With Alain dead, Ilyat’s clique had lost their trump card. Having been the fastest of the five, the sylph could provide each of them assistance in the form of lightning, and any attack that would injure them all at once could be thwarted by his ability to make his allies incorporeal. Next on the list, however, was Sacha. Truth be told, he was the most troublesome of the five: without his power to externalize the strength of his clique’s souls, Alain would never have been able to accomplish either of those feats, but the scholarly Valinthe was too well defended by his allies for him to have been their first target.
‘But things are different now,’ Lillian thought to herself as she dashed for the bald, bespectacled man. Her glass dirk was back in her hands, razor sharp winds dancing about the blade as she readied herself to unleash another squall. A great crescent wind burst from the arc of her swing, shooting across the field like a flight of sparrows, intent on shredding the skin from his flesh.
But Sacha did not move. He stood his ground, baring his crooked teeth in arrogance as he reset his spectacles upon the bridge of his nose. A sweep of the hand and a few whispered words later, the sickle wind seemed to crash against an invisible wall... until she realized that it had simply dissolved, as if the force behind it had lost all cohesion. It was then that Lillian realized this must have been some unforeseen by-product of his power. Somehow, he had weakened the resolve behind it, breaking what natural force had powered the gust of wind. With that in mind, the girl stopped in her tracks, maintaining a defensive stance as she established a new plan.
“Your know of Alix’ power, do you not?” Sacha began amusedly, swiping his thumb across his nose in an act of arrogance. “It is a joke, centered on lies and deceit. But me? My power is real.” He advanced slowly, matching with Lillian’s pace of withdrawal. “I do not hide the truth under veils and guises… I reveal it to the whole world. And what truth? That of your soul: the face of its strength… or that of its weakness!”
Just as he finished speaking, his whole body began to quaver. Before her very eyes, she saw Sacha become taller and taller, saw the pate of his head grow infested with black veins. Mist steamed from his eyes, and she realized in horror that his eyelids were melting shut. Blood dripped from the creases of his forehead, eventually gushing forth as they burst open like a fresh slit, revealing a cyclopean eye, a dark violet like stale blood save for its pulsing red iris.
“What… what devilry is this?” Lillian muttered breathlessly, her fingers curling tightly around her dirk.
She heard him begin to whisper, and she felt a chill course through her like an arrow shot down her spine. The unintelligible whispers multiplied, and she heard them louder and louder within her mind. The dirk escaped from her loosening grasp, and she fell to her knees, clutching her temples in pain, fearing that her sanity was poised to escape… until she heard it.
‘You walk unknown, you live unseen, yet an atrocious fiend you have always been.’
‘Those who know you, they fear your touch, others wonder whether there can be such.’
‘Cold and elusive, haunting and bitter, you are their enemy: the invisible monster.’
Her eyes blinked open, and she saw that the world had become sullen and grey. Lillian looked at her hands, and she could only see their shimmering outlines, for her flesh and bones were now transparent. A ghost. Under his curse, she had become a being of ectoplasm, trapped and helpless in a world that had rejected her existence. She could do nothing, she could feel nothing save for the dust of the battlefield coursing through the ghastly shell of her heart.
“Such weakness in your soul, it is a pity to watch.” Sacha had walked towards her, towering over her kneeled ghost in condescension, scoffing as he watched her weaken, as he watched her shrink into nothingess, forgotten by all. “You were so insignificant before, people could barely notice you… and now, no matter how much you kick and scream, they never will again. Ha! Isn’t it delightful?”
“As if we’d forget her,” he heard Esme speak from behind. Sacha evaded the rapier just in time, feeling only a nick at his sides. The Valinthe escaped, expecting Esme to assail him with a flurry of strikes, but the man had stayed behind. Before Lillian even realized his presence, Esme renewed his song of empowerment; yet, there was something more to it this time, as if she heard her name among the lyrics – as if it had been dedicated to her. She felt the darkness that had overwhelmed her mind recede, felt the warm light of Esme’s voice purge it of Sacha’s corruption.
She felt her body return, felt the muscles catch onto bone. She felt the pull of her tendons and ligaments, the pulsing of blood through her heart and veins. There was a new shimmer to her self, and only then did she realize that the magic was having unforeseen effects. “Esme… it looks like there’s one more thing your song has improved.” Her ability to absorb other powers… he had somehow enhanced it. After enduring the Valinthe’s curse of enfeeblement, she had made it her own, though she knew full well the effect was merely temporary. One try was all she had, and after that, hit or miss, it would be lost to her forever.
Her eyes saw the world very differently now. No longer was it sullen and cold, but a true canvas of clashing colors in the countless men and women that now fought in the Fields of Khu’fein. She could see into them, see the truth of their selves, the faces of their souls… and most importantly, she could now see Sacha’s in perfect clarity.
Sacha heard her begin to whisper…
He fell to his knees, clutching his head as he writhed left and right, so wracked it was with pain. Her voice flooded his mind, drowned him, choked him. As his sanity left his mind, he could finally make out her words.
‘‘You whisper the secrets exhumed by your Eye; you see them as truth, and there is the lie.’
‘Behold your true self, as your mind is laid bare: crippled and blind do you kneel in despair,’
‘And of your proud delusions nothing remains, but a sad little man who shambles in chains.’
As her words sank into his mind, Sacha began to shrink and shrivel. His flesh became wiry, his frame was thinner, and his skin was covered in senescent spots. He knelt there, crippled and malformed, his robes too large for him. His third eye struggled to stay open, as if chained down by the burden of the counterfeit world he saw, blind to everything else. What was left of him was a wreck of a man, cowering in his frailty, shivering from the assaulting cold. His limbs were as twigs, withered and fragile, the color of dust, while his face reminded her of an oily rag, used and wrinkled by the wear of a world to which he had never belonged. Seeing him this way, Lillian could not help but pity the man.
Blood spurted from his chest as Esme’s rapier slid into his spine, severing his vertebrae. Death was almost instantaneous. Lillian watched his body fall in mute disbelief, but she eventually shook it off: the Ouellet patriarch had saved her from committing this murder, as that had been her task. Outrage was out of the question: no matter what, she could only be grateful for his mercy.
Their eyes crossed, and they knew things were as they should be. After her silent thanks and his mute acknowledgment, they broke contact, and sped off in opposite directions: Esme for Alix, and Lillian for Ludivine.