The violin in Baal's hands sang as if kissed by the sun, each note wrapping around the room like tendrils of warm wind. Fragrance from freshly arranged lilies and roses filled the air while Perdita, a blur of motion and apron, set tableware down.
The grand opening of the Morningstar was approaching rapidly, and she intended for everything to be perfect.
Amidst the ethereal backdrop of Baal's music, the clinking of glass and the rustle of playing cards added a layer of playful chaos. The group around the card table hooted, punctuated by the occasional peal of laughter.
Finnea's mouth was set in a tight line, her eyes betraying none of the defeat her hand suggested. Even in a game of cards, she bore the stern air of a seasoned warrior.
"Queen of Cups!" Merlin, age etched into his face but mischief glinting in his eyes demanded the card to the table.
Kirara's eyes narrowed as she forked over the card. "No funny business, Grandpa. You're not using magic, are you?"
"A magician never tells," he retorted, locking eyes with Finnea. "Queen of Swords!"
The room froze. Finnea shot a glare at her deck, her eyes sharpening as if preparing to pierce armour. She muttered an unintelligible jargon and slammed the Queen of Swords onto the table. "Defeat Bram, the Lucky Charm, and face my wrath, old wizard."
Merlin's eyes twinkled as he swivelled to Bram. "Young squire, do you have—"
"Nope!" Bram cut him off, his youthful face a mask of cheeky defiance. "Go, fish!"
"Impossible! I didn't even ask for—"
"Go fish, Grandpa!" Bram doubled down, barely stifling a giggle. "Unless you're not playing fair?"
"Me? Cheat?" Merlin's protests were drowned out by a wave of laughter that swelled across the table as they revealed their hands. Kirara had a mess of Queen of Cups, Finnea wielded only Queens of Swords, and Bram showed a line-up of Queen of Pentacles.
Merlin's cheeks flushed, realizing his spell had spectacularly backfired. He cleared his throat, mumbling, "Well, even magicians have off days."
Yet, for all the beauty and light in the room, a shadow clung to the corners of Morningstar's manor.
Something—or rather, someone—was glaringly absent.
"Where's Adamastor?" Kirara wondered aloud, her laughter dissipating into a cloud of concern. "And where is Mama?"
As Baal's violin hit a hauntingly beautiful note, it was as if the strings themselves were posing the question—filling the room with a melody that was incomplete, missing those essential notes that make a tune whole. He suddenly stopped, "Where is Nord?"
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Adamastor's eyes blinked open to the gruesome scene, one pulled straight from a nightmare. The carcass of a bear lay before him, its hollow insides a twisted display of carnage. A guttural sound clawed its way out of his throat, and he doubled over, retching violently. The foul aroma of decay filled the air, sharp and pungent.
His stomach clenched and expelled yesterday's attempt at food—a futile meal that now seemed grotesque, given that vampires don't eat. The sounds of his wretched vomiting splashed against the cold stone floor, punctuating the silence of the cave.
As if his body was just catching up to the grim reality, Adamastor began to shiver, uncontrollable tremors seizing his frame. Cold reached through the air and clenched its icy fingers around him, but he hardly noticed. The chilling atmosphere was a mere footnote to the horror that surrounded him.
As he wiped his lips with a trembling hand, the rough surface revealed small cuts and abrasions. His fangs grazed his lower lip, a stark reminder of his hunger. But it was not the need for blood that consumed him now; it was a voracious desire to devour everything.
A newfound rage surged within him, unlike anything he had ever experienced. It wasn't blood he thirsted for; it was the essence of existence, the very pulse of life.
Adamastor sank back against the uneven surface of the cave wall, each rocky protrusion pressing into him like the cold, indifferent fingers of the earth. His eyes were drawn to his finger—a wound that had earlier been an insignificant cut now appeared as a livid, crimson line that stretched from knuckle to tip.
It wasn't just a cut. It was an unbearable fissure of pain, as though some invisible blade was slowly severing nerve from the nerve. Each millimetre it extended seemed to send ripples of agony pulsating through his entire body, making even the air around him feel dense and abrasive.
His breathing quickened, ragged gasps filling the cavernous space, mingling with the rank odour of decay and the damp staleness of the cave. He closed his eyes, but there was no refuge there. The pain from his finger resonated like a wicked choir through his being, leaving no space for thought, logic, or even fear.
And then, cutting through the cacophony of his suffering, a singular thought emerged. How much worse could it get if this is how he felt from a mere cut? How much pain could he endure and still retain the semblance of a man?
Legends of Allatori weapons and the agony they inflicted upon vampires, demons, and their kind had reached his ears in the past. He had dismissed them as faraway tales, never contemplating that he would fall victim to their cruel influence through such a simple, accidental cut.
His heart pounded—an abnormality for a creature of his kind, reminding him of a time long past when he was ruled by heartbeat and breath.
The rhythmic drumming filled his ears, sounding almost foreign in its urgency. He grappled with the strangeness of the sensation. Was this the faithful cadence of a heartbeat or the hallucinatory echoes of a mind plunged into delirium?
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Adamastor's laughter erupted like a spout of water breaching a dam. It ricocheted off the cave walls, a mirthless sound tinged with hysteria and the bitter undertones of irony.
As he laughed, something shifted in the air—like the tension just before a thunderstorm breaks, filling the atmosphere with electricity. Suddenly, the laughter caught in his throat, replaced by a sharp inhalation. A scent hit him, cutting through the damp mustiness of the cave, sweeping away the putrid smell of decay.
It was intoxicating and invigorating and adamantine in its familiarity.
Though his mind stumbled in its weakened state, unable to fully latch onto the memory this scent evoked, his gut knew instantaneously. The fragrance was so deeply woven into the fabric of his being that his body reacted before his mind could catch up. It was as though an ethereal cord had been pulled taut, connecting him to something—or someone—indispensable.
Adamastor burst from the cave's mouth, propelled by an urgency that bordered on the primal. His previous existential contemplations shattered, supplanted by a singular, unyielding focus. He had no time for introspection now; every fibre of his being screamed with a need so intense it momentarily eclipsed even his relentless hunger for the essence of life itself.
The forest was a blur as he darted between trees, each step driven by the scent that hung in the air like a siren's call. He was a blur of motion, his eyes aglow with a hunter’s fierce intent. There was no room for subtlety or consideration. Restraint had no place in this hunt; this was a pure, primal need. A killer's urge.
Adamastor crashed through the underbrush, twigs snapping under his desperate steps. His nostrils flared, drawing in the scent that seemed to beckon him forward like a siren's call.
He inhaled deeply, pulling her scent into him as though it were the very air he breathed. His senses parsed each aroma that melded with her unique fragrance: the damp earth, the decaying leaves, the air itself—all mere background to the overwhelming allure of her scent. Each nuance was registered and analyzed, cross-referenced with the ineffable but unmistakable signature that belonged solely to her.
Finally, he burst into the clearing. Trees encircled the lake, its surface like a shimmering mirror reflecting the dense forest and sky. And there, slicing through the water with an elegance that stopped Adamastor dead in his tracks, was Nord.
He could only watch, his breath caught in his throat, as she cut effortlessly through the water. After drowning twice in this water, one would think she wouldn't set foot on it, but no. Nord didn't let death stop her.
"She's done it again," he muttered to himself.
Nord was unaware of his watchful eyes. Her movements were choreographed with some mysterious rhythm only she and the water understood. It was as if the lake itself had woven a shield around her.
Adamastor stared, caught in a sort of reverent trance, contemplating the laws of nature she so blatantly snubbed.
"They always say 'never twice'," he spoke softly, almost afraid his voice would ripple across the water and break the spell. "But you, Nord..."
His heart pounded loudly in his chest, resonating with an existential question that gripped him. Would this third meeting spell the end for her? Would he be the fatal third time?
"Could she survive again?" He thought, his eyes tracing her form as his emotions swirled between hope and dread.
Just as Adamastor's foot inched towards the water, poised to dive into the depths and close the distance between him and Nord's neck, a nasty hissing sound clawed at his eardrums. The sound sent shivers down his spine like the cruel laughter of fate.
His eyes darted to his hands—hands he barely recognized. The skin was bubbling, reddened, and angry blisters as if each cell were screaming in pain.
"Oh no... no, no, no," he muttered, falling to his knees, the agony so intense that it swallowed his world whole.
A tortured noise ripped from his throat—a sound so guttural, so deeply inhuman that it echoed like a mournful cry through the forest, resonating with the ancient trees and jarring the placid lake.
The sun—the enemy he'd outwitted for fifty years, hiding in the comforting cloak of night—had finally caught up with him. Nord's blood had worn off.
The sun's fiery rays seared his skin with merciless fervour. Every millisecond under its glare felt like a drawn-out lifetime, the price he paid for daring to challenge the laws that bound his existence.
"Why now? Why today?" He thought, conscious only of the cosmic irony that gripped him.
The sun wasn't just burning his flesh; it was burning through his will to continue, reach Nord, and defy her destiny again. And just when it seemed that he would be consumed completely, that his very essence would be lost to the relentless blaze...
Darkness engulfed him. A sudden veil, as if woven by unseen hands, shielded him from the sun’s brutality. It embraced him like a mother cradling her suffering child.
Adamastor's eyelids became heavy, the agony receding into the distance as if a door had been shut between him and the daylight world. With one final gasp—one tinged more with relief than despair—he lost consciousness.
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Adamastor's eyes fluttered open as if fighting through a storm cloud of slumber. A single, cold bead of sweat traced an icy path down his forehead, slipping along the ridge of his cheekbone. With a clank, he felt the harsh, unyielding grip of metal cuffs restrain him.
"Nord?" His voice was a raspy whisper.
Baal shook his head, "Nah, man, it's just me. How are you holdin' up?"
Adamastor's chest tightened; his eyes widened in frantic realization. "Where's Nord? Did I hurt her? Where the hell am I?" His voice escalated, its timbre tinged with a raw desperation that overpowered even the gnawing pain in his body. "Nord!" He screamed, muscles straining futilely against his chains.
"Easy, easy," Baal coaxed. He reached for a rag soaked in chilly water, wringing it out and dabbing Adamastor's face. "You're not exactly fit for a jailbreak, buddy. You're sick. Real sick."
Adamastor's gaze flicked around, absorbing the room's austerity. It was just another nondescript chamber in the maze-like manor. The agony that had seared through him earlier had subsided to a bearable ache, and even his perpetual hunger was eerily quiet. "What the hell happened to me?"
Baal hesitated, his hands twiddling nervously before he sank his teeth into his lower lip. "Look, Adamastor, you're not just sick—you're dying. You really messed yourself up with that Allatori blade."
"Is that so?" Adamastor's voice wavered, fragile as a spiderweb, "It was just a cut."
Baal nodded. "Sirona came by and took some of Nord's blood. We saved a couple of vials for emergencies. The blood's healed your burns, but the cut from the blade... it's going to spread."
"How long?" Adamastor queried, his voice tinged with resignation.
Baal wet the rag again and placed it gently back on Adamastor's forehead. "Three hours, give or take."
"I can't miss the opening ceremony! Perdita needs me! She isn't yet fully trained! Nord is counting on me!" Adamastor made an aborted attempt to rise, chains rattling in protest.
Baal's hand pressed firmly on Adamastor's shoulder, pushing him back onto the bed. "Adamastor, I don't think that's happening."
"Then do something, damn it! Anything!"
"Like what? Pull a rabbit out of my hat?" Baal's eyes reflected an agonizing, helpless mirroring of Adamastor's own desperation.
"Take my happy memories. Give me more time. I have to teach Perdita. I can't let Nord down again. And Rosemary... I made a promise to Rosemary I would...!"
Baal shook his head solemnly. "Time's a high price, Adamastor. And besides, all the memory jars are with Merlin, and the old guy ain't dying before you do. I can't..."
"Then use his jars! Take my memories! You'll have time to get new jars for him after I'm gone!"
Baal's eyes widened. "But you'll forget Nord. How can you help someone you don't remember?"
"I won't forget her," Adamastor sighed, almost inaudibly. "But Marcella...," he whispered.
"Who?"
"Most of my happy memories are tied to Marcella. I adore Nord, yes, but she isn't a happy memory. She's a beautiful torment..."
Baal stared at Adamastor for a long moment, his eyes searching the depths of the vampire's own. "Alright," he finally said, exhaling a shaky breath. "Alright. Let's do this."
"And Baal," Adamastor added, his voice a mere breath, "when the time comes, can you get me out of Ravendrift? I don't want to die a caged bird."
"You're asking for a miracle," Baal replied sceptically.
"I'm asking to die free," Adamastor whispered, "In return, I'll tell you what I know about the Hollow. What Marcella told me."