Paragon of Destruction

"Wake up!"

It took Arran a few moments to gather his wits. When he opened his eyes, he saw that dusk was only barely beginning to fall. Yet although only a few hours could have passed, he felt as if he had spent an entire night fast asleep.

Brightblade was standing next to the hot spring, looking at him with a raised eyebrow. "You shouldn’t sleep in there," she said. "You could drown."

Arran responded with an annoyed glare. A moment earlier, he’d been immersed in dreams of treasures and palaces, and being pulled back into the real world so suddenly was far from pleasant.

Yet Brightblade had no sympathy to spare. "Put on some clothes," she said. "We have matters to discuss, and little time."

As she turned around and walked away, Arran let out a deep yawn, then stretched out his body. He really did feel as if he had slept an entire night — perhaps even several.

After dressing himself he headed into the gardens, where Brightblade had already found a comfortable wooden chair on the patio.

"Take a seat," she said. "I’ve put up wards, so we can speak freely."

Arran did as she said, and as he sat down, Brightblade looked at him with an uncharacteristically serious expression.

"To answer your first question," she said, not giving him the chance to actually ask it, "my real name is indeed Dao Liang Jie. Snowcloud and I are distant cousins, which is one of the reasons the Patriarch entrusted me with her safety."

Arran nodded thoughtfully, not entirely surprised by the revelation.

Brightblade had already said as much when they first met Grandmaster Solin in the House of Swords, and although her words had contained more than a little deception at the time, the best lies were those grounded in truth.

"What about you and the Matriarch?" he asked. "What’s the history between you two?"

"It’s a long story," Brightblade answered. "But the short of it is that my father was Fourth Valley’s Patriarch, and Rhea was his student. When he was killed, I called upon her to help avenge him." She paused, then said in a cold tone, "She didn’t come."

It took Arran a moment to process all of this. "I’m sorry," he finally said. "About your father."

"I’m all right," she replied. "I’ve had a few centuries to get over it." She smiled wryly, then said, "Though if anyone ever tells you that time heals all wounds, they’re lying."

Arran couldn’t help but agree with her. Years had passed since his father had died, but even if the pain had dulled, the wound was still there. "Did you get the people who killed him?"

"I did," Brightblade said with a nod. "I had help, of course — Elder Naran, the Sixth Valley’s Patriarch, and several others aided me. None of those responsible escaped with their lives."

"Who were they?" Though Arran could tell that the subject was not one that Brightblade wanted to discuss at length, he could not help but wonder what enemies could have been strong enough to kill a Patriarch.

"They called themselves the Immortal Horde," she said, her expression one of utter contempt as she uttered the name. "An army of mages, several hundreds of thousands strong. They murdered a path halfway across the world before they came upon the Shadowflame Society."

Arran tried and failed to imagine what an army of hundreds of thousands of mages would look like. His brow creased in thought, he asked, "You killed them all?"

"I exterminated them like the vermin they were," Brightblade confirmed. "But enough about the past. We should discuss the future — your future, specifically."

Briefly, Arran gazed at the shadow-filled gardens around them. Between his unexpected promotion, the vast mansion, and Brightblade’s background, it had been easy to forget that the day’s events would have lasting consequences.

When he turned his eyes back to Brightblade, he felt some trepidation at what was to come. "What does she want?"

If the Matriarch wanted to train him, her motivation surely wasn’t a passion for magic. There had to be something behind it — something she valued, either for herself or for the Valley.

For several seconds, Brightblade remained silent, as if she was deciding whether or not to tell the truth. Finally, she spoke, a severity in her voice that told Arran the matter was an important one.

"She believes you have the potential to become a Patriarch. And she intends to make sure you fulfill that potential."

"A Patriarch?" Arran looked at Brightblade wide-eyed, disbelief written across his face. "She’s insane. I’m barely even a mage."

"You have an unusual talent for seals and formations," Brightblade said. "And in protecting the Valleys, these things matter more than magical skill. A single formation can hold back an entire army — several of them, if its creator is especially gifted."

"But I’m an initiate," Arran countered. "Even if I’m talented, it will be decades before I can do anything useful."

Brightblade nodded. "Correct. But to Rhea, you’re a lump of raw iron, to be forged into steel. And she will do so mercilessly. If the pressure breaks you or you fail to meet her expectations, she will discard you as easily as she found you. But if you persist, your strength will grow with leaps and bounds."

Arran looked at Brightblade curiously. "It sounds like you approve."

"I do," Brightblade replied flatly. "Up to a point. A single outstanding mage is worth a thousand mediocre ones, and if you can endure her methods, they will offer you a path to excellence."

"And if I can’t?" Arran asked. He wasn’t worried about buckling under the pressure, but whether his talent would suffice was another matter.

"Then I’ll help you find a different path." Brightblade said with a shrug. "Rhea’s weakness has always been her quickness in casting away anything with even the hint of a flaw. Should she do that with you, the loss will be hers."

At this, Arran shot Brightblade a grateful smile. Even if she hadn’t been a frighteningly powerful mage, her loyalty would make her a friend worth having.

"But I suggest that you try your hardest to benefit from her teachings," Brightblade continued. "The Society faces many threats, some of them far beyond anything you have encountered so far."

"Like the Depths?" Arran asked, remembering what Elder Niklas had told him earlier that day.

At once, Brightblade’s expression turned serious. "Who told you about that?"

Arran hurriedly explained what the Elder had shown him earlier that day, and as he spoke, a scowl formed on Brightblade’s face.

"Those utter fools," she said when he finished. "Show me this dungeon, right away."

When they entered the mansion, Arran found that there was something disquieting about it now that it stood empty. Although their steps echoed through the quiet hallways as they headed toward the staircase to the dungeon, the rest of the building seemed unnaturally quiet.

But although the quiet made him uncomfortable, he quickly dismissed the feeling. After having faced an actual dragon, he could hardly let himself be frightened by a quiet house.

Once they reached the dungeon, Brightblade immediately hurried toward the staircase leading further down, coming to a halt about ten paces from it. For several minutes she stood there silently, a look of concentration on her face while her eyes remained fixed on the stone staircase before her.

Finally, she turned around again. "It’s safe," she said in a relieved voice. "The wards are strong enough to keep anything from coming up."

"What’s down there?" Arran asked, his curiosity sparked.

"Danger," she replied curtly. "And for you, death."

Arran furrowed his brow, remembering the path into the mountains at Brightblade’s estate. "Does it have anything to do with that warded path at your estate?"

"It does," she confirmed. "But for now, that’s all you need to know. I’ll explain it in due time."

"And when will that be?" Arran asked, his curiosity not at all satisfied by her sparse replies.

"When you’re ready to become an adept," she said. "But until then, don’t even think about coming near these stairs." She looked around as she spoke, only now seeming to notice her surroundings. "The rest of this place, however... that will come in useful. Unless I’m sorely mistaken, this dungeon should shield you from any prying eyes."

"Then I can use my Destruction Realm here?"

Brightblade hesitated briefly before giving him a nod. "It should be safe enough, as long as you’re the only one around. Of course, whether you’ll have the time once your training starts is another matter."

They headed back up the stairs as they spoke, yet when they arrived in the mansion proper, they found it was no longer silent. A large number of voices could be heard coming from the main hallway, and they quickly made their way toward the source of the commotion.

When they stepped into the main hallway, Arran saw that it was filled with people, fifty if not more.

"There you are," a voice sounded, and the mage who’d accompanied Arran to the mansion stepped forward from the crowd.

"These," he said, gesturing at the crowd, "are your new guards and servants."

Arran stared at the group in confusion. There wasn’t a single woman among them. All were men, and more than a few looked like bandits or mercenaries rather than servants. Had he encountered the group anywhere else, he would have taken them for a band of raiders.

"These are the servants you found me?" he asked, feeling more than a little puzzled as he eyed the men before him.

"You have a busy time ahead of you," the mage replied, his expression flat. "I made sure not to include anyone who might prove a distraction."

As Arran gave the man a bewildered stare, Brightblade burst into laughter.

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