BOOK 11: CHAPTER 13: COLOR THEORY

13 – Color Theory

Victor looked at his mantle framework and frowned, frustrated to see it looking more and more like the same kind of mess his skein represented. He’d attached more than a hundred threads to the framework, spending hours and hours checking to see what each modification would do to the title of the mantle, and while he’d seen some changes, nothing had suggested he was close to reaching past the basic tier. He felt like he was missing something.

Staring at it, he found that the aspect that bothered him the most was its lack of any sort of design. Yes, he’d been careful to select threads he wanted to be part of his eventual mantle, but he’d simply drawn them over and placed them almost randomly. The framework looked like a jumble of color—many different shades of red, yellow, and blue thrown together without any sort of rhyme or reason. It seemed to him that the colors might be more than descriptive; perhaps they were meant to be used somehow. “Like affinities,” he mused, considering the weaves he often made of his Energy when casting spells.

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Victor had never been what anyone would call a good student back in high school. It wasn’t that he was stupid—just that his mind had always drifted to things that held more immediate interest for his testosterone-fueled young self: namely, girls and sports. That didn’t mean he hadn’t learned anything, however. With his intelligence attribute now inflated beyond human norms, he could look back on those days and pluck out memories that would’ve been hazy before.

Take, for instance, the concept of color mixing from art class. Hadn’t Miss Nguyen said that pigments were mixed using cyan, magenta, and yellow? Was it a coincidence that all the threads in the skein were in shades of yellow, blue, and red? Not exactly the pigment primaries—but close. What would happen if he wove some of them together?

As an experiment, Victor grabbed two random threads: a bright yellow one and another that was a shade of blue, almost green. After he spent a few minutes unwinding them from the skein, he deftly braided them together. The resultant, slightly thicker thread was far more vibrant and lively. What color was that? “Chartreuse,” Victor muttered, digging the word out of some buried memory.

Seeing that his concept of weaving the threads was possible, he decided it was time for a proper experiment. Sighing with resignation, he began the tedious process of removing his threads from the framework and returning them to the skein. However, he endeavored to keep them from tangling with other threads, hopeful that at least that part of his previous work—the untangling—could be saved. When the framework was empty, he contemplated his extensive collection of loose threads. Which ones to experiment with?

Victor decided to start with one from each category, so he studied the yellow-tinted threads and settled on a bright gold, almost metallic one. When he touched it, he smiled. It was a memory of when he’d used Inspiration of the Quinametzin to rally the Ninth during the war for the Untamed Marches. Carefully, he stretched the thread over to the framework and connected it to one of the most central hooks.

Looking back at his skein, Victor picked out a bright crimson thread. Clutching it between forefinger and thumb, he relived the time he first went berserk—a harrowing recollection of a desperate battle in a strange world. He’d been thrust into a pit surrounded by cheering, jeering people, drunk and wild with the second-hand thrill of the fights taking place. It was a powerful memory, and Victor recognized its foundational value. He pulled it to the frame and hooked it to the left of the golden thread.

Next, Victor contemplated the various shades of blue that hung loosely in the skein. His eye was drawn to a deep blue one, and he recognized it from an earlier time. When he’d first unraveled it, he’d spent several long minutes savoring the bitter, yet somehow comfortable heartache of his and Valla’s split. Braced for it this time, he only let the deep emotions brush his conscious mind as he tugged it over to the frame, tying it to the hook on the golden thread’s right.

Standing back, arms folded, he contemplated the frame and the three threads hooked to it. He already liked it better than the hundred-thread jumble he’d had going on before. These three threads contrasted and complemented each other nicely. If he were going to experiment with weaving, he’d need his control sample, so he reached into the frame and pulled the Threadlock lever.

***Congratulations! You’ve formed a new mantle: The Tempered – Basic. Your challenges affect you separately, yet together they begin to shape something greater. This mantle reflects balance through experience, the first step toward true mastery.***

“Basic,” Victor muttered. He wasn’t upset; he’d expected it. He’d already gotten more than a hundred similar messages. Reaching into the frame, he released the threadlock.

Once again, he studied the threads. Mostly at random, he picked up the blue thread, unhooked it, and then did the same with the golden one. Then, he carefully wove them together, creating a scintillating, metallic green thread. When it was done, he reattached it to the center of the frame, beside the crimson thread. That done, he reached into he frame and pulled the threadlock again.

***Congratulations! You’ve formed a new mantle: The Resolute Heart – Improved. You’ve known love and loss, and you’ve chosen to keep going. This mantle draws on quiet strength and purpose, turning grief into guidance.***

“Holy shit!”

Victor laughed at himself, surprised by how…surprised he was. Grinning, experiencing his first jolt of real encouragement since he’d begun experimenting with the mantle two days prior, he loosened the threadlock. He picked up the green thread and carefully unbraided it, then repeated the process with the crimson and golden threads. The result was a fiery orange that he attached beside the deep blue one. When he pulled the threadlock, the System awarded him with another message:

***Congratulations! You’ve formed a new mantle: The Rallying Tempest – Improved. Your fury does not burn alone—it calls others to rise. This mantle blends inspiration with ferocity, forging a warrior who fights not just for themselves, but for all who follow.***

It was interesting to see that the blue thread’s lesson wasn’t mentioned in the mantle description, just as the crimson one was left out of the previous one. Was it because, as a single thread, the influence was too small? Victor figured he’d experiment with multiple weaves after he was done with this little assessment.

He loosened the threadlock then wove the threads into the next combination: crimson and blue together, with the gold thread left separate. When he pulled the threadlock, he clapped his hands together as he read the result:

***Congratulations! You’ve formed a new mantle: The Vowed Inferno – Improved. Love lost and rage found—this mantle swears vengeance and never forgets. Emotions buried deep now fuel every strike.*** ȑ𝖆𝐍ỔВ˧

“Three improved mantles after just three days of practice? At this rate, I’ll have a legendary mantle before I take the city!” He knew he was tempting fate with the boast, so he hastily walked over and knocked his knuckles against the desk he’d made the day before. It was a massive piece of furniture with an expansive, polished wood top where he kept his notebooks. Now and then, he’d stop his experimenting and sit down, making sketches and taking notes on all the different threads he’d unraveled.

His superstition satisfied, he returned to the frame and loosened the threadlock. He unwound the deep purple thread he’d just made, then took the golden one off the hook. With his three threads in hand, he slowly began to weave a new braid, smiling with anticipation as the color of the blend slowly took shape. It was a deep, molten bronze, rich with complex, glowing undertones that reflected the original threads’ shades. When the weave was complete, he hooked it to the center of the frame and then pulled the threadlock.

***Congratulations! You’ve formed a new mantle: The Burning Aegis – Advanced. Rage forged it, loss shaped it, and purpose gave it form. This mantle shields the self and others with unyielding will, drawing strength from multiple facets of your nature.***

“Yes!” Victor punched a fist into his palm. “Advanced!”

Pleased that he hadn’t jinxed himself with his earlier boasting, he stood back, proudly examining the simple, yet elegant and beautiful woven thread he’d attached to his frame. Was it good enough for now? Could he go ahead and claim his deep stores of gathered Energy? It seemed like that would be a hasty thing to do. Hadn’t he just crowed about how quickly he’d gotten here? Certainly, with a few more weaves and perhaps some experimentation with different attachment points on the frame, he could do even better.

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Mind made up, Victor reached into the frame and released the threadlock. He was about to sift through his skein for more threads to weave when he felt something from his raven—intruders were moving rapidly south. Victor immediately abandoned his spirit space and opened his eyes. It was near midnight. The moon was high overhead, but it was, of course, plenty bright out thanks to his star-like, hope-attuned light.

The day before, Victor’s coyotes had cleared out the vampires in the southern pass, slaughtering the Bloodcloaks there without much difficulty. It made sense; if the vampires were, at most, tier-five or -six, and Victor’s totems were strong enough to help him face opponents of his level, then it was logical that they’d mop the floor with them. Despite their victory and inability to find more prey, Victor had kept the coyotes out, urging them to patrol the southern reaches of the valley and keep the people he’d freed safe.

Now, though, something more dangerous was at hand. He’d gotten that much from his raven. So, he sent out his consciousness and willed the watchful bird to share with him what it had seen. Images of a dark, misty road passing through bleak hills and stony fields came to him. Running down that road were more than a dozen horses—nightmarish things with red, glowing eyes, black, metal barding, and exposed bones where their flesh had worn away. The riders were all pale, red-eyed, and hungry-looking, grinning with exposed canines as they rode.

“Blood Reavers,” Victor guessed, but his eyes focused on the lead figures—three creatures with far more weight of presence than the reavers. One was huge, mounted on a stallion that would have made a Clydesdale seem like a pony. He had a pale, hairless head, prominent bat-like ears, and a flat nose. He wore a gleaming red-enameled full plate armor, and Victor could see several large weapons strapped to his horse’s barding.

A woman rode to his right, and while she was nearly as tall as he, she was skeletally thin and wore nothing but a sheer, gauzy gown. The outfit was reminiscent of Catalina’s, and Victor felt a surge of raw anger at the reminder of the woman and her betrayal. This woman had pale hair that reflected the moonlight as it flowed behind her spectral mount, and her face was too long and gaunt to be the Death Caster who’d fled to this world.

The other leader—Victor assumed these were Lord Fausto’s other lieutenants, the counterparts of the Pale Warden from the other regions of the valley—was another man, though he was of normal human stature, and his armor was far less imposing than the giant’s. Still, his cloak was black, unlike the reavers’ crimson, and Victor could see something in his bearing that said he viewed himself as a leader among subordinates.

“How far?” he whispered, sending the query through his connection to his raven. The bird sent him the answer in a memory, retracing its flight up to that point, starting with the region near the keep. Victor judged the party of vampires to be about thirty miles north. At their speed, he figured they might arrive within a few hours. Victor willed his raven to keep an eye on them, then jumped down from the tower into the courtyard.

He wasn’t surprised when Tasya was the one who jogged out of the shadows of the gatehouse to greet him. “Lord Victor.”

“Captain Tasya. How are things?”

“Very good, sir. We repeated the drill you led us through this morning four more times before I dismissed the soldiers for duties.”

“Good. Well, listen. I need you to rouse all the soldiers and put them on the walls. It seems Lord Fausto’s response is coming.”

Tasya, already pale in the silver-blue light, seemed to blanch further. “Milord, we’ll surely do as you command, but I don’t see how we can stand against more Bloodcloaks—”

Victor waved her to silence. “I didn’t see Bloodcloaks. I’m pretty sure they’re Fausto’s Blood Reavers and his other elders.” Before she could gather her wits and protest further, he added, “I’ll be riding north to meet them. Hopefully, no conflict will reach the keep, but I’m not sure they’re the only ones coming. There might be slower units behind. When I fought armies from Dark Ember in the past, some of the lords employed monstrous troops like great wolves and flying creatures. Some had armies of lesser undead. So, I want you all ready. Understood?”

“Yes, milord!” She snapped a salute, thumping her fist into her chest. It was a perfect copy of the gesture Victor had taught them all at assembly.

Victor smiled, nodding. “Good. I’ll be back before dawn, I’d wager.” With that, he summoned Guapo from a cloud of red, rage-attuned Energy, and the horse came out screaming, hooves high as he reared and snorted. Tasya stumbled back from the stallion, then turned and jogged toward the barracks.

“Hey, boy,” Victor said, slinging himself onto the furious mustang’s back. “Let’s go!” The stallion pounded for the gates, and luckily, the soldiers on duty were already unbarring it, because rage-attuned Guapo wasn’t waiting around. He reared, pounded his front hooves into the thick timbers, and sent the gate flying open. He screamed another furious whinny and pounded toward the road. It was all Victor could do to hang on as he laughed his joy at the stallion’s unbridled enthusiasm.

Of course, he could have flown out to meet his incoming guests, but it just felt right to meet these mounted foes on a mount of his own. It wasn’t the most pragmatic response, and if he thought he needed every little edge, he would have used his magma wings and attacked from the air, but, judging by his encounter with the Pale Warden, he didn’t think these foes would test him too severely. He certainly expected less from them than the steel-seeker champions he’d faced on Ruhn.

He didn’t think the vampires in Fausto’s valley necessarily represented the strength he’d come up against on Dark Ember. It seemed that Fausto’s remote, well-guarded, well-insulated domain had allowed him, or at least his underlings, to avoid a great deal of conflict. The Pale Warden had been among the weakest steel seekers Victor had ever challenged, yet he’d commanded a great deal of power in the valley.

Surely, if Fausto had neighbors constantly fighting for control of his land, his underlings would be stronger. A life of complacency, lording over humans kept weak by systematic abuse, hadn’t done the vampires in the valley any favors.

As he rode, Victor reached into his spirit space and summoned out his crown. He didn’t think he’d need much armor in the fight to come, but the crown did more than just protect his head; it granted him a hundred points of strength and, more importantly, it made a statement that vampires from Earth might recognize—he was the lord of these lands now.

While he looked into his spirit space, he contemplated the dragon heart he’d taken out of his storage ring. He’d almost eaten it the day before but felt it was too risky. If it took him out of commission for more than a few hours, there was a very real risk that all the people he’d freed would be slaughtered by vampires. No, the heart would have to wait until he’d finished with Fausto and claimed the System stone.

As Victor raced north at least twice as fast as the vampires were moving, he contemplated how to handle them. If he were going to attack and try to win out of sheer momentum, he ought to be flying. He’d already decided to meet them on Guapo’s back, though, and besides, he wanted to parlay a little. He might learn a thing or two about Fausto or the general political situation around Dark Ember. So, he focused his strategies based on the assumption that he’d be on the ground and, possibly, surrounded by the enemy.

Less than an hour into his ride, he crested a long rise and, looking down the road, he saw his foes approaching, running ahead of a great dust cloud kicked up by their horses’ hooves. Victor pulled Guapo to a halt atop the hill, and the great stallion stood, snorting and fiery-eyed, watching the lesser steeds approach.

While he waited, Victor wondered how the vampires would respond to his blatant challenge. Would they charge right into him, leaping into their attacks? Would they pull up short and choose one of their number to approach? Would they flee? It turned out to be a combination of the first two. The group—fifteen in total—rode pel mel up the hill and then, at the last minute, pulled their mounts to a halt, sliding on the dirt road and causing the creatures to whinny furiously.

Of course, Guapo didn’t like the sound of those horses’ challenges, and he reared up, screaming his own furious whinny, and, surprisingly, even the undead horses grew quiet, snorting their ghostly breath through rotting muzzles. The three living horses, the mounts of the elder vampires, stepped back, chuffing with their eyes rolling wildly as they fought to leave the furious mustang’s presence.

The three leaders were about twenty yards from Victor, and the big one wearing a crimson plate called out, “Declare yourself! What lord do you serve?”

Victor, enormous even compared to that giant man, waited for Guapo to settle, then gently stroked the angry mustang’s mane. Hardly looking up, he said, “I serve no lord—alive or dead.” He spoke the words with the authority of truth, and he decided he meant them. He might continue to work with men like Ranish Dar, but he’d consider any tasks he did for such mentors a favor; he would call no one master—never again.

“In these lands, Lord Fausto rules. Have you insulted our lord by harming his minions?”

“So, are you the smartest among your party? Isn’t it obvious that the stranger who rode out to meet you is the one responsible for the vampires being slaughtered in Fausto’s former lands? Is there one among you who might elevate that side of the discourse? I’m afraid I haven’t the patience to do all the lifting—”

“Cur!” the giant growled, reaching toward an enormous black spear affixed to his mount’s saddle.

“Gorian,” the other male vampire said, reaching out to rest a hand on the giant’s elbow. “Be still a moment. Allow me to speak.” Gorian lowered his hand, but his face was fixed in a permanent-seeming snarl as the smaller man clicked his tongue and urged his mount forward a few steps. In a louder voice, he said, “I am Ymrish Blackhand, and I ask you, stranger, what is your purpose here?”

Victor watched as the reavers sat utterly still, watching the exchange. He shifted to his inner eye, glanced at the Cores arrayed before him, and was surprised by the brightness of some of them. The woman, especially, had a great depth of Energy at her Core, swirling with the haunting blue of a Death Caster. None of them, not even the reavers, were still in their iron ranks. Still, none of them were capable of blocking his view, which meant his will, his aura, was more potent than theirs.

“My purpose, Ymrish,” he said, straightening so his full height and the silhouette of his crown were fully visible, “is to drive the undead vermin from this world.”