The icy grip of fear wrenched Havoc’s heart. Firmly, it tugged at his resolve, squeezing his determination, draining him of the will to go on. Stood before the narrow tunnel adjoining the fantastical region of the Marshland Cavern and the all too real nightmare of The White Temptress’ abode, his hands trembled.

Repeating the scene over and again, even in his imaginings he could not slay the serpentine abomination. He had pictured their clash. In his mind, the tip of his spear would thrust towards the fiend but then he’d pause. It was only for a moment, never longer than a second a two, but it was enough. More than enough. The seductive serpent would envelop him from head to toe and squeeze until nothing resembling a human remained.

The more his thoughts lingered on the creature, the more insurmountable she became. But there was no other way. As harrowing as she was, of the three horrors guarding the three paths to The Abominable Spirit, she was the only one he could even hope to overcome. He knew that. Deep within where rationality still held sway, he was certain of it… Yet it was unthinkable.

Its her charm… The thought crashed into the palpable barrier constricting his cognition. A most welcome intrusion, it left a crack sufficient for reason to creep through.

‘An overgrown snake with dominion over the mind…’ He mused. It made sense she could slither inside and inject her venom within. He had yet to challenge his foe but she had already landed the first blow.

As the full realisation of the abomination’s manipulation settled, her image flashed before his eyes. Mouth wide, needle-like teeth bared, and scowling; she radiated fury. A noise carried from the beyond the tunnel. Shrill and unpleasant, the abomination shrieked a shriek echoing every decibel of enmity visible to his mind’s eye.

The spell was broken; the imposition of hopelessness lifted. His thoughts were his own again. The abomination was not pleased. From the end of the tunnel, the cries of incense intensified. Raucous shuffling swept the air and a piercing screech akin to nails scraping a chalkboard mingled with the sounds, coalescing into a cacophony of outrage. Then all at once, there was silence.

‘Clever boy,’ the voice in his head was like a shower of whispers. Omnipresent, yet dispersed. Inhuman, yet distinctly feminine. Foreign to the confines of imagination, it was a pit-a-pat of understanding. Impelled not spoken. Deciphered by instinct alone was her voice.

‘Oh so very clever,’ the disembodied whispers continued. ‘I would have enjoyed twisting your terror into worship. It would have satiated my hunger for weeks. Alas, come inside. I’ll make do with your flesh and bones. A morsel, for sure, but I’ll make do.’ The image of the serpent assailed his mind. Wrapped within her alabaster tail, he was helpless as her pale face lowered to his, her forked tongue tasted the sweat of his brow, and her razor teeth sank into his neck.

Shaking his head, he dispelled the projection and cast one of his own. An image of The Buried Strike thrust into the creature’s mouth cutting through to the back of her head.

With renewed fury the Temptress screamed.

‘That is how you see me?’ Her voice like a tempest thundered in his head. ‘As if I'm a monster to be slain! I am a queen!’ Surrounded by a horde, he could see her. Looking down from above yet somehow part of the throng and part of her, he witnessed countless thousands lower themselves in veneration to she who inspired their awe.

In mesmerising patterns of radiant colour, scales adorned her lower half. They shone with purifying light. Whether a vision, a memory, or a dream, beneath her incandescence, he was enraptured. Carrying a peace surpassing mortal understanding, he bathed in her glow as it washed the weight of his strife from his soul.

From her torso rising was the form of a woman. Her skin, lilac, without blemish or flaw. Clothed in nobility, there was no immodesty in her nakedness. Transcendent of lust, her beauty stoked pious admiration. No eye was without tears; no face disguised joy. Forbidden was grief before her splendour.

‘Look upon my majesty!’ He could not describe it. No rendition of The Temptress’ psychic communication would ever accurately portray its otherworldliness, but there was a strain to the disseminated murmurings of her voice which had not been there before.

Darkness clouded the visionary sky and it began to rain. Drenched in scarlet precipitation, the rainbow scales cracked and shed from the angelic serpent. A piercing cry broke from her lips as the surrounding multitudes contorted around her. Their bones shattered and reformed. They were not human to begin with, but they had been no less wondrously knit. The grotesquerie of their deformation defiled the senses. Feathers decayed and fell. In their place sprouted fangs. Paw, claw, and hand contorted into all manner of foul appendages. From above he could see, from within he could feel, the arch-profanity of their transformation.

No less stark than the mutilation of her subjects, from the bleeding sky, in the fullness of her provocative horror, The White Temptress was born.

The world fractured and broke, and Havoc was returned to the Marshland Cavern. Eerie and unnatural as it was, from beyond the tunnel he heard the sounds of weeping.

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‘Curses to you who would claim divinity! Never shall you have that which which was taken from me!’ Whispers no more, The Temptress’ voice descended like a swarm.

‘Never shall you have!

‘Never shall you have!

‘Never shall you have!’

The swarm retreated. Stillness returned to Havoc’s consciousness yet he was shaken. A cold sweat drenched his back and strength fled from his legs.

‘What… what did I just see?’ He muttered. Having readied himself for a for a battle of blade and claw, he was utterly unprepared for what it meant to face an Abomination. He had expected a more powerful dungeon-spawn. Terrible, cruel, but devoid of reason. Certainly The Temptress was the former, but she was a being of true intellect. Warped, without question, but recognisably sentient. More so than that, he pitied her. Dread, he had planned for; but for empathy, he could not account.

Like him, she was robbed of all she loved. Like him, she carried the burden of her loss. Against her will did she fall to corruption. She was doubtless a monster but she had not chosen to be so.

He did not want to kill her…

So lost was he in his thoughts, only faintly did he hear soft beat of wings from behind. He did not register its significance until moments before the many-eyed owl landed on his shoulder. Protected by the fabric of The Cloak of Mirrors, he did not feel the sting of the owl’s talons. But the return of the raptor, wings wide, eyes glowing between its feathers, penetrated the thickening fog of his indecision.

The ground would not remain still. It shifted, swayed, and wobbled. The rocky walls around him cracked. Stone by stone, they tumbled, revealing a white and empty void. All the world was spinning and falling away. All which remained was the owl. No longer affixed to his shoulder, it hovered in the emptiness; Its wings expanding outwards in every direction. Within seconds, it was the world. Its feathers, the sky; its many eyes in place of the stars and planets of which Havoc had only seen in paintings. Its great beak was an inverted mountain. Tall and wide, It opened. Discombobulation robbed him of the instinct to raise his arms in his defence as the great beak descended from above and swallowed him whole. Inside, there was only darkness.

***

‘You’ve gotten stronger,’ sat across from Havoc, Annalise’s ruby lips curved to a smile. ‘Once you’ve done away with that tiresome snake and dreadful spirit, you’ll certainly reach the third step. Who knows, when we leave this awful place, you may even ascend in rank.’

Caught in the turbulence of his reeling senses, a staggered nod of his head was all he could do to acknowledge Anne’s words.

‘I can be absent-minded sometimes. Please, have some tea. It’ll help with the disorientation,’ with a wave of her hand, a crystal tea-set appeared on the table. Annalise stood from her chair, walked to Havoc’s side, and poured a fragrant amber liquid into his cup. ‘It’s the finest I can recall. I hope it’s to your liking.’

With unsteady hands, Havoc lifted the beverage to his lips. As the delicate, floral liquid danced across his tongue, his surroundings slowed and settled. His head still ached and heart still pounded, but against the ambrosia warming his stomach, they too began to recede. No longer struggling against the spin of the world, he recognised his surroundings instantly. He was within The Fair Lady’s Tea Pot. The tearoom was just as he remembered it—extravagant. Light from the crystal chandeliers waltzed across the room. The white marble floor was pristine; the arched pillars were as lofty as memory served. Scantly had he witnessed such intemperance; the few displays of such affluence, he would not fail to recognise.

‘Better?’ Annalise asked.

Scowling his reply, Annalise glanced to her left and her right as if to ask, “Who, me?”

‘You sent me on a suicide mission!’ Unable to keep his frothing resentment spilling from his voice, he shouted the last words.

‘Oh, it’s not as bad as all that. You’re still alive, aren’t you? And look at how much you’ve grown,’ dismissive was her tone. It was as though she were consoling a child embarrassed in front of his schoolboy infatuation. Not a young man she had manipulated into mortal peril.

‘Not as bad as all that…’ Havoc mumbled. ‘Not as bad as all that?’ He said louder. ‘Not as bad as all that!’ He shouted across the table. ‘I’ve been slashed, stabbed, swallowed, and have had every bone in my body pulverised, but it’s not as bad as all that!’

‘I saw. You’ve had quite the little adventure.’ Annalise said, compelling Havoc’s grip to his raven-black hair. Sliding his hands to cover his face, he breathed slowly into his palm.

‘What do you want?’ He asked, all passion depleted.

‘I don’t want anything, Havoc. I just thought you could use a little help, that’s all,’her smile was radiant. It chilled Havoc’s blood.

She was still too great the mystery for Havoc to contend. He could not guess at her motives. However, of the little he knew about his patron and puppet master, she did not lend her aid without price. He did not want to pay… Silence lingered as he clenched and unclenched his fist. Taking captive his unauthorised thoughts, he slowed his breathing and straightened himself on his chair.

Whether I like it or not, I do need her help… He did not trust Anna. He did not believe her benevolence, but he did need her assistance…

As if interpreting his silence as an invitation, Annalise continued.

‘Given the circumstances of our last meeting, I can understand that you might have some…’ Pausing, Annalise pouted and began to tap her upper lip. ‘Lets just say some apprehension about accepting my help,’ Annalise lowered her eyes. It was just for a moment that she seemed almost conflicted. Softly, she sighed and lifted her sight. Gone were any signs of misgivings.

‘Believe me, in your position, I would feel the same. But Havoc, I’m not in your position, I’m in mine. And that position is slowly sinking into this cave to be digested, both body and soul, by the Abomination that lays at the bottom. I need you to save me,’ stabbing her gaze into Havoc’s, her mask of joviality slipped from her face. There was no warmth in her glacial eyes and no softness in her expression. Cold and unforgiving. For the first time he could see her clearly.

‘I need you to save me, Havoc. And you’re running out of time.’