Aric froze mid-step, his instincts urging him to intervene, but the voice’s chilling words held him back. “Stop. Don’t do anything foolish; you can’t take them on by yourself.” The voice dripped with a mixture of warning and something Aric couldn’t quite place—a strange satisfaction, as if witnessing some twisted play unfold.
He forced himself to remain still, his eyes locked onto the scene below. The forty cultists continued their haunting chant, a symphony of twisted voices reverberating off the cave walls. It wasn’t just words; it was raw, corrupted mana, channeled into a sound that crawled under his skin. He observed each motion with cold precision, catching the subtle shifts in their stances, the unnatural rhythm in their voices. These weren’t mere zealots—they were orchestrators of something far darker.
One of the three lead cultists raised his hand, a silent command, and instantly the forty others mirrored the gesture, lifting their hands in unison. Their fingertips glowed with dark energy, mana pooling in the air between them like some malign force gathering strength. Then, with eerie synchronization, they extended their hands toward the steel bell looming above the altar.
Aric’s eyes narrowed as the cultists released a surge of mana, funneling it directly into the bell. For a tense moment, nothing happened. Then, with a resonant chime, the inner pendulum swung forward, crashing into the bell’s metal wall with a deep, shuddering ring. The sound vibrated through the cave, low and dreadful, carrying an undertone of pain and despair.
In that instant, the elves on the altar convulsed, their bodies writhing as if an invisible force had taken hold. Aric watched as blood began to seep from their noses, eyes, ears—every possible opening. It wasn’t a trickle; it was a torrent, as though something within them was draining the very life from their veins. Their faces contorted in silent agony, and yet not a sound escaped them. In seconds, the altar was drenched in dark crimson, blood cascading over its edges, pooling on the ground beneath it in sickening rivers.
Aric’s fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. He had seen horrors within the illusion of the Fourth Gate, but those had been beyond his control, mere memories he’d had to endure. This, however, was different. He was here. He could have acted, could have— No. He shook off the regret clawing at him, his face hardening again, pushing down the fleeting sense of guilt. It was a useless emotion. He was here to observe, not to interfere.
“You stopped me from saving them,” he seethed inwardly, his voice cold, almost accusing as he spoke to the presence in his mind.
The voice responded without hesitation. “Everything for the prophecy.”
Aric’s frustration burned like a low flame, but he kept his silence. He knew well enough by now that pushing the voice would yield nothing, only vague riddles and cryptic phrases. But he couldn’t help the surge of irritation. Lives had been lost for this prophecy—whatever twisted design the voice had in mind. The faint regret simmered beneath his calm facade, gnawing at him, though he quickly quelled it. There was no time for second-guessing now.
The cultists continued their ritual, arms lifting in a near-manic fervor. Once again, the lead cultist raised his hand, and with a precise, eerie grace, the others did the same. Another chime rang from the bell as the pendulum struck again, deeper, heavier this time, resonating like a death knell. The blood that had spilled across the ground trembled, then slowly began to retreat back toward the altar, drawn by some unseen force.
Aric watched, his expression impassive as the blood seeped up the stone slab, disappearing into its surface. The elves—what remained of them—were little more than skeletons with skin, their bodies drained of every drop, every ounce of life force. Their hollow eyes stared blindly at the cavern ceiling, a grim reminder of their sacrificial role in this dark ritual.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then, as though responding to the sacrifice, a surge of black smoke erupted from the altar. It writhed and coiled, dense and suffocating, filling the air with the unmistakable taint of the Wyrd. The energy was vile, twisting the air around it, warping reality itself. Aric felt the malevolent presence radiating from the smoke, the corrupted mana pressing against his senses like a storm.
"What the fuck is this now..."
He drew in a steady breath, grounding himself in the present. “All this—just to conjure a fragment of the Wyrd’s energy,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone. The ritual’s purpose was becoming clear: the cultists were drawing on the Wyrd’s chaotic power, preparing to unleash something unnatural upon Verdantis. It was reckless, dangerous… and utterly fascinating.
As if sensing his thoughts, the voice interrupted. “Now, do you understand? Their devotion knows no limits. They will tear reality apart if it serves their purpose.”
Aric’s eyes narrowed, his frustration mounting. “You stopped me from stopping this. What is it you’re trying to prove?”
The voice’s response was calm, resolute. “Patience, Aric. This was meant to happen. The prophecy requires these events to unfold exactly as they are.”
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Aric exhaled, swallowing down the flare of frustration. There was no changing the past, not here and not now. All he could do was watch, observe, and remember.
Below him, the cultists resumed their chanting. Aric noticed a new intensity in their voices, a feverish zeal that matched the ominous energy in the cave. The black smoke began to seep into each of the cultists, drawn to them in small, insidious tendrils. The Wyrd energy seeped into their very skin, warping their features subtly, adding a malevolent gleam to their eyes. They welcomed it, allowing the chaotic force to take root within them, oblivious or perhaps numb to the inevitable corruption that would follow.
Aric’s fingers tightened around his weapon, a cold smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “So this is your endgame?” he murmured. “Willing vessels for the Wyrd… and they don’t even realize they’re pawns.”
He would wait, he decided. Let them revel in their delusions of power, for now.
Aric stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the cultists as the Wyrd energy continued to seep into their bodies. They remained oblivious to his presence, lost in the throes of their ritualistic frenzy. It struck him as grotesque—how willingly they surrendered themselves to forces that would eventually consume them, without understanding the depths of what they were invoking. But that was the nature of devotion, wasn’t it? A devotion that bordered on madness, or perhaps had long since crossed that line.
The smoke from the altar continued to coil upward, swirling with a life of its own, pulsating with the raw, unstable energy of the Wyrd. It was thick enough now that it cast a murky shadow over the cultists, dimming the already weak torchlight that flickered around the cave. The chanting grew louder, more desperate, the words sounding increasingly foreign and twisted, as if corrupted by the very force they sought to wield.
As Aric watched, he caught a faint whisper in his mind—the familiar voice, now a thread of calm within the chaos. “Observe closely, Aric. There’s more to be learned here than what lies on the surface.”
He kept his gaze steady, scanning the faces of the cultists. Each of them bore a look of ecstatic anticipation, eyes glazed with a fervor that bordered on mania. It was only the three figures at the altar’s head who seemed slightly apart from this frenzy, their faces veiled by hoods, expressions hidden. Unlike the rest, they did not sway or chant as wildly. Instead, their hands were steady, controlled, weaving complex gestures in the air with a precision that bespoke years of practice. These three were not merely participants; they were orchestrators.
Aric narrowed his eyes.
The leader of the three stepped forward, lowering his hood to reveal a face weathered and scarred, his skin marked by the unmistakable traces of prolonged exposure to the Wyrd. The man’s eyes gleamed with an unnatural glow—a faint, sickly green that seemed to pulse in time with the bell’s reverberations. He raised his hand once more, signaling the other cultists, who instantly fell silent, their chants fading into the thick air.
The silence stretched, charged with tension. Then, in one swift, fluid motion, the leader turned to the altar and laid his hand upon its once blood-drenched stone surface. He began to speak, his voice a low, resonant chant in the same twisted language. As he chanted, a ripple of energy passed through the room, so strong that Aric could feel it pressing against his skin, a force that felt like it was probing, searching.
'This is a binding,' Aric thought, recognizing the subtle cues, the careful cadence of words meant to anchor the Wyrd energy to a specific purpose. His lips curled into a slight sneer. They were binding themselves to the Wyrd, hoping to control it, to use it. Fools.
The chanting grew faster, more fervent, the leader’s voice rising in pitch as the two others joined him. Their voices layered over one another, forming a disturbing harmony that resonated with the unnatural energy in the air. It was then that Aric noticed something shifting in the shadows near the altar—a faint distortion, as though the air itself were bending, darkening.
Slowly, a shape began to form within that darkness. It was an entity, a presence that had no true form, yet carried an aura of malice so intense that Aric felt a chill run down his spine. It was the Wyrd itself, responding to the summons, taking shape through their invocation. The cultists began to tremble as the shape coalesced, its form flickering like a black flame, a swirling mass of shadow and distorted energy that seemed barely tethered to this realm. The chanting intensified, the cultists swaying with newfound fervor as though the creature’s mere presence electrified their souls. The three leaders at the altar extended their hands toward the entity, and the dark smoke of the Wyrd energy pulsed in response, twisting into grotesque tendrils that reached toward them.
Aric clenched his fists, his expression hardened, but he stayed hidden, keeping his mana contained to avoid detection. This was a creature birthed from the very essence of the Wyrd, pulled forcibly into reality by mortal hands. It writhed and pulsed, its form a chaotic mass of black tendrils, with glimpses of something resembling eyes, hollow and watching, embedded within the darkness.
The leader of the cultists shouted something in the strange language, and the others raised their hands once more, flooding the air with their mana. Aric observed, barely keeping his disgust in check as he realized what they were attempting. They were feeding their own life force, their very essence, into this ritual in an effort to bind the entity to their will.
But the Wyrd was chaos incarnate, unpredictable and boundless. Aric knew that, and a part of him almost relished the inevitable disaster these fools had set in motion.
The shadowy entity began to pulse with a dark rhythm, as though it were breathing, as though it were alive and absorbing the energy around it. Its form grew more solid, and for a brief moment, one of the cultists faltered, his mana flickering unsteadily. The Wyrd creature’s hollow eyes snapped onto him, and with a flicker of movement, a tendril of darkness lashed out, wrapping around the cultist and pulling him into its form. He didn’t even have time to scream before he was absorbed, his form dissolving into the mass, leaving only a faint outline in the darkness where he had once stood.
Aric’s lips pressed into a thin line, his focus unwavering. ''You thought you could control this?” he murmured quietly to himself, almost in disbelief. “Amateurs.”
The voice in his mind returned, a hint of amusement laced into its otherwise cold tone. “They believe they wield power, but true power is never claimed so easily. This is what blind devotion reaps.”
...