BLOOD OF THE ARCANE

Aziz's Pov

I should have stayed in the valleys with the Shujaa, my mother's people.

A tribe cradled in tree huts woven among giants of bark and leaf, and caves hollowed deep into the mountain's ribs. 

Storms carved their bones, old wars forged their blood. When gold glittered in their rivers, the crown set my mother's people on a scale against greed and greed won, every time.

I traded the silk beds and guarded doors for their fires and plain bread, for the men who owned nothing but their word and still made space for me at the flame.

My mother was no Arcane-blooded , no crowned queen, just a woman whose voice could drag starving men back from despair and make killers lower their blades.

And him.

The King of Kingston.

My father.

He swore his shield to her when he fell for her wild eyes and softer prayers.

Then he lied. Banished her when the court called her name filth, when nobles howled for her head on marble too polished for truth.

Yet I don't hate him. I wish I did it would make this easier.

I remember his coarse fur cloak draped over my shoulders, the sound of his laugh echoing in halls too big for a boy to feel safe in.

He taught me how to wait when anger claws up my throat. How to hold my tongue when it could break bones. That some strikes must wait until they matter most.

I owe him that much even now, with death rattling in his chest and my half-brothers circling like dogs around a dying lion, part of me still aches to see him one more time.

To ask him why.

To see if truth still clings to his bones.

A cold wind tugged at the canopy overhead, and I felt the tremor run through the roots into my boots like a pulse under my skin, guiding me toward the river. Good. Water would clear my head.

I murmured to the branches maybe to the ghost of the man who named me both son and exile in a single breath:

"Hold on, Father. When this is done, I'll come back. To her. To them. And maybe you can sleep knowing I mended what you broke."

I found the river just as the moon dipped behind the pines.

I knelt at the bank, dipped my hands into the black current blood and sweat unfurled like secrets, carried off by a river too old to care who I was.

I sat back on a cold stone and unwrapped my prize: a round loaf of grotto bread, warm inside despite the night. My mother always called it a poor man's feast.

To me, it tasted richer than any gold-laden palace meal.

I broke off a piece and let the warmth soften the tight knot in my chest just a breath of quiet. That's all I wanted.

Then a sharp crack snapped the river's voice apart, rough and close.

A child's voice, high but stubborn as stone: "Leave me alone!"

The bread dropped forgotten at my side. I was already moving, slipping through the trees on quiet feet faster than fear, faster than doubt.

 Ahead, through a break in the saplings, shapes shifted against moonlight.

I crouched at the edge of a low rise. Below, on the muddy shore of the lake, three men in ragged cloaks circled something slight and cornered small hands clenched around a jagged scrap of metal, back pressed to a half-sunken stump.

I saw her through the smoke, tangled dark hair, earth-dark skin, black armor hugging every sharp line.

 A black streak crossed her eyes like a warning. Even cornered, she looked like a storm waiting to break loose.

 My eyes snapped open when I saw it, beneath each pulse I saw a riot of color, like her very nerves had ignited into rainbow filaments weaving beneath her skin. 

An Arcane Core, fully realized, this far from Kingston?

I tensed to leap forward, but froze mid-step as pink light burst around her Arcane flaring so bright it cracked the dark like lightning.

Her scream split the night, and the ground heaved outward in a shockwave that scorched mud to glass.

When the smoke cleared, she stood at the center of it eyes glowing with spiraled pink light, deep and endless, fixed on her own trembling hands like she'd never seen them before.

She looked up at the nearest goon with a feral fury:

"You," she growled, voice like gravel tearing skin.

"You burned my home. Dragged my kin like cattle. Slit my brother's throat. So how do you want to die?"

I couldn't move her Arcane smothered mine like a hand on my throat.

The man wept, hands raised, voice cracking as he crawled backward through the dirt.

"Please… please, I'm begging you… don't kill me…"

"Every breath you draw right now is mercy," 

Her hand lifted, fingers carving the night.

A sharp twist his arm cracked sideways, bone tearing skin. Another flick the other arm flopped loose, dangling like torn cloth.

She stepped closer, gold brands coiling fresh on her forehead and arm, gleaming wet in the Arcane haze. Her palm cut the air down, his chest flesh split, blood splattered her bare feet.

Piece by piece, she carved him apart, her wrist snapping neat arcs through the dark, until nothing of him moved but twitching scraps on the ground.

My breath caught in my throat I could only stare, stunned. I'd never seen the Arcane wielded like this before. She made Esau look like a saint.

Then she doubled over, trembling and spent, bands flickering dull gold as a ragged breath tore free. Whatever she'd done to my Arcane snapped and I could move again.

A soft whistle snapped my eyes to the trees and my gut lurched.

A thug stepped out, raising a sleek, arcane revolver, its smooth silver frame accented with glowing blue highlights, a compact cylinder loaded with glowing, rounds humming softly with energy.

He smirked, tapped the grip click.

Light spat from the barrel. An arcane round screamed for my heart.

Instinct took over. I raised my hand, and a lattice of deep crimson light blossomed around him delicate as spun glass, unyielding as iron. 

The bullet struck the shimmering walls, sang off like a silver bell then punched back through his skull, bursting it in a wet blossom against the trees behind him. Bark and brain painted the trunks red.

I landed beside her in one fluid step. She looked up, face streaked with ash and blood so tired, so small.

Her shoulders sagged as she mistook me for someone else.

"Pluto?" she whispered, and collapsed into my arms.

Surprised, I steadied her, chest tight—while all around us, the night held its breath.