Cirilius III

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It’s most likely a trap.

The worst part? Cir didn’t much care. The voice cut through the fear, the strange distortion that surrounded them and was doing a convincing job of drowning them at the moment. Smoke was thrashing, fighting to keep his head above the tangy water that continued to rise. If it wasn’t for the hookblade, he would have vanished under the artificial ocean at this point.

“Can’t… can’t swim…” Smoke’s words were garbled, broken, but the two voices—Outenders, Cir was sure of it, although he’d never encountered the creatures until now—caught hold of Smoke’s comment and responded viciously.

“Can’t swim? Can’t breathe? I suppose he can’t keep his head above water either.”

“Probably not,” Cir’s voice agreed, and—sure enough—Smoke’s head was no longer bobbing on the surface.

“Oh no you don’t!” Cir shouted, suddenly full of rage. “Swim! Swim, Smoke!” It was difficult to pick out Smoke’s form in the black room, but was that his head, breaking the surface of the water?

“Blasted bullets, what I wouldn’t give for light!”

As if on cue, a faint, fragile light bobbed in front of his eyes. It didn’t have any specific form or substance, but it was, indeed, light.

“I don’t remember asking for light.” The voice seemed less lighthearted now—angry.

Almost as quickly as the light had appeared it was extinguished, plunging the room into an even greater darkness that seemed to seep into Cir’s clothes and bones. He found himself being dragged toward the dark waters, his delicate position on the mountain suddenly compromised.

“Do it again,” Smoke urged, his voice deep and commanding.

“What?” Cir hissed, fighting back panic as he scrambled to find a handhold, footing—anything.

“Ask for light.”

“Because that worked so well last time.” Cir fought back an eyeroll. It wasn’t like Smoke would be able to appreciate the gesture in the dark anyway.

“Cirilius.” Smoke must have been serious; he rarely, if ever, used Cir’s full name.

“Light!” Cir shouted. As before, a hazy light cut through the darkness, but it looked flimsy and unsure of itself.

“And here I thought you were the artist.”

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Cir was about to retort to Smoke how this moment had nothing to do with ability to draw or sketch when it dawned on him. Working quickly, he mentally sketched out a more powerful light in the form of a pillar coming out of the dome’s center and stretching toward the floor.

He was so transfixed on his mental illustration that he missed one of the Outenders rumble in Smoke’s deep roar, “Darkness!” The darkness around them was more than a nuisance or a powerful force pulling him toward the water now. This darkness was hands around his throat, slowly choking him.

“Now…” Smoke’s voice was strangled too. If Cir couldn’t talk, he wouldn’t be able to summon the light—if it even worked.

“Light!” Cir managed to croak out, but even if his words wavered, the image in his mind was steady, intentional. He would be going home today: Axis and his chilled chocolate were waiting.

His eyes were forced shut by the glare. It was as though the sun had forced its way through the hole in the dome’s roof and exploded throughout the vast space. After a moment he opened them barely, looking through slits at the pillar of light rising from the ocean like an arc of shooting stars. The pillar was coated in Outender symbols, and the symbols seemed to be undulating as though tossed at sea. Cir quickly scanned the water for Smoke, who seemed to be swimming, or at least keeping himself afloat, his hands like oars as he shuffled the water back and forth, treading.

“If only… water, dry up!” It had sounded lame in his head, and was worse out loud, but if it worked…

The water bubbled slightly but didn’t dry up before Cir heard a voice, distant now, a voice that sounded like Axis, say, “I love play time.”

“Thank you for joining our little soiree.” Steele’s voice this time, and Cir had a pretty good idea where the voices were coming from. It would also explain why the Outenders had suddenly left Cir and Smoke alone.

“Are you here to visit the hunted?”

“They may call themselves hunters.”

“But they have yet to hunt anything but disaster.”

“Ruin.”

“Weapons unfired.”

“Unable to even cross a room.”

“That sounds about right.” A chuckle, followed by an explosive sound.

“Mistbullet!” Smoke exclaimed. “Who on Lore would be firing mistbullets?”

Cir whooped aloud, ignoring Smoke entirely.

Because why else would “Axis” reply to herself, unless Axis was here, in the monastery, firing on the creatures?

“Get’em, babe!” he crowed, reenergized. The light continued to flood the room with color and warmth, making it obvious the route he and Smoke needed to travel to escape this living nightmare.

“If we climb the pillar using the extended symbols as handholds…”

“We’ll get to Steele and Axis,” Smoke finished the sentence. He looked relaxed, especially for a man who had been threatened, betrayed by gravity, robbed by his own voice, and then almost drowned. Classic Smoke.

The climb was made easier by the hookblades. By some miracle, Cir had kept his grip on the blade, and Smoke, true to form, had kept the priceless tool safe.

It was hard to climb up such a bright surface, and the pillar was warm—almost hot—to the touch, but neither man needed much motivation. The floor grew closer and closer. The voices were hissing in the distance, two more gunshots rang through the room, the cacophony making Cir’s eyes water, and the ground was still too far away, gravity still distorted, and Steele’s voice was shouting “Shoot,” but there was no sound of a bullet…