Mason woke on the floor of that same small room, but the table and chairs had been flung to the side, and he was bound by stone vines that leaked from a fissure in the very center of the room. He tried to struggle, but found the vines were dug deep enough into his skin that he couldn’t move and blood cracked where it had dried along his arms and legs.

Torysen sat against the door, crouched in a fetal position, and though she looked stricken, there was a focus to her expression that immediately assured Mason she was not out of her mind. He took a deep breath to steady himself and then called, “Captain?”

She turned halfway toward him, her gaze focused elsewhere, and it was clear she was trying to right herself for several long moments. Mason said again, “Captain.”

Finally her stare fixed on him, and Mason felt the slightest twist of the vines around his mangled skin. “Which of you is that?”

“Would either of the others call you Captain?” Mason asked with a twinge of impatience.

“You put us both at risk, Demon.” She lifted herself to her feet and moved slowly over to Mason so that she towered over him.

He met her look, “You knew what you were asking me, Torysen. I agreed because I know that Geralt is not the threat we…” He trailed off as something nagged at his mind. His Focus highlighted details on Torysen’s face as he spoke, but none stood out as clearly as the details that weren’t there. Mason had been bound like he was dangerous, but her face showed no rage or fear when he mentioned Geralt. “You spoke with Mowry?”

That name did it. She shifted her whole body away from Mason at the sound of her brother’s name. Her arms crossed, and lines formed across her face. “I am no longer certain you can be trusted.”

“You learned something.”

Her expression this time was the cruelty of a high mountain pass. “I was not aware Lady Sorynel handed you her secrets. That sort of power can be dangerous.”

Rather than respond, Mason just searched her face. He felt the energy which animated the stone roots, and began to think that he could fight them if necessary. Torysen seemed unhinged, and was avoiding letting her mind focus on what she had experienced. Each twist of her mind was laid bare for Mason- not the content, but the motion.

“Who spoke to you while I was gone?”

Had she bared her teeth, or was that just the way her anger shrouded her expression?

“You’re avoiding the subject.”

“I’ll tell you anything you need to know, Captain. I know what you’ve done for me. But you need to give back, trust me. Who did you talk to?”

Torysen looked torn between ordering the vines to tighten or running from the room with him abandoned. She was, however, still the Captain, and she was not Mowrytal- neither the version of him she had dreamed or the version she now feared. She shifted in place and then finally admitted, “I talked to both.”

“Good,” Mason responded before he had a chance to think. “And Geralt was tolerable?”

She still couldn’t meet Mason’s eyes. “He was.”

“Kind, even? Or maybe just helpful?”

She nodded.

“But Mowrytal…”

“We don’t need to discuss private matters between my brother and I.”

“He lives inside of me, Torysen.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of!” she covered her mouth after the scream, but the release seemed to straighten her mind. “You have repeatedly placed me in situations that I do not know how to handle.”

“I’m sorry.” He was. “I’m trying to find the strength to gain control over the things that happen around me. At least enough that I don’t have to apologize for things I never meant to do.”

“You would not be in the band if I had not seen your desire to act honorably.” She squatted then. Mason wished she’d just undo his bindings so he could meet her on her level, but at least she was looking at him.

“You seem awfully scared of something about me at the moment.”

“Tell me what you know of Mowry as he has been inside of you. Does he ask for power? Does he seek control?”

Mason noted the pointed questions, could see the fear in Torysen’s eyes. “No, he yells at me pretty much constantly for allowing either of them any control that I can forbid. I don’t know what you saw but he’s a good man, Torysen. He’s been helpful. Friendly even.”

She shook her head, “Don’t trust him. Heed his advice and do not give him power. He is not well.”

Mason started with a, “What do you mean…” when he felt the vines unloosen. As soon as he began pulling at them they crumbled to dust, and his body stung as that dust rubbed into his wounds. “Torysen?”

The captain had already begun walking to the door of the room, but she turned to say, “He is not the brother I thought he was. There are temptations which he fears, and I believe he is split around the urge to protect himself from those, or pursue them at any cost. Do not tempt him unnecessarily.”

Rather than follow her out and demand more answers, Mason decided to follow a smarter course and dive into the source. He sat up and leaned against the back wall of the room, closed his eyes, and found his soul.

~~

Geralt’s redecoration of the soulscape hadn’t ceased. Mason stared off the platform in the middle of the ocean to watch waves crashing upon worn, blackened stones. The foam roiled and dispersed rapidly and Mason’s eyes were torn between that and the pinkish red hues scratching jagged lines through the grey clouds of the horizon.

Chunks were missing and cracks ribbed the sandstone yellow ground of the platform like veins, and Mason felt uneasy moving too close to the edge. “Geralt?” He cried out, suddenly awash with a sense of isolation he had never before experienced in this plane.

Looking out over the sea, Mason saw that the fonts of energy within him had been enshrined well of in the distance. Tall pillars rose out of the ocean, topped with bowls that overflowed with colorful energy. As that energy poured off into the ocean, the foam of the waves took on those colors as it crashed around the pillar. His eyes trailed along the length of water between his platform and those pillars, and he could just barely make out a hint of a submerged walkway one could risk if they were hoping to reach the font.

The platform itself had been changed in a distinct way since Mason last stood there. He could see to the side that two staircases wrapped around its edges, just barely visible where they started on a side of the platform that led to no font. As no companion arrived for him, Mason walked patiently over to the platform and down the steps to his left.

His inward hand trailed along the cracks of the wall as he stepped, and the height of that platform in the sea became apparent to him. It was several hundred feet tall, and that realization made the font of mana seem conspicuously distant and imposing as he glanced at it from the stairway. He walked on, impressed.

Down at the bottom of the staircase was a passage which led into the core of the platform which he now realized was an immense column. The passage was dimly lit by torches along the length of its wall, and the floor was patterned to look as if a walkway adorned the center. He followed it closely, resisting the urge to take a torch with him for caution’s sake.

The path through the column in the sea was wide and devoid of branching passageways, but something instinctive inside of Mason recognized it as a labyrinth. Perhaps, he mused, it was unnatural for him to be lost within his own soul. He walked on, confident that he would reach an appropriate destination if only he didn’t stop moving.

In time, he did. The corridor turned and he felt his perception struggle to look away from the line on the ground he had followed this whole time. Surely the path continued on straight. But he couldn’t think on that long. The path veered, and so did his steps.

A little further on, he passed through an iron portcullis, wide enough for five men to walk through with a heavy door that had been raised into the ceiling. The chamber was lit with torches, and despite its size, housed only two things of note in its center. The first was Mowry, seated on a cushion on the floor, bound by both hands to a short post. The second was Geralt, who kneeled in front of the Marran and turned as Mason approached.

“I see you found your way to us without issue. I wonder, does it bring you pleasure to walk freely in this place while one of us is bound? We most definitely took advantage of the time before you learned to move about here,” Geralt mused.

“What is all of this, Geralt? Shouldn’t you consult with me before you… do whatever you did in my soul? And Mowrytal-” Mason was close enough not to be standing over Mowry. He was covered in sweat and sandy dirt, his arms torn by the manacles and knees raw from the ground he must have been on before Geralt conjured the cushion. “Is he okay?”

Geralt looked up at Mason and nodded, “He will be managed. It is lucky for us both that his study of the Soul Arts was juvenile. I managed to keep him under control as well as offer Torysen a consolatory gift for her troubles. Is she well?”

“Why do you care?” Mason asked, then thought better of it. “Sorry. She’s shaken. My real body doesn’t look a lot better than his at the moment, but I have a lot of questions and I’m not sure where to start other than to ask if there’s anything I need to be worried about immediately.”

“No, you are safe and our shared goals seem well under way.”

“Okay, but Mowrytal did something… bad? Or crazy? Enough to worry both you and Torysen. And you seem to have taken a fair amount of initiative on your own. Let’s say I’m nervous. Should I be finding a way to lock you up like him?”

Geralt stood and the effect was immediate. He was unarmored, but still nearly twice Mason’s size in every regard, and a heavy sword hung at his hip. The column in the sea, and all that he created, weighed heavily on Mason’s mind as well.

“No,” the Maledite answered.

“Well, okay then,” Mason shrugged and scratched his head. This hadn’t gone how he would have liked. Though he couldn’t have said what he was hoping for, either. “Are you my ally, Geralt?”

The grey-faced man considered this question, then stepped forward and offered the hilt of his sword to Mason. “If you want to have this conversation, hold this in your hands. Let us make the power dynamic clear. Better, hold that blade to my throat and ask the question again. Bare your teeth, flex your muscles. Ask me that question while you can feel the way you hold my life in your hands.”

Mason did reach for the hilt, and before he had even pulled it free of Geralt’s sheathe he could tell its weight. He’d struggle to fight with a sword like this, even in this soulscape where reality was bent. But he could at least lift it, so he yanked it free and hefted it into the air, impressed by the way the torchlight gleamed off the wide blade in the air. He let the blade fall down a bit, then lowered it to the ground. He took his own sword out then, and placed that next to Geralt’s.

No flash of recognition, neither fear nor anticipation, crossed Geralt’s face. He watched and waited to see what Mason would make of this. And the human just shifted awkwardly and tried to meet Geralt’s eyes. He said, “I don’t want to be your new king, Geralt. I won’t pretend to know much about Arlon, or your relationship, but I don’t want to be him. I would like to be your ally.”

Geralt laughed then, a dry humorless chuckle that persisted in the air. “No, not my king. You’d place that blade on the ground, disarming yourself before me, but you know nothing about me, and as little about yourself. You could be a god to me. To both of us. There is nothing we have- our powers, our memories, our energy- that is not yours to rip from us on a whim. You may not know how to do so overtly, but it would take you little effort to discover the tricks of it. Already you’ve done so with one soul. Why not ours if we threaten you?”

“It’s not who I am. And no matter what I rip from you or force you to do, that won’t earn me your cooperation. This place,” Mason gestured around them at the thick walls of the impressive construct, “is not only beyond my comprehension that it exists, but I couldn’t have imagined it at all. Would you have made something nearly as great if I had demanded it?”

Finally their eyes met, and a few moments passed in silence. Mason made a quiet sigh of realization and the thin tremblings of a smile formed on the Maledite’s face. “Thank you then, Geralt of the Maledite. But why? What does this place serve us, and what has happened to Mowrytal?”

“You hold a great many things which that man has long coveted. Power takes many forms, and each of those forms seem to be within your grasp. Are you aware that when you speak, you speak as a king? It may be that neither of us would have selected you for that role, but yet you stand in it nonetheless.” Geralt picked his sword up from off the ground, and flipped it, turning the hilt back to Mason, who took it again hesitantly. “Hold this blade above me, lift if with all your might and do not waver. This is a lesson we Kingmakers are taught early on.”

Mason hefted the blade up, and again felt pressed by its weight. The sword hung just inches above Geralt’s right shoulder, and each twinge of pain or moment of distraction in Mason’s awareness threatened to let that sharp blade sunder the Maledite’s flesh. “Will we wait until you’re injured before you teach me the lesson in this?”

Geralt simply watched for a while longer. There were no signs that he feared the injury that would come from Mason’s straining muscles, though the likelihood grew rapidly as Mason began shining with a coat of sweat.

Finally, Geralt explained, “A sword is one of the clearest forms of power. The way you wield it expresses much. A cowardly man is often quick to draw his blade, while a brave man is often the last to arm himself. Either way, it is important when you wield power that you recognize the difference between your personal strength and that which you wield. If your strength wears out, the sword will still fall. You must be careful not to wield power that you lack the strength to put away or protect.”

With the last dwindling bit of strength in Mason’s arms, he pulled the sword aside and let it fall to the ground. He was panting as electricity shot up and down his aching arms. “What exactly are you warning me about, Geralt?”

The Maledite moved faster than lightning then, and Mason sprawled backwards on the ground as Geralt took the heavy blade and braced it toward the small human. “If you allow your strength to wear down, those who waited cunningly for their opportunity will strike to seize your power. I will not make you practice it, but what would happen if you begun to swing that sword with your eyes closed? How likely would you be to harm me, or yourself, given enough time?”

Mason’s eyes were still wide as he stared down the edge of the sword, and he was reminded again how glad he was to have Geralt on his side. “Someone would end up hurt, it would only be inevitable,” he answered.

“The fault of my King…” Geralt spoke slowly, each word sitting on his tongue like acid, “Was that he existed in a world with powers grander than either of us can comprehend. He died in an instant without any chance to defend himself.” His already pale eyes seemed to grow scales then, clouding so heavily Mason wanted to stand and shake him. “But no, that was his death. His fault was in that he wielded a sword so large that when he swung it, the room fell around him. He was a giant who played games among ants, but absolute power is stifling. A king continues to rule when his subjects require him to do so. Some forms of power must be given, and cannot be taken.”

The sword’s tip rested against the ground next to Mason, and he pushed himself back to his feet to move closer to Geralt. “This,” he gestured once more to the structure Geralt had built, “Is power given?”

The Maledite knelt with a fluid gesture. His figure was still imposing, even at a reduced height, but Mason could see the vulnerability he offered.

“I’m not sure I understand everything you’re trying to explain to me. Or why you’re even willing to do so. Have I… done something? Something worth your help? Or is it just that you are bound to me, and I haven’t abused that power?”

Geralt continued to kneel, but he shook his head. “You’ve treated with each person you’ve come across as if they have something worth respecting. You begrudge nobody their mistrust of you. You demand nothing of anyone. You desire power, but do not abuse the power you have. I will not call you wise, and you are far from a great leader. Much of your power is wielded irresponsibly, and even now death is sure to befall the people you try hard to aid. But I see in you potential, and I am not a King, but a Kingmaker. If I can earn you that place, I can continue my duty.”

Mason teetered dangerously between a certain giddiness over the ceremonial tone of Geralt’s voice, and his modern sense of irreverence toward formal displays like this. In the end, he grabbed Geralt by the arm and pulled, and the Maledite stood awkwardly. “Stop, stop that. You respect me because I don’t abuse power, right? Well then let me not abuse your respect, either. You have no duty here. I don’t want to be your King. If you know all of this about power- the right and wrong ways to use it, then I want your advice. But why make yourself a servant when we can just work side by side instead?”

The kingmaker surprised him then. He stuck a hand out between them, and when it was clear he wasn’t about to strike Mason, Mason clasped it and shook it. Good, Mason thought, this is better. Then he said, “Now I’m extremely grateful that we can work together, but you have a lot of things to explain. This place? Mowry? Please?”

The next surprise was that Geralt seemed to be smiling as he turned to Mowry and began to explain more thoroughly, “You consumed my soul whole and fresh. If I cannot be considered alive, then I am likely as close to it as possible outside of my original body. But Mowry’s soul is in many ways fragmented. Large pieces of his original self had decayed from his bones, and are now missing. Despite his best appearances, it is hard to even guess at who his true self may be, and when he was granted control of your body, the temptation to take your power grew too great. We are both very lucky Torysen is perceptive, and defended herself against him quickly.”

“So is he dangerous? He hasn’t moved since I’ve been in here, and he never acted up before.”

Geralt looked over the bound man. “I honestly do not know. Maledite do study the Soul Arts, but I am no expert in these matters.”

“You’re not the first to suggest I need one of those.”

“No, Soul Arts are powerful skills, and with that staff of yours, greater comprehension of them could open the door to some very commendable strengths. As well as the ability to control several of your weaknesses that have been forming as of late.”

“Like my Demon self, and Mowrytal.”

“Exactly. And you wish to know why I have built this place? Its aesthetics I will admit are of my own design, I took several images of places of power I had seen and…”

“You made it look awesome,” Mason suggested.

Geralt almost looked pleased. “Its of a style that I took joy in designing. Its purpose is manifold. The soul works much like the mind. The more elaborate the construct of an image, the more reliable its power. I have much work still to do, but as your power grows, I will be able to form rooms to harness and refine new abilities.’

“I think I understand. Rather than trying to work with vague ideas of what’s happening inside of me, we can see the abilities as something tangible, and work with them directly.” A thought crossed Mason’s mind and he asked, “What about the status and challenges and skills? Can we find out more about those through this place?”

“Possibly. But let us not speak of things too far ahead. The Trials are not a power that either of us should dare to contend with. I will form a room, though, that should improve your ability to Analyze those things naturally. I have seen the computers of your world, and should be able to simulate one here.”

Mason’s eyes grew wide, “Are you serious? That would be extremely cool. I can’t believe how much I miss computers. There were those strange terminals in the city but I needed Leornal to work with that, and I can still barely operate those weird crystal balls the Marran’s use.”

“As I said. There is much work to do. Soulscaping is not an easy task, even if The Trials have given me a skill for my efforts.”

That caught Mason’s attention, “A skill? You’re still gaining skills even in this place? What does that- I can’t even begin to guess what that means.”

“Neither can I.”

Setting that additional mystery aside, Mason crossed over to stand in front of Mowry, and knelt before him. “Mowry protected me at first, even from you, Geralt. Is this the best we can treat him, bound to a pole in a dungeon?”

“What else would you recommend? Perhaps a part of him is still loyal to you, but other fragments of him would gladly take over. If not for Torysen’s quick response and my presence here, you may not still hold onto your sense of self.”

Mason turned back to face Geralt, “You can create areas in here that focus on certain abilities or parts of my soul, right? What about an area which bound Mowry, but still let him move comfortably? If he’s still himself, maybe he can still help. I’ll just have to… be more judicious about what freedoms I give him, right?”

“King Arlon would have struck him down without question,” Geralt stated. “But you are not a Maledite. It would take some effort, but I believe I can create a space where he can still be of use to us, but restrained. Comfortably.” He added that last bit grudgingly.

“I think it’ll be worth the effort then. Is there anything you need from me to do it?”

Geralt shook his head, “As Mowry was fond of admonishing you, there is only so much time you should spend in this place until your strength grows. You should return to assure Torysen that her brother is subdued and safe. And remember, wield your power carefully.”

~~

Geralt’s last words stuck with Mason. Wield your power carefully. It was a strange bit of advice to receive as someone who hadn’t asked for the majority of the power he held, but in reality it was his indifference that made it all the more essential that someone advise him properly. He had, after all, been making some very strong statements lately, and hadn’t they been carried through to some extent?

He could only hope that they were turning out well. What would happen when the Marrans move in, the seals fall, and this hybrid people moves to find a new order? His thoughts lingered on how much of the planning around those steps he had been involved in. Bazy often let him speak for her, and he undoubtedly spoke for enigma of the human threat. It was a sword heavier than he might have realized. But he had to find the strength to hold it up.

As far as he knew, something had gone wrong with Mowrytal from all the soul manipulation. Something bad enough to genuinely scare Torysen. Mason’s eyes snapped open and he looked at his hands. For now, they were the ordinary, pale human skin he was born with. Though his mana sight still wasn’t at the level of a Marran, he could tell, too, that the flow of his mana was his own. For at least that moment, he was himself.

Demon could change that. Mason whipped the staff off his back and held it in front of him, probing it with Focus, Mana Sight, Analyze and the force of his own mana. He could feel those strange runes within it that empowered the spells, and knew that his mana transformed and changed as it passed through the length of the staff. None of that explained to him where Demon came from, or what the staff was really capable of. If he at least knew where it was from, who made it, and what it was made for, he could begin to unravel the mystery, but at the moment all he had was the staff itself and his own experiences.

A part of him considered destroying the staff, if that were even possible. It had helped him get to this point, but it could be a liability in the long run. But there was no telling what was coming up in The Trials, and to date he was rarely ever the fastest, strongest, or most skilled person in a room. What he was was resilience and versatility. And if he could control those spells- life drain, stamina drain, mana vampirism and ultimately soul steal- what fight couldn’t he win given enough time?

His memories of being Demon were always vague. It still felt like him, but his actions were far more aggressive and reckless. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine a scenario where he couldn’t tell friend from foe, but that was something he absolutely couldn’t let happen. Demon was his sword, and Mason needed to develop the strength to wield it tirelessly, without losing control.

Raw red lines covered his body, and even his clothing was mangled from the stone vines Torysen had used to restrain him when he loosed control to Mowry and Geralt. There were so many ways he could lose his grip on things, ways that he could allow the small pocket of order he’d found to fall to ruin.

He needed to clean his wounds and rest, but after that, he had to talk with Faynel and Leornal about everything that had happened. If they would agree to be his first line of defense against himself, he’d be gratified. Geralt could do some good from within but he still was unsure what he thought about that man’s intentions. Sure, he’d demonstrated his loyalty and willingness to work with Mason but so had Mowry, once upon a time.