Discordant Note | The Beginning After the End SI-Chapter 300 - 298: Gladius et Corona

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Arthur Leywin

Blackbend City was bustling with activity as I stood over a war table. I narrowed my eyes as I blotted out the excess noise.

"The troops at Etistin are braced for a potential sweep from the north," Senior Captain Trodius Flamesworth said, his expression cool and collected as he arranged pieces on the war board. "Lance Zero is ready for any potential enemy assault from the north, along with a small fraction of our armies."

The dark-haired noble moved the cue to indicate the western opening of the Sehz Canal at the far reaches of the continent, where both Darv and Sapin met the sea. "The latest reports from the furthest reaches of the river claim that small skirmishes between Alacryan forces and our own men have been common, but a concerted push has not yet been made. Lances Thunderlord and Ohmwrecker both stand opposed to the former Lance Balrog, ready for any potential incursions, but the Alacryans and dwarves seem content to hold their ground for a time and build on our nerves."

I swept my eyes across the board, noting the central city of Carn. I knew from reports that Scythe Seris Vritra and Spellsong both were camped on the far banks, barely a stone's throw from the city. If they captured it, they'd sever the river supply lines in two, while also allowing their troops to travel eastward along the river to reinforce the battle a few miles south of here.

At the same time, it would be more difficult to reinforce Carn's defenders until a decisive battle was won elsewhere along the river. It was a demented house of cards, and I could see the setup Seris had laid with her three points of tension along the board. Dicathen losing a single battle could trigger a domino effect as Alacryan forces spread along the river, reinforcing other fronts in flanking maneuvers that would cut off their life's blood.

On the inverse, however, a monumental Dicathian victory at any point could also spell the doom of their forward push for the exact same reasons. Seris was playing a dangerous game, especially after what had happened with Spellsong in the castle.

"Your Majesty," Lord Flamesworth said, drawing my attention away from my inner musings, "I have summarized the current state of the southern front to the other lords who haven't been as involved in the war effort. Is there anything you might wish to add?"

I swept my gaze across the gathered nobles, ignoring the lingering wraith of King Grey among them. Flamesworth, Dreyl, Bladeheart, Ravenpor, Redner, Graves, and one more of note.

Wykes.

The small faction of corrupt nobles that still maintained a foothold of power despite my ascension to the throne was dwindling every day. With every battle I won, adept political play, and exercise of my position of Commander, they were slowly stripped of any sort of strength they once possessed.

Otis Vayhur Wykes, head of the Wykes family and all-around difficult man, stood at their head. He only kept his head because of his son's status as my Lance, but that wasn't enough to quell his ambitions.

The man lounged across from me with a gathering of his noble allies. Dreyl, Ravenpor, and a few other family heads stood in subtle alliance with him. When there were nearly twenty men in the room on my side, however, it made these cretins look remarkably pathetic.

Otis kept his long, bleached blonde hair in a ponytail. With his hair pulled away from his face, it emphasized the horrendous vertical scar right beside his left eye. His eyes were arrogant and calculating as he stared at me, but the subtlest of flexes of my mana compelled him to look down.

I could almost sense his humiliation from such a simple action. I could almost see the stamp of arrogance and disdain he'd branded into his son Lucas' soul. Otis didn't care that I'd killed his son. He cared that I, a commoner, defied the Wykes family, as he said under his breath and behind closed doors.

I was certain he was a traitor to Dicathen, leaking information to the Alacryans in small, careful ways. I just couldn't prove it yet. But the moment I could, he would be stripped of his title, maybe more. Until I could figure out a way to manage—or replace—Bairon, I needed to maintain a level of faux respect with this man, no matter how much I detested him.

I leaned over the table, casually conjuring a cue of condensed ice in my hand. The spell hissed and cracked as I pointed at places across the map of Sapin with it, drawing the attention of every noble present.

"This war could very well be decided by who wins a battle along the Sehz River first. There are three primary battle points, as Lord Flamesworth mentioned: along the opening of the Sehz Canal, where Thunderlord and Ohmwrecker work to keep the peace. The crux of Carn, where Phantasm is positioned. Finally, just south of us at the Triple Fork, where Silverthorn stands guard," I said truthfully, addressing the rest of the small gathering of nobles. With every battlefront I listed, I shifted my ice cue across the board. "Should any of these battles be lost, it could open up attacks from the Alacryans on our flanks. To prevent that end, I've ensured a plan of my own to see that we will be the first to achieve a victory."

Really, Tess had come up with this most recent idea, and I had worked to smooth out the kinks. I'd been too tired in the immediate aftermath of Rinia's revelations to do much of anything, but when I was weak, my childhood friend remained strong. She carried the burden that I struggled to in that moment, offering the reprieve I needed.

"Will you keep this plan to yourself?" Otis asked, his tone as respectful as he would allow. "It may benefit us to know what is in store so we may prepare accordingly."

I tilted my head as I observed the corrupt man. I'd been slowly cutting off his avenues to project his political power, which meant he was soon to make a push to get it back. But Tess and I had both prepared for that eventuality and the worst case, as well. His words were a rather blatant attempt to gather information.

"The success of this plan relies on its secrecy," I said honestly, ignoring the mutters of the nobles around me. "I cannot divulge its workings to anyone here, but when I am successful, I will send information for the rest of you to act upon and direct your troops. Any other questions?"

I didn't receive any, aside from a death glare from Otis. He opened his mouth to speak, but I sensed a wave of mana from my ring before he could do so.

I waved my hand, silencing the man with a casual gesture. With a simple movement, I withdrew a communication scroll from my dimension ring.

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I unfurled it, my eyes slowly tracing along the words listed. And despite the mantle on my shoulders—despite the strength of my mana core and the absolute power of my physique—I sagged slightly, the mantle I'd taken growing heavier as I absorbed the report.

My fists clenched imperceptibly along the parchment as I gritted my teeth, my thoughts running slow for a moment. Across from me, Otis' eyes gleamed.

"Is something wrong on the warfront, your Majesty?" he pushed, a hound that had just sensed weakness. "If there is anything—"

"Everything is proceeding as expected," I said with candor, methodically rolling the parchment back up. I graced Otis with a smile as I masked my unease. "I have somewhere I need to be. Lord Flamesworth, see that all plans made are reasonable and hold the best interest of Dicathen."

I pushed away from the table, ignoring the irritated eyes of Otis and Trodius' calculating gleam. Both were extremely dangerous men, but in very different ways. It was a constant balance, keeping them in check and playing their ambitions and greed off of each other.

The gathered nobles—both elf and man—murmured as I strode away, my boots echoing on the cold stone. I kept my head high, allowing all who saw me to perceive a regal and composed bearing. But as I marched through the manor of some nondescript noble in Blackbend City, my mood soured more and more toward sorrow and uncertainty.

Sylvie, I thought to my bond, currently busy using her healing vivum arts amidst the wounded camps, prepare to leave. I just got the word. Tess' plan has borne fruit.

My bond's attention focused on me immediately. "Arthur, are you sure about this? You know what's coming. Can you—"

I have to do it, Sylv, I cut her off. We both know why.

My draconic companion, who had been with me every step of the way since I'd come to this world, hesitated slightly. I could feel the compassion and worry across our mental tether as she did what she could to soothe my pains. "Okay. I'll be with you soon. I just need to finish healing this patient, and we'll go south."

I exited the manor, and then lifted into the sky. Slowly I flew toward the south, toward Blackbend's dark, granite walls, observing the rolling hills patterned with industry and workers. Those had once been rolling fields of wheat and barley, but the war had gorged upon them and spat out dark steel and angry smoke in its place.

Toren Daen had set all of this into motion. Everything that was about to happen—everything I knew about the truth of this war—it was all because of him. And still, I did not know who he was. I didn't know how he'd known me in my previous life, how he knew me in this one, or anything of the like.

Sylvie had told me about the talk she'd had with the infiltrator as he sought Cylrit's rescue. He'd spoken of knowing the future, or a future, other than this one. And even though Cylrit and Mawar had both escaped in Spellsong's ensuing clash with Taci Thyestes, Sylvie had gained a strange sort of insight into the man.

My fists clenched as I considered my bond's theory. The idea that someone could go back in time sounded absurd. That this strange phoenix hybrid might have already lived through the events of this world, only to discover a way to return to the past to try and right the wrongs of history didn't seem remotely possible. Even aether couldn't be so all-powerful—could it?

I stared into the far, far distance. Miles upon miles away, a veil of fog lilted over a forest, and a Scythe had just taken the bait. It didn't matter what Toren Daen was. It didn't matter if he was some sort of Returner who had known me in an erased timeline. It didn't matter if he'd fought Taci Thyestes and won. It didn't matter if the asura of Epheotus would escalate again.

None of that mattered right now, in this instant. Because Nico was there, about to take Tess captive. Nico, the friend I had betrayed and destroyed in my past life. Nico, one of the only people who had ever cared for my well-being.

And Nico, a Scythe reincarnated into this world for the sake of Anchoring the Legacy. Toren hadn't said as much when he'd fought me, but it was clear enough. I had been avoiding the truth for so long.

But I couldn't anymore.

I settled down on one of the outer walls, locking my hands behind my back. My shoulder-length auburn hair swayed in a slight, gentle autumn breeze. I could feel that wind aging me, stripping this body of any youth or vitality it might have had.

Not far away, King Grey's phantom watched the distant plains, too. No longer did he constantly haunt me. Not since I had looked him in the eyes and scolded him for his hubris.

The late afternoon sun was hidden by growling, angry storm clouds miles above. Those clouds—dark and turbulent, as they threatened to hurl raindrops down like bullets—reflected the inner sanctum of my mind. I felt those shadows creeping along my neck and throat, constricting like a noose.

"What do you think about it all?" I asked, still staring at those far-distant plains. If I sharpened my eyes with mana, I'd be able to trace the eastern fork of the Sehz down to the battlefield. I might be able to see the mist. I might be able to sense Tessia's mana signature. "Our past is coming back to us, bit by bit."

My azure eyes flicked to the side, tracing over the crack in my psyche that was King Grey. He was solid as a statue, his crown a terrible mirror of mine as his empty eyes watched the distant plains. "It's poetic. In every life, I become a King. And now, Nico has returned, too. He'll judge me, just like you do. He'll look at me, and he'll see a monster. And you would kill Nico, King Grey. For being an enemy."

I ground my teeth, looking back toward the horizon. "For being in the way."

The words felt good to say, then and there. I ignored the creeping acknowledgment that I was mad, that talking to a specter or a hallucination only proved my words. I was slowly, gradually losing my sanity as I spoke to things that didn't exist.

But it felt good. It felt good to talk to King Grey, to hurl his sins at his feet. Some part of me felt a vindictive pleasure at addressing this shadow of my past. I didn't need an answer. I just needed a target.

So when King Grey spoke in even, dead syllables, something in my heart stopped.

"You are not King Grey."

My head snapped to the phantom, quicker than a snapdragon wasp's stinger. I had heard the words uttered. I had seen the lips move. But somehow, I had not expected that I had descended this far into madness.

"I'm not, am I?" I whispered, feeling a boiling, rising anger. "You say I'm not?"

There were different kinds of anger. There was the blinding, furious kind that leaked from the heart like an erupting fire and surged along the veins. That was the kind that encouraged you to slip up. The engine of fury in one's veins made their movements unsure and staggered. The piston-firing anger of their heart cursed them to bestial flailing, rather than focused purity. It was quick, instinctive, reactive. It came from shock and fear disrupting the senses and stripping the man away, leaving only a beast.

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That was not the kind of anger I felt slowly unfurling across my body.

There was a cold, apathetic sort of anger, too. It was the anger of a surgeon's precise razor as it honed in on a single point, drawing steel across flesh. It was the kind that slowly inched up and along the bones and meat of the person, freezing them solid. It was calm, collected. But it was still fury. And as it passed, it snuffed out any heat and warmth and emotion that had been there before. It was the anger that took.

Neither was that the kind of anger that burned in every cell.

There was the kind that started in your stomach and worked its way up, like a builder laying foundations. It was slow, methodical, and structured. It was focused and powerful, anchored through suffering and turmoil. It did not burn out. It did not waver. It did not distract. It wasn't an eruption or a winter storm—simply a constant, searing heat that made one's heartbeat rise and their body shift in preparation to throw one thousand blows over a thousand years.

That was what possessed me, then. The strength of a thousand steam engines with enough fuel to go for centuries more, hurling their vengeance into the sky in thick, black smoke.

"The audacity of you," I snarled, narrowing my eyes at the specter. "The audacity of you to say such a thing. I can feel you in the back of my head, always trying to steal away more of what I've built. With every step I take, I see your shadow, and I nearly fall. Every time I think I have made progress, you are there, waiting to take it away."

"Yet you have continued on, Arthur-Grey," Grey said, utterly unfazed by my intent as it bore down on him. Why would he care about my anger? He was just a machine, fulfilling a task. A machine didn't care. His voice was monotone and devoid of inflection, as empty as his eyes. "Despite the gaping pit, you have kept yourself aimed at your enemies. You have leaned on those beside you. Would King Grey have approached the Princess of Elenoir for her assistance?"

I laughed. It was a mad, angry barking as it ripped its way out of my throat like wretched vomit. For so long I'd wanted to banish this specter. I'd wanted to be rid of his gaze. And now he stared at me, his eyes flickering with the barest mirage of purple, and he had laid his throat near my blade.

Dawn's Ballad phased into existence in my hands. My fingers did not sweat or tremble as I leveled the weapon at the crack in my perception. "You pretend to care. You speak as if you ever wanted to be better. You speak as if you, King Grey, wanted me to be better. But you forget what you did. You forget how many died because of you, what happened to Nico and Cecilia. And you judge me. You are a weapon, devoid of will. You have no say."

Then the shade did something I did not expect. With the purple blade of my sword between us, he stepped forward, his dark, empty eyes suddenly blooming with violet hues.

He raised hand, covered in a gauntlet of reflectionless steel, and pushed my weapon aside.

I barely had a moment to register this before King Grey was directly in front of me. His crown glinted as he stared up at me, his lips set in a static, stale line. But those eyes—so violently purple as they peered through my soul—they made something in the back of my mind tremble.

I could feel those eyes dissecting me. Tearing me down to my base layers, like an onion being peeled. Layer by layer by layer, they analyzed me with the cold efficiency of a cog turning in a great machine.

"A weak weapon does not judge its master. A weak weapon does not question the ends. It is a broken blade that cuts any and all," King Grey murmured, seeming to swell at the edges. Light rippled and bent around him, and some trick of my subconscious coated this phantom in a sheen of purple. "Do you think you are worthy of this weapon? Do you think that you are worthy of wielding it to strike at your enemies?"

I sneered, peering down at my kingly reflection as the wind blew. "Nobody is worthy of Grey. That's what you don't understand. It's not about who is worthy. It's about how best to direct the beast while you have him."

"And yet you have wielded him with precision," the phantom countered, unwavering. Stalwart. Pristine. "You have sent his logic and his analysis and his cold calculation against your enemies, and those who would hurt this world. You have wielded the unwieldable in the service of the greater good. Lines have been crossed, but they have been necessary, and you have fallen no further."

It tilted its head, the purple in its eyes expanding to cover every inch of the sclera. A chill slowly rose along my spine as I stared into vibrant pools of aether-purple. I felt something in the depths of my soul ring in resonance as I was drawn deeper and deeper into those pits.

Within them, I saw infinity. I saw men dying beneath a violet blade in a crimson tide. But it was not indiscriminate. The sword seemed to move on its own, judging each and every corpse it kissed with its impossible translucence. On and on it went, threading through endless battlefields.

And high above that battlefield, I sensed something vast and great and omnipresent, watching with something that could not be called an eye. It judged as much as the sword, both of them dancing in tandem to bestow death.

It was a crown, gleaming and white-gold against the bloody sunset. And that crown was wreathed in tapestries of aether of the past and present and future and everything there ever was.

The vision subsided, leaving me panting as I struggled for breath. Sweat beaded along my skin as I tore my eyes away from that purple expanse, trying to understand what had just happened.

My mana core pulsed painfully as I took a hesitant, fearful step back from the shade in front of me. That vision I'd seen—that omnipresent swirl of aether as it whirled around us both—something was wrong. I'd made some sort of miscalculation, or I'd misunderstood something. I could sense it like a fighter senses the chopping whistle of an executioner's axe. The sword in my hand—Dawn's Ballad, my ever-present companion—felt alien and stark. I had just seen it tearing its way through my enemies for a goal I couldn't understand. Now it was heavy and leaden between my sweat-slick palms as my anger all but evaporated in the face of my fear.

Thunder rumbled overhead.

When I spoke next, I tried to suppress the waver in my voice. I tried to keep my Adam's apple from bobbing in suppressed fear.

"What are you?"

King Grey—or whatever it was—presented the barest inflection of a smile. I wondered how many tons of force must have been necessary to even budge that static line of unchanging emotion to draw them upward, but it only managed a fraction of a smile.

The being turned around slowly, its steel armor absorbing the light. The light battle garb seemed to absorb every inch of the coming storm.

"So long have you judged, King Arthur," it said, striding away from me. Its boots made no audible sound, but I could hear their clanking steps. "And you have been judged in turn."

The phantom thing stared out over the distant plains, facing away from me and showing only its broad, plated back. "So long you have endured and assumed, holding to your prejudices and desires. But now, you ask. And I shall answer."

The being began to shift, its form rippling in vibrant splashes of purple that seemed to unfold from unreality itself. I felt my breath catch in my throat, warmth spreading across my body as I watched it settle into an unfamiliar form.

They started with long, flowing fire-red hair and martial robes, with the vague outline of a woman as they stood higher. She looked regal and powerful, each line of her physique toned to a warrior's perfection.

"We are Aurora Asclepius' desire for her son to prosper," the being started, its voice now feminine and melodic. "We are her soul-sworn hope for a brighter future."

And as they spoke, their illusory form continued to shift and turn. Red hair became brilliant, impossible silver. The harsh, sharp angles of the woman softened into something more familiar, yet somehow not. Runes of yellow adorned every inch of its skin as purple whispered about them. "We are Sylvia Indrath's plea for a worthy successor to the World. We are every Indrath that came before, led and bound by fell purpose and reforged into something new."

I felt something catch in my throat as I watched the being continue to shift and change, like slides in film. Awe and something more pulsed from my mana core as the world seemed to rewrite itself around the specter. The shapes formed and changed like something from an old tale, each flash nearly too much for me to catch. And still, they continued. "We are Sylvie Indrath's need for a father and bond. We are her will for Arthur Leywin's survival and better future. We are Tessia Eralith's cry for something she did not understand to survive another day, imbued with every ounce of love."

Platinum silver hair shifted to wheat-blonde, then to gunmetal gray. Dawn's Ballad sang in my sweaty palm. Familiar features adorned the being as I watched them from behind, transfixed. The words uttered shifted in voice, but the dry monotone never left. Yet somehow, it seemed to grow in strength with each syllable, rising up into the dark of the coming storm like an offering to the gods.

And that long, gunmetal gray hair finally shifted to strawberry blonde locks that brushed about the shoulders. It wasn't as familiar as the last few, but I knew who it was regardless. I had fought this person and nearly killed him.

And he had saved me, in the end, from a power I had thought abandoned me.

"We are Toren Daen's wish that you find an ending to your story," the being finally said. "We are his desire for your life to be different from your last, so that you might find that house along the seashore with your family."

The being turned back around, seeming larger somehow as they observed me with Toren Daen's features. Those little pinprick orange eyes peered into my soul, just like they always had.

"And we are you," they said, shifting form one more time. That golden-red hair darkened, shot through with streaks of brown that dulled the gold. Those burning-coal eyes inverted, becoming a frightening azure. "Together, King Arthur, we make a weapon fit to lay claim to the World itself; if only you are worthy."

Aether gathered around the ethereal being as I stared into a mirrored version of myself. The motes of purple danced amidst the reds and greens and yellows and blues as this refracted being stepped forward, matching me in height.

"You asked what I am, King Arthur? It is simple. Gladium regis et coronam."

The Latin flowed through my mind, slow as tar as I struggled to process everything. Part of me wanted to fall to my knees, to block out everything that I didn't understand. I didn't know what this being was. I didn't understand what it was trying to tell me. I didn't know if I was still mad.

But as some distant, tired part of my mind slowly translated the Latin uttered by the strange phantom bearing my face, I felt as if a ray of sunlight had pierced the clouds high above.

The king's sword and crown.

My wavering eyes drifted down to my pale, scarred skin, worn and trained to near perfection by every day in this world. I laid Dawn's Ballad across my hands, sensing the connection I had with it. Sensing how it and the acclorite that infused every inch of my body was the same, how I had become the weapon.

The acclorite. The sword pulled from the stone. The right to rule.

The being's eyes—my eyes—flashed in tune with a crack of lightning overhead.

I allowed my mind to drift down through the sword and the acclorite in my blood on an instinct I had never before realized. I remembered how I called the world to my will to influence aether, infusing it into my spells and strengthening my body.

I had thought it was my bond with Sylvie that had allowed that influence. I had thought I'd somehow gained insight to use hers. But now, I realized it was a different kind of bond that had guided my hand. A bond that had always been present since my battle with Spellsong, when everything had changed.

My eyes traced along the ever-sharp violet of the thin blade in my hands as my chest shuddered, tears blurring the edges of my vision. I hadn't been mad. This thing I saw out of the corner of my perception? This haunting image that had always been there, silently weighing my every move?

I thought I'd been insane. That it had all finally broken me, and I'd doomed myself to utter failure.

And after all of it, I let out a slight, bitter laugh. I thought I should be angry at the ghost in front of me for tormenting me like some sort of forgotten spirit. But right now, I was too relieved by the affirmation that I wasn't insane to feel anything else. "Am I worthy?" I asked quietly. "Have I passed whatever test you've laid for me, Regis?"

I said the last part with a tinge of mockery, twisting the Latin into a knife that I hoped to drive into this manifestation's heart.

"You will know when the time comes," Regis replied, his features bleeding back into the nondescript, empty attire of King Grey. Auburn hair shortened, becoming a dirty, hopeless blonde. "This I can promise."

I felt a sneer tug at the edge of my lips as my hands tightened around the edges of Dawn's Ballad. "So that's what it's back to, isn't it?" I said with renewed confidence and anger. "Just as it always was with Rinia, so it is with you?"

Regis tilted his head ever-so-slightly, staring dully through me. I could sense our bond now. Where the connection I had with Sylvie was one of light red silk and flowing parchment outlined with the ink of love and care, I was anchored to it by coils of steel drenched in blood and solidified in flesh.

"It is not my grace you need, King Arthur," it said evenly. "But that of the World's. I am but the messenger, the avenue of power. It is through me that you are judged, but it is not I who hands down judgment."

I snorted derisively, feeling a strange mix of loose and coiled at this thing's cryptic words of iron. "So this has all been some sort of test, then? Some sort of trial for some greater thing to judge me worthy? And I'm guessing you don't know what is judging me either, do you?"

Regis considered this for a moment, staring through me as ever. "I do not know. I am the weapon and the crown, nothing more."

I walked past the being, sensing as black wings and dark scales approached on the wind. Sylvie was surging toward me at speed, ready as she would ever be for this confrontation with my best friend from my past life.

Is it all some sort of demented test by some distant, divine entity? I wondered, feeling suddenly helpless as my bond's yellow-gold eyes brightened as they focused on me. What sort of cruel god would do a thing?

"Toren Daen may know the answers to what you seek," the phantom said suddenly, tearing away my thoughts. I turned, looking back at the spirit of corded steel. "He knows much that he should not. Much that was not anticipated. Much that should not exist."

I narrowed my eyes. I couldn't get a read on this being tied to me. Malevolent and benevolent seemed like alien concepts to it, but also… not. "You're being helpful now?"

"It has always been my desire for you to overcome all. Though I may judge how your power is used, I yet wish for you to reach that happy ending," it said cryptically. "I am many-in-one, King Arthur. Do not make assumptions."

I stared off with Regis for a time, wondering. I couldn't sense his emotions over that knot of power that bound us. Our bond was different. Soul-deep, just as it was with Sylvie, but different. Primordial and strong, but just as cold. I could not tell if it was being truthful.

"Arthur!" Sylvie said over our bond, sensing my distress. "Arthur, what is wrong?"

I stared at Regis for a time more, struggling to process everything I'd seen so far.

I'll tell you on the way, Sylv, I thought, finally turning away from the amalgamation of souls. Either I'm perfectly sane, or I'm more insane than I ever thought possible.

Then I rose into the air, dread returning in anticipation of this confrontation. Everything in my life felt like it had been building toward this moment.

It was time I saw it through.