Chapter 67

Nolan yawned, unbelievably drowsy. He was scared out of his mind but Nova…Nova was worse. Sobbing, she held him tightly.

Lancel moved, hesitated, and then put his hand on her shoulder. He offered no words of comfort, but Nolan could see the concern in his eyes. Nolan had never seen anyone look at him or his sister half so dearly since their parents had passed.

"It's okay," he comforted his sister. "I'll make it back."

Lancel agreed, "He will. I know he will."

Nova was implacable. "It's too early!" He—he's just a boy!"

Nolan winced.

He was small for his age, only slightly, but that made others think him younger than he was. "Eleven is a perfectly reasonable age to face your First Nightmare," he bit back, and he wasn't more than a month from twelve.

At first, he could hardly believe it himself, but he had come to accept it. There was no point fretting over it, he had decided.

"Brave boy," his fa…foster father commended.

Nolan put on the most nonchalant smile he could muster. "I'll be an Aspirant tonight and a Sleeper when I wake up. I'm a brave man now."

Lancel snorted. "Sure, brave little man."

"Stupid little brave man," Nova corrected in between sniffs.

"I'm not stupid," Nolan retorted.

Nova nodded. "You're right. I was being generous." For all her mockery, Nova's grip on his back only grew tighter.

She stayed with him till it was time for her to return to her anchor in the Dream Realm, the Chained Isles. Lord Lancel had procured favors with one of the Saints in that region and seated her deeply in Valor territory, as far away from Clan Song as he could with his means.

"...I'll return as soon as I can. Stay awake till then," Nova pleaded.

"Of course," he replied.

Lancel nodded her off and stiffly took a seat on the edge of Nolan's bed. The man had a scar under his eye; a wound he received answering last week's Nightmare Gate.

"I…don't know what to say," he said with a grimace.

Nolan didn't either.

His foster father raised a hand. "Do you mind?" he asked.

"No."

Lancel wrapped his arm around Nolan's shoulder.

"I can't wait for Nova," Nolan told him, shifting.

"Why?"

Nolan whispered, "I hate farewells."

He had wished his parents farewell like he did every time they went to the Dream Realm, but they didn't return that day.

"You'd sooner rush to your death than let her wish you off?" Lancel asked.

"I would."

His foster father said, "...foolish."

Nolan did not respond…he had already let go of his hold on his consciousness, plummeting into cold darkness, yet as his body sunk deeper into his…father's arm…he felt warm.

[Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your First Trial…]

***

The walled city's vast shadow suffused the field, and in its embrace lay thousands of skeletons, heaped on each other amongst piles of rotting wood and steel. The sun moved backward and set in the east. Nolan heard them. Men and women and children impaled on pikes, flagpoles, wooden stakes, and anything tall enough worth sharpening set into the ground. They wailed and shrieked, begged and cried…and then he was somewhere dark.

He did not know where it was…but it was hot, and worse, it stank. The nauseating smell of urine, sweat, and ordure drove nails into his nose with the first breath. He gagged and held his breath as best he could between fits of cough.

"Who was that?" came a voice not too far away, and light followed. Nolan could barely see through the tears in his eyes. His eyes shifted as the man who spoke came into view. A dungeon cell, and by the looks of it, he was looking at his goaler. A dozen prisoners pressed tight against themselves and the walls, with no more space than the floor they lay on, or the walls abut their backs. "Shut yer mouths, Imperial dogs."

Nolan blinked the tears out of his eyes. The goaler was a soldier clad in black with cruel, beady eyes, and there wasn't much else to see but the torch he held. He scrunched up his nose at the sight of them, spat, and moved out of sight, the firelight fading away.

"No one blames you, m'lord. These are harsh conditions for one as young as you," the man whose shoulder was pressed against Nolan's head whispered.

Caught off guard, Nolan stammered. "Than-Thank you."

"I blame him, and he's a lordling no more," another said, chuckling. "M'lord…m'lord," he drawled, and Nolan knew he was being addressed, "I saw it, you know, I saw them put your king of a father on a pike. Serves him right."

Nolan kept silent. For some reason…his right hand felt heavy, and his arm stung.

The mocker gave a sharp snort, "Keep silent. The shadows will relish your voice all the more when it's your turn to hang on an edge."

…shadows…imperials. Was his conflict one between the Imperialists and one of many kingdoms who worshiped the God of Shadows?

Nolan thought about his runes and squinted against the shimmering letters.

***

Name: Nolan.

True Name: —

Rank: Aspirant.

Soul Core: Dormant.

Memories: —

Echoes: —

Attributes: [Swift Hand], [Storm's Spawn], [Silver Prosthesis].

Aspect: [Deposed Prince].

Aspect Description: [A prince is the son of a monarch, destined to wield authority, wealth, and power. A deposed prince is one whose destiny was ripped away and is left with nothing.]

***

Nolan's eyebrows furrowed. How could he make use of an aspect like that? This wasn't looking too good. After a moment, he summoned his attributes.

[Swift Hand] Attribute Description: "Your blade strikes fast and true."

[Storm's Spawn]: "You carry the storm in your blood but are far removed. Its incomplete nature has become a curse unto you." 

[Silver Prosthesis] Attribute Description: "After the curse took your hand, it was dismembered and replaced with a hand of shapeshifting silver so you could harness, however pitifully, your curse."

***

…interesting. His eyes fluttered down to his right hand. He was draped in a thick cloak that covered him from neck to knee, and his arms were underneath. He nudged part of the cloak aside and looked. Wondrously, his arm sparkled softly, a rich silver speckled with golden sparks. The crackle was almost inaudible.

Another man grimaced. "Cover your arm, boy. I wish to sleep, and that light is a bother."

"It is hot, sir. Allow me a moment to air my arm."

Indeed it was. Under his cloak was a dirty doublet, and when he rolled its sleeve up, he could see his right arm, blistered and red, electricity coursing underneath. If not for the strange silver prosthesis that somehow stabilized his arm, he was sure his arm would never cease shaking.

"Sir?" the man repeated and sprung to his feet, seizing Nolan by the shoulders. Nolan would have struck him if not for the concern he could see on the man's face. "Has the curse taken your mind also, now? Do you not remember me?"

"No…I don't," Nolan said carefully.

 The man's weary face dropped, and he let go.

"Well, perhaps that is for the best."

"...yes, perhaps."

Nolan returned to observing his new prosthetic. It was a strange thing, solid and hard. But when he thought of moving his fingers, it seemed to turn to liquid, readjusting to the position he wanted. That was the shapeshifting part, he assumed. He tried to make it do other things, but it didn't. It was just a conductive prosthetic, and the only shapes it could take were those that a regular hand could make.