Aric saw himself as a child again, not older than three, as a woman clutched him tight in her trembling arms. Her dark hair fell in tangles over her face, her scent—lavender was oddly familiar, yet he couldn't recall where he had seen this woman.
She had distinct features, piercing gray eyes and a freckled sharp nose, but her voice carried a maternal protectiveness that gave Aric warmth. She ran into a room as the chaos and scream outside grew louder. "I thought they couldn't find this place," her whisper was warm against his cheek.
She shoved open a low cabinet on the floor, and tucked Aric inside the cramped space that smelled of dust and old linen. His feeble hands grasped her sleeve, but she knelt and forced a smile on her lips. "I won't let anything happen to you my son...I promise."
Her voice wavered, but her iron resolve held, as she brushed his cheek before shutting the cabinet door, leaving him in darkness. Aric watched her with curiosity through a narrow crack as she brought out a dagger from her dress.
Suddenly, the room's door shattered, splintered wood flying around as a figure stepped in, his presence making the room grow cold as he took slow steps. Aric couldn't make anything of his face as it was hooded. The woman turned immediately, standing as a barrier between the figure and the cabinet. "Stay away from my son you monster!"
She charged at him with the knife in hand, but the hooded man raised a hand and she froze mid-motion as if time had halted. Slowly, the room became dead silent, making Aric wonder if he had gone deaf as he could notice outlines of people running around outside.
The towering man walked to her, and leaned slightly, whispering something into her ear. Her body collapsed in an instant, as she began choking to death, her hands clawing at her throat. Aric watched helplessly, unable to do or hear anything.
The man watched her go pale and turned to the cabinet and started walking towards it. Aric gasped as the figure squatted, opened the cabinet and then reached for him—
Aric jerked awake from the dream, breathing heavily with cold sweat dampening his bed cover. The Vanguard quarters materialized around him, dawn crawling through the high narrow windows. The candles had died, forming hardened pools of wax under them, but the room had enough visibility to see the familiar clutter of belongings and his sleeping squad members.
He stared at the ceiling cracks that looked like a map that led nowhere, his breath steadying but his mind racing. Exhaustion still wrapped around him but was wearing off as he became more awake.
It has been months since the last time he had this particular dream and still it was more unsettling each time. That woman—so protective, yet not his mother. And the strange man—that power he had was nothing Aric had seen before. Aric wondered if it could be related to Faleir's cryptic warning about Dunmore's fate.
Aric turned his head and his gaze landed on Caden sleeping on a bed adjacent to his. He watched as Caden's chest rose and fell with a soft snore. His dark messy hair embraced by a pillow that was a shadow of its former self.
He felt guilt press down on him. He was supposed to look out for Caden—since their parents died but now Caden was the one looking out for him, pulling him back from reckless charges, like in that cave. The irony was a bitter reminder of how he failed as a brother.
The straw mattress creaked faintly as he sat up and Faleir's riddle poked at him again. "The thorns of ruin bloom from the garden itself." What the hell could that even mean?
A sharp feeling of dislike and bitterness burned within him, for the gods. Apathetic, all of them—Faleir most of all. If he knew what would befall Dunmore, why not speak plainly, help them avert it? Why toy with riddles while people die? The gods sit in their heavens, watching, never caring for those that even acknowledge their existence. The mortal realm is toxic my ass.
Aric shook his head. Maybe a stroll would clear my mind, shake off this dream's effect. He stood and moved to his corner, the cold floor biting through his feet as he grabbed a shirt from a crate. He pulled it on, the fabric felt rough against his skin.
He sat back on his bed and tugged on his boots and then reached for his sword but he paused. His dagger would suffice—he wasn't heading into battle, just a walk to calm his nerves. He reached under his pillow and took his dagger, tucking it into his belt as he stood and looked at Caden one last time, a silent promise within himself to do better, to be the brother Caden deserved.
But some things do not change, do they?
The door creaked gently as he slipped out into the dark corridor, letting in a small gust carrying the smell of wet earth into the room. His sleeping squadmates stirred in response to the sudden cold air but he was already gone.
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Macha soared through the red hazy sky of the infernal realm atop her winged beast. The sulfurous air seemed to amplify the distant screams of tormented souls, as much as it tussled tussled her hair.
Just ahead, a gloomy floating citadel on a jagged rock came into view—the Caer Dúath(Fortress of Shadow), Baivha's residence and the domain of death. It was jagged, ominous fortress of glassy volcanic rock anchored to the charred ground by gigantic chains made of blackened iron that groaned due to the tension.
As Macha's beast glided closer, the haunting details of the citadel could be seen. Translucent forms of wraiths hovered about aimlessly, trailing black wisps behind them as their hollow eyes glowed with crimson light. The infernal sky above swirled with red stormy clouds that never brought any rain, and a flock of Draethir—close relatives of the Maelthir—circled the citadel's pointed spires.
Macha's Draethir landed with a heavy thud at the entrance of the citadel, a wide platform of volcanic rock almost covered entirely with ash. Macha dismounted with ease as though she had not sustained even a scratch from her duel with the Grymloch. She patted her Draethir's side softly.
"Go play with your kin," she said. Her Maelthir growled excitedly, flaring it wings before taking off into the sky to join its siblings in their aerial dance.
At the entrance stood two towering figures—the Keepers, lofty stony multi-limbed beings as old as the realms themselves. Their forms were carved from cooled lava, their surfaces veined with cracks from which magma seeped out. They stood motionless but vigilant, their eyeless gazes fixed on Macha. Behind them was a pair of lofty stone doors covered in deathly symbols and markings that emitted a faint sickly green glow.
As Macha approached the door, a cluster of wandering wraiths started hovering around her, some drifting through her, sending shivers down her spine. She ignored them and focused on the doors ahead. The Keepers shifted, seeing her approach, pushing the doors open to reveal the dark interior of the Caer Dúath.
Macha stepped inside and the wraiths trailed her like an entourage, whispering inaudibly. The fortress's interior was a silent labyrinth of darkened halls, its walls made of the same glassy volcanic rock. Veil-like curtains parted as she walked and torches of green flame flickered in chandeliers along the wall.
She walked through the hallways that led into a vast chamber—the Hall of Judgment, where the judgment of all mortal souls occurred. The high ceiling was shrouded in unusual dark clouds yet the hall was illuminated, supported by twisted pillars, and the floor was a polished slab of cooled magma with sigils that glowed green.
At the far end, an elevated platform could be seen, holding three large thrones: two made of black iron for the judging deities, and a central one made of bones fused with black stone for Baivha, who oversaw the process.
A queue of mortal souls stretched along the hall and poured out into the hallways, their translucent figures giving off a faint ethereal glow. Macha walked past the queue, until she was near the dais where a man's soul stood before Baivha and the two deities clad in hooded apparels of smoke.
One of the judging deities raised its skeletal hands, and the sigils on the floor underneath the soul flared brightly, projecting scenes from the man's life: a villager sharing bread with a starving child, followed by moments of him hoarding grain during a famine.
The deities' voices sounded like a chorus of whispers of a thousand accusations, echoing throughout the chamber,as they recited his deeds with impartiality. "Compassion in scarcity, greed in plenty," one declared, while the other added, "The scales will decide."
Baivha observed with an expressionless gaze from her throne, as a sentient quill precisely documented every deed and judgement into a ledger that hovered in the air before her.
A scale of light appeared, one pan carrying golden threads for good deeds, the other carrying black strands for evil. The golden threads tipped the scale slightly, and the deities nodded.
"Accepted," they declared in unison, and the soul drifted to the right side of the hall, joining a group of radiant souls destined for the heavenly realm. Had the black strands dominated, the soul would have been directed to the left, where a group of dim souls awaited the wraiths. Those condemned souls are randomly seized by the wraiths and dragged into the depths of the infernal realm for their eternity.
The judgment had always fascinated Macha, but she never felt pity for those souls that were to spend eternity here. To her, it wasn't an eternity of torment but one of rebirth as after every hundred years damned mortal souls would be reincarnated.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice behind her. "The seductively lethal daughter of death."
She turned to see Ankou, winged folded and a rare smile on his striking face. "It's pleasing to see you in these parts, Macha," he said as he strode towards her.
Macha nodded, the wraiths still clinging to her. "I thought I'd visit before the realms fall apart."
Ankou chuckled dryly and walked past her to where the judged souls—those deemed good—were clustered. He held out a small, green orb towards the gathered souls and activated it with a whispered chant. One by one, the souls were shrunk into the orb, until it reached its carrying capacity—ten souls. Ankou spread his wings, and took off, flying through a large opening high up in the wall of the Hall of Judgement.
Macha watched him go until she felt a shift in the atmosphere, the wraiths had dispersed into thin air. It was at that moment she realized that Baivha was staring directly at her.
For the first time in over seven decades, Macha felt a genuine smile tug at her lips, reciprocated by Baivha's own rare warm gesture. Baivha hovered from her seat, her long, black robes trailing behind her like smoke, and floated toward Macha, welcoming her with an embrace.
Together, they walked away from the Hall of Judgment into the shadowed corridors—large windows that gave a glimpse of the vast reach of the infernal realm on one side and carved drawings that depicted the endless cycle of death on the other side.
The timeless carvings showed death, judgement, and reincarnation as the phases of life and death for mortal souls while depicting the Wane as the final end for gods.
Baivha walked with a silent grace as her robes drifted behind her like smoke, while she observed Macha from the corner of her eye, contemplating if she should pry or let silence reign.
At last, she spoke, "My wraiths were drawn to you." Her voice was soft for a goddess of death. "That has to mean something."
Macha kept her eyes straight ahead, feigning indifference. "They always are."
Baivha hummed, showing her skepticism. "Perhaps. But even I can smell death on you, Macha." She turned her head slightly, her sunken gaze settling on her daughter. "A brush with it, recent enough that it still lingers."
Macha kept her pace steady, though the weight of her mother's gaze made her legs feel heavier. "I'm fine."
Baivha stopped walking. Just like that. A simple halt that carried a lot of meaning.
Macha took a few more steps before she realized and turned to meet Baivha's piercing stare—the kind that made one beg for forgiveness before even knowing their crime.
Baivha tilted her head. "Are you?"
Macha resisted the urge to sigh. "Yes."
Baivha merely raised an eyebrow and kept waiting.
Macha shifted her weight and accepted defeat. "It was just a fight."
Baivha's expression did not change, but the green flames along the walls burned brighter. "A fight."
Macha sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. "A demon," she admitted, looking away from Baivha's heavy scrutiny.
The silence between them grew thicker, and the air grew colder as Baivha silently examined her. Finally, Baivha spoke. "Demons do not belong in the infernal realm. Where did this happen?"
"The mortal realm."
Baivha's fingers twitched at her side but Macha noticed it. "And what, pray tell, were you doing in the mortal realm fighting demons?"
Macha crossed her arms. "Duvran needed Balmeir's echo summoned to ask about the Aether shard."
At the mention of Duvran's name, something in Baivha sparked but it was subtle, restrained to just the narrowing of her eyes and the curling of her fingers against her robes.
"Duvran," she repeated, testing the name on her tongue. "He sent you there?"
"No," Macha said before Baivha could go down that line of thought. "I went willingly."
Baivha studied her for a moment. Then, she continued walking. Macha hesitated until Baivha has walked past her before following.
"Of all the gods under his command," Baivha murmured, "Duvran has those like Faleir and Belenos at his disposal. Why would he risk you?"
"We all went to the mortal realm," Macha countered. "Duvran included."
Baivha hummed again, whether it was amusement or something else, Macha couldn't tell. "And why, exactly, are you so willing to spill your blood for him?"
Macha's voice was firm. "Because I see his vision."
Baivha slowed her pace slightly. "Do you? This is exactly what you said when you helped him end an entire bloodline."
"Yes." Macha's voice was firm. "He's trying to save us all from the extinction that almost befell us. And to reunite the gods again. To rebuild something stronger. You might not agree with his methods, but you can't deny that his goal is necessary."
Baivha huffed out a quiet laugh which was more a breath than a sound. "Necessary? Perhaps. But Duvran is not the first god to dream of reshaping the order of things." She turned her head to the carvings along the wall. "And he will not be the last."
Before Macha could muster a reply, she continued. "Eolan, Dain, and now Duvran have all dreamed of restoring the perceived order of things. And each time, their motives are accompanied with immense bloodshed of both allies and foes."
Macha clenched her jaw. "I know what I'm doing. I didn't come here to argue, mother. I came because I missed you too."
Baivha came to a slow stop. This time, when she looked at Macha, there was something almost pitying in her eyes.
"I'm not against your loyalty to Duvran," she muttered, ignoring Macha's attempt to steer away from the topic at hand. "But loyalty is fragile. It is like wielding a sword by its blade...if pulled from your grip, it cuts very deep...know when to let go, lest you become a casualty in another's ambitions."
Macha smirked. "Your wise words are the chisel that sculpted me, mother. But in as much as I'm loyal to Duvran, I'm not stupid."
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Dunmore's cold morning air bit at Aric's skin as he stepped out from the Vanguard Barracks into the cobblestone streets of the Inner Circle—the capital of Dunmore known as Centris. The houses in Centris stood like fortresses with high stone walls carrying embroidered banners of different noble families. Gold-plated gates guarded lush gardens and robust warehouses where workers moved silently, tending to a world untouched by the struggles beyond.
The dew-polished streets were quiet, save for the distant murmur of half-woken servants and the clatter of unloaded carts. The tranquility that blanketed the distirct wasn't born of peace, but of excess comfort—the comfort of those who had never known suffering since the world came ruin.
Aric hadn't planned on coming here, not really—he had only planned to stroll within the Barracks but his feet had simply carried him forward, past the Barracks gates into the lavish estates and the ever-present stench of overindulgence that lingered in the air.
The elites lived in excess—the excess that had only grown worse over the years, even as the rest of Dunmore withered. Aric saw it in the heaps of half-eaten loaves of bread left out to decay, in the lush carriages that reeled past, carrying passengers oblivious to the world beyond their ornamented silk curtains.
At a corner, he overheard two merchants speaking in concealed tones.
"…said they haven't received a fresh grain from the Valemonts in weeks. Our stocks are thinning, and they expect us to stretch it until the next supply arrives. What if it doesn't?"
"It will," the other scoffed. "And even if it doesn't, we'll sell what we have for double. The dogs in the outer circle will always pay. They have no choice."
Aric could barely contain his irritation, but he walked on before he could say something or create a scene.
Those who couldn't afford to purchase from merchants like these would wait until the elites dump their wastes and leftovers at the Northern dump outside the walls, risking their lives just to get a handful of moldy bread.
That's if they don't become food for those winged skulks that dominate Yrengoth's North.
Further ahead, a butcher dragged a slab of meat off his counter and dumped it into an alley where overweight pedrigeed dogs waited.
Not for the people—never for the people. Only for the beasts that roam the gutters of these gluttons.
The greed in Centris had always been sickening, but now, it had intensified. There was a hint of desperation beneath all the surplus, a fear that the privileges they had hoarded for themselves were slipping through their fingers. And they would do anything to keep it.
A pair of noblemen walked past him, their snobbish eyes grazing over Aric before dismissing him entirely. He wasn't one of them, and therefore, to them, he was nothing.
Good. I didn't want to be seen by these people anyway.
Ahead of him, the road narrowed toward the one of the gates that divided Dunmore's two regions—the line between privilege and struggle, between wealth and survival.
The gate was manned by a few Vanguard soldiers, who collected tolls from commoners that wanted access to Centris. Aric walked past them, offering only a curt nod before passing through the gate.
The street before him stretched out into the distance of the Outer district. But the disparities of the outer district could not be seen yet as the few structures before him still belonged to middle-class merchants who could only afford to live near Centris.
Aric stopped and turned around to head back to the Barracks but a solemn gathering by the gates he just emerged from, caught his attention.
A dozen figures could be seen kneeling, some standing but all immersed in a mournful chorus that slithered up and down Aric's spine. One by one, they gently dropped flowers at the base of the wall, faces creased in sorrow.
Flowers, not for the gods, but for the dead.
A year ago, the outer district had risen in protest against the starvation that ravaged their streets while the Centris feasted. They had marched to these gates, empty-handed and desperate, and were immediately met with a swift response courtesy of orders from the elites. Vanguard archers stationed on the walls had killed them where they stood. Not because they were armed. Not because they were a threat.
But because they had dared to ask for more.
The bloodstains were long scrubbed off, but Aric knew the blood of the innocent had soaked into the stone, out of sight but never gone. And to Aric, this was the last straw. His stroll had revealed everything he needed to see and know.
Dunmore was rotting from within. The elites had slid their autocratic fingers into every part of Dunmore—its governance, its trade, its military. The Vanguard itself, meant to be a shield for the masses against the demons, had even become a weapon wielded against the people it should have protected.
And now, people were beginning to see it.
I mean someone even found it wise to sneak out of the dome into Yrengoth.
Faleir's riddle made sense now.
Dunmore would fall, not just to external threats, but from its own decay.
Aric exhaled, his breath fogging in the air as he walked back into the gates with a hardened expression.
If Dunmore had any hope of surviving, it wouldn't come from just defending its walls.
It would come from tearing it down from the inside. It would come from ridding the city of its cancerous elites.
And that was something only a coup could accomplish.