Book 1: Chapter 46 - The Wailing Death [Part 2]
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She started to make her way against the flow of the shallow river, going upstream where she knew the true presence of this dungeon waited for her challenge.
Seraphina paused in the middle of the shallow flow of waters, her armored boots sinking slightly into the loose stones. She took a moment to breathe, forcing herself to find calm in the gloom. This part of the dungeon—or this Trial, as this world called it—was testing her patience, really testing it. An unsettling hush pressed in from all sides, so profound that her own heartbeat sounded thunderous in her ears. The air was cool, almost clammy, and a metallic tang lingered on the back of her tongue, as though the river carried the taste of old blood.
She continued her solitary trek upstream, the water colder now. Initially, the water only reached her ankles, but as she advanced, it crept halfway up her shins. Each step stirred up fine silt, and loose stones clouding the dark water around her legs. Although she could hear a distant churning, a fog had drifted in during that both dulled and emphasized every other sound. Through the swirling haze, Seraphina glimpsed shadowy shapes among the rocky outcroppings that bordered the water. She couldn’t tell if they were merely strange boulders or more of the Undead.
Her breath hitched momentarily in her throat. She would never admit it, being alone in these conditions made her scared. And Seraphina just missed her companion's solid presence, despite her own insistence that they remain behind.
For against a Banshee—a creature she wasn’t even sure was truly Undead or some twisted Fae—well, they’d be of no real help at all. Without magic weapons, physical attacks would be all but useless. Even Eloise’s attacks, though magical, were ironically mostly physical in nature.
She tried to convince herself that leaving them was the right decision, but a prickling anxiety in her chest said otherwise. If she somehow failed, no one would be there to pull her from the jaws of doom. Of course, if she failed, it wouldn’t matter one way or another.
The dreary landscape did little to assuage her fears. The dungeon’s interior sky—if it could even be called that—resembled a dark, starless night trapped indoors, with drifting gray clouds that offered no hope of daybreak.
She now the occasional jagged rock formations thrust up like broken bones, rimed with some sort of glowing moss that pulsed faintly blue. The reflection of this eerie luminescence on the water’s surface seemed to track her progress, bobbing and weaving, as though she were haunted by a procession of ghostly lights. From time to time, she thought she could hear moaning, but it might have been just the breeze scraping over the rocks.
She pressed onward, determined not to let the gloom break her focus. Though her heart pounded, she forced the fear down. And so, each step brought her farther from the safety of her companions, deeper into the unknown.
The mist thickened until she could barely see her own outstretched hand. Soon, the swirling gray enveloped her completely, muffling the flow of the water around her ankles—or was it up to her shins? She found herself counting paces, determined to keep track of how far she’d come.
Without warning, the ground dipped beneath her, and she nearly lost her footing. She cursed under her breath, righting herself with a tight grip on her sword’s pommel as the blade stabbed into the river bed.
Time blurred. She couldn’t tell if she’d traveled minutes or hours in this featureless haze. Her mind began to churn with doubt: had she chosen the correct path? Or had some illusion led her astray? Would she wander here, alone, until her stamina drained away completely? The rhythmic sloshing of her steps through the water became a sort of maddening clock ticking away her life.
Seraphina was just about to sink into despair when the mist opened before her like a curtain drawn aside, revealing an islet in middle of the stream. A raised stone at the water’s center served as a sort of stage. Perched atop it, facing away from Seraphina, was a woman with impossibly black hair that cascaded down her back. She sat hunched, sluicing garments in the knee-deep water. The wet fabric slapped against the stone with a dull, repetitive thud. A sudden chill snaked up Seraphina’s spine, and she felt her pulse hammering in her temples. Something about the woman’s figure seemed painfully familiar.
When the woman turned, Seraphina froze. It was her own face—pale, twisted into a knowing smirk. Not the face of her in this world, but her beautiful visage from her last. The sight was so unnerving she nearly lost her grip on her sword. The washerwoman’s eyes were ringed in shadow, her lips curled in an expression of glee that bordered on madness. Slowly, with deliberate motions, the creature lifted the cloth in her hands and wrung it out, letting the water drip, drip into the stream. That water, now tinted a deep crimson, floated downstream toward Seraphina like the fingers of prophecy.
“You came.” The voice was airy, nearly a whisper, but the words carried an unmistakable malice. A hollow sound.
Seraphina swallowed. The creature should not have spoken at all, for it dispelled some of the mystique that had surrounded her. “You’re the Keening Washerwoman,” she stated in a clear voice, her mouth nonetheless gone dry. “A Banshee.”
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In response, the black-haired figure tilted her head. The slow motion was almost playful, as though she took pleasure in Seraphina’s sudden fear. Her malevolent smile widened, revealing unnaturally sharp teeth. Seraphina’s own reflection—the face she’d seen countless times in mirrors—warped into something hungry, something ancient and cruel.
“You wonder if I’m Fae or Undead?” the Banshee asked, voice echoing strangely, as though it came from every direction at once. “Why not both?”
A deafening wail erupted from the creature’s mouth, shattering the calm of the clearing. It hit Seraphina like a physical force, knocking the breath out of her lungs. She staggered, throwing an arm across her ears in a futile attempt to block out the sound. Horror swirled in her stomach; the Banshee’s cry felt like it could strip her soul from her body. The shallow water churned at her feet, as if troubled by the unearthly shriek.
Her Health began to creep downwards as she weathered the aural assault.
For one terrifying moment, Seraphina felt her resolve falter. Her mind reeled under the onslaught, and her heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst from her chest. She tasted copper on her tongue, and realized she had bitten the inside of her cheek. Struggling to remain upright, she remembered why she had come and what power she had sworn to uphold. Then she remembered who she was.
She was Seraphina bloody de Sariens and no low-level scummy dungeon was her match. This indignant anger empowered her, giving her the resolve to stand proud and straight, looking at the bitter black creature as if it were nothing more than a cockroach.
She inhaled and, with a mighty effort, expelled her own voice. It was not a scream born merely of fear or rage—it was the invocation of her Holy Covenant.
Before she had sung to beauty and life. Now Seraphina sang to condemnation and judgment.
Radiant energy coursed through her throat, and an almost blinding light rippled outward from her lips. She could feel the weight of her power weaving through her words, meeting the Banshee’s keening head-on.
A mighty wail all of her own.
The clash of sound was nearly unbearable. It was as if thunder had torn open the skies, shaking the foundations of the stream itself. Through the haze of unearthly noise, Seraphina’s gaze locked onto the Banshee’s. She saw the creature’s triumph fade into surprise, then disbelief, and finally, fear. Seraphina’s empowered voice was neither melodic nor graceful—it was raw, potent, the clarion call of someone who was sure in their own cause.
As the two cries merged into a frenzied crescendo. Seraphina stumbled forward, determined to maintain her assault. Step by step, she advanced on the figure, never letting her voice falter. The Banshee tried to hold her ground, clawed fingers digging into the wet cloth she’d been washing, but it was no use. With a final shriek that dissolved into a strangled gasp, the Banshee collapsed in on herself, becoming a swirl of inky darkness.
You have slain a Banshee 500 experience gained.
You have learned Wail of Judgment (lvl.1)
You have completed a Divine Ordeal 1000 experience gained.
Cracks began to form in the rocky platform beneath the Banshee. They spiderwebbed outward, luminous white lines that looked as if the very dungeon was unraveling around them.
Yes! She cried out to herself. Fresh notifications flooded her vision informing her that now she was level seventeen. Quickly, she put two of her attribute points into Constitution and one point into Luck. Finally, she put her free skill point into Heal, maximizing the spell.
The walls of fog shimmered, shuddered, and then abruptly shattered. Slivers of light—like shards of crystal—rained down in a glittering storm.
In the next heartbeat, the entire dungeon began to convulse. The rock walls behind them fractured, sending jagged spears of stone and crystal tumbling into the water. The shallow stream turned turbulent, its surface churning with shards of brilliant azure that scattered light in all directions. Seraphina felt the ground lurch beneath her feet. The unnatural gloom peeled away, replaced by a kaleidoscope of shifting lights as if she were trapped inside a giant prism.
A sudden, violent flash nearly blinded her. She raised an arm to shield her eyes, and when she lowered it, the scene had changed entirely. The stream, the swirling mist, and the Banshee’s shattered platform were gone. Instead, Seraphina found herself on solid ground, the sky above a normal shade of dusky gray—she was back outside the trial’s entrance.
Blinking against the fading afterimages, she saw the blurred outlines of her companions rushing toward her. Miriam was first, spectacles askew, arms stretched wide. Frest and Eloise followed, the latter looking as though she might drop to her knees from relief at any second.
“It’s over!” Miriam her maid cried, voice cracking with emotion. “She’s back!”
Seraphina tried to speak, but the words refused to form. The aftershock of unleashing that Holy voice had drained her, leaving her lungs and throat feeling as though they’d been scoured with fire. She took one unsteady step, then another, the world tilting precariously around her. She managed a half-hearted smile at her companions.
All at once, the exhaustion and terror she’d fought so fiercely to contain erupted through her body. Her muscles turned to lead, and the sword slipped from her grip, clattering against the ground. A wave of overwhelming relief washed over her, hot tears burning at the corners of her eyes. She’d done it. She’d faced the monstrous Banshee that had taken her own face, sealed the unholy wail with her own Holy Covenant.
“Lady Seraphina!” Miriam shouted, her voice echoing again in Seraphina’s dull ears as she lurched forward to catch her. Eloise raised trembling hands, whispering a prayer as her face, still bearing traces of the horrors they’d witnessed, twisted into concern. Frest hovered behind them, eyes bright with a complicated mix of awe and relief.
Seraphina’s lips formed silent words, perhaps a prayer of her own, but only a faint breath escaped. The weariness pressed down on her like a crushing weight, and she let her eyelids sink shut. The world slipped away in a swirl of shadows and comforting warmth.