The door burst open, and a tide of shadows poured into the chamber, their footsteps heavy against the cold stone floor. At the head of the group stood Thibault, scarred and grinning, his eyes sweeping over the room. His laughter, sudden and wild, shattered the silence, reverberating off the walls like a maddened echo.
"Haha!" The laugh was jagged, unhinged. His gaze darted from one face to another, taking in the sight of the bodies strewn across the floor, some dead, some clinging to life. Then his eyes fell upon the corner—upon Claude.
Thibault's grin widened, his scar twisting grotesquely on his face as he advanced. "Finally..." he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. The madness that had been bubbling beneath the surface burst forth, and he raised his voice in a triumphant shout. "Finally!" The word rang out, filled with cruel satisfaction. "You're all dead!"
He moved toward Claude, who lay slumped against the wall, his body limp, eyes closed and dead silent. To anyone else, he was a broken figure, a victim like all the others, but Thibault knew better. He had seen first-hand the consequences of the boy's power.
'That plaza…' He thought to himself, clawing through his memories until he found what he was searching for.
It was a plaza. Jagged scars remained ethched onto the ground, ice coating the area like a thing blanket and ruptures in nearby walls.
Carnage.
That was all Thibault could think to describe it. Yet here, the culprit of that destruction lay helpless, weak and at his mercy. Thibault's glee slowly turned to something darker.
He crouched beside Claude, his sneer widening as he reached out with a boot to nudge the motionless body. "Look at you now," he hissed, his voice low, filled with mockery. "I told you it would end like this." He spat the words, each syllable dripping with disdain.
Thibault's mocking gaze swept over Claude's limp form, and a cruel smile curled his lips. He delivered a sharp kick to Claude's side. "Where's that sharp mind now? Where's that witchcraft you were so proud of?"
The blows came harder, his fist slamming into Claude's face, but still no response. Claude's head lolled to the side, blood trickling from his lip, but his body remained lifeless, just as Thibault had hoped. Thibault's laughter returned, low and bitter, as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against Claude's bruised face.
"Nothing but a sack of meat and heap of bones," Thibault growled. He grabbed a fistful of Claude's hair, yanking his head up to meet his gaze. "You're pathetic." He let go with a rough shove, watching Claude's head slump back, satisfied with his display of dominance.
But just as Thibault turned to stand, a glimmer of movement caught his eye. A twitch—barely perceptible—from Claude's fingers. Before Thibault could react, Claude's eyes snapped open, sharp and cold. There was no fear there, no pain—only focus.
In an instant, a single droplet of water, no larger than a pebble, formed in the air and shot forward with a force that defied its size. It pierced Thibault's skull with a sickening crack, the water embedding itself deep, shattering bone and brain alike. Thibault's eyes widened in shock, his body seizing before collapsing beside Claude with a dull thud, blood pooling beneath his broken skull.
The room fell into stunned silence. Thibault's men, who had once charged forward with a mix of bravado and fear, now froze in their tracks, their breaths held, watching as their leader's lifeless body crumpled. Panic rippled through the crowd like a wave, some ready to rush Claude, others rooted in place, paralyzed by the horror unfolding before them.
Then, it happened.
The air in the room shifted, corrupted with an oppressive force that pressed down on every soul present. A horrible weight descended, like a hand squeezing the life from the room itself. It was an unforgiving, suffocating pressure that none could explain, but all could feel, deep in their bones.
The blood—Thibault's blood—began to move. It flowed unnaturally across the floor, winding like rivers of crimson towards the altar at the room's centre.
Soon, the other Mad Dogs could only watch in a depressive silence, as the blood that flowed through their beating hearts began seeping out of their skin.
The men's screams pierced the air as they watched the liquid leave their veins and through their flesh, their pleas for mercy falling on deaf ears. The altar seemed to pulse with a life of its own, drawing in the blood, consuming it with an insatiable hunger.
One by one, the men collapsed, their bodies drained of life. Their screams turned to gurgles, then to silence, until only Claude remained. He watched, his vision dimming as his own blood joined the crimson tide, snaking across the floor to feed the altar's dark thirst.
And then, above the altar, a rift appeared—crimson and jagged, like a wound torn open in the fabric of reality. From that rift, something emerged. An eye, vast and unblinking, filled the space, staring down at the carnage below with an indifferent gaze.
It belonged to no mortal.
No man could ever carry such a gaze, that, Claude was certain of. The air grew still, as if time itself held its breath. The eye gazed upon the room. It was not a creature of this world but of something far older—something that had watched the rise and fall of time itself.
Claude's mind buckled under its gaze. He felt himself pulled from the present, hurled through the vastness of eternity. Past, future—time unravelled before him, stretching into infinity. He saw it all—his life, his death, the countless possibilities of what could have been and what would never be.
And then, the endless cycle of time, repeating, folding in on itself, an eternity that was both beautiful and tragic in its futility.
His consciousness fractured under the weight of it, his very being crumbling as he was swallowed by the vastness of the eye's gaze. His body, battered and broken, could no longer hold on, and he felt himself slipping away.
As the darkness closed in, the final whisper of his thoughts escaped his shrivelled lips, barely audible:
"Eternity... how beautifully tragic..."
And then, silence.
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The heavy scent of blood still lingered in the air as another group arrived at the scene. The elderly man heading the group was clad in pristine white robes, the fabric glowing faintly in the dim light.
At the centre of his chest, embroidered in shimmering silver threads, was a symbol—a sprawling mountain with jagged peaks, cutting against the background like the fangs of a great beast. At its summit, a radiant star gleamed, its many pointed rays curling outward like tendrils of light, grasping at the heavens.
The man surveyed the room. His eyes flicked over the bodies strewn across the floor, the twisted remains of Thibault's men, their blood long since drained and absorbed by the altar. The stench of death was thick, but the gentleman seemed unfazed.
His attention, however, was drawn to the rift above the altar—the rift from which the great eye still watched. The being within remained indifferent, its gaze piercing through the veil of reality, unblinking and vast.
The Arbiter's brow furrowed ever so slightly as he looked up at the eye. It was not fear that crossed his face, but something closer to anger.
"Cursed be the old gods..." he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible to those around him, but filled with unmistakable disdain. "The Afflicter…"
Behind him, a group of knights—clad in the steel—shifted nervously. They had seen many things in their time serving under the man, but nothing like this.
The air itself seemed to hum with malevolence, and the presence of the eye sent shivers down their spines. One of them, the bravest, or perhaps the most foolish, stepped forward.
"Sir Arbiter…?" the knight's voice wavered, betraying the fear that he tried to suppress.
Without turning, the Arbiter raised a hand, silencing him. "Worry not," he said, his tone even, unwavering. "I will deal with this."
The knights exchanged glances, uncertainty in their eyes, but none dared question him further. The Arbiter lowered his hand and continued; his gaze still locked on the rift. "Just get any survivors out of here. And be quick about it."
The knights hesitated for only a moment longer before reluctantly nodding, their armour clinking as they moved to obey.
This was not something they could participate in.