Rene bowed. “As you wish.” Rene made his way to the doorway and paused. “Will you behave this time and promise not to leave this room?”
“I promise. There is nothing more here to find. What I am looking for now is right in my sight.” Faust made a motion toward the three chests.
Rene eyed Faust.
“I will be here.”
“No one may come in or out of this room. Am I clear?”
Faust waved the historian off. “You sound like my brother.”
“Your safety was entrusted to me.”
“You are perfectly clear, sir.” The only other entrances were the windows, and Faust doubted anyone would try to come through them.
Rene stared long and hard before he closed the door behind him.
Faust shook his head. His gaze landed on the three chests. He should open those while he was alone, he supposed. If he saw strange things again, no one would interrupt the visions. Whatever they were, they seemed to be messages from the person who made the chests, and anything about the past was information he welcomed.
Faust walked around the desk and stopped in front of the chests.
One had faded blue paint and precious blue stones. He approached one, and the wind brushed back against him. As he thought: all these stones were sky stones. The second chest was simple, almost too simple, as if it didn’t belong to a noble. But the third did. Red-orange stones covered it. He hovered over one, and it sparked at him—fire stones.
Faust skimmed his fingers against the blue chest first. The magic drifted out in a rush, rustling the curtains and a window blew open. His glasses even slipped on his face, and he barely caught them before they hit the floor. He blinked hard as the stones on the chest fell silent. The magic hadn’t swept into him like the others had—it was as if the wind had escaped to go elsewhere.
Faust shook his head and opened the chest. He pulled out a rolled scroll. He unraveled it with care only to find that there were two.
The first scroll contained a sketch of a beautiful man who wore a small tunic. His hair was loose, and an intricate set of wings sprawled from the man’s back. The sketch carried a majestic feel and suggested this deity was a ruler.
The longer Faust stared, the more he thought he recognized this man. He moved to the second scroll, frowning at the sight of more of the ancient tongue.
Faust stared at the letters and raised a brow. “Linos,” he read. That word came up in those journals often. He grabbed his chart of letters from his bag and scribbled the title. “The Deity of Azure, Linos,” he whispered.
Faust stood back and placed the sketch by the scroll. This was Linos. The deity of the sky no less! This was one of the deities Rene and his brother wanted to find. The scroll didn’t have a lot on it, so he scribed what he saw. Once he finished, he scanned over it.
The Deity of Azure, Linos.
Linos is the ruler of all the deities.
The master of the weather, wind, and water.
Disobeying his rule is disobeying Alimphis—the creator of the deities.
The first to gain Linos’s graces ascends.
Faust stared, and a smile twitched upon his lips. “Linos,” he exhaled. Something sparked within him, a pang of intense longing igniting in his soul. If he could find Linos, he could help end Emoris and Lathil’s reign, he just knew it. Konrad was moving in that direction, but if they found Linos, it would move faster, and the people would suffer less.
Faust rolled the scrolls back up and moved to the second chest. He touched it and it snapped open with ease, but magic once again surrounded him and melded with his. Faust gripped the side of the desk hard and swayed until it passed.
Faust took a deep breath. He peeked inside to find two swords and another worn journal. Faust pulled the swords out, and sky-blue light raced over the blade. He blinked, but it didn’t happen again.
He shrugged and examined them. The swords were worn from age and beyond repair. Some ancient tongue had been engraved on the blade itself, but it was nearly unreadable. All he could make out were the words I, power, and can.
Faust placed the blades on the desk in favor of looking through the journal. It, too, was the same as his other journals, but the leather on this one felt different. It might have been made in a different place. The writing appeared the same and came in short bursts. He would have to translate it later.
Faust moved to the third chest. The red stones made him hesitant. He wasn’t certain if fire would whirl out of it. He tapped the chest. It flung open and an overwhelming heat flooded the room. His knees buckled under the pressure, his body far too hot. It was like Ignas’s warmth, but far stronger, almost suffocating.
The heat subsided, and Faust stood on wobbly legs. He shook it off and looked inside the chest. “Clothes?”
Faust picked up a blue tunic.
Laughter echoed in the room, and the blond man appeared again. The man’s wings flickered, and he turned.
Faust dropped the tunic, his breathing fast. The man was gone. He was certain that was Linos now, and his gut twisted with fierce urgency and uncertainty. Faust closed his eyes, counting to calm himself down, pushing the unreasonable feeling aside. He shook his head once more and looked at the leather belt. Perhaps it belonged to Linos, too.
Faust picked the belt up with care.
Fire crackled, screams echoed, and blades clashed in a dark, frantic battlefield. Glowing, red Volliare blanketed the sky, dropping explosive after explosive. Even amongst all that, a tall, broad-backed, dark-skinned man stood among the bodies with a bloodied blade raised high as large, red wings burst from his back.
Faust stood in the vision, frozen in place.
The man whirled, magic laced with malice.
Faust threw the belt back in the chest. It banged shut, and he fell to his knees, covering his mouth. The air reeked of death. He could smell the gunpowder, the blood, and decaying flesh. Faust gagged, dry heaving into his hand.
The curtain snapped with movement, but Faust couldn’t bring himself out of his stupor. Warmth swallowed him, and the smells ceased.
“Breathe, Faust,” Ignas murmured.
Faust buried his face in Ignas’s chest, his hands clawing into Ignas’s clothes. The nausea passed, replaced with a scent that belonged to Ignas. He inhaled deeply and exhaled, basking in Ignas’s calming warmth.
Ignas rested against the leg of the desk and situated Faust in his lap.
Faust’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t protest. His hands still held tight, afraid if he let go, the horrid smells would return. They sat in silence for a long while until his hands stopped trembling.
The deity in the vision was probably the Deity of Carnage. The battlefield was proof enough for Faust. He had skin like Ignas, but he seemed far more dangerous and appeared to be worthy of the title, Commandant.
Ignas slid his hand over Faust’s and wove their fingers together, massaging Faust’s hand. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine.”
“I doubt your words.” Ignas brought Faust’s hand to his lips and kissed Faust’s knuckles.
“You should not doubt my word.”
“Then, perhaps I can distract you instead.”
“Distract,” Faust repeated and lifted his head, thankful to think of something else.
Ignas tilted Faust’s chin. “Why yes, gorgeous. Distract.”