Mother of Midnight

Chapter 272 – Oldest Friend

As much as she tried to maintain a stoic front, Korriva knew she had met her match.

There was little anyone could do against narrative aether. It flowed through the world with invisible weight, bending logic and the rules of causality itself. But such power came at a cost—it always did. This creature before her, practically brimming with it, was proof enough. Her mental faculties were clearly diminished, dulled in ways Korriva could sense even without reading her mind. Did she even comprehend the harm she could cause, or was it all just a game to her, a toy to manipulate at whim?

Korriva’s thoughts flickered to Epitheon the Bard, the Titan of narrative aether. Only he, and the goddess herself, could wield it on such a sweeping scale. She had faced him once, a battle that ended in her defeat. She had been grateful when he eventually grew bored, sparing her the final blow and leaving the battlefield for centuries. That loss lingered in memory like a scar, a reminder of the price of underestimating narrative forces.

But there was no time for reminiscence now. Her daughter, and her soon-to-be daughter-in-law, were far behind, racing away from her battle. Her city, built over centuries, stretched behind them, its spires and walls vulnerable to collateral destruction.

Every move she made now had to be measured, precise. One misstep could level Thalrynn or Drakthar, could send the goblin city to the north crumbling into rubble. The thought tightened her focus, sharpening her senses. Every ounce of her power would need to be tempered with care, every strike weighed against the lives and legacies she had sworn to protect.

Another swing came at her, massive blades slicing through the air with deadly precision, but she met it with the side of the hulking angel’s knee, redirecting the swing wide in a narrow miss. Sparks danced where the edge met metal, but the blow didn’t land.

She hopped back a few metres, planting herself firmly, and let out a controlled exhale. The tension in her body eased for just a fraction of a second, but her focus never wavered.

The smaller construct had been harrying her whenever possible, though that had grown rare—its body still bore the scars of their earlier clash, and it lacked the strength to meaningfully aid its hulking ally. No, the real challenge now was this larger construct. Infuriating in its relentless advance, inhumanly precise, and yet exposed enough for her to act.

With nothing but the battlefield stretched behind her, everything she had sworn to protect at her back, she allowed herself to go beyond restraint. She inhaled sharply, coiling the tempest aether within her like a storm bottled in her palm. Part of it would form the strike, the rest to shape the cone of destruction she intended to unleash.

Her eyes glinted, and the air around her crackled, charged with raw energy. She could feel the weight of what was coming, the inevitability of it, and yet the exhilaration that came with finally letting her power flow without hesitation.

There was about to be a new road to the north, carved through both earth and foe alike.

Violet sparks wreathed her body, crackling along her limbs and illuminating the ground in bursts of eerie light. The world seemed to hold its breath, the usual din of battle fading into an almost sacred silence. Even the two mechanical constructs, relentless moments before, had paused mid-motion, their sensors and gaze locked on her with cautious hesitation.

That was plenty of time.

She knew this spell would have been far more potent with both hands, but one arm lay uselessly a few metres away, torn and scorched from earlier clashes. There was no remedy; she would have to make do with what she had.

The hulking angel barreled forward, its massive form charging with terrifying momentum. Its greatsword, blazing faintly with residual aether, arced through the air toward her.

It was too late.

Korriva took an aggressive stance, planting one foot firmly ahead of the other, weight balanced like a predator ready to strike. Her palm coiled at her side, gathering tempest aether, the violet energy dancing along her veins and into the spell she was about to unleash. The air around her thickened, as if the battlefield itself had slowed to watch the coming storm.

She thrust her palm forward, and the world detonated.

The air ripped apart with a blinding flash, a sudden void of light that seared across the battlefield. For a heartbeat, silence reigned, as if reality itself had paused to recoil from the force she had unleashed. Then came the thunder—a roaring, shattering crescendo so loud it made her own ears bleed. The ground trembled beneath her, throwing up clouds of dirt and debris in all directions. Even the sky seemed to fracture, jagged cracks of violet lightning flickering across the clouds.

Where her aether had struck, nothing on that path remained. The grass was gone, ground scorched and upturned into jagged furrows. The air itself seemed hollow, like some primordial void had been gouged through the landscape.

And the constructs…

She had missed none of their paths entirely. The lithe one, once swift and precise, was reduced to a quivering heap of metal. Its legs had been twisted and shattered, joints sparking and flaring in short, erratic pulses as if the electricity in its frame protested the destruction. The hulking angel, massive and imposing, had half of her body pinned to the ground, armor dented, wings bent, one greatsword splayed uselessly in the dirt. Steam and smoldering energy hissed from the wounds, a mechanical scream that was as much a sound of awe as it was agony.

The battlefield was silent now except for the echoing crackle of energy, the wind whipping over the wreckage of her attack. In that moment, she could feel the raw scale of her power, and it thrilled her—terrifying, unstoppable, absolute.

Where was the other greatsword?

The question barely formed in her mind before the answer revealed itself. Korriva tried to draw in a breath, but her chest seized, refusing. She looked down.

The blade was there—radiant, burning, driven straight through her torso and jutting from her back like some divine stake. It glowed with a searing brilliance that turned her own blood into steam as it spilled out around the wound. For a heartbeat, her mind refused to comprehend it. Then the pain hit.

She staggered, air catching in her throat, unable to scream, unable to breathe. Her hand twitched toward the hilt, but the moment her fingers brushed the heat, she recoiled—it was as if the weapon itself denied her, refusing to be moved, refusing to be touched. It was not just steel. It was judgment. And it burned.

Her gaze drifted upward, hazy and unfocused, to her two opponents. The lithe one—legs shattered, body sparking—dragged itself with uncanny calm, claws scratching into the dirt. It scrawled something quick, a jagged pattern, and the ground split open. A glowing portal yawned beneath both constructs. With no hesitation, they let themselves fall through, vanishing in a flash of light as the rift sealed shut behind them.

They were gone. Victory had slipped from her grasp.

Her knees buckled, the strength in her body evaporating. She crumpled to the ground, the sword still jutting through her chest, humming with alien radiance. Her body shook uncontrollably, blood bubbling in her throat as she tried to laugh, tried to speak, tried to be anything but broken.

I really was arrogant, wasn’t I?

The thought whispered like ash on the wind. She would have smiled, maybe even laughed, if breath still obeyed her. But her lips only twitched soundlessly.

The world tilted, shadows spilling over her vision. Colors dimmed, sound receded, everything narrowing to that single burning point in her chest until even that flickered out.

The world, for Korriva, went dark.

Dreams arrived and slipped past her, each one as fleeting as mist. She heard voices in the dark—some crying, some panicked, some steady with white-hot rage—but they never lasted. They cracked, splintered, and then dissolved like waves against stone.

Then came the visions.

Her childhood in Athens. Her first death. The terror and awe of waking into a world of magic and warring gods. The centuries unfurled before her like a tapestry burning in reverse.

Four hundred years? A lie. She had walked Nymoria’s soil for nearly nine centuries. She remembered the first magitech revolution, the sparks of human arrogance kindling into war machines that dared challenge the gods. She remembered the gods’ fury in return, tearing the land apart as they waged war with mortals and with each other.

She remembered the end of the world.

And she had survived it. Survived everything. She had united clans beneath her banner. She had stood as Serranos’s champion, the storm made flesh. She had fought, bled, and ruled, protecting her people in the hope that the great sundering would never repeat itself.

But none of it mattered now. She felt cold. She felt tired. Serranos’s ass, she felt tired. Nine hundred years of clawing and bleeding and building weighed on her bones. She had lived far too long.

“You did well.”

The voice boomed, shaking the barren air around her.

Korriva opened her eyes. She lay upon cracked, lifeless earth, baked to a dull red beneath a sky choked with smoke. Jagged mountains loomed in the distance, but no life stirred here. No grass, no birds, no gods. Nothing but silence and stone.

She turned.

The source of the voice stood waiting: a lekine man, taller than even she, shoulders broad enough to blot out the horizon, his presence like a storm coiled into flesh.

“Serranos,” she greeted, voice steady.

“It was a good fight,” he said, not as praise, but as fact.

“Indeed it was.” She let the words roll over her tongue. And it was true—she hadn’t felt so alive in years.

His smirk came like the break of thunder. “I wish you’d fought more. Instead of drowning yourself in that useless bureaucratic nonsense.”

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown,” she replied, arching a brow.

“Could’ve left it to your children.” His tone was casual, but the edge was there.

“I could have,” she admitted. “But I prefer to do things myself when I can.”

“Let’s hope your heirs don’t waste themselves in halls and chambers, then,” Serranos said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

She tilted her head, exhaling through her nose. “So I’m dead, then.” Her voice was even, unflinching. There was no sorrow in it. No fear.

“Nearly.” Serranos’s massive arms crossed as he leaned back. “Tarric, that weak fop, is scrambling to keep you tethered.” He delivered the words with bored finality, as if the outcome hardly mattered.

Korriva clicked her tongue, the sound sharp in the emptiness. “His strength lies beyond arms, and you know it. You will not insult my children.”

The storm god rolled his eyes, exaggerated, then lowered himself down. The earth trembled as he sat cross-legged across from her, his size so immense it felt as though the barren world was bending around him.

The silence between them crackled, heavy as thunder before a storm.

“Praxus crossed a line and broke the accord. Those two constructs you fought carried many times the divine essence you’ve ever borne.”

Korriva froze. Her breath caught in her chest. A familiar dread crawled down her spine. Was this the first crack in another Sundering?

“I hope not,” Serranos said flatly, his gaze boring into her. He didn’t need to hear her words—her thoughts lay bare before him, as plain as scars on flesh. “Can’t be fights if there’s no one left to fight.” His mouth twisted into a scowl, as though even the thought offended him.

“Then what are the gods doing?” Korriva asked carefully, her voice hushed, though she knew subtlety was wasted here.

“Verdan’s holed up,” Serranos rumbled. “Praxus’s zealots have been torching and twisting his dryad groves. He pulled every last one into his divine realm before they could be taken. Coward move, but it keeps his power safe.” His lip curled. “Lyridia? Off doing whatever she does. Slipping in shadows, weaving her stories, never where she’s needed.”

Korriva frowned. That was always Lyridia’s way—schemes within schemes, never direct.

“Nirathys,” Serranos continued, “stays in her depths. She doesn’t care what happens to the landfolk. Shortsighted fool. As if her seas won’t suffer when the land burns.” His shoulders rolled, cracking like shifting stone. “Sirasyr—hah—he’s playing Praxus’s ally. But we both know how that ends. Praxus won’t share. He’ll gut him the moment he’s outlived his usefulness. That’s Praxus’s way.”

“And Yenhr? Heraline?” Korriva pressed.

That earned a grin, sharp and wolfish. “Those two found themselves a loophole. Stubborn pair, always clinging to their oaths while bending them sideways. They’ve poured both their divine essence into one vessel. A champion who carries them together.”

Korriva blinked. A single name leapt to mind. “Caelum? I thought he was just a patron of Yenhr.”

“That’s what you thought,” Serranos said, chuckling low in his throat. “But the sisters grew paranoid after the mission you sent him on. Decided to throw all their cards onto the table. Poured everything into him.” His grin vanished, thunderclouds settling in his expression. “And now he carries both dawn and twilight, bound in mortal flesh. Dangerous thing, that. But effective.”

“I see,” Korriva murmured, though her heart thudded. A mortal with that much divinity… she’d seen how badly such experiments ended in the past.

“I don’t know what Akhenna is doing,” Serranos muttered, his tone darkening, “but then again, who ever does? As far as I can tell, she rarely even acknowledges her champion. That thing she’s let loose on the world worries me. It just consumes and consumes and consumes. What was she thinking, releasing that upon our world?”

Korriva’s jaw tightened, though her voice was steady. “At least she’s focused. She’s taken with my daughter, and she seems to stay on her good side. So long as her hunger isn’t turned upon Serkoth, I have no quarrel with her.”

“For now,” Serranos rumbled, his golden eyes narrowing. “You did not see it, but I did. The battle at Drakthar. A fine clash—it had my blood stirring. But when your daughter fell…” His lip curled, not at Korriva, but at the memory itself. “Something inside that creature broke. As if a seal Akhenna herself had placed shattered, and what lay beneath was never meant to walk this world. Akhenna unleashed something that should never have been.”

Korriva’s heart skipped a beat. For all her poise, she felt the weight of his words settle cold in her chest. “…Is Vivienne truly that dangerous?”

Serranos leaned forward, his presence suddenly heavier, thunder gathering in his voice. “When she eats champions, Korriva, the fragments of their gods inside them do not return to the ether. She steals them. The divinity stays inside her.”

Korriva blinked, stunned. That was impossible. That should have been impossible. Yet Serranos spoke with certainty, and gods did not deal in maybes.

“Well, not much I can do now,” Korriva said with a tired exhale. “I’ll just have to trust my children with the future, as cliché as that sounds.”

“I suppose so,” Serranos huffed, scratching at his chin like a man forced to concede a point he disliked.

“Any plans for a new champion?” she asked, arching a brow.

The god smirked faintly. “After you? Any would pale in comparison. You may have had no more raw divine essence than the other champions, but you drove it further. You bent it into something sharper, fiercer. I’m annoyed you died, Korriva. It will be hard to find another of your caliber.”

She chuckled dryly, though the sound caught in her throat. “What about one of my children? Kavren would be an excellent choice. Or Ravanyr.”

Serranos’s face hardened. “Your daughter is a monster now. No. I will not give her my power. She walks under Akhenna’s shadow, and that stain is not mine to claim.” His gaze softened slightly, though his voice did not. “But Kavren… perhaps. The man hides more cunning than he lets others see. He carries himself like a fool, but underneath? He reminds me of you in your early years. Yes. I might consider him.”

Korriva allowed herself a faint smile. “Then at least some of me carries forward.”

They sat in silence for a long while, the still air around them broken only by the faint crackle of violet sparks still clinging to Korriva’s skin.

At last, she spoke. “I think I am ready for whatever comes after. What does, by the way?” Her tone was calm, but her eyes searched him, looking for certainty where she already expected little.

Serranos leaned back on one arm, staring out across the barren expanse of lifeless earth. “Ah. Something takes the souls and sends them on their way into the river of souls, for reincarnation. That’s all I know.”

Korriva tilted her head. “Then how am I here?”

He gave her a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching almost into a grin. “I am a god, mortal as I may be. We have… some control over it. I can reach into the stream, pull a soul aside for a time. Speak to them. Guide them, if I feel like it.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “But we cannot destroy souls, and we cannot keep them forever. Some tried. Fools. Whatever governs it all doesn’t allow it. Eventually, no matter how tight the grip, something pulls them away from confinement and casts them back into the current to be reborn anew.”

Korriva nodded slowly, the faintest shimmer of amusement flickering across her lips. “I see. Even gods cannot dam the river.”

“Exactly,” Serranos said, his voice low, final. “We are storms, not the sea.”

Both of them rose to their feet, neither speaking at first. They regarded one another in silence, the barren earth stretching endlessly around them, the air heavy with the weight of parting.

“It really is a shame to see you go,” Serranos said at last, his voice softer now, almost reluctant. He reached out and clapped her shoulder firmly, the gesture carrying all the warmth of a warrior’s bond. “Goodbye, old friend.”

Korriva let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh if not for how tired she felt. A smile, faint but genuine, touched her lips as she met his gaze. “Goodbye, Venhris.”

For a moment, they simply stood there—champion and god, comrades forged in countless battles, sharing one final farewell before the river of souls claimed her.