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Lore
Apostate's Blade Mask
There is a knife for you.
To be Taken is to yield. Sloane hears it still, that refrain that haunted her in Titan's depths. Take. Live. And quieter, behind it, something that stirs. A whispered offer. There is a knife…
That part is newer, and it troubles Sloane. Her bond with Ahsa insulates, protects. There can be no claim on her by force. But that says nothing of Sloane's own will. No material yet exists that cannot be worn down, in time. Oceans, whether methane or water, break rock into sand.
Any yielding is akin to ceding entirely.
Sloane cordons off any sense of that nagging offer. She will have no risk of slipping. She will know, perfectly, where she ends, where the Taken begins. There is no room for doubt.
She thinks, in her meditation, of Eris. Eris who went down into the Pit. Eris who came back changed. Eris, Hive enough to stand as God of Vengeance. Does Eris have such a delineation? Does Eris say, here is the Hive, and here is Eris Morn, and never the two shall meet?
No. She cannot. Or that new Hive god, made chitinous from her flesh, would have been someone else.
Sloane imagines: what if she did the same? If she took into her hands a grievous knife and said, Sloane is the one who holds the knife—Sloane is the knife. She is sharp; sharper and alight with the sterile flame of the Taken—
It is not the same. Sloane knows it heart-deep, bone-deep. She cannot put that knife down once she has taken it up. Not like Eris and the Hive. What is Taken is not given back.
No. They cannot be the same.
