They continued their trek upward, a reoccurring theme by then. Ironic considering they were in the underworld. The brick steps were slick with grease, and the porous mortar wreaked the smell of meat and fat. What anyone would expect from a feast for the Middle Ages, and one rightly left behind in them.

A light bared itself, marking an end to their ascent. Bright enough to bring a sense of hope, but only when compared to the tunnel’s pitch blackness. The scent of smoke hanging in wait at the top of the staircase inspired no such confidence, only accompanying the meat smell and sweat like a kicker to a bad joke.

A thousand candles burned, somehow brightening the cavernous expanse that constituted a mere ‘kitchen’. The immortal realm took glee in subverting mortal sensibilities for the sake of it, a pattern even Matthieu could discern. There was more kitchen looking up than there was looking forward, the indomitable walls lit with the culinary fires of a thousand puppet chefs.

Matthieu recalled seeing the Eiffel Tower’s construction, an image that had stuck with him even though he had only been young. The marvel had almost left him in tears, the men and their platforms high, only beaten by the tower’s ambition. That sight was nothing compared to what he stood before.

The construction of food for a million men stretched higher than anything else without wings, its many platforms giving way to the great smoke and fire of a central boiling pot as though worshipping a bloated god. It spoke with popping bubbles, each burst a wicked declaration of its hunger which the puppets fed by the ton.

“You there!” a voice declared. “Leave this place at once!”

Matthieu’s heart dropped as he reached for his sword, instinctively putting himself between Céline and the two guards waiting for them by the tunnel entrance. Before they could bear arms, Matthieu stole the initiative and charged for the first, his sword finding no flesh to cleave and instead armour to bounce off. It rattled in his hand as he returned for another strike, the blade biting at the armour but leaving little more than a scratch.

He dodged the swing of a Zweihänder as it came thundering down, slicing the sound beside his ear. He stumbled backwards, losing control of his counterstrike and missing the guard by inches. He turned his attention to his other opponent as another sword swiped him. He managed a weak parry as both his feet found stable ground. Truthfully, the time to run was overdue, but leaving two guards to chase them would snowball quickly into a hundred.

“Matthieu, look at that guard,” Céline whispered as he backed up against her, brandishing his sword.

He obliged, sparing a split-second to turn his attention away from the fight. The puppet was stuck, tugging on the hilt of his unresponsive sword. Limp and immobile, it was as though the blade had died.

Like something had cut its strings.

“That sword—”

“I realise,” Matthieu said, blocking another guillotine strike before taking advantage of his weapon’s weight and twisting it alongside the blade’s back edge. He ran it down the sword's length, reaching the hilt and continuing over the knight’s body, clearing the helmet’s scalp with a scrape and a clang.

Matthieu risked a look back and watched as the knight’s body fell limp, piling into a useless heap. He breathed a sigh of relief, walking to the second guard and finishing it with a weightless swipe. The puppet fell, not attempting a last stance as long as Matthieu stood over it.

“We have a chance,” he said.

They continued their march, catching a ride on an elevator pulley with a pile of coal enough to power a freight train. They leapt the short distance to a suspended wood platform, the small gap like looking down between a platform and a train carriage, if not a thousand times more nerve-wracking. Squeezing through the white-apron rapids of kitchen hands, they stepped through an arched doorway and onto solid brickwork.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

The air changed, the arbitrary threshold keeping the malformed culinary ritual separate from the rest of the castle. Like magic, the sound and smell retreated, leaving them in a type of silence that commanded respect. Purple carpet trimmed with gold stretched forward and to their left, two directions equally as mysterious and monotonous.

“This way,” Céline said, taking charge and turning left.

“How do you know?”

“I don’t know. I can feel something, though. The feeling of being a Deathseer.”

Matthieu followed the girl’s lead, their pace a step from breaking into a run. Chandeliers lit their way, but the same-y brickwork and ceaseless carpet made Matthieu’s head spin with every turn. Smaller, unlabelled doors watched them as they walked past, some too small for any person, some unnecessarily big.

“Here,” she said, singling out a door and turning the handle. They stepped through, the sound hitting them as abruptly as it had left them. This time, it was the sound of guards, hundreds of them.

Matthieu ventured to the edge of the catwalk and peered over to the dining hall below. Five dining tables stretched like runways from one end of the hall to the other, hundreds of knights at each one.

“I guess we know where the food is going,” he muttered as they kept to the shadow, wary of the sound of their creaking footsteps. “They’re not even eating.”

He watched the men smash their helmets with cuts of meat and poultry, none of it going anywhere but their laps and the floor—their plates if they were lucky.

“Habits, remember?” Céline dismissed as they reached the other end of the hall. He watched her go, refusing to spare him even a moment. Another door awaited them, and Céline reached for the handle.

Her fingers were shaking. They would barely grip the handle.

“Céline?” Matthieu called after her. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer him, but her body froze.

“Do you know where we’re going?”

“…no.”

Her steps had been rushed, and the little rhythm she had left in them was gone. She had turned frantic while he had barely noticed. Her shoulders rose and fell too fast.

“The feeling? Are you following it?”

She tensed up like a child preparing for a scolding. “No,” she confessed, hairs standing on end. “Not since we entered the hall.”

She turned around, forcing a smile. “How could you tell?”

It was intuitive, never crossing his stream of thought until the last moment where it all seemed to click.

“Because it feels like you’re running away from something. I can tell that type of thing.”

The smile faded, and her eyes fell to the floor.

“Before we continue, please Monsieur, answer me.”

Her grip on the handle tightened, and she pressed herself against it. Pursing her lips, she faced him one last time, holding back tears welling in her eyes. “What would you sacrifice to save her?”

“What? Céline? I don’t understand—”

“Answer me! Tell me, Matthieu!”

She roared. Desperate and afraid.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Anything I can give.”

The tears escaped as she bit her lip. She looked at him for an answer, desperate for one yet expecting another.

“Even me?”

“Even…Céline? What—”

“I can feel it. I can feel eternity.”

“Celine! I’m not sacrificing you!” he insisted, taking her shoulders. “What are you talking about?!”

“Someone has to take her place. It should have been me anyway. Never her.”

She barely held back the tears; his hands couldn’t stop her shoulders from quaking. Her legs gave out, and she fell to her knees.

“I thought I could do it. I thought I could do it for you. I thought I….”

“You’re not doing anything for me! I’m not letting anyone do anything for me again!”

“This is how she felt…when it was time.”

“Celine! Listen to—”

“She’s here….”

The girl’s blank eyes rose and looked past his shoulders, staring at death itself.

He turned and saw an angel, the woman who had given him life and given up her own. Golden, divine, pursuing them in a ceaseless, beautiful approach. The fate Celine had run away from.

“I’m not as fearless as you, Monsieur,” Celine whispered. “In the end, I couldn’t sacrifice myself for anything. Not even for you.”

Matthieu turned back to her, but she was gone.

Unconscious, resting like an infant in Amadea’s arms.

“Celine!”

He ran for her, sword in hand, ran at the visage of the person he loved, unsure if she was all there anymore.

And she stopped him with a single delicate hand. A single smile, and he flew backwards.

Through the castle.

Over the garden.

Past the outer wall.

Across the valley.

Over Melone.

Down the hill.

Through the tower door.

And it slammed shut.