Path of Dragons

Avara, the Queen of Desolation blinked awake.

Confused, she looked around, and all she saw was a frigid expanse teeming with deathly ethera and demonic influence. The stench of rot and death wafted into her nose, but even that was overpowered by the smell – acidic and sickly sweet – of the demons arrayed before her.

Five of them, all with enough power to topple mountains and destroy whole civilizations. Lurking behind them was a curious figure. No less demonic, but tortured and twisted into something less. Something more dangerous. The demon was thin to the point of emaciation, with characteristic hooves and horns that marked his race. Yet, that was where commonalities with the others ended. Around his eyes was a spiked collar teeming with dense ethera that made even Avara flinch away, lest she risk madness. Chains encircled his arms and legs, which rattled with every manic twitch.

Chainspeaker.

The name wrapped around her mind as if she’d always known it, and his history unfolded before her. She shivered in pity and disgust, and if she was honest, she felt no small degree of fear. Avara knew the demon couldn’t even begin to rival her in terms of raw power, but there was just something about him – be it his pervasive grin, clinking chains, or the incessant twitching – that filled her heart with dread.

She knew the others, too. The Lancer, with her long spear and tattered wings. The Bladesinger, with a dozen swords and knives secreted across his body. The Wall, built like an ogre and carrying a massive slab of metal he called a shield. Then there was the Corrupted, a healer who’d fallen to foul magics. She could still heal well enough, but she also carried an air of pestilence that only hinted at her corrupted power.

Finally, there was Filos. Beautiful, beautiful Filos. He was everything a demon could hope to be, with elegant horns and a face that spoke of arrogance and superiority. He was her most powerful underling, and as such, he had established himself as their general.

The Black Blade of Despair remained strapped to his back, practically screaming to reap the lives of anyone who stood before its master. Avara could not argue with its effectiveness. The weapon was deadly, and in the most insidious way. But she never would have stooped so low as to use a cursed blade.

There were safer ways to attain power.

However, she knew her lieutenants were all misfits, cast-offs from the Kingdom of Netherhold. Just like her, they were the worst sorts of demons. Too odd to tolerate, but too dangerous to entirely dismiss.

But above all, Avara knew it was all a farce.

Even as she trained her eyes upon her supposed dominion, she recognized it for what it was – an illusion. A solid one, to be sure, and of a quality that could mean only one thing – she was within a Primal Realm. The ethera was too thick, and her lands far too expansive to be a tower, and the system had no need to populate Ancestral Realms with illusions.

But the nature of her environment meant that she was not who she thought she was. Her memories swirled as she tried – and failed – to poke holes in her own past, but she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that none of it was real. Even if she felt the effects of her past so keenly that the memories brought tears to her eyes.

After all, anything that led a woman down a path that would end with her taking the title of the Queen of Desolation was not a pretty tale. Apparently, the system enjoyed tragic backstories, and even though Avara knew those memories were false, she couldn’t entirely escape their influence.

Just as that thought crossed her mind, she received a notification:

Primal Realm will re-open in 45 Days. Build your forces, and escape The Desolate Reaches. Spread your influence, and earn a Feat of Strength to add to your Legacy. Quality of Feat depends on performance.

Avara had no memory of why she had sacrificed a piece of her spirit to populate the sadistic system’s need for minds to occupy its various trials. She didn’t even know if she was a true demon, or if she’d simply been forced to adopt its visage. However, what she did know was that she was there for a purpose.

No one volunteered for Soul Shearing without good reason. Most did so only because they had hit a wall in their progression. For some, progressing from one realm to the next was as easy as gaining enough levels, but it became far more difficult the higher one climbed. And starting with progression from the Demigod to the Deity stage, a seamless transition was nearly unprecedented.

That was why people who reached that stage often threw themselves into increasingly deadly situations, searching for the Feat of Strength that would make all the difference. For those who wanted a safer route – or for whom such opportunities were non-existent – Soul Shearing was the only alternative.

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Giving up a piece of one’s spirit was not pleasant, and it often resulted in decades of weakness. In some cases, people were completely debilitated. Yet, service to the system was a top-quality Feat of Strength that could – and often did – make the difference between toiling away as a mere Demigod and ascending to the level of a Deity.

After that, functional immortality – at least regarding the ravages of time – was the largest benefit. Immediate power was all well and good, but with enough time, a person could do anything.

Avara could only assume that was her true self’s motivation. Even if her participation in the Soul Shearing process was just a grab for power, she knew enough to recognize just how big of an opportunity the system had just presented. Normally, one only earned a Feat of Strength after the contract was finished. Usually, that meant centuries of toiling away in a tower.

But to earn one from a system quest? That was more than she could have ever hoped to achieve. Even if her memories as the Queen of Desolation didn’t push her to accomplish the task given to her, she owed it to her true self to do everything she could to meet the parameters set before her.

“We have forty-five days,” she rasped. “Summon your minions. Gather your Ritualists. The moment the portal is open, we will go forth and conquer the other world.”

At that, she saw her other lieutenants grin.

In a high-pitched voice rife with amusement, the Chainspeaker asked, “What of my pretty, little prisoners? May I play with them as I like?”

“No,” she answered, reeling in disgust. Avara was no stranger to torture, but the Chainspeaker’s nightmarish actions took things much further than necessary. He didn’t care about extracting information. Indeed, he only craved the tortured screams of his victims.

He wilted dramatically, muttering about a lack of fun. Avara nearly let herself flinch at that.

“We have a use for those prisoners. Do not harm them,” she ordered in an imperious tone. As powerful as her lieutenants were, they could feel that she was far stronger. That was why she was in charge.

Was that because her true self was so much mightier? Or was that merely an illusion propagated by the Primal Realm? There was no way to tell, but the very notion of weakness filled her with dread and anger. The nature of those feelings was a mystery as well, and Avara had no idea if they came from her persona within the Primal Realm or if it originated from her true self.

The idea that she could not even trust her own feelings was so frustrating that she very nearly lashed out. One attack, and she could kill her lieutenants. And what’s more, they would simply regenerate – perhaps not quickly, but the nature of Primal Realms was that no one ever truly died. Flexing her jaw, she restrained her childish impulses, focusing on what truly mattered.

Pointedly, she never even considered the fate of those outside the Primal Realm. Such was life in the multi-verse that if a world was incapable of defending itself from something as comparatively benign as a Primal Realm, then they deserved to fall. Theirs was a multi-verse of conflict, and pity and compassion were not worthy of consideration.

If those primitives fell, then the fault lay with their lack of power.

“May I play with them? Just a little. I shan’t harm them permanently,” hissed the Chainspeaker, twitching with every uttered syllable. His level of power was far lower than Avara’s, but still, she could not help but feel wary in his presence.

Had he always been insane? Or was that simply the role he had been given?

So much about Soul Shearing was a mystery, and those who’d dedicated their lives to the system – usually former Envoys of the World Tree who’d shown themselves to be particularly competent – would never tell their secrets.

Perhaps Avara would know more if she could remember her old life. Even a sliver of information might give her enough hints to find a few conclusions. But that was not how it worked. Not only did the process rob her of her memories, but it took her very identity, replacing it with whatever the system required.

And in this case, it required Avara to be the Queen of Desolation.

“I have already answered that question,” she intoned. “No torture, physical or psychological. If they break, they will need to be replaced.”

In truth, she wasn’t even certain where the prisoners had come from. Had they been Sheared as well? Or had they come from outside? She knew that the Primal Realm had been going for some time, and the minions she now claimed as her own had been hard at work spreading her influence. But so far, they had been uncoordinated and disorganized.

That would change, and soon.

“You take all the fun out of it,” said the Chainspeaker, wilting. Even the other lieutenants glanced at him in mingled disgust and confusion. He quickly righted himself, then gave an elaborate bow. Functionally, there was nothing wrong with the gesture, but the combination of his odd attire and jittery movements left Avara feeling unsettled. “But as you wish, my dear, dear queen.”

Every word came out as if it was adoring, sarcastic, and somehow respectful – an odd combination at the best of times but made immeasurably worse by the source.

“Go,” she said, flicking her hand at her underlings. The other lieutenants bowed or saluted, then left to do her bidding. Notably, the Chainspeaker’s gait was just as odd as everything else about him, and it reminded Avara of a child skipping through a meadow. It was both sinuous and awkward, and she was glad when the unsettling demon disappeared alongside the others.

Alone, she settled onto her throne.

Briefly, she tried to remember her old life, but it was impossible. So, she began to make plans for the inevitable invasion she would face. As she thought about what was coming, she gazed out across her realm. The Barren Throne was surrounded by the mountains of the Desolate Reaches, with winged creatures of death and decay circling their peaks.

Was there anything beyond those mountains? Or did the Primal Realm simply stop? Avara had no idea. Some Primal Realms spanned entire continents, while others were only a few miles wide. One thing was certain, though – the world on the other side of the portal in those mountains was a real place with infinite possibilities. Out there, nothing would constrain her.

And if she did her job, the sliver of spirit at her core might rejoin her true self. The idea of completion was appealing in its own right, but true freedom was even more attractive. She would also get some answers. And finally, she could discard the false identity she’d been forced to adopt.

Having memories she knew weren’t real – an entire history of war and conquest, lovers and family – was torturous in its own way, and already, she wished for ignorance. But that was not to be. So, without further thought, she focused on what truly mattered – escaping the Primal Realm and spreading her influence as far as she could manage. Only then could she be whole.

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