The Keeper continued, a note of pity in his tone. “Those killed by the dead gods seem to meet the same fate as those who enter the shores of the Obsidian Sea; no one comes back.”

Jasper surged forward, fighting against the iron grip of his captors, but it was no use. His magic was cut off and his strength, while more than enough to crush anyone on earth, was unremarkable here. The priest turned his back on them, training his eyes studiously on the magnificent frescoes as the pair were dragged from the chapel.

As they were led back into the narrow tunnels, Ihra almost managed to break free. She slammed the back of her head into her guard’s face with such force that the nizirtu let go, falling, stunned, to the floor. She dashed down the narrow corridor, her hands straining to break the manacles that bound her wrist, but her flight was cut short as more guards appeared ahead, quickly cutting off any avenue for escape. Then came the punishment.

The nizirtū rained blows down upon her head, beating her to her knees. Blood flowed freely from a dozen open wounds as her cries of pain echoed down the dimly lit halls. Jasper surged forward to help her, desperately trying to grasp any shred of magic, but his attempt was cut short as a crushing blow smashed into the back of his head, plunging him into darkness.

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He awoke with a gasp. His head was throbbing so badly that every beat of his heart seemed magnified, sending an accompanying pulse of pain through his temple. He was in darkness, but not complete.

The room felt like a furnace, the pavement beneath him feeling like the desert sands on a scorching day, but the heat barely registered as his eyes struggled to focus on what lay before him.

A dim, amber light pervaded the room, emanating from some unseeable source, but Jasper got the sense that the large chamber was roughly circular. His hands were tied behind his back, most likely to one of the coffins that surrounded a central podium - a podium in which was lodged a strange dagger.

He was in the tomb of the dead gods.

Ihra was slumped against a coffin on the far side; her hands, like his, were tied down. He couldn't tell from across the room if her eyes were open or not. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words died on his lips. He tried again, and again, but no sound left his mouth. Silence reigned supreme amongst the ancient sepulchers.

Jasper then tried to summon a spell, but the essence refused to enter his hands, cut off somehow by the manacles that circled his wrists.

Damn it. He cringed as his frustration sent another wave of pain coursing through his head, but he did his best to push through it. The pain could come later; for now, he had to find a way to get out of this room.

His eyes were drawn back to the dagger. Well out of his reach, there was something magnetic about its presence. As he stared at it, a deep, aching desire swelled within his heart, a longing to ascend the steep marble steps and pull the dagger from its sheath.

Another pulse of pain tore through his temple, and he shrank back against the coffin, cursing. The icy cold that spread up his arm, emanating from the Fey charm, told him all he needed to know. Stay clear of the creepy dagger. Check.

He forced his eyes away, staring fixedly at the tiled floor as he tried to assess the situation. If he could just get his hands free of the manacles, enough time had passed that he ought to be able to summon the Ophan again. He wasn’t sure the being was strong enough to fight whatever had emerged from the shadows of the dead gods, but it might give them enough time to run. And maybe kill a few of the Nizirtū while I’m at it. As the face of the Keeper flashed through his mind, a snarl of rage escaped his lips, although it quickly turned into a pained whimper as an agonizing spasm of pain lanced through his forehead.

Focus. His eyes swept across the room, searching for anything he could use to break free, as he tried to fight the rising tide of panic swelling in his heart.

His ears pricked up as the silence of the chamber was disturbed by the distant patter of feet against tone. It was still far off, the sound carried further than normal by the unnatural stillness that suffocated the room, but as he listened intently, he became certain that something was approaching.

A fresh wave of panic swept through him, and he strained again at the manacles. They would not budge, but a vague memory popped into his head, of a tv show where the character was able to pull his hands free of handcuffs after breaking his thumbs. He pounded his fists blindly against the coffin, his gasps of pain stifled as his fingers finally succumbed to the force.

But, apparently, the trick only worked on cheap handcuffs. No matter how hard he contorted his finger, they refused to slip their bonds.

Despair flooded his soul as the patter of approaching feet slowly grew louder. He closed his eyes and waited for the end to come, begging Kas̆dael, Selene - any of the gods to come and save them.

A loud noise rocked the silent room, the rumble of rocks scattering across the floor, and a moment later, a hand fell on his shoulder. He nearly had a heartache, his mouth opened in a silenced scream as he stared up at his doom. It was Ihra

Streams of half-congealed blood dripped down her face, her eyes were wide and unfocused, her nose was clearly broken, but she reached behind him with determination. Grabbing hold of the shackles that bound him to the coffin, she closed her eyes and, after a moment’s pause, pulled.

A shower of rubble bounced silently along the chamber floor as the shackles gave way. Essence flooded back into his fractured hands, the blue flames immediately springing into life, as Jasper reveled in the return of his power.

But as quickly as the strength came to her, it left. She collapsed onto his shoulder, hitting him like a load of bricks, as her consciousness faded. He stumbled beneath the unexpected burden but managed to keep her from hitting the ground.

The footsteps were drawing closer now, and Jasper had no doubt about as to what was coming - a soul-devouring monster, the shadow of a dead god come to claim its prey.

Desperation is a powerful motivator. Despite the pounding of his head and his broken hands, despite the days without sleep or food, a burst of frenetic energy filled him. Tossing Ihra over his shoulder, he snatched up the bow which had fallen from her hands.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

As he turned to run, his eyes fell on the dagger again.

He froze, as that wild, desperate need to possess it surged through his heart again. Unwittingly, he took a step forward, his eyes glued to the destiny that lay before him. He would take the dagger and slay the beast - nothing in the world could stand against him once he held it in his hands. Even the gods will tremble at my rage. Jasper took another step toward the dagger, ignoring the bitter cold that spread up his arm, as his red skin turned a nearly frosty blue.

But as he stepped forward, Ihra slipped from his arms. His eyes were drawn away from the dagger as she plummeted toward the floor. Her head did not hit the pavement.

The world came rushing back to him as he stopped her fall, mere inches from the ground. The approaching doom rushed back to the forefront of his mind as Nahas̆s̆innu's charm was broken. Tossing her across his shoulders, he fled into the darkness, away from the chamber and the dagger that sought to lure him.

Jasper raced down the dimly lit corridors of the nizirtū, looking for the endless darkness of the abandoned city. His breath came hard and heavy as he left the seal of silence behind, each step he took sending another jolt of pain pulsing through his brow, but he pushed on. He had to, after all.

To stay behind was death.

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She crept down the dimly lit corridor, her feet lightly padding against the pale uskāru stones that lined the cramped tunnels. Normally, they’d prefer to proceed more quietly, but time was at a premium right now. Her fingers cramped around her naked blade, itching for a taste of combat, as her group neared the chamber where their quarry had been bound.

Anatta couldn’t shake the feeling of worry that sat in the pit of her stomach, but she didn’t need to - the thrill of a potentially epic battle was more than enough to outweigh the shameful fear.

After all, how often did one have the chance to battle some sort of corrupted Mwyrani spirit? If she survived, the glory she’d reap would earn her free drinks for years to come. Maybe even a promotion.

But as her leader entered the chamber before her, Anatta could sense that something was wrong. Zahtû’s shoulders were tensed, his fingers wrapping tightly around the shaft of his battle-ax, but it was not from fear of battle. Zahtû relished a fight more than any man she’d ever known - he was no doubt hoping to run into the corrupted shade. No, whatever’s upsetting him is something else.

Suddenly worried, Annatta pushed her way forward to get a better view. And as she peered around her commander’s shoulders, the thrill of an impending battle was replaced with true panic.

Their quarry wasn’t there.

The chamber lay empty. The cursed manacles the nizirtū had bound their prey with were scattered across the floor, surrounded by a pile of rubble from two damaged sepulchers. A few footprints, preserved in the dust of rubble, led into a tunnel on the far side.

But the room itself was empty - save for the strange dagger suspended above a podium.

Resembling the fang of some ancient fell beast, the dagger’s jagged edges glimmered in the dim light with an almost mesmerizing sparkle.

Nahas̆s̆innu. A name appeared in her mind, but it meant nothing to her. Annatta watched as Zahtû approached the podium.

His massive arms shook as he reached out, his hand slowly closing around the hilt of the dagger. Zahtû stood still, frozen like a statue, his back turned to the rest of his group. After a few minutes had ticked by, and he still hadn’t moved, Zarīya crept forward, placing her hand on his shoulder.

“Zahtû?”

He moved in a blur, his motions so fast that Annatta didn’t even realize he had moved at first. Until a head rolled to a stop at her feet. Zarīya’s wide, red eyes stared at up her, her mouth still open with words she would never speak.

Zahtû - no, not Zahtû - glared at his former squad. His once-ruby eyes were pools of liquid darkness, the rage on his face quite uncharacteristic of the always genial battle junkie.

For a long, terrible moment they were in a standoff. Annatta stared at her former friend in horror, unable to process what had just happened.

And then he moved.

How she deflected his first blow, she’d never know. Quick as lightning, speed accompanied by overwhelming strength, he crossed the space between them in a flash, the dagger aimed straight for her neck. But she was not a member of the Royal Guard for nothing, nor was the emblem of Nahrēmah that dangle between her breasts merely for show. No, Annatta had earned her stripes fair and square, and the long years of hard training saved her, her reflexes responding even as her mind struggled to catch up.

The dagger slammed into the wall behind her, bouncing off the uskāru with a deafening clang. But she was already on the move. She slid beneath his legs, slashing at his flanks as she passed. Her former friend bellowed in rage, but Annatta didn’t allow herself to hesitate. She activated one of her abilities. Backstab.

Powered by the skill, she moved with a speed that almost matched Zahtû’s, her dagger arching. Almost.

Her dagger sliced toward his back, guided by the ability to slip into between the vertebrae and sever the spinal cord, but it never even touched his skin.

Zahtû’s massive hand wrapped around her neck, yanking her off the ground with casual ease. Black mist seeped from the corners of his eyes as he stared down at her. Annatta tried to force herself to meet those eyes, to meet her death with the bravery worthy of a devotee of Nahrēmah.

His fingers tightened, cutting off her air, as he slowly lifted the strange dagger up, the ghost of a smile on his lips. She whimpered and a flood of warmth trickled down her legs. Not like this.

And then she fell to the ground as a beam of light dissected his arm.

Annatta lay on the ground watching the rays of light dance across the pale marble floor. Her oxygen-starved brain struggled to make sense of it, her breath coming in shaky rattles through her crushed throat. Somehow, she managed to lift a healing potion to her lips, the sickly sweet liquid flooding into her mouth.

Her mind cleared almost immediately, and she jerked upright.

The room was almost blindingly bright as the darkness was driven away by the goddess battling her former friend.

No, not a goddess. Her stomach dropped as Annatta recognized her friend. Maratāni.

The squad’s mage was barely recognizable. Her body glowed with unrestrained power, her eyes filled with the starlight that she channeled. Maratāni’s movements were swift and decisive, matching Zahtû blow for blow. But the state of her body told Annatta all she needed to know.

Huge fissures had opened up all over her skin, weeping blood and pus, and her usually curvy friend looked as if she had spent a year without food. She’s burning her soul.

Maratāni met her eyes, her voice garbled and distorted as she spoke. “Run. I’ll hold him off as long as I can.”

Annatta hesitated, looking in vain for the fifth member of their squad. She felt the bitter bile creep up in her mouth as she spied a crumbled heap in the far corner, dressed in the bright green cloak that Ze’ev so loved.

“RUN.”

A physical beam of light smashed into Zahtû, driving him into the walls of a chamber with a sickening thud. The enchanted stone held, unmarred by the conflict raging within, but so too did Zahtû. With a snarl of rage, he plunged the dagger into the light, exploding the beam from within.

Maratāni fell to her knees, her withered chest gasping for air. But she pushed herself up with determination, summoning again her beloved starlight as she deflected the blow aimed at her head.

Annatta fled.

Into the tunnels, into the darkness, but no distance could carry her away from her shame. It burned inside her chest, a shadow of her heart, but her feet did not slow down. It was her duty to survive now, to make sure that the families of her squad mates weren’t left forever waiting for their loved ones to return.

And maybe, if Nahrēmah was merciful, she’d even find her quarry on the way.