(51) Everything Was Awful

Nephthys lowered her hand, glad to see Myra laughing. She had not known why he desired a fight, only that he was serious about it.

“I hope you found the reassurance you were looking for,” she said, crossing her legs in the air once again. It had become her default posture, somehow.

“Indeed,” he declared, his mirth fading to low chuckles. “Word reached me of a Djinn who wielded tremendous power, yet won her battles through wit and cunning. Some say the land itself answered to her. Despite being capable of destruction unparalleled, she claimed victory by inducing her opponents to make mistakes. Truly, the rumors did not exaggerate. It is a shame we have not fought before.”

Nephthys would have blushed, were her body more responsive to her mental state. He spoke of her PvP as if it were some legendary thing, but not showing all the cards in one’s hand was PvP 101. Sure, she could call down meteors to smite her foes, but it would cost her tremendously, both in mana and casting time, leaving her vulnerable during and afterward—not a risk she wanted to take when she was on her own.

“Those were…different times, more chaotic,” she replied, abashed.

“Of course, Starchild. I mean not to judge, merely to affirm that your mind is still your own. This is the reassurance I sought,” Myra replied, his expression growing serious.

Unbidden, thoughts of power at her fingertips sprang to mind. Whenever she called on her cosmic powers, whispers of possibilities, of the nearly infinite potential at her beck and call, invaded her mind. Worse, she did not know whether the thoughts originated in her own mind.

“Who else would claim my mind, if not me?” Nephthys asked, her head tilted, belying the chill that crept up her spine.

“I do not know. I know only the gist of what happened to your predecessor, what happened to all of them,” Myra replied cryptically.

“My predecessor…the Primarchs? You knew the Primarchs?” Nephthys reasoned, her eyes actually wide, her body following her mind for once.

“Knew of them, yes, as did all who lived during that time,” Myra confirmed, crossing his bulky arms and clasping his smaller arms behind his back.

“Forgive me; I knew you had lived long. I did not realize you lived during the height of the Praxic Empire. What about the Primarchs leads you to suspect that my mind would not be my own?” Nephthys asked. She had a myriad questions, each vying for its place in her mind, but this seemed the operative one, at the moment.

Myra, like all wisened masters, was eccentric, and she knew his current mood of answering questions outright, in a straightforward manner, was limited. She wanted to get as much out of him as possible before he lapsed back into his curmudgeon-on-a-mountain schtick.

“Those who lived below would know better, but word reached even me of the twelve who rose up to claim dominion over the Empire, wielding a great and terrible power that was not theirs. It is said that they retreated into solitude as twelve normal, upstanding citizens, yet emerged as tyrants, wielding terrible power in one hand and oppression in the other.

“They, each and every one of them, devolved into raving lunatics, madmen that sought to extend their dominion beyond even this world.

“Many remember the Skyfade as the cataclysm that brought the Empire to its end, but few remember that it was only the killing blow, that a rot had festered in its heart long before it was relieved of its head,” Myra lectured neutrally, as if unaffected by what must be his own history as much as the Empire’s.

He then turned his eyes on Nephthys, and she thought she saw all his long years reflected back to her in them. “When you brought to bear that great and terrible power, I braced for my own demise, yet you wield this power-that-is-not-yours as a tool in battle, a distraction to pull my eyes from your true tactic. This tells me that your mind is still your own. You have not fallen to the same madness that claimed the Primarchs.

“Yet.”

A thousand and one questions pressed within Nephthys’ mind, so many that she felt the pressure would burst, yet before even a single one could pass her lips, Myra’s demeanor changed completely. A small smile crept over his lips, and he turned toward Tara, who had been watching and listening from the side. Nephthys could tell just from her expression that she had only been somewhat following the conversation.

“Very well. With that assurance, I will train young Tara. I will even acquiesce to your request, Starchild. Place a gate. Tara may return to you in the evenings, though I maintain that she would be better off staying here fully until her training is complete. She must be fully immersed in the lessons to benefit the most from them,” Myra said.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Master Myrazandias. We will take that into consideration. However, as I mentioned before, Tara will be learning magic from me. It is neither my nor her intention to become a warrior in full. I suspect she will become better than both of us. A finer warrior than you, and a better mage than me, but for now, she will not specialize in either,” Nephthys said, staring at Tara with a small smile.

Tara’s face was white as a sheet, for some reason.

“Ha, you win me with your honeyed words, Starchild. What more could a teacher desire than for his student to surpass him?” Myra chuckled.

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Nephthys floated over to the cliffside, and the stone began to flow and churn like water. An arch as large as the one Tara and Myra had emerged from formed, and a conflagration of magic ignited within it. Soon, a gate of swirling purple and blue stood etched into the mountainside, as if it had always been there, carved by some ancient peoples long ago.

“Return through this gate when your training is complete, Tara. It will connect you with the gate that Aka guards in Gloamview,” Nephthys said.

Tara nodded, looking relieved, but that expression vanished as Myra grabbed her by the arm, dragging her off toward the mountaintop.

“Come, young one. The day already grows old. There is much to be done, should we wish to make use of the little light remaining,” he instructed without looking back, dragging Tara through the snow like a rag doll.