07 Ascension of Thanir
Part 7: The Ascension of Thanir
The Ritual of Blood
Aetherion could only watch in horror as Alexion—no, the person who had once been Alexion—prepared the twisted ritual. The chamber was filled with the eerie glow of the purple candles, their flickering light casting unnatural shadows on the walls. The air seemed to thicken with each passing moment, the weight of dark magic pressing down on everything.
Alexion stood over the bowl at the center of the altar, his expression cold and resolute. In his hands, he held the vials of blood—trophies from his heinous deeds—and the dark, terrible power of Cyric pulsed through him, visible in the strange aura that now clung to his form.
Aetherion struggled against his bonds, but the poison that still coursed through his veins made it impossible to move. His limbs were weak, his vision blurred, and all he could do was watch in helpless terror as his once-friend prepared to complete the unholy rite.
Alexion's voice, now a deep resonance of both his own and something far more sinister, filled the chamber. "Watch as I ascend."
The Blood of the Traitor
Alexion moved with purpose, his hands steady as he lifted the first vial from his satchel. The blood of the ecclesiarchs—thick and crimson—swirled ominously within the glass. The weight of what he had done seemed to hang in the air, but there was no hesitation, no regret on his face. His eyes gleamed with the promise of power.
With a swift motion, Alexion uncorked the vial and poured the dark liquid into the bowl. The blood flowed like molten metal, its surface rippling as it mixed with the shadows already gathered there. A faint glow began to emanate from the bowl, a soft pulse of dark energy as the blood seeped into the ritual's heart.
"By the blood of the traitor," Alexion intoned, his voice resonating with an eerie, unnatural echo that seemed to fill the chamber, "we cast aside loyalty."
The room seemed to tighten around them, the walls pressing closer as the power of the blood took hold. The air thickened, vibrating with an invisible force, and Aetherion could feel the weight of the betrayal—the ecclesiarchs' blood, spilled in secret, now fueling a ritual that defied everything they had stood for.
As the last drop of blood dripped from the vial, Alexion raised his head, his eyes burning with an intensity that made Aetherion's stomach churn. There was no remorse, no hesitation in those eyes. Only conviction.
The bowl pulsed once more, a faint light flickering within, as if the blood itself had come alive. The traitors were now bound to the ritual, their betrayal a tool for the Lord of Lies.
The Blood of the Weak
Aetherion's heart raced as Alexion reached for the bowl, his every movement deliberate, methodical. His eyes, cold and detached, flicked toward the bound governor. The man's eyes were wide with fear, his muffled screams barely audible beneath the gag as he struggled against his restraints. But it was all in vain.
Alexion approached with the bowl in hand, striding forward with an air of terrifying purpose. The dim, flickering light of the purple candles cast long shadows, their glow reflecting off the blood-stained bowl. Aetherion could feel the oppressive weight of the ritual, the very air vibrating with dark power as Alexion stood over the trembling governor.
With a chilling calm, Alexion reached for his knife, its blade glinting in the faint light. He leaned over the governor, and without hesitation, he drew the blade across his throat in one swift, brutal motion. The blood spilled forth, pooling into the bowl that Alexion held beneath the gaping wound.
As the crimson flood filled the bowl, Alexion's voice rang out, filled with disdain. "By the blood of the weak, we rise to our ambitions, standing upon their frailty." He watched as the life drained from the governor's eyes, his expression unreadable. The bowl now pulsed with energy, the dark mixture glowing brighter, fed by the sacrifice.
He stepped back, holding the bowl aloft as if it were a chalice, his eyes flickering with the terrible knowledge of what was to come.
The Blood of the Innocent
Aetherion trembled as Alexion turned toward him, his movements slow and measured. His once-friend—now something far more twisted—approached with the bowl in hand, the contents swirling with dark energy. Aetherion's pulse quickened as Alexion knelt beside him, his eyes hard, yet filled with a strange sorrow.
Without a word, Alexion grabbed Aetherion's wrist, and with precise cruelty, he sliced open his palm. Pain shot through Aetherion, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the anguish he felt in his heart as his blood dripped into the bowl, mixing with the blood of the weak and the traitor.
"By the blood of the innocent," Alexion said, his voice softer now, tinged with regret, "we corrupt the pure."
The bowl glowed even brighter, the dark energy swirling within it now vibrating with a malevolent force. The ritual was nearly complete, but Alexion had one more offering to make.
He stood and returned to the altar.
The Blood of the Fallen
The chamber seemed to darken further as Alexion stood, the weight of the ritual pressing down on him. The power he had invoked was undeniable, and with every drop of blood, the air grew heavier, more oppressive. Aetherion could only watch as his once-friend—now something else entirely—returned to the altar, his hands steady despite the madness that surrounded them.
With deliberate care, Alexion placed the bowl of blood before him, the mixture swirling with a life of its own, pulsing with dark energy. His breath was shallow, but his resolve never wavered.
There was one final step.
Alexion reached for his blade once more, his fingers curling around the hilt with a practiced ease. With a swift, precise motion, he drew the blade across his own palm, the pain an afterthought as his blood—the blood of the fallen—dripped into the bowl, joining the blood of the weak, the traitor, and the innocent.
The dark liquid hissed as it accepted the final offering, the energy within it growing stronger, more volatile. The Visage of the True Sovereign pulsed with hunger, waiting for the moment when it would be complete.
"And by my blood," Alexion whispered, his voice barely more than a breath, "the blood of the fallen, I bind myself to the Lord of Lies."
The words carried a weight that Aetherion could feel in his bones, a finality that chilled him to his core. The bowl pulsed one last time, and the shadows around them seemed to shift, as though the ritual had pierced the very fabric of reality itself.
The transformation was upon him.
The Transformation of Alexion
The chamber seemed to hold its breath as Alexion lifted the Visage of the True Sovereign from the altar, his hands trembling ever so slightly. His eyes flickered with a mixture of awe and fear as he dipped the mask into the pool of blood. The crimson liquid clung to the mask, seeping into its cracks and veins, as though the mask itself was hungry for the offering.
For a brief moment, the mask seemed to resist, its dark surface rippling as though alive. But then, with a terrible shudder, it absorbed the blood entirely, glowing with a faint, ominous light.
With slow, deliberate movements, Alexion raised the mask to his face. Aetherion, still bound, watched in helpless horror as the mask made contact with Alexion's skin.
The moment the Visage touched his face, the world seemed to implode.
A crack of black energy erupted from Alexion, the force of it shaking the very foundations of the undercity. The energy surged outward, warping reality, distorting the air, and causing the walls to tremble and crack.
Aetherion could only watch in disbelief as Alexion's body began to shift and twist, his form contorting in ways that defied nature. His skin seemed to melt, like hot wax, only to reform into something monstrous. His muscles expanded grotesquely, his Tiefling form now exaggerated, his features more demonic than ever before.
The transformation was slow, agonizing, the sound of tearing flesh and cracking bones echoing through the chamber. Alexion's wings began to sprout from his back—not the graceful wings of an angel, but something far more terrifying. The dark feathers that lined his wings were sharp, jagged, gleaming like blades in the faint light. Each flap of the wings sent waves of energy through the air, their presence a mockery of divine grace.
His face, once familiar, was now unrecognizable. The mask had melded to his features, becoming one with his flesh, transforming him into something both beautiful and horrific. His eyes glowed with an intense purple light, and the expression that flickered across his now-disfigured face was one of both triumph and sorrow.
Aetherion shuddered as he watched the transformation unfold, the process drawn out, every step filled with the grotesque sounds of a body being remade. The world around them began to collapse, the ceiling above them cracking, stones falling from the walls as the undercity itself protested the birth of this new dark power.
The Ascension of Thanir
At last, the transformation was complete.
Alexion stood tall amidst the chaos. His wings stretched wide, casting long shadows across the crumbling chamber. His face, melded with the mask, was a mixture of divine beauty and monstrous horror. His eyes glowed with a terrifying power, and when he spoke, his voice was no longer his own.
It was a double voice—one that was his, and one that belonged to something far darker, far older.
"I am Thanir, Sovereign of Death and Deception," he declared, his voice reverberating through the ruins. "Gaze upon the new order I shall forge, and kneel."
The chamber trembled as his words echoed, the very ground beneath them quaking as the undercity began to crumble. Stones fell, dust filled the air, and shafts of light broke through the darkness, casting fleeting beams through the destruction.
"For the world shall serve," Thanir continued, his wings flaring behind him, "and those who defy me will be erased."
The Collapse and the Shield of Darkness
The undercity was collapsing, the very walls groaning and the ceiling caving in as the last remnants of the hidden world fell apart. Stones cracked, pillars crumbled, and dust filled the air, the destruction inevitable as the ground shook violently.
But Thanir stood unmoved amidst the chaos, his eyes glowing with a dark, malevolent light—the only light in the engulfing darkness. The eerie purple glow from his eyes pierced the shadowy surroundings, filled with a twisted satisfaction as he watched the world crumble around him.
As the ceiling began to give way above them, sending massive chunks of debris hurtling toward Aetherion, Thanir stretched out his hand with deliberate calm. From his palm, a swirling darkness erupted, as though the very fabric of shadow itself had come to life. The protective field enveloped the space around Aetherion, the force field expanding with a low hum. The falling rubble crashed against the barrier but was deflected harmlessly away, shattered by the power of Thanir's dark magic.
"You will not die here," Thanir's voice echoed through the stillness, filled with a grim, chilling promise. "Not while I will it."
Beneath the cover of the dark magic, the world seemed to slow, suspended in an unnatural stillness. The ground continued to tremble, and the walls still collapsed, but the two of them remained untouched within the protective cocoon of shadow, surrounded by the chaotic storm of destruction.
And in that moment of suspended silence, Aetherion felt something shift. The ropes binding his wrists, so tightly tied before, had begun to loosen. Thanir—so absorbed in his ascension, so focused on the immense power coursing through him—had not noticed.
With a final, desperate effort, Aetherion slipped his hands free, his pulse racing with terror and uncertainty. His wrists throbbed from the strain, but they were free—free while Thanir stood blinded by his own dark purpose.
Only the eerie purple glow of Thanir's eyes cut through the darkness, a reminder of the unstoppable force now standing before him.
The Aftermath and the Revelation
The shaking finally stopped, and an eerie silence settled over the ruins. Thanir's dark magic dissipated, and the shadows that had once protected us vanished into the air. Shafts of light pierced through the thick dust, casting a haunting glow over the devastation. The undercity was gone—reduced to rubble—and everything around us was broken, shattered beyond recognition.
It didn't take long to see it: homes, pieces of lives that had once been whole, scattered in the wreckage. Trinkets, shattered walls, beams from above—all of it mixed together with the stone and dirt. At first, I couldn't believe it. How could the city above have fallen so easily? Then I realized: we had been directly under it.
I could feel my heart racing, my chest tightening with panic. I looked back and forth, frantically trying to make sense of it all, and then my eyes landed on him—Thanir. He stood there, staring at something in the distance, his face frozen in an expression I hadn't seen since... since before. It was as if, for a brief moment, he was Alexion again.
His glowing purple eyes, now dimmed but still visible in the dust, were locked onto something ahead. He looked stunned, as if the reality of what had just happened was starting to sink in. His lips parted, and I barely heard him whisper, "Did he trick me? He told me this was the location. He couldn't have known... Could he?"
I followed his gaze, my stomach dropping as I looked at the crumbling structure he was focused on. My breath caught in my throat, and suddenly, everything felt distant—surreal. I stumbled forward, my legs weak beneath me as I approached the ruins of a house. My house.
I could barely breathe as I moved closer. The walls were gone, the roof had caved in, and the place where I had once lived... was gone. My legs gave way, and I fell to my knees among the broken stone and wood. And then I saw them.
Among the wreckage, their bodies twisted in terror, lay my parents. Their faces were frozen in fear, their arms outstretched, as if trying to shield themselves from the collapse that had killed them. They'd had no warning—no time to escape. It had been sudden, violent. They'd been terrified in their final moments.
Tears blurred my vision, my whole body trembling as I knelt there, my fingers hovering over them but unable to touch. "No... no, please," I whispered, my voice shaking. "This can't be real. This has to be a trick... please..."
My eyes flicked to something glinting on my father's neck. There, beneath the dirt and debris, was a pendant. I hadn't seen it before—he must have kept it hidden under his shirt. My hand trembled as I reached out, brushing the dust away to reveal the Pendant of Unseen Truths—a symbol worn by those in our order who sought hidden knowledge.
I turned it over in my hands, and there, engraved on the back, were the words: "Truth does not perish."
I felt a sob rise in my throat as I held the pendant in my trembling hands. The words felt hollow in that moment, but I placed it around my neck all the same, the chain settling on top of the pendant Alexion had given me before his departure with the militia. As the two pendants rested together on my chest, it was as if the weight of both past and present hung there—a reminder of all I had lost and all I still had to face.
Then I saw it—half-buried in the rubble but unmistakable. The family hammer. I reached out with shaking hands, pulling it free. The symbol of Oghma—not the scroll, but an older symbol of knowledge and divine truth—was etched into its hilt. I clutched it to my chest, my tears falling onto the cold metal, forming streaks of mud on my cheeks.
I stood, hammer in hand, my legs weak but my resolve hardening. I turned to face Thanir, my heart filled with rage and grief like I had never known.
He looked at me with sorrow in his eyes—those same glowing eyes that had once been filled with warmth. "I didn't know," he whispered, his voice soft and broken. "They were my family too, Aetherion. I would never have wished this on them."
The fury in me boiled over, and I could barely contain the rage that surged through me. "Do not speak of them!" I shouted, my voice raw. "You are unworthy to speak their names!"
Thanir flinched, but the sorrow remained in his gaze. "I didn't want this," he said, his voice heavy with regret. "But Cyric... Cyric demands sacrifice. I suspect this may have been his final offering. A test. A price for power."
I gripped the hammer so tightly I thought my hands might break. "It will never be enough!" I screamed, my voice shaking with both anger and despair. "The Betrayer God will always demand more. More power, more death, more of your soul. There is no end to his madness. No peace in his path."
For the first time, I saw something in Thanir's eyes that shook me—doubt. His confidence, his arrogance, wavered for just a moment. But then, just as quickly, he masked it. He straightened, his wings rustling behind him, his face hardening into something cold and unfeeling once more.
"This wasn't the way it was supposed to be," he murmured, his voice barely audible as he glanced down at the debris again. I could see it in his face—he was searching for some explanation, some justification for the devastation we stood in.
But there was none.
I took a step toward him, the hammer heavy in my hand. "You've sacrificed everything," I said through gritted teeth. "But you've gained nothing. You will fall with the rest of them, Thanir. There is no justice in Cyric's lies. Only death and madness."
The Choice and the Creed
The air between us hung heavy with tension. Thanir, once Alexion, extended his hand, his eyes gleaming with dark purpose. His voice, though still his, now carried a resonance far deeper—an echo of something ancient, twisted. "That is why I need you, Aetherion. To keep me on the path that you believe in. This new order will need justice—true justice. The strongest will rise to the top, and the corrupt and incompetent will be swept away."
I stood there, trembling—not just from the exhaustion that weighed down my limbs, but from the sheer horror of his words. His request twisted my heart in ways I couldn't comprehend. He wasn't just offering me a role in his madness; he was asking me to stand at his side, to be his right hand, to help him bring this nightmare to life.
His glowing eyes softened for a moment, as if offering me an olive branch. "Together," he said quietly, his hand still outstretched, "we will shape a world of truth. A world where those with the strength to lead, the strength to act, can take their rightful place. I need you, Aetherion. You've always been my anchor. You... could be a part of this."
A sick feeling gnawed at my stomach. I shook my head, my breath ragged. His words tempted me with their sincerity, but I saw through the cracks. This wasn't Alexion speaking—this was Thanir, the twisted creature Cyric had molded from my brother's soul.
"I will not join you," I said, my voice shaking but growing steadier with each word. "I will not betray what we once stood for."
Thanir's eyes darkened, his hand slowly lowering, but I could feel the tension building between us, the crackling energy of what was to come.
And then, with all the strength I had left, I shouted:
"I believe in Oghma, the Binder of what is known, The Keeper of Knowledge, from whom all truth flows. I believe in the eternal power of wisdom, Unbent by falsehoods, unbroken by lies. I renounce the deceivers, who weave webs of illusion, And I stand against the betrayers, who claim power through treachery. For it is knowledge that builds, and deception that destroys, And in the end, only truth remains, while all else turns to dust. I believe that the light of truth outshines the darkness of ambition, That no mask of power can hide the rot of lies, And no strength born of deceit can stand against the weight of wisdom. I shall not bend to false gods or their hollow promises, For truth is eternal, and those who seek to corrupt it Shall be forgotten in the annals of history, While the words of Oghma endure forever."
The echoes of my declaration hung in the air, defiant and unwavering, cutting through the oppressive darkness that surrounded us.
Thanir's Transformation and the Duel
For a brief moment, Thanir's face twisted—not in rage, but in... regret. His hand, the same one he had offered me in friendship, dropped to his side.
"Then die."
His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. The sentence was spoken with a terrifying finality. Before I could react, his hand moved with a lethal grace, pulling forth a rapier from its sheath—a blade I recognized, yet it was no longer the weapon it once had been.
The rapier had changed, just as he had. It remained straight and sharp, but there was something grotesque about it now. What was once an elegant tool of combat had become a corrupted mockery of itself—a bastardized version of its former elegance.
The blade was longer than I remembered, its edge gleaming with a malevolent light. Dark, tarnished black steel ran the length of it, faint veins of glowing purple pulsing like some twisted, unnatural heartbeat. It was more substantial now, heavier—its very essence warped by the power that had claimed its wielder.
The hilt had changed, but its transformation wasn't grotesque or overt. Instead, it had taken on a subtle, menacing elegance. Its once polished surface was now tarnished black, with faint, dark veins running through it, pulsing as though alive with a sinister energy. The grip, once designed for balance and comfort, now seemed infused with a quiet malice, its edges rougher, the leather worn and frayed, yet fitting perfectly in Thanir's grasp.
The guard was no longer smooth and refined. It twisted in intricate, angular patterns, as though the metal itself had been warped by dark forces. It seemed to cling to Thanir's hand, binding him to the weapon in an unseen but inescapable way. It was subtle but undeniable—a symbol of the bond between Thanir and Cyric.
It wasn't just a sword anymore—it was an extension of Cyric's will, forged for domination and destruction. He moved with a speed that defied reason. The air crackled around him as he lunged toward me, his corrupted blade slicing through the dust-filled air. I barely had time to raise my hammer in defense, the weight of it heavy in my hands.
Our weapons met with a clash, the force of it reverberating through my arms. It was like trying to hold back a storm. Thanir was no longer holding back—his strikes were relentless, each one faster, more precise than the last. His movements were graceful but brutal, and I knew—deep down—I couldn't match him. Not like this.
But he wasn't trying to kill me. Not yet. He was toying with me, testing my strength, savoring the moment.
As his blade danced around mine, I could feel the weight of his words, the finality of his decision. He could end this at any moment, and we both knew it. He was giving me a chance—one last chance to join him, to take his hand, to abandon my creed.
But I couldn't. I wouldn't.
With a flick of his wrist, Thanir knocked my hammer from my hands, the heavy weapon clattering to the ground. I staggered back, my vision blurring as he advanced, his blade glinting with dark energy.
Then, with a lazy flick of his sword, he slashed across my chest, shoulder to hip, and I fell. The pain was instant and overwhelming. I gasped, feeling the blood seeping from the wound as I collapsed to the ground, the world spinning around me.
Through the haze of pain, I looked up, my vision blurring as Thanir stood over me, his face unreadable. His wings unfurled behind him, casting dark, jagged shadows on the ground.
"So long, Small Horn," he said, his voice filled with cold indifference.
The Departure of Thanir
As I lay there, barely clinging to consciousness, the world around me felt distant, muffled as though I were submerged in water. The rubble of the collapsed city shifted, the dust settling in the wake of the destruction. Everything was chaos—except for Thanir.
He stood above me, his dark wings stretched wide, casting long, terrible shadows over the remnants of our lives. His eyes glowed with that eerie, dark purple light, his new form towering and menacing. He looked down at me for a long moment, his expression unreadable—no longer the Alexion I had known, but something darker, something far beyond my reach.
He gazed down at me, his voice cold, devoid of the warmth I had once known. "If you have the strength to survive," he began, his voice echoing with a cruel authority, "then I may still have purpose for you yet. But if you fall..." He paused, his glowing eyes narrowing, "...then only the strong will stand with me as I use Cyric's power to reshape this world."
My heart pounded as his words sank in. Thanir wasn't offering salvation—he was offering a challenge, a test. Only those who survived had the right to join him. The rest, like the debris and lives around us, were simply swept away.
With a final, dismissive glance, Thanir turned, his wings unfurling fully. With a mighty sweep, he launched himself into the air, his figure cutting through the dust and debris like a shadow of death. He ascended quickly, disappearing into the sky, leaving behind the wreckage of the undercity—and the wreckage of my heart.
I lay there, staring at the sky where he had vanished, the pain of his departure mingling with the physical agony that wracked my body. My vision blurred, my strength ebbing away. I thought it was the end.
The Impossible Healing
But then, through the haze of pain, I saw a hand—a hand that should not have moved, yet did.
My father's hand.
Trembling, weak, yet with purpose, it drifted toward me. I watched, disbelieving, as his fingers brushed against my wound, the touch sending a shiver through my entire body. His breath was shallow, his chest barely rising, but he was alive—alive and doing something impossible.
His voice came next, faint and strained, each word a desperate struggle. "By the light of truth," he whispered, his words barely audible, "may your wounds be mended. Let knowledge guide you back from the brink, and may the wisdom of Oghma restore your strength."
A soft light began to emanate from his hand, growing slowly, faintly at first, but then stronger—more radiant. I had never seen such a light from him, not in all the years I had known him. My father, who had always doubted, always questioned, was now casting a miracle. It was a light of pure faith, of unshakable belief, and it enveloped me, wrapping around my body like a protective embrace.
I felt the warmth spreading through me, closing the deep wound that had threatened my life. The pain ebbed, and my breathing became easier, my heart no longer struggling to beat. I could feel the strength returning to my limbs, the blood that had once poured from my body now stilled by my father's impossible act.
But as the light grew, my father's strength faded. His hand trembled, the glow flickering as he fought to hold it. His breath became ragged, his body weakening with each passing second.
"Father..." I whispered, my voice broken.
His eyes met mine, a faint smile playing on his lips. There was no fear in his gaze, only peace. "The truth," he whispered, his voice barely a breath, "does not perish."
And with that, his hand fell still. The light dimmed, fading away as his body gave out, his final breath escaping in a soft sigh.
I lay there, the tears falling freely as the full weight of his sacrifice hit me. He had saved me. My father—the man who had struggled with faith his entire life—had performed a miracle in his dying hour. He had given everything to pull me back from the edge of death.
But I had lost him.
The Collapse into Exhaustion
The pain of my wound, though healed, still lingered, draining me of the little strength I had left. My body felt heavy, my limbs numb as the reality of everything crashed down on me. The grief, the exhaustion, and the agony were too much to bear.
I could still feel the warmth of my father's hand on mine, the last remnants of his strength seeping into me. But it wasn't enough. The world around me began to blur, the edges of my vision darkening as my body succumbed to the weight of it all.
The last thing I saw before I slipped into unconsciousness was the sight of my father lying still beside me, his hand now motionless, his face peaceful in death.
And then everything went black.