Helga Leiflinn watched the cinders of Elysia burn below her.
It was a gruesome, humorless sight. The orc commander of Scorn’s forces grimaced as another shriek of horror and grief split the air behind her. She turned, noticing that even more had made it up to this safe vantage along the cliffs that overlooked Elysia.
More survivors. More victims.
The wind tussled her dark locks and breathed fresh life into her wearied lungs.
Today had been a complete shitshow.
Sure, she’d accomplished all of her Mistress’ goals, but the mountains of gods-awful paperwork this whole fiasco was going to incur had already begun to fill her with nightmares.
Her gold-ranked eyes caught movement from somewhere inside the city, and her heightened senses knew with utter clarity that Death had finally—finally—left his ancient halls and joined the fight. Helga observed with bated breath as the shadowy form collided with his timeless brother, Life, and the two smashed into a distant cliffside along the city’s shores.
It made sense.
From what her hidden research had revealed, it was in a dominion’s counter, not their opposite, that true damage could be inflicted.
Life and Death. Creation and Destruction.
They could harm, even kill, but never truly subdue.
No wonder Destruction had been unable to break free of Life’s Oakthorn throne. She’d seen the mystical artifact only the most ancient and precious of documents she’d found referenced. The domain of the gods, condensed into thrones scattered across their world. She knew they were real, but had yet to see one with her own aged eyes. But they were just the beginning to the puzzle Helga had been solving these past centuries as gold-ranker.
Helga would find the truth.
It was what her Mistress had promised her, all those years ago. She would find out what had really killed her daughter that day.
A wave of yellow miasma exploded throughout the ruined city, and the commander of Scorn’s battalions cursed as Elysia was turned into a lich’s domain. The Oakthorn Throne of Life fought against this foreign influence, but it was a futile effort.
While the dominion of Life was finding a way in the midst of so much undeath, such a small oasis was hardly noticeable against the rapid expansion of the lich’s authority. She remembered this foul and duplicitous creature.
She recalled the day the faux-Life had captured Stephen some centuries back. Now, he was so much more than a pesky thorn in everyone’s sides.
Now, he was a genuine threat.
Helga mentally noted to inform her Mistress of this development.
A gait she really, really, didn’t want to hear approached from behind her, and she took in a sharp breath in preparation for the wet blanket she was about to deal with.
“Hello, Morana,” Helga intoned formally, though inside she wanted to yank out the infuriating woman’s throat with her taloned fingers. “What does Scorn’s siren have to say now?”
Morana, in all of her radiant and salacious beauty, dipped her head in acknowledgment. The raven-skull necklace she always wore these days clinked in a dull rhythm.
“The winds of Destiny have shifted, Helga Leiflinn,” Morana answered in a husky voice that was wholly unnecessary given the present situation. “Scorn must follow their new direction lest she be left behind in the dust of this new brewing storm.”
“Is that a threat?” Helga cut in with a raised eyebrow.
“Of course not,” Morana said with surprise.
Helga wanted to barf. She hated these politics. These schemes.
Morana lifted a doe-eyed expression to Helga’s unflinching gaze. “As Scorn’s most loyal acolyte, I merely impress upon you the weight of this situation. To tarry would be utter folly.”
“Cut the shit, Morana. What do you need?” Helga asked as she pinched the bridge of her nose and counted to ten.
“The Remnant.”
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Morana didn’t flinch or even blink as Helga cursed at her. Then cursed some more.
“Why, by Scorn’s almighty name, would I give a snake like you something like that?!” Helga demanded, teeth bared.
Morana shrugged her exposed shoulders, a triumphant smile hidden beneath her demure one. “There is a challenger arising, one who will unite these broken people with a purpose of such violent vengeance that your Mistress’ magic will grow tenfold in its wake.”
“Our Mistress, you mean,” Helga clarified with a vicious tone.
Morana looked genuinely unsettled for the first time and nodded quickly.
“Of course,” Morana spoke quickly. “My apologies, Commander Leiflinn. Our Mistress, Scorn, will grow in strength and numbers from this one choice, but we must act quickly before the challenger leaves this clifftop.”
“They’re here?” Helga asked.
She scanned the crowd but didn’t sense or see anyone of great note. A few copper-rankers were sprinkled in, and even one or two silver rankers, but all of them were in various stages of grief.
“Who?” the she-orc demanded.
Morana smiled. It was a cold, lethal, thing.
She held out her hand. Helga hesitated, but this was what Scorn had been waiting for. A champion for her cause, one chosen by a siren like Morana to fuel her power and wage her wars.
It just didn’t feel right to give something so powerful to her.
For several long heartbeats, Helga’s grip on the Remnant tightened. She thought of the rage her mistress would unleash upon her if she discovered she had disobeyed a prophecy from Scorn’s own siren.
At that thought, Helga finally gave in and handed the siren the Remnant Cade had given her.
“The winds of Destiny have chosen an avenger for this once-great city,” Morana explained, her face aglow with the Remnant’s light. “He will be their savior. Their beacon. He will ensure Scorn gains the honor and power she deserves for this investment in his future.”
A handsome man with a scar running down his face walked up behind Morana and gave Helga a polite nod. He crossed his lean arms over his chest, the tattered remains of what had once been a fine suit caked to his skin.
“I’m Fenwick Thorn,” the man said in a smooth voice made for speeches. “I’m going to hunt that bastard Cade to the ends of this gods’ forsaken earth, and I’m going to get every Elysian here to help me.”
“How?” Helga asked cautiously.
She could sense the rage that fueled this young human, but such intense feelings faded. Grew dull. It wouldn’t be enough to merely hate someone. To garner that much scorn, one would have to be truly dedicated to their vengeance.
“Give me that, and I’ll show you,” Fenwick stated confidently.
Before Helga could object, Morana gave him the Remnant of Creation promised to their Mistress. Fenwick stared at the divine object with an expression somewhere between reverence and hunger. He looked up at her and gave Helga a predatory grin.
Fenwick stabbed the crystalline object with an enchanted dagger, and the godly magic within spilled out and fused with Fenwick Thorn. His spine twisted and bent as the power ripped inside him.
Remade him.
The idiotic human fell to the ground, writhing and shouting in pain as his core was forcefully awakened. Helga stepped forward to put him out of his misery, but Morana’s manicured hand halted her.
“Wait. Trust me,” the siren demanded softly.
“I don’t,” was Helga’s honest reply.
Fenwick’s breathing turned shallow, his skin covered with ivy and leaves and rose petals. When his chest began to move more smoothly, the entire clifftop was still.
He rose to his feet and spread his arms wide.
“My friends!” Fenwick greeted the grief-stricken crowd. “My fellow Elysians! You all have been wronged this day!”
He turned slowly, looking into as many eyes of the onlookers as possible. Despite the pain he was surely still in, his voice was steady and confident.
“Not by that foul usurper who killed our Queen! Our goddess! No!” Fenwick roared. “A crime far worse has been committed against all of you, and you all are his victims! The fallen champion, Cade Stormhollow, is the villain behind all of your sorrows.”
Murmurs of recognition and bitterness crept up from around the cliffside.
“He betrayed your trust,” Fenwick continued. “He spat at the open embrace you gave him as he entered not only our city but our hallowed arena and Tournament. He viciously abused his authority, denying Life’s own blessings in favor of ones of his lesser choosing! Behind all of your backs, he schemed against us, and now his greedy and selfish plot has flowered at our feet! He freed that demon who slayed our queen. He brutally murdered my team’s leader, who was like a father to me! And where is this bastard now?!
Fenwick paused, letting the crowd look around as if to spot the alleged murderer.
“Is he here to face our justice?” the human asked of his captive audience. “To stand for a fair trial under Elysian law?! NO! He flees like the cowardly rat that he is!”
Fenwick’s eyes brimmed with tears, and Helga had to admit he put on a wonderful show.
The human pointed to his chest and shook his head. “Our beloved Lady, with her dying breath, just imparted to me a shard of her power. I will not take this divine boon for granted. I will use it to avenge her and our beloved city! Come! Fight with me! Fight for our queen! For Elysia!”
Shouts of bloodlust and vengeance arose all around the large clearing. Helga could practically feel the gathering storm of scorn as people called for Cade’s head.
Fenwick spread his hands, and thick ivy shot out all around them. It was thorny and dark, yet the people cheered.
“I will avenge you, my people!” the unnerving male promised. “Let us not rest until Cade Stormhollow and all of his ruthless underlings pay for what they’ve unleashed onto our city!”
More cheers.
“See?” Morana asked teasingly. “He’s good.”
Helga didn’t say a word as she left the siren and her new plaything to stir trouble amidst these refugees. Her vision tracked southward and silently hoped that Cade had enough of a head start to avoid the fate that now plagued his steps.
He was going to need it, because Fenwick and Morana were only the beginning.
What's Fenwick's REAL qualification for becoming the "Elysian Avenger"?
