Echoes Of Broken Souls

Crimson’s cruelty continued to paint the skies as the vessel hurled forward. No one was piloting. Instead, it flew towards its usual destination without concern or change. If not for the malice of red that was still igniting the air to thwart would-be followers, the ship may have seemed calm from the exterior. Inside, the beast continued to rage.

Vraxlyn The Broken was still screaming.

Rage.

Hate.

Confusion.

Pain.

Torment.

Unwellness.

Rage.

Rage.

Rage.

All of it burned through every nerve and thought as her torn leg soaked her garments in deep ruby red. Pain stopped her from opening her eyes. Brokenness kept her from standing. Each shift in her weight caused the shattered bone to shift and lurch, scraping jagged edges against muscle and tendon, sending more screams.

Sweat soaked every inch of fabric as panic and confusion set in. None of this was right. She had been unleashed from her safe captivity to extinguish more heretics who dared to defile her masters’ radiance. The Empire was Truth. The Empire was pure. They were the unclean and the forsaken. She was there to kill them.

But then something happened. A voice had sung out, carrying strange light across the realm. Many fell to their knees and dropped their weapons as the voice’s light filled every corner of the room where Vraxlyn was currently slaughtering heretics. When it had touched Vraxlyn, she felt a sensation she’d never known before. That scared her. Claws ripped at flesh, trying to pull the peaceful tranquility from her spirit. Whatever that gentleness was, it was foreign and unwelcome. It was just another thing penetrating her mind and body that she didn’t want.

Then, the protections in the sky were shattered. Nothing could shield them any longer. Now they were vulnerable. Now the cruelty would return for her. Those who wished to hurt her would come for her in the night. That was what she was taught, and as she watched the glyphs fall like shattered window panes, she screamed in terror at what might come for her.

She was afraid. Always afraid. More violations. More breaking. More pain. That was all she ever thought about.

Then, Xentros spoke to all of the empire and told them that they were defeated. By someone named Azag the Guardian. And a songstress. Sayane. That was her name. That was her voice. That was her magic penetrating her and entering every facet of her mind without her permission. Whoever this songstress was, she hated her.

Everything was collapsing, and it was this songstress’s fault.

So she tried to destroy that songstress. She tried to destroy them all. But she had failed. That strange rock had almost killed her. Now, she was retreating to her safe captivity where she would be healed.

Higher she climbed. Further she flew. Time passed, and the screams turned into sobs as pain became all-encompassing. Eventually, the wrath of the vessel calmed and the sky faded from crimson to brilliant gold and pink. Thrusters slowed. A single steel obelisk awaited in the distance.

It was dark and matte, standing in juxtaposition to the glowing, multi-faceted shards from which it jutted out like a blade. Fog and clouds gathered at its top, blocking the sunlight’s warmth. Grey, stained snow fell like ashen waste. This was her home. This was her safety.

Bay doors were already open.

The vessel entered without challenge, and soon came to a stop as mechanical arms caught the ship and held it hovering in place. Vraxlyn’s bloodied paw slammed into her release switch, and her own ship doors opened to let her escape towards safety.

As soon as the doors were fully ajar, she could see the bloodbath that was waiting for her.

Bodies of her comrades were left torn open on the ground. Splatters of red and black caked the walls. Gashes and burns charred edges of machina and stone, telling her some manner of battle had occurred while she was away.

“Hello?! I need help!! Vraxlyn need help!!” she cried out as she fell to the floor with a slap.

Semi-congealed fluids clung to her fur and clothes as she grimaced and crawled through the graveyard. All around her, bodies were silent and rigid. Some were imperial. Some were heretics. Weapons lay still and empty- proof that her allies were dead. These heretics had come to her home. This was proof that she was never safe. Even here, they would come for her. It was just as her masters had always told her when they were burning her and drilling into her. That was to keep her safe. These monsters were the real threat.

More doors remained open. No one spoke or moved as Vraxlyn dragged her mutilated leg along the putrid ground.

“Please!! Help!! Vraxlyn hurt! I hurt!!” she wept in confusion.

But no one replied.

Panic began to seize her body. A soreness had taken hold of her and was sawing into her eyes as she struggled to continue. But she had to reach the healing room. That was where they had always taken her after her fighting. After her lessons. After the wounding and teaching and screaming.

Down the hall she crawled, sniffling in fear as she braced for monsters to arrive. This was everything they had warned her about. The heretics were evil and wanted to erase her and the beauty of the empire. Those who weren’t of truth were cruel and deserved to be eviscerated. It was the only way she and the other good people would ever be safe.

More bodies lined the hall. One limp figure was wedged in the doorway where she needed to go. As she crawled over it, she recognized its mask. It had always been there in the healing room, drilling into her and stitching her back together. It was good. It was dead.

“Help… I need help…” she whimpered.

No one remained.

But the machina were still glowing with life. Healing systems were still active. The healing bed was there, waiting for her. She knew its automated systems could do most of the work, but she did not know what to take to help with whatever pain was coming. Shattered vials and bottles lay strewn across the ground with labels she couldn’t read. If she was going to be healed, it would be without comfort or dulling. Still, she had to heal her shattered leg.

Metal-coated claws scraped on metal bedding as she lurched herself onto the platform with a shout. Doing so caused the great machina to awake with a churning hum. Crystals shone as strange symbols rotated around the bed and Vraxlyn’s leg. Words were muttered by guttural, digital voices from within the metal casings. Eight mechanical arms rose and clasped around Vraxlyn’s limbs, shoulders, ankles, and waist.

A slight whimper escaped her lips as she prepared for the agony of healing.

Deafening vibrations sounded out, sending pulses of aligning processes directly into her leg. A scream tore itself from Vraxlyn’s throat as her entire body seized with suffering. The glyphs spun once again, and another concentrated vibration shook the bed. Shrieks turned to wails. Vibrations returned. Sorrow echoed through empty halls. Vibrations and scans continued until the machina had pulsed her bones back into their correct position.

Hysteria seized Vraxlyn’s mind as healing serums coated her leg and hardened into bracing. Images burned through her memories as sanity flickered. Images of Xentros, the one named Erosc, the one named Azag, and the songstress. Sayane. That was her name. Her voice echoed, and Vraxlyn cried out in horror as she remembered the sensation of gentleness touching her.

It wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t give her permission. So many had touched her and infiltrated her without her permission. She’d only ever been taught to allow her masters to do that. Now, they were dead.

Sobs shook her ribs as she fell from the bed and back onto the blood-soaked ground. Electric green light stained the edges of tools, corners, bodies, and machina as the great system watched her crawl away. Beyond that light, nearly everything was dark.

When she returned to the hall, she knew there was only one more place she wanted to be: her safe place.

Her captivity.

Deep in the depths of the tower, there was a room that few knew about. It was guarded by imperials, machina, and ancient spellworks. Within its walls was a simple cot and no window. Along its simple metal paneling were brackets for her arms to return so that she could be chained down once more. That was her comfort. That was her familiarity. Being subdued was what was best for her. She was only ever supposed to be unchained when it was time to kill. Now, she needed to heal, so she wanted nothing more than to feel her wrist gauntlets' power on and lock into place as they sealed her in her room for however long she needed.

But when she reached the room, she found it silent. No pulses of light shone out to greet her. No systems of defense were activated. Everything was still and dead.

Vraxlyn grimaced and muttered a plea of desperation as she fell forward into the wall, cracking her tooth on its cold surface. Tears streaked down her snout as she begged for the room to awaken and return her to the sanctuary of imprisonment. But the brackets weren’t functioning. And her door stayed open.

“Please. Please, no. Please. Vraxlyn hurt. I need locks. I need to be locked away,” she muttered as panic forced her to run her wrists along every bracket she could find.

Again and again she tried to find some manner of lock, but nothing ever awoke.

“No. No, no, no, no…” she cried as terror flooded her body.

Everything was broken. Everything was wrong. She was alone. She was forgotten. She wasn’t safe. The systems of comfort and familiarity she needed so badly to work were forsaking her. And it was all that songstress’s fault.

"Help me, please... Anyone..." she wept.

Her gauntlets glowed to life.

Scraping clanks echoed along the dead corridors as masterless weapons banged down to her. Uneven breaths rattled from her shaking chest as she waited for her only friends to arrive. Sparking, dragging wrath built as dozens of imperial lances, daggers, swords, maces, and gunnery devices all responded to her fearful plea.

As Vraxlyn slid down the wall in defeat, dread seized her mind as she stared unblinkingly at the wide-open door. She prayed to the emptiness that someone of aid would arrive soon to lock her away. And moreso, she prayed that no monsters of heretical wickedness arrived to hurt her while she lay there broken and unable to fight. Her eyes closed in exhaustion as the cascade of weaponry appeared before her, turning to shield her from whatever else may come through that door.

The last word spoken in that tower of death was Vraxlyn deliriously repeating one name between sobs and nightmares:

“Sayane…”

…

“Sayane…”

…

“Sayane…”

…

“Sayane…”