The blazing waves of searing heat kept spreading, kept consuming, kept being the thing that had been waiting for this moment and was now, at last, being used.
The deck that had been solid, that had been the particular solid of a thing that had been given something and was holding it, was melting, was running, was becoming the thing that was there and was not there and was waiting to be seen. The men who had been standing, who had been fighting, who had been the particular fighting of a thing that had been given something and was using it, were gone. Their screams had faded, their bodies had fallen, their particular falling of a thing that had been given something and was letting it go.
Ashan tore papers—charms, wind—his hands moving, his voice shaping, his particular shaping of a thing that had been given something and was using it. A gust cut through the heat waves, buying seconds. Mere seconds. The particular mere of a thing that had been given something and was holding it.
The Vice Admiral observed. The standing posture. The swirling grey-white eyes. The particular watching of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
Then—vanished.
"Oh. A trick."
He did not move. The scimitar burned, its light a thing that had been given something and was using it.
"But I still sense you."
A bright slash cut through the air, through the space where Ashan had been, through the thing that was there and was not there and was waiting to be seen.
Damn.
Ashan ducked. The searing heat grazed his right shoulder—flesh searing, nerves screaming, the particular screaming of a thing that had been given something and was letting it go. Profane syllables spilled from his lips, the words that had been with him since the cave, since the dark, since the moment when the serpent had coiled around him and shown him what he was and what he would always be. Dark earth spears lashed out, their points sharp, their weight heavy, their particular heavy of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
"Hmmph."
The Vice Admiral burned them away. One swing. Casual. Absolute. The particular absolute of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
Ashan dashed forward—serpent grace, prana flowing, blade in one hand, the captured short sword in the other. One second there. Then gone. The particular gone of a thing that had been given something and was letting it go.
"Is that all?"
A foot slammed the deck. Heat erupted, the wood splintering, the splinters burning, the particular burning of a thing that had been given something and was using it. Ashan leaped, saw everything, threw.
The Vice Admiral caught the short sword. One hand. No effort. The particular no of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
Both urja. Volatile. He let the thought surface, let it become part of the thing that was happening and would happen and would not stop happening until it was done. Adharmik sadhaka.
Which Veda?
I wanted a vacation. The Vice Admiral's thoughts moved behind impassive features. Festival of Light. But work never ends.
"Vice Admiral! Should we assist?"
"No." His voice was flat, was matter-of-fact, was the particular matter-of-fact of a thing that had been given something and was using it. "Watch." A pause, the particular pause of a thing that had been given something and was holding it. "He's not trying to escape."
The Vice Admiral sheathed his scimitar.
Something changed.
Oh no.
Ashan uttered the mantra. Earth platform rising, the stone gathering, the stone shaping, the particular shaping of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
Too late.
The Vice Admiral's hands blazed—deep, bright, like a sun descending, like the thing that had been waiting for this moment and was now, at last, ready to be seen.
[Surya Vadivu].
Golden rays crashed onto Ashan's body.
[Svarp Vadivu].
Serpent and Sun collided.
The earthen platform blazed. Melted. Died. The particular died of a thing that had been given something and was letting it go.
Ashan shifted mid-form—trying to hit marma points, trying to find weakness, trying to survive. The particular survive of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
An Ascender was an Ascender.
The Vice Admiral did not change forms. Did not need to. He pounded Ashan's feeble body with the particular pounding of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
Hot. He let the thought surface, let it become part of the thing that was happening and would happen and would not stop happening until it was done. Too hot.
Burning.
Clothes tore. Burned. Flesh melted. Blood vaporized on open air, the particular air of a thing that had been given something and was letting it go.
He tried to heal mid-fight. The damage piled faster, the particular faster of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
The Vice Admiral's hands and legs sparked heat waves with every movement. Every strike. Every breath. The particular breath of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
Only [Foresee] kept Ashan alive. Micro-bursts of future-sight, dodging death by heartbeats, by the particular heartbeats of a thing that had been given something and was holding it. [Viksana] working overtime—straining, cracking, showing him blurred points of weakness in the Ascender's defense, the particular defense of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
The blood mist veiled his eyes.
Greed and Lust cycles spun at maximum. The last of his urja pumped through ruined channels, through the places where the energy had been and was not and would not be again.
He's taking the beating well. The Vice Admiral's thoughts were clinical, appraising, the particular appraising of a thing that had been given something and was using it. High urja reserves. For a Bodnir. His eyes, hidden behind impassive features, narrowed. And those eyes... mantra? A pause, the particular pause of a thing that had been given something and was holding it. Avanya siddhi?
A dark brown bolt shot out. Sculpted into a spear, its point sharp, its weight heavy, its particular heavy of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
He cut it down.
"Still struggling?"
Ashan's body was ruin.
Clothes gone. Flesh burned, the skin that had been pale, that had been the particular pale of a thing that had been given something and was holding it, blackened, cracked, peeling. Throat parched—screaming for water, for mercy, for death. The particular death of a thing that had been given something and was letting it go. Blood mist clogged his eyes, the grey-white swirls that had been there, that had been the particular there of a thing that had been given something and was using it, barely visible beneath the red. Red lines traced down his body like rivers on a dying map, like the thing that was there and was not there and was waiting to be seen.
"Which Veda?"
His mouth moved. Faint. Broken. The particular broken of a thing that had been given something and was letting it go.
Say Order? He let the thought surface, let it become part of the thing that was happening and would happen and would not stop happening until it was done. Torture. Death. A pause, the particular pause of a thing that had been given something and was holding it. Both.
His shoulders shuddered. The tattoos—left and right, Serpent and Rat—blazed with pain, with the particular pain of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
Gah!
He slumped. Knees bent. Body folding. The particular folding of a thing that had been given something and was letting it go.
What is this? He let the thought surface, let it become part of the thing that was happening and would happen and would not stop happening until it was done. The baptism. The sin. The Order's secret. His eyes, which had been fixed on the Vice Admiral's face, dimmed. Keeping it safe. Even now. Even dying.
Am I really betting my life on silence?
How... how powerful...
The Vice Admiral observed the dying sadhaka, the particular observing of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
This one holds secrets.
"Take him. Treat his wounds." His voice was flat, was matter-of-fact, was the particular matter-of-fact of a thing that had been given something and was using it. "We have questions."
"Yes, Vice Admiral!"
"The two who fled? And the rakshasa with them?"
"They can wait." The Vice Admiral turned away, his armor catching the light, his presence the particular presence of a thing that had been given something and was using it. "The Lord's festival approaches. Keep him alive." A pause, the particular pause of a thing that had been given something and was holding it. "We'll talk after."
In fleeting vision, Ashan saw the back of the Vice Admiral. Heard voices fading. The particular fading of a thing that had been given something and was letting it go.
Another Ascender. He let the thought surface, let it become part of the thing that was happening and would happen and would not stop happening until it was done. First—beast. Second—test. A pause, the particular pause of a thing that had been given something and was holding it. Third—death.
I need that power.
His eyes dimmed. The ember glow—there, then gone. Grey-white erased.
Darkness.
"Quick, carry him!"
"He's lost too much blood."
Ogefil Island...
"Famous fruit of the Marhavan Isles! Fresh meat! Quality clothes!"
The market roared with familiar chaos. Shopkeepers shouted deals, their voices rising, falling, rising again. Customers haggled, their hands moving, their faces set, their particular set of a thing that had been given something and was using it. Life continued, indifferent to the things that had happened and the things that would happen and the things that were waiting to be seen.
Two hooded figures moved through the crowd. Their dress drew glances—curious, brief, dismissed. New faces came to Ogefil often now. The island had become something. A destination. The particular destination of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
"Hey. Why so gloomy?" The first figure nudged the other, his voice light, his words careful, the particular careful of a thing that had been given something and was using it. "Isn't one of your friends here? The one who practically rules this rock?" A pause, the particular pause of a thing that had been given something and was holding it. "Ashan, wasn't it?"
Dark brown eyes shot a look that could curdle milk.
"We haven't met in three years. He doesn't remember me."
"Oh my! Shy, Damara?" A laugh, the particular laugh of a thing that had been given something and was using it. "After all your bragging? His skills. His inventions." Another pause, longer this time. "That interesting thing he created." A chuckle. "You must be—"
"Enough."
Low. Cold. Final. The particular final of a thing that had been given something and was using it.
"The House leaders agreed. The improved version belongs to Greed alone." Damara's voice was ice, was the particular ice of a thing that had been given something and was using it. "So why are we here?"
"The Elder didn't elaborate."
A chuckle. "Still green, Damara." The hooded figure leaned close, his voice dropping to something that was almost a whisper, almost a prayer, almost the particular almost of a thing that had been given something and was using it. "We're here to experience it. And you know the creator." A pause, the particular pause of a thing that had been given something and was holding it. "He might help us. Just a little."
Damara's face flushed.
"I won't!"
She dashed ahead.
The hooded figure laughed. "Fine! I'll find him myself!"
Damara bit her lip.
Ashan. She let the thought surface, let it become part of the thing that was happening and would happen and would not stop happening until it was done. Did you really create those things?
Why would you—
Her face burned.