Prologue

Night of the Fracturing

Their blades collided in a ferocious waltz, clanging in timed harmony with the flaring of their rage. Not more than a second seemed to pass without a spark illuminating the desolate landscape, once so lively and colorful. Consumed now only by the grey of ash and stark crimson of blood.

Of the innocent and guilty. Of the children and elderly. Blood so fresh that it clung to their feet; so thick and stiff it was as if the dead were trying to drag them down to hell itself as payment for their transgressions. Even so, as their world burned around them, as their lovers and families faded away to rot and misfortune, they fought on.

Effortlessly, she spun, bounded, and leaped off of the dilapidated, soot-covered fixture of a once extravagant home in an attempt to dart towards thicker shadows; flawlessly he glided to intercept her path, holding on to what little time he had left here with her. By all accounts, he had loved her as well as he could and was none too keen to let their time together end before was necessary.

Through her teeming rage, she too was able to feel the remnants of much happier times between them, flicking through her memories with each collision. Clinging to relentless love and compassion, they fought on.

Night would soon begin to give way to a faint lavender luminescence creeping over the horizon, marking the end he had loathingly fled for far too long. There was little doubt in his eyes that she would mark him irredeemable after they parted this last time as he could feel murderous intent radiating from her core.

The young woman held her pristine curved blade outwards, reflecting the light of a new day down its length, and lunged forth with all of her might towards his hooded visage with an assuming smile tugging at her muck covered cheeks, only to be met by an empty pocket of space and insidious laughter retreating on the wind. As most madmen do, he believed he had done what was best; rationalizing with himself that hope would do her no good in the world to come.

Her eyes skittered frantically from side to side, encompassing all the carnage and emptiness they had created in their disastrous dance. She was engulfed in a fury unakin to any flame or beast ever witnessed in all of The Territories.

Her lips tore and wept torrents of crimson as she roared in anguish, her voice shattered into a sobering whimper, resounding in contrast to the weighted silence.

Though even after having been so close to finally ending her torment, even after he had escaped with her blade inches away from his throat, even now she offered him no victory; her knees would not buckle. Instead, she shook with a chilling violence as hungering flames edged nearer.

They’d all trusted Lord White so blindly, allowed him to take charge, take part in every last vestige of life on Noctra, and he betrayed them. He massacred every last Ta’ and she knew the Nomads were next, she knew her people would join the dead before long. All she could think to do was scream as ash fell around her. Ash was all that remained of her dearest friends.

All she had left was her daughter. All that she had left was Amberosin.

Chapter One

Noctra. She is the mother and master to all who set foot upon her varied soils, no matter their station or heritage, it is she who will decide the outcome of their endeavors. A loving beast, to be sure, a fickle goddess in her own regards, her lands are not without their dangers.

Noctra’s southernmost region is, sensibly, home to the largest port-city, Blancana. There are few natural barriers or dangers here, though the Wilder’s are as thick as ever to the east, the inhabitants have developed most of the available territory to appease the hundred of Lords and Ladies residing within the city's large walls. Huge, blindingly white buildings are erected around the bustling city as an homage to their leader, Councilor White; a man who has been around since the before founding of Blancana and who is said to have been invaluable to the creation of Noctra’s civilizations.

Held in high regard as the trade hub and economic boon of Noctra, it is also home to the largest economic division of all her children. Outside of Lord White’s estate there are thousands of poor, starving citizens surviving off the scrapes of nobility. No matter their leaders past endeavors, I believe this to be a sign of how truly vile Councillor White is at heart. He is as untrustworthy as the thieves and vagrants that inhabit Blancana’s estates.

Historian Argonia Slib on Noctra.

A hooded figure walked alone down the remnants of Blancana’s slums, layered cloaks of grey causing him to look like nothing more than a shadow from afar. Bandaged from head to toe without space even for eye holes, he was sure to be an ominous sight to any looking from the towers above him.

In case any lookouts had been particularly blessed with healthy vision, the figure made sure to hide his blades beneath his cloak, revealing only his arms as he walked; smooth nubs where each hand should be and thick metal bracelets, obviously made from chains. He didn’t want them to be too prepared for his arrival. All they needed to see was a specter coming from the wreckage of a once-great world.

The bandaged man wanted them all to fear before they felt the wrath of his blades or strength of his will. Too long had they lived in peace, benefiting off of the eradication of his people, comfortable in their grand, new world.

A world he continued to find increasingly empty. All around him silence shuddered with the winds of Noctra as they shook the gargantuan Wilders in an age-old dance. Aside from small beasts lurking nearby, and a young woman who crept behind him at the Wilder’s edge, there was no one.

Just outside the massive white walls that cut Blancana off from the Wilders and the rest of Noctra, he stopped to survey the area. According to the leather-bound book in his worn pouch, the slums used to be lively and full; dilapidated without a doubt, but nowhere near as gutted as the street he stood in. An emptiness that had become familiar to him since he had left the Northern mines months before and traveled the length of Noctra. Just as with every city and settlement he had passed on his journey, nothing more than fragmented and frozen remnants of their former glory, there was no one near the Wilders.

No one on the outer side of the wall.

The Grand Councilor had been busy molding the world to his image for the past ten years and that image left no room for the undesirable.

Admittedly, the wrapped man himself would’ve much preferred the coverage of growth and shade in the unending forests to open streets held within those ominous confines, though he had become increasingly cozy with discomfort. He found ways around it, ways to use it to his advantage.

The large open streets constructed of recently placed marble, surrounded by glaring granite buildings adorned in gold and crystal terrified him undoubtedly; but it made using his Ta’ Sevin, Venerable Sight, much easier. Even though he was born with the sight, there were some times it was nearly impossible to discern one essence from another. Noctra was home to so many.

Out in the Wilders, he could get lost in an entirely different world. In the city, however, his path could not be more concise and clear.

Knowing the sapphire glow from beneath the bandages may reach far in the encroaching darkness, the man pulled his hood lower and saw the White’s Estate, the capital of Blancana, as it truly was. As Noctra intended. His right eye could see the glow from his left for a moment before everything shifted. He was unable to reign in his heart as it bucked wildly at the sight of essence around him. No matter how many times the bandaged man saw it, he was never prepared for the sheer brilliance of it all.

Spewing from immaculate potted plants and waning weeds all the same, from the homes of nobles and the dung of their lowest subjects, essence floated in a humbling display. He could even see it seeping from solid stone, as if life from long ago still lingered, whispering its will.

Emerald danced from over the border wall, cascading onto the streets below and swathing them in a dull green mist. Sapphire ambled aimlessly from the ground, entwined with an energetic salmon that swirled around the blues and shot skyward. None ever faded, only mixed. Only created.

The bandaged man had to shake his head and breathe deeply before he could focus. See past the beauty and find the reds. Ruby, crimson, scarlet. Signs of sentient life. If one could call a servant of Lord White sentient. Only brainwashed or afflicted puppets could support such a cowardly, bloodied empire.

There weren’t many towers, six total, five Watchers each that he could see actively patrolling, and of those few, he couldn’t see any that had faint lines running from their heads which told him they had no comms. There was no point in suppressing his wild smile. This sector was nearly empty aside from the scattered personnel and drunken residents that littered the streets outside nearly any establishment offering ale. He had to assume equipment was dismal and organization weak. The guard evidently didn’t expect many visitors from the southern entrance, it being so close to the thicket of Wilder’s and all.

Too easy.

After some time of standing out in the open surveying this bizarre and primitive form of wilderness, he was finally spotted. A single swirling mass of red essence had begun darting towards a set of stairs that led down, and eventually into, the wall; presumably to the nearest guardhouse, which meant it was time to move.

Those above didn’t seem to be well equipped which was entirely unsurprising. He doubted anyone could make a shot at him from so far above, whether with arrows or essence. A blessing that did not go uncounted as he reached the threshold of the gateless border and relinquished his sight, fading once more into darkness.

Careful to keep his cloak pulled tight enough to hide the myriad of blue, yellow, and green strewn across his many bandages, the man cast a slight illusion with his essence, making it seem as if shadows swirled beneath his clothing and his feet did not touch the ground. In part to protect his identity, should anyone surprise him, though mostly because he knew it would tighten the throats of any guards unfortunate enough to come upon him.

Unlikely any would, not before he wanted them to anyway, but it never hurt to be prepared.

His prey would see the shadow of death come upon them before being welcomed into soundless eternity and that pleased him more than he cared to admit. He’d never much relished in violence; before, at least. Something had awoken in him since Lord White had stolen his peaceful life.

Something sinister.

Once Solas had completely fallen and given way to Luna’s cooling light, he stepped into the borders of Blancana’s walls completely, mingling with shadows to hide his movements.

As expected the White’s guard had been alerted to a stranger coming from the WIlder entrance by a Watcher in the tower. They’d come fast and he had only made it past the first street when two of their members appeared from the nearest station, weapons drawn.

The bandaged man stayed low, silent, and still as a corpse when they walked by his position, pressed against the wall of the shop closest to him. They’d responded quicker than he had anticipated, but that was no problem. Those above would still be watching, searching for the phantom stranger they’d seen moments ago.

Any survivors' accounts would spread terror for him. He needed this to reach the heights of Blancana. Straight to Lord White and his Nu’ council.

Each of the passing guards wore a set of light armor as blindingly white as the walls of the indulgent shops, and homes, which grew more common further north. Adorned with long pristine capes bordered in gold the metal framework seemed more extravagant than efficient.

Their faces remained unencumbered by masks which told the hooded man they were not of very high rank in The White’s army.

Still, they could be used to send a message.

On the left was a shorter, slender man with gray sprinkled in his massive beard and long, unkempt hair. Obviously wielding years of experience and fading muscle beneath his shiny armor. His skin seemed aged and excessively pale for any Noctran.

On the right stood a stout woman with a shaved head and ageless features, her cheeks burning red with the warmth of ale on her caramel skin. Tattoos aglow with essence lined her skull.

Both held long, curved blades in their hands, ready to fight a ghastly nightmare from the Wilders or, more likely, terrorize a weary traveler. The sun-soaked woman chuckled as they passed by, nudging the paler elder man with drunken gusto. Her unused scabbard swung violently against a nearby bin, making the older man jump and blush. Somehow it made him look older.

“I can’t believe they interrupted our cog…. Cocksuggin’ break, for this!”

Her companion grunted in response, seemingly agreeable, though a stern lip indicated he was more than a bit annoyed with how loudly the woman was expressing her qualms. Nonetheless, she carried on.

“Loog..even if this is an old coo- agh, coot or drunken bastard, I am letting off some steam tonight”, her voice rose gradually as she spoke, swinging her blade side to side erratically, to the man’s obvious discomfort.

Her slurs made the statement more than a touch ironic.

“You may want to calm yourself a little there Jen, could be the last of the Nomad waiting for us. Waiting for their revenge. We don’ did a good number on em’ these past few years, damn square is about filled with those rotten suckers. Pa’ always knew they were freeloaders, but never doubted how vicious they were. Could be we are in for some trouble now.” The man slowed and his partner followed.

They stayed quiet for a moment, stopping to turn and look at one another; paused for three heartbeats, and burst into hideous laughter.

“Or maybe-” she was nearly yelling now, “one of those ‘Venerable’ Ta’-urds come back to haunt us, huh? Boys up top said it was like a spectre. Ooh. ''

The stout, obnoxious woman couldn’t help from snorting at herself. The older man chuckled softly and shook his head as he started to walk again.

Such wit and charm between the two, the bandaged man had nearly considered letting them make their way home with a simple message on their tongues. They’d obviously been reveling in prospects of another easy night, which made what he had to do that much simpler. That much more gruesome.

Just as necessary.

There would be no fantastic battle to be had. Under a mystifying aqua light from above, Blancana would bear witness to an astounding massacre. He would not allow his own dread or kind heart to stay his cold, vengeful intent.

He’d heard enough sneaking alongside them within the shop’s gracious shadows to determine they’d be suitable to deliver his message. To announce his arrival. They’d taken to calling him The Silent One as of late and he wanted everyone to know he had finally arrived.

As they neared the towers and fewer shadows were available due to the canopy of torchlights overhead, he rose and began walking towards the pair with an even, relaxed stride. No sound followed his footfalls. The fact that the lights above were created using techniques developed by his own people did not escape him, it gave him a tainted sense of familiarity.

He allowed his cape to slowly fall open in waves of shade, revealing the intricate, colorful design of a Dreadbeast’s outer hide on the inner fabric. A vibrant canvas of orange and blue lines spotted with purple and green. Marks of an alpha mother.

Made only more intense by the bright lights, his visage was entirely clear to those on the towers above who could do nothing to warn their comrades below but shout over fierce winds.

“Behind-”

“Gods’ damned spectre right… run-”

Mother Noctra had blessed him with her support in those roaring gusts.

The wailing of the Watcher’s traveled down a line of scouts above, down the myriad of stairs about the towers, which eventually elicited an uproar of stomping feet as others began charging down the way. Coming from the station Jen and the older man had left, no doubt. Expedient response but he knew it would not matter. They were ill-prepared for his wrath.

Even with his venerable sight deactivated the bandaged man could tell there were no essence adept casters around. Some might be able to make a pretty flare or sting a little, but they were poorly outmatched. Their glows were faint as they approached from behind.

No masked champions or captains in sight.

The two inebriated guards only laughed and jeered in their peers' direction, assuming some large prank afoot no doubt.

Jen exploded into a scarlet red fervor when the older man dropped his trousers to match the pale light of the Mother Moon above.

“Oi, turn that wretched ole moon around Desril!” A younger guard approaching with the oncoming group scarcely broke through the fierce winds billowing about. Chuckling despite a trembling hand on the hilt of his blade.

They were unconditioned, unalert, prey and he was a starved hunter ready to pounce. It would be quite the spectacle for the onlookers above which gave him a sick pleasure, one he struggled to choke down in silence, restraining a cry of primal rage he was sure would fade to laughter and tears before long.

Mother would never have wished for this.

He’d been taught to live in peace and compassion but now was no longer the time for such things. It tormented him greatly, but not near so much as the thought of the White running free. Unhindered by his numerous sins.

The moment they turned to face him the two guards shared in but a fraction of the horror and suffering he had endured at the hands of Grand Councilor White.

That he endured with every fleeting breath.

All for progress.

Silent One levitated atop the ground summoning a fierce gale of his own.

His spread cape painted sheer terror across the hairy older man’s face, obviously aware of the pattern and implications it brought. Perhaps he’d heard rumors of the vengeful spirit making its way across the Wilder’s Edge on a guard killing spree, likely he could just know a thing or two about dreadbeast. The stout, ageless Jen looked utterly confused.

A sweat broke out atop her smooth scalp at seeing Dresil freeze for a moment.

“Uh.. this the guy-” she was cut off by her companion who gathered enough wits to shout frantically in her ear as he fumbled with his belt buckle.

“Fucking ready your sword nitwit that’s a real-”

Gasps rang out in a pathetic cry nearly as loud as Jen’s shout when the bandaged man seemed to levitate over with immaculate speed and steal the breath from Desril’s very lungs; without raising an arm. No prints or tracks followed behind him. The metal framework bracelets about his wrist shifted loudly, piecing apart and coming back together as two false hands. He watched the fear build in Dresil’s eyes before slowly tightening the grip of his will around the old man’s throat.

His gasps turned to a series of gargles and the bandaged man barely stifled tears. Blind rage, vile joy, and incessant sorrow all begging for release.

Peace to you.

A jarring crack ended the guard, silencing the old man's wheezing strains and gurgles for good. Silent One slowly turned the dead man’s body towards Jen, still without moving his arms. Rotating his framework hands in a bizarre and unnatural way that stirred up his cloak, making it thrash around more violently as the seconds passed. The bandaged man matched Dresil’s lifeless eyes to the stout woman, let her see what fate had in store for her and let it fall with a resounding thump.

She could not see his pity or sorrow and for that he was grateful. The woman only saw his supernatural fury.

Jen had sobered enough to obtain some form of understanding, for instinctual terror had finally crept upon her face. Terror that lodged pain in Silent One’s once kind heart and fed his ravenous vengeance all the same as he turned to face the shaken woman.

Without a word, her sword clattered to the ground and Jen ran towards the crowd of her armored peers. Smart choice, he had to admit, but it was too late. A string of sickening gurgles escaped her once vivacious frame mere feet from her comrades with Silent One just behind her, arms extended to his sides while she choked on pure essence. Her own essence.

All who saw knew it, for her neck was aglow. Bulging out further than her armor, veins pressing against shining skin. Blood crept out of her pores, but her caramel skin held.

No one moved.

The woman’s face turned purple before bulging eyes popped in a sickening gush of gore and she was led into unending darkness. It was just as barbarous and gruesome as it was necessary, sending an ill feeling into his guts.

Peace to you. Please.

All those approaching stopped as her body fell face down in a rigid farewell. Swords were drawn but still or trembling. None were shouting above anymore. There was absolute silence.

I’m sorry.

Silent One waited for the wind to pick up once more.

Twelve stood before him, his cloak spread far enough to appear unnatural and phantomlike, consuming the world behind him and exposing his full visage in a swirling frame; a sight that kept all before him motionless. He was sure a few had even stopped breathing.

It was an intoxicating feeling to hold such power over them but he knew he could not waste time with such tainted pleasures. Quickly he began casting down his legs, storing essence at his ankles. No glow revealing his planned cast. Nothing to warn them. A light clattering of metal could be heard as Noctra paused her rapid breathing.

There is no death without purpose.

Willing copious amounts of essence out of his feet he cast a command to bring all the guards to their knees with no words or sign of any sort. Heavy armors forced grunts and pained sounds as they slammed to the ground, dragging their wearers with them. The two nearest him, also a pair of one man and one woman, dropped their weapons as their arms bent backward.

He could see many bled from the impact of their own armor alone but none suffered such severe wounds as those two, though a gruff, scratchy scream from one of the soldiers near the back told the others of something being broken.

No life without pain.

All the guards before him held the glow of essence in their hands, bright white and yellow lights running up their forearms though none moved to cast. Not even to heal themselves. Silent One wondered if they could. A few wore pained expressions of what he read as guilt.

Veterans of The Fracturing, no doubt.

These veterans held the fiercest flames behind their eyes as pain began to give way to fear, which led to anger . Each soldier held a small amount of burning hate towards him but none looked as primal as those who he assumed had partaken in the “war”.

Another slight convenience for his conscience.

If he let them go now, they would surely attack, so he was required to act. Fear birthed their hate and fear made all creatures rabid if it was strong enough.

He was a ghost to them, a nightmare come for unholy vengeance; reminder of their greatest sins. Things they would not speak to their children about nor acknowledge without a disturbing sense of pride. The silent killer had seen their work first hand as a child and would not settle for anything less than even.

Rage had to have been scathing their insides as the moments passed.

A maddening grin could be seen as the edges of his bandages wrinkled, watching as they all struggled on their knees, cursing him and all Ta’ who’d ever walked and died before him.

They would die as his father had, full of terror and rage.

The display was extremely tiring. Manipulating so much essence at once was considered dangerous, nearly impossible, for one of his skillset; though he could not help taking a moment to let them realize their helplessness in resisting fate. Feigning enjoyment was none the easier, for every invisible movement he made, each casting of essence, Silent One’s heart ached.

He knew most of the guards before him were not involved in his misery, that their leader was truly to blame; he also knew none of that mattered. They’d followed his orders and reaped the benefits. Silent One cared about one thing only.

The message.

The beginning of vengeance for Noctra and her children.

All that was left of the 3,000 years of peace the territories had known before The White’s betrayal was a worn trail, quickly being pulled into the Wilders.

Abandoned homes, ruins by in large, were surrounded still by mounds of ash and bone in the Ta’ region.

Matrius was all but crystalline rubble, the great mothers and daughters, Grand Matria herself, were lost. No longer casting a watchful gaze over all of Noctra.

All that remained was a shining hill of debris and scorched lands.

He dared not think on how the battle-hungry Trallengard fared. Their last-minute mutiny had surely infuriated the White enough to enact some form of retribution.

Bring them justice.

His rageful prayer resounded within. He prayed not to the Creator high above, he no longer believed in such a fool, such a beast who stood by watching their most loyal children massacred. The bandaged man prayed to Noctra and her legends, her shrines, her restorative powers.

As always, he prayed to the mighty Dreadbeast who saved his life many years ago. Whose hide he wore upon his head and shoulders.

He clenched his framework hands, stopping their rapid revolutions, and watched as all twelve bodies before him convulsed and contracted as their own essence solidified within them, shattering everything inside until they were nothing but pots of flesh holding crimson gore.

One man with dark red and brown skin had locked eyes with Silent One until all life was choked from them. In them he’d seen pure hatred. Hatred that faded with all else.

Once the final guard had stopped wheezing and their eyes fell bleak, he drug all the lifeless to the pinnacle of the lights above. Ensuring to stay afloat and keep his cloak flowing erratically with frenzied essence, the bandaged man stood tall and held one hand to the corpses. The other high above his head, fingers and wrists spinning once more.

A shining stream of blood, most still viciously warm, was siphoned from the dead with his will and sent flying into the air. He became the focal point of a grim fountain that seemed to breach the clouds for more than a few breathless moments.

He knew the blood flowed through his essence and not his own body, but that scarcely staved off the feeling of disgust as the smell of iron rode on Noctra’s rapid gust and gasps of chilling air. It stained his nostrils and burned in his lungs.

Those above were caught in the red rainfall, being slathered in gore, stinking and fresh. Some wailed as if cursed with an awful omen, though the more perceptive Watcher’s had already started running.

They must partake.

Silent One’s spinning framework palms began sparking and crackling. As they began to shine brighter and stronger he extended the fingers on his raised hand and shot forth swaths of electricity that cracked and roared horrendously loud within the city walls, using the blood as a pathway to the sky above; frying the soaked Watchers as it passed. The ground beneath him and the bodies at his feet were scorched.

Torches of essence and flame began flickering on in nearby homes. He waited but a moment before he theatrically floated around the corner without a speck of dirt or blood on his person.

Silent One willed essence to pull Noctra’s loving embrace over his victims' bodies. He would not deny them proper burial as they had his own; he was better than that.

Once around the corner of the nearest street he let himself fall to the ground from his invisible pedestal. Gasping as sweat pooled beneath his colorful bandages, the specter began limping away; only partly as a guise. He would take no chances here, Blancana was the closest thing Grand Councilor White had to a heart.

Hard to imagine.

Silent One figured if anything beat in his chest, it would be cold and metallic.

He could not help but think about the young woman he’d seen in the woods as he trudged onwards into the unfamiliar streets before him. She’d been invisible to his sight. Silent One only became aware of her presence because he heard her, just barely, above the calm wind of midday. Nearly his age, only a year or so shy, she was small and capable of hiding fairly well in the undergrowth of the Wilders. Silent One couldn’t place why until he’d spotted her salving a scar, sharp-tipped mountains flipped upside down to resemble ‘W’, like so many others on bodies hanging all throughout Noctra.

He felt his pain mirroring her own.

Scores of guards, soldiers, captains, and civilians had begun to pour down the streets as he staggered and swayed into the night. Hollers and soul-wrenching wails followed behind him as a new reality dawned on the citizens of Blancana. Those who knew the mounds and their meaning would understand. They would spread the word to neighbors and lovers. No one would question the reasoning.

His hood drawn tight, Silent One disappeared. Left them to face their sorrows. To sow his panic. They must witness.