Silence is never quiet. The promise of stillness often invites ever-echoing sounds, the reverberating beats of the existing world. Yet, in the rare, hushed moments of life, people can discover a discrete madness, slowly gnawing at their minds. Only then do they realize the importance of that sweet, constant noise, sole shield to their inherent craze.
Aeden's gaze flickered around the ruined hall, his crimson sheen eerie in the darkness. Everyone else was soundly sleeping, but he was unable to taste that pleasing slumber, not amidst his clouding thoughts.
It had started shortly after releasing his seal, but he could remember vague memories of its unpleasantness during his early childhood. Shadows dancing in the corner of his eyes, sinister whispers overwhelming his wits, and blood-curdling visions of events he had never seen.
Sometimes, he could ignore them on his way into oblivion, but other times, their embrace would tighten, making it impossible to rest. That night was one of them, so he had to occupy himself, if only not to forsake his sanity.
A jerk of his hand conjured a small fire, warming his friends and giving him some much-needed light.
He now had access to Witchcraft through his mother's legacy, the primordial Mana-controlling technique. It was named as such due to it being the Witch's art, a power she shared with her children. Some say that spellcasting originated from an unrefined version of it, bestowed by Sorcerers upon the rest of sentient life.
Aeden thought the opposite was true. To him, Witchcraft felt like trying to guide the wild, unrestrained flow of an ocean. It was vast and deep, chaotic and dangerous - Mana in its purest form. One did not master it, only tame a portion of it, explaining why Sorcerers possessed such varied abilities despite being siblings.
The Sorceress of Slaughter's Witchcraft manifested as the infamous Ionnfyre - ruthless, all-cleansing blaze that earned her the nickname "Fire Singer". He figured they were part of his inheritance but was scared of the consequences of using them. His hunch told him that his mother's demise would come even sooner should they be wielded.
Humans could copy the Great Mother's power, though the results were often vile spellcasts that had nothing to do with the regal nobility of her might. Moreover, they needed flesh sacrifices to use such spells, a price some pay without flinching. Aeden had heard of similar cults in the Shunned Continent, but that accursed land was deadly even for his kind.
Whatever he had done against Junia was also still a mystery. Witchspells usually didn't require incantations for Sorcerers, yet strange murmurs guided his voice and body to transform the Medice into something akin to an Exousia Stone. It was as if he had access to another's memories, tapping into their forbidden knowledge.
Perhaps it was part, too, of that damned heritage.
Creaks and groans suddenly rang throughout the hall, quiet enough to not wake Aeden's friends but plenty loud to his ears.
'I swear if it's another Devourer…' He inwardly sighed before rising, braving the darkness that engulfed the crumbled corridors.
He didn't need Nihil's perceptiveness or Megissa's Mana Oculus to navigate in near-obscurity; spellcasters often had heightened senses due to the constant flow of Mana coursing through their veins.
Passing sinister statues and unknown inscriptions, the Sorcerer found himself above a set of collapsing stairs. The bizarre sounds became moaning sobs as he slowly descended towards their source.
Ancient Occidian cities, especially those predating the Profane War, always had a network of subterranean chambers for shelter. Whatever threats they hid from were incinerated by his mother's massacre campaign to the continent's southern edges, but their books never talked about them.
Simply pondering about that helped him retain his focus. It distracted him from his creeping mania, gradually surfacing while he approached his target.
'Maybe it's not dangerous,' he tried to contain himself, his eyes trembling.
After several minutes of walking, he reached a dim, murky room closely resembling their prisons. Rust covered their metallic bars, and in their midst, a white, hunched figure wept while chewing something.
It was extremely thin, almost skeletal, with grossly elongated limbs and a bald head. Aeden wrinkled his nose at the foul stink of decay, cautiously closing on the creature.
The Sorcerer suddenly sparked a flame above his palm, startling it. Yet, it didn't budge nor leap away in fear. Crying bloody tears, it gazed at him with a strange glint of intelligence. Its face was humanoid, with a gaping maw, tiny snout and globulous white eyes.
'Kill it,' a voice urged in his head, 'It's eating its own..'
Only then did he notice the carcass it was munching on, eerily similar in shape. Half of it was decomposing, while the other was torn and ripped in stacks of repugnant flesh.
"Wendigo…" Aeden whispered, clenching his fist on his improvised torch. Fire erupted from it in a roar, encircling the monster.
However, instead of attacking or trying to flee, the monster only lowered its head in resignation. That simple gesture made the boy hesitate.
Wendigos were aggressive by nature and usually fought to the death.
"Why isn't it defending itself?"
'Doesn't matter, kill it.'
"It's sobbing. Why?"
'It's devouring its own, slaughter it.'
"No…" Aeden fought his urges, trying to stifle the ferocious blaze around him.
'Kill it. Kill it. Kill it. Kill it. Kill it. Kill it. Kill it. KILL IT. KILL IT. KILL IT!' The crazed voice bellowed infinitely in his mind. It was agonizing, making him feel as if his head was about to burst.
"STOP!" was all he could manage to cry out before the inferno swept the room, scorching the Wendigo's arms. It crashed against a crumbling wall, further fragilized by the devouring flames.
Barely stifling his frenzy, the Sorcerer ran out of the chamber, gasping as he exited the underground network.
He needed to stay with his friends. That was the only way he could maintain control.
"Megissa, Nihil, Decima…" he muttered their names continuously, clutching his skull with bloodied fingernails.
…
__
The Wendigo looked past its singed limbs without a single care. Its only focus was the red individual it had just met. Eyes filled with awe, it bowed down in pious reverence, its tears already dried by its illuminating revelation.
"Ceann dearg…" It mumbled in improvised prayer, using the language of its kind.
There was no one to hear it, but any individual versed in the creature's obscure tongue would recognize its significance.
It translated, word by word, to "Crimson One".
Divine notions didn't exist in Wendigo societies, and their conception of worship was still primitive. The closest thing they had to an object of reverence was the "Crimson One", a mythical figure spawned from their ultimate desire to satiate their unending hunger.
Should they manage to find him amidst the twisted woods they inhabited, he could quench their bloodthirst once and for all, finally granting them the peace they longed for. He would take their madness for his own, bearing it as the sole sufferer of the curse that forever plagued them.
This Wendigo initially got lost with its younger sibling, driven away from their tribe's territory by inscrutable entities. Sheltered in these desolate ruins for weeks, it had been blinded by starvation and committed the ultimate taboo: Its wits came back halfway through eating its own, and it began crying… yet could not stop consuming.
'Famine is strongest,' its elders would always say in foreboding tones.
However, the Crimson One saved it. His fire burned away its accursed hunger, and for the first time in its life, it could think with exhilarating clarity.
The Wendigo saw him struggle in a crazed mania - meaning he freed it from its insanity and took it instead. It was the ultimate proof.
It found him. He was real, though left too quickly.
He must have reasons. Otherwise, why would he abandon it in these darkened corridors?
Perhaps he needed a herald… no, a prophet!
It was the first of its kind to receive his blessing. The tribe must be prepared!
They will scour these lands, topple every realm, every settlement. For His gift, for His sake, they will sacrifice EVERYTHING to him!
__
"This isn't good," Louise of Andromeda muttered in the middle of Umoja's sacred rainforests. "We've been baited."
Horrid illusions haunted her subordinates, Alpheratz and Mirach, who quivered in demented psychosis. She clicked her tongue, walking between the mortifying images without even flinching.
"What game are they playing…?" Her flail tore through the visions like ethereal butter, leaving only the looming presence of a watcher.
She could sense that she was being laughed at, like their kind always did when trapping someone in their foolish spells.
"Wake up, you fools!" Her foot struck the ground in overwhelming force, birthing a shockwave that sent the minor Ombres flying. "We don't have the time to daydream."
Yet, her two disciples only drooled with a blank stare. The mirages took quite a toll on their psyche. They won't be able to assist her for the time being.
It was weird.
Aquila was an ally, so he shouldn't have lied to her, but this was undoubtedly a lure.
'They probably duped him too,' she thought.
Did the Fae really think that such traps would work on her? No, they fought too many times for them not to be aware of her strength. Meaning they only wanted to attract her away from Damara's child.
That didn't bode well at all. Louise needed to turn back, but she couldn't leave Alpheratz and Mirach alone in the Kiroho jungles.
"Damn it! They got me!"
Unlike Nathan, she wasn't able to teleport from one place to another instantaneously. Without losing any more time, she scooped her unconscious helpers like potato sacks before leaping out of that section of the woods.
Speed would decide everything. Even with her doubts, she understood that Aeden was a crucial part of her faction's plans.
Should the Fae manage to subdue him, it'd be a catastrophe for not only the Ombres but Le Roi du Crepuscule himself…
She could never allow it.