There he stood atop the cracked floor, surveying himself, arms raised, watching as his ruined wares and clothes reimagined themselves as a foreign knight of black, gold, and white.
All of Arlen was unrecognizable. Until Had spoke again, reemerging from the silence.
"Impossible." His voice, once carrying the weight of an Heir of Sephelos, now crumbled to something raw and desperate. "My persona, myself, my own damn fucking self!" The roar tore through Arlen's skull, vibrating his ears and rattling his bones. Had'rial's rage burned like acid.
"You imprison me," he continued, voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "You stole my freedom when I thought you'd give me escape. For hundreds of years, I rotted in that bloody realm. Then I found you, but you just locked me in another cage, and now this. You've taken what little I had left. My own damned persona. My true self, carved onto you like a fucking brand." His fury ebbed at the end, throttled back by something that shocked Arlen. For a demon of the Else, Had'rial sounded broken, almost human.
Silence hung between them, thick enough to cut. Arlen's thoughts crystallized in that quiet.
"Is this..." He hesitated, the truth dawning on him. "Is this you covering me? Is this what you really are, Had'rial?"
The being from Sephelos answered with bitter simplicity.
"You're wearing me." The words echoed hollowly. "Somehow, the Anguish stone ripped my essence out and wrapped it around you. How? Damned if I know. Why? Because I was fool enough to try escaping through a human, I can feel it, I can feel my ichor writhing in that plate, you took it from me."
"Never heard of anything like this before." Arlen ran his fingers over the armor's smooth surface. "You really don't know what's happening?"
Silence.
"I feel different," Arlen said, filling the void.
"Course you do," Had'rial spat. "You've stolen my authority."
Arlen did feel different—stronger, faster, wrapped in something beyond protection. The Anguish stone had done something impossible, or maybe it was the armor itself. For once in his life, Arlen felt truly capable.
"My guess is the stone took everything literally," Had'rial continued bitterly. "Ripped my soul out and plastered it over your skin. The three of us melded in that moment—you, me, and that cursed rock. You've got what's left of me, Arlen. My soul shaped into your armor. My essence screaming while you parade around in it. Just leave me alone in this darkness. At least here the Slaughter Law can't reach me."
A soft hum pulsed in Arlen's head, stronger than before, similar to Senna's Bright Pin. Then it vanished as Had'rial withdrew.
"Where do you go?" Arlen demanded of the emptiness. "If you're stuck in my head, where do you disappear to?"
Nothing answered but silence.
The exhaustion that had dragged at him minutes before had vanished along with the filth covering his skin. Only his wounds from the rock-backs remained. The armor hadn't healed him, but had given him something more valuable.
Arlen paced the empty chamber. Through the cracked walls came the distant roars of the arena crowd, hungry for blood.
The armor moved with him like it belonged there. Even the white tatters hanging behind him never tangled his legs—when they should have tripped him, they shifted away as if alive.
He lifted the sword, examining the Agony stone embedded near the hilt. The swirling red that had filled it was now black, shot through with wisps of white that writhed like trapped spirits.
It felt different when he gripped it—no hostility, no sickness churning in his gut. Just emptiness, a void so complete it felt solid.
His arms felt lighter, his movements sharper. Arlen was different now, and it showed most when he moved.
"This can't be right," he muttered, dropping into a crouch before exploding upward in a vicious slash. His blade cut the air with barely a whisper, faster than he'd ever moved.
"Still slower than Vocht." The memory of Vocht's speed humbled him—the man moved like lightning, three times faster than Arlen could manage even now. But Arlen was twice as quick as he'd been just hours ago.
The frown that crossed his face disappeared quickly. This strange boost wasn't natural, but it was necessary. Had'rial had lost something precious, and Arlen had gained it—armor forged from an Heir's essence.
"This could work. It cou—"
The door crashed open. Lank stumbled in first, dropping to one knee when he saw Arlen. Vocht followed, his eyes taking in the cracked walls, the shattered floor.
"What in the hells..." Lank's jaw hung open, his expression shifting to something like worship.
"Arlen?" Vocht stared, voice tight. "What happened to you?"
I had a chat with the demon in my head and he accidentally gave me his soul as armor. Just another day.
That's what he'd say if he wanted them to think he'd lost his mind. Instead, he fumbled for something resembling sense.
"I..." No lie came. His mind was blank. "Found it in that box." He gestured weakly toward a dusty container in the corner—the same unremarkable box that had been there when he entered.
Vocht and Lank stared at the box, then at each other. Lank barked a laugh that died quickly.
"That box has been empty for weeks, you idiot." His voice faltered as he looked back at Arlen, suddenly uncertain. "I... well..."
"Lank," Vocht cut in, "go handle Arlen's matches while we talk." His tone left no room for argument.
Lank backed away slowly, eyes never leaving Arlen until he noticed the web of cracks spreading across the room.
"What the fuck happened in here?" He turned and slammed the door behind him, his footsteps hurrying away.
"Arlen." Vocht's voice was steady, controlled. "What's going on?"
His lie exposed, Arlen gave up pretending.
"It just happened," he said. "One moment I was sitting here, the next... this. Don't know why, just know it did."
Vocht stepped closer, pushing his long hair from his eyes. His fingers traced the black plates and golden inlays of Arlen's new armor, his touch cautious.
"This isn't some backwater smith's work," he muttered. "This is..." Words failed him. "Is this Mazandrian?"
"Mazandrian?"
"Do your people forge armor like this? Royal techniques, old methods?" Vocht's eyes narrowed, suspicion rising.
Arlen knew no craft in Mazander could create this. "No. It appeared out of nowhere. That's the truth."
"You claimed to be Flickered."
Arlen nodded.
"No Flicker I've ever seen or heard of could manifest anything like this." Vocht's words carried accusation. "Not possible with that level of the Flare."
"You certain about that?"
"Last I checked, I was Flickered," Arlen said, remembering the Gauging Halls of the Field Registry. The blood test with the glass hand that turned smoky gray—the mark of a Flicker, barely visible through the translucent glass.
"When was your last testing?" Vocht pressed, his interest seeming personal.
"Year ago, maybe less."
"We've got hours before your first fight," Vocht said. "Let's visit one of Dazeen's Gauging Halls."
"They'd let me in? I haven't even fought yet."
"I know people," Vocht said, a grim smile breaking through. "I've got a solution."