Chp 1.2 - When Chaos Burns: Brothers

- Kyllian and Terra-

Kyllian surveyed Marsh’s room, bewildered by how a space could be so chaotic yet so barren. It was almost as if Marsh’s mess was a deliberate attempt to hide how little he truly possessed. He bent down and lifted the edge of Marsh’s mattress, hoping to find something meaningful. Instead, his eyes widened in surprise at the sight of a sheer mountain of explicit drawings of the female anatomy.

Where does he even find these? Kyllian wondered, his face turning a deep shade of red. He quickly stuffed a few of the more colorful drawings into his pocket, trying to avoid drawing too much attention. He couldn’t help but think that if Marsh’s taste in art was as eclectic as his room, then perhaps it was no wonder he was always in trouble.

“Did you find something?” the guard asked, noticing Kyllian’s sudden awkwardness.

“N-no, nothing at all!” Kyllian stammered, forcing himself to sound casual as he continued his search. He was relieved that his reaction was less about the drawings and more about the sword he couldn’t find.

This can't be good, Kyllian thought, running a hand through his hair. He could feel the onset of a migraine. Why did I ever give him that sword?

As children, Kyllian, Marsh, and Terra had often trained together in the forest. Craft had given Kyllian his first wooden sword at the age of three, expecting him not only to learn how to use it but to master it. By seven, he had received his first real short sword, and when he was twelve, he passed his old one down to Marsh. Kyllian still remembered the look on Marsh’s face when he received it—the disbelief that turned into a wide grin, followed by an awkward, joyful dance.

But those days were long gone, overshadowed by the dangers that now lurked beyond the city borders. Varik’s territory had expanded, making it too dangerous to venture into the forest alone. Now, their childhood adventures were nothing more than distant, bittersweet memories.

Kyllian allowed himself a brief smile, reminiscing about how harmless Varik had seemed the first time he encountered the white bear. But his moment of nostalgia was abruptly interrupted by a commotion from the corridor. The door burst open with a resounding crash, and a breathless guard stumbled into the room, his face pale and eyes wide with panic.

“A sentinel has been stabbed!” the guard shouted, his voice trembling. Kyllian’s heart skipped a beat, and the sudden realization that his worst fears about the missing sword had been confirmed jolted him into action. Without a second thought, he bolted from the room, driven by the urgency of the situation. He reached the scene within seconds and skidded to a stop, his heart sinking at the distressing sight before him.

His mother was there, drenched in the sentinel’s blood, frantically trying to close its wounds with old bed linens. She looked disoriented, almost as if she were in shock, her hands trembling as she worked to bind the creature’s injuries. Kyllian’s mind raced, struggling to comprehend the situation. I need to focus.

“Hey, you!” Kyllian barked, pointing to one of the king's guards who stood frozen in place. “Get a Vaith, and quickly!” He knelt beside the sentinel to secure its jaw, unaware of the displeasure on Terra’s face as she watched him. He scanned the room, grabbing an old knob from a nearby dresser and wedging it into the sentinel’s mouth. He didn’t want to lose a finger if it bit down. Pressing on the wound from inside the creature's mouth, Kyllian prayed the Vaith would arrive in time.

The sentinel, only having one spike, had much potential left, and Kyllian was determined to give him a chance to survive. He glanced at his mother, her expression grave as she worked. The look on her face conveyed her deep worry and helplessness.

Moments later, a frail man was thrown to the ground beside them, his neck encircled by a collar with two long rods sticking out and sharp spikes on the inside—a cruel device meant to ensure that escape would mean death.

The guard holding the chain pulled a single seed from a small bag and tossed it at the Vaith. “This is all you need, right?” the guard sneered, feigning politeness.

Terra watched the Vaith with a heavy heart, knowing that if things had gone differently, her people could have ended up in chains next to them. At least her family were still free to roam the homelands—for now, at least. But the nobles’ demand for the Vaiths' healing was growing, and it was only a matter of time before her people were called upon again to hunt them. She pitied the Vaith, despite the bad blood between their people. She hated seeing anyone stripped of purpose and dignity, even if it was for “the greater good,” as Craft had often justified.

How is it going with that key? Terra asked Merryl through their shared bond, their senses intertwined. A wave of Merryl’s disgust washed over her, making her recoil.

I just snuck in, Merryl replied. I think Marsh is holding the door. I’m not sure. It really stinks in here. Terra’s nose wrinkled in disgust at the sensation of rot that assaulted her through Merryl's senses. How could anyone think adding flowers to that stench would help? she thought. The sweet scent of the flowers only seemed to amplify the decay.

“Don’t worry, Mother. It will be over soon,” Kyllian said, noticing her bitter expression, thinking it was because of the blood and trying to comfort her. She sent him a reassuring smile, keeping Merryl’s escape plan to herself.

“I—I need you to step out of the circle, if you don’t mind,” the Vaith mumbled, avoiding eye contact to minimize the risk of provoking the guard. As Terra and Kyllian stepped back, blood started pouring from the sentinel’s wound again. The creature, even with its resilience, would have succumbed a while ago were it not for its enhanced nature.

Openly holding the seed in one hand, the Vaith lifted the other one above it and made a pulling motion. A tiny root sprouted, quickly followed by a green stem and a single leaf. The Vaith clenched his fist, crushing the tiny plant. A faint mist emerged from his grasp, thin and ghostly, barely visible in the dim light. A single tear rolled down his cheek as he suffocated the plant, letting its remains fall to the ground.

The Vaith laid his hand on the sentinel, his movements clumsy and his focus wavering. Despite his training, his inexperience was evident as large, misshapen lumps formed unevenly over the wounds. Excess tissue and skin fell to the floor in fleshy clumps. The skin struggled to knit itself together, creating raw, uneven patches of pink and red that pulsed with the sentinel’s heartbeat. The sight was deeply disturbing and distinctly unnatural, with the scarred tissue settling awkwardly—highlighting the Vaith's lack of skill.

“Tch, of all the weed sprouts, you’re the only one we could find. Pathetic,” the guard scoffed, kicking the Vaith in the back, forcing him into the bloody secretion. Kyllian sent the guard an annoyed look as he extended his hand to the Vaith, forcing himself to lock eyes with the guard.

Terra’s heart ached as she watched the Vaith’s clumsy, uneven healing. The sight was disturbing, but what troubled her more was knowing the consequences of any wrong move. She clenched her fists at her sides, her expression taut with controlled frustration. It wasn’t fear of appearing weak that kept her still; it was the grim understanding of what could happen if she interfered.

She could sense Merryl’s disgust through their bond, the shared sensation making her own skin crawl. But Terra held her ground, her face set in a firm mask. She knew that if she showed even a hint of compassion toward the Vaith, it could backfire disastrously. The guard’s frustration, already simmering just beneath the surface, would only find an outlet in further cruelty toward the Vaith.

When Kyllian challenged the guard’s treatment by reaching his hand down to the Vaith, Terra’s eyes flickered with a mix of pride and anxiety. She admired her son’s courage and sense of justice, but she also knew how dangerous his outburst could be. Her gaze sharpened, a silent plea for Kyllian to understand the delicate balance she was trying to maintain.

“Well, at least he just saved a man’s life while you stood there with your own seed in hand,” Kyllian said calmly, nodding toward the guard’s crotch. The Vaith, realizing what Kyllian had just done, slapped his hand away.

“No, no, my lord, it’s not like that,” the Vaith pleaded, crawling closer to the guard, desperate to avoid further beatings. Terra, understanding the Vaith’s fear, stayed silent, hoping that Kyllian would realize himself.

“Are you really letting—” He did not, and was abruptly halted by Terra.

“That’s enough, Kyllian. Let the man be.” She knew that things would only worsen if he persisted. “Thank you for your assistance. I think Kyllian and I can take it from here,” Terra said coldly to the guard, nodding.

“My lady. My lord,” the guard replied with forced politeness, masking his disdain for Kyllian as he practically dragged the Vaith out the door.

Kyllian clenched his fists, staring at Terra. “How can you just stand by while they treat the Vaith like this? He’s a person too!”

“Sometimes,” Terra said softly, her voice carrying both the weight of her words and her desire to protect the Vaith from further harm, “the choices we make aren’t about right or wrong but about limiting pain.” She kept her tone even, trying to convey the complexity of the situation without overtly showing her frustration.

As Kyllian continued to protest, Terra reached out, gently squeezing his shoulder to ground him. Her eyes locked onto his, filled with a mix of empathy and resolve. She wanted him to understand that every action has consequences, especially when dealing with those who held power over others.

Kyllian’s voice trembled with frustration and confusion. “So, we just accept this cruelty as normal? There has to be another way!”

“Kyllian, what do you think happens outside these walls?” Terra asked, truly concerned about her son’s naivety. She didn’t know this question would forever go unanswered, at least for her.

As the sentinel awoke, it coughed, spitting out a lump of meat and blood from its throat. It reached out, trying to speak, but only gurgles and growls came out as it collapsed forward, still unaware of its new reality. Its eyes were gone, leaving it in perpetual darkness. It continued to try to speak, but only gurgles and hisses escaped its lips.

“I think we should find Father. He might know how to help,” Kyllian suggested. Terra nodded, appearing distracted again to Kyllian.

I got the key, but the undertaker saw me! The guards are coming! Merryl’s voice echoed in her mind, snapping her attention back to the urgency of the moment.

-Marsh-

Marsh clumsily fumbled with the keys, his hands shaking as he tried to find the right one. The guards were closing in on him, shouting at him to stop. Merry had slipped through the metal beams and was already safely outside. There weren’t many keys to choose from, but in a situation like this even a few could make the difference between life and death.

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The sound of a sword being unsheathed, made Marsh’s heart leap to his throat. A guard reached out his hand to grab him, just as the lock gave a familiar -TOK-, allowing Marsh to push through the gate, barely escaping their grasp. He shot them a sly smile as he slammed the small gate shut, quickly relatching it. The guards would have to fumble with the key, just like he had to just a moment ago, just with a significantly higher amount of keys.

Breathing heavily, Marsh dashed down the stairs, but the brief moment of relief was quickly overshadowed by the grim destination ahead.

Marsh’s hands fumbled over the bulky shelves in the dark, looking for the firepot containing the torches. He picked one up and lit it with the flint and steel lying next to it, revealing that the darkness had been the true benefactor of a tranquil mind.

The walls were adorned with skulls, arranged like a grotesque mosaic, stacked in circles until only a single skull would fit in the middle. Shelves carved into the walls were supported by femur bones, and as Marsh looked down the dark halls, he could almost hear the silent screams of the souls trapped within. He had to tell himself that it was just the wind creeping through the cracks in the ancient clay holding the place together.

He glanced back up the stairs, the last rays of the sunlight barely reaching these depths where he stood. The muffled sounds of the bickering guards reached his ears as they struggled with the gate. Soon they would swarm the area. The catacombs were enormous, and all its halls looked the same, making it easy to get lost. Down here, getting lost was dangerous—not just from starvation but from the creatures that lurked in the deeper chambers, drawn by the scent of bones.

Luckily, Marsh had used the tunnels before, they were perfect for sneaking in and out of town without being seen, making him familiar with that stretch of the catacombs. Merryl jumped down onto the bone-ridged, clay floor, shaking off the bad omens that seemed to cling to her fur. She looked up at Marsh, her eyes questioning if he was ready to continue.

Marsh raised his torch illuminating one of the corridors of human remains, and began walking.

“One, two, three,” he counted aloud, passing doorways made from human spines tied together into huge arches. He knew that he had to pass exactly seven of them before turning.

“Four, five,” he almost hummed the numbers, as if they were part of a familiar song guiding him through the catacombs.

The echoes of voices and heavy footsteps grew louder behind him. The guards had gotten through the gate, pushing him to pick up the pace.

“Six, seven,” he hummed, turning down the spine archway. A loud, deep scream erupted from behind him, making him glance back, one of the guards must have taken a wrong turn and encountered one of the catacombs’ inhabitants. Marsh felt a twinge of sadness and guilt for the guard but knew there was nothing he could do for him now. He stared down at the floor briefly, hoping that the guards would just turn back, before he continued down his path.

“Two, three, four,” Marsh kept counting, as he turned again, setting down his pace when a stitch began to cramp his side.

“Side Stitches, Really?” he muttered to himself, trying to distract himself from another blood-curdling scream that was then accompanied by an eerie silence. He looked around suddenly realizing that Merryl was gone. She must have disappeared while he was running from the guards' screams.

“Dammit!” he muttered to himself again. He wasn’t overly worried–Merryl would likely find a way out on her own. In reality they did not have much of a relationship; even though she was always around, he had never gotten to know her well, as she always fluttered off as soon as he would approach. He considered going back, but he knew she would have a better chance on her own if something went wrong.

Marsh continued down the dark, bone-strewn path, finally spotting some deep blue light shining through a gutter gate. It was already dark outside, but the moon was bright, casting its silver glow over the city. Surprised at how much time had passed, Marsh unlocked the iron-barred gate and stepped into Nullflare City.

-Craft and Kyllian-

While Marsh was still navigating through the catacombs, Craft had isolated himself in the inner sanctum. He stood behind a great steel gate intricately decorated with hundreds of red metal figures, all desperately clawing to break out from the door.

The chamber was grand and eerie; its vast ceiling supported by six statues emerging from the walls. Each statue knelt with its back arched, as if to bear the weight of the heavy, domed ceiling. Crafted with meticulous detail, they held smaller versions of Null's blue flame in various ways: the first two cradled the flame at their feet, the next two held their flames in outstretched hands, and the two largest statues, positioned furthest away, supported the ceiling with their forearms while kneeling on stepped pedestals. These statues, with their desperate outstretched hands, formed a fan-like arrangement that created a large, open bowl to collectively hold Null's flame.

The flickering blue light cast a haunting, cold glow that danced across the walls and the ornate steel gate, creating shifting shadows that seemed to whisper of ancient secrets. The ethereal light flickered and pulsed, casting a spectral glow that contrasted starkly with the surrounding darkness, making the chamber feel both mesmerizing and foreboding.

Craft had been in deep conversation with Null’s Ember, which always made him feel more confident. He knew the outcome was predetermined, with only two possible results, neither of which jeopardized his immediate plans. With a stroke of luck, he might even turn the situation to his advantage.

As he finished his communion, he observed his prized sentinel, Sebill, vigilantly guarding the door. Sebill was Craft’s finest creation: nine icy spikes ran along its back, with a dense, swirling mist stemming from them that enveloped the stone floor. Once a Vaith inquisitor, Sebill now served as a crucial instrument in Craft’s plans of order, a role that brought him satisfaction.

Craft descended the few steps from the elevated blue flame, and Sebill opened the massive gate, allowing Craft to step out. As soon as the gate cracked open, the distorted voices of the kingsguard arguing about who was at fault fell silent. Kyllian stepped out from the group of bleak-bloodied soldiers, trying in vain to maintain a semblance of toughness.

“What is going on out here?” Craft asked, surveying the tense scene, noticing the unsettling twitch in one of the guard’s eyes.

“Father, I'm sorry. Nullflare is in disarray,” Kyllian spoke up with a controlled urgency. “One of our sentinels has been attacked. He has lost both speech and sight.” He paused, knowing the next bit would sting. “And Marsh has escaped through the catacombs,” Kyllian finished his report, effectively summarizing everything. Craft’s face tightened in frustration, his communion interrupted, and now the situation was beyond his direct supervision.

“The catacombs, you say.” Craft pondered, stroking his stubbled chin as he considered the situation. His gaze rose from the floor to Kyllian, thinking he was still their best bet, if they wanted him to come quietly.

“He can’t have gotten far,” Craft said, addressing Kyllian. “There is only one safe exit from the catacombs.” Craft gave the order loudly so everyone could hear. “Kyllian, take the horses and as many guards as you need, find your brother, and bring him back to me.”

“Right away, Father,” Kyllian said, signaling the guards to follow, as he turned to leave, knowing that they had to act decisively, as Malachites furry only rose with every moment wasted.

Craft watched as they left, pleased with his foresight in having prepared the horses beforehand. Craft’s attention turned back to Sebill.

“Take me to the damaged sentinel. I have a new technique that might ensure his second, maybe even third, spike.”

-Marsh and Kyllian-

The day had gone to rest, and the full moon had risen into the sky. Marsh placed his torch in the sconce mounted on the entrance wall, then took a few steps out, squinting against the dim glow of the moon. His eyes slowly adjusted to the night, the silence and fresh, dewy air a welcome change from the cacophony of screams below. Yet, as he stood there, watching a thin, low-hanging cloud drift past, the quiet felt too loud.

An uneasy sensation coiled in his stomach, and anticipation tightened his muscles. The usual small lights decorating the city’s windows had vanished, replaced by an oppressive darkness. Marsh's heart pounded with slow, heavy beats as he scanned the area. The unsettling silence had Kyllian’s name written all over it. His instincts had warned him about Craft’s schemes, but uncertainty still lingered in his mind. Returning to the cathedral would mean certain death, as fleeing had already marked him as guilty. And the forest, not considering the monstrous creatures lurking within, would still be too cold to survive. With no other choice, Marsh took a hesitant step forward into the snow, hoping against hope that his instincts were wrong.

Then, for a split second, his eyes caught a fleeting movement near an old cart parked by an alleyway. He froze, eliminating any remaining doubt about this being a trap. Marsh took a step back toward the catacombs, his gaze still fixed on the dim city. If he went any closer, he would be caught for sure—unless...

“Kyllian,” he strongly whispered into the cold night, his breath a white vapor in the frigid air. But only the wind answered him with a chilling howl. “Kyllian, I know you’re out there.” Marsh's voice trembled with a mix of cold and desperation. “Kyllian, you unpeeled potato, show yourself!” he called out one last time, his voice cracking with urgent frustration.

The silence became unbearable before, a torch ignited behind the wagon, revealing Kyllian, wrapped in a thick fur coat. He approached slowly, signaling for the guards to remain hidden.

“If anyone here would be peeled, Marsh, it would definitely be you,” Kyllian retorted with a dry comeback, but his voice held more irritation than humor. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’ve caused?”

“How much trouble I have caused?” Marsh repeated, grinding his teeth. Was it really such a crime for him to exist?

“Yes! You ungrateful—” Kyllian bit back a curse, his anger simmering, barely contained. “You nearly killed someone!” He paused, taking a deep breath to steady himself, much like their father would. “You are so lucky that Mother found him, or you would be in even more trouble!”

“Wait—no! That’s not how it happened,” Marsh argued frantically, trying to explain. “That thing had practically undressed Mom and was about to...” He faltered, unable to finish his sentence as vivid imagery flooded his mind. Kyllian, colored by his father’s influence, remained unmoved, hearing only excuses.

“About what, Marsh? You tried to murder someone!” Kyllian said firmly, clarifying his rigid point of view as he took another step closer. To him, it was simple: actions were either good or evil, and murdering someone definitely fell into the latter category. “Listen, we can still fix this. Come back to the cathedral with me. Father and I will help you sort this out!” Kyllian believed he was offering Marsh yet another olive branch, a way out, but failed to realize that justice doesn't always come to the deserving.

“Are you insane?” Marsh yelled in disbelief. Not even Kyllian could be this dense. “If I go back, my life is forfeit, and you know it!”

“So you’d rather run away? From me, from Mother, from your entire family?” Kyllian’s voice shifted to a tone of pain. “Terra will be heartbroken. You’ll be an enemy of the crown!” As Kyllian heard his own words, he realized that Marsh was right. The truth felt like a heavy stone in his chest, and the fur coat he wore seemed heavier than it should, laden with the weight of his impending betrayal.

Kyllian’s hand trembled as he gripped the hilt of his sword. Until now, a part of him had believed that everything would go back to the way it had always been. Torn between duty and affection, his breath hitched, forming clouds in the frigid night air. His chest tightened, each breath coming harder as if the weight of his decision was pressing down on him. The fur coat felt suffocating, heavy and constricting, much like the expectations placed on his shoulders by his father and the crown. He reached Marsh’s side, needing more time to decide, but time had run out. His mind raced, but only his emotions rang true.

As Kyllian stood face-to-face with Marsh, his brother’s desperate eyes searching his own, he knew what he had to choose. The memory of their childhood together—Marsh’s mischievous grin and boundless energy—flashed in his mind. Marsh had always been the one to push boundaries, to fight against injustice as he saw it, no matter the cost. Kyllian knew he couldn’t let Marsh face this alone. The thought of losing his brother forever, of not being able to protect him, was unbearable.

With sudden clarity, Kyllian made his decision. It wasn’t about duty or honor anymore; it was about family, his brother, and the bond they shared.

With a resolute expression, he grabbed Marsh’s wrist and pulled him close, whispering urgently, “Go through the forest. You have no chance of escaping through town. Next time we meet, we won’t be brothers anymore.” Kyllian’s words were a bitter mix of night and day, unsure if he was making the right decision.

Marsh's eyes widened as the gravity of the situation hit him. Yet another person had to sacrifice for him to be free. It wasn’t just the end of a relationship; it was the end of everything he had ever known. This was not just an escape; it was their declaration of care, something he had never been sure of before.

“Take my coat,” Kyllian said, his voice softened as he prepared to remove it. “Stay warm and safe.” Overwhelmed by gratitude, Marsh forcefully grabbed Kyllian’s coat, making it look like he was stealing it—a ploy to trick the observing guards. In response, the guards jumped out from their hiding places, storming toward them, forcing Marsh to quickly retreat back into the catacombs, grabbing his torch on the way down.

As the darkness closed around Marsh, Kyllian’s mind flickered with images of their younger days—days when they were just brothers, unburdened by duty or deceit. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles whitening with the force of his frustration. The path he had chosen, or perhaps the one chosen for him, had led to this impossible decision. A quiet anger simmered within him, not just at Marsh, but at the cruel twist of fate that had forced his hand. Yet, beneath the frustration and the mask of authority, there was an ache—one he couldn’t afford to acknowledge. He had to stay strong, had to be the one to enforce the rules, even if it meant losing his brother.

Marsh felt much the same as he ventured further into the catacombs, this time a little less frightening than before, feeling safe under his brother's protection. Even though they were so vastly different, they had always been each other's silver lining throughout their entire lives. Marsh held the warm fur coat tightly, feeling the fading warmth from when Kyllian had worn it. Whatever lay ahead, he knew he owed it all to Kyllian. His heart sank, thinking that next time they met, they would no longer be brothers, but he found solace in knowing that he owed him everything.