Although he had used the situation as an excuse to announce the commencement of the ceremony, August was thoroughly appalled by the performance of Redansia's Troupe.
Just what the hell had that Clown been doing?
She looked crazed, not in how she appeared, but how she acted. In harming her fellow performer in front of so many eager Nobles, she was calm throughout. Cold, even.
Was this the sort of person that Maester Redansia wished to represent him, or was there something more to the performance that he had missed?
It only took a moment for him to make his way to the tip of the mountain, scaling its peak in reverse as he made his way to the surface entrance of the cave system.
August quickly made his way through the ineffable labyrinth of Lyre's cave system, his right-hand illuminating the way forward with its brilliant glow.
In the meanwhile, there were certainly many matters that concerned him besides Redansia's Troupe.
I wonder… why did Clause Summerrich place a mark on me earlier…? What is the purpose of it, to track me? While I can detect its presence, I can't known for certain… not on my own. He certainly isn't up to any good, but when has a Summerrich ever done anything inherently good?
August let out an audible 'tsk'.
And why am I overlooking certain things?
Am I broken?
Have I been getting enough sleep…? Between Artemis and this faction-issue, maybe I've been neglecting myself…
August paused for a moment, considering himself. He realised that he had bitten into his lip, drawing blood. He furrowed his brows, wiping crimson away with the back of his hand as he grimaced.
I placed Gwennaude on Artemis. Everything will be fine. When I return, I'll thoroughly investigate this matter and appease my anxieties…
There was a small chamber at the end of the hall of carvings, pitch-black and covered in dust and decay. Small violet roots protruded from the ceiling, and water dripped periodically into puddles at the edge of the room.
In the center, atop a small stone pedestal, was a gnarled, wilted and emaciated figure August had come to know well. This Festival happened once every two years, after all.
"Hello, Mr. Saint." August bowed slightly, smiling in an amused fashion.
Saint Cyro, the patron of no church at all, had been a very fickle and hermetic figure in his lifetime, according to the scholars who praised him centuries later. He had made great efforts, in all ways he could, to provide through charity to the people that the iron-fisted Witch-Kings of the past had ignored, and so he was a deservedly honoured Saint by the common-people.
And that was exactly why he had been buried so far into the depths of their world, why Lyre could only be accessed from the height of the Palace, why only the Witch-King was allowed to witness him. That was why it was August's duty to bring the petrified wood bracelet to Saint Cyro one year, and retrieve it in the next.
It was because the Witch-Kings of old feared all Saints.
In the hands of the Nobility, it was simple religion.
In the hands of the common-people, it was a unifier.
A unifier against unjust rule, a unifier against a tyrant.
While August himself was not like his forebears, he could not say with certainty that he was also unafraid of such a Saint.
But it wasn't because he was afraid his rule would be challenged.
He was afraid that if it was anyone else but him who managed to unify all people, his dream would be for nothing.
There was a certain ability that came with the ninth stage of his Aspect, Fatelingerer, that he often reminded himself he should never use. It was called Luck Sight, and allowed him to view the luck as applied to objects and people, which would either be highlighted various shades of red or green, depending on the luck or misfortune that they would likely experience.
The reason he would never use it is because everything around him was usually highlighted a bright-red. Only a few objects would ever have variances in their shades, lighter reds, yellows, perhaps those that verged on a slight tinge of green.
But everything he seemed to touch turned red. First with misfortune, later with blood.
It was funny, that a Runebranded would often feel like he himself was cursed.
Still, he felt that he would feel much better if, by some chance, that wasn't the case here.
He closed his eyes for a moment, channeling the light within himself. It cast over his heart, blanketing it in warmth, vibrating and shuddering with extreme force before alighting within his eyes.
He let out a relieved sigh.
The bracelet in his hand was highlighted a brilliant emerald colour, its radiance casting green light around him, as if its very presence was increasing the fortune of the cavern itself.
It was… fortunate. There really was nothing wrong with it.
Was he really just going crazy?
He reached forward, placing the bracelet around the corpse's extended wrist, nodding his head.
"There you go…" He said in an exasperated manner.
He noticed the faintness of his breathing.
August suddenly stumbled, nearly falling to the ground. He caught himself on the craggy wall beside him, feeling quite out of breath. His vision shuddered, and his mind felt hazy, his muscles weak.
What the f-ck…
There's something wrong here… something feels off…
He looked back towards the corpse of Saint Cyro.
The bracelet was red.
The corpse was red.
Everything was highlighted in an anguishing, violent shade.
August, for the first time in his life, stumbled backwards. He didn't saunter in confidence, he didn't confront this strange occurrence.
He faltered.
And the anti-mountain shook. Not August, the mountain itself. It vibrated violently, horrendously, leaving the god-like figure unable to keep his own balance. Rubble began to fall from the ceiling, dust kicked up into the air, obscuring his vision.
What the hell- is going on…?
He heard a vile, layered laugh echo in the darkness.
August instinctively flipped his head around, feeling a strange presence appear behind him.
He thought he caught the sight of a figure, only for a split second. This figure wore a long yellow cloak that seemed to extend into the very depths of the world, far past what he could comprehend, with thick, lengthy black tentacles that writhed about.
Is this some remnant power of the Saint? Is this cavern tricking me?
But he was no longer in the cavern.
A vast black sky extended overhead, littered with crimson and pitch-black stars that peered down at him like eyes.
An opalescent, luminous golden city towered overhead, enshrouding the horizon.
This was Shadowhaunt!
Countless images, sentences, and visions flooded through his head.
He once again saw flashes of the incomprehensible yellow-cloaked figure, a ghastly, snake-like voice piercing through his mind.
[He is the Inalienable Presence, He is the Unkillable, the Inevitable Fate.]
Plastered all over these visions, these memories, was a fractal, coruscating symbol, an amalgamation of incomprehensible and otherworldly traits. It was a jagged, three-armed triskelion, which seemed to waver whenever it was viewed in these visions.
It branded itself to him, it cried out to him, it soothed his worries and anxieties, and it promised so much…
It willed him to accept it, to take it upon himself as his own.
But he could sense what it was. It wasn't a gift, it was a leash. It was slowly robbing him of his sense of self, of his will to do anything but what its owner would command of him, turning him into a shell, a puppet…
…a slave.
This parasite, it ate away at the flesh of his brain, seeping into its mind, latching on as if it were simply another part of him.
August fell to his knees, keeling over as the contents of his stomach were expelled onto the pitch-black soil. Pain spread throughout his chest, like his heart was trying desperately to rid himself of the anxiety that plagued him, beating a thousand times a minute.
Crawling in the mud, August reached out his hand, brushing his fingertips against the ground. Instantly, small verdant sprouts peeked out from underneath, bathing him in a gentle light. It renewed his mind, it detached the grasp of the symbol, it freed him from its pleasure.
Everything began to calm itself once more.
He had said it before to Lysia, that all illness feared him.
His Aspect was the reason why.
"Your Grace! Your Grace!" A gruff, booming voice suddenly shook him out of his stupor.
He flipped over, lying back in the mud, glancing up at the figure who leaned over him. He was a scruffy, giant of a man.
August's eyes widened in horror.
Why was this man not with Artemis?
"Gwennaude!?"
No, it wasn't just Gwennaude that had appeared alongside him…
It was all of the Archknights, it was all of the House Guard.
Hundreds upon hundreds of figures dotted the pitch-black landscape.
Everyone defending Naasis had been marked for arrival in Shadowhaunt.