A Journey of Black and Red-Novel

In the interstitial gap between a moment and the other, in the cracks between two atoms, enough substance exists for the transcendental to crawl through. That is, provided that someone foolish showed it the way.

What is space, what is time to one that exists before it?

For some reason, the entity has chosen the image of a young man in a tan suit. He sits on… nothing really, just a crenelation in the infinite vastness of a dot. His features remind me of my brother and father, like a long-lost sibling even though I have never met him. Except the eyes of course. Those are the eyes I know, slitted and purple.

“Why am I here?”

No voice graces my illusory ears. The entity has no time to waste on converting concepts into sounds.

“You mean ladyship? Is that what awake is?”

I understand what it means on a fundamental level. The last step on the path to ladyship requires me to interpret what my bloodline means to me. Now that I know with unwavering certainty, I am no longer limited to the constraints of my body. Essence is malleable, after all. Nevertheless, it does not explain why I am here, wherever here is. I think that a part of me was left behind. I feel no particular emotion now, while I do… outside.

“Was there something you wanted to ask?”

“So it really is you. The Watcher.”

“I thought that much. I always wondered how an entity so large could care about something so small as us.”

“Is the Watcher not a nascent universe, and therefore impossibly vast?”

“I fail to understand how it can be of importance.”

“My mind is too addled to follow your reasoning, huh?”

Suddenly, my consciousness… melts. I find myself carried away across fields of alien logic that I cannot word, along streams of concepts I cannot grasp. I am limited to an infinitely small window into the workings of the Watcher, as if peering through a needle’s eye, and yet what I see defies understanding at a level that I would be frankly unable to explain. I do not have a suitable vocabulary in the same way that a savage who has lived all their life on a deserted tropical island cannot comprehend an aurora borealis.

The vision fades away after a few non-seconds. What I saw disappears from my mind as if it were a sieve, for my own sanity I suppose. The only thing left is a vague awareness of something greater.

The strange apparition smiles.

“What happens to me when I die?”

“Will I lose myself? Will I stop being me?”

It annoys me how it can read my emotions directly. Oh well.

“What is really a Magna Arqa then? Are you, or the Watcher in its entirety coming through or something?”

“I see. One last question then I will head back. I have people to save and people to kill. Are you aware that the first vampire you made may lead to the destruction of our kind?”

I open my eyes and pure, incandescent power roars through my veins.

The world is essence and it is perfect. Every sliver of worm-eaten wood, every rusty nail, every corroded tool sits exactly where it was intended. The whole of creation exists in a sublime state around my expanding perception, in this glorious moment where I finally, finally understand my soul. I allow it to naturally form a sphere around me where the rules of physics are mere suggestions, and I luxuriate in an incredible feeling of liberation. I have spent months, years, being hampered and limited, my aura buckling like an unruly colt while still forming the core of my being. I understand now that it was merely trying to bloom, to become what I am deep inside. All that energy I lost sleeping earlier and drinking more was only stored and saved for this exact moment when I had to break the shell. For now. And it has. And it is glorious beyond compare.

A yoke has been removed from my shoulder. The shackles are broken. I am free.

I.

Am.

The sphere is mine, it belongs to me. The thorny roots of my mental palace manifest here as easily as they do in my psyche as the frontier blurs and the delicious light of the Watcher’s gaze shine upon my world. The warehouse falls in the abyss, for what is height in my realm? It crashes against thickets of massive brambles, its debris spreading over volcanic sand. The roots coil and lash at my command because they are a part of me, and they are me, and I am, right now, without limit. Only one little thing holds me back, and it left droplets of blood when it landed. I can taste the barest hint of Erenwald. I will devour her. A suitable first snack.

There she is. Scurrying like a rodent. I direct my defenses at her and she barely manages to outpace them. The tendrils are so fast because they are barely slower than the speed of my mind. Even she struggles when they lash at her, corner her, box her in. We are in my playground. I know where everything is to the last atom. There will be no running away.

The same wind, the same killing intent, but this time I can smell it in the air, this insidious little cloud of wraiths. This time, I have the tools. There is nothing in this world the roots cannot shred given time. Wind splits between the black spines with a wintery shriek. The whispers grow panicked. They hurt. She hurts. She screams.

The little pitter-patter of foreign feet, so nice and rhythmical. The Roots rise like a tide to crash down and form a dome. She fights back with her polearm. She destroys a root. I reform it immediately. My energy is infinite for now.

Rose passes through a barrage unimpeded. I taste essence. More screams.

The roots part like a curtain in a small arena. We are in a tube that goes from obsidian sand to the infinite height of the Watcher. I can do arenas too. Mine stings more.

Rose smashes into her guard once, twice, I move around and under her strike and kick her, sending her stumbling. Cannot claw. Still missing an arm. That will not do. Essence flows and calls flesh because flesh follows it. I have an arm again. The claws find the woman’s face and draw three deep furrows on her sneer. She pushes me away and I stab her in the arm as we disengage. Roots slither around her ankles and she is forced to slam her halberd down. I rake her leg using the opening. She is hampered by the size of her weapon.

No.

I am faster than her.

“HSSSS!”

We lock blades and I ram her into a nearby wall, which twists as I designed. She screams when the thorns shred her back through her armor. The spines are so very destructive. Her enchanted armor disintegrates under the onslaught. She tries to claw me. I grab her wrist and shatter it, then I slam her into the ground.

Oh, she struggles pleasantly, yet all her efforts are in vain. I outclass her in every respect. This was not a duel. It was not even a test of my limits, no. This was merely a punishment.

I do not commit her mistake and indulge in silly games. The lover is in peril. I have no time to lose.

Hilde tastes of cruel hunts and shallow pleasures. Her essence bolsters mine, although I can barely feel a difference. I leave the ash behind and walk through parting layers of thorns and to the limit of my domain, except, that is not quite correct. The domain moves around me.

Branches form a tunnel to the clearing where we held our desperate battle. I vaguely remember that we fell a hundred feet down. It seems that my Magna Arqa considers this a pointless detail. I rush forward and feel an exhausted Jimena at the edge of my perception, still covering Phineas’ prostrate form and now Svyatoslav’s too, though my brother is recovering. The enemy masters have left and apparently taken Laestra with them. Only Octave remains of our foes.

Manffred’s ashes lay where he fell with his precious gun discarded in the dust.

Sand replaces grass where I walk. I refrain from growing trees to allow me a better sight of the arena where Torran and Octave still duel. I search with a fearful heart for their phantomatic shapes and find them without difficulty. Torran is now the size of three men. Octave runs on one of his immaterial walls to avoid a strike, in vain. The soul blade extends at the last moment and still catches him in an armored greave. The Knight successfully bounces down on the ground and back up before awakened stones can pelt him to mush. Right into Torran’s stone covered fist. The avatar roars and the Knight’s domain trembles.

I am so strong now, so whole. I will help the lover. He is worth it. Domain against domain, old one. Let us see if yours is as resilient as you believe.

I trot to the middle of the arena and ignore the wraiths caught in their deadly dance. I can taste a presence in the air. Octave’s essence removes him from the world to live his passion as a duelist. He exists completely elsewhere while I exist in between. We overlap. I smile and allow the roots to tear through the earth. They latch onto the phantasmagoric walls languishly. They take their time. Soon, an entire half of the ghost colosseum is covered in a cocoon of spindly death. They latch on. They bleed through. The colosseum becomes solid under our unwavering will.

Octave’s ghost gasps and wavers. Our eyes meet, a gaze separated by a different space. I cannot help it. I smile and snap my fingers.

The thorns shift on themselves like cobras. They rip the construct to ethereal shreds. Octave and Torran’s colossus appear before me. Octave is absolutely shocked. I LOVE it.

Torran strikes downward, I strike laterally. Octave is forced to block both and loses his balance but he manages to push himself off the debris before we capitalize on it. Slippery slippery.

Torran and I coordinate without a word. Octave is now fully on the defensive and we harry him back. I manage to score a few strikes on his formidable armor, denting it. Three domains now compete with each other and I can barely form a few walls of thorn, but then there is a lull in the battle. Torran’s avatar form walks by my side and places an oversized hand on my shoulder. There is a rumble and an invitation felt rather than heard. He is opening himself to me and I, in return, open myself to him. There is no hesitation. There never was any doubt.

The sand and stones shift from my control to his while the trees and roots are fully mine. Our combined domains subsume the last spectral walls. We are so unthinkably powerful that we could give even my sire pause. Octave realizes it immediately. He picks a vial from a chest harness and downs it. His flagging aura rekindles.

We face each other across the fields. The colosseum reforms behind him and prevents my roots from piercing the earth, but it breaks halfway under the power of our combined strength.

Octave hisses in fury, showing anger for the first time. He charges us and we charge back.

Gone is his restraint and his patient combat style. He is now a tornado of perfect, vicious strikes.

And so are we.

Thorns cling to every step he takes while rocks smash in his chin, disturbing his perfect balance. It will take more than that to pierce through his amazing armor, and this is where we come in. Torran takes the lead, an unyielding, unstoppable titan of war. He has shed half of his armor to increase his speed. His style is as straightforward as I remember. Torran advances and overwhelms, only stopping to strike harder on the next step. As for me, I let my lover take the brunt of the assault and slide in and around, sending vicious thrusts and wild, sweeping strikes at the beleaguered Knight. Our dance is, without a doubt, the deadliest on earth tonight. Purple light shines down upon us while our concepts battle for supremacy.

A part of me revels in this fight to the death where two mistakes in a row spell death, a waltz on the edge of the razor. Thousands of hours of battle experience together with skill and grueling training all led to this very moment. I slice twice with Rose, both attacks blocked, then lean back to avoid a counter and rake his armor at the knee because I knew that a stone would slightly displace it from his position on a level I cannot quite explain. Torran makes full use of the opening to attack the chest and forces Octave to block awkwardly. He is now on the backfoot.

Another part of me marvels at my new physical abilities. Octave’s Magna Arqa enhances him when he is outmatched and I still manage to keep up. I rush through the air. I deflect blows that would have sent me reeling. Is this how it feels to be at the top? The sensory ecstasy of fighting a monster to a standstill? Of winning? The rarefied heights of the world hold such intoxicating scents and I dive into this fight with the pure, unadulterated joy of being alive despite someone’s best efforts.

We breach through Octave’s armor in the next exchange. Torran’s massive blade cleaves into his chest on the right side and I use the opening to stab him under the left shoulder. He tastes like frail perfection. The roots smell the blood in the air and grow ever faster to box Octave in. I direct the closest one, but others act without prompt or perhaps I direct them subconsciously.

Octave blurs.

In a series of blinding movements, he pushes me off and lunges at Torran, somehow weaving between several strikes. His sword pierces through the stone-covered chest at heart level.

Torran backhands him and sends the hostile lord tumbling. I almost stop there. HILARIOUS. Of course, Torran’s real body would not perfectly align, was it not obvious? The Knight falls back and tries to attack me instead, but we know each other so well by this stage. I can get into his rhythm and delay, escape, deflect. Meanwhile, it is unwise to neglect Torran.

The furious Dvor takes a few step backs, then charges forward like an avalanche, complete with flowing rocks. Octave is forced to jump to the side. Meanwhile, I have found something of interest on the ground. My discarded gauntlet.

I pick it up and fasten it in mere moments. It appears undamaged, somehow, and the glyphs light up in my mind. Octave sees me and I spare him yet another smile. He jumps away, outside of the limit of Torran’s land. He surveys the devastation.

She lifts her sword.

Octave hisses. Bloody trails drip down his smooth cheeks. He touches a glyph on his mighty armor and his form blurs. It disappears, as does his aura.

Jimena waves her sword around.

“ROAAAAR!”

Torran sheds his armor and screams in triumph. I join him with a gleeful hiss. We have done it! We have won against the Knights! They will remember this day to the end of times!

The ecstasy of battle fades as it becomes clear that Octave has left for good. My essence retracts somewhat, although it still bubbles eagerly. We are alone.

Phineas still lies prone. Svyatolsav has already rebuilt his damaged heart and moves to join us.

Mannfred is dead.

He fell against an overwhelming enemy after disabling a lady, a fitting end for one so dedicated to martial prowess. He fought by our side to the very end. I will mourn his passing.

Somehow, having the Knights remember me forever does not seem like such a glorious prospect anymore.

The thorn roots burrow under the earth, which settles down. My Magna Arqa fades now that its purpose was fulfilled. I can still awaken it, should I see fit to do so. I do not. I feel a bit empty with the last of my passion leaving me.

He departs without a word and we decide to do the same. We are only delayed because I ask for a container for Mannfred’s ashes. I did not get to recover Lars’ remains myself and Kurshu was left unburied in our flight. I will not leave this man behind. I also pick up his armor, but Phineas asks for his gun.

One day I will be shot by a vampire and I shall be extremely sore about it.

We call on our Nightmares. Metis tramples the ground in excitement at my new power, but she grows more subdued when she feels my mood. I wonder if my despondency stems from fatigue or if it is a backlash of using Magna Arqa for the first time. In any case, we follow Torran in silence through deserted streets and empty fields, then up the mountain to his idyllic retreat. The castle is just as vertiginous and story-like as I remember.

“Lift the drawbridge,” Torran orders when we stop in the inner courtyard, “we may have company.”

“Understood, milord.”

I would love to be able to get home and order a minion to lift the drawbridge and arm the cannons. I now have a new life goal. My lover’s gipsy Servant emerges from his private quarters. They exchange a few words. Jimena leaves with Phineas to their personal quarters. My sister gives me one last worried glance before leaving.

Yes.

Well.

I look up to Torran’s impassible face.

Torran grabs me and places me over his shoulder not too gently. I am now looking at his back while my legs wiggle uselessly against his chest. He starts walking.

We are in his bedroom.

Torran dumps me on the bed, then he rips his shirt open.

I am not used to the caveman version of Torran but I do believe that I shall grow fond of it.

I open my eyes the next night to a terrible, terrible feeling. Vampires do not normally wake so much as reach full consciousness in an instant. Tonight is different.

I remember when I was fifteen and I wanted to try one of papa’s cigars on a bet. It had been the vilest thing I had ever tasted, and I was so desperate to remove the stench from my tongue that I had downed a glass of liquor the way I had seen adults do. It was apple liquor. The sight of apples made me nauseous for the next three months.

This is worse.

Suffice to say, I would throw up if I physically could.

“Urrrrrrggg.”

“...”

“...”

I let him work in silence for a while and cannot help but wonder.

I would be mad that Torran did not ask for my input, were I not mature enough to realize that his decision was the right one. I must evacuate with my allies as soon as possible.

Torran merely chuckles a bit.

The top of the world does not feel like much in the following days. Perhaps altitude-wise we are somewhat high? It certainly does not translate into anything concrete. I am kept aware of the evolution of our situation by a very open Torran, who informs me that the Knights have preferred to retreat rather than push their case. It appears that even they know that the Dvor will not relinquish Torran and that Torran will not relinquish me. His reputation as an intractable fighter is well-established.

As I observed, my Magna Arqa creates a sphere almost a hundred yards across. Within its confines, I can feel other people’s presence even when they hide through magical means. Meanwhile obstacles like walls and boulders only remain if I allow them. Elevation and direction do not appear to matter much either and I can climb to sets of stairs by walking on a flat surface. Paradoxically, the sphere moves with me if I will it or if I leave its limits. I do not understand how this works. The last interesting element is that objects like furniture or even trees can disappear when the sphere expands, but reappear afterward.

As for the roots, I can summon them at will. They are very similar to my mental palace defenses in the way they move and act. Other roots always appear and act without my prompt, especially at the edge of the sphere, although I can take control of them directly if I focus. As for my control, it will take some time before I regain the instinctive feeling I had on the first night. Torran assures me that this is perfectly normal and that Magna Arqa grow in power with their wielders.

I ask him about ‘domains’, as mentioned by Hilde. Torran goes on to explain that there are several ‘types’ of Magna Arqa. Strike powers allow the user to launch a specific attack or effect. Jimena can select a target and gain advantage against them, including the ability to track them through their bonds. Suarez can cut anything in front of him at a distance. Those are considered to be ‘strike’ Magna Arqa. The next type is ‘avatar’ Magna Arqa which allows the user to take on another form. One of the masters we fought could turn liquid, and Jarek increases in size. They both belong to that category. There are ‘exotic’ Magna Arqa such as those that relate to the control of humans. Finally, the last category are the domains. Mine falls squarely in that category. Torran has a hybrid domain and avatar Magna Arqa. He mentions that they are arguably the most useful in an all-out battle. They also tend to be very powerful.

After spending twenty minutes explaining those differences, he reminds me that using categories is a pointless exercise, a remnant of our human tendency to organize things into neat boxes. We do not speak of it, but we both know that what matters is the strength of the concept behind the power.

And indeed, even with Jimena, I feel no need to mention the curious encounter with the Watcher’s shadow of a shadow. Merely thinking about it fills me with unease and a deep sense of reverence. I would never consider sharing the details willingly.

The following three weeks pass without incident. I make sure to enjoy Torran’s attentions and I show him, and only him, my ability to make adjustments to my body.

He is quite pleased.

Eventually, all good things must come to an end. Viktoriya joins us and we depart the castle using an unexpected cover. I now realize what Torran had meant when he mentioned being ‘discreet’ when I spot a convoy of carts covered in beautiful, handmade decorations handled by people dressed in garish color.

It is a gipsy caravan.

I give a few other demonstrations on our way south, then we split up from the amused mortals to board the Vienna-Trieste Austrian Southern Railway. We arrive at the Italian port city the very same night.

Torran immediately shows that it was a lie by kissing me passionately in public and drawing a few appreciative comments from Viktoriya and a nearby group of students. I call him an uncouth vandal to his back and leave for the waterfront. We find our ship with great ease.

No sooner do we approach the powerful ironclad steamship with its predatory, sharp design that we are spotted by a sentinel. He signals inside and a man walks down the gangplank, a man with a scar and a deep air of paranoia. Loth’s bodyguard. He is practically shoved aside by my friend’s massive shape.

“Ariane, ye terror!”

I forget all proprieties and jump into his arm. He twirls me around like a child before planting me back on the pavement.

“It is so good to see you, Loth! But how? I never thought you would be the one to come!”

“What are ye blabberin’ about? I’m here on official business! On a diplomatic mission to allied vampire bigwigs of the, wait which one was it?”

“The Eneru faction,” his bodyguard grumbles.

“Thaaaat’s the one. Hey, Skjoll, get that stick out of yer ass. Who would attack us here aye? With three battle ladies present?”

“I would rather not find out, my liege.”

“Pffft. Anyway, I’ll be the one to pick you up and drag ye back to whence ye came. I must have words with Constantine, aye? I hope the old chap has made some exciting progress with his war golems!”

“What his majesty means is that he will address the issue of the long-term safety of the local Dvergur population as well as commercial points of interests.”

Loth rolls his eyes.

“Yadda yadda we’ll handle that shite in an afternoon and then talk about sending weapons to kill people by themselves. Right! So I hear ye were in a bit of a tussle? Hah, count on the American vampire to start a revolution!”

“I assure you,” I reply, somewhat miffed, “this was purely accidental.”

Loth stares with open disbelief.

“Ya mean to say that ye have no problems with authority whatsoever?”

How unfair! I am perfectly capable of following orders, especially if I agree with them!

“Ya mean to say,” Loth continues without waiting, “that Constantine did not send me that long and rambling letter asking me how to handle you.”

I gape while Jimena displays a suspicious lack of reaction.

“He did no such thing,” I affirm.

“He very much did. I wonder if he took my advice? I told the lad to get off yer case and distract you with explodey stuff. It worked for me!”

I huff. Constantine merely sought my cooperation on various projects including offensive spells and war golems, not uhhhh.

Wait a minute.

Waaaait a minute.

“So he did listen. Smart lad.”

“Oi! I am not so predictable. Right, Jimena?”

“Of course not, dear sister.”

“See! See!”

“Only when it comes to music, painting, project management, engineering, and large scale warfare. Oh, and raunchy s.”

“Arg! Traitor!”

“So ye’re unpredictable aye? A shame, and here I was sure that my gift would make ye happy.”

All negative emotions melt like snow under the sun.

“Oooh a gift? What gift? Is it a weapon?”

I am not bouncing.

A group of four burly Dvergur bring a massive metal crate and deposit it on the ground with visible effort. An intricate pattern of runes cover its flank, most of them isolation runes, and despite this, I can still feel a comfortable cold seeping from the cracks.

“Quite the contrary, lass. The Ice Palace you got us in that stupid wager had the mother lode of interesting materials. Now ye’ll see what the King of Skoragg clan can accomplish with top tier tools and materials. Ariane, get a gander at yer new armor. I named it ‘the Aurora’. Ye’re gonna like it.”