Aegis

“The Powers were a prideful bunch, and I was no exception. Since birth, I had been hailed for my large stature and strength—raised to become a knight with no equal. I was a pure, unsullied noble-born, a man of the direct lineage, and so every day I was taught to behave as a noble should: be arrogant, be confident, and let none trample on your authority. ‘You are special, Sarathiel,' they told me. ‘You are the Power’s hope: our chance to finally prove superiority over the other High Houses.’”

“All those whispers, all those expectations to succeed… I did not think much of it, at first. Was it not normal to be burdened with such responsibility? Was it not normal to be chastised for every little failure? I believed it so. I thought every child underwent the same troubles, but I was so very wrong. Their love did not need to be earned. They were free to discover a purpose of their own—not one forcibly imposed by another. They were different from me.

“I was never struck for my failures. I was never starved or physically punished. Instead, I was treated as nothing: unseen. A nonexistent mutt begging for even a scrap of affection, and only when they could leech onto my accomplishments was I ever given any praise—however hollow.

“Still, I persisted. I subdued my rage - my savage, visceral longing to rampage against this unfair world - and I became the knight they always wanted me to be. I was a Templar. I was but a few achievements away from becoming a Throne. The end was in sight, and once I reached the top perhaps I could finally live for myself.

“I suppose I was right. My wish was fulfilled, and I didn’t need to bow before those wretches I called kin any longer, but it came at a great price: a sacrifice I would forever regret.

“I lost the right to be called human.”

- Sarathiel Power, the Unbending Throne of Steel

———

Sarathiel

“My, quite the mess your kind has wrought,” the eerie man says, his every word encased in a low hum. Nokron’s tone is polite, but his demeanor is anything but: arms hidden back, chin lifted high, and gaze an insufferable blend of superiority and arrogance. He looks at Sarathiel as one does an insect and spares no effort to hide his hostility. “Questions, questions… how very puzzling this situation is. How did your ilk even manage to cross the marsh? I do so very dislike a mystery—such time wasted on variables beyond my control.”

The Alchemist is idle for now, but nonetheless Sarathiel remains at guard. A razor-sharp tension hangs in the air; a single move, a single twitch, is all that is needed to shatter this precarious suspense. And though the Throne is putting forth a stoic front, his body still trembles from the aftershocks of Deborah’s attack: heart thumping, chest pounding without rest.

“You—” he begins, but the man disappears before he has a chance to finish, and Sarathiel narrowly manages to deflect a thrust from behind. His axe clashes with something strange - a material of neither metal nor ore - and he repels his assailant back only to discover a large mechanical apparatus attached to Nokron’s left arm. It covers the entire length in a sleek enclosure, and at the very end, a plume of black mist extends from the hollow opening where his hand should be—solidifying into the shape of a twisting helix.

Merely staring at it is enough to send shudders running through Sarathiel’s body, for never has he encountered a weapon of such sinister impression. It is as if the entirety of humanity’s loathing has been condensed into a physical form, and all the while a terrible sound plagues the world like a choir of tormented souls wailing in unison.

Nokron is much, much more dangerous than Sarathiel has anticipated.

“Oh? Quite the agile one you are,” the man says with a curious tilt of his head as he retreats from the Throne’s range. “A surprise to be sure given your moniker, but I suppose appearances do ever tend to be deceiving.”

“You know of me,” Sarathiel grunts. “Then you know what I am capable of.”

Nokron only utters a raspy chuckle in response, encircling him with slow, methodical steps, and he bides his time while waiting for the opportune time to strike. “But of course, Titan of Steel. Though this may be our first meeting, I have heard much of your exploits after the death of Velcroz. You are every bit as I imagined: crude. Unseemly. A reprobate of metal and barbarity… my, you would fit well within the Grand General’s ranks.”

His remarks strike at Sarathiel with an indignation that riles him to the very core; however, what angers the Throne most is that he is unable to deny the Alchemist’s words. He attempts to spit out a harsh reply, but the sound lodges in his throat with every attempt to speak.

I know, he bitterly reflects. I know of all people the title of knight does not befit me, that my appearance resembles those mechanical monsters of the Caelum empire more than my fellows. I know this all, but what am I to do? You cannot change nature.

“Ah, yes. Now you begin to see,” Nokron goads. “I can taste it: the delectable aroma of anguish. You feel conflicted. You feel estranged. Surrounded by these chivalrous warriors, here you stand: an outcast, abandoned and treated as filth.”

The Alchemist chuckles. “Oh, how very wrong I was. Please, do forgive me; I thought you a mere brute like Gravitas and that madwoman Libevich, especially after receiving the report of your exploits in the desert. All those bodies, all that indiscriminate carnage… I found it rather boring, to put it plainly. The tantrum of a mindless cur.”

Stop it.

“But no, you are anything but. You feel remorse: regret. The despair wafting from your guilt-ridden mind is more pure than any I have witnessed before.”

Shut your putrid mouth.

“I must admit, I have been ever in a slump these passing moons. There are simply no suitable subjects to experiment upon in this isolated land: no souls depraved enough to stimulate Creation at its worst. You, however, are special—the one to finally perfect my formula. Lowly, yet conceited. Meek, yet savage. Stuck between the boundary of instinct and rationality. I am certain; a vapor produced from your turmoil is just the ingredient I need.”

I...

Nokron halts his steps, and he peers directly at the Throne’s quivering eyes. Though Sarathiel cannot see it, he just knows that a detestable smile hides behind the man’s helm.

“For you, Sarathiel, are a monster. A monster who will never know peace.”

The last threads holding Sarathiel back snap, and he lunges at the Alchemist with a roar. He no longer cares about appearances. He no longer cares about safety or his prior duty. No, all he desires is to make the man finally cease his constant prattering.

“Nokron!” he bellows, swinging his axe at the still-composed scourge, but his blade has yet to even come close to the man’s flesh before he vanishes once more, leaving behind an echo of laughter to pester the Throne as he looks around with a deep, visceral growl—red plaguing his vision.

In an instant, Nokron materializes next to his side and attempts to impale him with his helix of mist, but Sarathiel wastes not a second and flails his body about, battering the blow back and advancing upon the Alchemist with a series of crude, erratic movements. His blows have no technique or reason, no purposeful rhythm in which to follow. He merely tightens his grip on the axe and pummels the surrounding earth into a storm of dust.

Sarathiel relentlessly pursues Nokron, and while the man narrowly escapes from being carved in half, escape is all he can muster before the titan’s furious rampage. The Throne is unpredictable, a force of pure wrath that disorients his foes with a never-ending spree of chaos and violence, and even the most agile of foes would struggle to follow his sporadic onslaught as he cleaves and rends and obliterates all that dare approach.

But his tirade cannot last forever. A second, a flash of vulnerability: Nokron’s steadfast defensive finally yields reward as the titan wanes in ferocity for but a brief moment. That moment is all the man needs to ready his weapon and skewer Sarathiel’s side with a swift, faultless stab. It pierces through his armor of steel and bores into his flesh; the Throne attempts to pry away from the helix, but it sticks firm, clinging with little barbs of darkness.

“At last, this dance of ours comes to a most expected conclusion,” the Alchemist says with an apathetic drawl, but a slight wheeze and a quake of his arm suggests a much more exhausted state than he cares to reveal. “Your pain is… inadequate, but fear not; what shall come next will be far greater an agony than this mere wound of gristle.”

Nokron rips the helix out of Sarathiel’s body, but a mark of shadow remains in the puncture: growing, spreading, until it travels up and smothers the titan’s head in a hazy, inescapable fog.

“Now, despair, Sarathiel!” the man cries out. “Succumb to the vapors of my life’s work: the Aeternum’s miasma, manufactured and brought into the hands of man!”

It does not take long before familiar voices begin to intrude into the Throne’s head. They whisper a slew of curses, they blame him for tragedies he has sought long to forget. Former comrades, elders of the Powers, and even those still among the living… they gather one and all to mimic the Alchemist’s words. “Monster.”

And yet, he is not affected by their contempt, for his mind is occupied by a much more powerful, more dominating, emotion.

And that is anger. An anger wholly and utterly unbending.

“Oh?” Nokron mutters as the titan breaks free from the haze. “That was not planned.”

Sarathiel hurdles forward, and he smashes directly into the still-baffled Alchemist. The man is sent soaring, armor shattered and body contorted into a fractured mess, but the Throne immediately charges after him and prepares his axe to strike upon his fall.

However, just before he can land the decisive blow, his vision distorts in a cacophony of color and shifting landscape, and soon, he is transported right in front of the fortress’s gates—brought back to the place of their first encounter.

“To think I would be caught by surprise… how vexing.”

Nokron’s voice drifts from the distance. He sounds strained, and his tankard sputters with an intense rumble far noisier than before, but the man before Sarathiel displays not a sign of harm from their battle. His broken armor has miraculously repaired itself - almost as if it has never been struck in the first place - and his once-mangled limbs appear as normal.

Nonetheless, there is a newfound nervousness in the Caelum commander. The red orbs in his visor appear shaky, unfocused, and his prior deliberate stride has been replaced by what the titan can only describe as a disoriented stumble.

“You,” he says, pointing a trembling finger at the Throne. “You will regret this. My time… my time is ticking. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. No, no, no! The pain: I am only delaying the pain. That miserable state will return. Oh, why must the clock turn back? I do not know. The end is coming. I need—I need more of the vapor. But I must use the vapor to survive. What is the proper course, the path out of this mess? All I see is darkness. Death encroaches at last.

"Ah, I see. Very well then. If that is my fate, then I shall not leave this world alone."

In-between his incoherent ramblings, Nokron raises his grotesque weapon high into the air and plunges it into the earth. Sarathiel can feel something sickly swarming below, gathering at the madman’s behest, and he quickly bolts into action and attempts to stop the abhorrent ritual before it can be invoked.

But he is too late. With a sudden screech, an explosion erupts from below, sending the titan tumbling back as a ghastly fume begins to taint the expanse with its corrupting influence. It spreads to every corner, blinding his sight until naught but an arm’s reach can be seen in front, and a cacophony of otherworldly howls drown out all sound attempting to pierce through the malaise.

Sarathiel can hardly keep himself upright before the whirlwind. Every moment, a dreadful wraith attempts to invade his mind—drag out the evil buried within his heart. It leeches at his sanity and fills his thoughts with a constant barrage of madness and fearful pleas, but the Throne grits through the miasma and desperately holds on to what vestiges of clarity he can muster.

He attempts to call upon Creation, to block out the mist with a coat of metal, but something is wrong: the divinity has disappeared. He cannot feel its presence, and his steel-bodied transformation begins to act out beyond his control, shifting and grating haphazardly as his flesh tears from the constant reformation. Even his axe decays into a rusted brown from the foul presence permeating the air.

“Lorelai?” Sarathiel attempts to relay. “I can’t see a thing in this damn cloud. How are the others doing? Were they trapped as well?”

But there is only silence.

“… Lorelai?”

Nothing, not even so much as a whisper.

Something is terribly wrong, but before Sarathiel can collect himself, a strange sight starts to manifest before him. A familiar sight—one that has haunted his dreams for years.

A desert. A great desert unfolds before his very eyes, replacing the Magnus Murus and the bloody battlefield with a landscape of dry dunes. He can feel the coarse, grainy sand beneath his feet; he can feel the hot swelter of the sun blazing above, unimpeded amidst a clear blue sky that extends far out into the endless horizon. His soul screams that this is a fantasy - that the miasma is merely toying with his vision - but if so, then why does it feel so real? Everywhere, from every corner and stretch of land, is the desert he has so desperately sought to forget.

For this is the place of his sin—an atrocity that can never be forgiven.