“So the seal had been broken.” The two elderly dragon praetoriir stood facing the obsidian hewn door with a sinister mural carved out on its rough, insidious surface. Above them, elaborate webs sewn by clever spiders decorated the corners of the ceiling, the stout beams that straightened above their heads – only a meter or two above – with perfectly calculated distances between each of the four.
Augermil remained silent as his piercing prismatic pearls looked ominously at the thick, stone door that awfully showed no signs of the cursed runes Terrianis seeded into them centuries ago. His muscle-bound, hulking form quivered for a moment as he recalled the day the two stood the corpse littered cellar, how the dead moaned with a gravelly, warped voice as his younger brother woven their wicked essence into the curse itself before locking the Infaerni into the pandornium box.
Pandornium boxes back then were a relatively new invention of his brother himself who always enjoyed tinkering, studying the ways of maghia and all that was related to it. A small box, usually coated in golden dye, all six sides engraved with runes of increasing levels of four imprisoning glyphs, and two warding against those who would seek to release the tenants within.
In that case, it also meant the imprisonment of all the souls who were entwined in the tendrils of the infaerni who prayed on their longing, on their desires to found likeminded souls which led to their cursed fate in the end where they became one and the same, or at least they were under the illusion of it according to Terrianis. An illusion that bordered on a horrifying reality where even though they shared all senses, they were still alone in a wicked sense of irony.
Couldn’t you at least free them? He asked Terrianis – who in his eyes even today was the greatest magus who ever walked the face of Elhyrissian. Yet a silent rejection was his only answer as he listened on their pleas, all he could do was to curl up his fist in a quiet anger and feel shame for doubting the morals of his own blood for centuries to come while behaving and living to the oath he swore both to him and their father more than a millennia ago.
“Augermil, should we proceed or report?” Nawfal brought him out from the bitter memory and as he turned his head at him, his somber gaze turned to indifference. “Let’s head inside. The place maybe is waste, but not as tangled as the labyrinthine corridors of Ainos.”
Nawfal heaved a sigh as he stared past his old friend and locked eyes with the enervated, monstrous weeping face hewn close almost to the top frame, hovering above slender, crude figures reaching towards it, a depiction awfully similar to how worshippers of the Dawn Father appear on the paintings of famed artists. “Sometimes I’m unsure if you truly lived for thousands of years my friend. At least before we enter the belly of the beast, lets inform Albron.”
“Naturally.” Augermil forced a mischievous smile on his scar ornated handsome, angular visage before he turned back to the door that changed his life for the first time in thousands of years. As Nawfal walked out talking into the air, he felt a cold wind blew past the closed door, a wind that felt nostalgic in an insidious way.
**
With each step down the stairs, with each creak his steps produced on the aging wood, the urge to just leave gnawed at Isocrates’s conscious. He cursed his own curiosity, his own desire to solve this whole problem to clear the name of the New Dawn and to be able to meet with Luelia. Yet in the end his desire for heroics smothered the fear that kept the hair on his neck up.
He kept his gaze on the shadow nested cellar of the old building of rotting, dry wood that stood adjacent to the haebrian merchant’s equally weird shop. The collar of his tunic rustled as cold wind passed through him and strangely left towards the door not far from the stairs. For a short while he remained still in the cold shadows, and in the end, he expanded the range of his detection.
He relied heavily on this spell ever since it was thought to him by his former teacher in the academy. It saved his life at least twice so far. Once when he and three other students ventured into a country side ruin where a hulking minotaur took up residence and the once when some ruffian tried to kidnap him when headed home from one of his late studies from the capital’s ancient library. Yet now the spell did not pick up any signs of other souls so he decided to conjure a sphere of light that parted the shadows as he stood in the center of the cellar.
A cellar that was still filled with webbed, old crates filled with dusty bottles of dark liquid that was most likely wine as Isocrates concluded to himself. Yet while the crates were in horrendous state, the beams that coursed above his head with perfectly calculated distances between each of them appeared to be clean, softly gleamed as the white light fell onto their smoothened surface.
Even the ceiling appeared to be pristine clean, while the doors leading to the western and eastern section were covered in heavy, silvery webs. The only doorway that remained open was where the wind that carried neither warmth nor cold, sweetness of land nor the bitterness of the deep blew ever so strongly. The only thing it carried were strange whispers or singing that beckoned Isocrates with sweet promises of glory and fame.
“What in the Nine Abysses.” Isocrates whispered as he peeked inside the room where the strange wind grew in strength, yet when he faced the gaping darkness that was the obsidian-hewn door left open by Augermil and Nawfal – the wind suddenly stopped rumpling his hair, wrinkling his clothes while still carrying strange dust towards the stairs and the door on the ground floor.
As he gazed into the darkness, hearing the clanking of metallic footsteps in the far distance of the cavernous throat – Isocrates heaved a deep sigh, cracked his fingers. For a mere moment he wanted to run away, but in the end, he pushed the chilling fear away and walked calmly forward.
**
The vast system of cavernous corridors ran straight under the streets, gradually deepening as it evaded connection with the mines in the side of the western mountainside. The road itself was shrouded in soft darkness, to which Isocrates’s eyes quickly adjusted to as he tiptoed across the wide, gloomy stalactite walls.
While he followed the echoing footsteps of Augermil and Nawfal, his mind pondered whether these tunnels were folk-made or were hollowed out by the distant cousins of vampyrs – large worms that live beneath the cold earth that also serves as their food source. At least that was his first guess as the wind now carried a mildly rotten stench that reminded him of the time, he opened up the belly of a worm-like monster during an alchemical class.
Yet in the end – and after what felt like an hour of walking – he concluded that it must have been folk-built as the stench turned ever more intense until he walked into its source. A tall orkh in ragged dark greyish robes that were torn vertically like his chest from which his greyish intestines fell out, forming a disgusting mound on his lap.
A few more corpses in similar clothing littered the cavernous corridor, each clearly killed by the sharp end of a blade that belonged to the two Draennith Praetoriir. Isocrates pinched his nose and once again the thought of turning back sprouted in his mind.
As he gazed upon the corpses – with even more in the distance – he realized that by the time he would catch up with the two would have cleared out the place. The other thing that just popped into his mind was would they think he was one of these lunatics? Yet in the end, he continued on while forming a lie in his mind, even pouring a small amount of his mana into his feet to hurry up.
**
“Was that the last of them?” Nawfal asked as he swoop his blade to the left. Water poured out from his glistening ebony palm and quickly twisted around his short blade, sapping the blood into itself and then falling off onto the murky floor drenched in the blood of the cultists.
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Augermil fidgeted his blade stuck in the ceiling – and an aevhen woman whose rouge pinkish blood tainted his face. “Besides the one following us? I think these were the last.” At last he managed to dislodge it with a swift and calculated move while the blade vertically sliced open the cadaver of the aevhen.
The two gradually faded into the dark surrounding, and stood still like the ancient statues erected for the ancient heroes at the Tsiiprida Strait where they slain one of the four terrifying charybdisos. Isocrates continued his way down into the belly of the cave, unaware that he had been long discovered by the two. Which he realized the moment Nawfal’s blade threatened to slice open his throat.
“Who are you boy?” He asked in a threatening manner as soon as Isocrates’s hands reached the elevation of his head. “Aeson sir, a student from the commoners’ academy.” He answered without hesitation while still somewhat shaking and praying within to the nine deossos and the Almodo for the two to believe his lie.
“And what does a student of the commoner’s academy doing down here, a place forgotten even by the Sightless Scribe.” Augermil asked in a much calmer tone as his surveyed Isocrates from top to bottom.
He heaved a deep sigh, closed his shivering eyes then opened them suddenly with now burning conviction. “A desire to restore the peace, to smother the threat which may rob me of my loved ones if I don’t act Sir! Loved ones who work anxiously in the mines, in the streets that once knew the peace of the Empire.” Augermil’s gleaming, almost perfect lips formed a smile on his face.
“Then fear not young Aeson, the pilferers of your peace lay down at your feet.” Augermil stated proudly then stopped as they heard distant footsteps approaching them slowly, even methodically. A tall, delicate figure clad in a sleek robe of golden slinked out from the shadows, his visage hidden under a large hood that invited the darkness under itself. Along the silken smooth surface, insidious glyphs and symbols were embroidered, glowing faintly with a wicked iridescent hue which captured the gaze of Isocrates.
The figure suddenly stopped and pulled down their hood revealing a face of celestial beauty which were built with a combination of milk smooth skin, piercing slit eyes of vibrant silver hue, luxuriant dark mauve hair that fell down onto his shoulders gracefully, a face of exceptional features which were perfectly aligned. Even his claws that poked into his silken hood appeared to be made of richly hued, expensive gems often found on the accessories of patricii and governmental officials.
Isocrates could not have diverted his gaze from the figure that was a shining star in the darkness that surrounded them if not for Nawfal who stood in his way. “Do not look at his eyes boy. Daemurnus of the pride are one of the most dangerous for the inexperienced.” As he heard the word, Isocrates recoiled in fear as he recognized the creature in front of them the moment a name was attached to it.
Yet as quickly as fear took hold in him, restraining his body completely – he found himself astounded when in the next moment he heard a short grunt and the sound of crystal hitting the ground, shattering to thousands of pieces. “And here I stood, deprived of the glory of sending these cursed daemon back to the brim river of Phlaighathon.”
“Another reason to live a long life then my friend. Boy, are you fine?” Augermil walked close and stared over Nawfal’s head easily. “Yes, sir!” Isocrates said mustering his strength not to bite his tongue as the last of his fear faded away.
Augermil turned back and glimpsed at him appraisingly. “Young Aeson, I hope you excel in the ways of maghia.” Isocrates answered at first with a light nod. “I excel in the conjuration of thunder and flame while also capable of the more mundane spells the two of you probably excel even more than me.”
Augermil’s sharp brow arched as he stared down at Isocrates than voiced the question that surfaced in his mind. “Tell me young Aeson, what is your occupation, what is your true aspiration?”
For a few moments palpable silence settled between the three of them, and Isocrates gulped as he thought up an answer that may satisfy the hulking draevhen knight. “Currently I earn my bread as courier between esteemed magusos of the capital who retired from the legions of the continent, hoping that with their recommendation I may be able to serve the Empire and spread its peace where evil shadows lurk.”
He heaved a sigh noticing the stiff expression of both praetoriir change in a smile then a hearty laughter. “As ages pass, youths’ thirst for glory remains ever firmly.” Augermil said as he looked nostalgically at Nawfal who looked a bit awkward before he coughed twice. “May I remind the two of you where we stand?” Augermil straightened his posture then looked pensive for a moment as he stared at the mound of glistening dust that was the daemur moments ago.
“He is right. Then young Aeson, stay between us and pray no such thing remains in this dark belly of the world.” Without interjection, Nawfal remained behind Isocrates as the trio trailed further into the dark.
**
The three of them arrived at the singular large hall at the end of the cavernous corridor directly under the mines. While Nawfal and Isocrates experienced a walk straight forward, Augermil knew and saw through the ancient spells which distorted the reality of the hidden lair under the abandoned shop. Spells which chilled the two to the bone, though at the time they had no clue on the source of their mild dread.
Nawfal himself simply attributed it to the remnants of the curse imbued into the gloomy walls by Terrianis himself while Isocrates explained it to be the after effects of the strange fetishes he saw in the shop. Then when they stepped in, he changed his mind and thought the source came from the what lied in the center of this lair.
On the sides, rugged sheets were laid out, clearly used not too long ago while at the center, a jagged platform rose out from the ground, a pedestal of weird, ethereal stone and craftmanship stood upon it with. Its square top empty, yet the dust only formed around the edges with the clear outline of a large tome left behind.
In front of it, a haggard aevhen sat on the edge of the platform, spreading his legs towards the three while his back leaned against the pedestal. He turned his tired, dreamy gaze on Augermil who raised his shield and sword in preparation, the corners of his cracked, dark lips weakly bent up as he greeted the group. “Welcome lost lambs.”
As they looked at him, they all mistook him for the darker, exiled northern kin as his once perfectly fair and smooth skin turned into black and rough, adorned with cracks found on hastily puzzled together porcelain vases. Contrasting that, his haggard, broken form was draped in bright golden, expensive looking clerical robes with a hood which shrouded his damaged face adorned with empty, dark eyes in soft shadows with a tint of golden.
His head pushed gently against the pedestal rough surface and chuckled. “A legendary knight, a soon-to-be general who hoards victory after victory, and a failed father and lover. What an honor it is.” At those words, Augermil became a mirage which loomed over him, the tip of his blade pressed against his throat, still fear avoided him.
“Answer me with honesty and your life will come to a quick and painless end, and receive a fair judgement of my Solemn Lady.” Augermil stated the dark eyes pierced through his hulking form, Nawfal made small steps around the elevation, and Isocrates cracked his fingers while his anima veins crackled. “Where is the Heavenly Father and who do you serve?”
The empty joy came to sudden halt as he stared back at Augermil and as the moments passed by, the elderly praetoriar thought him to be dead. “He is nowhere, reborning into his new form before the new dawn shines upon the promised land.”
Mild anger scorched Augermil from within as he listened to the words laced with madness, reflected in the glassy dark eyes. For a moment he almost yelled, but kept his cool and spoke once more in a calm, measured tone he learned from his once eldest brother. “Do not feed me with your madness. Speak the truth and you shall be judged accordingly.”
“I shall be judged in his Grace, in his court eternal, unceasing before I ascend to continue the great work Fear not the change metered upon us, it will absolve you of the sins you committed against existence.” Nawfal eyes wandered aimlessly as he circled around, then stopped on the ceiling.
Augermil grasped his fist and foolishly put his sword away while mulling on how to trail through the madness walling around the truth which floated in the mind of the cultists. Nawfal suddenly turned as Augermil’s massive armored form flew against the wall and arrived in a thunderous cacophony of metallic clanking and the breaking of stone. Yet there was no need to draw his blade, as the cultist laid dead not long before he stood on his frail legs, smoke rose from his chest, his robes and damaged flesh sizzled as the vile stench of his burnt cadaver glared emptily at his killer, the panting and sweating Isocrates whose hand raised and still crackled with the fury of thunder.
“A shame for me, a proof for you.” Augermil said as he grabbed Nawfal’s hand as he stood up in a series of cracks that slithered down his back. Isocrates remained wordless and he pushed back the charging bile seeking its freedom from the confines of his body.
“Just breathe in boy. The first is always the worst.” He collapsed down to the ground and took the advice of Nawfal. The two praetoriir walked to the corpse and looked at it silently, then they followed his empty gaze onto the ceiling, engraved with a broken spiral dancing into itself.