Rules For The Bled

Celeste urged her horse into a weary canter as the jagged silhouettes of the Hundred Towers pierced the horizon, rising like the fossilized bones of some impossible giant. There they were at last, monoliths of stone and iron and breath, spiring high into the heavens in a defiance of gravity and reason. And if the rumors were true, many of them extended just as far below the surface, plunging into the dark bones of the earth.

The city was a marvel, undeniably so, though she found herself resenting its grandeur. Its majesty belonged to another's dream.

It had been days since she'd last seen Yvain. In that time, she had crossed woods and marshlands, outpaced bandits, and left a trail of blood behind her. She had killed, twice with a blade, once with her hands, once with the kind of enchantment that left the victim screaming long after their throat had been removed. One man she'd turned inside out, his organs displayed grotesquely on the gravel as though some nightmare surgeon had taken up sorcery.

Now, all she wanted was to stop running. The ache in her limbs was nothing compared to the exhaustion in her mind, every shadow felt like pursuit, every silence an accusation. She was tired of moving, tired of hiding, tired of second-guessing every hoofbeat behind her.

Yvain had been the one so eager to see the Hundred Towers, obsessed with their arcane architecture and the forbidden texts said to be hidden in their lower levels. She hoped he was already here. Gods, he had better be here.

She passed the city's outer edge with ease, her horse's hooves clacking awkwardly against a patchwork of stone, bone, and ancient wood that made up the main thoroughfare. There were no signs, no guards, no checkpoints, only a vague transition from wilderness to wonder.

The Hundred Towers were less orderly up close. What had seemed like architectural bravado from a distance now struck her as lunacy made manifest. Towers leaned at impossible angles, some joined by bridges of carved coral, others by what looked like living sinew, pulsing faintly in the midmorning light. The smaller buildings nestled around them appeared grown rather than built, their walls curving organically, ivy and crystal veins embedded in their surfaces like veins under skin.

People moved through the streets in measured steps, silent and aloof. No one rushed, no one shouted. Robed scholars walked alongside masked merchants, their eyes hidden behind glasswork tinted in amber and obsidian. A group of children ran by, trailing floating trinkets behind them, feathered spheres and ink-cloud baubles tethered to string like balloons. Some of the locals bore marks of thaumaturgy openly, luminous tattoos that pulsed with breathlight, extra limbs or eyes that blinked with independent minds, skin lacquered with metal or bark or salt.

A hunched beggar with silver-threaded hair reached toward her, not for coin, but to trace a symbol in the air near her shoulder. She flinched, hand instinctively going to the hilt at her hip, but the beggar only smiled, muttered something in a dialect she didn't know, and shuffled on.

Celeste dismounted near a fountain that spilled sand instead of water, its basin filled with small, glittering bones. Her horse whickered nervously and pawed at the strange cobblestones.

She tied the reins loosely to a pipe that jutted from the side of a building shaped like a spiraled shell, took a deep breath, and stepped into the shadow of the nearest tower.

The city was safe, relatively speaking. Whatever else could be said about the Hundred Towers, no sane predator dared to cause a commotion within its bounds. Not even Sorel. Not with so many archmages dwelling here, veiled in their mysteries and watching from spires and shadows alike. The knight might be powerful, unstoppable, even, in most places, but not here. Not among beings who had transcended the ordinary laws of Breath and flesh.

Of course, that also meant Celeste would need to tread lightly.

There were no formal hierarchies among sorcerers in Malkuth. No official rankings, no universally agreed system of classification. How could there be? A mage's might was measured by two things, how much Breath they could harness, and how deeply they had mastered their chosen discipline, and both were infamously difficult to quantify.

Breath, the essence of sorcery, awakened unpredictably. When it stirred within someone for the first time, it was like a vessel overflowing. The metaphor was popular, though misleading. Every sorcerer was a cup brimming over, but no one could measure the cup, and fewer still could measure the spill. Some overflowed by a trickle, others surged like a tide. And whether one was a brook or a sea, the shape of the cup told you nothing.

Mastery was even more elusive. Only the mage themselves could truly sense how far they had journeyed into their art, and strength alone was a poor compass. Alchemists could unravel kingdoms with a single tincture and still be considered weak in a duel. Augurs bent time itself in moments of stillness yet crumbled under fire. Sorcery was not a ladder; it was a labyrinth.

Because of this, most of Malkuth shunned rigid classifications. Some cultures clung to vague tiers, novice, ascended, exalted, and the like, but these were more ceremonial than practical. They comforted petty witches and heretic mages.

But archmages were different.

That was a true rank. A threshold crossed. A proven mastery. A title that could only be awarded following irrefutable proof that one's mastery had exceeded the limits. There were only two kinds of mages in the world: archmages, and everyone else.

And it was that certainty which emboldened Celeste now. Sorel wouldn't risk moving openly in a city with even a single archmage, let alone several.

Her goal was clear. She made her way through the strange geometry of the city, heading toward the tallest spire, the one wreathed in dark stones. That tower, the oldest and highest, was said to be inhabited by none other than Lissom Qen.

By the time Celeste reached the base of the tower, a small crowd had gathered, an odd mix of soot-streaked pilgrims, road-weary mages, and the usual hangers-on drawn to the gravitational pull of power. Some knelt in quiet reverence, whispering prayers to forces that did not listen. Others argued about disciplines and doctrine, gesturing at diagrams sketched into the dust. All of them were waiting, for audience, for favor, or simply for the hope that proximity to the tower might change something in them.

"Celeste!" a voice called sharply over the murmur of the crowd.

She turned, eyes narrowing instinctively, only to see a familiar figure waving her down. Adeline.

Celeste pushed through the mass of bodies, ignoring a robed man who muttered a half-hearted curse as she brushed past. When they stood face to face, Adeline looked as travel-worn as Celeste felt, hair pinned hastily, eyes shadowed by sleepless nights.

"Where is my cousin?" Celeste demanded, wasting no breath on pleasantries. The question came out more like an accusation than anything else, edged with the exhaustion and frustration she'd carried for days.

"He's inside," Adeline replied calmly, though her expression tightened. "We arrived early this morning."

Celeste didn't care about the time of arrival, didn't acknowledge it. Her attention had already shifted to the great metallic doors at the tower's base, imposing slabs sealed tight.

She stepped toward them.

Adeline grabbed her arm. "Don't bother. They won't let you in."

Celeste stopped, tension flickering across her jaw. "What do you mean?"

"An attendant came. One of Lissom's," Adeline said, voice low but firm. "They took Yvain. Alone. Said the archmage had asked for him specifically."

Celeste's eyes narrowed. "She knew him?"

Adeline admitted. "It seemed that way."

Lissom Qen was one of the rarest of creatures. An augur who had ascended to the rank of archmage. Such a thing was almost unheard of. Augury was not a path that lent itself easily to power in the traditional sense.

Among sorcerers, she was venerated as the Living Grimoire, a title spoken with reverence and dread in equal measure. It was said there were few truths she did not already know, and fewer still she dared not uncover.

For a brief, icy moment, Celeste felt a knot of fear tighten in her chest.

Yvain had gone alone into the presence of a being who saw too much. Who might weigh his soul on a scale and find it wanting.

Celeste clenched her jaw, the wind catching in her cloak as she stared up at the tower's impossible height.