LCoT Chapter 36

Speaking of the seven sacred swords said to be wielded by the first guardians:

Vedran, after his escape from the prison, had been looking for one of the sacred blades.

It had taken him but an hour to reach the King’s City of Lona and make his way to the Aasimar Royal Palace. He had spoken with the king, asking for the Sacred Blade of Shadows—but sadly, the king did not have it. The king had not ordered him captured by the royal guards. He had simply asked Vedran a question, given him a mission, and ordered him to report back.

It may have been an odd series of events, but in Taelaris, the strong were given a lot of leeway.

As for the matter of Nightpiercer, the sacred sword he had been promised before the massacre of House Thanath—where he never got the chance to wield it—after his deed, the Church had ordered the Wyvern Lord of the Humans, the Great Chief of the Goliaths, and two of the three Paladins to hunt him down. Against odds like that, even the king would have been hard-pressed in a fight.

And after he was captured, all thoughts of the blade had fled from his mind—until the day he escaped.

After his escape and his subsequent audience with the king, he had returned to the location where he noticed the shadow magic that had allowed him to escape. He had been surprised to find a broken manor, a band of orphans with enchanted items, the room of a scholar, and—most importantly—the one he suspected of casting the old magic: the Gloaming Prince, they called him.

And now two weeks had passed, and the half-blood boy, Marcus, had not once cast the spell.

Vedran de Urnin was no longer as young as he used to be. If you had only heard stories of him, you would never have recognized him. And in Srok, no one did—or no one cared. From the blacksmith who sold him daggers to the stall owner who sold him dried jerky, they simply had too many troubles down here to worry about matters on the third or fourth walls.

Like a fisherman casting a net, Vedran had decided to monitor all the shadows around the young man and watch him.

And as he watched Marcus through the streets, something surprising caught his eye:

They were here—the high nobles had started filtering in from whatever cities they called home.

It was when they started following the group that Vedran realized something was up. Along with him in the shadows, an assassin from the Assassin’s Guild had begun following as well.

He watched as the band of orphans looked behind them and started panicking.

Vedran acted first. Before the assassin knew he was there, he stabbed Finn in the side and threw the man out of the shadowy corner where he had been hiding—strategically, into the path between Arlath and his group, and Marcus and Clara.

He walked out of the shadows, hands splayed to the side, and stepped onto the cobblestone streets.

“Arlath, Lord of Driftspire, wielder of the Scarlet Brand… have they sent you for my head?”

There were many reasons Arlath did not draw the Scarlet Brand in a fight against his opponents. Most times, the people who fought were not good at the art of warcraft. Their swordsmanship was laughable compared to his, and their blood magics couldn’t hold a candle to his royal magic—Wyrm’s Strength.

And yet, there were exceptions to be made. And what were the chances that one of the six people who truly terrified him would show up here, right in front of him?

Arlath did not wait to be told twice.

Marcus had never stepped into a medieval temple before, but in his experience, this was starting to feel like the videos one would watch of recreated old Greek temples—but built like a fortress, with no open spaces and no light entering the building.

“And what can the Church of River and Sun do for you?” the priest said.

The priest seemed disgusted by their appearance and presence, although Clara had found the best clothes in Srok.

“We’ve come to start a house,” Clara said.

“There are some requirements,” the priest said.

“Yes, we can use magic,” Clara said, gesturing to Marcus, Orlan, and Gael—the half-Goliath.

“You are all of lower birth, if I’m to put it kindly. Will this be a servant house?” the priest said.

“No. It will be a high house,” Clara said.

“If this is a joke, then you’d be severed to take it elsewhere. The Sun and River show no mercy to the worthless,” the priest said.

“I think it’s clear—we want to be a noble house,” Marcus, standing next to Clara, said.

“The Sun only shines on these mountain ranges. The rest of the world is covered in shadows.”

“The Sun and River don’t find you worthy,” the priest said with disgust.

Another priest stepped up—an older woman and much kinder. A half-blood like them, often seen feeding the younger orphans. She spoke with a kind, grating voice and a simple smile.

“We are all children under the Sun and suckle on her waters,” the older woman said to them all.

“Leave,” the older woman told the younger priest.

She looked at Clara and the group, then spoke in a motherly tone.

“It seems another brood wants to reach for the top. But I must warn you, this journey will not be easy.”

“We’re aware of that,” Marcus said.

“You will be tested against the tides—monsters that you’ll be asked to fight.”

She looked at them. “Or can a high house vouch for your strength?”

“No, we will face the tides,” Marcus said.

“You must know—this won’t be all. The Church will also ask you to choose a specialty. In this case, a Reverent House would be best for your kind.”

“No. Let’s first deal with the tides. What we can offer the city will come later,” Marcus said.

The old priest looked at him for a long while and nodded.

“Well then, if you don’t mind—give me the name of this House.”

“Morkan. House Morkan, your Holiness.”

That brought a slight smile to the older woman’s face. After all, the boy was being more pleasant now that they were getting what they wanted.

“And I suppose you’ll be the head of the household?”

“No, Your Holiness. Clara will,” he said, gesturing to the girl who kept glaring at the other priest they had spoken to.

“I suppose every leader needs a good right hand. Here is your pluck. Return it as soon as you find a house sigil,” she said, and watched him pocket it in his trousers.

“Here is the written document, but—before I hand this over—the house-to-be will be tested.”

If Marcus had felt it odd to see so many candles in the closed room, his question was answered at the next turn. They stopped in what had to be the middle of the temple.

In the center dome of the roof was a large opening, letting sunlight directly hit the square pit filled with sand.

It was a small area, but in the middle of the temple. Seated to one side of the sandy pit were some sort of nuns.

“Choose your champion,” the old woman said as the four came to a stop. After a second, she walked over to Clara and repeated her words, “Choose your champion, young head.”

Clara was snapped out of her gawking at the room and called Marcus over. The old woman was surprised and nearly asked Clara to change her choice—until she saw the grimoire on the boy’s belt, and none on the belts of the others. The older woman had surely thought the girl would choose the half-Goliath.

“So, young man. Step into the area for your test. You must last five minutes in the arena against one of our nuns.”

Up in the roofing of the temple, if anyone had noticed the assassin Finn watching—they said nothing.
And in his case, if he had noticed Vedran in the same rafters, he also said nothing or showed signs of worry.

After getting his numbers down and approximations right with the help of Ethne and Geneve, Marcus had begun looking at everyone with his Arcane Sight, measuring their strength and his chances of victory—especially those he was sure he would come into conflict with.

He looked at the nun who stepped into the arena. Like the rest of them, she wore a white, blue, and gold scarf that draped over her similarly colored leather armor and chainmail. She had a chestplate protecting her organs and a golden mask covering her face.

She was already a striking figure. But the thing that gave him pause—more than anything else—was the aether readings he was getting from her. It was like looking at Ethne...

But an older, deadlier version of the younger girl.

Unknown

Affinity Strength/ Weight

Light 3

Dark 0

Elemental 3

Arcane 3

Psychic 3

Shadow 3

Bloodline 3

He looked around at all the other nuns in armor and saw that all their aether was wired in the same way. Marcus was not a betting man, but if he wasn’t imagining it, then it felt… odd. The sight of it unnerved him.

And what was even more strange about the aether he saw floating off the warrior nuns was that none of them had any dark magic. That couldn’t be right—there was something wrong with them, something wrong with what he was looking at.

He followed the aether floating off one of the nuns, and to his surprise, it didn’t join the ley lines above the mountains. Instead, it led to another of the kneeling nuns, then flowed into the next, and then the next, to form one unified aether hive entity.

Marcus then came to realize the reason the warriors of the Church didn’t have dark affinity aether was because they were casting a hex on each other—allowing them to share their aether.

Even he, in the short time he’d been on this world, had grown attached to his affinities.

It meant that facing any warrior of the Church was like facing someone capable of fighting as both a warcrafter and a magician.

And with the grimoires they kept on the ground in front of them, he knew—an army of these warrior nuns would be a match for any House.

A woman stepped into the arena, the sand dulling the sound of her metal boots. A dry rasp of steel against chainmail rang through the chamber.

“How will you fight?” she asked Marcus in a steady, formal voice.

He looked at the woman with the golden mask and answered, “With my fists.”

The woman behind the mask nodded and took her stance—legs apart, hands forward.

If the armor she wore was heavy, she didn’t show it.

Marcus stepped into the sand and took up his boxing stance as well. In his mind, he recalled and cast the three spells that were becoming his signature.

With how high his total magic was, he could easily sustain a single spell for a long time, cast and hold onto multiple spells at once, and maintain control without forgetting them.

He cast Minor Bloodrush, feeling his body fill with aether. It slightly improved his speed, reflexes, and strength. Then he cast Lesser Strength to double his normal strength. And the third spell he cast was different this time—he had copied the spell into his grimoire.

Arcane Push

This spell is a Tier I spell. It can only be used by those with an arcane affinity. The spell allows the user to project a force of pure energy from their hands to push targets back.

She ran at him and threw a punch that was covered in yellow arcane aether and red bloodline magic.

She might as well have telegraphed her move. She had cast a spell around her hand, and all he had to do was parry the blow—exposing her ribs, back, and head for a counter.

Something he didn’t do. Instead, he used the Arcane Push spell, sending her to the side.

She twisted with the push, aiming to hit him with the back of her hand, her body enhanced with Lesser Strength.

It didn’t reach him. His Arcane Push spell held it in place.

Marcus stepped out of the way and let her take her stance again, but this time, he felt something was different. All the aether around her was now channeled into one spell—a Tier III spell—and she moved faster than before.

If Marcus hadn’t been using Minor Bloodrush, he would have missed her move. But he didn’t.

Instead, due to her increased speed, he pushed all his remaining aether into the Bloodrush spell until it could hold no more.

Marcus weaved, dodged, stepped back from all her blows—the two of them seemingly moving at inhuman speeds. One attacking, the other dancing around the strikes.

When Marcus got his chance to land another decisive attack, he used Arcane Push again and sent her flying away.

The warrior nun of River and Sun did not attack again. This time, she asked a question.

Her voice was not angry, not mocking, not even spiteful—it was calm.

“Three times, you could have struck me. And yet, you didn’t.”

“Where I come from, hitting a woman could be seen as impolite.”

“A battlefield is no place for gentlemen. When fighting a monster of the tide—fight like your life depends on it,” she said, her voice still calm, not displeased.

“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded.

“You are strong. Use your strength to protect and defend the cities of Taelaris,” she said. Then she bowed and left the arena to kneel before her grimoire. She opened it and began reading, recalling, memorizing her spells.

The sight was still odd to him.

And he didn’t know why.