Chapter 31

The Well

Mags cautiously approached the archway that marked the entrance to Bijel Garden’s sacred grounds. The distant voices of the priestesses still hung in the air, delicate and haunting, their hymn a faint melody carried on the ocean breeze. The path ahead twisted into the trees, vanishing into the thick foliage. She hadn’t seen anyone else around, be it Lady Celestine or one of her blindfolded priestesses—the coast was clear. There was only the silence of the sacred grounds that lay in the distance, and the pull of her own curiosity.

Just as she moved under the stone archway, a rustle to her left snapped her out of her thoughts. She whirled around.

Scarmiglione stepped out from behind the archway’s shadow, his short, broad-shouldered frame moving with a fluid grace that shouldn’t have been possible. A plummy giggle echoed from behind the two-sided mask. The smooth, polished, porcelain mask, betrayed nothing, save for the faint glint in his eyes behind the narrow slit that made for an eye on its white side.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice carrying a playful lilt. “And what was our little wanderer planning on doing, hm?” He ran a gloved finger over the stone of the archway and inspected it, as if searching for dust and grime.

Mags’ pulse quickened, caught off guard, but she masked it with a quick tilt of her chin. She wasn’t about to let him know she had nearly jumped out of her skin. This guy gives me the creeps.

“What are you doing here?” she shot back, folding her arms across her chest, avoiding the question entirely. She wasn’t about to tell him she was sneaking after the priestesses, curious to see what they got up to in the restricted portion of the temple’s grounds.

Scarmiglione let out a low chuckle, the sound muffled beneath his mask. “Oh, me?” He leaned casually against the archway, the black fabric of his cloak shifting like spilled ink. “I was planning on doing a bit of snooping myself, naturally. You see, I’ve always been curious about what those lovely, blindfolded ladies get up to over there.”

“You don’t know?” she asked.

“Alas, no. I do hope they’re performing dark blood magic rituals! Invoking ancient and forbidden rites. Or, perhaps summoning a feral god, bound to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting world. You know, the usual shrine maiden activities.”

He sighed dramatically, as though this was all routine.

Mags raised an eyebrow, half-expecting him to burst into laughter, but he remained completely serious—or as serious as one could be while spinning such bizarre tales.

“A feral god?” Mags asked, incredulous. She couldn’t help herself.

“Oh, yes,” Scarmiglione said, waving a gloved hand dismissively. “I’ve heard of it happening before. A man’s cat accidentally summoned one, long ago. Quite the disaster, really. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Er . . . Right . . .” Mags was thinking it would be best to turn around and avoid any further interactions with the Ghost Hound’s doctor. There’s a reason he’s been thrown off a flying airship at least once, she silently added.

Scarmiglione tapped his chin, as though in deep thought. “Yes, yes . . . Perhaps a mass human sacrifice. A lot of souls gathered in one place, all passing into the Aethereal Sea at once. Something with flair!” He sighed again, shoulders drooping dramatically. “Unfortunately, it seems I’ve been beaten to the punch.” He gave her a mock bow, sweeping his hand before him. “You’re the snoop now, and it’s taken all the fun out of it for me. I only enjoy causing trouble when I can do it alone. Religious types are so easy to irritate.”

Mags blinked. She hadn’t expected that. “Wait—so you’re just going to leave?”

Scarmiglione straightened, stretching his arms above his head, the cloak rippling around him. “Indeed, little wanderer. You’ve ruined my grand plan with your preemptive curiosity.” He spun on his heel and made to leave before pausing. The mask glanced over his shoulder. He spoke, the voice shifting to a rasping growl. “Just remember, curiosity butchered and devoured the cat. As they say.” Then, he continued on his way, whistling as he strolled back down the path. Mags thought the tune oddly resembled the hymn the priestesses had been singing earlier.

She stared after him for a moment, completely thrown. Then, as the melody faded into the distance, Mags shook her head, trying to dispel the confusion.

With renewed determination, Mags turned back to the trail, her slippers crunching softly against the gravel as she continued her journey into the unknown.

image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]

Mags trudged deeper into the woods, the hymn of the priestesses now a faint echo. The further she walked, the more untamed the trail became. Roots of the towering Sanguine Trees clawed their way through the earth, breaking up the once-clear path. Crimson leaves rustled in the canopy above, casting a warm, otherworldly glow over the trail. Several paths diverged before her, splitting and winding in directions unknown.

She frowned, pausing to consider her options. How do the blindfolded priestesses navigate this maze? she wondered. Then she remembered how she could complete the Daedalus Orb while similarly blindfolded. Their voices had grown too faint now to guide her, and the wind carried the hymn in fragmented verses, too scattered to follow.

Still, she pressed on, choosing the most trodden of the paths ahead. The trail eventually opened into a clearing, and Mags stepped through, her breath catching at the sight before her.

The floor of the clearing was a mosaic of interlocking river stones, each smoothed and worn by time. They were large and flat, their grey surfaces broken up only by the occasional sprout of deep-red plants growing from the cracks between them. Flowers bloomed here, vibrant and rich as blood, their petals striking against the pale stones. The Sanguine Trees loomed at the clearing’s edges, but it was the center that drew Mags’ attention.

There, rising perhaps a foot off the ground, was a circular stone lip. A well—or something resembling a well. The hole it surrounded was wide, easily ten feet across, and when Mags approached it, she felt a chill creep up her spine.

She leaned over the edge, peering down into the depths. The walls inside the well were covered in vines, their tangled tendrils sprouting the same red flowers she had seen throughout the clearing. But no matter how hard she squinted, she couldn’t make out the bottom. Darkness swallowed the shaft, stretching endlessly downward.

Mags’ heart quickened. Something about this place felt . . . wrong. She couldn’t explain it.

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Her eyes traced the vines twisting along the well’s walls. As she watched, something shifted—so subtly at first that she thought it was a trick of her mind. The stone seemed to melt, the vines creeping and reshaping. Her breath caught in her throat as shapes began to form, woven from the red and green of the flora.

Eyes.

Hundreds of them.

They blinked into existence, some as large as her palm, others grotesquely larger. They twisted and turned, shifting in impossible directions as though they were taking in the world around them. Mags’ mouth went dry. The eyes—those hundreds of eyes—weren’t just looking around.

They were searching.

And then, as if by some terrible instinct, they found her.

Whoosh! A cold rush of air swept past her, pulling at her clothes and hair. Mags staggered, the ground shifting beneath her feet. She couldn’t hear anything but the rush of that dark air. Her gaze locked on the eyes within the well, and suddenly, her vision was filled with images—visions so vivid they tore through her mind with the force of a storm.

A grand palace, gleaming under the sun, floating impossibly on an island high above the clouds. A beam of light pierced the skies behind it, splitting the heavens apart. In the distance, across the land below, the sky itself seemed to shatter, ripping wide to reveal darkness beyond.

From that darkness, they came.

Angels—hundreds of them—descended upon the world. They were twisted, terrible forms, their wings, tentacles and other distorted traits mangled and bent, their bodies shifting as though defying comprehension. They bent the mind, each form worse than the last, and with their arrival came death.

Cities burned. Towns crumbled. Thousands screamed in terror as those horrific Angels unleashed their destruction. Entire swaths of the land fell silent in a single moment, their cries snuffed out. And above it all, in the skies now filled with monstrosities, the heavens bent and twisted, cracking like a mirror under unimaginable strain. Something in her chest thrummed in response to the vision—seeking, reaching out with desire.

Mags gasped, her breath stolen by the vision. The cold air pulled harder now, dragging at her, yanking her toward the well. Her feet skidded against the stones as she tried to keep her balance, but the force was overwhelming. She couldn’t look away—the eyes were upon her, watching, as if they knew her, as if they were peering into her very soul.

Then, in an instant, the visions ceased. The rush of cold air vanished, and the world snapped back into focus.

Mags blinked, disoriented. The clearing was still. She found herself staring at the sky, the sound of birdsong and distant insects filling her ears once again—oddly quiet in the absence of that rushing air. She had fallen, her body sprawled across the stones at the edge of the well. Her hands trembled as she pushed herself up to a sitting position, her pulse hammering in her chest.

She glanced back toward the well, half-expecting the eyes to still be watching her, but the stone walls were once again solid, the vines unmoving.

The vivid horror of the vision lingered in her mind. A shadow clinging to her consciousness. Blind be! What in gods’ name was that? Something in the back of her mind prickled with dread, telling her that it had been no simple trick of the forest. Thoughts of a day, long, long ago threatened her, but she quickly pushed them back down.

Mags sat there, breathing heavily, her skin damp with cold sweat. For a long moment, she couldn’t bring herself to stand, the weight of the images crushing her.

image [https://i.imgur.com/7P7JEZo.png]

Mags heard it before she saw it—the soft, almost imperceptible scrape of claws on stone to her right. Instinctively, her head snapped in the direction of the sound, heart hammering. There, standing just at the edge of the clearing, was the Archon of Darkness.

It wasn’t a wolf—not exactly. Its shape was lupine, but not bound by flesh and bone. The creature was massive, its shoulders easily over three feet tall. Its form was constructed of something far more elusive than skin, fur, or muscle. It seemed to be made of living shadow, an inky, liquid-like substance that shifted and roiled, as if animated by some internal current. Tendrils of the dark matter would occasionally drift away from its body like a tongue of black flame, hanging weightless in the air before being pulled back, absorbed once more into the swirling void of its form.

But what truly unsettled Mags were its eyes. Two orbs of light, like distant stars, hovered within the murky darkness of its face. Not much unlike a Maldrath, she thought. They were not eyes in the traditional sense—no pupils, no whites—but their gaze was unmistakable. Cold. Ancient. Focused entirely on her.

Mags swallowed hard, instinctively pushing herself up to her feet. Her legs wobbled as she rose, but she forced herself to stand straight, squaring her shoulders despite the fear clawing its way up her spine. She had seen terrifying things in her life—hell, she had fought them. But this was something different. This was a being older than anything she had encountered before, something beyond her understanding. The air hummed with its power and something deep within her vibrated in response. The desire to channel aether and touch the source of her power clawed at the inside of her stomach.

“What do you want with me?” she asked, her voice strained but steady. She clenched her fists, readying herself for whatever came next.

The Archon tilted its head slightly, the tendrils of shadow undulating as it studied her. When it spoke, its voice was deep baritone, masculine sounding, but it carried with it a strange reverberation that seemed to echo in her bones.

“Angel,” it said, the word coming out as both accusation and title.

Mags blinked, momentarily thrown off. Angel?

“Half-Angel . . . You are an abomination,” the Archon continued, its tone as cold as the void it was made from. “A danger to the delicate balance that has existed since the Heresy of Man.”

Mags’ throat went dry. Her mind raced. Heresy of Man? What in Weles’ name was this thing talking about?

The Archon’s eyes—or stars, whatever they were—flickered with a dangerous glint. Mags’ muscles tensed, her body preparing for a fight. If this thing came at her, she’d give it hell before it could kill her.

The Archon, as if sensing her thoughts, let out a low, rumbling sound. “Fear not,” it said. “I will not—cannot—harm you.”

Mags narrowed her eyes. “Why not?” she asked, her voice laced with suspicion.

The Archon’s gaze lingered on her for a moment before it spoke again. “Not while you are under Her protection.”

Her? Mags’ mind immediately flashed to Celestine—the Shrine Maiden, and all her cryptic talk of Fate and the divine.

The Archon stepped closer, the darkness of its body swirling with a restless energy. “How was it discovered?” it asked, its voice lowering to a near growl. “I wonder. The womb of evil . . . how did they find it?”

Mags’ confusion deepened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her voice edged with frustration. Was it trying to make sense of her or accuse her of something? Either way, her patience was wearing thin. The familiar spark of defiance rose in her chest. She wasn’t sure what was going on, but damned if she’d let some shadow-wolf spout riddles at her. Am I really going to have to punch the Archon of Darkness?

For a split second, the thought of having to punch this thing—demigod, or whatever it was—flashed through her mind.

Then, the snap of a twig behind her.

Mags whipped her head around, her heart lurching in her chest. There, emerging from the dense woods, was Calcabrina, her eyes wide with a mixture of concern and exasperation.

“Mags!” Calcabrina hissed, her voice sharp but low. “What in the hells are you doing here?”

Mags blinked, her brain still catching up. “I—” She turned back toward the Archon, but her breath caught in her throat. The creature was gone. Vanished. As if it had never been there at all.

“Damn it,” Mags muttered under her breath. How could she have taken her eyes off it? She felt foolish at the amateur mistake.

Calcabrina grabbed her arm, tugging her toward the edge of the clearing. “Come on,” she whispered urgently. “We shouldn’t be here. I thought I saw you heading this way. Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ll be in if we get caught?”

Mags shook her head, still dazed. “Calcabrina, I saw something. It was—”

“No time for that now,” Calcabrina interrupted, her gaze darting nervously to the surrounding trees. “We need to go. I know the fastest way back to the towers.”

Before Mags could respond, another voice echoed through the clearing. A woman’s voice.

“You! You are not permitted here.”

The sound was cold, commanding. Both girls turned to see a group of seven priestesses stepping through the trees, their blindfolded faces turned toward them. Despite the fact that they could not see, they moved with eerie precision, their pale hands raised as if sensing the air around them. No, Mags corrected. They’re raised as threats. Their white robes glowed faintly in the light of the clearing, like phantoms emerging from the red-tinted shadows of the Sanguine Trees.

Mags’ heart sank. They were surrounded.

Calcabrina’s grip on her arm tightened.

The priestesses closed in, their presence as suffocating as the darkness that had surrounded the Archon.