SEBASTIAN

Sebastian only realised he'd passed out when a bright, flashing mirage in the crystal dragged him from the black depths of peace. He squinted groggily at the blurry scene, colours and shapes coming together in a hauntingly familiar way, until certainty struck him and he reached out to touch the woman's cheek.

The scene sharpened as fingertip met rock. Oriana was climbing some kind of spiralling staircase, sweat slicking the blue and red highlights of her hair to her temple, the living flame doused. To his relief, Rana climbed ahead of her, but there was something wrong with the wyvern he'd grudgingly come to consider his ally. Her brash swagger was gone. Instead she took the steps one at a time, gripping the arm of a Sun Warrior so tightly that the tendons on her forearm jumped out.

Blind, he realised with a twinge of regret, when the wyvern turned her head and what he mistook for a hair ribbon revealed itself a blindfold. She had survived her mortal wounds, though he was hard pressed to recall any she'd sustained to the eyes. A blow to the back of the head, perhaps? Sometimes swelling in the brain could play tricks on the senses.

All speculation vanished when the trio came before a waterfall of flame. It appeared as a sheet of water catching the vibrant rays of a sunset, only burned just as brightly in the bleaching light of midday. His breath caught in his throat as Oriana and Rana held hands and stepped through.

She's survived worse, he reminded himself, though the vice of fear was determined to clamp tighter on his heart. His palm splayed against the vision, as if he could push through the rock and into her arms.

As if skittish, the vision dissipated, his temporary sense of freedom along with it. Milky rock, suffocatingly close, shackled his vision. Yet the air was thicker than before — fresher, despite his confinement. Sebastian rolled over, groaning, and something slithered across his chest. Liquid fabric spilled through his fingers and he shot up, startled, smashing his head on the lid of his crystal coffin.

When the pain receded, horror took its place. He was fisting a silver cloak.

"No no no," he whispered frantically, heedless of the air he wasted. Rolling onto his side to make the most of his confinement, Sebastian pawed over the garment, searching for proof of that it was an illusion, a counterfeit.

The material was unnaturally cool and pleasant to the touch, not even remotely warmed by his touch. Aside from the black pearl clasps, it was uniform in colour and weight, though his fingertips registered strange patterns on the inner lining. Turning them to the meagre source of light, he made out embroidered panels. Stories. Memories.

Rage tore through him. It was a message; somebody was close enough to hurt Oriana if they'd managed to steal this coveted artefact, which she'd kept on her person ever since they'd emerged from the Weaver's lair. He'd loved and hated it with equal measure, for it was made of her soul-bound with Hunter and emanated his essence, so closely intermingled with hers that it drove him near mindless with jealousy. But it had also saved her life, and for that he was utterly grateful, even though the relic offered constant reminder of the life she could have shared with his brother.

There were scenes from when Ori had first fallen in love with Hunter: her etched form watched from afar as a proud-nosed boy with permanently wet eyes beat cruel twins into submission, even though the butterfly he was trying to save had lost one of its wings and was already doomed. There were also scenes depicting their time apart: a girl fisting a dreaded tonic before knocking it back; a boy weeping over his mother's grave; children dragging themselves off the floor after ruthless beatings, one at the hands of village maidens, the other at the hands of a wicked father.

Sebastian went back, searching for a happier memory, but the scenes had already changed. They showed newer memories: Hunter's knife drawing over the healer's throat. Gordon's face bulging before bursting. His fingers stilled over the image of a monstrous being looming over his brother, with craters for eyes and skin like the pale underbelly of a fish. Mother.

That She was showing Herself again did not bode well for their cause.

It is not you who needs saving.

His captor's words echoed through his head. Sebastian grit his teeth together so hard that pain lanced through his skull.

Free yourself. Use your power.

Somehow, this cloak was still connected to Hunter. Displaying events as they were scribed into the past. Surely that meant he could scry Oriana, too?

He searched frantically, but there were no new panels. Only Hunter bickering over some prisoner with a stooped old woman.

Nothing about Oriana at all.

It is not you who needs saving.

"Fuck," he swore. She can't be dead. She can't be —

No. Not dead; his captor wanted him to use his power to escape. Which meant they thought escape was possible, with the right tools. Bastian's eyes landed once more on the pooled fabric in his lap, his brows furrowing together. It was the exact same colour as Oriana's scales had been when she morphed into a wyvern during their battle with the Kirin.

"Of course," he whispered, donning the cloak. It was a manifestation of Nya's Grace, capable of changing the shapes of its wearers, perhaps even capable of bestowing the Goddess's other gifts as well — within reason. Oriana hadn't shifted to catch him when he was thrown from the parapet, which indicated its power supply was finite.

Yet the cloth hummed with otherworldly magic as it stretched to accomodate his broad shoulders, fitting snugly as if it was tailored just for him. Which meant it could be recharged, perhaps by the light of the moon.

Which meant he could use it. By the Gods, he could use it without baring his soul to Nya.

Trying the clasp at his throat, he closed his eyes and reached, pulling on the icy, pulsing power he'd craved for over a decade.