This had to work.

The Exarch had spent years in pursuit of this moment: researching, theorizing, testing. The preparations were exhaustive. Ensuring perfect attunement to the Crystal Tower was no less an ordeal than changing the course of a river; every time he channeled that ancient magic, he could feel it thrumming through every fiber of him, threatening to shake him apart. And the arcana had to be exact. The thought of summoning only some part of the Warrior of Light sent a shudder through him, when he lay awake at night thinking of all the ways this could go wrong.

But it couldn’t go wrong. The fate of two worlds was pinned on this moment, ticking closer with every breath. There were no alternatives left to him-- and he’d had decades to consider the question, imagining and discarding possible solutions.

Suffice to say the Warrior of Light, in all her begrudging glory, was not his first choice.

But she would have to do. He fully expected her to refuse-- to demand he return her, perhaps with some colorful threat of what she would do to him if he didn’t. This was just another contingency to consider, and he’d spent years crafting a hundred excuses and pretexts and ploys to convince her to stay. That was perhaps more of a trick than summoning her across the rift at all.

After all this time, he simply hadn’t been able to come up with a satisfying alternative. The Lightwardens had to be defeated in order to eradicate the sin eaters, if the dominion of Light over the First was ever to wane. None but she possessed the ability to survive the Light’s hunger as it escaped a dying Warden-- and even in her case, he couldn’t be completely sure. Not even a sacrifice would do; gods knew, if the answer were so simple as throwing himself upon the pyre, he would be naught but ash already.

No, the rapacious Light precluded all alternatives, save one.

And thus did he come to this moment: tracing the shapes of the arcana in his mind’s eye, eyes following the invisible lines over the crackled crystal floor of his study. Conjuring the image of her face in his mind was the easiest part, even with more than a century separating him from his last glimpse of her.

The Exarch let out a shaky breath, tightening his fingers around the metal of his staff, now warm with the heat and sweat of his palm. He stretched out his arm so that the staff was level, closed his eyes, and let the energy of the Tower surge through him, as forceful and invisible as a gale. The spell coursed through the rune inscribed in his mind, humming louder and louder, until he could almost hear it, and then--

Something… happened. For a moment, he thought it worked.

Quiet fell. The sizzling energy dissolved into calm. His heart sank.

Whatever had transpired, the room remained as empty as it had started. No wayward savior stood before him.

A voice interrupted the anti-climax: “Ohhh, so that’s how she--”

Not empty enough, it seemed.

The Exarch’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t deign to glance over his shoulder, however much he would like to shoot the Ascian his most withering glare. The sigh that hissed out his nose was as quiet as he could manage.

Of course, it was too much to ask that he could contend with such a catastrophic disappointment in private.

“Emet-Selch,” he said lightly. He managed to affect the surprise of someone unexpectedly gifted flowers, and not the silent urge to strangle someone. “What do you mean by that?”

“What? Oh, nothing. Just thinking aloud.” The Ascian’s drawl was calculatedly irritating. The Exarch could imagine him, slouching aimlessly across the room, as if perfectly at home. “I hope I haven’t ruined your concentration.”

“Hardly.” The Exarch lowered his staff, letting the end of it clunk against the crystal. His teeth ground together; whatever his pretensions of civility, Emet-Selch wasn’t about to volunteer whatever morsel of information he was teasing, whether or not the Exarch asked.

On a normal day, he would assume the comment was a feint. In the unlucky few years he had been acquainted with the Ascian, he had become well-versed in his enemy’s penchant for mind games. At least there would have been some comfort in that, the knowledge that the bait he refused to take was only another move in the game the two of them were locked in.

Regrettably, this time, the Exarch knew better. The note of blasé boredom had dropped from the Ascian’s voice, replaced with genuine interest. The palpable curiosity sent a chill through him. What had caught Emet-Selch’s attention?

The Exarch was barely able to sieve the bitterness from his tone, and a bit of it managed to escape. “Come to give me advice on my spellwork? I confess, it hadn’t occurred to me to consult your expertise.”

“Oh, no no no, not at all. I’d say you’ve done a wonderful job.” Amusement crawled through his words, like worms feasting. “By all means, don’t let me unnerve you. I didn’t realize you so disliked an audience.”

“Your concern is appreciated, Ascian,” the Exarch replied, coolly. “But unwarranted. Is there aught you require? Otherwise, I must ask you to leave.”

“My, my. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I hit a nerve.”

The Exarch didn’t reply. He turned to his desk on the edge of the room, selecting a random tome and flipping it open, as if he had the vaguest idea where to begin searching for what had gone wrong.

Emet-Selch strolled back towards the door he’d entered through with one shoulder drooping, like a macabre marionette whose strings had gone loose. It was all too easy to envision the Ascian, incorporeal, puppeteering this shambling corpse. It was a particularly harsh assessment, but he was not feeling particularly charitable at this moment.

Before his tormentor drifted back out, he glanced over his shoulder for a parting blow: “Don’t worry. You’re a clever one, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Eventually.”

The door swung shut, heavy as a tomb’s. The Exarch was left alone with his failure and frustration.

Once he was satisfied the Ascian was truly gone, he collapsed at his desk, let his face drop into the open, answerless pages, and swore.