Episode 3 - Chapter 15
As Ianc stepped through it, the glass quivered as if briefly uncertain whether to solidify or shattered.
The rumbles never ceased.
Stone groaned against iron as the keep absorbed the first true weight of the Inquisition’s assault. Somewhere above, siege engines struck, and the impact rolled downward through the dungeon like distant thunder trapped in a coffin.
They moved through Caladryn Dea’s dungeon, their shoulders brushing damp stone. The air was stale and cold, thick with rust and mold. No words were spoken, only hand signals exchanged. Ianc followed clumsily, returning nods and shakes while Rahorh led with absolute certainty, turning corners without hesitation like he was the mansion. They passed cells. Then a refectory—long tables overturned, benches rotting in place. Then stairs, climbing just enough to feel wrong, before another corridor lined with empty rooms. No guards. No voices. Only the castle shuddered harder with every strike above.
At a dead end, Rahorh stopped. He knocked once on the stone. Muttered. Twisted a wall sconce. Then another, upside down this time.
Nothing.
Then the wall fractured. Five stones fell first, forming an X-shaped void. The rest followed, collapsing inward in a controlled ruin that revealed a vaulted passage sloping downward, hidden behind the false wall. “How could you know this much?” Ianc whispered. “It’s like you chose to be captured.”
Rahorh glanced back. “After Havenstead, I suspected you’d be brought here. When the Selenai spared us, I knew.”
“You still didn’t answer me.”
“You are the successful case of my entire life,” Rahorh said flatly. “I… the Church planned this attack years ago. We know every corner in Caladryn Dea.” He cast a faint illumination sphere and gestured Ianc forward, telling him to get in the tunnel first.
“Still a big risk to get captured along with me,” Ianc murmured, crawling on all four.
“They won’t kill their own kind after my little magic show.”
The passage dropped sharply, then curved upward again, forcing them to crawl on hands and knees. The stone changed here, older and slicker. The air shifted into a weird combo of filthy and fresh. Explosions boomed overhead. Dust bled from the ceiling. “I hate this tunnel. How long till we–”
Another impact silenced him.
Rahorh cursed, “I warned them not to strike the tower bases.” He surged ahead. “We’re beneath the western tower. This is the underwork, the old aqueducts.”
The tunnel opened. They emerged onto a reinforced truss, an immense stone-and-iron framework built to hold far more than foot traffic. Below it roared a river, fast and black, running parallel to a sewage channel separated by a narrow causeway. This space stretched endlessly in both directions.
Ianc’s infravision flared. Magic threaded the vast depths in entangled lines, plunging far beyond the river’s edge. Massive, coiling structures anchoring the mountain itself. Roots of a colossal tree, he realized. “Aeimortis?”
“The siege offers an escape route.” Rahorh led with uncanny confidence now. His robes dragged behind him like smoke. “If the lich can walk in Sahada undetected, so can I in my own home.”
“Your what?”
“I… also want to share Solfire with my people.”
A weird thought crossed Ianc’s mind. “Are you feeding me to the tree?”
“Very funny, woodman,” the rhys chuckled. “That’s why we like you.”
“I hate this place,” Ianc spat. And this place hated him too. Something crawled through his spine, not physically but deeper like an echo you weren’t supposed to hear. As they crossed the bridge, the world suddenly changed. The thunder of siege engines vanished as if it was swallowed whole. No echoes. No vibration. Only the river below and the slow, pulsing cream-white light emanating from the roots around them. Each pulse sent a chill to Ianc’s mark. Cold crept up his spine. It wasn’t fear but pattern recognition.
“What is it?” Rahorh asked as he helped Ianc to cross the final steps off the bridge.
Ianc placed his hand on the wall as if he could hear its whisper. The stone thrummed, faint and without rhythm, like a dying heartbeat fighting for its life. “The Umbrite started something. A magic fusion, larger than anything I’ve seen before.”
“Your sister?” Rahorh asked.
“Whatever it is, we need to stop it,” Ianc snapped. “If the lich isn’t here, then what’s the reason?”
“What is left doesn’t mean to escape,” Rahorh heavily said. He frowned, arms crossed, like he was trying to dismiss his conclusion. “This place is a tomb for all of us.”
Ianc gritted. “The siege, the bloodshed are traps designed to steal Bloodfire from the fallen templars to replicate your spell again, but larger, meant to create an army of the dead within the Sear.”
Rahorh suddenly lurched to the wall. “Ashenvines are made from Aeikin’s root… We need to stop it before the entire army punches through the castle.” He quickened his pace, almost to a sprint. “Quick, we regroup with Cley.”
They emerged at the base of the western tower, open air slamming into them. Above, the battlefield burned. Fireballs arced in coordinated volleys. Rhys in pairs stood within templar rings, channeling magic into sustained bombardment. The walls collapsed. Homes burned. Umbrites fled screaming and fell silent. “This is madness,” he muttered under his breath. The image of Myrathus’ ruin flashed in his mind. He was helpless then, but now he might be able to do something.
“You are late.” Abigail emerged behind the tower’s dark alcove like a ghost. Her cloak soaked with sweat, her eyes were too sharp for any surprise.
He could only smile at her sight. He glanced at the rest of the party. All were present but Blake. There were six other templars but he didn’t know their names. Two of them had grey beards, sneaking out from the mouth gape of their helmets. He recognized Kieran and they exchanged a quick nod. “We need to sabotage the magic stirring inside.” He pointed to the way he and Rahorh just came from.
The rescue team looked at each other, confused.
“He’s right,” Rahorh said. “The Umbrite is using the war to fuse a huge Necromancy orb.”
Clementine glanced at the rest, then back to Rahorh. “Then what are waiting here for?”
“I need some weapons. Bow, sword?” Ianc asked.
Aaron tugged a leather folder on Ianc’s hand. “Knives, darts, and a few camp gears.”
Ianc glanced at Campa. “Give me your hatchet.” He turned to a nameless templar. “And that pickle too.” Then he turned around and became the vanguard of the tight Iron Maiden squad. He led them back to Caladryn Dea’s aqueduct system.
They descended back to the underground moat, each step amplifying the eerie quiet. The air hung heavy, charged not with the scent of water and waste, but with ancient magic that thrummed beneath the pavement. Ianc led the way, his eye fixed on the unseen destination, the roots of the Aeimortis. But he felt something else, something beyond. A pocket of existence twisted free from the mundane landscape, a portal to a dimension accessible only by unlocking a unique seal. Through it, a confined realm, an… Inner Sanctum.
A precarious bridge spanned across the chasm of the structure, their only path forward into another section. Ianc kept on leading, his mark urged him to, his mind urged him to, his moral compass urged him to. The bridge turned into a stairway, leading up. Finally, they ascended an archdoors, much similar to the one above that led to the keep. But this one was translucent like dirty glass, without revealing the secret behind it, nor reflecting the image before it. “This is where I felt the magic,” Ianc said.
The pulses of the Aeimortis’ roots gave a source of light here. It was white, but it wasn’t, more like cream, then it wasn’t. A few more pulses passed, a few more colors flickered.
Rahorh circled around the translucent archdoors. No one dared to make a move. “I see not my reflection, but my desire,” he whispered. “Don’t look at it.”
But it was too late for Ianc. He saw himself with a boy who looked like Ciaran in his arms. And next to him was Mirari, pale and unalive, but she was his wife. Behind her, a shadow of wavering petals shape. The black daliah he saw in his Inner Sanctum. Then he saw a shadow of a woman, an apparition as beautiful as Mirari, but her eyes were bloodred. It flickered then, and became Abby with distorted eyes shape—too narrow, too sharp. “Enough!” Ianc forced his Bloodfire to cleanse his body. Sweat beaded on his brow, he glanced at Abby, who scrutinized him back. He nodded, signaling that he’s fine.
Rahorh stepped forward, pulling a small pouch from his belt. Blood and sand, mixed with a practiced hand, became a thick, dark ink. With solemn purpose, he began drawing intricate tattoo patterns onto the glassy surface—symbols of each Umbrite tribe. He murmured, a quiet revelation in the profound silence, “They still include the Heliok, despite all the misery we caused them,” a fleeting glimpse into a history steeped in complex betrayal and shared suffering.
As the final stroke was laid, the mixture solidified the glass, making it opaque for a heartbeat. Then, it transformed again, shimmering, becoming utterly clear, dissolving into a liquid-like state that flowed and rippled. Without a word, he walked inside it. His hand raised back from the glass, signaling a safe passage to move forward. The team stepped in, one by one, passing through the undulating veil as if walking through water.
As Ianc stepped through it, the glass quivered as if briefly uncertain whether to solidify or shattered. It enshrouded him with a cold sensation, then lifted him weightless.