33. Owen

Owen

When Rem didn't bring supper in the evening, Owen was relieved. Ever since he had channeled his Essence with the emberstone collar on and shattered the bowl, he had tried to do it again. After finishing his chores in the kitchens that morning, Owen had been put back in his tower, where he tried to get his Essence to emerge again. To his dismay, he hadn't been able to find the energy to summon it again. Perhaps his rage had fueled him.

But Owen had time.

He had been trying for hours, but he hadn't been able to summon his fire, nor even his ability to sense, which was what he wanted most. He needed to know if Colt and Brom were alive.

Eventually, he became too exhausted to strike up his anger, and he leaned back against the wall, his eyes tired. He looked over at his barred window and saw the dark, reddish clouds brewing outside. These were not typical rain or snow clouds, but rather ominous and dark clouds that cast his room in deep shadows.

It gave Owen a dreadful feeling.

He got to his feet and lay in his cot, his energy depleted from trying to break free of his collar. All he could do was curl up into a ball and attempt to sleep before trying again later. He hadn't slept much at all during the night, and when he did, he jerked awake not long after dozing, his heart pounding as he looked around in the darkness. Digging his nails into the skin on his arms made him realize he was still alive and not dead.

He ran the memory of the fort wall crashing down over and over again in his head. He tried desperately to remember if he had truly pushed part of the roof at an angle so that Colt was safe, but thinking about it made his head ache so badly, he finally got up from the cot and stood at the window.

His tired, puffy eyes strained against the meager light outside. He hated feeling so out of control, so alone and in pain. Owen closed his eyes, regretting that he hadn't told Colt he loved him. After being so afraid of what might happen to him if he said the words, still something had happened anyway.

And now there is no way for me to tell him, if he's still alive. Gods, please let him still be alive.

He pulled his sleeve up and rubbed his thumb across the honeybee charm on his leather bracelet. Tears blurred his vision before they rolled down his cheeks. He thought he was done crying, that he couldn't possibly shed any more, but here they were, falling yet again. To ward them away, he picked up a small piece of rock that had chipped from the stone windowsill and pierced his skin with it.

He shifted his thoughts instead to what Rem told him yesterday, that he would kill Mordren if Owen ruled by his side. With Mordren here, Rem had access to the god's power by proxy. He served Mordren and enjoyed the power of that position. If Rem did away with Mordren, but kept Owen by his side, he'd have unlimited access to his divine blood that he could use to create his own power. But surely Owen's blood wasn't strong enough for Rem to become that powerful. Owen recalled how his blood had given Grutwyr the ability to transcend the Vale to search for Colt. He seemed slightly loopy from it, as if he'd smoked herb. That wasn't the kind of power Rem was seeking. Perhaps only a small amount of blood was needed to become truly powerful and also alert. A space between the darkness and light of Mordren's blood.

Why did Rem let Mordren out if he just wants to destroy him?

When his door unlocked, Owen jumped and turned around. Then it opened, and Rem stepped inside with a tray of food, much to Owen's dismay.

"My apologies for not getting supper to you earlier," Rem said.

When has Rem ever apologized to me?

"Have you thought about my offer?"

Owen glared at him. After refusing to speak with Rem about his offer that morning, Rem told him he'd ‘give him more time' to think it over. But Owen was still uncertain. "Why would you offer to do that at all? If my blood is beneficial to you, you could have just taken me and kept the Gate closed."

Rem set the tray on the end table and moved to stand by him at the window. "I needed help taking Luthien. Mordren delivered. If he opens a portal into the universal plane, he will no longer be in this world, leaving you dead and me with a limited supply of blood from Mordren to rule. But if he is eliminated…" Rem smiled cruelly, "well, we both get what we want, don't we? I get your blood, and you get your life."

It made sense now. Rem wanted to rule Luthien, the whole of Avathon, and he needed Owen's blood to continue. It was more than simply wanting Owen himself, Rem wanted to use the power that ran through his veins. This seemed to be the only option that would ensure thousands of innocent people didn't lose their lives .

"How…" Owen narrowed his eyes at Rem, "exactly would you use my blood? Collect it in vials as well?"

When Rem laughed mockingly, Owen's stomach twisted. "A vial sounds appropriate. Your blood isn't as potent as Mordren's, but it's still powerful enough that it can heighten the senses of those who are normal."

"I'd hardly say you're normal…" Owen muttered.

" Don't test me today, Owen." Rem grabbed the back of Owen's neck and squeezed, making him hiss in pain. The man cocked his head and stared at him. "Oh, but I forgot. Pain is pleasure to you now, isn't it?"

"Let me go."

"Say please."

" Please get your filthy hand off me."

Rem removed his hand, but he turned away. Owen wondered if the man was going to hit him, as Rem curled his fist and took a deep breath to steady himself. No, the Hunter wouldn't hurt him. He was trying to get Owen to take his offer, after all.

Owen turned his eyes to the window again and looked out at the tree on the ground below. "Can you tell me… if Colt really is dead?"

When Rem sighed, Owen regarded him cautiously.

The Hunter scratched his head and looked away, his face annoyed. "I have no idea if your lover is dead or alive. But even if he were alive, what makes you think I'd let you see him?"

"I just want peace of mind… That's all." Owen was on the verge of tears again, and as much as his head hurt, he didn't want to cry again.

Rem stood poised, his hands clasped in front of him for a long time. Then he said, "Hurry and eat, then get dressed. You're to meet Mordren in the dungeon today. "

Owen's body stiffened as he pulled his shirt on, and he looked fearfully at Rem, who seemed to understand his tension.

"What's wrong? Are you afraid of Mordren?"

"Yes…" Now was Owen's chance to butter Rem up. "If I take your offer, will you keep me safe?"

The expression that passed over Rem's face was one of exhilaration, and Owen had to turn away from Rem's disgusting look of admiration so the man couldn't see him wince.

"I will be with you," Rem assured him, "though I can't control what Mordren does, should you step out of line."

Nodding, Owen pulled on the rest of his clothes. Then he ate his bowl of stew, and after, Rem gently placed the shackles around Owen's wrists and latched the chain onto them. Rem looked upon him for a moment, then he placed his finger on Owen's chin, and Owen clenched his teeth and closed his eyes.

When Owen felt the chain pull, he opened his eyes and moved forward, out of the room. He followed behind Rem as they made their way down the stairs and along the hall. Owen looked around for Rhielle, but he hadn't seen her since yesterday. In fact, there were no servants at all, and the enormous citadel was dark and eerily quiet.

"Where is everyone?" Owen asked, his voice echoing off the white stone walls.

"In the dungeon," Rem said without emotion, as if Owen should have known.

His stomach twisted. Something wasn't right. He could feel it, even with the emberstone around his neck. The hairs on his neck stood up as they approached the wide door that led to the dungeon. He recalled going through this door when he was moved from a cell in the dungeon to his tower room .

Owen curled his fists, not wanting to see the cold, dark dungeon again, but as Rem opened the door, he had no choice but to go down the steps. Rem took a torch from the wall and made his way down the spiral stairs. Once on the bottom floor, Owen looked around at the cells lined on each side of his path. The first few were empty, but as he walked, he noticed people locked inside, some cells holding five or more. He realized, as their fearful faces glanced up at him in the torchlight, that these were all the servants.

At the end of the dimly lit passage, a circular tunnel made of stone veered left and right, with more doors. Ahead of them was another iron door. Rem opened it, the hinges creaking loudly, and led Owen inside to an unadorned square room formed of giant rough-cut stones. Mordren was in here, looking over sharp tools laid out on one of three tables. Against the wall, two servants were tied up, a young man and a young woman. Owen's heart drummed against his chest, but he couldn't let Mordren see his fear.

"Owen," Mordren started, looking up at him. "How do you like the dungeon? Underwhelming, isn't it? Luthien could do much better." He picked up what looked like a scalpel, its metal glinting in the light of the torch, and placed it back down.

"It's a dungeon," Owen replied. "What it looks like doesn't matter. They all serve the same purpose."

The god laughed low, then peered at a knife with a long, slim blade. "Well, look at you, talking back to me." Mordren's stare burned hot holes through Owen's skin. He was doing exactly what Rem told him not to do, and now he could feel the god's wrath.

"Come here." Mordren's voice was deep, full of unleashed anger .

Rem removed the chain from his shackles, and Mordren walked around the table until he stood in front of Owen.

This giant of a god peered down at him for the longest moment, but Owen didn't look away. He had looked the other way and hidden from his fears for nearly twenty-three years. He no longer would.

"Pick a tool." Mordren moved aside and gestured at the table of sharp knives and scalpels.

"What for?" Owen asked.

Mordren looked at him as if he'd asked the most foolish question he'd ever heard. "Pick a fucking tool!" he shouted.

Owen flinched, his eyes closing and his heart beating frantically, while his mind screamed for him to run.

Drawing in a breath, Owen opened his eyes and picked up the smallest tool on the table—a scalpel with a blade no longer than the tip of his finger. He offered it to Mordren, and the god took it gently in his hand and turned it over.

"Now give me your arm."

Owen's stomach tightened, and he took a step back. Mordren grabbed Owen's arm and pulled him gently forward. His icy hands pulled up Owen's shirt sleeve, and the god tilted his head to look down at his arm as he pressed along his flesh. Just as Grutwyr had done in the Vale before he'd drank his blood…

Mordren wetted a small cloth with liquid from a tiny vial and wiped Owen's forearm down. "Now, I want you to stay still. This is an art. If I mess up, I'll be angry, and I'll have to kill one of those Wielders. Understand?"

Wielders!

They weren't servants after all, but Core Wielders. Owen let out a breath. He looked up at the man and woman with a sudden fire in his eyes. These were the people who brought children in to be tortured.

Meeting Mordren's red eyes, he nodded and braced himself for the cut. He was surprised to find himself able to take the slice into his flesh more easily than he had expected.

In fact, it pained him so gently, so pleasantly. It sent out such a good feeling to his mind, he let out a sigh.

When the scalpel stopped cutting, Owen looked up to see the dark god looking at him in disbelief. Then Mordren's lips turned up at one corner.

"Do you like this?" Mordren shook his head, and Owen felt the heat rise in his face. "What a madman… What word is it I have heard people say lately?" He glanced at Rem, who stood poised near the door, before he turned back to Owen and said, " Freak ."

Owen had never heard the word before, but it carried a distressing tone. When Mordren continued carving into his skin, this time slicing more deeply, Owen gritted his teeth against the pain and glanced at Rem, whose eyes had softened.

He hated how Rem looked at him.

He hated both of these monsters.

Much to his dismay, Mordren took his other arm and carved into it as well.

"Perfect," Mordren said.

When Owen looked down, his heart raced as he saw the familiar symbols of the Cleansing etched into the skin of his right arm, the patterns made up of his own blood. His skin was on fire, but the symbols of lines, circles, and triangles were perfect. On his left arm were symbols unfamiliar to him, but upon closer inspection, Owen realized he had seen it before, in his father's journal.

The Soul Sacrament !

The symbol resembled mirrored crescent moons with three horn-like designs in the middle. Two lines trailed down from the bottom of the moon, and what looked like the faint blade of a sword was wedged between them.

"What does it mean?" Owen whispered, watching how his blood shimmered in the dim light.

"Step one of preparing you for the ritual is done."

"How many steps are there?" Owen wondered aloud.

Mordren ignored him as he cleaned the scalpel with the liquid and cloth. "Now, you will carve the Soul Sacrament into their skin." He nodded at the man and woman, who looked at him with wide eyes. "You're an artist, after all, just like your father. Aren't you? It'll be like making one of your drawings." He opened Owen's hand and placed the scalpel in his palm.

But Owen wouldn't do it. He wouldn't carve into these people's skin as if they were nothing. Even if they were Core Wielders, he wouldn't stoop to the Legion's level and torture these people.

When Owen hesitated for too long, Mordren gave an irritated laugh and gripped the table. "These are people who took their power from children," he said. "The very people who marked you as cursed , who wanted to kill you. You have a chance to hurt them back. Take the tool, and carve into them," Mordren demanded, his voice dark and steady, but there was an edge in his tone that told Owen he was close to losing control.

Still, Owen's defiance kept him rooted to the floor. He glanced up at these two people, knowing full well that if he complied with Mordren's demands, he was nothing more than a coward.

Finally, Owen laid the scalpel down on the table and stepped back. He didn't meet Mordren's eyes. No, he didn't want anyone hurt, but all the people that Mordren could use against him weren't here. And this god couldn't kill him until the day of the sacrifice; he was safe from death. He would accept Mordren's punishment instead.

Mordren glared at him. The chamber room suddenly trembled, and the torches burst into purple flame. The shadows deepened as the air thickened with a heaviness that made Owen's throat constrict.

Owen's shoulders tensed as he avoided the Wielders' terrified gazes. Then, just as he wondered what Mordren would do to him, a whirling storm of whispers surrounded him, almost brushing against him. He wasn't sure if the others could hear them, or if it was for him alone. "Owen," the voices whispered, echoing in the room and swirling around his mind. "You are worthless."

"You are nothing."

"Your blood reeks of darkness."

"You are a failure."

Owen breathed faster. He would not let these words get to him, it was just noise. Still, he couldn't stop the tremble in his jaw as the words grew deeper and bolder.

"You let your mother die."

"You left your uncle behind."

"You led your friends into destruction."

"You should give up."

"The world will be better without you."

Heat rose to Owen's eyes, and when he blinked, the tears rolled down his face. Looking around the room, he saw Mordren, Rem, and the Wielders staring at him, watching his confusion and panic. No one else was in the room, and he finally realized… these were not the whispers of others speaking to him, but his own voice. He could hear it now, loud and clear, as the words curled around him, suffocating him, squeezing the hope out of him and filling him with dread. He wanted these voices—his voices—to stop.

"Stop," he croaked. "Please… stop." He let out a sob and hung his head. "I hate it…" His breathing picked up, until he felt light-headed.

"What do you hate?" Mordren's voice was right next to his ear.

The whispers continued swirling into a crescendo of hatred and disgust—his own voice—pushing down on him. The weight of all his inner turmoil crushed him, until they all slowly quieted, one by one, until only one voice remained.

"I hate myself," Owen whispered.

When the room went quiet, Owen let out a ragged breath and opened his eyes. His heart slowed back to its rhythm, but when he caught Mordren's sinister stare, it picked back up again.

"Remember, Owen," Mordren said, drawing in close to him. "You are nothing." He grabbed Owen's neck and placed a cold glass vial against his lips, and Owen didn't resist the blood that spilled down his throat. He accepted it, and within seconds, the red haze clouded his vision.

His heart slowed, and he suddenly felt light as air. He felt calmer now, his hatred focused and directed outwardly. He longed to unleash that fury, and as his eyes landed on the woman, he had the urge to inflict pain upon her.

"Now," Mordren said, placing the scalpel back in his hand. "Carve the symbols into their skin. And if they resist, punish them."

Owen dreamed of darkness. Not just of the darkness of sleep, but of the heaviness that blanketed him when Mordren invaded his mind. In his dreams, the god followed him as the shadow man from one corner of his mind to the other, always watching, whispering.

After wandering forever in the thick darkness, Owen came to a house. It was his own home in Emberton, and it was on fire. Purple flames licked up the sides, and his porch was engulfed. Then a hole appeared and swallowed up his home, and all that remained was black smoke. There was no returning to it now.

Owen turned and ran back into the darkness, only to find Amias sitting gray and old in the cell of a dungeon. His eyes looked void of emotion as he stared at nothing. Then his cell door screeched open, and a man holding a noose came inside. Rather than stay and watch how his uncle's fate played out, Owen ran.

People began to appear against the black void he was in. People he had seen before on his journey, from fellow travelers to monks to Gilda and Brom. They all moved and spoke as if he wasn't there, and he watched them all intently, able to pick out important pieces of what they said.

"Some spirits are attracted to more powerful minds."

Owen looked around, searching for Amias's voice as he heard it, but he saw only a blur of people instead.

"I haven't come across an unmarked Astran in a long time."

His heart pounded, but this wasn't real. Was it? It wasn't real, but he had heard Brom's voice, clear as day behind him.

"You're my child now. "

Owen clutched his chest, feeling pain there, and looked up to see Gilda laughing softly as she took a child's hand and walked with him. Tears gathered in his eyes, and he let out a sob as he watched the two of them leave.

"I didn't have rocks to climb when I was a boy. We had stone buildings."

His breath hitched, and when he looked over, he saw a young boy who looked like Colt running barefoot in ragged clothes. The boy held a loaf of bread in his hand as he scaled the wall of a building.

Owen bolted forward, running after him and screaming his name. On the rooftop, he saw Colt jumping over the gap onto another roof. Owen ran after him, but Colt continued running, even after looking back and seeing him. With every roof they jumped, Colt became older, until he looked like the version of himself that Owen knew.

Finally, when a gap was too wide to jump, Owen looked up at him in panic. Colt was just on the other side of him, taking a step toward him as if he knew him.

"Colt," Owen got out.

Colt looked down at the gap before backing up and preparing to jump, but he would never make it.

"No, Colt, you can't. Don't!"

But Colt didn't listen, and he ran and jumped the gap, only to fall into the crevasse of darkness.

"Colt!"

Owen reached after him, but the blackness had swallowed him up, and Colt was gone. Just like the others around him, all of them melting away now. There was no one left to save.

It was just him.

Alone.

When Owen came to, he was drenched in sweat. His tower room was dark, but something dim burned nearby. He glanced over to see a lantern on the floor, and beside it was Rem, sitting against the wall. It all came back to him now as he sat up to stave off a wave of nausea. He'd swallowed Mordren's blood and cut into the Wielders' skin. The memories were fuzzy, as if he'd drunk far too much ale and it was a blur, but there was no doubt that he had. And now everything was rushing back to him. The fort being destroyed, Colt and Brom dead, Rem's offer…

Owen breathed in and out deeply. He was no longer under the spell of the red haze. His throat was parched, his mouth dry, and his heart raced with dread from his nightmare. He felt pain on his arm, and he looked down to see the strange symbols carved on each of his forearms, the blood dried now.

"The Divine Blood will do that sometimes," came Rem's voice as he continued to stare ahead. "It will give you nightmares. At the time, the feeling it grips you with is euphoric, but I have also had those dreams that make me shudder, make me tell myself I do not want the blood again. Until the craving hits."

Rem took a deep breath and sighed heavily. Owen had never seen him look so morose.

"Everything… was gone," Owen said. "I lost everyone."

Rem finally glanced at him, a dark expression on his face. "I once had a family, but I lost them too. They died in a tragic accident."

"You… had a family? "

Rem stared at him coldly. "They were in my way, and I had to dispose of them."

Owen shivered, and a new wave of nausea twisted in his stomach. It never took long for Rem to douse any warmth or pity that Owen might feel.

"A long time ago, when I worked as a Wielder for the Legion, I became fascinated with the Cleansing ritual they used. Extracting Astran power and reanimating dead animals. How remarkable." Rem's eyes thinned. "And then there was the summoning ritual. The more I researched the old scrolls kept locked away deep in Luthien's oldest library, the more I craved to use the ritual myself. To summon a god and have him grant you protection, power… It stirred something in me."

Rem looked past Owen, the lantern light flickering in his eyes. "That night fifteen years ago, I sacrificed my wife and children to summon the dormant one, the harbinger of death, He, my Divine Majesty… Mordren. I vowed to bring him a Shadowborn. In exchange, he protected me."

Owen's heart pounded, his eyes widening as he clutched his blanket. It made sense now why Owen couldn't feel Rem's energy. If a person's connection was cut off from Owen once they died, he could no longer sense them. If Rem had sold his soul, it was as if he was essentially dead already.

Rem got to his feet and made his way to the cot, where Owen froze, unable to move as he approached. "When Thomas sought my help in guiding you along the Silent Road, he told me Amias was the one requesting our help. You see, I was once good friends with your uncle, though our friendship dissolved as our interests… diverged. He had told me in confidence that his sister, Emilia, had loved the Shadowborn who had been killed by the Legion. When Thomas said you were Amias's nephew, I knew I may have finally found the Shadowborn I needed. Your purple fire confirmed it. I didn't even need Kingsland to enact the Cleansing on you. You did me a service by disposing of him, though I admit I enjoyed his company." He looked at Owen hungrily. "And when I found out you were the same young man I had met at the brothel, I couldn't shake my lust."

As Rem leaned down, Owen drew away in disgust.

"What is your answer to me, Owen?" Rem whispered, staring at him, his breath inches away from his face. "Do you accept my offer?"

After enduring a lifetime of loss, there was nothing left for Owen to lose. He could try and kill himself instead to ensure Mordren didn't open the portal at all, but then that would leave the people of Luthien defenseless against him. This was the only way to kill Mordren and ensure the survival of the people of Luthien.

Finally, Owen met Rem's dark eyes, took a deep breath, and said, "I accept your offer."