know. Our opponents will be experienced in battle. They will deduce what you know based on your behavior in battle. Your inexperience makes it easy to read you. If you know my abilities, you will act accordingly, giving our opponents important intel."
"... but… couldn't I say the same thing for the opposite?"
"..."
"If I don't know what you can do, I can get in your way, right? We can't work together if we don't know each other."
Jean's silence lacked the usual detachment. An admission he didn't want to say out loud.
The Homunculus ignored Liron for the rest of their walk. Liron watched the people around them. His sister and her death dominated all. The fever in their eyes resembled the one people had for the midnight mass. But this one glowed brighter. They would welcome her screams, greeting them like an old friend they had missed dearly.
As they reached the house, the masses had thinned. There was no law prohibiting them from entering the regions owned by highborns, but they were not a liked sight. The Inquisition and guards would find a crime fitting to them should they not leave.
Among the smaller mansions surrounding it, the house of the agent appeared tiny. It dwarfed all Eisenrahm had to offer, but the proximity to the others robbed it of its beauty. A king among emperors. Guards patrolling the street threw them hostile glares. Jean replied in kind, making them retreat.
After the fourth loud knock, the door opened. A young woman in a modest dress greeted them. She was Liron's age. Her brown hair was bound in a messy bun, long strands hanging on her shoulder. Her face was perfectly polite, a mask as potent as Jean's. As Liron had worked in the forge, she had honed her decorum. Even when surprised, giving her no time to prepare, she displayed the bearing of a true highborn. Like a trained warrior could kill with a dull blade, she could impress them in a beggar's shreds.
"Oh my," she said, speaking with a Lors accent, "we had not expected any guests. How can I help you?"
"Greetings," Jean said. "My name is Jean-Antoine Alarn. This is my assistant, Emil Rahm. I am a colleague of Mr. Simon. We have been trying to contact him for some while, and we were hoping to find him here."
"Oh, you're friends of Papa?" she said. "My deepest apologies."
She dropped a curtsy, filled with grace. "My name is Gabriella Simon. Please, enter. I will fetch my father."
Liron was hesitant to follow inside, but Jean marched after Gabriella, giving him little choice. He closed the door behind him, no maids to do it for him.
"I must apologize for Papa's behavior. He has been occupied by work lately. He told me it was of the utmost importance and required his full attention."
"I understand," Jean said. "But we are in desperate need to talk to him."
"Of course, of course."
Liron's eyes grew wide, taking in the wealth on display. Similar to Kupferrang itself, figures and paintings of religious worth adorned the walls. Harras had blessed the owner truly, and now he repaid His love by dedicating many pieces to Him and His glory. Liron had to caution himself to not stop or stare too much. He still struggled to comprehend the fortune this agent possessed. His entire family could have lived off a few gold statues here for years to come. And instead of feeding hungry mouths, money was spent here to prove one's faith.
Gabriella led them into the dining room. A massive table of the finest wood, crafted by a master's hand. "Please, remain here for a moment. I shall tell Papa that you are here."
As she left them, walking upstairs, Liron leaned over to Jean. "Why did you give her your real name?"
"I'm not a spy," he said. "My name will be known to the Empire, as I will function as a Wizard. I will fight."
Passion. Nothing but a hint. The echo of a declaration made years ago.
Gabriella returned, her hands folded in front of her. "Papa will be here shortly. As you wait, let me get you something to eat and drink."
"I doubt that will be necessary," Jean said.
Gabriella looked at Liron, her question to him obvious. Considering the money behind this Mr. Simon, his kitchen must have been a beauty to behold. Delicacies he had never heard of.
"I'd like something," Liron said.
Gabriella smiled, walking into the kitchen. Jean glared at Liron but said nothing.
"What kind of business do you want to discuss with Papa?" she asked, her voice coming out of the kitchen.
"My deepest apologies," Jean said, "but this matter is something that we can only discuss with your father himself."
"Oh, you do not need to concern yourself. I help Papa with his work. I'm his second in command, as he had often said," she giggled, sounding fake.
Jean and Liron exchanged a look. "Still… I would rather not. There are other partners that we represent. We do not have their permission to speak with anyone else but your father."
"Oh my. I didn't know it was that important. You know, I love Papa dearly, but he can be so forgetful. If I didn't remind him of his plans and meetings, he would have missed them all. I've met some of his business partners before. So many people, from all around the Empire. Some even from Sannara. They must have been military."
Jean tapped his finger on the table, his foot joining the rhythm. "Your father is truly well connected. Where is he, if I may ask? You said he would be here shortly."
"Yes, of course. But you see, you have not announced your arrival, so my dear Papa is taken by surprise. He has to thoroughly prepare himself before coming down. It is rather unusual to visit someone of Papa's station without prior warning. Some might even say… it's rather suspicious."
"These people then have no idea what our business is with Mr. Simon. Say, we are the servants. Your father had a few, if my memory serves me."
"Well, I would not ask how you knew of such a matter when you had never entered our house, Mr. Alarn. I don't mean to insult you, but as a man who has spent most of his time in Sannara, how could you know such a thing?"
Jean paused, still as a statue. He gave Liron a tense look. "What makes you think I'm from Sannara?"
"Well, I could point out your hair. It occurs most often with people living in Sannara, especially near the coast. I could mention your skin. It is subtle. One wouldn't notice it if they didn't look for it. But it has a silver shine to it. But all that would be unnecessary, as I know your name from Papa's documents, Jean-Antoine Alarn. Shouldn't you be with the Resistance in Sannara? What is a brute doing here?"
Jean grimaced, baring his teeth. His hand clawed into the table, the wood splintering. A faint plume of steam came out of his ears and mouth. "Who are you, pretender? Did the Inquisition send you?"
Gabriella came out of the kitchen, holding a large plate with a lid on top of it. "My, what a foul thing to accuse me of. I'm my papa's daughter. I didn't lie," she turned towards Liron. "Unlike you, of course. I have not heard of the name Emil Rahm. So, who could you be?"
She put the plate on the table, taking a seat opposite to them. Her polite smile never wavered, as meticulous as when she let them in. "Someone new, I fathom? You have to be related to the boy's case. The Resistance is here to rescue Emma Sturm. You might be a criminal, but you don't look the part. Perhaps you're like me. The child of an agent. But I've never heard the name Rahm. Perhaps a fake name then."
Her smile broadened as she looked at Jean. The Homunculus stood up, steam erupting from him. Gabriella held a hand up, leaning backwards. "Wait. Please, I have no interest in fighting either of you. We have so much to discuss."
"What exactly?" Jean asked.
"Well," Gabriella said, pulling off the lid. Liron choked, dashing backwards. He put a hand on his mouth, his knife appearing in his hand. The decapitated head of a man in his forties stared lifelessly.
"He needed some time to prepare," Gabriella said, "but now Papa looks presentable."