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Throne Hunters Book 4, Chapter 23
🕑 Added 2025-06-02 15:00:16 +0000 UTCChapter 23
“Wait,” said Sam, stepping forward even as Seraphina clasped her arm and arrested her progress. “I—don’t harm him!”
The huge angel ignored Sam’s plea. Though its visage was blank and gray and inhuman, Harald could sense its focus, the pressure of its regard as it clamped him down once more in place.
Deep breath. It took all his presence of mind to not quail, to not fall forward on his knees and bend his brow to the obsidian flagstones. Instead, breathing shallowly through his blood encrusted nostrils, Harald raised his chin though it felt like his soul was creaking, breaking as he did so.
“It’s all right, Sam.” His voice was a rasp. “If there’s to be an accounting, I don’t think there’s anyone more qualified.”
With a grunt Kársek rose to his feet. Sam’s Guardian’s Mantle bathed him in soft radiance, but there was simply too much work to be done; Kársek shuffled forward, one leg turned inward, his back hunched against the pain. A network of deeply carved wrinkles were newly entrenched in his face, but shining in the dwarf’s eyes was nothing less than complete resolve.
Step by shuffling he approached, till at last he stood beside Harald, stooped, near broken, unbreakable. “What judgment you lay upon my tharkûn will be placed upon me, too.” His rune hammer blazed into existence in his strong hands, so that he rested its head between his boots, both hands on the pommel. “Do as your conscience bids, elendil.”
The giant angel canted his featureless gray head to one side, as if considering Kársek from another angel, and then his great slate blue wings stirred as he began drifting slowly through the air toward them both.
Your loyalty and fearlessness are commendable, dwarf. Your character vouchsafes your tharkûn’s honor. This is not of no account. But the Demon Seed within your master’s Cosmos feeds upon his uthmara. It empowers his varnakra even as it hollows him out. The terminus of this trajectory is his tharkûn’s using his fyrzund as a leash, with Harald reduced to an elemental force of amoral power.
Kársek blanched.
But this is not foreordained. It is merely the way it has always been.
“I won’t succumb,” said Harald. “I won’t.”
So you believe. The angel raised his gauntlet palm-up and Harald found himself levitating gently off the ground, the strange tensions and indications of damage lessening as he came to hover before the angel. You have earned the faith of Samantha Tuppins and this DreadRune. No mean feat for a corrupted soul. Do you truly wish a chance to walk the lighted path?
“I do,” croaked Harald. He felt helpless, a scruffed kitten, his Thrones a million miles away, his Artifacts, his Servitors, his tricks and Abilities little more than ashes in his mouth. And in that moment exhaustion struck him, a spiritual wasteland that came from striving so hard for so long. From fleeing endlessly and forevermore before the lash of Insatiable Void, his Demon Seed’s bequeathal.
For how long had he fought? Only a handful of months, but suddenly it felt like years. Fencing, lifting weights, running, fighting, delving, politicking, fighting Yeoric, fending off political opponents, Thracos, monsters upon ranks of monsters, humans upon bloodied regiments of humanity.
Always hungry for more. Always needing to accomplish the impossible. But now, here, in the angel’s radiant aura, he felt that insatiable hunger fall away and leave him weak and worn in its wake.
“I do,” he whispered again, not even knowing whether he was asking for something or simply begging to be believed. “I wish to protect the weak. I wish to save Flutic. I wish… I wish to be of service. To help.”
The angel gestured anew, and Vic lifted off the ground from the far side of the room to float across and hang beside Harald.
“My turn, is it?” Vic’s blond hair hung before his glittering eyes, and he stared fearlessly at the angel. “You going to judge me?”
If you wish it.
“The alternative?”
Destruction.
Vic pretended to consider, but there was no humor in his features. “Oh, well, since it’s a convenient time for you, why not? Because I wouldn’t want to presume you’d remain interested in me or those like me for more than a moment, would I?”
“Vic,” warned Sam.
“Look at you. All big and puffed up in your fancy armor. All your power. And for what?” Vic’s head lolled back in the same manner it did when he was the worse for drink, his smile supercilious, mocking, despairing. “You’re fighting for the Fallen Angel, but where were you when we needed you? Me and mine, those like me, the endless idiots and fools who’ve fought and loved and died on the streets above? The souls warped by despair and hunger, ignorance and pain, envy and greed? Oh no, we’re not important enough to warrant your time. You could have appeared in the City Council and set matters straight, ordered the poor to be better taken care of, but did that ever occur to you? No. Of course not. You were too busy, I’m sure, fighting your crusade in the belly of the beast. What do scum like myself count for in that grand conflict? Nothing.”
Alabenthos said nothing.
“But now that you’ve got a spare moment, go ahead. Tell me how I’ve failed. All my sins. Tell me how weak I am, how base and pathetic. How I should have turned away from Eclavistra, should have been better, more pure, more righteous. Tell me how I fall short of your impossible standards. Destroy me, cast me aside, and return to your holy war.” Vic turned his head and spat. “See if I fucking care. You self-righteous holier-than-thou juggernaut of hypocritical purity.”
Seraphina took a rapid step forward, looking as if she were about to break into a sprint, only to check herself at the last moment.
Still the angel simply regarded Vic, unperturbed, serene, impersonal, magisterial.
You are a flawed vessel. Cracked and self-pitying. Pain drives you on, but pain can only ever be a second rate engine. If you depend on it, you shall falter and fall. Then shall your goals twist, then shall you warp that which you seek to protect, and pull down that which you seek to ennoble. Eclavistra’s influence shall grow, and one day you shall be intolerant, brilliant, murderous, monstruous, inhuman. Exactly the same as that which you accuse me of being.
“Pah,” sneered Vic. “If I’m cracked, it’s because I was receiving knocks to the head from the moment I could open my eyes. If I’m driven by pain, it’s because that’s the only coin to be found in the streets. Save your sermons. I am who I am, and regret not a single fucking thing.”
You lie. But just how deep goes the rot? Let us see.
Even as Vic began to protest, he floated forth so that his face pressed against the angel’s upraised armored palm. His fingers closed about Vic’s head, and golden light blazed forth from between the fingers.
Vic screamed.
Harald startled, helpless, furious, overwhelmed. Should he fling the Goldchops, should he—?
But it was over as quickly as it began. Vic fell back, gasping, eyes startled wide and darting sightlessly from side to side.
There is yet a yearning for something better within your soul. A spar of light thrusting up from the mire. For that, and the company that yet believes in you, I shall spare your life.
Now. Harald.
Before Harald could protest, he flew forth and the angel’s gauntlet closed about his palm.
His sense of self was akin to a glass dome struck by a golden mallet. Cracks shivered across the curvature of his spirit, and then the mallet swung again and all shattered into fragments.
His life poured forth.
Memories, forgotten and familiar. Darrowdelve Manor, weeds pushing up between the paving stones, clouds streaming blood red at sunset. The shrieks of his laughter as he ran through the long grass, his father chasing him and mock growling. Fireflies rising from the moor on that one childhood trip he took with his parents outside the city. The taste of lavandash cream and honied nuts. The sweet fiery burn of lust at the sight of Nessa lost to her fiddle playing, Vic’s goading, the first woman he lay with, whose name he’d thought gone to time but which came back now, fresh and a brand: Elizabet. Drunken evenings, stumbled walks home, the wasted mornings. Dust accumulating on windowsills. Sam’s bustling presence in the kitchen, the sound of her drawing water from the well, the soul aching solitude of those long mornings when he lay in bed, alone, lost, unsure as to what to make of his life.
A life drowned in narcissism, his youthful ideals strangled by doubt, his irresolute nature, his vulnerabilities, his self-loathing.
Vorakhar.
Laughter as he sparred with Sam. Anna’s hair burnished bright in the light of the auction house lanterns. The feel of the Dawnblade in his palm. The Dungeon Plaza at dawn. How good a cup of water could taste after a two Bell run. The first person he killed, that sentry. Gorkin. Love. Lust. Madness. Murder.
But coursing through it all a central hope, a yearning resolve, a burning oath that was his most precious memory: his mother listening to him fondly as he contemplated the long grass, wooden sword in hand, her gently probing questions having pushed him to a realization:
“ I want to be so strong that one day, if the world needs it, I’ll be there, ready to save it. I’ll… I’ll say, ‘It’s all right. Don’t worry. I’m here.’ And then I’ll… I’ll do whatever I need to do to protect everyone.”
His soul cracked like a desiccated gourd and emotion overflowed. Yes. That was still what he desired. At his heart, at his core, to take care of his friends, to take care of the people of Flutic, to defeat evil, to confound greed and sadism, to stop men like Thracos and Gorkin, to liberate the poor, to elevate those who could not defend themselves against the Vorakhar’s of the world.
Alabenthos released Harald and he fell back to sink to the ground beside Vic, who had propped himself up to glare at the angel.
In you, too, remains a spar of light. If you wish it, if you think yourselves true, I shall bequeath unto you an Endowment that shall countermand the Demon Seed’s influence.
“Not remove it?” asked Vic.
The consequences of my directly undoing the handiwork of the Primary Demons is more far reaching than you understand. But I may nuance the damage they seek to do. If you ask for it.
Vic laughed. “Because if we don’t you’ll disintegrate us where we sit?”
The angel made no reply.
Harald took a ragged breath and sat up. “I wish it.”
“Vic,” whispered Nessa from where she’d lain still all this time. “You must.”
“I must nothing.” Vic raked his hair back. “But I can choose. And… I have no wish to remain Eclavistra’s plaything. If you’ve a gift to give, go right ahead. I make no promises.”
Alabenthos lowered his arm and began to float back. So be it. A blaze of light flashed before Harald’s eyes, and he felt his Cosmos tremble. It is done.
His friends were watching him intently, but Harald didn’t feel anything different. Taking a deep breath, he dove into his Cosmos, sinking deeper, ever deeper into his essence until the world was gone and replaced by his inner sanctum.
There hung the Demon Seed, no longer hidden in the shadows, whorled and marked like the pit of a peach, black and fibrous and enmeshed with his very soul.
The Goldchops, Death’s Proxy, and Chyron’s Scourge hung in the air, resplendent. To one side stood his twin Shadow Knights, immobile, inanimate. Shadowpaw paced as ever, but now he regarded his master with clear concern.
But there was a new item in his Cosmos.
A tiny speck of light, a burning mote, which burned with iridescent hues as if it were fueled by the essence of a rainbow and gave off platinum gold light as a result.
Harald approached, heart in his throat. It was beautiful and somehow terrible at the same time.
It was no Artifact. He couldn’t provoke it to display a description. Instead, he summoned his Window and looked to the Endowments.
Endowments: Demon Seed, Mote of Humility
What the hell?
A burning need to learn more filled him and he opened his eyes, returning to the dungeon chamber. The huge form of the angel yet loomed above them all. Thank the Fallen Angel, Harald had feared he’d be gone.
“What is it? Mote of Humility?” He tried not to sound scared. “What does it do?”
The Demon Seed urges you to power at any cost. The Mote of Humility allows you to bestow another with immunity to your powers. To them you shall be as helpless as a human child.
“Well, that’s a terrible Endowment.” Vic sniffed and wiped his sleeve across his nose. “Why the hell would we do that?”
I depart. Seraphina, bring your chosen.
“Wait,” said Nessa, voice hoarse with strain. “Before you go. We have something we need to give you.”
“We absolutely don’t need to do anything,” hissed Vic.
“The Twilight Crown.” Nessa rose to sway. She looked haggard and brutalized, her eyes wide, her lips bloodless. “We… we came to the Dungeon to entrust it to you. We… please. You have to take it.”
Alabenthos considered Nessa, then, with unerring certainty, turned to Vic.
Who all but snarled as he withdrew.
This Artifact belongs in Flutic.
And with those words, the blue and white portal flared about the great angel, consuming him.
Then he was gone.
Nessa sank to her knees, eyes brimming with tears.
“Come,” said Seraphina, tone at once firm yet kind. “Sam. There is much for you to learn.”
“I can’t leave my friends,” she protested.
“In time you shall return to them if you desire. But now you need to come with me.”
Sam glanced at the blue portal then back to Harald, clearly torn.
“Go,” croaked Harald. “We’ll be all right. You need this, Sam. It’s the right thing to do.”
“I…” Sam grimaced and then bowed her head. “All right. I’ll come back. I swear it.”
Seraphina raised her hands and crossed the Eclipse Edges over her head. They flashed and were gone. She glanced at Vic and Harald one last time, expression conflicted, then passed through the portal and was gone.
“You’ve earned this,” said Nessa, tone hollowed out.
“You have,” agreed Kársek, and his smile was rough and ready. “Go with the angels, Sam.”
Tears stood out in her eyes. “I’ll be back. I won’t be long.”
“See you soon, darling.” Vic fell back and draped his arm over his eyes. “Don’t worry, I don’t plan to do anything for at least a week.”
Harald forced himself upright and staggered forward to half-fall into Sam’s arms. She moved to embrace him, and they hugged tightly. He squeezed her hard, pressed his face into her neck, and for a moment they stood thus. His chest expanded as if his heart would burst, couldn’t hope to contain the upswell of emotion, and when he drew back he couldn’t help but smile. “I love you, Sam. Go do what you need to do.”
She laughed helplessly, dashed the tears from her eyes, and then stepped in to kiss him full on the lips. She kissed him hard, then stepped back. “I love you too, Harald.”
He stared, taken aback, but then she stepped through the portal and was gone.
The portal slimmed, slenderized, and then was gone.
“I need a smoke,” said Kársek, patting his pockets.
“I need some glory,” said Nessa, voice hoarse, then buried her face in her hands.
“Oh, Nessa, darling, my apologies. Here.” Vic summoned the Crown from his Cosmos and tossed it carelessly over to her.
She snatched it eagerly from the air then froze, regarding it with something akin to distaste. Then, slowly, almost unwillingly, she placed it on her brow, only to sigh in relief, expression clearing. A moment later the Aureate Master appeared on her arm and her presence radiated out to fill the chamber.
In the wake of the angel it was only mildly mind-meltingingly powerful, but Harald found himself unable to look away, the tempest raging in his breast momentarily quieting at the wonder of her beauty and poise and regal air.
“I’ll step away for a moment,” she said quietly, and rose to enter the recessed stairwell that rose up to the balconies.
“Anna?” Harald turned about, searching for the countess and saw her lying still against the wall. “Oh shit.” He ran to her side, dropped to his knees, but was immediately relieved. Her complexion was healthy, her breathing steady. Sam’s healing aura had no doubt been working on her all the while, enough at least that she looked to be in no danger.
“Harald, darling, did you see what happened to that sack of wine bottles I was carrying before?”
Harald laughed. “I think we lost track of it somewhere along the way.”
“Well, fuck.” Vic sighed and cast about. “Why couldn’t this have been a wine cellar?”
“Vic.” Harald rose and made his way over. “You have the same Mote of Humility?”
“Of course. Wretched gift. I was hoping for a demon slaying sword or something. Honestly.” Vic pushed his way over to the wall and sagged against it. “Why would anyone give someone else complete power over them? Is it a sexual thing? I know some folks who love being bossed around.”
“No, I don’t think it’s like that,” said Harald dryly. “I…” He sat down next to Vic. “There has to be a reason to it.” His thoughts were turgid. “I mean, the Demon Seed drives us to acquire power at all times, right?” He considered. “My father warned me about it. He said I wouldn’t be able to survive without friends. Maybe this is something along those lines. A more radical version?”
Kársek was packing his pipe. “If this Endowment forces you to remain vulnerable to someone, it stops you from becoming self sufficient. Moreover, you need to pick who’ll have that power, correct?”
“Correct?” Harald considered. “What’s your point?”
“You must pick who will have the power of life and death over you. Would you pick someone strong, or cruel, or evil?”
“Oh,” said Vic. “How cute. We’ll be driven to pick the sweetest person we know so they won’t push us around.”
“Right,” said Vic. “I’d never pick, I don’t know, Lady Celestis. Instead I’d pick you or Sam.”
“Or me,” said Vic.
Harald pointedly said nothing.
“Whereas I wouldn’t pick anyone.” Vic passed his hand over his face. “What an asinine idea.”
“If you pick Sam or myself, you’ll have given true power to your best friends,” agreed Kársek. “And will know that you can’t exist despite us. It is a means to bind us together.”
Harald nodded slowly. “A way to ensure one of you always remains a part of my life. And I can’t turn against you, or turn completely evil, because it’ll just impel you to put me down.”
Kársek put away his now dangerously slim herbal pouch. “Correct. It is a means of remaining vulnerable, humble, yourself. Whomever you select will become an anchor point in your life. You discard them or offend them or turn them against you at your mortal peril.”
“So we don’t pick anyone,” said Vic. “That was easy. So. What’s for lunch?”
Harald rubbed his thumb over his lips. I love you, too. He couldn’t translate his racing emotions into something he could understand. Had she been carried away by the intensity of the emotion? No. There was no denying the urgency behind that kiss. But—Sam? She was everything to him, she was his sister, his best friend, the best person he knew—and yes, he was painfully aware of how gorgeous she’d become ever since seizing her power, how physically attractive, her—her athletic frame, and her—
Harald pinched the bridge of his nose. Wasn’t she supposed to be figuring out her own identity and independence before trying to—what?
His thoughts whirled around and around, but one truth was self evident and at the very core of his knowledge: Samantha Tuppins was the person he’d bestow the power of the Mote of Humility on, and nobody else.
Comments
Phil Tucker
No worries, 100% not going to become a harem. Might tighten the story up in the revision, but for now it's just a lot of emotions under life and death circumstances.
Ujjwal
Phil, are you trying to start a harem or what is going on here?
Mark Timmony
Tbh I’m with Vic. I expected something more.
![Murasaki [ムラサキ] from fanbox](https://patrefans.com/kistorage/44954.jpg)
