Sevensworn

VII. Risen Ash

After the first, the horns continued to sound. One after another, they echoed around the peak of the mountain where he'd wedged himself, ominous and heavy in the air. He stood, ducking through crowds of people who had stopped in their tracks at the noise, pushing his way toward the railing and looking down into the city below.

At the mountain's base, the magelight fires were being extinguished. One went out, and then another, until the buildings were cloaked in darkness and the crowd around him had dropped their things and started running. Ronan simply stared, wide-eyed, as another horn sounded.

They all knew what this meant. Adacia was no longer ignorant to the warning signs. No one was waiting to see what was happening⁠—their innocence had been replaced with a brutal realism. They saw as well as Ronan that the war had finally come to take their city.

For a moment all he could do was stand and stare into the darkness, fully aware of what was happening yet unable to lift his feet and run with the rest of the crowd. His mind went through the motions even while his body remained frozen.

Find Wynne. Find Acaeus. Find Shivaroth. Leave the city.

Far below, a building went up in flames. Screams began to reach his ears. He wrenched his hands from the railing and drew his trident from the sheath at his back, grateful that Wynne had made him carry it. He steeled himself, and dove into the crowd. Those that had weapons had them drawn, and those that didn't ducked and wove between buildings and people, trying to get out as quickly as they could. With the magelight near the top of the city still burning, Ronan was able to see just enough to run down the steps to one of the lower levels before the lights went out for good. The upper levels were plunged into darkness with the rest of Illirium. The crowd still milled about around him but he stood still, feeling his way along the wall and pressing his back against it for good measure.

It was pitch black. He had no source of light. He was able to catch flashes of his surroundings as magic was ignited, bright lights in cupped hands or violent flashes where one was fighting another. He had no way out, no way to find light, and no way to know who to avoid. He cursed vehemently.

He breathed in deeply through his nose, and thought back to a time when he was younger, about ten. He had fallen in the forest, knocked himself unconscious, and broken his wrist. He was sure he would die then and there⁠, prophecy be damned. He had gotten on his knees and prayed⁠—an action he hadn't partaken in for some time, after his attitude toward the gods shifted from simple impiety to distrust⁠—and Shivaroth had answered. He had guided him then, Ronan thought, determination working its way through him, and he could guide him again now.

That was assuming, of course, that Shivaroth didn't want him dead as well. That his claims of being unsure of how he arrived on Ishtel were true. His wide eyes stared ahead into the blackness, seeing nothing but the slight shifting movement of the crowd fumbling as they ran. The noise, though⁠—the noise was everywhere.

Screams, hunting horns, metal meeting metal at the city's base. Ronan steeled himself. He had nothing left to lose. He got down on his knees.

"Shivaroth," he whispered, setting his trident down before him and placing his bare palms flat on the stone ground. "Ti'ra." Please. "I need you." A warm presence enveloped him, and he felt the faint touch of hands on his own, hands that weren't quite there. He felt a brief flash of pity for those that did not have a direct line of communication with their pantheon, those that never received a tangible answer from their gods but prayed anyway.

"Ronan." Shivaroth's voice made him shudder. It was as overwhelming as it had been in Serenvah, echoing and deep, filling his mind.

"I need you to show me where you are. Lead me to you."