“He is young, my Sovereign.” A voice said nearby.

Arcturus’ awareness struggled against the prevailing darkness of his mind, fighting to push through the unconsciousness that ruled him. He remembered the gateway, the fight at the Rubastra Estate, the monstrous carvings, dark hallways, a Vampire with a horrifying third leg, the voice, and then a flash of brilliant light… Then darkness. He fainted again? That habit was becoming downright annoying. Arcturus groaned, and his eyelids fluttered as he attempted to force them to open. His body felt… Odd. He tried to flex his fingers and failed, feeling only a shot of pain as his nerve endings failed to respond. Concern filled him, and he attempted to will his eyes open — only to fail. Again.

“He stirs! What is thy will, Ancient One?” The voice asked again.

“Bring him to me.” A second voice responded, its power resonant within the air.

Arcturus felt pressure on his armoured bicep and tried to wrench it free, only for his limb to remain unresponsive. The scrape of steel on stone told him he was being dragged, and Arcturus glanced around in an attempt to discern his location. A sense of dissonance plagued him, resolving into a disconnect between his body and his mind. He could feel his limbs, but he couldn’t move them — almost as if the electrical impulses were being impeded or impugned by something.

Have to open my eyes.

The single thought lanced through his pain-distorted mind, and Arcturus forcibly managed to shove apart his heavy eyelids, taking in the surreal area around him. He was within some sort of poorly lit but monolithic corridor, with high vaulted ceilings and some sort of marble-like material that appeared cracked and ill-cared for. Ancient sconces jutted out from the walls to either side of him with irregularity, burning with blood-hued flames that seemed to sputter and jump — as if their fuel were unreliable and sparse.

Based purely on his own pain-addled assessment, the corridor seemed to be something close to ten metres across, and the ceiling above him perhaps fifteen metres high. He groaned as a wave of agony wracked his body, feeling the beginnings of pins and needles creeping along his limbs and stabbing into him like their very namesake. Pain meant recovery, in Terra, but not without its share of difficulties. The jewels of his armour, he noticed, seemed to be pulsing faintly; almost in reaction to something in the air.

As his armour continued to screech against the floor, Arcturus attempted to catalyze his [Telekinesis] to find some way of defending or freeing himself — only to find his Aether wouldn’t respond. Horror lanced through him, and for the first time since his arrival on Terra he felt truly unarmed. It was a disturbing, and infuriatingly vulnerable feeling. Quickly, he scanned through for the new alert that had cropped up.

You are currently suffering from [Aether Suppression]!

While under the effects of [Aether Suppression], you are unable to use magic in any of its myriad forms.

“Where…” Arcturus coughed against the strain of speaking, his throat raw and dry as if he’d eaten sand. He snarled against the invalidity of his condition, anger rising as he considered the helplessness of his situation. He went from slaughtering Vampires to this? What a cosmic joke. Even his naturally heightened healing was doing little for him, with his body only slowly recovering from whatever the device — a form of teleportation, he assumed — had done.

“Waste not thy strength, Reclaimer. The Ancient One awaits.”

The voice was smooth and cultured, a juxtaposition to the vice-like intensity of the fingers gripping his armoured bicep and dragging him along. Arcturus grimaced against the desire to demand answers, not wanting to sound as weak as he felt. Showing that kind of vulnerability, irrelevant of whether or not it was obvious, was antithetical to how he had come to comport himself. Arcturus had to project strength.

Terra and its ruthlessness had taught him the price of overt vulnerability: Power was everything, and when powerless, admitting it was signing your own death sentence. Let his captor simply think him recalcitrant, for all that Arcturus knew it was clear he was truly crippled.

Arcturus busied himself with attempting to discern something more from his surroundings as his captor dragged him steadily along, his eyes scanning for any sort of clue or hint as to where he was in relation to where he had been. No matter where he looked, however, all he saw was an almost sorrowful degeneration of past glory. The decidedly gothic architecture that surrounded him was cracked and flaking, with entire sections aggrieved by the ingress of mould, or cobwebs strung across cornices as dark shapes skittered in the shadows.

The entire interior seemed to scream of disregard, of being forgotten. It was architecture that like what he’d seen before, in its prime, must have been beautiful — and the echoes of lost stylisations and markings upon the walls told a story of eroded finery that might have put even the greatest works of the Empire to shame. Now all that could be perceived was decrepitude, and the inevitable grasp of cruel entropy as a formerly masterful and vast complex was brought towards its ruin by neglect and the passage of time.

Arcturus grunted as his captor abruptly dropped him, attempting to turn his head to look towards whomever was dragging him, only to be met by the faintly moth-eaten image of a black cloak, one that had perhaps once been as fine as any found in a royal court — now ravaged, as the rest of the building was, by neglect. Of his captor or aide he could tell nothing save that they were male, and that only by the voice that had spoken.

A pair of armoured hands, the steel stylistically blackened (so he assumed), reached out to push upon what Arcturus had first thought to be a section of wall; and was instead revealed to be a colossal pair of doors. Upon closer inspection, he could have sworn he saw the snarling head of a monster carved across them where they met — but he could not be certain.

As the doors opened, Arcturus glimpsed massive pillars and a wide space that seemed too large for the braziers that lit it. Entire sections beyond the pillars were left in utter darkness, precluding any insight into what lay beyond the dark columns. A moment later, however, his investigation was cut off abruptly as one of his captor’s armoured hands returned to his bicep; dragging him along like he was little more than a mild inconvenience, drawn like so much dead weight into the massive chamber.

His eyes rose to the ceiling and he spied several chandeliers writ large above him, burning with the same bloody flames as everything else. The vaulted ceilings they lit were different from those in the hallway outside; far higher for one — closer to thirty metres high — and inscribed with artwork that seemed to depict some sort of tale of epic proportions. It made the Gateway chamber look small and plain by comparison.

A momentary twist of wry mirth curved his lips into a sardonic smile as he considered that he might have found himself in the Terran version of a goth paradise, before he abruptly froze. A pressure washed over him as his captor dragged him past some undefinable perimeter, setting his heart to thundering within his chest as he felt something oppressive and powerful weighing upon him like an anvil upon his chest.

Arcturus’ eyes widened in alarm as he struggled to breathe, feeling his unresponsive body protesting in growing discomfort and pain as he gasped in air. The further they went the stronger the pressure became, and as Arcturus’ eyes cast around him wildly, he realised they’d passed four of the colossal pillars already. Big enough to serve as a sufficient tether for a full-sized elephant, each one seemed impossibly large to Arcturus’ eyes — and he began to wonder what manner of horror must have required such size to live comfortably. When his progress was suddenly arrested, the thud of steel on stone and the jingle of chainmail startled him as his presumptive captor knelt.

“I present to thee the Reclaimer, O Sovereign.”

The cultured words caught Arcturus’ attention as he was pulled forwards and deposited, frozen in place on his back by pressure and sheer incapability of movement. Moving with the phantom weight upon him seemed impossible, and no amount of effort could coerce his limbs into motion.

“Let him face me.”

Arcturus felt himself lifted, turned like a sack of potatoes to face what had previously been behind him. He was positioned on his folded knees, held by the bicep to face the one who’d spoken. His eyes first found a step before him, leading to another, and then another; seven in total that his eyes followed upwards to a raised dais at their peak. A pair of blackened steel sabatons reflected the dancing blood-hued light as his gaze moved further up, noting dark chainmail covered in fine plates of the same blackened steel that seemed to hum with power even to his deadened senses.

A dark, moth-eaten cloak fell like an abyssal river behind the boots and leggings, framing a pair of arm-rests that offered repose to a similarly armoured pair of what he hoped were human hands.

As Arcturus lifted his gaze further, he noted a dark breastplate without visible clasps; eyes roving to finally arrest upon an intimidating helmet adorned with a crimson horse-hair plume in what almost seemed a spartan style, if he were forced to draw comparison. It reminded him of his own, in fact, though far more ornate.

The helmet itself was crowned with regal, if forbidding spikes that encircled its top. Of the face of its wearer Arcturus could see nothing, hidden beneath the helmet’s fully enclosed surface. A pair of ruby-red lenses were all that broke the full metal surface of the helm.

Ominous crimson light burned behind those lenses.

In total Arcturus guessed the figure to be perhaps seven feet tall, based on the size of what he at last understood to be a colossal throne crowned by a massive winged shape he could not fully discern. The individual looked like the inspiration for every ‘Dark Lord’ tale ever conceived of by mankind, rendered into terrifying lifelike detail.

The sheer incredulity of the sight was enough to eke out a rasping laugh of amusement at his own thoughts. It left him in an echo within the silence of the chamber — no, the throne room as he now recognised it to be. A massive, gothic throne room like something out of a bad fantasy novel.

“I am the Sovereign of this demesne. I have met several mortals in the passage of these long years, but you are strange even among their eclectic number. Your efforts against the Fallen were impressive, as was the speed with which you dispatched them. I sense rebellion in you; suspicion, indignation, anger… Hatred. For yourself, for your situation, for me. I would know your mind in this matter.”

The voice that echoed from the helmet held no wrath, but instead a kind of regal intrigue. Every syllable seemed to hold weight, and the very air seemed to vibrate with the pressure of its words. It was male from what Arcturus could tell, though the bass distortion of the helmet robbed any semblance of true identification. It was as if he were speaking to the culmination of every austere villain story he’d ever consumed.

“I won’t…” Arcturus took a moment to swallow as he rasped out the word, forcing his throat to cooperate. “I won’t pretend I’m in a…” He cleared his throat again stubbornly. “In an advantageous position, but if you expect me to cower and beg, you may as well kill me.”

“Cower and beg?” The Sovereign asked, with what appeared to be surprise. “You seem aggrieved by your situation.”

“I leap through a gateway and end up thrown into the arse-end of who-knows-where, smack bang into a potential Mordor ripoff, complete with Vampires.” Arcturus ground out with barely-bottled anger, feeling the hot flush of rage suffusing him at his situation. Still, he attempted at cordiality. “Two days ago I was happy for the first time since my arrival in this accursed world. I’d even found a woman I might have been able to have something special with.”

He scowled at the mysterious silhouette above the Sovereign as his anger built. “Now, after a night of betrayal, and blood, and fire; I end up in a Vampire-infested gothic horror story with my unresponsive body forced to kneel in front of the biggest evil overlord stereotype I’ve ever seen.” Arcturus turned back to the Sovereign. “I’m assuming it’s you who guided me to safety, and I’m indebted for that… But I will not lie and say I’m thrilled with my situation.”

“Your ire is… understandable. Your reservations, noted. Still...” The being seemed intrigued. “What is it that stirs such fury within your soul, Reclaimer?”

“I have been beaten, cut, thumped, deceived, betrayed, and had everything I knew torn away from me within the space of just under two months.” He glanced at the kneeling individual holding his shoulder, then back to the Sovereign. “It don’t think it’s unfair to say that such a chain of events might inspire a level of… discontent.”

“I see.” The being said with an intensity that silenced Arcturus mid-speech, the glowing ‘eyes’ of its helm focussed on Arcturus, as if studying him. He could feel the intensity of its gaze, like his skin was being slowly peeled away. The sheer pressure of it was tangible. “So you would prefer to not have your current gifts, Reclaimer? To be one among the myriad masses, absent purpose or special destiny?”

“Why are you asking me this?” Arcturus enquired wearily, his confusion overriding his indignation for the moment. “You guided me here. You brought me to this place. What is it you want?”

A sharp intake of breath echoed from his kneeling captor, but Arcturus paid no heed to it, focused solely on the being that seemed to dominate the room and the very space of reality within which it resided. It seemed like something he’d said had given it pause, for when it spoke it did so more curiously than ever. “You do not know?”

“I am really tired of people being enigmatic.” Arcturus responded with audible irritation. Good, let them both hear his impatience. “I prefer to just understand my situation, so if you’re sitting on some sort of grandiose destiny speech, I’d rather just hear it so I can reject it.” Arcturus looked between the Sovereign and his captor once again, checking for a reaction. Information was power, as he’d been taught. Perhaps one might rise to his admittedly blatant bait.

The being had frozen at his words, and even though it hadn’t moved prior, Arcturus could tell the difference. Before it had simply been content to remain still, but now it was different: Shock dominated where inevitable power had stood before, revealing an almost human reaction that served to undermine much of the almost supernatural dread he’d been experiencing in the Sovereign’s presence. Abruptly it shifted, its left hand moving like lightning to touch his lacerated cheek, the sharpened talon at the tip of its armoured finger taking a drop of his blood for itself.

Arcturus hissed at the action angrily, his reflexive attempt to lash out halted by the presence of his captor’s hand on his shoulder and his own body’s lack of response. Confusion penetrated his mind as the Sovereign lifted its hand, bringing the blood before its helmet as Arcturus felt as much as sensed its attention fixating on the blood. After a moment of nothing happening, the finger abruptly flared with the same white-and-black monochrome flames that Arcturus recognised as his magic, wrapping around the tip of the Sovereign’s finger before vanishing a second later.

Silence followed the action, a silence that Arcturus discerned as shock.

“How is it you can be so utterly ignorant, and yet so terribly, wonderfully gifted…?” The Sovereign’s voice was ponderous now, filled with a depth of intensity that caught Arcturus off-guard. “What is your name, Reclaimer?”

“Arcturus Regis Valoura.” He replied automatically, falling back into the lessons of identification that Tylariel had hammered into his skull, and wanting to curse himself for it immediately afterward. Truthfully he no longer avoided his middle name, instead acknowledging and accepting it as part of him. A defining part of him, in fact, given the traditions his family apparently abided by. Regis was more his name than even Arcturus was, though he’d gone by the latter for so long that being called anything else just seemed… odd.

“How ironic, and yet how appropriate.” The Sovereign said with what Arcturus could identify as excitement, and amusement in equal measure. “You have no idea what you are, Arcturus Regis Valoura. They have no idea what you are, else They never would have dared to let you come within a thousand leagues of me. It seems that Order has deigned to grant us a chance to tip the scales once more.”

“I have no desire to be used in another political game.” Arcturus responded immediately, picking up on the language and the implication of some sort of feud. “I’ve been through that once already. Their intentions were benevolent, yet it ended in fire and blood, and the death of people I cared for. People who didn’t have to die.” Caeara, Beowulf, and Vivienne flashed through his mind. Tylariel, Tiberius, the Estate staff… How many had died? “I won’t be party to anyone’s dynastic plans, not again.”

The Sovereign watched him from behind the esoteric helmet for a time in silence, and when the voice spoke, it was very nearly empathetic. “I respect your sentiment, Arcturus Regis. Allow me to then strike a bargain, in good faith: You will remain here, as my guest, for exactly one month. In that time, I will see to it that you are given insights into what it is I would see you achieve, and become.”

“Why do you…” He had wanted to ask why the Sovereign had any interest in him, when the creature was blatantly and immensely powerful itself. Instead, he changed tactics and sought after the more pressing concern. Better to have the answer out then and there. “And if I choose to have nothing to do with any of it?”

“Then I will take you to the Gateway and depart you from this land myself.” The Sovereign vowed.

“I don’t trust you.” Arcturus said bluntly. “You saved me, and again, I’m indebted… But what’s to stop me leaving right now?”

“Aside from your translocator-crippled limbs?” The Sovereign asked in what almost seemed to be amusement.

“What?”

“The device you used is called a translocator. For those unaccustomed to it, it can cause severe temporary paralysis owing to the invasive electro-aetheric currents that traverse the body during its use.”

“Then…” Arcturus paused to consider. He wasn’t able to leave in his current condition. Even forgetting the paralysis slowly wearing off, there was the matter of him needing at least a single night to rest and recover his strength, as well as sort through his notifications and complete his saved Level Up. Potentially, multiple Level Ups. Anger at being forced into the position of relying on another warred with necessity, and curiosity had its place also. Despite his better judgement, the Sovereign’s offer was incredibly interesting. “I have one condition.” Arcturus responded, fixing his gaze on the burning eye lenses.

“You press the attack where the wise would advise retreat.”

“I’m stubborn, I guess.”

“Very well. One final condition.” The Sovereign allowed, directly confirming for Arcturus as well that he was more valuable to the Sovereign, in truth, than the enigmatic figure perhaps wanted him to understand. Or maybe that was the trick. It was difficult to parse, given the lack of body language or facial tics to read. All he had to go off of, truthfully, was tone.

“I need a way to communicate with individuals at a long, long distance. I want you to help me with that, and potentially with letting them join me… wherever we are. Wherever this is.”

The Sovereign regarded him from behind its implacable helmet, and Arcturus began to wonder if he’d pushed too far… until the being seemed to come to a decision. “The bargain is made. One month, in return, to educate you on our cause. I swear to abide by these terms, with Order as my binding witness.”

“One month.” Arcturus agreed, and shuddered as he felt the oath settle over him. A System alert, accompanying it but minimized, told him it had been truly enforced. That, at least, allowed him to relax a little more. “I… need to do something. I might pass out afterwards. Given we’re in agreement, I assume it wouldn’t be too much to ask for a bed to sleep and wake up in?”

“Sevatar will see it done. He will bear you to a suitable resting place, and you may conduct your business and awaken in safety. I swear this, with Order as my binding witness.”

“I…” Arcturus swallowed, feeling the oath settle between them again as it had before. “...thank you, Sovereign, for your aid and generosity.” He felt tired, all of a sudden. Tired, and sorely in need of dealing with his notifications and then embracing sleep.

“Be at peace.” The Sovereign said in an air-trembling tenor that, for all it bewildered him, Arcturus knew to be designed to comfort him. “You will sleep in peace, and when you wake, I shall grant you a revelation of destiny, one that might yet bring a smile to your lips, if my understanding of your hatred for the Empire’s Gods is accurate.”

Arcturus felt his heart skip a beat. A chance to find aid in the destruction of the Church of Eternal Light, and from a being of such power… His Luck stat was coming in far more handy than he’d suspected, it seemed.

“If I do it…” He asked as ‘Sevatar’ rose and lifted Arcturus into his arms like he weighed not a thing, armour and all. “If I do what it is you seem to want to convince me to do, what exactly is it that you hope you accomplish?”

“Reclamation.” The Sovereign answered. “You are the Reclaimer, Arcturus Regis Valoura. Through you, I believe that a dream long-thought hopeless may yet be achieved.”

“What dream?”

“Rest now.” The Sovereign said instead of clarifying. “Your questions will be answered when you wake.”

Arcturus stopped himself from demanding the answers then and there. He was tired. He did need to handle his prompts. Besides, he felt the System enforce the oaths. He could at least take comfort in that refuge, for the immediate moment. Once he contacted his friends, he could figure out his next steps. Still, as Sevatar bore him away towards the doors marking the boundary of the Throne room, curiosity overrode his better sense.

“What dream?!” He called back, looking to where the Sovereign sat unmoving.

As the doors closed of their own volition, the being’s voice echoed through to him.

“Vitaea, Arcturus Regis Valoura. The dream that is Vitaea.”

The doors shut with a sonorous boom.