Silence.
A piercing stillness enveloped Claude's bedroom, broken only by the faint creak of wood and the slow, laboured rhythm of his breathing. He lay motionless, his face marred by a frown. The steady rise and fall of his chest served as the only sign of life in the dim room.
"Tsk!" Claude clicked his tongue as memories stirred to life in his mind. His thoughts drifted, pulling him back to the events after burying Charles.
Most of the houses were modest structures, their thatched roofs sagging slightly under the weight of age and neglect. Worn wooden beams framed the doors and windows. Inside, the homes lay hand-carved furniture, patchwork quilts draped over beds, and shelves lined with clay pots and mismatched utensils.
In one house, Claude noticed a small table set for dinner, the food long since gone cold. What had been left—a loaf of bread, a bowl of stew—remained untouched. Another home had children's toys scattered across the floor, crude wooden carvings of animals and knights, abandoned in a hurry.
Yet, the biggest home in the village, the one belonging to the village chief, spoke a completely different tale.
Corpses.
Numbering in the dozens. If not, more. Men, women, children, even the elderly. Their flesh had withered, taut over skeletal frames, skin discoloured to sickly hues of grey and green. Faces frozen in expressions of terror or anguish stared blankly, their eyes long since claimed by decay.
The stench of rot had permeated the air, assaulting Claude's senses. Maggots writhed in the remnants of soft tissue, and brittle bones poked through tattered clothing, the only remnants of lives now forgotten.
It was there, standing amidst the dead, that Claude had finally understood. The missing children. The vanished villagers. Their fates had been sealed long before his arrival.
That mission of his...
It was pointless from the moment he had been assigned it. Only used to lure him there. And, the result?
Sigh.
Claude exhaled deeply, the sound breaking the silence.
He had known. Deep down, he had known there was something amiss about Charles. Yet, it was not until he remembered Zal's words, that he knew what was amiss.
For now, get adjusted to life here. I'll inform the council about you. You should be fine but expect an observation period.
It did not take long for everything to click into place. Charles had probably been sent by someone, or perhaps even Elysium itself, to watch him.
Despite this revelation, Claude couldn't muster hatred toward the man. There was only a faint frustration lingering in him.
Biting back another sigh, Claude muttered to himself, "A person full of thoughts, ambitions, and dreams. Alive in one moment, gone in the next…"
Crash!
A wave of memories surged through him like a storm, derailing his thoughts, as a scene unfolded within his mind.
He lay collapsed against a wall in an underground space, bodies littering the ground around him. Yet, before him, a scarlet rift pulsed into existence.
Slowly, it expanded, undulating as though it were a living, breathing entity. Soon, from the rift, an eye emerged—vast and ancient. Its gaze pierced through the fabric of reality as if seeing not just his body, but the very essence of his being.
Shatter!
The vision fractured and dissolved like broken glass, leaving Claude staring at the ceiling once more. His breathing was uneven now, his hand rising toward the emptiness above him, grasping at something unseen, intangible.
"Not this time," he whispered, his voice echoing in the stillness.
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Under the moon's silver glow, the remnants of a once-majestic temple sprawled in ruin. Broken columns jutted into the air like the fingers of a corpse, their carvings remained faded but whispered of their forgotten glory. Moss crept across the cracked stone, and the faint trickle of water echoed somewhere in the distance.
Crash!
The sound shattered the tranquil desolation as a stocky man slammed his fist against a boulder. The rock splintered under the blow, sending shards scattering across the temple floor. His broad shoulders heaved with rage, and his face was obscured by the shadows of his hood.
"Blast it!" he roared, his voice raw with fury. "Again! That rat killed another one of us!"
"Calm yourself, Philippe," came a measured voice. The speaker, seated on a moss-covered rock nearby, remained partially hidden in shadow. In the moonlight, only the glint of his silvered hair and the faint outline of scarred hands resting on his knees were visible.
"How in the devil's name am I to calm down, Old Yang?" Philippe snapped, turning on the older man. His growl reverberated through the ruins. "Andre is dead! This is the second sentinel we've lost!"
"And what would you have us do?" another figure interjected, his voice resigned. This one leaned against a broken pillar, his face obscured by shadows. "The rat's already scurried into the safe embrace of Elysium. We can't touch him there."
The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves stirred by the night wind.
Yang's voice broke through the silence like a blade through taut fabric. "He's right," the old man murmured. "Even if he leaves Elysium, it may not matter..."
The air itself seemed to twist and writhe, mirroring the unease gripping their hearts as a single, unspoken truth lingered between them.
Cultists, no matter how cunning or vicious, could not match the raw power of a mage.
Even the most devout among them, those graced by His favour, rarely reached the strength of an Official Mage. The rest? Little better than mortals playing at power.
Philippe spat on the ground. "So what? We just let this go? Swallow it, like those fools of Nox?"
Yang shifted, the faint moonlight catching the scars that crisscrossed his outstretched hand. His sharp, angular features were partially revealed as he raised his arm and pointed towards a nearby pillar.
"We don't need revenge," he said, his voice low. "We just need to set the stage... and release Him. What we cannot accomplish... He can."
All eyes followed his gesture. In the pale moonlight, the pillar he indicated came into view. At the centre of the pillar's carvings, a phrase stood out:
Tamam Shud.
(It has ended.)