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Memoirs 366 - Legends
🕑 Added 2025-06-18 21:14:35 +0000 UTCThere once was a mage lauded as a genius among geniuses.
Born during a time of turmoil—when a fledgling empire clawed its existence through constant war and shifting allegiances, and the path of a mage was regarded with both suspicion and reverence by those outside the already influential Rising Isle—he carried an ambition few around him could fathom. Only a rare handful he met in those early years truly understood him, each driven by an ambition he considered equal to his own and bound by a shared sense of purpose.
Among them: a stoic knight of forgotten oaths, a sun-priest preaching the near-abandoned word of a forsaken god, a wandering hero of the blade, and even the young prince who would one day become emperor.
It was a gathering of heroes and visionaries, each with grand dreams and the strength to pursue them. Together—and with the countless others drawn into their wake—they forged deeds and legends that would echo for generations.
The mage counted himself among the architects of that turning age. Yet he did not believe himself fortunate. His legacy was carved by tireless hands, driven by his pursuit of truth and the secrets of the arcane. He fought wars. He founded institutions. He rewrote ancient doctrines. He unearthed long-buried principles. Even the achievements of the Isle’s legendary Arch Wizard, Aubrianne, might have paled before the magnitude of what he uncovered.
Yet he never knew contentment.
One day, he paused. He looked back. And he realised — he stood alone. His ambitions had outpaced those of his comrades, whom he had once believed shared his hunger.
While they settled into teaching disciples and guiding heirs, shaping the generations to come, he took no students. His goals remained singular. His focus, unshaken. He kept chasing knowledge, ever deeper, until even the worldly concerns of the new empire became mere distractions.
He asked himself: Was I wrong not to be content? Why do even the greatest of feats feel like they amount to pitifully little?
He did not understand.
So he sought to.
Through the arcane. And through means best left unspoken.
Thus began the descent of a great imperial mage into magics never meant to be touched. Thus were sown the seeds of one of the empire’s most fearsome adversaries, and the legacy of a once-revered legend twisted into a warning.
A truth the empire preferred buried beneath centuries of silence.
Scarlett stared at the unmoving robed figure on the stone floor, heart still pounding. Fragments of lore she’d encountered in the game raced through her mind, trying to align themselves with the figure before her.
“Is he really…out?” Kat asked cautiously.
“It does seem like it, doesn’t it?” Rosa replied with a slightly nervous laugh. “I was expecting a bit more screaming and fire. Maybe some lightning.”
Arnaud stepped forward, sword still drawn. His grim demeanour hadn’t wavered, and for a second, Scarlett thought he might strike. Instead, he knelt, pressing the flat of his blade to the figure’s robe. Silver gleamed as steel cut through cloth, but the figure didn’t stir.
Scarlett frowned. “…Check beneath the robes. At the chest,” she finally said. “Do not touch anything with your hands.”
Arnaud gave her one glance before obeying. He slid the blade beneath the body and carefully rolled it over. The hood shifted, revealing glimpses of shrivelled, ash-grey skin stretched thin over bone.
He cut an opening across the chest.
Scarlett’s firelight danced across the sword, illuminating a cavity where flesh and organ should have been. A hollow space packed with coarse black sand and shards of brittle bone. At its centre—wedged deep like a buried nail—rested a small, jagged crystal wrapped in veins of gold, pulsing faintly with a sinister light.
At her side, Scarlett noticed Rosa grimace and press a hand to her chest.
With impressive finesse and control, Arnaud pried the crystal free with his sword, angling it for Scarlett to see. “You know what this is, don’t you?”
She nodded. “The phylactery.”
Which meant this was one of the simulacrums, and not the original body.
That only made it slightly less dangerous.
Still, its current condition was all the more strange. Presumably, this wasn’t how he’d arrived in Beld Thylelion.
Scarlett peered into the hall ahead. He had come from deeper within. That meant he’d already reached places they hadn’t… only to turn back. But why?
With a flick of her wrist, she conjured a sphere of water to envelop the phylactery balanced on Arnaud’s blade, drawing it towards her.
[Phylactery of Withered Dominion (Unique)]
{An ancient vessel steeped in necrotic intent. Bound to part of a soul that chose to defy death}
She studied it, brow furrowed. The malignant energy radiating from it was almost tangible. No scent, yet the air felt distinctly…wrong.
Allyssa shifted uneasily, eyes flicking between the phylactery and the motionless figure.
To the lich.
“…Is he really undead?” she asked.
“He is,” Scarlett confirmed.
Allyssa turned to her father. “Were…were these the kinds of things you fought in the Unresting Steppes?”
Arnaud held her gaze for a long moment, then looked to Scarlett. “Do you have any idea how the Undead Council arrived here?”
“I do not,” Scarlett said. “…As far as I knew, it should not have been possible.”
“Then you’ve underestimated the Council.”
Scarlett was silent for several seconds, staring at the figure. “…You are not wrong.”
Her gaze returned to the phylactery suspended in water. Just in case, she lifted the [Orrery of Dissonant Convergence] to test its reaction, but it behaved no differently than it had elsewhere in Beld Thylelion.
She lowered it and raised the [Eternal Flameweaver’s Athame]. Bluish-white flames flared, encircling the water and the crystal within. The phylactery vanished beneath a shroud of divine fire.
She didn’t want to risk storing it in any of their spatial bags. While it wasn’t too dissimilar an existence from the Angler Man’s heart, it was steeped in even deeper, darker magics that she only barely understood.
Stepping closer to Arnaud, she folded her arms. “What precisely did your assignment in the Unresting Steppes entail?”
She’d thought she was familiar with what that questline covered, but now she wasn’t so sure anymore.
The man considered her. Just as he seemed ready to speak, the robed figure stirred.
Arnaud’s head snapped around. His sword flashed as he rose to shield the group.
The others followed suit, readying themselves. Scarlett conjured more of Itris’ flames, letting them hover around her like tiny fiery sentinels.
From beneath the lich’s hood, two black-burning eyes snapped open — and a wave of cold swept down the corridor.
But he didn’t move.
Flat on his back, he only stared at the ceiling. Quiet mutterings and strange laughter spilled from his lips, mostly unintelligible.
Seconds dragged. Scarlett felt the others glance her way, as if asking. Her jaw tightened.
Then she spoke.
“Ustrum.”
The lich went still.
“…Wait,” Kat whispered. “What did you just call him?”
Everyone stared at her. Even Arnaud, his expression unreadable.
On the ground, Ustrum didn’t answer at first. The whispering resumed—soft at first, like a breath—but it soon unravelled into a slow, fractured laughter that made Scarlett’s skin crawl.
When he moved, Fynn, Arnaud, and Shin were instantly poised to strike. Yet despite the oppressive weight of his presence, he didn’t attack. He merely pushed himself up in a staggered, unnatural motion, only to collapse against the wall and remain there, back pressed to stone, as if he’d abandoned even the effort of standing.
His vacant gaze fixed on nothing.
“Ustrum,” Scarlett said again. “We hold your phylactery. If you do not want it destroyed, I suggest you refrain from…foolishness.”
No answer. But after a moment, his head turned, eyes settling on the bluish-white flames around the phylactery. A thin chuckle slipped from him.
“Hah… Hah… Hah…” he wheezed in a voice that was disturbingly normal. “The fires of Itris! Hah!” His gaze flicked to the Athame in Scarlett’s hand. “…Hartford, no? Hah. So this is where you hid…”
His words trailed off, as if chasing a thought too faded to catch.
Scarlett’s mouth tightened. “…I am not Arlene Hartford.”
This was Ustrum. The arch wizard who helped shape the empire’s arcane foundations, and who, even in his twilight years during Arlene’s time, had remained its foremost authority on magic. For a moment, Scarlett had thought he had recognised her. But more likely, he had mistaken her for Arlene because of the Athame — her teacher’s blade.
Which was strange in itself.
The Ustrum she knew from the game was shrewd and terrifyingly lucid. Each of his simulacrums had its quirks, yes—she’d recognised this one by its laugh when the trap had triggered earlier—but none should have been so far gone as to mistake her for a woman who’d lived two centuries ago.
She didn’t know what to make of it. Here lay what might have been the most powerful human mage in three hundred years—even counting Arlene—and yet he seemed little more than a raving corpse.
What the hell happened to him?
His eyes were almost entirely vacant as he watched her. He didn’t even appear to have registered her words.
“How did you get here?” she asked, sharper this time. “Speak clearly.”
The lich raised his head. A dry, rattling chuckle crawled from his throat. Slowly, he lifted a bony hand of taut grey skin, fingers bent slack like a marionette, and gestured vaguely upward.
“Fate,” he said, the word dragged out like a worn-out joke. “Three decades of patience. Five more of compromise and contrivance. Hah! All for this. The end of a winding thread.”
More laughter followed. Higher, turning more and more disjointed.
Scarlett narrowed her eyes. Decades? Had he planned for this for that long? For what? Just to reach Beld Thylelion?
Suddenly, the laughter ceased. Ustrum’s head turned, eyes locked on her again. Several seconds passed before he spoke.
“You. You stand against Fate.”
The corridor thickened with pressure. Air chilled further. Shadows curled to him, black sand spilling forward from deeper within the hall.
“I remind you,” Scarlett said coolly, raising her hand towards the phylactery wreathed in flame, “you are one careless move from annihilation.”
His gaze lingered. Another laugh escaped — quieter, more distant. “Ahh…the threat of oblivion,” he muttered. “So loud in the mouths of the living.” His eyes drifted upward, searching the ceiling as though for answers only he could see.
“Why…defy it?” he asked, voice barely above a rasp. “What a pointless…pointless gesture. All of it.”
His jaw twitched. “I thought I could…didn’t I? Once? When was that…?” His words crumbled. “Hah…I don’t…remember. Hah… Hah…”
His chest moved unevenly. Through the tear Arnaud had made, Scarlett glimpsed a strange dark light pulsing weakly beneath the robes. Mana, ebbing in ragged surges.
“Naive,” Ustrum croaked. “Such naivety. They didn’t understand it. None of us did. But still, we thought—” He jolted, eyes darting wildly. “—that we could.”
Then his focus snapped back to Scarlett. For a moment, clarity seemed to return to him.
“You are wasting your time,” he spat. “A speck, scrawled onto the crust of an already broken and failed world. That is all you are.”
Scarlett frowned, flames tightening around the phylactery. “What did you find here in Beld Thylelion?”
Ustrum’s features shifted under the shadows. Slowly, his eyes dimmed.
And he smiled.
It wasn’t a sneer. It wasn’t mockery. It was something empty. Like a man trying to remember how to smile.
“You almost had me,” he said. “Almost fooled me. I nearly believed it. That you were real.”
Scarlett only frowned deeper. What was he on about?
“Hah… Hahah…” The laughter rose again, splintered and spiralling towards madness. “Hahahahah!”
He didn’t stop. His head lolled to the side, gaze unfocused. At last the laughter broke into fits, then silence.
“I can’t escape,” he whispered. “I am stuck. Imprisoned. Why was I here…? Was it folly? Was any of it real? It’s all…meaningless. I yield. I care no longer… Tennes. Raisel. Donovan. Galrath…” His hands trembled, fingers curling. “Will I finally join you?”
Mana surged.
Scarlett tensed. Around her, the others moved. Arnaud’s blade rose. Smoke veined around the lich’s legs.
There was a crack.
It took Scarlett a second to realise what it was.
She turned, dispelling the flames around the phylactery — just in time to see it shatter into dust.
Ustrum collapsed.
His robes sagged as the body within gave way to black sand. Skin, bone, everything dissolved, collapsing until only fabric and dust remained. One last dry chuckle escaped the heap — then the final silence.
Scarlett stared.
He had destroyed his own phylactery.
A lich, choosing to end his own existence.
Something that should have gone against the very core of what they were.
No one spoke. Slowly, the others turned to her.
Kat broke the silence. “Scarlett… Did you call him Ustrum?”
Scarlett didn’t look away from the pile. “I did.”
“…As in the Ustrum Assembly?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not seriously suggesting he was—”
“I am not suggesting, no,” Scarlett cut the woman off. “He was Ustrum. The very same you have heard of.”
The corridor fell quiet again.
Arnaud spoke next. “You’re certain of this?”
“I am,” Scarlett said. “There is no mistaking it. That was a simulacrum of the Undead Council’s leader.”
“…You mean the Council’s leader is Ustrum?” Shin asked. “The Ustrum? From the empire’s founding?”
Scarlett inclined her head. “I understand that it is not a secret that was ever meant to be revealed. The empire buried it, as they are often wont to do with truths they would prefer forgotten. But yes. That was him — or a fragment of the entity he became.” She lifted the Athame slightly. “If it were anyone else, they would not have mistaken me for Arlene Hartford, the previous owner of this artifact.”
She glanced down at the lifeless sand. “…What troubles me most is how he ended up in that state.”
She turned to Arnaud. “Have you ever encountered one of his simulacrums before?”
The man held her gaze. “…Once. I did not realise his true identity at the time, however.”
“Were they similarly deranged?”
“No.”
“Then it is safe to assume that he did not enter Beld Thylelion in this state. Ustrum would not risk sending an unstable simulacrum after such preparation.”
Rosa let out a low whistle. “So…something scrambled his brains after he got here. Or whatever undead have in place of brains.”
“It would appear so.” Scarlett peered down the hall’s depths.
She didn’t know anything in the game that could do that.
…Yamina’s warning. Could this be what she was talking about?
“What did he mean about fate?” Allyssa asked, voice somewhat quiet. “He said you were standing against it, Scarlett.”
Scarlett met her eyes. “…It is better if you do not know.”
“Is it really?” Shin pressed. “It feels like it’s becoming relevant. We’ve been seeing more and more of it, haven’t we?”
Scarlett studied him, then the others. She exhaled slowly. “Yes. It is better that you do not know.”
She didn’t think they’d like the answer. But no one pushed further.
Still, things were reaching a point where she wondered if she could keep quiet about Fate for much longer.
Her eyes met Arnaud’s. He watched her with a measured, thoughtful look. Of everyone here, she’d expected him, at least, to press. But he didn’t.
Did he already have some familiarity with Fate, perhaps? He had ties to both Dean Godwin and Yamina Ward, after all.
When the chance came, she’d need to speak with him privately.
She turned back to the hallway. “We move on. I suspect Ustrum came alone, but even so, his presence shows we cannot afford to linger.”
For a moment, the group paused, like everyone was mentally resetting.
“So,” Rosa said eventually, “do we have any idea what we’re heading into?”
“No,” Scarlett replied.
“I see. So we’re quite possibly marching straight into whatever snapped the mind of a legendary mage-turned-undead and made him off himself. Blind.”
“…We are.”
“Neat.”
Scarlett gave her a look.
Rosa raised her brows. “A bit much?”
“A bit.”
She gave a crooked grin. “Well, I’m sure we’ll be fine. The heroes always make it out in one piece, right?”
Scarlett didn’t answer. Her eyes turned back to the corridor ahead.
She hoped Rosa was right.
Because this would be a very inconvenient time for the ‘villainess’ part of her backstory to come into play.
Comments
Hussar L
Poor lich needs some stitches
