The Prophet’s trial was over before it had begun. The entire city of Yenneth despised the Cultist and were more than happy to hear his sentence. A life in prison where his every waking moment would be filled with torture until he died a slow and painful death. It had been nearly a week since the sentencing, but the memory still made Lynn’s heart flutter with a grim joy.

The Moth’s commander walked through the torchlit halls with two guards flanking him, a dark smile etched on his face. The dungeons were crawling with rats and other pests, but the most disgusting thing in the dungeons sat in the very back. Before he could retrieve his target though, he stopped by a heavy iron door. The door had a complex locking mechanism that could only be opened from the inside, ensuring that the only people allowed entry were those approved by current occupants.

Lynn knocked on the iron, the clangs from his fist echoing through the entire dungeon. A slot on the door opened at eye level, and a young man peered through. After a few seconds, the slot shut and the door opened with several loud thunks and a slight hiss. Lynn’s guards stood at either side of the doorway as he stepped into the plain, dimly lit room, his eyes locking onto the comatose knight splayed out on a table nearby. The door shut behind Lynn, and he heard it lock itself once more.

The surgeons had attempted to remove some of Svarog’s armor, but had only managed to free the gods arm. His skin was unnaturally white and flaked like ashes from burnt wood. His fingertips were blackened, and from them trailed a smoke darker than night. “We’ve been studying the body for a few days now, and I must say, it’s baffling,” the surgeon that had let Lynn into the room piped up.

“Every cut we inflict heals instantly without even a drop of blood being spilled. It also completely dulls any blade we use. Not to mention the-” Lynn cut the excitable surgeon off with a raised hand.

“While that is fascinating, that’s not why I’m here,” The Elven commander said. “Do you think we’ll be able to use him?” The reason the Moths had opted to study Svarog instead of killing him outright was simple: he had power enough to level a city, and power like that won you wars. The surgeon looked at the knight nervously before nodding.

“I-I think it’s possible, but I don’t know if it’s smart,” he said, adjusting the collar on his white surgeon's gown. Lynn raised a brow and waited for the surgeon to continue. “Svarog is unstable. He lashes out at random, and only seems to get more violent when we try to dampen his magic.” Lynn nodded along with what the surgeon was saying. Svarog’s resistance was expected to a degree, but that didn’t make it any less aggravating.

“One of our best was put in critical condition during one of Svarog’s outbursts. His injuries are so severe I doubt he’ll ever walk again. Svarog is… incredible. His strength is unlike anything we’ve ever seen, and for that reason I think he’s too dangerous. His volatility matched with his power will bring devastation to any army, even the one he’s fighting alongside,” the surgeon finished.

Lynn opened his mouth to respond, but stopped. His eyes narrowed as his focus turned to Svarog’s hand, where the smoke that had been falling from it like a waterfall of ink had begun to float upwards. The surgeon’s face paled and he pivoted, scrambling to grab something on a desk when the air was suddenly filled with a pressure so dense it forced the air from the surgeon’s lungs. In an instant, Svarog disappeared and reappeared in front of Lynn, towering over the Moth.

“Nox… where is she?” Svarog sputtered, his words slurred. The sound of his voice beat against the walls like a hammer, as if there was power in every syllable that spilled from his mouth. The surgeon fell to the ground, covering his ears; Lynn had to fight the urge to do the same. He would need to look confident if he wanted his new idea to work.

“We have her,” Lynn strained, straightening his back. He didn’t know who Nox was, but seeing as it was Svarog’s first concern upon waking, Lynn figured he could use it to his benefit. Svarog let out a weak roar of anger, shuffling towards the Moth. Svarog’s hand shot out, an accusatory finger directed towards Lynn.

“Give her… back,” Svarog mumbled. There was almost what seemed like a tremble in his voice as his hand dropped to his side. “We will, don’t worry. But only under one condition,” Lynn said. Svarog nodded groggily, trying and failing to stand straight.

“You serve me,” Lynn said, voice dripping in faux confidence. Svarog scoffed. “I… serve… nobody,” Svarog spat in a hushed voice before his breathing slowed. The god fell to the ground, unconscious once more. The surgeon pulled himself up shakily as a grin spread across Lynn’s face.

“Well, it looks as though we’ve found a bit of leverage. I’ll search for information on this ‘Nox’. In the meantime, keep doing what you’ve been doing. Once I feel like I’ve learned everything I can, I’ll tell you what to do next.” Lynn turned to the door of the room and undid the locks, stepping out into the dungeon halls once more. “Before any of that, I have prisoners to visit. I’ll make sure King Faelar hears about the good work you’re doing down here,” Lynn added with a charming smile. The young surgeon beamed at the Moth, nodding in excitement before the heavy metal door cut the two off from each other.

Lynn sighed, running his hand over his face to steel himself for what came next. He started down the hall once again, passing cells that held filth beyond compare. Lynn recognized most of them, and they recognized him in turn, all jumping at the bars of their cells in an attempt to reach the Moth. He had put them there, after all.

After a walk filled with threats, curses, and even the odd attempt to seduce the Elf into freeing the imprisoned Cultists, Lynn found the one he was looking for, tucked away at the very back of the dungeons. No other prisoners were kept so far back in an effort to isolate the inmate..

An old, decrepit man sat cross legged, surrounded by dozens of disease ridden rodents that he fawned over, treating them like they were beloved pets. His wild, pale white hair was well trimmed, about shoulder length, and ended in a widow's peak with a white goatee to match. Lynn had seen how the man kept his hair a consistent length, and it involved letting his rats do the work for him. He wore tattered burlap pants, and rats scampered through the holes in them like it was a maze. Where his stomach should have been, there was a hole big enough to fit an adult human’s head. Inside of it sat an unnaturally large rat that nibbled at the scar tissue around it.

“Hello, Cleaver,” Lynn called to the man. No living person knew his actual name, but that was what the Cult had called him. The Cleaver looked up, a lopsided grin on his face. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Elf? Have you finally decided on a punishment suitable for one such as myself?” he implored, his voice coming out slurred and hoarse.

The Cleaver had been the Cult’s torturer, and derived a sick pleasure from mutilating living creatures. He had been captured during a raid by the Moths on a particularly isolated Occult compound. The things seen in the Cleaver’s ‘home’ had been enough to make several of the Moths on the campaign resign, and that was only the first room. The part that had disturbed Lynn the most had been that, impossibly, everything in that accursed place was alive. Humans and animals alike with missing limbs, their skulls cut open, pieces of their brain missing, and a number of other mutilations were still sentient and aware.

On top of all of that, there were several examples of what looked like the Cleaver trying to create an entirely new creature. Human heads spliced onto canine bodies and vice versa. All living. All breathing. Lynn himself had taken to putting them down. The Cleaver disgusted Lynn more than anything, but his hatred for the Prophet overrode any hesitancy in using him..

“I need you to torture someone,” Lynn said. Normally those words would have left a bitter taste on his tongue, but in this case he almost had to fight from smiling. The Cleaver raised a brow before pulling himself up to his shaky legs, ushering the rats away with a wave of his hand. The guards behind Lynn both stumbled over their own feet as they tried to avoid the vermin, only succeeding in falling to the ground, nearly crushing the Cleaver’s pets.

“And who would you have me demonstrate my skill on?” the Cleaver asked, hopping over to the cell door and gripping it for balance as his legs became accustomed to his weight once more.

“I’m sure you’re already familiar with him. I need you to torture one of your fellow Cultists. The Prophet.” The Cleaver’s eyes lit up as Lynn spoke, and a haunting grin spread over his face.

“I’m more familiar than you might think, Moth. But I must warn you, traditional methods will fall short. I spent many long months with him, cutting deeper every time. He built a resistance to it. Not to mention the runes carved into him by our great leader were unlike any I’d ever seen,” the Cleaver began pacing around his cell, a nostalgic smile on his face that made Lynn feel sick.

Lynn was familiar with the runes the Cultist was describing. A common trend amongst the more dangerous members of the Cult were jagged, indecipherable runes etched onto their bodies. At first, Lynn had only believed them to be self-inflicted wounds that would show loyalty to the Cult, but after capturing and studying the Cleaver, it turned out they were not only meant to conduct ether, but to do so in ways Lynn had never seen. The carvings on the Cleaver’s back had a dull glow, and according to the Cleaver, allowed him to live without needing to eat, drink, or sleep, as well as acting as a surrogate spinal cord, as half of his was missing due to the hole in his stomach.

“I understand the Elven princess in your troupe is skilled with illusions, no?” the Cleaver voiced, turning to face Lynn with a wide smile on his face. Lynn’s hand darted to the rapier at his hip. “How do you know that?” the Elf spat. The Cleaver had been locked up long enough that he shouldn’t have even known that Astrid had joined the Moths, much less anything about her abilities.

The Cleaver’s smile widened as he gestured to rodents that had scurried back into the corners of his cell. “The rats are quite talkative, once they warm up to you.” Lynn’s nose scrunched up in disgust as the Cleaver scooped the rat from the hole in his stomach and placed it on his head, scratching it behind the ears as he did. “Vermin are a fitting friend for someone as vile as you,” Lynn spat.

“When you lock a man up and isolate him from other people for decades, he learns to adapt. Although, I believe the life of a rat would be much more fulfilling than the life of a bug, Moth,” the Cleaver taunted. Lynn grit his teeth as he bit back the words he wanted to fling at the Cultist. Lynn needed the Cleaver, and despite how much the notion infuriated him, he knew he wouldn’t get the help he wanted through threats.

“Regardless, I’ll do your work. I only want three things in return,” the Cleaver said. Lynn glared at him, but the Cleaver didn’t react. “I would like a steady supply of food for my rats, whatever information you have on my dear Seamstress, and most importantly, I need my Runestone.” Lynn opened his mouth to protest, but the words failed as they bubbled up in the back of his throat. The Moths and their torturers had been cutting into the Prophet every day since his trial without so much as a noise from the Prophet. They couldn’t do anything that would make him react. It was maddening.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Whatever it takes,” Lynn mumbled, looking towards the ground. The Cleaver’s confident smile dropped into an expression of surprise. “I’m sorry, I must have misheard you,” the Cultist said, stuttering slightly.

Lynn straightened, locking eyes with the Cleaver with a renewed determination in his eyes. “I don’t care what you need, I’ll get it to you as long as you break the Prophet. I need him to feel what I feel every time I hear his name. Whatever it takes.” The Cleaver’s expression returned to a smile as he let out a dry laugh. “He really must’ve ruined you. Almost makes me proud,” the Cultist taunted.

Lynn didn’t respond as he unlocked the Cleaver’s cell, but he did have to bite back the bile that bubbled in his throat as he got a better look at the large rat atop the Cleaver’s head. It wasn’t just one rat, but the bodies and presumably organs of several that had all been grafted onto one rat. The seams that connected the chunks of stretched flesh were sloppy, unlike what had been in the Cleaver’s workshop.

“Ah, I see you’ve noticed my handiwork,” the Cleaver said, though there was a somber tone to his voice. He plucked the rat from his head and held it at eye level, letting the rodent sniff and nibble at his nose. “While mutilation had always been my specialty, it was the Seamstress who would stitch my pets together. Oh how I miss her! If only she had been here, she might have been able to stitch little Edmund up properly,” he doted, and for a second Lynn thought he could see tears in the corners of the Cleaver’s eyes.

“You named your rat Edmund?” Lynn scoffed, keeping just in arms reach of the Cleaver, but never closer in fear of catching some disease. The Cleaver nodded with a smile that was the type you showed only in cases you were laughing at someone’s expense.

“After my dearest brother, yes. Though he’d die before he admitted that we shared blood.” A frown passed the Cleaver’s face for a fraction of a second before he changed the subject. “Enough about me, though. I asked for information on my Seamstress.” The Moth and the Cultist started down the dungeon halls, though this time any threats being thrown towards Lynn were cut short as the Cleaver hobbled past, instead being replaced with expressions of reverence and fear in equal measure.

“‘Seamstress’ doesn’t ring any bells. We’ve either never encountered her, or she was killed so quickly it wasn’t worth note,” Lynn said. The Cleaver’s lips tightened into a line and his expression darkened, sending a cold chill up Lynn’s spine. This was the first time the Moth had seen his captive express animosity so outwardly.

“That would be… troubling. For your sake, let's hope that isn’t the case.” The Cleaver shook his head as if dispelling the notion. “And my runestone? I’m sure you didn’t throw it out. Even someone as dull as a Moth should be able to recognize the power it holds.”

The stone the Cleaver was referring to was a diamond-shaped crystal about the size of an adult man’s forearm that the Cleaver socketed into the hole in his stomach, two small but deep indentations at the top and bottom of the cavity proving just as much. The stone was a dull gray color, though originally it held a variety of vibrant colors that changed depending on the angle you looked at it. Across its eight faces, hundreds of runes had been set, each as unique as the next. No one in the country could make sense of what any of it meant, but they knew it must be important somehow, so they kept it.

“What exactly do you need the stone for?” Lynn pried. In response, the Cleaver stuck a hand through the hole in his stomach. “I feel hollow without it. Can’t enjoy my work like this. Also, while my runes do act to keep me upright without the latter half of my spine ‒or any structural support down there, really‒ the runestone helps alleviate the burden,” the Cleaver said.

The rest of the walk was mostly silent to Lynn’s relief, only broken by the occasional snide remark from Cultists or the Cleaver. “Go retrieve Astrid for me. We’ll be inside,” Lynn said, waving his guards away as they came to a rather simplistic looking door. The guards bowed and hurried away, watched all the while with a scrutinizing gaze from the Cleaver.

Lynn pulled a key from behind his chest piece as he pushed the wooden door open, revealing a plain room filled with large crates and one small trunk. Lynn walked over to the unremarkable trunk and inserted the key into the latch that held it closed. He pulled the Cleaver’s runestone from the trunk and tossed it to the Cultist, who almost didn’t catch it.

“You would toss such a priceless artifact?” the Cleaver spat, disdain pouring from every word. He poured over the runestone, analyzing its every surface with a grimace on his face. “Several of the runes will need recarving, with how long it’s been dormant, it’ll take weeks for it to work properly once more,” the Cultist mumbled to himself before sighing and shaking his head.

He placed the bottom point of the crystal into the indentation above his pelvic bone and pushed inwards, forcing the upper point to scrape along his skin, carving a red line across the wall of scar tissue before it reached its socket. Blood bubbled from where the points dipped into the Cleaver’s skin, trailing down the surface of the crystal and getting caught in the runes carved into it. The Cleaver smiled as the runestone began to glow a dull purple.

The Cleaver ran a hand over his face, sighing contentedly. The runestone thrummed in harmony with his voice, seeming to even amplify it to a degree as there was a different edge to the Cleaver’s words. Something new. Something dangerous. The hairs on the back of Lynn’s neck stood up as the Cleaver looked towards him, a glimmer in his eyes.

“Find me two prisoners. One male, one female. You will have the Elven princess craft an illusion that makes them appear as the humans Vale Incaria and Grayson Windfel. The Prophet may have steeled himself to my techniques, but that only means he’s intimately familiar with how they feel,” the Cleaver said, his voice low and tone threatening. “Knowing the pain the people he loves are experiencing and being able to do nothing but listen as they scream should be more than enough to break him.”

° ° °

Astrid braced her arm against the wall as she gagged, her legs threatening to give out. Images of what she had seen the Cleaver do to those prisoners flashed in her mind, and along with them came another wave of bile from the back of her throat.

For hours she had to stay in that room, and for hours she had to keep up the illusion that made the prisoners take on the appearance of the two she had met in Ashbourn. The look of horror on the Prophet’s face even before the torture began had been enough to make Astrid feel guilty, but when the Cleaver revelaed himself to the Prophet, she had to fight the urge to cry.

Tears streamed down her face as she recalled the hollow look in the Prophet’s eyes by the end. She stumbled away from the wall, starting down the long corridor adjacent to her. She didn’t know where it led, but she didn’t care. She just needed to be far away from that chamber.

Her gait held none of the usual superiority she carried herself with, instead replaced with a hollow shuffle. She walked aimlessly for what felt like hours until she felt a familiar flame approaching. Her eyes trailed up from the ground across the Pyromancer in front of her, settling on his blindfold.

There was a stark contrast between their appearances, though not in the same sense as usual. Astrid looked disheveled, her hair wild and eyes bloodshot, while Woden looked well trimmed and collected. Still far from tamed, but certainly better than he was. The King's first order upon arrival to Yenneth had been to get Woden cleaned up, and for a second the sight distracted Astrid from what she had seen the Cleaver do, but that second was fleeting.

Woden tensed as Astrid wrapped him into a hug he didn’t return, but he shelved any hesitancy as he noticed Astrid’s shaking. “What happened?” Woden asked, his tone riddled with frustration. A croak escaped Astrid’s throat as she opened her mouth to respond, but she was cut off by a voice behind her.

“Astrid, there you are!” Lynn shouted. Astrid pushed away from Woden and pivoted, seeing her commander approaching with a broad grin plastered on his face. There was a bounce in his step that she hadn’t seen since before the Moths had started hunting the Prophet. “You did brilliantly! Your illusions almost had me convinced! The Cleaver’s methods are certainly something to witness,” Lynn laughed, shaking his head.

“The Cleaver’s methods?” Woden echoed, familiarity underlied with something much darker in his tone. Lynn looked towards the Pyromancer as if he had just noticed him, his smile faltering for a moment. “Ah, right. You’re here.” Lynn’s tone was snide, a disrespect that wasn’t lost on Woden.

“I suppose I should thank you, though. Because of your fight with Svarog, we’ve added an asset to our forces that I doubt we could have acquired otherwise. Or, we’re in the process of adding it at least,” Lynn said. Woden stepped towards the Elf, but Astrid reached Lynn first.

“You’re going to try and use Svarog? He’s the reason this all happened!” Astrid spat, her voice hoarse and voice quivering. “Have you lost your damn mind?! How the hell can you smile after what we did?” Contrary to what Astrid said, Lynn’s smile had fallen, replaced by a scowl.

“My only regret about doing what we did is that the prisoners bled out too quickly,” Lynn snarled, earning himself a baffled look from Astrid. She took another step forward, jabbing an accusatory finger into Lynn’s chest. “Those two prisoners were arrested for stealing bread! Bread! Did you even know that?! Do you even care?!” Lynn’s expression stayed the same, telling Astrid all she needed to know.

“Two people, slaughtered for the crime of wanting to eat. You’re a monster,” Astrid muttered, causing Lynn to bristle. “You’re royalty, the affairs of peasants don’t concern you. Regardless, there are things that must be done in war. That’s just how it goes,” Lynn stated.

“This isn’t war. This is a quest for revenge that has spiraled out of control. I’m sure the Prophet used the same justification back during-” the back of Lynn’s fist cracked across Astrid’s face, sending her stumbling backwards. Astrid hadn’t seen Woden take his blindfold off, but it was gone when he darted forward, grabbing Lynn by the head and slamming him into a nearby wall. The Pyromancer pinned the Moth against the wall with his forearm, his sightless eyes burrowing into Lynn’s.

“Every word you just let slip from your tongue is reason enough for me to kill you here and now,” Woden spat, increasing the pressure against Lynn’s throat. “Svarog cannot be used. Even if you manage to make him believe you are his allies, once he figures out you have manipulated him, he’ll cut you down. Even the most insignificant of slights is a death sentence.

“But even atop all of that, the worst mistake you made was mentioning the name of that Cultist.” A shadow passed over the Pyromancer’s face, and black flame began snaking up his arm. “You captured the Cleaver, and despite surely having seen the things he did, the things he does, you kept him alive? How long has he been in your employ? I doubt this is the first time you’ve used him.” A knowing grin passed the Pyromancer’s face. “Did the King by any chance use him?”

Flashes of Astrid’s childhood flew through her mind, and with them came a splitting headache. “W-what?” Lynn sputtered, rage in his eyes as he struggled against the Pyromancer’s strength. Woden laughed. “Everyone knows Royalty would go to no end to save face. Maybe Wryn wanted to see if he could cut the Pyromancy out of his daughter,” Woden said, his words falling over the room, muting every sound. Woden shook his head and sighed, glaring at Lynn once more as his black flame began to race towards the Elf’s face.

“Woden, stop!” Astrid yelled after recovering from her shock. The flame around Woden’s arm halted, surprising Astrid, but she quickly realized from the look on Woden’s face that it hadn’t been what she said that stopped the Pyromancer. Astrid could sense it too. It was a familiar flame off in the distance, though now it’s presence was almost suffocating. Woden dropped Lynn, who landed on his feet, drawing his rapier and pointing it at the Pyromancer’s throat.

Woden glared down at the Moth. “Gather your men. You wanted a war, you’re getting one.” Woden walked away from Lynn, pulling his sword from ambient flame. Astrid followed closely behind Woden, but her gaze kept flickering back to Lynn, who’s eyes were locked onto her with an expression she couldn’t read.

“Woden, what’s going on? What is Seren doing outside of Yenneth?” Astrid asked after pushing Lynn from her mind, trying to read the Pyromancer’s expression. Woden sighed, but a smile was playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’ve always thought experience was the best teacher. Now's as good a time as any to see if your Pyromancy has manifested properly. The Cult’s come to take what the Moths wouldn’t give.”

🜎