Luke Chmilenko
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Starbreaker: Volume 3 - Chapter 39
🕑 Added 2025-05-27 16:00:04 +0000 UTC“It is the simplest thing to say that one must persevere through all adversity but a far harder thing to do so. Even the bravest heart knows fear, and even the most hopeful among us has felt the sting of despair. Defeating despair and rising again is the challenge we all face, day after day. There are bad things in the universe, but surviving them and thriving is possible.”
—On Hope, Elenya Starweaver
He didn’t stir until the grinding gears of the opening door awoke him. The najash who stepped through looked entirely different from any that Sylvas had encountered before. Where the others had horns, this one had frills like a fish, and where the others had been a single color across all their scales, this one seemed to be pearlescent over a pale blue-green, with different colors dancing across her scales as the light caught her from different angles. Like an oil slick on water. She also lacked the distinctive white uniform of the Ardent, clad instead in a simple, dark robe. “I am Inquisitor Caymar. I have been informed that you are going to be compliant. Is that the case?”
Sylvas swiveled around to sit up in the bed, resisting the urge to jump to his feet like he would have if an officer had come strolling in. “I’ll do whatever it takes to clear my name.”
“Good. Then all you need to do is nothing. Any attempt at resistance or guiding my search, helpfully or not, will lead to pain. It will not be comfortable, but I will work to make this a swift process, nonetheless. I have allotted two days to this task, by the end of which I will have determined the truth, manufactured a full record of your memories for perusal by the council, and ascertained your loyalties without question.”
The automated defenses around the room abruptly went limp, all the glowing sigils set on them to indicate that they were active fading to darkness. Then the Inquisitor cast. Sylvas braced himself for the intrusion into his mind, remembering the clumsy assaults that he’d suffered at the hands of Malachai’s pet mind-mage, but the sensation did not come. Because the najash was actually just pulling a chair out of cold storage and setting it down in front of where Sylvas sat on the bed.
Once she’d gotten herself comfortable, she reached out her clawed hands to rest a pair of fingers on each of his temples. It felt more than a little uncomfortable to have anyone so close to him, but he supposed she was going to be a lot closer in just a moment. Magic thrummed around her. “Some establishing questions.”
He tried to nod, then realized his mistake. “Ask away.”
“Your name,” she spoke in an oddly soothing voice, nowhere near as antagonistic as any of the other najash Sylvas had ever come across. The hint of a growl usually discernable in the species’ voice became warmth in hers.
At least this was an easy question. “Sylvas Vail.”
“Your planet of origin.”
“Croesia.” He tried not to picture his last memories of the world, just in case she was already looking at his thoughts.
“Your affinity.”
He recalled the wrecked affinity testing chamber with a hint of a smile on his lips. “Gravity.”
“Your best friend.”
“Kaya Runemaul.” He was surprised at how easily the answer to that had come, too. Mira had been a sort of friend when he was younger, but with the Ardent, he had actually found friendship.
“Your greatest enemy.”
For a moment, his mind flashed through all of the people he’d ever contended with before settling on the obvious truth. “Eidolons.”
“Your favorite song.”
That one brought him up short. “I… don’t listen to music.”
“Very well. We seem to be calibrated. Let us begin.”
If the clumsy intrusions of the mind-mage who followed Malachai had been like a battering ram trying to bring down the walls of his defenses, this mage’s assault was more like a surgeon’s knife slitting him open. The shock was less, but the pain was more. He let out a gasp, despite himself, and then the chill of the blade left him stunned into silence as the Inquisitor dug deep into his memories. The battle down on Strife, the eidolons and the arena, the moment when he realized what he was drawing power from, the disgust and the fear. Malachai blinded by his chance to prove himself. The necessity of using the power.
Digging deeper. The feeling of drawing power from the eidolon, the passing sensation of its life force draining into him, and the sensation of it crumbling apart as he drew in too much.
Digging deeper. The moment that the eidolon died. The moment of feeling its pain and weakness before breaking off the connection. The destabilization as their connection was broken.
Digging deeper. The mana flowing through him. The pure etherium filling him up. The smooth passage of his own mana through the etherium—the perfect conductor for it.
Sylvas was drenched with sweat after that first trip down memory lane, and the Inquisitor showed no signs of giving him a moment’s rest after her mind had slipped back out of his. Instead, she just seemed to be choosing where to place the next incision.
Croesia burning. Back further. Croesia as it had once been. The orphanage. Cold nights. Raining blows. Hunger burning so deep he never thought he’d escape it. The dim recollection of the scent of his mother, milk and cotton and warmth and safety. The cold of the arms that used to cradle him. The cracking as they were pried off his tiny form.
Sylvas tried to pull away from the pain, but it was as though the Inquisitor was looking through his eyes, with one clawed hand locked around the back of his head to keep it pointed in the direction that she wanted it.
A blur of the passing years. The Heralds of the Hollow Heart. Life slowing to a crawl as every document he could recall was reviewed in front of his face. Every instruction he’d ever received. Every word of praise. Every spark of hope. The great lie. The promise that he’d make tomorrow better. That he’d heal the world. That he was its savior. His stomach turned as he remembered it, and he bucked against the Inquisitor’s control once more, trying to look away, trying not to remember what he had done. What he had become.
Reliving the night that Croesia died was easier than he ever could have anticipated, but he supposed it was because he’d seen it so many times, replayed in his memories again and again and again. Still, there was a unique discomfort in everything slowing to a crawl every time that his eyes crossed a line of Aion script inscribed on the ground. Not just discomfort. Pain. Every time that the Inquisitor used his mind to focus closely on any detail of this memory, it was like there was a burning needle being pressed into his brain. It had been there in the previous memories, too, but it had been dulled like he had been number before a drill was driven into him, but now she seemed to have abandoned all attempts at keeping him from being hurt.
When he bucked against her now, it wasn’t because she was intruding on some painful memory he didn’t want to relive, it was his instinct for self-preservation kicking in. Every time she focused on any part of a memory it seared him, and even returning to the broader picture of the memory as a whole didn’t relieve that pain. The ache remained, growing worse with each pause, each moment zoomed in on some line of script or another. His mind was entirely in her hands now. She had burrowed deep enough inside his head that there was no way to force her out, no matter how he tried to resist or push back, and she was using that helplessness to hurt him.
By the time she finally stopped, Sylvas’ slate informed him it was early evening. At some point throughout the proceedings, he had convulsed off the bed and onto the floor, and now she was perched over him like a carrion bird on a carcass. Her hands were still pressed to either side of his face, even as he slipped back to awareness. The pain did not fade. It should have. The knife had been drawn from the wound, and it should have been closing back up, but after a day of being beaten, twisted, and tormented, the elasticity of his mind was gone. He had no idea how long it would take to return, because he had no idea of anything. He couldn’t even speak as the slurred noises he made when the Inquisitor rose to her feet proved.
She didn’t smile, as najash lacked the necessary lips, but there was a degree of self-satisfaction in her voice when she purred, “We are finished for today. I shall return in the morning to conclude our session. I hope that you sleep well.”
He could answer with nothing more than a groan. Even that made his brain quake within his skull and his agony climb to new heights.
For an hour or more, he lay there on the cold metal floor of the chamber, unable to control his body well enough to move. His limbs felt like they were filled with static. As for his mind, he couldn’t even consider the damage that she’d done to it while rifling through it as if it were a book. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he managed to push himself up enough to get a grip on the side of the cot and drag himself up. A meal had been delivered at some point during his torture, but just the thought of trying to eat was unbearable. The defenses had reactivated after the inquisitor left, but Sylvas had no idea when and how long whoever was behind the scrying spells had just watched him lying there, helpless.
He couldn’t go through another day. Not if it hurt like that. He wasn’t strong enough to endure it. Even now, just trying to glimpse his own memories was like reaching a hand out towards a hot stove.
Staying in the moment was the only solution. The past was filled with acid and the future full of dread, but if he stayed focused only on where he was and what he was doing right now, he could do what he needed to do. With numb fingers, he fumbled at the crest still pinned to his chest until he managed to pluck it off. He couldn’t think about why he didn’t want to be wearing it. Just thinking about it would be enough to invite interference.
What are you doing?
The next part was going to hurt, but he could endure it if he meant he didn’t have to undergo another day like today. He didn’t have to reach back into his memories too far, not to the burning core of agony that was his distant past. All he had to do was reach back to after he’d learned of his affinity. The Gravity Spike spell had been the first one that he’d learned, and while it hurt now to recall the words, to recall the spell form that he’d have to make to cast it, he would endure this small hurt to avoid the greater one to come. He opened his mouth to start casting, but that damned voice from the back of his head came yelling at him again.
If you try to cast, then they will kill you. It is all automated, you know this.
I… know.
He opened his mouth to speak the words that would set him free, but Mira seized control, clamping his jaw shut, biting off the tip of his tongue.
Stop what you are doing.
He had to die. It was the only way to make this end. All of his friends would be safe from whatever monster he secretly was. It was the best thing he could do.
You are not a monster, and you do not need to die. It is a little pain. You’ve done worse to yourself before. Remember.
Remembering hurt. He could not remember anything unless he was willing to endure the same suffering he’d been dragged through all day. The severed tip of his tongue was still trapped between his lips, and his mouth was beginning to fill with blood, but it wasn’t enough of a wound to do anything but annoy him. Already he could feel the rune he’d drawn upon it flare to life, and in less than a minute, the tongue would be completely healed.
Wait. Just wait. Give me a moment to think.
Thinking hurt, too. Every moment that he was alive, he was suffering. Why wouldn’t she just let him finish it? Why wouldn’t she let him escape the pain?
Because this isn’t you. This isn’t who you are, darling. If someone hurts you, you fight back. If you’re in an impossible situation, you do the impossible to break out. Giving up is not your forte.
This was not giving up, it was making a choice. He could choose misery and pain, followed by judgment and execution, or he could leave the universe on his own terms.
Give me time, give me time to look, to see what’s happened.
She won. She broke him. Vaelith had tried and failed. Sure, she’d shattered him to pieces, but he’d survived it. But the inquisitor had finally done what no one else could.
The inquisitor has done something to make you this way. You would never give up, Sylvas Vail. Not if the whole universe was set against you. I know you better than you know yourself right now, so trust in me when I say, this is not the end, darling.
Let it be the end, he thought back to her, mind quivering.
There is something here, something that isn’t you. I just need time to dig it out. Will you please just stop fighting me for one bloody moment?
Let me die.
I will. I promise you. You’ve endured so much, darling. Just endure for a few moments more until I know this is really you, and then I’ll turn off your heart myself. How does that sound?
Please. Sylvas tried to close his fumbling hands around his own throat, but they had no strength. Please.
Alright, darling, let’s just switch off your pain receptors for now… and that did nothing. Interesting bypass there. One moment, please.
Let me die, Mira. He could barely think through the pain. He wasn’t even anywhere near to his memories, but the burning wouldn’t cease. I let you die. You should… I deserve the same.
So we have a loop of the worst pain you’ve ever experienced being replayed from your eidetic memory. That is a novel use for it. I can’t edit the memories, for obvious reasons, but I believe that if we keep pushing in deeper…
Convulsions wracked Sylvas’ body, shaking him off the bed to land once more on the cold grate floor, his face pressed to the rusted iron. No. Mira. No!
And here we have the barb, hooked deep in your consciousness and folding your pain over the top to protect itself. Very clever work from this inquisitor. If we weren’t going to kill her for this, it would be a delight to pick her brain.
No more killing. No more revenge. Just let it end, Mira, please.
And hidden under that particular fold of memory we have the suicidal ideation that she implanted. It’s buried in deep, right alongside the foundations of your personality. If any other mind mage came poking around with you flailing in pain, they wouldn’t have a hope of finding it. What luck that you happen to have your own personal genius on board who is more familiar with your own thoughts than you are.
Kill me. Let me die. Let me... please—
So let’s just remove that for starters.
Sylvas froze. He was still wracked with agony, still desperate for escape from it, but now there seemed to be other options than death. Mira?
Just working on the barb now. Don’t fret so much, darling.
He pushed himself up onto his knees, grappling with the infernal cot for some purchase and gritting his bloodied teeth together. Someone just planted a time bomb in my brain, and you’re telling me not to worry about it?
Well of course you shouldn’t worry about it, I’ve already defused it. And now…
The pain cut out with such abruptness that Sylvas almost passed out. There was an echoing hollow inside him where the pain belonged, and now there was nothing at all. He was free. He was… angry.
She…she tried to kill me! Sylvas thought with a barely contained rage, the thought causing his vision to turn nearly red. It hadn’t even been a day since he’d been locked away here, since he discovered what he could do, and already people were sharpening their knives to get at him.
He rose to his feet, and all the automated defenses in the room locked onto him as power flooded through his body. I’m going to kill her.
Not if you’re blasted into space.
His hands were shaking. She… she took my most private moments. She took—
Everything she was meant to take. But the question isn’t what she took, it is who she took it for.
The Ardent… Sylvas’ full capability for thought was only slowly creeping back, the way that it had when he was recovering from splitting his mind.
Oh yes, she did her due diligence by filing away copies of everything they’d consider relevant on her little slate. But think about what she took us through. The rest of what she was searching for went far beyond anything they’d need to prove you’re innocent.
That means the… ritual. The summoning. A spike of fear ran through Sylvas. She wanted to know how to summon a—
No. Outside of the Empyrean, that knowledge is clearly commonplace. Which means that her interest was less in how you successfully cast the spell, and more in how specifically you failed. So that your capabilities might be replicated in someone else.
You think it was the failed ritual, the spell trapped inside me.
No, darling, we’ve been through this. I’m you. You think that the interrupted ritual is what caused all this. I personally believe that it is more likely the interplay between your affinity, your cycling method, and the scarring, along with the Arterium Arcanum allowing the mana and the failed spell to lodge inside you to begin with. This makes you considerably more difficult to replicate, by my guess, given the rarity of essentially every element that makes you up. If the inquisitor continues with her progress tomorrow so that her understanding encompasses more than the very beginning of your journey, she is liable to come to the same conclusion.
The inquisitor. Sylvas shuddered at the thought of her. What am I going to do about her?
Do about her? Darling, you’re going to be a good little boy and sit while she rifles through your brain. Doing anything else will make you look guilty in front of the Empyrean.
But she’s trying to kill me.
Then she will have to get through me first.
