The Grand Cathedral of the Faith towered over the city streets, its spires reaching skyward like fingers stretching towards the firmament. Within its hallowed walls, the vast hall reverberated with the harmonious chants of the devout, their voices weaving an intricate hymn of faith and reverence. At the epicenter, the High Reverend's voice boomed, resonating through the expanse, touching every soul present.

From a balcony above, Buren overlooked the congregation. The sunlight, filtered through the stained-glass windows, bathed the cathedral's ornate stonework in a warm, reddish glow. Below, thousands of worshippers, bathed in this ethereal light, offered their prayers. The air was thick with the heady aroma of incense, blending seamlessly with the gentle scent of the altar candles.

King Duriel's imposing presence was unmistakable, even amidst the grandeur of the cathedral. Seated in the front row, his dark advisor, draped in crimson robes, was a constant shadow at his side. Buren's lips curled into a faint smirk, noting the scarf the advisor now wore, a feeble attempt to hide the marks left by the Gauntlet. Their eyes locked momentarily, and Buren noted the diminished arrogance in the advisor's gaze.

Inanna and Flynn occupied the second row. Inanna's serene demeanor belied her earlier disdain for the religious proceedings. This was her first time in one of the sermons, and before they had left the castle she had expressly stated how boorish she found the whole system, but would dance along as it would be beneficial for her to keep up appearances of devotion. After all, many might raise issue that a Knight Commander of the Faith was to be wedded to a heathen. Flynn, however, seemed restless, his gaze darting about, betraying his unease. Buren could understand his trepidation, even if he hoped the young man would not make it so clear. There truly was no one they could trust around, in the whole city.

Buren's contemplation was interrupted by the deliberate footfalls of Grand Commander Aldric Valcor. The seasoned warrior, with his grey mane and commanding stature, exuded authority. Valcor's piercing gaze surveyed the ceremony below, his expression unreadable.

Almost imperceptibly, Grand Inquisitor Seraphine Ruelle materialized to Buren's left. Her silent approach, coupled with her pale visage and silver tresses, gave her an almost spectral presence. Her icy gaze, devoid of emotion, scrutinized the gathering below.

The trio stood in silent observation, each waiting for the other to break the silence.

Grand Commander Valcor took the initiative, as befit him, and turned his head slightly, his voice a low rumble. "Buren, are you privy to the King's recent transgressions?"

Feigning ignorance, Buren shook his head. While his informants had kept him well-informed, he chose to play his cards close to his chest.

Valcor's eyes sharpened, "The King oversteps his bounds. He's invoked the right of the first night for newlyweds at his whim." There was a palpable edge to his voice. "Furthermore, he's taken to ridiculing esteemed members of the Faith."

He paused, his gaze momentarily drifting to the ceremony below. "The Faith has been more lenient with him than he deserves. But even our patience has limits, especially when there are signs of dark magic at play."

Buren feigned surprise, raising an eyebrow at the mention of magic.

"Seraphine?" Valcor gestured, ceding the floor to her.

The Grand Inquisitor, her face a mask of neutrality, began to speak. Her voice, though soft, carried an underlying steel. "Our investigations suggest the King's advisor wields formidable magical prowess. We suspect he may be affiliated with the Enarei of Blood Moon."

Buren endeavored to keep his face neutral, feigning ignorance at the mention of the term. "The Enarei of Blood Moon?"

A faint, knowing smile tugged at the corner of Seraphine's lips. "Surely, Buren, you're not entirely unfamiliar. Your mage companion, Toksaris, is linked to the Enarei of Flower Moon, after all."

The reminder was a sharp one, emphasizing that few secrets could be kept from the Grand Inquisitor. Buren was well aware of the dichotomy between the Enarei of Flower Moon and Blood Moon: the former sought equilibrium, while the latter hungered for power at any cost.

Ruelle's voice, cool and measured, continued, "We've been monitoring him since his arrival. Yet, his origins remain a mystery. It seems he's kept his true name from everyone, even Duriel."

Buren nodded, thinking it best to reveal as little as possible to the seasoned interrogator.

"One thing we are certain enough about is that he has made contact with a source of power we have not encountered before, but which has all the clerics privy to the information spooked."

Seizing the chance to gather more intelligence, Buren pressed, "What have you discovered?"

"Only what I've shared," she responded, her tone even. Buren couldn't discern whether she was being forthright or deceptive—but assumed she was lying, just because of her position. However, there was nothing he could do to extract further information from someone at her level. He made a mental note to instruct his informants to search for clerics who might possess access to the information. He was certain they would prove less resistant to questioning.

Grand Commander Valcor's voice, resonant and commanding, interrupted their exchange. "The details, while important, are secondary to our response to the situation. What truly matters is that our actions are decisive, unhesitating, and serve as a stark reminder to the public, and especially to Duriel, that we are not to be trifled with."

His piercing gaze settled on Buren. "Do you understand why you've been summoned?"

Buren offered a noncommittal shrug.

Valcor leaned in, his voice low and intense. "We're assembling a strike force to eliminate the advisor. You, Buren, have been chosen as the tip of the spear, the main force of the attack. It is surely unnecessary to detail what makes you so well-equipped to the task."

Buren acknowledged the statement with a nod.

"The High Reverend has sanctioned this operation," Valcor disclosed. "Seraphine will assemble the rest of the team. This covert mission falls squarely within the Inquisitors' purview. Should the operation be compromised, the Faith will disavow any involvement, and you'll be painted as a rogue actor."

Buren's brow furrowed. "How will such a mission sway the public's opinion if the culprits are kept secret?"

Ruelle's response was icy and direct, "While we maintain plausible deniability, the truth will be an open secret."

Valcor, emphasizing the gravity of his words, added, "Execute this mission flawlessly, Buren, and the title of Knight Commander is yours."

After a moment's contemplation, Buren signaled his assent.

Valcor clapped him on the shoulder. "Prepare yourself, and await our directives."

As Buren made to depart, Valcor's voice halted him. "Remember: the King must remain unharmed. The Faith still has use for him, although we want him powerless and controllable, under our heel where he belongs. No matter what we all personally think of the man, he stands for continuation and institution, and getting rid of him would cause more problems than it would solve."

Buren considered his words for a moment and nodded. With the whole nation being about as stable as a house of cards in a storm, it would be unwise to remove even one of the cards holding the structure up.

The Grand Cathedral of the Faith gradually emptied as the sermon came to an end. Buren, having observed from a distance, now approached Flynn and Inanna.

Inanna's eyes, sharp and questioning, met his. "Where were you?" she demanded.

Buren offered a nonchalant shrug in reply.

She turned up her nose, a sign of her mounting irritation. Without another word, she climbed into their waiting carriage, casting a disdainful glance over her shoulder. "You two can walk," she declared, her voice dripping with frost, before slamming the door shut.

"Back to her old ways," Buren mused.

The carriage rolled away, leaving Buren and Flynn in its wake. They exchanged bemused glances before setting off on foot, trailing the retreating vehicle.

Flynn, a smirk playing on his lips, nudged Buren. "Trouble in paradise?"

Buren shot him a sidelong glance, wondering if Flynn's jest hid a hope of reconnecting with Inanna.

Their path took them through snow-covered streets, where Buren's keen eyes spotted the symbols of the Green Sons of the Forest. To most, these markings were mere decorations, but Buren knew better. He reflected on the challenges of secretly leading the underground rebellion, ensuring neither the Faith nor the Sons suspected his involvement. The Sons had been dormant since their supposed leader's capture.

Their journey was silent, punctuated only by their visible breaths in the frigid air.

Later, under the watchful gaze of the moon, Buren, cloaked in shadows, used the Gauntlet to propel himself into a gathering of enigmatic figures. The unsigned letter he'd received earlier had led him here.

The moon's glow painted a surreal landscape, where the assembled figures, draped in obsidian cloaks, stood like phantoms. Buren's gaze darted among them, searching for any hint of familiarity beneath their concealed faces. Their attire, dark and devoid of any emblem, hinted at their identity: Inquisitors, the Faith's covert operatives, working incognito.

A figure stepped forward, addressing Buren in a hushed tone. "Is the plan clear to you?"

Buren nodded, having committed every detail of the letter's instructions to memory.

"Very well," the figure responded. "Time is of the essence."

The group moved with an uncanny grace, their steps silent as they navigated the rooftops. Their spectral presence was accentuated by the moon's glow, making them appear more ethereal than human.

Reaching the moat encircling the Central Citadel, one of the masked operatives swiftly deployed a crossbow, shooting a bolt over the wall. Attached to the bolt was a rope, which was anchored to a nearby chimney, creating a bridge to bypass both the moat and the citadel's defenses.

The assembled group motioned for Buren to lead the way across the rope bridge, but he declined with a subtle shake of his head. Instead, he anchored himself to a sturdy section of the roof with the Gauntlet. In a swift, fluid motion, he catapulted himself through the air, reminiscent of an arrow released from its bow. As he approached the top of the wall, he touched it with his metallic palm with a motion akin to a swimming stroke, using the momentum to glide over it as effortlessly as a stone skipping across water.

He alighted, his talons embedding into the citadel's exterior, casting an ominous silhouette. Glancing back, he saw his comrades, their expressions a mix of awe and disbelief. One by one, they cautiously made their way across the rope. Each man, upon reaching the other side, secured himself with twin metal hooks before allowing the next to cross, ensuring the bolt in the wall wasn't overly burdened.

As the first of them settled beside him, Buren began his ascent towards their designated entry point.

"Hold on," the man beside him whispered, realizing Buren's intent to proceed alone. "Don't you need backup?"

Buren merely raised an eyebrow in response.

The man sighed, slightly embarrassed. "Of course. Silly me. Go right on ahead."

In a series of nimble vertical leaps that sent small pieces of gravel skittering downwards, Buren reached the window. Inside, one of the King's guards stood alert. Buren's tap on his shoulder startled him.

"By the Flood," the guard exclaimed. "You're early."

Buren gestured below, indicating the still-ascending team. The guard—an inside man of the Inquisition, bought and paid a long time ago—saw the rest of the squad was still ways off.

"Not one to wait around, huh?" the guard remarked. "No matter. Let me brief you quickly, so I can be on my way."

Buren nodded, urging him to continue.

"Here is a map to the advisors quarters for the night," he said, handing him a piece of vellum. "And no, before you ask, I can't just tell you how to get there. There's something screwy going around his chambers, so directions get changed and the only way is to follow landmark, which he has written down on the map for his servants to follow." He pointed to scrawled letters at different junctions of the blueprint. "The way there changes every night. The Inquisition better come through on their payment for this, you'd never make it through without my help."

Impatiently, Buren motioned for him to hasten.

"There are sigils around his chamber. Definitely magical, but that is all I know. Once you reach that point, you're on your own."

Buren extended his hand, expecting more.

The guard hesitated. "I believe I've earned an advance on my payment."

The menacing sound of Buren's claws scraping together silenced any further protest.

"Alright," the guard conceded, producing another piece of vellum. "These are the sigils. You'll vouch for me, won't you?"

Buren snatched the parchment, studying the intricate designs. They hinted at magic, but he'd need the expertise of his companions to decipher them further.

He retreated into the shadows, waiting. Soon, the rest of the team clambered through the window, their breaths ragged from the climb. Together, in the dim chamber, they prepared for the next phase of their mission.

As the group huddled close, Buren unfurled the parchments he had acquired, revealing the arcane symbols sketched upon them. With deliberate precision, he gestured to each marking, ensuring all eyes were focused.

One of the infiltrators, with a practiced hand, drew forth a hefty tome from his satchel. He quickly thumbed through its ancient pages. "These symbols... I've encountered them before," he murmured, his voice a mere breath in the silence.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"Here!" he whispered excitedly, indicating a page nestled deep within the book. "They bear a resemblance to markings documented in Tartarus, the subterranean labyrinth. Historically, they were associated with a long-forgotten place of worship."

The revelation sent ripples of intrigue through the group. "But why would such symbols be present here?" one pondered aloud.

"And, more importantly," another chimed in, "how do we navigate past them?"

"Such symbols have never been found active," said the man with the tome, their expert on deactivating magical security systems. "Or at least no one has returned to tell of their finding."

"What would you recommend," the other man said. "We can't just turn back."

"We could employ various dispelling instruments at our disposal and hope one proves effective," the arcane picklock suggested, then turned his gaze to Buren. "Alternatively, we could throw the only thing of matching age and power we have against them: the Gauntlet."

The men turned to gaze at Buren, who nodded, taking back the map of the area to lead the way.

The corridor Buren led them down seemed innocuous initially. However, as they delved deeper, an unsettling sensation began to permeate the group. The atmosphere grew thick, the very fabric of reality seeming to warp and waver.

One of the men, his voice unsteady, remarked, "It's like being on the deck of a ship during a storm, the floor rising and falling beneath my feet. But it's not just the floor—it's as if the entire world is shifting restlessly around us."

Buren's thoughts flashed back to his dream, reinforcing his belief that it had been more than mere fantasy.

The corridor's distortions intensified. Some stretches felt as if they were wading through a viscous substance, while others seemed to vanish beneath their feet. The hallway, which was supposed to be straight, also surprised them with many turns and junctions. Peering down one such unexpected offshoot, Buren observed an endless series of branching hallways, reminiscent of the infinite reflections between facing mirrors.

Guided by the map and the Gauntlet's heightened senses, Buren navigated the group through this bewildering maze. Their faces were etched with tension, each step taken with utmost caution.

Suddenly, Buren realized their numbers had dwindled. A swift count confirmed his suspicion. Glancing back, the hallway appeared deceptively normal, offering no hint of their lost comrade's fate.

"Perhaps he veered into one of those phantom passages," a team member speculated.

"If he did, we'll probably never see him again," another said gravely. "Better we stick close together if we want to avoid his fate."

Emerging from the labyrinthine corridor, they were confronted by the imposing doors to the advisor's quarters. The door's surface was alive with luminescent symbols, while the surrounding wood and stone pulsed and morphed in a disconcerting dance. Their magical protections expert gestured to Buren, signaling for him to employ the Gauntlet.

Buren approached, allowing the Gauntlet to guide him. He probed the symbols, feeling a surge of energy beneath his touch. With meticulous care, he manipulated the symbols, severing energy links and marring others, disrupting their arcane harmony.

With each deliberate motion, the intricate magical defenses began to waver. The door's wooden facade undulated violently, reminiscent of water nearing its boiling point. Sensing the imminent danger, some of the men instinctively retreated. However, one of the men, his voice firm and urgent, halted them.

"Stay your ground!" he commanded. "Lest you wish to vanish as our lost companion did."

A foreboding hum permeated the air, the ground beneath them pulsating in response. The situation felt precariously balanced, akin to disarming a volatile explosive. One misstep could spell doom. As the magical defenses teetered on the brink of detonation, Buren executed a final, decisive maneuver.

Suddenly, the menacing energy vanished. The symbols dimmed, and the door resumed its mundane appearance. The group let out a collective sigh of relief. Buren, with a sense of purpose, grasped the door's brass handle and swung it open, revealing the chamber beyond.

He cast a reassuring glance at his comrades, receiving nods of affirmation in return. Their expressions hardened with resolve, bracing themselves for the unknown that awaited within.

Gently pushing the door, Buren peered inside. The advisor, seemingly entranced, floated midair with his back to the entrance. The room's atmosphere was thick, the distortion palpable, making the very air feel dense and oppressive.

Buren's eyes darted around, catching glimpses of an endless, shadowy void. Yet, whenever he tried to focus, the visions eluded him, leaving a lingering sense of unease.

Stepping into the chamber, a wave of familiarity washed over Buren. The ambiance mirrored the sensations from his recurring dreams. He grappled with the unsettling sensation of familiarity, causing him to question the reality of the situation. Was he awake or dreaming?

The room pulsed with an ethereal energy, the scent of ancient magic intertwining with the metallic tang. Buren took a steadying breath, grounding himself in the present. He anchored his resolve in the weight of the Gauntlet and the rhythmic cadence of his heartbeat. With renewed determination, he signaled the others to proceed.

The team advanced in unison, their movements synchronized and silent. The chamber's stillness was broken only by the faint rustling of their attire and the soft hum of ambient magic.

With the advisor still entranced, Buren and his team treaded lightly, intent on executing their mission undetected. One of the men, impatient and overzealous, pulled a small crossbow from his satchel and armed it. Buren gestured for him to stand down, but the man whispered, "We have to take this chance while he's distracted."

Ignoring Buren's caution, he released the bolt. Mid-flight, it veered off course, its trajectory warped by the room's distortions. The noise shattered the advisor's trance, his eyes flashing open with alarm.

In a desperate bid, the assassin lunged, leaping from a table in an attempt to plunge his dagger into the advisor's back. Yet, he never reached his mark. An invisible force ensnared him, eliciting a horrified scream before he was grotesquely contorted and obliterated. The remnants of his form swirled in the air in a macabre dance, forming a gruesome vortex of flesh and blood.

Buren's visage twisted in grim determination, while the others quaked in trepidation. As the advisor pivoted, levitating with an eerie grace, his penetrating gaze settled upon the intruders. His eyes, which seemed to cut through the very essence of darkness, chilled the room further, making the men's breaths visible in the cold air. The air became charged with a deadly energy, and the acrid tang of blood and fear permeated the chamber.

The advisor's voice, deep and resonant, echoed throughout the room, each syllable reverberating as though spoken from the depths of an ancient cavern. The archaic dialect was foreign to the men, yet Buren's Gauntlet responded with a pulsating glow, resonating in harmony with the advisor's chant.

Fury etched across the advisor's features as he summoned a tempestuous force with a sweep of his arms. The men were caught in the maelstrom, their bodies ripped apart and scattered like leaves caught in a tempest. The very fabric of reality seemed to warp and buckle, the room itself shrieking in protest as the storm of arcane power rent it asunder.

Yet, at the storm's heart, Buren remained unyielding. The Gauntlet blazed brilliantly, its luminescence forming a protective barrier against the cataclysmic forces. Another man, sensing the Gauntlet's sanctuary, huddled behind Buren, shielded from the tempest's fury. The sensation was overwhelming, akin to standing at the epicenter of a divine maelstrom, with the very air alive with volatile energy.

Buren's resolve hardened, his stance unwavering amidst the bedlam. His cloak billowed violently, the gale striving to unseat him. The earth quaked beneath, its tremors resonating through his very marrow. Yet, the Gauntlet stood resolute, a bulwark against the onslaught that threatened to consume them.

Despite the Gauntlet shielding him from the brunt of the attack, Buren's legs began to buckle under the relentless onslaught, and he was forced back, inch by agonizing inch. The advisor's hands glowed with a sickly green light that pulsed with malevolent intent.

Suddenly, the man sheltering behind Buren cried out in agony. His eyes, now tainted with the same venomous green, betrayed his possession. Under the advisor's malefic influence, he lunged at Buren, seeking to subdue him.

With a surge of adrenaline, Buren managed to throw off his attacker, landing a powerful punch with his left arm that sent the man reeling. Yet, the enthralled man rebounded swiftly, brandishing twin blades and advancing with lethal purpose.

Buren's focus was stretched thin, battling threats on dual fronts. With the Gauntlet, he deflected the relentless arcane onslaught, each deflection a symphony of ethereal sparks. Concurrently, his left hand wielded his longsword, expertly countering the frenzied slashes of the possessed man's daggers.

Sweat beaded on Buren's brow, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he strained to maintain focus amidst the chaos. Every muscle in his body burned with exertion, and his mind raced to keep up with the relentless attacks. He knew that even the slightest lapse in concentration could be the difference between life and death.

The advisor and the enthralled man, sensing an opportunity, readied a synchronized assault. Buren braced himself, formulating a daring gambit that hinged on impeccable timing.

Pretending to falter, Buren allowed his knees to buckle, feigning vulnerability. Every fiber of his being tensed, primed to react. The advisor's malevolent energy surged forward, while the possessed man, sensing victory, lunged with his blades.

Buren's heart raced, pounding in his chest like a war drum as he held his breath, waiting for the perfect instant. He could feel the heat of the magical wave bearing down on him, its malevolent energy threatening to consume him whole. The possessed man's snarl echoed in his ears, the sound of impending doom.

In the split second before the attacks would have connected, Buren's muscles exploded into action. He threw himself to the side with every ounce of strength he could muster, his body twisting and contorting as he narrowly dodged the lethal combination.

The magical wave, no longer impeded by Buren, collided with the possessed man. The force of the impact was immense, the sound like thunder crashing in the confined space. The man's scream was cut short as he was utterly erased from reality, the dark energy consuming him entirely. Along with him, a section of the floor and wall vanished, replaced by a gaping void of black nothingness.

Buren hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs as he rolled to a stop. Pain coursed through his body, but he had no luxury of time for recovery. With gritted teeth, he rose, steeling himself for the next wave of assault.

His thoughts raced, seeking a strategy. I need to find an opening, a chance to strike. There must be a way to break through his defenses." he mused.

Summoning a fierce determination, Buren roared at the advisor, "I've come to gouge the answers out of you, just like I promised! And when I'm done, you'll wish those cuts on your throat had been deep enough to kill you!"

The advisor's countenance betrayed a flicker of fear, and his subsequent attacks lacked their earlier precision. Buren's taunt had rattled him, and the once-coordinated strikes now seemed more desperate.

Evading another arcane bolt, Buren mused on the potency of words. "Those who babble all the while don't know what can be accomplished with just a few words, carefully selected."

A palpable tension permeated the chamber, reminiscent of a bowstring drawn to its limit. Buren felt the vibrations, almost seeing the ethereal threads that bound the room. With a swift motion, he cleaved through these threads with the Gauntlet, dispelling the barrier that separated him from the advisor.

The advisor's eyes dilated in horror as he unleashed a tempest of arcane fury. The chamber quaked, stones dislodging from the walls, revealing not adjoining chambers but an abyssal void.

Though the attacks hindered Buren's advance, he refused to be deterred. Sweat beaded on his brow, and his muscles tensed as he formulated a plan, which seemed to rise straight from instinct instead of any part of his rational mind. Drawing a throwing dagger, he concentrated, and it became suffused with the glow emanating from the Gauntlet. The air seemed to hum with power as the weapon absorbed the energy.

It embedded itself in the advisor's shoulder, toppling him with its force. He screamed in agony, and something unseen screamed with him.

Capitalizing on the momentary advantage, Buren advanced, tearing through the otherworldly barriers that stood between him and his target. The advisor saw him coming but, with his left arm incapacitated, he couldn't channel his powers as effectively. The forceful bursts he unleashed were easily deflected by the Gauntlet. Even his mental assault seemed futile, as the spell that had effortlessly dominated the other man's mind only caused a slight pressure around Buren's temples.

In a last-ditch effort, the advisor raised his right arm, fingers splayed, and streams of indescribable color began to flow onto his palm, forming a sphere. Buren, sensing the impending danger, sought to disrupt him. "At least tell me your name, so you don't have to die nameless!"

The advisor's concentration wavered, his gaze involuntarily meeting Buren's. The magical sphere dissipated as he retreated, a sheen of sweat on his brow. "I forsook my identity when I became a conduit for my masters," he rasped. "Whatever fate you have for me pales in comparison to their wrath."

Buren, sensing an opening, replied, "It's not too late. "I can protect you from them. You've seen that their power is nothing compared to the Gauntlet."

"That's where you're wrong," the advisor replied, sounding more sorrowful than anything. "You have never faced them directly, only experiencing them through dreams and myself. You have faced the reflection of sunlight in a puddle and think you can defeat the sun. It's foolishness of the highest order."

Buren hesitated, sensing the advisor's waning will to fight. Opting for diplomacy, he ventured, "Together, with my power and your vast knowledge, we stand a chance."

The advisor, his face ashen and blood staining his robe, shook his hooded head. "They beckon me already. Their thoughts, their desires, are beyond mortal comprehension, but I sense their displeasure."

He sagged, weariness evident. "While I cannot best you in combat, but perhaps I can deliver one final blow and earn some mercy from my judges."

He gripped the edges of his hood and stared at Buren with desperate eyes. "Witness firsthand the force you challenge, and let this revelation haunt your every waking moment!"

As he drew back his hood, Buren recoiled in revulsion.

The advisor's bald pate was etched with grotesque tattoos. At the back of his head, the all-too-familiar distortion effect twisted and spiraled his occiput and nape into another realm. But what really made Buren's blood turn cold was that there was also something coming from the distortion into this world: tentacle-like appendages that had burrowed under his skin, visibly coiling beneath his scalp.

The warping effect was the most intense and unsettling Buren had ever encountered. It was like staring at the sun, but instead of burning his eyes, it seared his sanity. He had to look away.

A mirthless smile played on the advisor's lips. "This is my final curse upon you: the knowledge that what you face will forever be beyond your comprehension, and ability to defeat. Farewell."

A palpable malevolence enveloped the room as the tendrils beneath the advisor's skin thrashed violently. He let out a guttural cry as they erupted from his mouth, nostrils, and finally pushed his eyes out of their sockets. His skin undulated, reminiscent of water teeming with eels.

Amidst his agonized screams, he rasped, "This fate awaits you and all you cherish."

Suddenly, the tentacles constricted, yanking him into the interdimensional rift. The advisor was compressed and drawn through the impossibly small aperture, his blood spilling forth like water from a wrung-out towel. Then he was gone, and the portal vanished with him. The otherworldly presence receded, and Buren felt as if he had suddenly awakened. The room around him was in disarray, but there were no openings into endless abysses or any alien emotions permeating the atmosphere.

Exhausted, Buren slumped to the ground, his mind grappling with the ordeal's enormity.

His brief respite was shattered by alarmed shouts and the clatter of armored guards approaching. With newfound urgency, he lunged towards the window, shattering it in his haste.

Glass shattered violently around him, the shards scattering in every direction, suspended in the air for a moment, like clear stars, before beginning their fall like hail. The sound of breaking glass reverberated through the chamber, quickly followed by the panicked murmurs of the guards outside. Their footsteps, heavy and metallic, slowed as they hesitated to enter the room. Buren, straining his ears, could here them debate whether they dared to enter the chambers of the magician, even when his influence on the surrounding hallways had dissipated. They knocked first, and when they finally entered and saw the remains of Buren's group, they shouted in alarm.

As Buren clung to the edge of the window, he felt the ache in his muscles from the intense battle, but he forced himself to ignore the pain and focused on making his escape. Just as he was about to start his descent down the wall, inhuman roars emanated from the highest level of the tower—the King's chambers. The sound sent vibrations through the stones and made the hairs on the back of Buren's neck stand on end. The shrieks of women echoed down the tower from the same direction.

Recalling his duty to protect Duriel, Buren's resolve hardened. Instead of descending, he began a laborious ascent towards the source of the chilling screams. Every muscle protested, save for the unyielding Gauntlet, but urgency and sheer will drove him onward.

The window to the King's chamber lay ajar, its curtains fluttering like ghostly apparitions in the cold breeze. Buren entered cautiously, his boots making a sickening squelch as he stepped into something wet. In the pale moonlight, he could see that it was blood. His heart hammered as he discerned the savagely mutilated form of what seemed to be one of the King's bedwarmers.

The high-pitched shrieks of the other girl in the room turned to gurgles and then abruptly stopped, replaced by a wet, tearing sound that made Buren's stomach churn. Buren's gaze was inexorably drawn to the King's grand bed, now a stage for a macabre spectacle.

Lurking in the dimness was a monstrous entity, a grotesque fusion of limbs and quivering flesh. The room's air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the palpable stench of terror. The sickening symphony of breaking bones and rending sinew echoed ominously.

As Buren's vision adjusted, the true horror of the creature unfurled. It was an abomination, a melding of limbs and pulsating tissue, slick with blood and other unidentifiable fluids. The entity seemed to revel in its feast, its many mouths gnashing at the remains with insatiable hunger.

Pushing down his rising disgust, Buren's thoughts flitted back to his battles against the Malignant One. Once, he had comrades by his side; now, he stood alone.

A feeble plea reached his ears. "Help...me." Buren tensed, the Gauntlet's talons at the ready, his sword poised for action, as he sought the voice's origin.

"I can't move," the voice moaned. Buren's heart lurched as he discerned its source. King Duriel's visage was grotesquely embedded within the creature, his body either absorbed or melded so deeply it was indistinguishable. Duriel's eyes, filled with terror, met Buren's. But they weren't the only eyes that fixed upon him. A myriad of eyes, scattered haphazardly across the creature, locked onto Buren. Hungry mouths salivated, and the creature's limbs, both feeble and robust, reached out hungrily.

Buren's mind raced. A direct assault risked harming Duriel. His eyes darted around, settling on the chamber's robust doors. Swiftly, he maneuvered around the behemoth, evading its grasp, and reached the doors. The king's penchant for fortification now played to Buren's advantage. With multiple bars in place, the creature was effectively imprisoned within the chamber, its bulk preventing escape through the window.

Exiting via the window, Buren cast a final glance at the trapped king. "I'll return with aid," he vowed, before launching himself into the night. His descent was marked by the Gauntlet's talons scraping against stone, creating a cascade of sparks. The Citadel's alarms blared, summoning its defenders. Yet, for all their numbers, Buren eluded them, vanishing into the shadows, leaving the fortress behind.