(Second Book Complete!) Runeblade: A Delving & Skill Merging LitRPG

A will of iron swept through his soul. Pulling on ancient and sacred magics, Taer watched with unbroken focus as his Autarch ripped his very soul out of his grip. Familiar dissociation swallowed him, a creeping numbness subsuming all of his existence in a single heartbeat. Yet he made no move to fight back, only rousing his own power to support his Autarch in their work.

Adamant power howled through his soul, changing everything it touched. As strong as his Autarch was, Taer was well aware he could have fought against the influence. Souls were inviolate, and his will was sovereign within its reaches. Yet if he had tried to shirk his duties, the full weight of Yllestrae’s strength would have crushed him. He was but a sapling before the millenium storm, and he was no coward.

So he used his own mastery of the soul to hold open the gates as the numbness fled in the face of agony. The scream of his nerves rang loud, overwhelming him with a clamouring whine. Deep, impenetrable fog swallowed him, his conscious mind slipping as he devoted everything he had to opening the way for his Autarch.

Bit by bit, Yllestrae purified him through the most sacred of fires, shifting him ever so slightly closer to perfection. It was a moment that lasted an eternity, but an eternity he knew as well his own reflection.

Five hundred years. Five centuries of weakness and infirmity, of agony and reforging. Half a millenium of struggle and strife, clawing for every advantage and Honour known to the Autarchs. It was a blessing and a duty afforded to him and him alone as Myrmr — the hidden blade, in the old tongue.

How serendipitous it was that the Compact had been broken in the twilight years of his vigil, a mere fifty years before his replacement could be found and forged. His predecessors hid it well, but Taer saw the jealousy buried deep in their hearts. So few of them survived, and all bore the marks of their sacrifice — but he had been unsheathed, and they had been blunted and broken.

Tendrils of unyielding magic retracted from his soul, leaving it burning just a hair brighter.

Taer opened his eyes. His Autarch kneeled across from him, her violet eyes gleaming with an ancient radiance. Despite it being dawn, they were drenched in shadow. They’d held the rite in the hollow heart of a dead neraein tree, the same one he’d been visiting twice a week since he was a boy. It towered half-way to the canopy hundreds of strides overhead; his Autarch’s ritual ground wouldn’t feel the touch of the sun until noon.

There was no runic circle carved into the ancient hardwood, nor was there much in the way of anything. His Autarch was beyond minor comforts, millenia practiced in her asceticism. Only a sheathed blade broke up the natural splendour, lying flat on a patch of moss between them. That too, he knew well, for it was another burden borne since childhood. A hilt of rose-coloured heartwood, shaped into a braided vine, and polished by his forebears hands. He knew it like a brother, yet he had never seen its face. It loomed in the corner of his vision, heavy with purpose.

“Ascension has brought you much,” Yllestrae said, her voice as soft as a summer breeze. “The benefit of those Aspects is clear, even if they do make my work that much more complex. Unfortunately, I believe we are at the end of our journey. My sources within the guild have confirmed that your ‘Authority’ will continue to strengthen as you Refine. Already it rejects my influence.”

Taking a deep breath, he nodded. Now that his purpose had been realised, he felt adrift. Alone, it was no great problem. It was an immutable reality that came for all Myrmr — if they survived. Those that did dealt with it in their own way, but there were dozens of philosophies and treatises he could draw wisdom from.

Except his vigil had not ended, and his duty had done naught but change. There would be no time for art, and no decades to ponder the Quiet Ways as he searched for new meaning. There would be no new name.

“Your Class,” Yllestrae asked. “How many options did you receive?”

“One, Autarch. Myrmr of the Inner Ember.”

She nodded as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “To reach beyond Heroic requires more than simple achievement and sweat. It requires a connection to legend and myth, or a forging of your own. Did it contain anything unexpected?”

That, he knew, for it was the reason behind his life of restriction. It went deeper than the inordinate dedication required by his station. He was Myrmr, so he must live as Myrmr, and now he had been recognised.

“No, Autarch.”

“Good. I had not dared hope you would achieve a true union of your two paths so early, but the System describes you as Spellsword, so your hard work has paid off. Do not slack in your practice of Soul Enforcement, as I suspect there is much this Authority can be used for to heighten the art.”

He had not, and would not, though he was not so rude as to break his silence to point it out. Ever since his success in the Crucible, he could feel his Authority warping in synchronicity with his soul. So far, it had done little more than stabilise his workings. It was not the limit. That blinding Ascendant, Xenanra, had made it all too clear. The Path was boundless, and he would leverage it in any way he could.

For a moment, they kneeled in silence, then Yllestrae clasped her hands. It was an unharried movement, though her pace did nothing to hide the grace and strength she had at her call. It was, however, a sign. The time had come.

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Despite himself, Taer held his breath. The blade still loomed in the corner of his vision, tugging at him.

In silence, his Autarch leaned over and grabbed the weapon. Facing him once more, she kneeled with the sword flat across her palms.

Here, the rite changed for the first time since its inception. Nine times before had a Myrmr survived to the end of their vigil. Nine times had an Autarch taken the sword to rest its sheathed edge against the throat of its once-bearer, severing them from their oath and their burden.

Yllestrae leaned forward, until her forehead pressed against the moss and mulch, and her silver hair spilled out into a mirrored pool. She held out the sword, waiting.

Biting his tongue until the taste of iron flooded his mouth, Taer leaned on the sudden stab of pain to ground him in the moment. Slowly, hesitantly, he reached out and wrapped his hands around the hilt and sheath.

It was a familiar thing. Up until this meeting, it had sat belted on his waist for five centuries. Long and weighty, its polished grip fit both hands readily, before flaring out into a wide and straight crossguard, made of the same rose-coloured wood. The blade itself was immense, even by the standards of his people. Just a hair under seven strides, and single-edged like a sabre — though its curve was far less pronounced, and its wide blade tapered to a wicked thrusting point.

At least, so he’d heard. He had never drawn it. No one had, not since the Compact had been forged and the first Myrmr had made her oath. Even the venerable few who had witnessed it in person refused to depict it in their art out of respect. Yllestrae included, or perhaps most especially.

Did it gnaw at the Autarch, he wondered, to relinquish her sister’s sword?

Rising from her bow, the Autarch met his eyes once more, her skin untouched by dirt or mulch.

“Rise,” she said.

He rose, fluid in his purpose and dark stains on the knees of his flowing grey trousers. He stilled before his Autarch, knowing what came next, and gripped the hilt and scabbard of the sword tighter than he perhaps needed to. It fit his hands like it had been made for him. How many millenia had it been since it had seen the light of day?

“Draw,” His Autarch commanded.

He drew. The sword slid silently from its scabbard like it had been oiled that very morning, revealing a length of rippling ash-grey steel. Complex, interwoven runes burned on the spine of the blade, glowing with a soft green light.

It was beautiful.

Tucking the scabbard into his belt, Taer gripped the sword in both hands, marvelling at its perfect balance. Not once had he dreamed he would be the one to finally bear witness to its magnificence, not even for a moment — not until he had been called to fulfill his most ancient oath.

Ripping his gaze away from the sword, he met the searing fire of his Autarch’s violet eyes. She stayed kneeling, her chin high and her throat bared. Yllestrae didn’t look at the sword, not even for one moment, though Taer knew she must burn to. No other Autarch lived in such strict accordance to their quiet way. It was a diligence and commitment that could have only been spawned by the brightest passions.

She waited, unblinking and unmoving.

Taking a single breath to steady himself, he raised his sword high.

He cleaved.

Ancient steel burned with the light of his soul, the very air howling in fear at its passage. His own war cry joined the shriek in symphony, echoing off the long dead walls of the trunk his Autarch called home.

Yllestrae sat unmoving and silent, her neck bared. Her soul surged, peeling back the magic that wove through every facet of her existence. Without the protection of Constitution, she would be as defenseless as a babe.

Ash grey steel met the skin of one who had been ancient when the world had been shattered. It sliced right through. Blood flowed, annointing his blade with a fulfilled oath. Yllestrae let out a great and terrible sigh of relief, a wet gurgle of blood that bubbled from the rent in her throat.

Yet, as his blade passed, red rivulets flowed in reverse, retreating from the soaked fibres of the Autarch’s robe to leave it pristine once more.

Ripping free of his teacher’s still-whole neck, Taer came to a rest with his blade at his side, panting heavily. So great was her power that her flesh had sealed a fingerwidth behind his blade, and the only evidence that remained of her severed oath was the few drops that ran down its edge.

She remained kneeling, rigid as an iron bar.

”Blood annoints, and the hidden blade is bared once more. I release you,” Taer said in the old tongue, ending Yllestrae’s long vigil.

Again she sighed, slumping as if a great weight had been taken from her shoulders. The Autarch’s soul flared, drowning him in a millenia of exhaustion and long-held duty. He had waited long for this moment, but she had waited far longer.

He sheathed the sword.

“What will you do?” his Autarch asked, the ghost of a smile on her face. It was the first he had ever seen.

“Prove myself.”

What else was there to do? He had been forged for one purpose, and one purpose alone: to see things through if the worst came to pass.

Yllestrae nodded. “Then go, and know you are always welcome in my halls.”

He left.

Stepping through the crack that led out of the long-dead trunk, the dawn’s light fell upon his skin with a soft warmth. There wasn’t much of it, choked out by the canopy of giants that surrounded him in every direction, but it was there all the same. For a moment, he felt aimless — then he settled on the hilt of the sword. His sword. Its System given name flickered into view.

Myrmr.

Taer smiled and set off. He had a lot of work to do, and there wasn’t much time until this ‘Proving’ commenced.