「Status Update」
Location: Rift Interior - Unknown
Threat Level: Extreme
Order Presence: None
Available Resources: None
Current Mission: Locate Rift Anchor and Survive
Orien Majere stumbled forward into a world that should not exist. One heartbeat ago, he had stood on scorched earth beneath a red sky, with allies at his back and demons pounding at the gates of Castle York. Now, as he forced himself through the membrane of the Hellrift, he found himself adrift in a realm where all reason seemed to wither and die.
He emerged onto what passed for ground—though it felt spongy and warm, pulsing slightly under his boots. The air scorched his lungs with every breath. A faint sulfuric odor stung his nose, mixed with something more sickly sweet. Around him stretched a horizon that defied logic: crimson clouds churned overhead, lit from below by flickers of molten light. The land undulated like a living thing, and the distant shapes might have been mountains or gargantuan ribs protruding from flesh-like plains.
He took a step, and the ground squelched. Beneath his foot, a translucent membrane parted to reveal writhing shapes beneath—small, insectile creatures scuttling in and out of fleshy tunnels. He bit back a surge of nausea. There would be no easy paths here.
Orien steadied himself, recalling why he had come. This realm was the source of the Hellschisms besieging his world. If he could find the anchor point—a heart of darkness that fed those rifts—he might seal them at the root. Without this, his allies outside would be overrun. He gripped his belt talisman, relieved to feel it still warm against his side. It might help him focus, to channel spells in this twisted place.
No sun guided him, only a dull, blood-hued glow emanating from everywhere and nowhere. He chose a direction at random, reasoning that the anchor would likely rest deeper inside. With each step, the ground gave slightly, as though he trod on swollen organs. The air vibrated with distant shrieks, guttural moans, and the drip of unseen fluids. It was a gallery of horrors painted in living tissue.
He pressed on, ignoring the clammy sweat that trickled down his spine. He must not falter. He had promised Eldric and the others that he would try. He inhaled shallowly, trying to control his breathing. The mana flows here were wild, writhing like snakes in his mind's eye. He could taste magic in the back of his throat, bitter and raw. Good. Magic would be his blade and shield now. Steel meant nothing when faced with landscapes of flesh and madness.
As he climbed a rise—if a fleshy hump could be called a hill—he spotted movement ahead. He crouched, one hand splayed against a damp surface. In the hazy distance, silhouettes twitched and lurched. He squinted, trying to make sense of them. They looked like amalgams of demons, fused together in writhing clusters. Limbs ending in hooks and talons scraped at the ground, heads bobbed on elongated necks. They dragged something behind them—perhaps strands of sinew linking them to the land itself.
Orien breathed through his mouth, careful not to gag. He must go forward without attracting too much attention. But to find the anchor, he might need to face such beasts. He pressed his hand to his talisman and summoned a minor spell: a faint shimmer of light to test mana flow. It sputtered at first, resisting his will. The environment fought him, as if unwilling to be shaped. He gritted his teeth and tried again, forcing calm. Finally, a tiny flame danced in his palm—brief and weak, but reassuring. He released it, letting the light fade. Too much brightness would announce him.
He needed a strategy. Wandering blindly risked running into hordes of fiends. This realm must have some logic, twisted though it might be. Rifts connected two worlds. The anchor might lie at a focal point, where reality thinned. Perhaps at the center, where the red clouds swirled in tighter coils.
He pressed on, keeping low, skirting around the cluster of fused demons. He had to circle them widely. As he moved, he passed formations that resembled spires of bone. They jutted at crooked angles, each dripping some foul ichor. Every so often, he heard distant howls, and once, a thunderous roar that shook the ground, making him stumble.
Time lost meaning. He trudged what might have been hours or mere minutes. The constant red glow never changed. The air never cooled. His legs ached, his throat burned. He dared not drink from any puddle here—he saw slick pools bubbling with green froth, and guessed they were acidic or alive.
He paused behind a ridge of hardened cartilage-like material. On the other side stretched a basin where scuttling horrors fed on something large and still. He peered over, heart pounding. Was that a fallen titan of this realm? Its torso split open, ribs spread wide, countless smaller demons nesting inside its cavity. He shuddered and looked away.
Focus. He must not lose himself to despair. He reminded himself of Castle York, of Eldric's determined face, of Alden's grit, Corene's leadership, and Meraine's hard-won trust. They all depended on him. He reached inward, recalling a sealing rite he had memorized long ago. He rehearsed the words silently, comforting himself with their familiar cadence. He would need that rite once he found the anchor.
He noticed a faint tug in the mana flows—like a distant current pulling at his senses. Could that be the direction he needed? He closed his eyes and concentrated. Yes, he felt it: a subtle gradient in the chaotic magic, as if one spot drew more power than the rest. He turned slightly left and followed that invisible thread, climbing another ridge of fleshy ground, bypassing a cluster of spine-trees dripping bile.
As he crested the ridge, a new sight greeted him. In the distance, a canyon cleaved the land, and at its center hovered a spherical void of absolute darkness. Around it, chains of twisting sinew anchored it to flesh-pillars. Arcs of crimson lightning flickered between these pillars and the sphere. Even from afar, Orien knew this must be important—a nexus of power, or a gateway that fed the rifts opening into his world.
A good sign. He must reach that canyon. But between him and the canyon lay a wide plain crawling with demons. He saw shapes lumbering across it, some dragging themselves on knuckles and knees, others flitting on membranous wings. To cross unseen seemed impossible.
He ducked behind a structure that might have been a hollowed skull the size of a wagon. He ran a hand over its smooth surface, trying to calm his racing heart. Perhaps he could use a spell to distract these creatures. Fire alone might draw unwanted attention. He needed something subtle. He remembered a cantrip to produce illusory scents—he had once used it to flush out hidden beasts in old ruins. If he could lure some demons away with a false smell of prey elsewhere, he might carve a path.
He tried to summon that cantrip. The mana felt thick and hostile, resisting fine control. He clenched his jaw and tried again, focusing on a spot far to the right of his intended path. He visualized a potent scent—fresh blood, something that might tempt these horrors. At first, nothing happened, as if the environment mocked him. Then a shimmer passed through the air. He felt a subtle shift. With luck, the demons would sense it.
He waited, peeking around the skull. Slowly, some of the nearer fiends raised their heads, twitching nostrils or equivalent sniffing organs. They grunted and hissed, drifting toward the illusory scent. More followed, curiosity or hunger driving them. After a few tense moments, a large portion of the horde wandered off, leaving a thinner line of creatures between him and the canyon.
It wasn't perfect, but better than before. He must strike swiftly. He slipped out from behind the skull and half-crouched, half-ran toward a cluster of bony spires that could provide cover. His boots stuck occasionally, pulling free with wet, slurping sounds. He clenched his teeth at every noise, fearful of drawing attention.
A shape loomed before him—a demon with elongated limbs and a single glaring eye in its torso. It hadn't followed the others. He pressed himself flat behind a spine, holding his breath. The demon sniffed, uncertain. Orien must be ready. If it found him, he'd have to kill it swiftly and silently. He prepared a dagger of flame in his mind—less bright than a full spell, just a controlled blade of heated air.
The demon's footsteps approached. It clicked something in its throat. Orien's heart hammered. Then, a distant roar distracted it. The demon turned abruptly and loped off. Orien exhaled slowly, grateful for small mercies.
He pushed on, weaving between grotesque shapes. At one point, he stepped into a patch of fleshy tendrils that coiled around his ankle. He bit back a cry and hacked at them with a conjured ember-blade. The tendrils recoiled, leaving a foul-smelling residue on his boot. He limped onward, ignoring the sticky sensation.
The canyon's edge drew closer. Up close, its scale staggered him. The void sphere floating at its center must have been as large as a siege tower. Those sinew-chains anchoring it to fleshy pillars throbbed with energy, sending pulses of red lightning crackling overhead. This must be the anchor—some kind of core node that fed power into the rifts.
If he could sever those chains or disrupt the sphere's balance, he might weaken the rifts. But how to reach it? The canyon's sides were steep and glistening with mucus. He searched for a path. Perhaps a narrow ledge or a bridge of bone. He circled along the rim, staying low.
The demons guarding this place would not be ordinary. He spotted larger figures patrolling the canyon edges. One, especially massive, perched on a ledge opposite him. It had multiple sets of arms, each holding a jagged implement. Its head was crowned with horns that dripped something caustic onto the canyon floor. Orien would need to be clever, not just strong.
He considered his resources. He had spells and cunning. The environment was hostile but perhaps could be turned to his advantage. He recalled how the fiends outside slipped on oiled beams. Here, he had nothing to burn but flesh and bone. Could he cause a chain reaction, knock down a pillar?
As he mused, the ground shook violently. A fresh pulse of energy left him gasping. The void sphere crackled, and for an instant he swore he saw images flicker across its surface—scenes from his world: Castle York's walls, Eldric's face twisted in fear, Alden shouting orders. It stung his heart. These fiends fed not just on physical matter but perhaps on the terror and despair of his people. He must act soon.
He crawled closer to one of the sinew-chains anchored in a pillar near his side of the canyon. Up close, it looked like twisted muscle fibers woven together, crackling with red sparks. If he could sever or weaken it, maybe the entire structure would destabilize. He summoned a flame blade carefully, pressing the fiery edge to the chain's surface.
A hiss rose as the flesh sizzled. Sparks leapt at his hand, forcing him to jerk back. The chain throbbed, resisting. He tried again, pushing more mana into the spell. The heat intensified, cutting a groove into the chain's fibers. The chain writhed like a living thing, and a shrill scream echoed from somewhere unseen.
One chain weakening might draw attention. He must hurry. He cut deeper, ignoring the bitter stench. After agonizing moments, the chain snapped with a wet pop, recoiling like a severed tendon. The void sphere flickered, and red lightning spat wildly, scorching a nearby pillar. Good. One chain down.
A furious bellow answered his act of sabotage. The massive guardian he had seen earlier roared, eyes blazing with infernal light. It leapt from its ledge, landing on the canyon rim, shaking the ground. Orien rolled behind a fleshy mound, heart pounding. He peeked around. The creature brandished an axe-like limb, scanning the area. It knew something was wrong.
Orien swallowed. He must break more chains. He spotted another chain anchored to a pillar a dozen paces away. But the guardian prowled between him and it now. He'd have to distract the brute or find another route. Could he summon another illusory scent? The environment had fought him every step. But perhaps fear and desperation would sharpen his will.
He knelt, closed his eyes, and pictured a powerful lure—maybe the scent of fresh prey on the opposite side. He focused all his mana, shaping the cantrip in his mind. He released it, hoping it took hold. When he opened his eyes, the guardian sniffed the air, growling. It swung its head left, then right, uncertain. It took a few heavy steps away from Orien, lured by the phantom scent. Not far, but enough.
Orien darted out, crouch-running to the next chain. He slammed his fiery blade against it, cutting furiously. This chain fought harder, sparks stinging his arms. He hissed as pain lanced through his forearm. Still, he persevered, carving through fibers. The chain snapped, sending a shower of crimson sparks that stung his cheek.
The void sphere flickered more violently now. A chorus of shrieks rose from the canyon floor. Orien glanced down and wished he hadn't—countless creatures writhed below, stacked atop each other. If they climbed out, he'd be overwhelmed.
He must disable more chains. He counted four total; he had severed two. The guardian, enraged, roared again, this time charging closer. Orien barely rolled aside as a massive clawed limb smashed into the ground where he stood moments before. He had to fight now, no choice.
He hurled a firebolt at the guardian's face. It grunted, raising a forelimb to block. The spell splashed harmlessly. He tried a different tactic—he aimed at the ground beneath the guardian's footing. If he could weaken it, maybe the brute would slip. He conjured a flame spear and struck the fleshy ground, igniting a pocket of gas. With a muffled explosion, the ground bucked. The guardian stumbled, roaring in surprise.
Seizing the moment, Orien darted around the brute, heading for the third chain. The guardian recovered fast, pursuing with thunderous steps. Orien veered behind a fleshy outcrop, then pivoted, launching a cinder blast at the guardian's flank. The creature howled, swinging wildly. One strike clipped Orien's shoulder, spinning him to the ground. Pain flared hot, but he rolled away before a second strike could crush him.
He regained his feet, ignoring the throbbing in his shoulder. He reached the third chain, set his blade of flame, and cut. The guardian, seeing his intent, bellowed and charged, but Orien finished slicing through just as the brute closed in. The chain snapped, releasing another spray of sparks. The void sphere shrank slightly, lightning turning erratic.
Three down, one to go. But the guardian was too close now. It swung a limb lined with barbed spines. Orien ducked, feeling barbs scrape his scalp. Blood trickled down his neck. He stumbled, raised a trembling hand, and released a wave of heated air. Not a focused spell, just raw, scorching wind. The guardian recoiled, blinded for a second.
Orien seized that second to scramble toward the last chain. It was on the far side of the canyon rim, difficult to reach without passing near the guardian again. He cursed silently. The brute blocked direct access. The canyon's edge offered little cover. Maybe he could climb down slightly and skirt around?
He glanced over the lip of the canyon. No, the walls crawled with razor-limbed larvae. Climbing down would mean suicide. He must distract the guardian long enough to sprint across open ground. Another illusion might fail. He needed raw firepower now.
He steadied himself. If he poured all his mana into one spell, he might stun the beast. But that would leave him drained, risking failure at the last chain. He weighed options. Outside, his friends fought and died while he hesitated. He took a gamble.
He gathered mana deep in his core, ignoring the wild surges that threatened to unbalance him. He shaped a grand flame surge, something he rarely dared attempt. The environment crackled, resisting. He pushed harder, sweat pouring down his face.
The guardian charged again, footsteps shaking the ground. Orien waited until it was almost upon him. Then he released the spell: a roaring column of flame that erupted from the fleshy ground beneath the guardian, enveloping it in searing heat.
The guardian screamed, a sound like metal tearing. It staggered, limbs flailing, its hide blistering under the inferno. The blast didn't kill it outright, but it scorched deep wounds. The creature fell to a knee, struggling to rise.
Orien sprinted, lungs burning from effort. Each footfall sent pain shooting through his shoulder and legs. He reached the last chain and raised his flame blade. His mana reserves dipped low. He cut desperately, slicing through the corded flesh. The chain resisted until the last moment, then snapped with a final, wet sound.
At once, the void sphere convulsed. Lightning flashed in wild arcs, striking pillars and sending shards of bone and flesh raining down. The guardian, wounded and enraged, tried to lunge at Orien, but the ground under it collapsed. With a wail, the brute slipped over the canyon's edge, clawing at nothing. It vanished into the seething masses below.
Orien fell to his knees, gasping. He did it—he severed all chains. But the anchor still existed, the sphere flickering and buckling, not yet gone. Perhaps he must enter it directly, confront whatever heart lay inside that dark void. The thought terrified him. He had stepped through a rift once; could he do so again, deeper still?
A shrill keening rose from the canyon. Demons below sensed their anchor weakening. Some tried to climb up, their claws scraping. Orien crawled to the edge and saw the sphere flicker like a wounded heart. Maybe if he entered the sphere, he could release the seal he carried in his memory, rewriting the local fabric of magic and snapping the connection. It was his only chance.
The canyon rim shook. He must jump or find a way down. He spotted a jagged column leaning toward the sphere, forming a precarious bridge. Probably unstable, but no other path emerged. He forced himself up, swaying with fatigue. Step by step, he edged along that column, one hand grasping at spines for balance.
Below him, nightmares writhed and snapped. Above him, crimson lightning flared. The sphere loomed ahead, a globe of absolute darkness, surface rippling like ink. He stood at its threshold, heart pounding. If he failed, he'd be trapped forever, or destroyed. If he succeeded, maybe the rifts in his world would close. He had no choice.
He braced himself, summoned the memory of Eldric's courage and Alden's steady resolve, and reached out. His fingertips brushed the sphere's surface. It felt colder than anything in this red-hot realm, cold enough to burn. He pressed harder, penetrating the surface as he had when he first entered the Hellrift outside Castle York.
The darkness swallowed him without a sound. He left behind the canyon, the demons, and all sense of place. Inside, he would face the core of this realm's power. This was the next step in his desperate journey—three chapters, three trials, he had told himself. He had passed through the first.
He vanished into darkness, alone, wounded, and determined to save his world from the jaws of nightmare.