IGS #4, Chapter 4

Jova

Jova quit Moira’s administration hall, Ignited her Heart, and rose on a slab of stone to the top of her tower. The sounds of LastRock awakening grew thin and distant as she landed on a ledge and stepped into the great chamber.

Frustration burned within her, that familiar companion, and a face hovered in her mind’s eye. Hard-jawed, piercing dark eyes beneath striking brows, his hair a ragged dark mane, his gaze steady and unyielding.

Scorio.

So what if today he left for the Silver Unfathom? If she never saw him again? Her lip curled into a sneer. She’d not see him off. This morning’s ridiculous meeting would suffice. What more was there to say? Why seek further opportunities to embarrass herself?

Jova closed her eyes but the face didn’t go away. What did she have to do to banish his presence from her mind?

Impatient, she began her morning exercise routine. It was one of the few moments during which she could escape her doubts. But each day required greater exertions to achieve the same blankness of mind.

She’d never been afraid of pushing herself, however, and soon she was bathed in sweat despite the chill air, muscles burning, her breath coming in sharp, controlled gasps.

The air lightened as the Telurian sun began its return to the sky’s meridian.

But even the most punishing of exercise routines had to come to an end. Shoulders heaving, she stepped through the archway, back onto the great ledge that served as her balcony, and gazed out over LastRock.

Its ruination lay spread below her, concentric circles of shattered buildings and rubble, all of it a testament to her previous self’s follies. The mesa extended beyond the once mighty walls, dusty gray in the early morning light, and beyond its edges, the Band itself, an endless rippling infinity that stretched toward the horizon in every direction.

Sweat ran down her temple, soaked into her light robes. With a flexion of her will, she Ignited her Heart and caused the slab to rise once more. She stepped lightly onto its broad surface and willed it forward, leaned into the wind as it picked up speed. Flight had ceased to be a novelty years ago, but it could still serve other purposes.

In this case, a dull satisfaction in going as fast as she could, a futile attempt to outrun her thoughts.

She dropped down in a great swooping arc over the city and skimmed over the rooftops, pushing the great stone to its utmost speed. The wind whipped by, causing her robe to fibrillate, and she leaned into the gale, eyes slitted. A moment later she burst out over the great wall and lowered down to the mesa itself, flying only a foot or so above the pounded stone, leaving a great cloud of dust to unfurl furiously in her wake.

Her Heart thrummed with power. It could fuel her flight for hours now. One day, she knew, maybe once she hit Pyre Lady, flight might become eternal.

The mesa abruptly ended and she shot out into the great void of the sky, a flung speck hundreds of yards above the distant dunes.

Only to descend once more, frightening a flock of firebirds who exploded into startled chaos, their wingbeats unleashing spasms of flame and sparks as they panicked.

Down she went, indifferent to the fiends’ outrage, and for awhile simply leaned into the speed again. The dunes blurred past her, the wind cutting like an endless storm of knives, and still she felt that dull, insipid fury.

She began to carve her path across the sand, leaning back and forth so that the great platform of stone veered too and fro, sending up huge waves of sand. But it was idle work, only momentarily enjoyable, and a pale shadow of the glee she’d once felt as she exulted in her power.

Now?

She knew it for what it was.

A delaying tactic.

Finally, abruptly, she stopped and leaped down onto the sands. The mesa was a couple of miles away, and she refused to look back, to search the skies for some sign of Scorio’s departing dragon form.

Let him leave when he wished. It mattered nothing to her.

For a long, aching moment she stood thus, fists on her hips, staring blankly out over the desert, her sweat dried, her robes dusty, and then she sighed, stepped back, and sat to cup her hands over her head and squeeze her eyes shut.

What was wrong with her?

Where had that old surety gone? The fire and confidence that had guided her every step? No matter how far back she looked into her sparsely written journals, the tone was always the same: impatient, curt, driven, confident.

Now she felt like a wisp. Febrile, weak, pathetic.

Scorio’s face appeared before her again. It was his lack of mockery that drove her mad. How he didn’t sneer at her, nor throw his successes in her face.

Just rightly disdained her for her weaknesses, her poor choices, her former blindness.

It only boiled her blood more.

With a cry of rage, she hurled forth her hand, and a great swathe of sand blasted up before her, responding but dimly to her power and flying forth in a stinging veil.

Only to be caught by the wind and drawn away.

Jova stared, livid, and then just as quickly her fury drained away.

Pathetic.

She had to get herself together. This… this wallowing, this self-indulgent petulance, it was a complete waste of time. She was Jova Spike, once an Imperator, courted by even the Seamstress. She had but to indicate her interest and any House would claim her, any independent outfit. She could at this moment leap aboard her plinth and fly directly down to the Emerald Reach and there lend her strength to the struggle against the Viridian Heart.

All would be glad to see her.

Like that, with a snap of her fingers, she could be in the thick of it, lauded and valued once more.

Instead?

Jova’s lip curled into a sneer.

Instead she was here in the Telurian Band, idling, insecure, confusing those who expected the best of her, pouting like a spurned child.

There was no good reason. She’d never been one to reject the consequences of her own actions. She was here, sitting on this slab, because of every choice she’d made since awakening once more in the Academy. Her choice to reject Praximar’s offer after coming in second during the Gauntlet Run. To accept Manticore’s invitation to join their outfit, then doubling down and accepting Dameon’s explanation for Leonis and Lianshi’s death when she’d emerged from the Chasm.

I can’t believe it, he’d said, tone grave, shocked. They knew about Scorio’s plan. Can you believe he’d intended all along to help Kraken steal that Gold mana? He’d rubbed his temples and grimaced. And me a blind idiot, thinking he was taking our offer to join seriously. But yeah—Lianshi and Leonis were in on it. They probably didn’t tell you because you’d refuse to go along with that kind of amateur madness. But once we found out—once we realized what was going on—we tried to get more information out of them. They weren’t… compliant. His gaze had grown hollow with regret. At least, that’s what she’d wanted to believe at the time, but now she now knew it had just been consummate acting. We were… too forceful in interrogating them. Getting them to admit something we could use to help Bastion against this attack. I fear we pushed too hard, and they… well. They died laughing at us.

Jova lowered her head and massaged her temples. Lies. Lies compounded by lies, and Damon had pointed out the evidence, and she? She’d been too shocked, too unsure what to believe, and so furious at Scorio for his insults, his weakness, his idiocy, that she’d… frozen up.

And then word of his attack on the Divine Coffer had reached them, corroborating everything Dameon had said. Scorio had died. Naomi had disappeared into the Chasm, hissing and spitting.

And… inaction became its own decision. She’d not known what to believe, and sheer inertia kept her with Manticore. And then time spent with them because it’s own argument, until…

Again she saw Dameon’s rueful grin, always edged with self-mockery, his eyes alight with devilish provocation.

How easy it was to summon back his whispered words. Only you see true, Jova. Not even my friends here in Manticore compare to your brilliance, because they—well—even Davelos can be clouded by sentiment. Not you. There’s not an ounce of weakness on you. You’re a blade, a gleaming weapon. I don’t need to tell you this. Your record says it all. You truly understand the overwhelming necessity of having power. That the only measure of value in a Great Soul lies in their ability to change the course of the war. And who has the potential to make a bigger impact than you?

For two years he’d led her on, granting her responsibility within their organization, making her his lieutenant, promising that at any moment they’d be ready to dive deeper into Hell, filling her head with glory and inflating her ego until…

…until it had all come crashing down.

What a purblind idiot she’d been.

A willing idiot.

A useful tool.

Jova dug her thumbs into her eyes and massaged till stars danced in her vision.

Damn it.

And who had torn the scales away from her eyes? Scorio. Sure, she’d played a part in helping him defeat Praximar, but she’d been incidental. Too little, too late.

Not that she hadn’t tried to make good thereafter. When he’d… well, not rejected her offer to travel to LastRock, because it wasn’t like she’d even asked—not really—she’d doubled down on her strengths. Teamed up with Aezryna, hatched a plan to defeat the Blood Ox, leverage her past contracts with the fiends, and for a glorious few months, everything had felt…

Jova sighed and dropped her hands.

Everything had felt right once more.

Till Scorio somehow stole the show, again, by first fighting Plassus to a draw in a ridiculous duel, then surviving the Blood Ox’s attack on the Bone Plains, followed by revealing Bravurn to be a traitor, somehow killing the Blood Baron, and then forging a… a what? A relationship? An alliance? with the blazeborn that allowed them to draw out the Blood Ox so that the Imperators could kill him.

And what had Jova been doing? Dying and being resurrected alongside Aezryna.

In the annals of history, if anyone were to write about these final years, she’d be… a footnote.

Jova stared bleakly at nothing.

All her work. Her unrelenting effort. Her training, her talent, her prodigious powers and astounding Heart.  The fact that she’d made Dread Blaze in record time. None of it mattered.

A footnote.

Jova grimaced and swallowed the urge to hurl something.

For a long time she just sat thus, still and silent, waves of self-loathing and anger coursing through her.

He was probably gone now. To chase those Herdsmen, who, given his track record, would probably prove instrumental in ultimately defeating the Pit—somehow—and in the process he’d upend the Red Keep, or unite all the symbiotes in the Lustrous Maria to his banner, or something equally ridiculous.

Damn it.

Everyone said he was Whispered. And it was probably true. But what did that mean for her?

Where did she go from here?

How did she escape his shadow?

She cupped her hands over her mouth and nose and closed her eyes. Focused on her breath, forced herself to meditate until the dark feelings subsided, and only once she felt a modicum of calm did she drop her hands.

Only then did she draw out the old journal Scorio had given her that morning.

It was slender and bound in the same leather as the other copies she’d kept. There was no doubting it was hers. She flipped to the first page.

Year: 648.

Location: Personal Library, LastRock.

Rank: Blood Baroness

Development of LastRock continues apace. The walls are finished and as strong as I can make them. I have sunk this shaft under my fortress, and here shall keep what documents and books Illina has found and stolen and purchased over the course of her obsessive life. She claims many of these texts are dangerous, but concedes I can keep them safe. I shall verify her claims as to the heretical nature of these works soon. For now it is enough that I lock them away.

Erecting these walls has proven the simplest part of establishing a place of strength. The line of lobbyists, petitioners, and so-called allies extends across the mesa. All clamoring, crying, demanding. They state I am obligated to lend them my strength by virtue of being strong; their weakness is claim enough on my time. But I cannot simply dismiss them; having stepped upon the greater stage in Hell, it is now necessary that I integrate myself into the web of power. I knew this would be the case when I decided to make LastRock mine. Would, however, that the process were less aggravating.

Blood Baron Barazo desires to formalize relationships between myself and the Red Keep. The Lyre-King asks that I keep his delegate at hand so that he may relay his wisdom. Perhaps I shall be the first to tell him his songs grate on the ear. Delegates from the Fiery Shoal propose that we join forces to clear our the blazeborn from the Weald. The Forge Heart is said to be rumbling, and there is word that a Silverine sun may soon go nova in the Unfathom.

This was not a mistake.

This was not a mistake.

I shall see this through, one day at a time.

Jova pursed her lips. It seemed her intolerance of fools had been in full effect, even over a couple of centuries ago. She skipped forward a dozen pages.

Year: 654

Location: Personal Library, LastRock

Rank: Charnel Duchess

I have claimed LastRock as my domain, yet fools for a thousand miles in every direction believe I am responsible for everything from the politics of Bastion to every occurrence in the Band. Was it a mistake to aid Chimera in ensuring the sanctity of the Violate Tower? At the time it seemed expedient, but it seems I’ve signaled to every lazy and fearful idiot that I have no preoccupations of my own, and am available to handle every problem that plagues them.

I am tempted to be quit of this place and go deeper into Hell. At least in the Azure Expanse I would be amongst equals, wouldn’t I? Perhaps not. Idiocy knows no limits.

But no. Patience, Jova. You are making headway. This mystery will soon reveal itself. The quickest path between two dots isn’t always a straight line. Sometimes a detour, frustrating as it feels, is the most efficient means of accomplishing your goals.

Jova frowned. What mystery? Something had held her back in LastRock? The Herdsmen? 654. That would have been…

She lowered her journal to her knees. Scorio had visited her in the year 643. That was when he’d left his warning to his future self. That was when…

Jova frowned and dismissed the thought. That meant these journal entries were from that same reincarnation. The same life when she’d written down his warning to not trust anybody, from the Imperators to the Houses to the Herdsmen.

Was this mystery she mentioned connected to him?

Jova scanned the next few entries, but they all dealt with frustrations and politics from two centuries ago. Impatient, she continued skimming until she came to the last entry from that life.

Year: 661

Location: Personal Library, LastRock

Rank: Crimson Earl

Something interesting at last. Charnel Duke Massamach revealed that the Silverine Fiends give wide berth to a partially collapsed mountain several hundred miles inside the Silver Unfathom. A Great Soul ruin lies hidden beneath the endless rubble. Aware of my interest in such matters, he pressed the fiends to explain why they stay away. They would only reply that they respect an ancient pact with the Shepherds of Goodwill. The name meant nothing to Massamach, but my heart leaped. I pressed him for details, and he revealed that the mountain rises to unnatural height. One side is a sheer face while the other three are smooth and round, making it appear like a dome cut in half. The Silverines call it The Tomb of Sadness, and grow agitated if anyone attempts to approach.

His directions were fanciful, no doubt because he received them from the Silverines, who refused to let him investigate. He said: follow the rivers of lightning trapped in stone to where they flow into the lake that bleeds. Don’t drink the water, as it is a wound in the land. On the lake’s far side stand three silver trees. Head directly west from them till you see the clawed hand, whose little finger points the way to the Tomb.

The rivers of lightning trapped in stone are obviously the Phosphor Veins. The rest I’ll have to determine as I travel.

At last. A chance to penetrate the mysteries that claimed Scorio’s life almost two decades ago. Perhaps, after all these years of calling others fools, it is I that shall prove the biggest idiot. But I shall not pass up this opportunity. I leave tomorrow for this Tomb, and shall discover the truth behind Scorio’s claims once and for all.

Jova stared at these last words, then flipped the page.

Year: 857

Location: Personal Library, LastRock

Rank: Pyre Lady

Once more I’m sitting in the this chair and writing in this journal from almost two centuries ago. My former preoccupations are fascinating, for they show even my clarity of mind can become muddied by obsessions with tall stories and nonsense. I apparently died while seeking out this ‘Tomb’. A lesson well learned. Even if I were still interested in ruins today, the state of LastRock is enough to keep me busy for years. It is but a shadow of what it had clearly once been under my first rule, and I feel invigorated by the challenge of restoring it to its former relevance.

In time, perhaps, I shall reread some of these old texts, but for now, my priority lies in dominating the fiends who wage constant war with the mesa. I shall bring order to this chaos. Fortunately my efforts are paralleled by Pyre Lord Bravurn’s efforts to quell the blazeborn in the Weald. Together we stand a chance of bringing peace and dominion to these layers of Hell, and ensuring our chances of sealing the Pit once and for all.

“Huh.” Jova flipped through the remaining pages. The entries spanned almost two decades, and often skipped years at a time. It seemed she rarely descended to her private library. She hadn’t the luxury. The first decade was spent bringing harmony to the Telurian Band, or her portion of it, and the second spent seeking with increasing desperation to retain it as the Blood Ox riled up the fiends and pressed her forces.

The last entry was in 876. The Blood Ox was at the mesa, his forces extending to the horizon.

Year: 872

Location: Personal Library, LastRock

Rank: Charnel Duchess

Time is short. Imperator Sarana has spurned my request for aid. Imperator Sol has likewise declined to attend. Bravurn can barely restrain his gloating. I have sent word of our peril to every ally who once spouted words of loyalty, but all are too hard pressed to fulfill their vows.

It seems the paranoid delusions I laughed at from my previous incarnation weren’t so paranoid after all. Perhaps if I’d devoted time to teasing out those frustrating threads, following up on those hints, then matters would not be as they stand today.

No matter. I’ll defeat this True Fiend myself if I must. His forces bay at the gates. The mesa is completely cut off. This may be my final hour, but I shall bring down such fury upon their heads that they shall remember my name for eternity.

Next time, I shall be stronger.

And if you are reading this, Jova of tomorrow, then know this: the only explanation for all my betrayals is that Scorio was right.

Jova felt a chill, as if a great icy snake was flexing its coils within her spirit. The writing was her own. The words were stark upon the page. Wonder, horror, and disbelief arose within her. It felt as if her previous self were mocking her, reaching across time to clasp a fist in her guts and squeeze.

She snapped the journal shut and dropped it on the plinth. Rose and stepped away, chest tight.

To find this now. After all her trials. All her shortcomings. All her futile efforts. To read this warning as she stood poised, furious and trembling upon a precipice—had some greater agency planned this? No. Coincidence. And yet.

A shudder passed through Jova. She palmed one eye, clenched her jaw, and then with inexorable force dominated her emotions until she stood, if not calm, then still once more.

Had Scorio left yet? Her gaze shot to the distant mesa. There was no sign of a great winged form in the sky. Even if he had, she could give chase, could show him what she’d discovered, could - what?

Plead to be of use? Apologize for her past mistakes, for wanting to believe Dameon, for not avenging his friends?

Her shoulders slumped.

For a long aching moment she genuinely considered that course of action. What would happen? Would he…?

No.

He’d never accept her again as a companion. 

And… she didn’t want to run back to him, journal in hand. Jova frowned at the imagined scene. She… even if it was… the right thing to do? That wasn’t… she wanted to… on her own terms. Yes. She needed to take control of this current life. This iteration of herself. She had to strike out in a decisive manner, and accomplish her own deeds.

Didn’t she?

And if, down the road, her path crossed with Scorio’s once more? Then perhaps she would meet him as an equal, having discovered truths of her own, and in so doing, earned… what exactly?

What did she want from him?

Respect?

“Damn it,” she hissed as she realized that was it. How had things come to this? She could barely voice that need in the very depths of her mind. That somehow, despite everything that had happened, despite all the years she’d scorned his weakness, his lack of focus, his inability to put his own growth over everything else, that he was the one person she wanted to—no, needed to—measure up against.

If not outshine.

Jova stared out unseeing over the desert.

This was a critical moment. A pivot point. She could feel in her bones how her life teetered in the balance. Whatever she decided now would determine everything that was to come.

Pensive, she stowed the journal in her robe, Ignited her Heart, and willed the plinth to rise from the sands. She leaned into a great curve until she was pointed back at the mesa, and then willed the plinth to climb to a comfortable cruising height and return at a sedate pace.

What to do?

Seek out this Tomb of Sadness and best Scorio at his own game? A destination that had claimed her life when she was one step shy of being an Imperator? Or return to him, journal in hand, and reveal what she had learned?

Still the thought of seeking him out galled her.

And yet what else could she do? Head out into the Silver Unfathom alone?

Jova scowled. She felt paralyzed, indecisive.

She checked the angle of the Telurian sun. Leonis would be at the broken arena, ready to train.

The wind began to pick up as she accelerated, blowing her hair behind her. Her thoughts wandered, and then finally she made her decision.

If there was anyone in this wide Hell as suspicious of Scorio as she, it was this new Leonis.

And for all that he’d been a buffoon in his last life, this current iteration was far easier to take seriously.

She’d check her instincts against his skepticism. Sound out his thoughts. And in so doing, perhaps, realize what she needed to do.