“I yield.” Petra didn’t even say these words out loud, and they only came after nearly a minute of hacking up silvery chunks of lung tissue, but they still resounded throughout the reef, at least to Rok. Their fight had been brief, a short five minutes that could hardly compare to some of the legends Rok had heard about clashes between S rankers, but the crocodilian had a truly overwhelming advantage in experience fighting in the liquid medium of the ocean. Had he not ascended, there was no question about whether he’d have lost, only uncertainty in how many pieces the fight left him in, but things didn’t work out for the golden dragonkin like that.

Instead, she was standing haggard only a few hundred meters from the mouth of her objective and staring with no small amount of trepidation at the multi-meter mouth of the reason why she’d never reach it. Something in Rok’s new lineage was more than just intimidating to the woman, it left with a similar sort of innate terror that talking to the Greatest Ancestor did; it may have been vastly more subdued but it was also much more raw, promising violence and hunger rather than inspiring feelings of complete inferiority. The idea of some lesser blood being able to make her feel that way was… less than palatable, and if she made it home, the clan would need to know.

Rok was completely unaware of her inner turmoil, though, nor was he particularly cognizant of the effect he was having on her beyond the immediate, and very obvious threat of limb-length teeth sitting in jaws that could crush a house with casual ease. He remained in that shape, floating before Petra and taking the time to examine their surroundings, as she called her soulforged weapon back for the final time.

There was a lot to take in. Despite neither of them having touched the ground at all until the very end, there was a very clear trail between the entrance hall where the fight took place, and where they were right then. The corals, a little sparse but still present in meaningful quantities, were uprooted or reduced to rubble, and the water would likely be completely opaque from the kicked-up sands were it not for Rok’s Aspects and superior vision. But since he could see through it all, he was well aware of the pandemonium going on within the ranks of the Divers.

Many of them had- very understandably- fled as soon as they felt the pair approaching, and the less perceptive among them still followed shortly after, when both Petra and Rok made it abundantly clear what would be occurring. Unfortunately, Rok saw at least a few frantic escapees head directly into the dungeon, arguably the worst option they could have chosen for themselves, Rok, and Aby. Moreover, now that the reptilian brawlers weren’t in the immediate area, Rok could see a few more heading back to the dungeon to test their luck. A very pointed application of his aureole was enough to send them running again, and this time some of those just might not come back again, but he had more pressing matters to attend to now.

Trusting the Guild guards to be well trained enough to get things at least marginally under control, Rok finally returned to his humanoid shape, and drifted to the seafloor before Petra. That she made no move to fight or flee after the immediate threat of devourment was lifted was a good sign; it probably helped that he was still twice her height and wider than she was tall. There was still some lingering fear- or perhaps shock- in her eyes, but most of the fight was gone after seeing how quickly Rok could shift between shapes.

The pair stared at each other for a moment longer, one last chance for the fight or the chase to rekindle, but when Rok motioned for Petra to walk towards him, she did so obediently. Unlike her, he could speak perfectly clearly in the water, and so he relayed a short few instructions, and after she had turned to face away from him, he grabbed her by the shoulder. Perhaps it was petty of him to bury his nails up to the knuckle into her clavicle, but the more securely she was held, the faster they could be back at the island. He pushed himself off the seafloor horizontally, holding the still-battered woman at arm’s length beneath him, then took off.

The pair tore through the sea back towards Sleepy Gills, uncannily silent as they went. Petra couldn’t speak, and Rok had nothing more to say, so instead he examined his right hand, empty of anything else. The wannabe-dragon’s breath was powerful, and no doubt that if she had hit him directly, he’d be in a much, much worse state. As it was, the hole through his hand was still there, healing visibly but nowhere near the prodigious rate a normal wound should. The silver embers still burnt away at the edges, but they were dim and lusterless, some glowing instead with a murky green and healing faster. Petra was eying those flecks warily.

Further up along his arm, the placid grey of his scales were beginning to show through the carbonized black of the burn. His arm still stung deeply, but it was hardly a concern at this point. He was more caught up in remembering the state of his arm during his shift, and the near-total lack of any visible harm. The tunnel through his hand remained, but it was the same size as when he was a man, and so buried beneath leathery scale it was unnoticeable. Turning back into his normal shape, as disappointing as it felt after experiencing that elation of raw power, had left the wound much more healed than it had been.

He’d need to experiment more, especially in his beast shape. He needed to know his limits and, in that shape, he truly felt that he had none. That could- would- come later, though. The island was swiftly coming into view, and the activity was at a minimum. Hardly surprising in the dead of night, especially when neither Rok nor Petra were being subtle on the approach back.

The reptilian man propelled himself above the waves with a powerful flick of his tail. From there, he righted himself, standing on the surface of the sea with the glittering prisoner still in his vice grip. Neither were in any shape to simply stroll into the business district, or any district where people could see them. Even discounting the complete lack of clothes on Rok, and the barest shreds of slow-regenerating leather on Petra, it would not paint Rok in a flattering light to be seen carrying the golden woman into town as they were.

So it was that Rok trudged his way back through the gnarled mangroves on the shore between him and his home. Once more, his hulking form failed to leave much more than a few broken branches, but the much slighter frame of Petra managed to have a small tree’s worth of leaves and twigs in her already wretched plumage. There was little ceremony as the pair finally made it onto sandy shores, Petra would’ve been incensed about being dumped onto the ground like refuse were she still of a mood to fight.

The dragonkin was as sore as an S ranker could get, having put up with a clawed hand larger than her torso holding her by the shoulder blade, from the inside, but she dutifully pushed herself to her feet and pushed a little mana into her frayed armor to mend it much faster. She watched as Rok used his own home to preserve whatever modesty he might’ve had left, more than tall enough to just look over the roof and keep an eye on his prisoner regardless. A short moment later, he walked out wearing a pair of bland slacks and muttering some confusing thanks to the Mapper.

“Let’s go,” he rumbled out, and started walking behind Petra, looming over her. “You’ve got a lot of talking to do, and you’ll probably want to be sitting once we break whatever Oath you’re under.” Rok couldn’t see her face at that statement, but he could almost taste the grimace in response. Still, though, she said nothing, and Rok would be unsurprised to find that silence was some sort of caveat of whatever Oath she was sworn to.

In fact, as the pair walked briskly along, and a sandy path became gravel roads and finally a cobbled terrace, Rok was busy thinking about the possible terms she had been sworn to, and the sort of penalty she would face, should she break the Oath. Unlike her much less competent co-conspirators, she could not have her body voided of mana, her control reduced to nothing, or her chances of advancement crippled. Her body already was mana, impure as it probably was at that point, and no Oath that anyone had heard of could outright kill someone directly, something guaranteed to happen if an S ranker was rendered devoid of mana.

And so, where those Unascended are punished for breaking an Oath by having their mana completely scattered, S rankers instead must get a bit more creative in their restrictions. Oftentimes, an Aspect or a bloodline would be used as collateral, with the former being especially severe. Aspects were the culmination of Feats and Affinities from before Ascension, the start of a path that the S ranker takes to become Titled, and losing one is akin to having a part of oneself completely removed. Like amputation, but with a permanence and finality that is hard to truly understand.

If Petra Swore on one of her Aspects, then Rok would pity her almost as much as he loathed her presence on his island, in his territory. She would talk, after all, regardless of whether it would be to him or to the Enforcer the Guild had sent after he spoke with Tuor. He needed to know why his Dungeon warranted such constant and extreme focus by the Fae, and he needed to know if they were aware of what the Mapper had found out and had told him.

Most importantly, he needed the attacks on his Dungeon- on Aby- to stop and while he was sure that the Mapper was already working to ensure just that, even a Titled would likely not be enough when facing down the entire Fae Consulate. He mulled over his next course of action, and what best to do after that, a headache beginning to pound away at his skull despite his biology, or lack thereof, dictating that such a thing should be impossible.

Yet again he was gawked at as he strolled through his town towards his makeshift prison, though this time it was less his own presence and more the utterly defeated presence of his detainee. Golden blood still dribbled down his arm and her back, and he tried very hard to ignore the attempts at subtlety of his growing crowd. Despite it still being firmly nighttime, it seemed that he was causing a commotion and, rather distastefully he felt, there were a few individuals scrambling to gather up the mercuric blood that was dotting the trail behind them. He was fully aware that even a drop of blood from someone like Petra, or him for that matter, was worth well more than its weight in gold but that didn’t stop him from being put off by the vultures.

He just hoped that they weren’t foolish enough to follow that trail back to his home, else Petra wouldn’t be the only one he’d be having words with. That was a matter for later, though, since Rok had finally made it to the prison and was being escorted, rather superfluously, by a pair of the guards on duty to one of the most secure cells. Secure, however, wasn’t much consolation, as the porous limestone was only marginally reinforced and any enchanting done to the walls or door would not stand up to an S ranker with any real amount of time to try and break free. He could perhaps trust her there for an hour or so, but no longer, and he’d likely need to be present himself in some capacity until the Enforcer arrived or someone could enchant some restraints properly suited to the task ahead.

But before containment came interrogation, and the bare room he’d brought Petra and himself to would have to do for that, for now. He loosened his grip, pulling his claws out of her back and letting her catch her unnecessary breath as he pulled over a too-small chair to sit in. He was on guard for any deep, heaving breaths, wary about what her breath attack might do in open air, in the middle of a crowded town, and was prepared for round two at the sight of any potential trouble.

Thankfully, his unwelcome guest seemed to be behaving well, and after a moment of working any stiffness out of her joints, stood tall opposite Rok and faced him down with a defiant look. Or rather, she tried facing him down, but she still needed to crane her neck slightly to peer up and meet his gaze even while he sat. There was a tense moment as neither spoke, each waiting for the other to do so first, before Rok broke the spell with an exasperated sigh.

“Petra, what did you Swear on?” It was an innocuous question that Rok was still mulling over even now, but it seemed the dragonkin wasn’t expecting something so inane to be his first words. Her scowl hardly vanished, but she was noticeably and amusingly confused. “Well? Did you take on a curse? Or were you so convinced of victory that you decided to wager something a little more permanent?”

The anger marring her face only continued to grow, and while he continued levelling jabs and accusations at her she’d yet to break her silence, which was admirable, as she was outwardly seething. He had been letting the mana roll off him in waves as he spoke, even consciously putting more force into his aureole as he suffused the room with it. Petra tried pushing back, but without as much raw power behind her own, and something in his aura seemed to make her all the more on edge and easy to get worked up.

“So obviously, part of your Terms were to not talk at all, when you’re inevitably captured. I can’t fathom any other reason you’ve kept quiet so long.” Finally, she rose to the taunt, growling in frustration and loathing. She balled her fists and seemed ready to leap at Rok but the man in question simply leaned forward in response, a small but confident grin playing across his features.

“Please!” she started to cry, but as soon as the word left her lips a look of shocked regret painted her face, and her jaw clamped shut with a rush of air and an audible clack but that still was not fast enough. Her face paled, and paled some more, and for a moment Rok thought that it impressive just how regretful she became in that instant. It wasn’t until she began grimacing that Rok realized something was up, and immediately after he noticed that unnatural pallor spreading throughout her entire body. Gold became silver, and silver became a lifeless, tinny color.

It seemed outrageously painful to Rok, and he realized that he was right to pity her, as the magic of her Oath worked on ripping away her bloodline. She heaved a few shuddering, wheezing breaths, convulsing and landing on her knees before giving way to coughing. Golden blood was dotting the floor, as droplets became puddles. This dragged on, and on still, and Rok went from watching in disbelief to simply being forced to spectate out of a sense of morbid curiosity.

The entire process took nearly a quarter hour, surprisingly fast and yet uncomfortably long and more than once, Petra had struck the floor, the furniture, even him as she thrashed in her agony. But finally, she hacked up a viscous mass of rose-gold right before his feet, one that immediately started sizzling and fading away. Rok wasn’t entirely cognizant of that, instead taking in the changes.

And there were most certainly changes; Petra was a mess, adamantly refusing to shed a tear and making no noise beyond her coughs but it was apparent that she’d lost something fundamental. Her scales had settled on a matte light grey, speckled with sickly, corroded green. Her plumage was unkempt, her eyes bloodshot- with proper, red blood- and she seemed to have withered like a dying plant. Everything noble, or rather regal, that she once had was flushed from her body and where once stood a woman who could hold the attention of most any room, radiating arrogance and a twisted grace with it, now lay someone desperate and starved, purged violently of something intrinsic.

The change was all the way down to her aureole, the mana seeping out of her changed so greatly that Rok realized with a start that she probably had lost an Aspect as well, and he was dumbfounded as to how she could be talked into such an Oath. She was prideful to a fault and seemed wildly inexperienced, but even a child knew such an Oath was horrifyingly cruel.

“They-” Petra gasped, her voice raspy and without the delicate tone or deceptive lilt she once had. “They lied. I Swore to take on a single curse, something impermanent!” Her words were less than focused, and Rok took a moment to recognize she wasn’t speaking to him outright, only lamenting. It took him less time than that to realized she had been tricked.

“Petra,” he began, still with an edge but a bit of reluctant gentleness ebbing in as well, surprising himself. “What was the wording? Not the Oath proper, just the consequences?” She stopped rambling long enough to glare sharply at him, and once more she tried leveraging her aureole, and he was taken aback by the rabid, wild hate in it.

“If I should fail, then let my reputation be stained, and my Name tarnished, ‘till the day that I wash clean this blemish. If I should speak, then should I fail, and gold will burn me as the water Burns thee, and not ‘till the day you swim true can I quench my lust for lost luster. Let me not Swear in vain and let you not be burnt again, lest we both lose the fight in these waters.”

Rok fought down a low whistle; he’d been witness to and even made several entire Oaths less convoluted than the pledge of punishment here. The thing seemed straightforward enough, albeit fairly steeped in nuance, and at a glance he’d have agreed that somehow, she had been tricked. But that nuance was probably well-worded to ensure exactly this happened if Petra couldn’t get the job done.

He was no expert in Oaths, though, and while he had a few suspicions it was entirely possible that some other part of the Oath was responsible for her sad state, and there were probably still yet more tricks that could have been woven into it that were completely independent of what she spoke or, Vol forbid, what she signed.

Rok sighed, a low, rumbling noise that sounded a lot less harsh than earlier. He stood up, using some nearby water to wash away the stains on the floor, now looking for all of Vol like oxidized mercury. “Petra, you are a fool,” instantly the woman bristled, actually growling at him “a prideful and arrogant girl with more dreams than experience but for all that I genuinely dislike people like that- like you- you should not have been used as a tool by things I am truly coming to loath” She had leapt at him during his speech, now clawing at his stomach. She’d even brought forth her soulbound sword, but it rusted and crumbled in moments.

“Enough, Petra. You have lost, but now is your chance to decide whether you’ve lost to the Fae, or to me. They screwed you out of everything they could and I have no doubt that they meant to screw you out of more, but they didn’t.” He grabbed her wrists and pulled her up to be eye level with him. Her manic look hadn’t abated, if anything it was worse, but there was still a hint of the haughtiness he’d experienced.

“So now, you can tell me what you know, and we can screw them back. The Guilds have never been close to the Fae, but the Mapper isn’t very happy with them now. His Title, and his very outspoken testimony about the Fae, that’ll draw some attention to this matter. With a bit of evidence, particularly evidence that they violated the Accords, I’m willing to bet that some action might be taken, action that would treat an S ranker under compulsion and Oath with a bit more lenience than if she were found to have violated the Accords of her own volition.”

She was still gritting her teeth, she still seemed nearly feral, but Rok had a feeling that he was making progress, if her excited smile was any indication. “They squeezed you for every drop you were worth and look at you now. You know what they say about pride and what follows but you aren’t the only one who was too prideful. You don’t have to fall alone, Petra, and your landing could be much nicer if you have someone else to land on.”

She coughed, squirmed a little to ease the pressure on her shoulders, then practically spat her next words at Rok. “Fine. Fine. Fine fine fine, you win, you win, Rok. But I am not going to be your puppet, I’m not going to be traded hands again and again until I’m no good to anyone. I will talk, but I will not be used again and I want your word that you won’t let me.” Rok couldn’t help but smirk himself, now, finally he was getting somewhere and he could even dare to hope that maybe, just maybe, someone had learned any lesson at all during his tenure as the branch head here.

Rok set her back onto the floor and nudged a second chair her way with his foot. He had a table brought in as well, and sat across from Petra as he brought a sheaf of papers out of his storage ring. What followed was a rather tense negotiation session, one still not entirely resolved nor could it be before the Enforcer arrived, but the concessions Rok offered were apparently enough that Petra felt confident in talking. The interrogation was illuminating in many ways but ultimately, Rok was still at a loss as to what to do.

The difference was that now Rok could shunt that particular conundrum onto his superiors, or even their superiors; he had enough of a case to make someone listen and listen they would. As he continued talking with Petra the-no-longer Goldwing, he felt himself growing almost excited, eager to make something change. Even better, this matter might be important enough that someone else would have to write it down, and not him.