YEAR 207, SECOND WORLD, THIRD ERA
Echoes are like the past; your voice travels to the distant future, and with it, dissipates into a vacuum. And as the distant future becomes evident to be the present, thus the echo travels back, and so becomes the past.
What unravels the threads of fate is the will of those who would try to change their destiny, when their clock runs out, and when they walk a different path. But a tale never wavers; it never changes the plot…
The lingering inaudibility follows as darkness seemingly dissipates into sorrowed lighting. The splash of quick, orange hues sparkled through the corridor aisle. Asreus was there, alone. His eyes stared blankly into the abyss, removed from the waking world. His posture, standing on the marbled floors, and then the faint red carpet that overlaps the unknown pole from yonder. His breath staggered, and his heart echoing through the distant scene, he had come to realise his
Responsibility. His eyes had finally gained composure, snapping back to reality. The sound; finally, he hears it. "Y…o…u…" Fragmented. He tries to listen more, but fails. He hears: "H…g.." The verse fragmented once more, and then:"Flame?" Muffled. The sound that rang in his ears was muffled. He bowed his head slowly, and then he regained himself. He quickly took a sharp breath and soon realised.
"Your Highness?" A man's voice erupted beside his left shoulder, his voice seemingly coarse and rough, perhaps old age befallen from use. "Shall we begin your coronation?" He questioned a hint of concern for the young highness.
"Yes…" Asreus quietly whispered, his eyes narrowed towards the carpet. He blinked. And as he did, the carpet was gone. And so was the noise. But the scene went white and cold, as he stood there in utter trauma, reliving a picture of the day… The day his father died.
"..." His hands shaken from the blood of his father's mangled corpse, the snow covered in pieces of vile incongruity, flesh, and morbidness. "...Father?" He called out… Desperately searching for him.
His need for guidance, his… need for a path so he doesn't stray from the "Good" road. He lowered his head, cowering with his father's dead body. His blood seeped through his winter coat, and the snow was covered in red. Asreus was scared; he had lost his hope. And the wolves are there, surrounding him… Ready to take his life. And as he cradled his father's frame, the scene had turned into a horrified twist; his father's flesh was mangled by fangs, half-eaten..
And so then, Asreus finally snapped! His breath staggered like a doe being chased. His hands visibly shaken, yet he never wavered. The scene had changed, and the snow was gone, and the wind became warm.
"Your Highness," a voice erupted from a distance. Asreus turns his head towards it; weary, his face becomes. He's tired, too tired to even deal with this… coronation.
His breath staggered—lungs heavy. It took him a minute to compose himself, then he nodded towards the voice. It was Klavicus. "It is time."
Asreus lifts a step—a step that haunts him every single day. Burdened by this… hardship, he still bears this weight of responsibility.
He walked with poise, with grandeur that masks what he truly felt on the inside. With his head lifted in a kingly manner, yet no matter how he masks himself as a confident man, he is but a fragile boy who knows nothing but to impress. But he knew. He knew he must not show this weakness. His hand, shaking from the unsettling fear of the unknown future, he stood in front of the altar and took another breath… And then finally, Asreus…
Knelt down, his eyes fixated on the altar. His breaths staggered, low and quiet.
He sat on his leg and lifted both arms towards the shining flame. T
he statue of a raging fire rested above the altar, and beside it,
a sword and a shield of honest replicas.
"Are you ready, Your Highness?" The High Priest questioned.
"...yes," Asreus quietly answered, his voice monotonous, filled with nothing but restless pounding, bowing his head like a nod, ever so slightly. And so the Priest signalled to those beside him, and they understood what it meant. And the trumpets hummed! And the ceremony began. And with such regal splendour echoed through the motherland,
the whispers and the loud cheers of the people gathered throughout the castle walls. Their murmurs and their voices gathered like a festival had just begun. Excitement chimed their worlds, yet a trickle of sadness still dawn unto those who believe. And so their excitement returned to silence, and the castle too. The High Priest sauntered towards the looming Altar of the flame, and faced Asreus; thus he spoke:
"Let us begin the ceremony," The Priest spoke gently. And a choir sang through a melody; a quiet, melodic song, one where the bards would sing when death looms above a country. A song that showers those who lived to tell the tale a haunting experience of dread, and utter helplessness. Howe'er, this is just the ironic tale that the song produced! For this speaks of a man that will be crowned and showered with praise and songs of his greatness!
And to revel in splendor, gold, and his loyal subjects. Yet the choir continues to sing,
and Asreus is disturbed by it. And when the song finished, he breathed a sigh of relief, and the High Priest continued his ceremony.
"Do you, Prince Asreus, Son of King Oetring and Queen Eryss, heir to the throne of Emeraldia, pledge your life of servitude to the flame?"
"...I do." The robed man nodded in response, removing the sword from the altar. He descended the stairs and presented the sword to the people in witness, and said:
"Do you swear the oath of Eiysmr, the First King, to protect the realm and all its people, to all those who proclaim death, destruction, and despair towards the realm with the sword of Fire?"
"...I do." The robed man offered the sword hilt-first, to which Asreus took. His hand; tightly gripping the sword. Thus, the ceremony continued in utter silence. The sounds of feet tapping the marbled floors echoed through the castle walls. A servant had come to remove the shield from the altar. Hastily, he handed the shield to the Priest, and thus, he began to speak:
"Do you swear to the oath of Emorosio, the Second King, to repel those who honor the malignant—those who preach evil, and worship doom to the realm, and become the savior of those who are oppressed, and guide the people in your good hands?"
Asreus sharply took his breath; each utterance had already driven him mad. Like a nail being hammered down to function as support, he is, in his stead, nailed with obligations that he must carry.
"...I do."
The man hands Asreus the shield, his response gripping it tightly; breath staggering once more, he lifted his head slowly, facing the Flame.
"Lift your palm to me, Your Highness," The man gently commanded.
"Will the flame recognize me?" Asreus asked.
"Your blood comes from the purest of us," The man assured. Hesitantly, Asreus lifted his palm, each breath staggered, waiting. A glint of white reflected towards his eyes, foreboding an act of desecration to his hand: The knife slowly, and gently lands on his palm—cold, and fearful, he discerns to be. And no more than a second, the man slowly slashes Asreus' palm, quick and fast. The other quickly takes his blood, filling up a goblet.
"Do not worry, Your Highness. It'll be over soon." Assured the man. He gently closes Asreus' hand, and as tightly as he could, he uttered a few words: "Reversolo." Asreus' pain quickly fades, his blood, dripping from his hand, slowly collects into the gaps of his wound, like water returning from the well.
With the goblet in his hand, he sauntered towards the final steps, his foot reaching the altar. He then raises the goblet above, citing a prayer. And then, he sets it aside.
With both hands on the altar, he forcibly opens a chamber on its surface; a hole, something mysterious, ominous, perhaps. And with his goblet, he slowly pours the blood below, and then a chime of blaze arrives from below: Searing and boiling the blood. And fire grew and grew!
The flame had risen, and it shined once more! The raging fire had set itself into the chambers, and the man opened a box hidden from the altar... And as he turned towards Asreus, the flame shone through like thunder! The red gem scattered like wildfire, and the golden crown towered bigger than walls of rich flames! Everything fell silent; so silent, in fact, that time began to slow down. And then it slowly erupts: Asreus' heartbeat roared with excitement, anticipation… Fear. His uneasiness grew more and more, as not even time could silence the footsteps of fate that creeps towards him. His destiny—legacy—fate.
"Your final oath," The robed man said, his eyes darting towards him, searching for a crevice where lies are hidden, and truth is kept in the chasm. "Do you, Prince Asreus, swear an oath to yourself…" The man briefly waited, taking another breath as he continued. "To which your Kingdom may fall, and the people with it… Prince Asreus, do you accept the burden of Kingship? And to fall with your people as King?"
There was, of course, silence.
No doubt does Asreus ever falter in his words. He is by far, still a child. Burdened by fate's tragic irony. He took steps towards the altar, facing it for a brief moment, and then he gazed next to the man in front; He uttered the word, and the hall fell silent.
"I do,"
The air tensed, each second was like a deepening anticipation. And for a moment, like a celebration, there were no songs of mourning—Lament for the dead, there was no snow, no blood. Yet, there were flowers, and there were people, and they were there, honouring the man who had become King.
"...I crown you as the rightful King of Emeraldia."
Then there he was… Facing the very thing he had feared. His body, shaking, not out of excitement, but from fear.
The moons await his orders to be conquered, yet he remains uncertain, so Asreus stands there, unable to accept the fact that he has been crowned.
…But he could never leave this to anyone else.
He thought to himself. Deep in his heart, no one is worthy, not even him, to take up the mantle of King.
YEAR 223, SECOND WORLD, THIRD ERA.
Near Present Events
Many moons have passed already; his ambitions are gone, and obligations have already piled up. Yet he still chooses to lead their future, waiting for something that would pique his interest to come. Yet, there were none. He doesn't have anyone, only servants who blindly follow and dare not defy his malevolence.
"...Thank you for your concern," Asreus said, his eyes darkened from total exhaustion. It has been hours since he has been sitting on his throne, hearing the number of complaints from his subjects.
"I believe it is your time to bear a child, Your Majesty," A familiar voice echoed from across the room. It was Duke Vient, younger than the last we saw of him. His posture is still elegant and serious; face unwrinkled yet still holds authority. He sauntered closer to Asreus' desk, his posture fixed in a poise, elegant manner. "He will inherit the throne in the near future," Vient added.
"There will come a time," Asreus chuckled gently. Yet, his eyes tell a different outcome: He will never bear a child. "I believe the future will bring me to that outcome."
"Your butler," Duke Vient said, his tone turned serious. "Klavicus was his name?"
"What about him?"
"Your Majesty, with all due respect, I shall speak to you not as the Duke of House Emer, but as your blood." Asreus' demeanor changed, as if he had already expected this conversation. He turned towards Vient, fixing his posture, relaxed, calmer than before.
"Please, pray tell, uncle." He takes a sharp breath.
"Asmodea is a talented lass, Asreus."
"…She is your sister after all."
"...I could tell."
"However, in recent events, she has been more manipulated by your Mage ward than ever before
"She has always favoured the arts of alchemy, uncle." Asreus defended.
"Yes, Alchemy," Vient said as he took a deep breath. He saunters to the front desk, his hands sliding across the dark wooden table.
"The use of magic and its components,"
He rises from his posture, his hands clasped behind him.
"Was forbidden for years to be learned by royalty, am I correct?"
"Are you saying, Klavicus has been teaching her magic?" Asreus replied. Bewildered.
"Yes, the Elements of Magic."
"I didn't know she had the capacity to use her waters…"
"Magic is innate, Your Majesty,"
"Though her ability to control it," Vient paused, unsure what Asreus would react to his words, yet he proceeded. "...I believe she could never master the arts of Magic."
"I doubt that," Asreus replied, his voice giving a hint of pride. He would never have imagined his sister to be this brilliant.
"Your Majesty, would you promise me something?" Vient paused for quite a time, and then he took a deep sigh, uncertain if he should speak.
"...Of course, but I must first hear it." Asreus replied, his chest uneasy. He takes a few sharp breaths as he fixes his posture, sitting still, his hand quivering from anticipation.
"Remove Klavicus from Asmodea's grasp, I beg." Vient pleaded, yet the words never struck Asreus. He feared Asmodea would resent him more, and they would grow more distant than ever; he had always known that his rise to kingship had turned them on each other, for Asmodea had always wanted the throne, yet he never did.
"...I will look into it," Asreus replied.
"Do not let her be caged in the dark, Asreus." Vient's tone gradually increases, unangered but worried, he nestles his hand on Asreus' shoulder, his eyes calm and serious. Asreus, too, felt that something had been gnawing at him.
"I don't want her to resent me, unc—"
He turns to face Vient—to his shock, gone. Darkness swallowed the room, everything, all: the tables, chairs, the lamps, the papers, all gone. Except for him. He's there, all alone: confused, bewildered. And then a faint cry echoed, his heart pounding like metal being struck by metal. Each pound rattles his bones, as if his heart were above him—no, surrounding him. The darkness swallows everything around him once more, nearing him, and then, Asreus hears another echo. This time, each echo fragments another: one louder than the other: "Ifhn—okir Tyrna—ti!" A pause filled the noise, and like any silence, it was filled with agonizing wait. His heart was no longer beating above, and his body no longer quivered, and he was no longer in motion.
PRESENT EVENTS, NOW.
The darkness had now filled him, and now his body is covered in searing pain as he wakes with a mouthful of foam exiting his esophagus. "Y-Your Majesty!" Cried Soel as he immediately cradled Asreus towards him. "It's alright now, Your Majesty. It's alright…" Soel assured. "What… happened?" Asreus softly spoke, his voice faint and weak. "We are here for you, Your Majesty..!" Soel cried once more, a tear sliding down his cheek
"What do you feel, Your Majesty?" Himaal questioned; his concern for him deepens. He immediately rubs both his hands, creating a magical static in between his hands as light forms slowly, but weakly.
"I'm.. I'm alright. F-For now." Asreus replied weakly, disturbed by the events that occurred. Soel slowly turns to Himaal and looks into his eyes. Then, Soel nods and takes a breath. He utters: "Your Majesty…"
"...I'm alright, Soel…" Asreus replies. He places his hand to his chest, trying to feel his heart.
"Your Majesty," Himaal calmly said. "Allow me to perform magic on you."
"Yes… Please —do, Himaal." Asreus winced; he adjusted his posture, straightening his back. "Here, Your Majesty, lie your back towards this chair," Soel spoke, dragging a nearby chair as a cushion. "I will first check on your waters, considering how that spectre badly damaged you," Himaal said evenly as he raised his palm towards Asreus, light slowly collecting to a point of his palm, like a vortex, sucking the air slowly and evenly. Himaal closes his eyes, his mouth mumbling inaudibly, reciting his prayer. Then, for a moment, the vortex stops, and the light gushes out of the vortex's eye and spreads around his fingers and thumb. "I will look for a damaged river nerve surrounding your waters, Your Majesty."
"T—Thank you, I owe you one, Himaal." Asreus winced, gritting his teeth. He faces Soel, managing a faint smile. "Eating one of your secret sandwiches was worse than this." He jests, his smile quickly turned to wincing. "You used to love them when you were an adolescent, Your Majesty." Soel chuckled, as if he would always know Asreus hated it.
"Oh yeah?" Asreus ' eye winced through the searing pain: his hand clutching his stomach, then he chuckled.
"Your Majesty, most of your river nerves were sealed," Himaal interjected. His concern grew worse. Asreus' condition is worse than he thought.
"By the gods…" Soel exclaimed.
"Are you able to fix me up now, Himaal?" He composes himself, his voice breaking, but his spirit does not.
"Y-Yes, Your Majesty… However, you must remain here and rest; it would take a toll on your body if you move."
"That doesn't matter," Asreus assured, his voice now clear and strong. He tries to stand up, manages to adjust his back straight as he lies on a cushion. His body quivered, barely holding him up as he sat.
"Himaal, I thank you for your service. Without you, Your Majesty could've been…" Soel thanked him, his hand reaching out to take Himaal's.
"I'm glad I was of help, Soel. That magic was beyond both of our comprehension." Assured Soel. Himaal takes Soel's hand as he gives him a warm smile, embracing Soel's hand with his as a sign of gratitude.
"What exactly was that spectre, Soel?" Himaal asked, confused by how a spectre could have reached and hurt the King in his quarters. "Is Your Majesty cursed?"
"No," Soel replied, his tone serious. "It was Asmodea… She attacked your highness' head and tried to end us both." He said, Soel circles his eyes towards the painting, and across the walls. His eyes showed a hint of fear.
"That explains the magical chaos echoing through the walls…" Himaal sharply inhales. He lowered his head, facing the floor, scanning the room with magical fluctuations.
"Her magic… It's alive." He turns back to Soel, his eyes tell a terrifying gaze of fear.
"You don't mean… She's..?"
Yes, she is still alive. And she's out to come and get us."
"By Eiysmr…!" Soel's eyes furrowed—defeated. His only thoughts were his King's safety.
"Your Majesty," Himaal gently spoke, his voice echoing in the room. "I have fixed your river nerves by connecting it to the conduit stream. You are able to heal properly now. The witch's curse is thwarted and removed completely.
"I truly owe you one, Himaal. I'll be sure to speed up the processing of your request for the new marble altar you broke."
"Oh my, Your Majesty, you jest too much." Himaal chuckled, embarrassed by what Asreus revealed.
"Himaal," Soel called out, his voice full of concern. "Are you able to use your magic to see phenomena?"
"I can, and I do not think you would love what I'm seeing."
"What do you see, Himaal?" Soel asked, intrigued with Himaal's magical prowess. Himaal takes a deep breath, and then he turns, looking towards Soel's eyes.
He replied:
"...chaos." He turns right back at the floor, waving his hands in the air, tracing the source of its chaotic entrails.
"Care to elaborate?" Soel asked, his gaze quickly turned towards Asreus, tending to him. Asreus's state is still displaced from reality, taking sharp, sudden breaths as he tries to compose himself.
"With the books I've read, these… magical fluctuations could cause unbalanced tension. IT comes to the caster and the casted magic itself… And of course, by the works of Asmodea, her magic's incredibly weak…"
"Mhm," Soel nods in response. "Which… means?"
"It simply means that… The cause of this imbalance is the lack of harmony when it comes to the casting of magic… Asmodea has been using this as a last resort. Even if she's a novice mage… That witch…"
"She could cast remote magic even at her weakest point…?" Soel replied, intrigued.
"A powerful witch she is," Himaal concluded, looking at the floor. He casts a magical white light to reveal a string of diffused magic: Strings of different lengths, all tied to the same source: The painting.
"So, the source is the painting?" Soel asked.
"Yes, it is. She must've used a certain spell to cast herself into any image of her."
"By the gods…!" Soel exclaimed.
"Then, must we remove all the paintings in the palace?" Soel suggested, tracing his eyes towards Himaal's, to which he nodded in response.
"Yes, I suppose we could start with that idea—" As the conversation's flow started to enter its climax, a sudden, yet continuous loud thumps across the room sprang forward, as the guards came bearing urgent news.
"Master Soel!" The guard exclaimed, looking for the master's presence. "We came bearing urgent news!" Soel gazes his eyes across the guard. He lifted both his eyebrows, listening.
"There's been news around the City districts…" The guard slightly lowered his head, removing his helm. "There have been rumours—No, news! circulating about the townsfolk!. They're weary about their livestock…"
"What are you saying, guard?" Soel slightly tilts his head, his head muddled up with flaming questions.
"Cattles… sire. Cattle are being slaughtered… It was… unusual." The guard concluded, his eyes furrowed and full of concern, he looked at Soel's eyes, somehow at the brink of fury's eruption. And as Soel's mouth ran rampant, Asreus cuts him off, asking:
"How unusual..?" Asreus stood up, slowly, weakly. He looks at the guard, his eyes are tired. Asreus could tell.
"They were mangled up, Your majesty," the guard knelt and bowed.
"It's her doing, I know of it."
"Your Majesty?" Soel asked, bewildered.
"She's here. I know of it."
"But how? The guards would've noticed her by then!"
"I can feel her presence, but she is not here."
"...Soel, His Highness is right."
"What do both of you mean?!" Soel exclaimed, confused and concerned. He flailed his head as he looked at both of them at the same time.
"I can feel Asmodea's presence… her magic's getting stronger."
"Good," Asreus replied, he takes his garments, limping towards the wardrobe, and readies himself.
"Eryn," Asreus calls out. The guard, startled, stands up. "Yes, sire?"
"You, Soel, and the others… Gather all the soldiers. And tell them this: My sister is alive. Tighten security, gather a few men to watch our borders, and when in need, evacuate the people in safe passageways. And never..!" Asreus takes a deep, needed breath and continues.
"...Do not let anyone inside."
"V-Very well." Soel understood. But deep down he wants to interject, and doing so may cause repercussions to the King's well-being.
"I believe your instincts are spot-on, Your Majesty, but I cannot leave you behind in your quarters!"
"We must be prepared. She'll be here by sundown. I know of it."
"What shall I do, Your Highness?" Himaal asked, bowing his head.
"Gather the monks and shamans. We must perform a large concentrated warding to each warrior that must guard and defend our country. We cannot fight for our country if we are all susceptible to her manipulation."
"Understood," Himaal nods, kneeling for a second before leaving the room.
"Now, both of you, go!" His breath, ragged, each breath he takes—air wheezes out like a pipe, each utterance of his words proved nonetheless, painful. He slides his heavy foot towards Soel's direction. His back is heavy and nearing his limit; he falls, his head blank, his eyes darkened; he blacked out. The pain was unbearable, but he tried, he really did, but he blacked out, even just for a second. But Soel catches him just in time. "I got you..!" Soel exclaimed, his arm reaching for him. Asreus finally snapped himself back to the present; he slowly retracted himself. And like his resolve, it remained. He mustered up a muscle to talk, throat dry as a desert, but he tried. He added:
"I'll spread the news to the nobles…" He wheezed, this time, his voice clear. "Be sure… To remove every painting she is in." Asreus ordered. He straightens his resolve.
'Thank you, Soel." Asreus nodded. He turns towards his bed, nearing the edge of the soft mattress—his body heavy, legs quivering as if cold had numbed his muscles.
"Stay for a bit, Your Majesty," Soel suggested. He had grown more worried each second for his King. "I am alright," He assured, landing perfectly on the soft mattress. At the least, he'll heal and continue on.
"We understand," Himaal added. His hand curled up on the door frame, waiting for Soel's initiative. "Soel, it is the King's order."
"...Do not leave this room, please, Asreus." Soel pleaded, his eyes beaming with this uncertainty; his heart knows that he, a servant only, would care so much for his King, for Soel sees Asreus as his own, as they both grew together as servant and master, as much as like Father and Son.
"...I understand," Asreus smiled, he assured. He knows what Soel exactly feels, and he knows that he must rest, but to no chance will he rest; for the Kingdom had been disturbed, and a King must also.
" For the mold of a crown where gold rests,
where abundantly the harvest;
the mines; the lumber
and mountains that tower up in the skies,
There must be a wearer of a crown
with each no needed of gold—
but for those in need of home,
not the mold of a crown where gold rests;
but a place of lumber and harvest,
for none the wiser,
these of all things to be gone,
is a wearer of nothing at all. "
As both men leave the room, Asreus urges his own tired body to stand. He turns to his dresser, extending his body to open the second drawer. There, he scurried his hand to look for an item—papers rustled, glass clinked, and then, metal clanked into the wooden surface. His fingers rustled once more inside the cavity; he jerked his hand away from the drawer, getting hold of a certain item: A key, something of importance.
His footsteps echoed through the marble floors. He stood in front of his closet, his spirit ready in battle. His arms heavy, he slides the closet door open, and his clothes hang in front. He slowly bends his knees, his pain yet tolerable.
Searing, and that feeling of not eating enough, was what Asreus suffered. There, he extends his arms, his fingers click on something mysterious. A loud clang alerts him to an opening under the floor.
A strange mechanism flung the small hatch upwards, revealing a strange chest: black; to mask it from darkness. Like a secret he must keep from everyone. Asreus lifts it up, his hands shaking from the sudden shift of weight. He struggled, but he managed. He takes the key out and inserts it into the hole. The wind shifts its own course, a revelation of a new power that mustn't be spoken. It lies there, inside the chasm. With determination, he opens the lid, and a crash of a purple, blinding light seeps out! His eyes gleam like his sister's. And then he reaches out into the box, his hands trembling in excitement. It was a… Thing. Crystalline and all shiny. Its colors radiate around it, like its crystal body; you're able to see through it. "Amethyst," Asreus murmured. "You're the only one I have left when dire situations like these happen."
Like the Chasmic Emerald, many gems across the Aldian mountains were scattered across dire, barren lands by the gods. The sapphire gems that could contain a Phenomena's magic… Rubies that can manipulate a lesser being's mind. Sunstones—used to contain the flame of a fire. Amber stones—Many shamans like Himaal use them to gain vigor and stamina. And lastly, Amethysts. The power to heal broken bones and wounds… Its potent power could bring the recently dead back to life! But these gems are quite hard to find; their rarity depends on where the gods had shed their blood in battle.
"The Kingdom depends on you, Father," Asreus uttered. He clutches the amethyst with his fist. His firm grip cracks a bit of the gem into little pieces. Smoke rises from his palm, and the little pieces evaporate in the air. He takes a deep breath, straightens his back, and then cracks the whole gem into little pieces. Who knew the amethysts were this fragile in his hands?
"Grandfather…" He whispered to himself, "Grant me your blessing." And as steady as his heart, he shatters the amethyst into pieces! He braces his back, clutching the little shards in his palm. It cuts deep into his skin, but no matter the pain, he resists, for the power of the Amethyst mends his pain. Through the healing of his body—not just from his wounds, but strength now purely firm, relentless, and inhumane. He swiftly wears a piece of white garment. Hands, steady, yet impatient. And with a newfound resolve, Asreus grabs his coat and heads to the conclave.
The halls fill with boots striding—reverberating in the walls. He noticed why there are no guards nearby—not even there to greet him. His curiosity grew more, as his worries grew even. He strides further, his will guiding him like a horse. "I need to warn them," He said to himself. The nobles never did hear about what happened earlier.
"She's dangerous." He had never thought his sister would destroy the world they lived in. He has always turned a blind eye when it comes to his sister, thinking it was how he would express the 'love' he had for her. That Asmodea would understand. Even in the future.
Then, for a second, he stopped right next to a window, peeking right through the mundane light of doomsday. He thought about what his mother said right after she died. She would tell him to always take care of his sister, that even if they never spoke, Asmodea must always be beside him, as they were inside her womb. But Asreus never did try. He was terrified. Terrified he might lose her just like her mother. That even if he gets closer to her… She would stop loving him, she would resent him. Asmodea had always dreamed of becoming like her mother. Regal, kind, and bold.
But the Kingdom prefers a King, and she despised that. And that is why Asreus became so fearful, because the day that he dreads the most has now occurred, and he is powerless to stop it. But he tries to, he tries so hard, yet what he doesn't see behind those thoughts is a more dreadful event looming over the kingdom. There, as he searches for hope outside the windowpanes, through the white haze of snow and winter wind… If the nightmares of all children were to be true, then this very day of judgment, surely, the kingdom will fall. Asreus's eyes flutter in utter shock—feet quivering; his legs trembling. "It cannot be…" He muttered, and he turned towards the halls, gliding towards the conclave.
He hears chatter, and chatter. The noises are all there in the walls… It irritates him. But he needn't complain, for their lives are all in danger. As he turns the knob—door slamming open, a loud bang interrupts the chatter… Dissipating into the walls. Asreus' mind calms down. "Your Majesty!" Count Reylon called out, surprised, whose beard was as thick and long as the code of ethics he believed in; that no man shall ever sit before a King, for it is sinful.
He approaches Asreus, his gaze directly looking into him. "We've been discussing important matters for the past hour or so."
He grinned like a child being sorry for breaking his mother's vase. Count Reylon tries to reach for the Majesty's hand when Duke Vient intervenes.
"Your Majesty—You. Are. Late. " He was sitting down at the long table, each word uttered precise and deliberate. His tone—irritated, eyes furrowed, his hand perched on the long, dark wooden table. "Duke Vient! Let Your Majesty breathe for a time," An older voice uttered. It was Duke Firley. His voice rang deep into Asreus's ears.
"Please, Your Majesty. What is it you are trying to explain?" He pressed gently. There was a deep silence on Asreus's part. He wasn't that fond of deep silences; it was just the type of silence he needed, even for a little bit of time. "I have a lot to discuss—" Asreus said, yet his speech was abruptly interrupted when Count Reylon interjected. "For the past hour of your absence, Your Majesty, we have discussed a few matters regarding your exiled sister." He turns to a nearby chair, sliding it open, urging the King to sit down. "I beg of you, Your Majesty. We need your presence here."
"Count Reylon..!" Duke Vient exploded, his words strict and menacing. He stood up with his hand now fixated on his cane. "Do not hurry the King," Duke Firley softly spoke, his gaze regally calm. "I am sure his words are far more important than we have discussed." Reylon turns his gaze to Vient, with eyes to say he apologizes for acting rationally.
"Please, Your Majesty, tell us," Count Herold smiled. He tried to guide the King, but Asreus set his hands aside gently. "Asmodea…" The room turned cold, the atmosphere steady and serious. "Something had happened in my quarters."
"Is it why there have been no guards around for the past few minutes?" Baron Roule curiously asked. The others nodded in favor, having the same question in mind. "I have ordered them to guard the perimeters. However, we shall not concern ourselves with those questions."
"Why—Has she returned?!" Count Reylon stammered in fear, fixing his monocle. He remembered the incident from the reports Asreus had given—fire, destruction, and utter chaos. He felt that when she comes back, everything will fall. Reylon takes a step back towards the table, feeling the cold surface touch his back, as he sits on a nearby open chair. He looks at Baron Roule with dreadful eyes, panic slowly overcoming him. "Will she… will she destroy everything again?"
"That is impossible! The Flame knows evil, and it will destroy all evil!" Count Herold declared, his voice ringing with conviction. He tries to assure Reylon, but to an extent, fails.
"Even with magic, surviving the harsh temperatures…" Duke Firley wondered, his eyes fixed on the ground. "...It would be impossible she would have survived," He spoke low, yet the room heard it aloud. He tries to analyze and think of other solutions, to think of reasons why Asmodea may have lived.
"That no longer matters—By Eiysmr, Listen to me!" Asreus barked with authority, irritated by their inability to listen. His voice was sharp and commanding. "We need to leave, immediately. Our lives inside this castle are in imminent danger."
"What?!" Reylon's head shook in disbelief, yelping out of his chair. "Your majesty?!" Baron Courtaeis exploded, standing. "Explain more, Asreus." Duke Vient commanded, lowering his head to meet Asreus' gaze.
"I will not leave this room unless you explain it further to us." Duke Firley declared. Pride naively lingered in that room, so heavily that the nobles had forgotten they were talking to a King. Yet, that no longer matters, especially when a King sprawls nonsensical tributes that they no longer deem worthy to hear.
"I beg of you—listen to…" Asreus pleaded with conviction, his voice unbowed. He tries to finish his sentence, but the looming shadow forming behind the nobles abruptly stops him. No one knew, no one saw. Unknowingly blinded by their foolishness. From where Asreus perceives: A tar-like substance loomed before him, up the ceiling above, dripping down with thick liquid. It bleeds down—slow, viscous drops.
It splats beside Reylon—slithering, leaving behind entrails of flesh and red trails of blood: it drags itself with its mass—crawling using the muscles inside—sliding up and onto the table—churning and gagging.
"Count.." Asreus gagged in fear. That same fear he'd felt from the wolves before.
Asreus's eyes darted towards the substance's form, twisting into this black mass of death: It was no ordinary substance, no. It was a mass of pure flesh: eyes, teeth, skin, and mushy bones piled up together. "What is that smell?" Reylon lowly uttered, he sniffed his way to find it right beside him. "B-By Eiysmr!" He jerked in horror, his voice ringing throughout the room, promptly stopping the bickering. Perplexed, they all turned their heads towards Reylon.
"What is that?!" Cried another. Duke Firley turned towards the evil, his gaze drifting too close to it. "Y-Your Majesty!" Duke Firley shouted, his voice pleading for assistance. The substance turns its convulsing body towards Firley.
It convulses again; this time, it has changed. This time, the feet start to form: their bones clumped together along with their flesh and muscles. The teeth began to spiral upward—the substance thrashes, black liquid spewing everywhere. The muscles quickly sprouted from the legs and the crotch.
Its muscles jerked, as if the pain was unbearable for the evil. It began to form the torso, skin slowly unraveling from inside the mass, and it tapes itself into the fleshy muscle walls. Asreus swiftly takes his sword, its iron material glinting from the nearby lamp—it desires something to cut, and that is the flesh. He raises his sword, its blade striking through the modified torso. To their horror, with the flesh cut into two; yet, slowly, in a split-second as it slowly falls in the air, a piece of its flesh grabs onto the other part, regenerating itself. and with the torso slowly merging itself, it slithers back, convulsing once more.
"Stay back!" Asreus ordered. He runs in front of the two nobles, shielding them from any sudden attacks. "You two, make a run for it."
"What about you, Your Majesty?!" Cried Duke Firley worriedly.
"You needn't worry," He turns to him. "I got this."
The evil creates a large tendril using one of its goo. With its unprecedented speed, it caught Asreus off guard, managing to wound his left shoulder.
"—Hnghk!" He gritted his teeth in agony as the tendril removed itself from his wound, blood gushing from the entry point. Asreus stepped back, his sword positioned to defend; Here he thinks that the sword he carries would ultimately destroy this monster, yet he had never truly known what was at stake in this situation.
"All of you," Asreus gasped for air, urging everyone to listen. "Please, let me take care of this. Leave. Now!" He roared with untiring determination.
"Asreus, I cannot leave you here!" Vient cried out in worry. He unsheathes a small blade from his cane, ready for action.
"Be ready," warned Asreus. He steadies his sword, its blade directly looking at him. With a deep breath, he takes one step forward. Asreus thought about this encounter a few seconds earlier. The tendrils are fast, yes, but it doesn't hit with enough force to disable him. If he takes at least one step further, this would prompt the substance to attack. "What is that abomination?" Vient inquired, unshaken from its horrifying form. "I do not know," Asreus replied, his analysis leading to an end. "But I am sure this is one of Asmodea's tricks." He slides his leg to the left, prompting the substance to shoot its tendrils out, hitting the nearby bookshelves. "B-By Eiysmr!" Reylon exclaims; pages of written scholarly papers all scattered across the floor. Reylon scurries away; his feet tripping blindly into books. And then, a sudden jolt of black slithering mass bursts out in front of him, hitting a nearby bookshelf. He yelps in fear as the shelf crashes down on his body, trapping him under.
The creature gags and convulses again; this time, its torso is complete. From it below, a pool of fleshy mass sprouts thousands of small tendrils, all forming into a bigger amalgamation. The spiraling teeth from its body quickly rise to its torso, and within the substance's muscle, it forms a mouth, and all the teeth scattered and enter its gaping crevice. It gagged, convulsed. Pulsing through each second—while the mouth travels upward, its chest now visible: Its form revealed it to be a woman. With no head, the mouth opened, and it spoke. "....hE.."
The amalgamation reverts into smaller tendrils; this time, it became a pool of fleshy mass. It absorbed it, and showed its true form: The mouth travels into the regenerating flesh and reveals its face: red and contorted, its muscles protruding from it, with black liquid seeping out from the inside—its skin, dessicated, frail, and grotesque, it drapes itself with its own regeneration, trying to heal back the same face it once had. But it is merely a mass of flesh, struggling to keep its face. But its form is that of an old, frail woman.
"...Hhhe..llo. Bbrrr..otttther…" Its mouth gagged in blood as it struggled to speak a single syllable. A physical toll to its regenerating body, it snapped its cartilage as each vowel was uttered, yet it mends itself through sheer power. The substance keeps on regenerating—feeding itself using its mass. Yet it needs more.
"...Asmodea?" Asreus knew her voice, but it wasn't that. He called out, befuddled, thinking that Asmodea IS the monster, trapped inside the viscous goo—but no. He senses her. He knows she's there, but not… there. "Is… Is that you, sister?"
"Hhhyyy..ouu ccan…nnottttt sthttopp mmm…MmmMEE!" It tries to speak again, but every time it speaks, its voice cracks and mends, and again and again—it regenerates its dying cartilage—fixing it, removing a part of its flesh—expending it to talk once more.
"Ittttt is merrrrreeeeelyy…. A vvesseeeelll…" The substance spoke in a grotesque, gravelly horror—fleshy tendrils dripped from its mouth onto the floor, yet its mass still lingered below, turning it into a pool of black, liquefied flesh.
"Why are you doing this?!" Asreus pleaded for an answer.
"FFfffoorrr… TTThhheee… Sssaaammeee purrrrrrpppppoosee… Brrrroother." She replied, her voice now clear. As her body begins to shed a new form, the fleshy mass sprouts below her writhing lower half, and forms new tendrils.
"You needn't save them anymore, Brother," Her grin leaks out a terrifying look; her gaze darkens.
"I will plunge darkness all over this realm, and be rid of the filth that is Emeraldia!" Then this time, her body falls to the ground. Crimson spewed from each direction, as metal collided with flesh, slashing through her body, was the sword of Vient. She turns her fleshy body towards him, determined to consume his.
"Bastard fool!" She shrieked. Tendrils shot from below her standing legs and penetrated Vient's heart. He fell to the ground, bleeding profusely. "Uncle!" Cried Asreus. He dashed towards the dying Vient. He lay on the ground—weeping in agonizing pain.
"No, no no!" Asreus cried in vain; both his sorrow and anger were suppressed. "Not today, no!"
Vient's hand slowly crept up to him, sliding his bloody palm to Asreus. "A-As—reus…" he groaned, saving, still, a little of his breath, as he crept up a little smile. His eyes gazed towards Asreus. "Save… them."
"HHhhoowwww.. Dissssappppointingggg…"
"How… How come you're not eviscerated from this realm, Asmodea?!"
"MmmmmMmeee?"
"...The flame should have turned against you!"
The flesh slowly churned, moving like water, and its tendrils slowly returned from below and inside, to finally form a somewhat clear, malignant replica of what once was Asmodea.
This time, she had perfected her form: Her hands intact, eyes, teeth, bones and such… However, she is still, but made of flesh. She grinned, her face contorted to this hideous inhumane expression. Then she frowned. An expression of dreadful hate. And Asreus was fearful of it. All he could think of was how. How could he save these pitiful royals and escort them to safety?
"...The flame does not turn on me."
"..How?!" Asreus cried. His sorrow gradually envelops him, and so is hate. But he shrugs it off, not because he must feel sorrow for his uncle, but because he must not feel. He knows what Asmodea feeds off of. Instinctively, he feels he must not feel. And so he must feel nothing.
"...Because I am you." Tendrils sprout from below, pushing Asmodea upwards as her powers gradually strengthen. She rises above, and slowly lifts both arms—She breathes a sigh of fulfillment.
"We are one, brother." She ascends towards the pinnacle of the room, her tendrils flying towards every direction—destroying shelves, books and carving the ceiling—Debris falling, and the royals afraid and hiding. She swipes through the crevices of the wooden supports of the ceiling, throwing aside the excess piles of marble and other materials used. Then she ascends even further, beyond the room Asreus is in.
Asreus was confused; not realizing the imminent danger that is about to destroy the room. He thinks, and he tries to think of any way why the Flame could betray their trust. Was he too foolish to think that Asmodea could tinker and hijack a supreme magic? "It cannot be," he said. Realizing what she could mean.
"What have I've done?" Asreus weeped, his hands still grasping Vient's body. "This cannot be where it ends..!" He cried, tears sliding from his cheeks.
"We have always been alike, brother." Asmodea sneered. This time, she stopped her ascension. And her tendrils locked in position. Asreus lifts his head above, blinding himself with the searing sun. But a shadow blocks its light. "...We have always been opposites." Asreus replied, staring directly into Asmodea's flesh eyes.
A stark contrast to what has always been the opposite. Asreus has always followed the way of those who he thinks are wise and experienced, a blind fool of a King who knows nothing but to think for himself. He pleases those who need not of what he tries to give. Yet he has been crowned King. Because those who do not see through their own wisdom and experience ought to fool their own choices. Yet Asmodea was not chosen. Not because she was unworthy of the throne, but because she has always been looked down upon. For the blind only revel at what they think is gold, and not its potential. Asreus has always been good, and Asmodea had accounts of mischief. Yet they are one, and alike. They are born as one,
Thus they are alike and are one.
And as their eyes lock, Asmodea shoots her tendrils through the piles of wooden carcass, impaling one of the royals… And another, and another. And as she lifts them above, she utters:
"We are one in blood."
CHAPTER, END.