Hollow agony wormed through Naereah’s veins. She felt the Abominable Spirit’s infestation burrowing deeper, coiling around her bones and organs with parasitic vines. It spread through her like a plague, each squirm sharpening her dull, throbbing anguish into a piercing torment. Soft moans and pained whimpers broke from her lips as she glanced down from the domed ceiling of the Abominable Spirit’s chamber, her tender flesh stitched into the rough stone above. The pull of the crude threads tore at her skin, suspending her like a twisted marionette. Blood trickled down in slow, glistening streams, painting the stone wall beneath her in streaks of red. Every movement sent fresh waves of torment rippling through her, and still the parasitic vines writhed, digging deeper into her body as though eager to claim her entirely.
To the left of the ceiling, Aaron hung suspended within stone. To the right, Lucia hung with her head slumped forward, blood trailing the strands of her dangling hair. Completing the skyward cross, Annalise lay buried deep within the rock, her swollen, vein-bulged face breaking free from the surface as though the stone itself sought to devour her. An unholy tribute to the Abominable Spirit’s power, they were twisted into a tableau of suffering. Or they would have been, if the others still conscious to experience her pain.
When Annalise broke into their minds, offering the group the reprieve of sleep, only Naereah had declined. She wanted to be awake—alert—a witness to everything, even if it meant enduring every moment of torment.
She had told herself it was so Havoc would not struggle alone. Even if he could not see her, she was there, her soul crying out encouragements unheard. But that was only half-true. She wanted to witness her hero. He had saved her before, she had no doubts he would do so again. Yet no matter how she tried to convince herself otherwise, she knew the truth; she was punishing herself.
In all the time they had travelled together, Ugly had only ever treated her with unveiled contempt. Demeaning, patronising, and rude, he had made no effort to hide his disdain for her. If their positions had been reversed, and it was she who had used her blood to activate the City’s defences—offering her very life as payment—he would have left her behind to rot without hesitation or remorse. Of that, she was certain.
There was nothing to feel guilty about…
Nothing! she thought, unable to convince herself, even as the tangled vines twisted inside her, breaking loose another pitiable whimper from her dry, quivering lips.
The die had been cast, and Ugly’s number was up. She would have preferred it had been Aaron or Lucia abandoned within the City of Monsters, but Ugly was destined to fall within the Dungeon-Cell. Did it really matter where his end came? The end would have come all the same—whether by the Spirit’s claws or the Cell’s endless horrors. Other than Annalise, the seer, only Havoc and herself were fated to awaken from this nightmare.
With staggered breaths, she sucked air past her crusted lips, gazing below as the colossal entrance to the Abominable Spirit’s chamber sliced open. Just ahead of the door, the air began to shimmer, stone feet forming within the blur. Inching its way into being, legs emerged from the feet, growing upward until the statue was fully formed. Back straight, shield high, the Stone Guardsman—Havoc’s Remnant—stood tall.
He’s here…she thought, blood slipping down her lips as the Spirit’s vines tightened against her pounding heart.
Time had blurred since their escape from the city, marked not in minutes but in the trickling drain of her failing strength. In one moment, she had stepped upon the raised platform encircled within towering stone slabs; in the next, she found herself inside the chamber, surrounded by squirming tendrils of fleshly vines, and countless amber eyes. Aaron and Lucia were beside her, readying their Remnants to face the writhing monstrosity—but Havoc was nowhere to be seen.
From there, she could remember very little before awakening entombed in stone. If there had been a struggle, hers had ended before she could witness it.
With all her heart, she wanted to believe in the seer. The things Annalise had told her were too precious to surrender, even to despair. And yet, despair she had; how could she not? She had been captured again, and again. First by her slavers, then her mistress. Held captive by the White Temptress, and now, she was at the mercy of the Abominable Spirit. As time ticked by with the drip and splat of her of her blood and tears, she had almost lost hope.
But he’s here, she thought, her eyes dampening as her heart swelled between her ribs.
She watched a blade of shimmering light form in Havoc’s grip, as he stood before a human-shaped mass of convulsing vines. She was too far to hear their words exchanged, but the grind of frenzied, guttural laughter fell upon her ears, crawling the length of her spine like a swarm of frozen spiders.
‘It has to be you. It has to be,’ chanted the mouths within the vines, their warped voices echoing across the cavern. Fleshy tendrils thrashed erratically, their gargled screams rising to a deafening crescendo.
The eyes fused to the stone of the chamber swivelled wildly, blood red pupils slicing wide within the amber sclera. Below, the creature swung its arms wide in a manic, taunting display, exuding an air of maddened confidence.
‘Ha—voc…’ Naereah groaned, her voice a hoarse whisper as blood sputtered from her cracked lips.
Sucking deep the rancid air of the cavern, Naereah winced as she felt the vines constrict her lung. Even still, teeth gnashed tight, she forced the air down her throat, resisting the urge to heave as the acrid taste of rot coated her tongue and flooded her pharynx.
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‘Save me!’ she cried, tears spilling freely from her eyes. Even among the haunting laughter, she knew she had reached him, and he would save her. He had done so before, and he would do so again.
He would come for her—that was the promise. He would always come for her.
****
The Abominable Spirit leapt into the air, its blade raised high for an overhead strike. Havoc planted his feet, crouching low as he braced for the blow. With a flash, his falchion of ethereal light met the Spirit’s heavy swing. The force of the impact sent a shudder through his arms, and with a groan under the weight, he shifted his footing. In one fluid motion, Havoc slid to the fiend’s side, angling his sword to deflect the Spirit’s blade downward.
Without hesitation, he transitioned into a rising diagonal slash, his glowing blade carving an arc toward the creature’s twisting form. Yet the edge of his blade met no resistance. Instead, the Spirit jerked backward, its vines unspooling from its back in a whip-like motion. They slapped against a distant wall, coiling and contracting to yank the Abomination out of the reach of Havoc’s cutting edge.
Havoc’s heart hammered in his chest like the gavel of a judge silencing an unruly defendant. Adrenaline sparked through his veins, and a film of sweat slicked his tremoring hands. The drip of liquid smacking stone caught his ears, and he glanced down. It was not sweat coating his grip—it was blood, rhythmically tapping the floor in a pit-a-pat of red.
There was no time to reflect on the strength of the Abomination’s opening strike. Even as Havoc’s hands throbbed numb, he barely had time to raise his guard as the Spirit’s tendrils shot forward. The crack of punctured stone echoed from behind, shards patting the ground as they clattered down. With its arm outstretched, and its many mouths curved in cruel, jagged smiles, the Spirit catapulted toward him.
He dove from the Spirit’s piercing thrust. Hearing the swoosh and smack of the vines pulling outward, he rolled onto his stomach, scrambling to escape the Spirit’s slicing cut which scraped an ivory scar into to black slated floor.
‘Yes! Yes, my boy!’ The Spirit cried, every grinning mouth lining its squirming form speaking in unison.
‘Your reflexes will serve me well when they’re mine!’ It screamed, its blade extended outward as it swung from a vine embedded deep in the ceiling.
The swirling mass of grisly vines slammed its feet against the ground, as Havoc twisted himself out of the path of its rendering arc. Panting heavily, sweat dripping from his brow, he staggered to regain his footing. The Spirit turned to face him, its mouths curling into cruel sneers as it shook its head. Slowly, it tutted, a sound of mock disappointment echoing from the mouths lining its grotesque form.
‘You’re holding out on me, boy,’ the creature growled, its voice wet like paint slopping from an overturned bucket onto a ruined canvas.
Though pushed to his physical limit, Havoc could not deny its accusation. Through the power of the Stone Guardsman, he could create barriers and blades of light. Nevertheless, he restricted himself to the blade held tight in his grip. It was not arrogance restraining his hand—it was caution. He remembered what the Spirit had called itself within the misted expanse.
‘Mimicking Spirit,’ Havoc said between weighted breaths.
All at once, the amber eyes peered upward, enraptured, each gleaming with a twisted, perverse delight.
‘Aren’t you clever?’ the many mouths screamed. ‘But not clever enough,’ it growled, each word dripping with contempt.
The Spirit reached out its hand, and shards of inky-black light began to form above its shoulders, their razored edges shimmering like fractured glass.
Chaos erupted within the chamber. Shards of black light shattered against barriers of radiant energy. The Spirit slingshot across the battlefield, its blade lashing out in deadly arcs, carving scarlet lines deep into Havoc’s flesh.
If at first he was overwhelmed, he now stood helpless, death’s cold breath so close to his neck he could feel its icy scratch.
Plumes of mist wafted from Havoc, as though he were ablaze. His Remnants and physical abilities had been pushed to their limits, but even that was not enough. Every bite of the Spirit’s blade spilled more of his blood, streaking the ground in crimson trails, the sharp tang of iron mingling with the wafting stench of decay.
Alongside his spreading wounds, exhaustion mounted, his legs threatening to buckle beneath him. His eyes stung—his vision dyed red as blood kept seeping into his eyes.
How could Annalise have imagined I could do this, he thought, his shoulder popping from its joint from the impact of deflecting the latest blow. She was wrong...I can’t—
A sharp kick to his stomach scrambled his thoughts, the air bursting from his lungs as he crumpled to the ground. His eyes flicked open and shut, the Spirit’s warped smile looming above him, blinking in and out of focus. It pressed its foot firmly on Havoc’s chest, the vacillating wiggle of its flailing tendrils, worming through the tears in his clothes.
The creature knelt, driving its knee into Havoc’s throat, crushing his windpipe as he clawed at its leg in vain.
‘I guess its time,’ it said. Its voice a guttural growl as it stroked Havoc’s face with the back of its hand.
Then it dug the tip of its finger deep into Havoc’s forehead. A sharp, searing pain carved through his skull, as though an icicle were piercing his brain,
‘I’ll so enjoy being you.’
Those were the last words he heard before all light fled his eyes.
****
‘Praise you, my lord. Praise be! Oh, Praise be!’
Havoc’s eyes flung wide.
Dressed in the tattered remains of his waistcoat, mustard-coloured trousers, and loose-fit shirt, Havoc knelt. Bound by chains of devouring black, writhing as though alive, he cast his face downward, unable to glance upon the source of terrible power.
‘Had I known! Had I known!’ a voice cried by his side.
Unable to turn his head, Havoc shifted his eyes to the periphery, glimpsing a gaunt, pale figure trembling in place.
‘This soul is mine,’ said many whispering voices, their cadence cold and hollow. ‘Who dares touch what belongs to me?’
‘Had I only known!’ the figure repeated, its voice shrill with desperation.
‘Enough,’ the whispers commanded. ‘Return to your place. Your form is undone.’
Without another word, the pale figure vanished.
‘And you—’ At the call of his lord, the weight of the cosmos seemed to crash down upon Havoc, forcing him deeper into supplication. His chest tightened as though the very air sought to crush him.
‘The Heretic is birthed. Do not fail me again.’