Braze
There was no frustration in the resistance. The boy was learned in something similar to the Anchored phlegmatic resistance —impressive but terribly surprising. Kaelith felt the defiance and let it pass through him like a blade through shadow. He did not strain against it, nor double down. He let the momentum die, and the boy come to him.
Good. Come closer.
Inside of Kaelith, his blood stirred -
Cholerkin natural emotional feedback resonated with the
Sanguinite and
Cholerite that he had absorbed via blood-etched markings over his lifespan. The resulting
focused rage and
Convection would kill any of the other kin, or a lesser Cholerkin. But not Kaelith. He burned from within, both through the force and in temperature, his skin looking less like red etched ashes and more like molten magma over hardened igneous rock. Overwhelming fury was tightly contained, pressurized but well secured to prevent from bursting—that was what separated Kaelith from lesser Cholerkin. Restraint, of all things.
The strike that followed from the echani redirected with clean, practiced technique did not unsettle Kaelith in the slightest. It struck true, yes, but it might as well have struck bedrock. He was not Echani nor Matukai. He was Cholerkin. When others moved with grace and precision, he moved with inevitability.
Such was his birthright and his duty. This was more than a simple quarrel - with the publicity of both his people, the other kin, and the Sky-Sent, this was his chance to preserve his people. The Concordians met with the leaders, diplomats, as they always did. They were never in danger. The Solarborn didn't bother to have their delegate present, some prophetic vision leading Ophelia to meet a separate sky-sent separately. The Wyrdkin already drew the eyes of foreigners and even the Mireborn had shown kindness to one of the offworlder's children.
The Cholerkin... they were already disliked from their forebears—Kaelith had risked his life, lost many of his chosen clan in defection and assisting in Isidoro's regicide. Yet still they were feared and hated. No longer openly, but in the whispers of political circles and common gatherings alike. Outcast in all but de jure law.
And now that new heavens graced the skies, already they were at risk of being consigned to irrelevancy, a footnote at the end of Ulfang's wicked rule.
This saddened Kaelith. And fed his rage. The echani boy could use a lesson, yes, but he was not the target of his hate. The fury that stirred him was of himself, for leading his people to their death, of Ulfang, for despoiling the land and tarnishing the Cholerkin's honor. Isidoro, for performing the most despicable of sins even for good cause. The rest of Condoriah, who condemned those who remained because of the sins of their fathers. And, lastly to the tower and the galaxy in which they found themselves, for giving him and his kin a brief flicker of hope before indicating it would repeat the same patterns again.
Fury burned within Kaelith - he would not let the cycle continue. From his crimson etchings, his superheated blood rose to the surface, literally boiling despite the healing factor of the Sanguinite content.
Yes, the counter did land cleanly—Braze had earned that much. But Kaelith did not recoil. His form collapsed from the impact and reformed in one motion, ejecting a spray of burning blood like magma forced through cracks in obsidian. He caught Braze’s redirecting hand, letting his own body twist inward with practiced brutality.
He was too close to boiling over now, but he could not fail his people. His people could not keep up with gifts of hospitality, of wyrd beauty, prophecies or diplomatic information. But they had at least one thing they could offer—and it could not be shared in kindness.
An Elbow—low, vicious, aimed Braze’s hip joint for Blunt trauma as a disruptor to footwork and follow-up. Whether it hit true was beside of little consequence.
Then came the real weapon.
The Force pulsed within him with pure heat. Controlled. Focused. Skin darkened to a molten hue at the knuckles and forearm as the Convection intensified. His next palm strike was not wide or sweeping—it was tight and measured, angled for Braze’s clavicle. To brand. To teach. To demonstrate.
Despite the inner inferno, Kaelith’s outer expression never changed.
"You are fast,” he said coldly.
“mind you don't burn yourself out.”
Reina Daival
Matthew of Valendale
Laphisto
Iandre Athlea
