The Ascended — Chapter no 53

Chapter 53

Thatcher

THE PARCHMENT CRUMPLED IN MY FIST, OLINTHAR'S GOLDEN SEAL catching the dim light from the window. Rain hammered against the glass of Chavore's study, matching the thudding of my heart.

"He wants to see me again," I said, tossing the letter onto the desk between us. "Third time this week."

Chavore stood at the window, shoulders rigid beneath his silver- threaded tunic. He didn't turn, but his reflection showed the muscle jumping in his jaw.

I leaned back in my chair. "For someone who rules the entire pantheon, he certainly has a lot of free time."

The dinners had been elaborate affairs—just the three of us, with Olinthar asking endless questions about my life in Saltcrest, my training with Chavore, my thoughts on the divine domains. The chess matches stretched for hours, each move accompanied by philosophical observations about strategy and sacrifice. Every moment a performance, every word a careful dance around the truth.

Each meeting left me drained. Sitting across from that monster, watching him eat and laugh. Smiling and nodding at his stories. Answering his questions like we were old friends catching up. It took everything in me not to reach across the table and drive a knife through his throat.

I'd return to my chambers afterward with a headache from the effort of not showing how much I hated him. Worth it, though, if it got me close enough to eventually kill him.

"You've managed to attract more genuine interest from him than I've seen my entire life." Chavore's voice stayed even, but a rawness edged his words. "He actually looks at you when you speak. You've noticed that, right? When you shared that story about the fishing competition, he laughed. Actually laughed."

I watched him, trying to reconcile the god who trained me with the son who stood abandoned in his father's shadow.

"I'd trade places with you in a heartbeat," I said. "His attention is overwhelming."

Chavore turned from the window. "Do you know how many times I've stood in his council chambers while he discusses matters with his advisors?

How many hours I've spent waiting for him to acknowledge a single suggestion?" He grabbed a crystal decanter, pouring amber liquid with too much force. "Yet he writes to you personally. Invites you to private audiences."

I'd expected resentment, maybe jealousy. Instead, I glimpsed a lifetime of invisible wounds, a desperation for recognition that had never been satisfied.

Before I could answer, a portal bloomed in the center of the study, tearing reality open with golden light.

Chavore straightened his collar. "It seems we're expected."

"You don't have to come," I said.

"Don't worry about me, Thatcher." Chavore attempted an easy grin.

"I've had a lot of time to master the art of disappointing my father. Nothing I can't handle." He gestured toward the waiting portal. "After you."

I hesitated.

"For what it's worth," I said, "I think he's the one missing out."

Surprise flashed across Chavore's face before he masked it with a careless shrug. But I caught the flicker of gratitude in his eyes.

I stepped into golden light, the world dissolving around me. My body scattered and reformed on the other side.

Sundralis blazed around us, its eternal daylight harsh after Bellarium's gentle rain.

And there, waiting at the edge of the arrival platform, stood Olinthar himself.

The King of Gods wore simple white robes today, belted with gold, his only adornment a thin circlet atop his black hair.

"Thatcher Morvaren." Olinthar's voice rolled across the marble plaza.

"Welcome back to my domain."

I bowed, the gesture now familiar after my previous visits. "Thank you for the invitation, Lord Olinthar." The words tasted like poison on my tongue.

"Father." Chavore matched my movement, his spine stiff as a blade.

Olinthar's gaze brushed over Chavore. "Wait outside my office."

Olinthar turned back to me. "I have matters to discuss with Thatcher."

I glanced at Chavore, catching the flash of hurt before he buried it.

Olinthar placed a hand on my shoulder. "We won't be long."

Chavore bowed again, backing away several steps before turning. His spine remained rigid as he walked toward the distant gardens—a soldier marching into battle rather than a son dismissed by his father.

Olinthar watched him go, expression unreadable. "Come," he said to me. "There's something I wish to show you."

He led me not toward the towering palace I'd visited before, but to a smaller structure of white stone and gold. Inside, a staircase spiraled downward, each step emitting a soft golden glow that faded as we passed.

"Your training progresses well?" Olinthar asked as we descended into

darkness.

"Yes, my lord."

"Please, when we speak privately, call me Olinthar." The staircase curved deeper, the ambient light dimming with each turn. "I understand you face certain… restrictions in developing your gift."

My steps faltered. "Restrictions?"

"Your power requires practice to master fully." His voice echoed against stone walls. "Yet you can hardly end lives merely for training purposes."

A chill raced down my spine. "No, I couldn't."

"An ethical dilemma. You wish to hone your abilities without compromising your principles."

The staircase ended at a narrow corridor. Torches burned in iron sconces, their flames unnaturally still—just like everything else in this domain of perfect control.

"What exactly did you bring me here to discuss?" I asked, unease crawling across my skin.

"I believe I've found a solution to your predicament." Olinthar stopped before a heavy door bound with iron. "A way for you to practice your gift

without reservation."

He pressed his palm against the door, which swung inward without a sound. The chamber beyond lay in half-darkness, but I could make out a

figure bound to a chair in the center.

"What is this?" I asked.

Olinthar stepped inside, and light bloomed from his palm. The sudden illumination revealed our surroundings—a stone chamber stripped of all ornament. And in the center, a Shadowkin servant.

Black and crimson robes draped across his frame, his features almost mortal but elongated, with eyes like pools of ink. The creature slumped forward in its restraints, head hanging low.

"My guards captured this spy at the borders of Sundralis three days ago." Olinthar circled the prisoner like a predator.

The Shadowkin raised his head at the sound of Olinthar's voice. One eye had swollen shut, but the other fixed on me with unsettling clarity. His face bore marks of recent violence—split lip, bruised cheek, dried blood like oil at the corner of his mouth.

"He's been questioned thoroughly, but remains uncooperative." Olinthar stopped behind the prisoner, hands resting on its shoulders. "And now, he must face justice."

The implications hit me hard. "You want me to kill him."

"I want you to practice your gift on a being that deserves judgment."

Olinthar's expression remained serene. "This is not an innocent, Thatcher.

This is an enemy who would have brought harm to my domain and its people."

I stared at the Shadowkin, trying to see the threat Olinthar described. I saw only a beaten prisoner, bound and defenseless.

"I can't," I said.

Olinthar studied me, his golden eyes unreadable. "I understand. Taking a life, even one that deserves it, is never easy when they pose no immediate threat." He nodded. "Perhaps I misjudged your readiness."

Relief washed over me, quickly evaporating as Olinthar spoke again.

"Very well. We'll handle this another way." He moved to stand directly before the Shadowkin. "Since our guest refuses to share what he knows, and you refuse to grant him a swift end, we'll need to be more persuasive."

Before I could react, Olinthar raised his hand. Light gathered at his fingertips, white-hot and searing. He pressed his palm to the Shadowkin's

chest.

The creature's scream tore through the chamber, scraping against my skull. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, thick and nauseating.

Bile rose in my throat as I fought to keep my expression neutral. Hatred threaded my skin, threatening to blow my cover. This was the being my sister and I had sworn to destroy.

And here he stood, torturing a defenseless prisoner while I watched.

Olinthar withdrew his hand, the light fading. The Shadowkin slumped forward, ragged breaths hissing through clenched teeth. A handprint had been seared into his chest, its edges still glowing red.

"This is the fate that awaits any enemies of my realm, Thatcher."

Olinthar's voice remained calm, like he was discussing the weather rather than torture. "I take no pleasure in it. But necessary actions rarely bring joy."

Liar. I'd seen the gleam in his eyes when the creature screamed, the curve of satisfaction on his lips. He enjoyed this display of power, this reminder of his absolute control.

He raised his hand again. The Shadowkin flinched, a whimper escaping his throat.

I wanted to stop him. But that would only reveal my true feelings. I remained where I stood, fists clenched at my sides, nails digging into my palms.

"Justice requires difficult decisions, Thatcher." Olinthar's gaze flicked to me, assessing my reaction. "Is it just to allow a spy to return to his master with information that could destroy innocent lives? There are no clean hands in conflict. Only necessary actions and their consequences."

The light gathered at his fingertips once more, hotter than before. The Shadowkin's eye found mine, wide with terror.

"Help," it whispered, the word barely audible.

My chest tightened, guilt warring with self-preservation. I thought of Chavore waiting outside, of Thais in Draknavor, of our plan—so fragile, so dependent on my ability to maintain this charade. I thought of Sulien, who had died protecting our secret. I thought of my mother, destroyed by the very being now standing before me.

For one reckless moment, I considered ending it right here—lunging for Olinthar's throat, burning through my mortal reserves to unleash everything I had. But the power radiating off him was suffocating, ancient, and

immense. He would swat me like an insect before I could even touch him.

No, I needed to ascend first—to reach godhood before I could challenge him with any hope of success. One moment of vengeful satisfaction now would destroy everything we'd sacrificed.

Olinthar placed his glowing hand on the prisoner's shoulder. The scream that followed sliced through the chamber—higher, desperate, unending. The smell of charred flesh thickened the air.

I kept my face blank while rage churned inside me. This was a performance for my benefit. I hated him for it. Hated myself for standing witness.

Minutes stretched in a blur of agony. The prisoner no longer resembled a creature of darkness. Burns covered its body, skin now mottled with raw red. One arm hung at an unnatural angle. Black blood pooled beneath the chair.

"Please," the Shadowkin whispered between screams, his gaze fixed on me. "End this."

Olinthar paused, turning to me with an expectant expression. "You see?

Even he begs for your intervention."

The screams grew worse. They drilled into my skull, vibrated in my teeth, saturated the air until I couldn't think, couldn't breathe. My hatred for Olinthar warred with the overwhelming need to stop this.

Not for Olinthar. Not to please him.

For the creature whose suffering had become unbearable.

I stepped forward. The Shadowkin watched me approach, its remaining

eye holding a flicker of hope.

My power surged, wild and uncontrolled.

The Shadowkin exploded.

The only mercy I could provide him.

"Extraordinary," Olinthar said softly. "You've been holding back in your training. I suspected as much."

I fought to steady my breathing, to calm the storm of emotions threatening to break my careful mask. I didn't trust myself to speak. Gods, I wanted to rip his fucking head off. I wanted to do to him exactly what I'd just done to the Shadowkin.

"Raw power responds to emotion, Thatcher. To intent." Olinthar studied me with new interest. "You wanted to end its suffering completely. And you did."

He was wrong. I'd wanted to obliterate something—and the Shadowkin had been the only available target. My true target stood before me, unmarked save for spatters of dark blood that he wiped away with casual indifference.

"Enough of all this." He placed a hand on my shoulder, guiding me back toward the stairs. I fought the urge to shrug off his touch. As we left, the door shut behind us with a hollow thud. "Your compassion does you credit, Thatcher. But remember, compassion must sometimes yield to necessity."

We climbed in silence, my mind replaying what had just happened. The chamber. The screams. The moment my power had erupted, destroying a life.

By the time we reached the surface, the light assaulting my eyes after the dungeon's shadows, I still couldn't speak through the rage burning inside me. I would play his game. Let him believe I was learning his lessons. And when the moment came, I would use every bit of that power against him.

Chavore was not alone when we found him in the corridor leading to Olinthar's study. Elysia stood beside him, hair gleaming. Her laughter died as we approached, eyes widening at the black stains that now streaked our clothing.

"Father," Chavore said, his gaze flicking between us.

Olinthar nodded. "I must ask for a moment of your time as well, my son." His gaze shifted to Elysia. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind escorting Thatcher back to Bellarium? I believe we've imposed on his training schedule long enough."

Elysia smiled. "It would be my pleasure." She floated toward me, each step graceful. "Shall we?"

Before I could respond, Olinthar stepped close, his hand gripping my shoulder. "Thank you for coming today, Thatcher." His voice lowered, meant only for me. "You're a good man."

The words settled heavy across my shoulders. I managed a nod before Elysia took my arm, leading me toward a new portal that shimmered into existence at her approach.

"Safe travels," Chavore called, his eyes meeting mine briefly. I saw genuine concern there, and something else. A question, perhaps, or a warning.

Then we crossed through light, Sundralis falling away. Bellarium materialized around us, its muted blues and silvers a relief after the

relentless gold. Rain still fell, pattering against stone paths as we walked through the gardens.

Elysia's hand remained on my arm. "You look troubled," she said,

breaking the silence between us.

"It's nothing." The lie tasted sour.

Elysia stopped, facing me directly. Her golden eyes searched my face.

"It's rarely nothing when Olinthar grants a private audience." Her voice held no accusation, only calm certainty. "What did he want with you?"

I looked away, rain beading in my hair. "He was helping with my training."

"Ah." Her tone made me glance back. Understanding softened her

features. "He can be… demanding."

"That's one word for it," I muttered.

Elysia's lips curved. "Many misunderstand him. Olinthar carries the burden of maintaining order across all realms. It forces him to make choices

that others might find harsh."

"Like torture?" The words escaped.

Her expression didn't change, but her eyes narrowed. "Is that what happened?"

I said nothing, which was answer enough.

Elysia sighed, resuming our walk through the rain-drenched gardens.

"The line between necessity and cruelty blurs when you rule a pantheon, Thatcher. Olinthar's actions always serve a purpose."

"And that justifies anything?"

She glanced at me. "Chavore struggles with this too—understanding what true leadership requires."

I thought of Chavore's face when Olinthar dismissed him, the wound he couldn't quite hide. "He wants his father's approval."

"Don't we all?" Elysia laughed, the sound hollow in the rain-soaked garden. A part of me wanted to strangle her, too. Delusional. She was absolutely fucking delusional.

We reached the entrance to the west wing, where my quarters were located. Elysia released my arm and stepped back.

"Consider what happened today," she said. "Not just what was done, but why. Olinthar doesn't create these tests without reason."

"Tests," I repeated, the word hollow.

"Everything is a test, Thatcher Morvaren. The question is whether you're being tested for strength—or for weakness."

She turned and walked away, her hair fading into the misty rain.

I made my way back to my chambers, peeling off clothes stained with Shadowkin blood. I stood under scalding water until my skin turned red, but the feeling of filth remained. I'd killed a defenseless prisoner. I'd taken one more step away from the person I'd been in Saltcrest.

A test. Of course it had been a test. But I couldn't escape the feeling that, whatever Olinthar had been looking for in me, he’d found.

And that terrified me more than anything else.