Sven turned again, toward the king's chambers.
Torches burned on the walls, shedding a light he found lacking—like weak broth after a long fast. Flame fairies danced around each torch like luminous insects. The torches were useless to Sven. He reached for his pouch to retrieve spheres, but paused when he spotted blue light ahead: two Soulight lanterns mounted on the wall, their cores brilliant with infused gems.
Sven stepped forward and reached out to the glass encasing one of the stones.
"You there!" a voice barked in Marsedian.
Two guards stood at the intersection. Double watch—there were "savages" in Daznar tonight. True, the savages were now supposed allies. But alliances could be shallow.
This one would not last the hour.
The guards advanced with spears; as darkeyes, they were forbidden swords. Their breastplates and helms, however, were ornate. Though darkeyed, they were prominent members of the royal guard.
Stopping a few paces away, the lead guard motioned with his spear.
"Move along. You don't belong here."
Bronzed skin marked him as Marsedian. His mustache curved into a short beard.
Sven didn't move.
"Well?" the guard said. "What are you waiting for?"
Sven inhaled deeply, drawing in Soulight, which flowed into his body from the twin lanterns on the wall, sucked in through his breath. The Soulight vibrated within him, and suddenly the corridor dimmed—as though a cloud had passed over the sun.
He could feel the heat of the light, its fury, like a storm coursing through his veins. Power. Revitalizing, but dangerous. It urged him to act. To strike.
Holding his breath, he clung to the Soulight. He could feel it slipping away. Soulight could only be held for moments—then it would leak out, the human body too porous a vessel.
He had heard Soulbearers could contain it perfectly. But did they truly exist? His punishment declared they did not. His honor demanded they must.
Burning with sacred energy, Sven faced the guards. They could see the light leaking from him, spiraling off his skin like luminous mist. The lead guard squinted. Sven was sure the man had never seen anything like this. As far as he knew, Sven had killed every stonewalker who had.
"What… what are you?" the guard asked, voice trembling. "Spirit or man?"
"What am I?" Sven whispered, letting a trickle of Soulight drift from his lips as he fixed his gaze beyond the second man. "I am… someone who is very sorry."
Sven blinked and surged toward that distant point.
The Soulight flared from him in a radiant flash, cooling his skin.
Immediately, the ground ceased pulling him downward, and he was yanked toward the projection point—as if, for him, that direction had become down.
It had been a Basic Projection, the first of his three types of Projection. It granted him the ability to manipulate any force, fairy, or god that bound men to the earth. With that Projection, he could anchor people or objects to different surfaces or directions.
From Sven's perspective, the hallway was now a deep shaft into which he was falling, while the two guards were standing sideways on its wall.
Both looked bewildered when his feet slammed into their faces, knocking them down.
Sven shifted his perspective again and projected himself toward the floor—the Soulight leaked from him. The corridor floor became "down" once more, and he landed between the two guards, his clothes crackling and shedding flakes of frost.
He rose and began the process of summoning his Soulblade.
One of the guards fumbled for his spear. Sven reached out, touched the man's shoulder, and raised his eyes. Focusing on a point above, he forced the Light from within himself into the guard's body, projecting the poor man upward—toward the ceiling. The guard shouted in surprise as up became down for him.
Trailing light, he slammed into the ceiling and dropped his spear. Since the weapon hadn't been specifically projected, it clattered loudly to the floor beside Sven.
To kill—it was the greatest of sins. And yet here was Sven, Faker, profaning sacred stones with his steps. And it never ended. In his condition as Faker, there was only one life he was forbidden to take.
His own.
At the tenth beat of his heart, the Soulblade appeared in his hand.
It materialized as if mist had solidified, droplets of water shimmering on its metal surface. His Soulblade was long and thin, double-edged, smaller than most others. With a sweeping arc that carved a groove in the stone floor, Sven severed the second guard's neck.
As always, the Fractal Blade killed in a strange manner; though it cut easily through stone, steel, and any inanimate object, the metal seemed to vanish when touching living flesh.
The blade passed through the guard's neck without leaving a mark, but as soon as the swing ended, the man's eyes began to smoke and burn. At last, they darkened, shriveled, and he collapsed forward, dead.
A Soulblade did not cut living flesh—it amputated the soul itself.
Above, the first guard gasped. He had managed to stand, though his feet were still planted on the corridor's ceiling.
"Lightner!" he cried. "A Lightner is attacking the king's domain! To arms!"
Finally, Sven thought. The guards didn't recognize Sven's use of Soulight, but they knew what a Soulblade was.
Sven bent and picked up the fallen guard's spear. As he did so, he released the breath he had been holding ever since absorbing the Light. While he held it, the Soulight sustained him—but since the two lanterns hadn't contained much, he would soon need to breathe in more.
Now that he had released his breath, the Light began leaking faster.
Planting the spear's shaft against the stone floor, Sven looked up. The guard above had stopped shouting and was staring wide-eyed as the folds of his shirt began to sag, the floor below reclaiming its pull. The Light that had shone from his body flickered and dimmed.
He looked at Sven.
He looked at the blade's tip, pointed directly at his heart.
A fear fairy—violet and trembling—sprouted from the stone around him.
The Light was gone. The guard fell.
He screamed as the spear pierced his chest.
Sven let go of the weapon, allowing it to fall with a dull thud, dragged down by the twisting body impaled on its tip.
Gripping his Soulblade, Sven turned into a side corridor, following the memorized layout. He rounded a corner and pressed himself against the wall just as more guards rushed toward the scene of the killings.
The newcomers began shouting, echoing the alarm through the halls.