Chapter 122
At the farthest edge of the central region, where the land begins to fall away toward the western frontier, rose a vast and perplexing mountain range unlike any other in the known world. Locals called it the Web, for from above its sprawling ridges and jagged arms spread outward like the strands of a colossal spider's snare, ensnaring valleys and cutting the land into isolated crescents.
The main frame of the range was ancient, yet fractured; great portions had sunk or worn down over the ages, leaving uneven heights where some ridges loomed nearly four hundred meters tall while others sloped low enough for the wind to whisper across them. The terrain bore scars both natural and, many suspected, artificial: slopes smoothed as if by tools far older than any living race, and stone faces split in ways no common quake could cause. Radial ridges jutted outward from the core, creating massive crescent-shaped basins that stretched for hundreds of miles, each a landlocked world unto itself.
On the southwestern edge lay the land of Lúthien, a realm of a few dozen cities tucked behind one of the largest of these crescents. Its people lived in the shadow of the Web's towering wall, their only link to the outer lands a single mile-wide opening—a narrow defile ending at the very foot of the mountains. This bottleneck had long served as Lúthien's first and most unyielding line of defense.
Yet the most unsettling truth about the Web was its design. The shape was too precise, too deliberate to be a mere accident. Generations of adventurers, scholars, and mapmakers had studied its geography, tracing its lines and measuring its arcs, yet none could fathom how nature alone could create such a formation.
The prevailing belief among the learned was that the Old Gods themselves had reshaped the land, forging this stone labyrinth as a punishment. Long ago, the western region had been vast beyond measure, teeming with sentient beings whose strength rivaled the divine. Their arrogance, so the legends claimed, had driven them to defy the gods' will—and for that, the Web was woven, a barrier of living stone to cage them in. Whether the tale was truth or superstition, the mountains stood as silent testimony to a will beyond mortal comprehension.
The Web-like mountain range was more than a geographical curiosity, it was the cradle and the curse of the western lands. Beyond its towering ridges and crescent basins lay the First Territory, the vast cradle of civilization in the West. This land, rich in black soil and deeper still in mineral wealth, gave rise to the first great power of the region:
the Empire of Karion. Its capital was built not far from the heart of a deep gorge that split the mountains, the only natural corridor linking Karion to the central and eastern realms. This gorge, narrow yet navigable, was both a blessing and a curse, blessing the Karion Empire with a defensible gateway yet cursing them with the eternal isolation imposed by the stone web around them.
Legends spoke of a time before Karion, when the western expanse had no borders and no master. Kingdoms rose and fell in cycles of blood and fire, their rulers growing ever more arrogant in their power until, so it was said, the Old Gods struck in fury. They drew the Web across the edge of the central region, its radial ridges reaching like chains to lock the western lands in place. The gorge, though left unsealed, was carved narrow and steep as if to remind all who passed through that their freedom was conditional, their lives permitted only by divine whim.
Even now, the Web stands as both monument and warning, a reminder that the rise of Karion was born from the same divine punishment that caged the West and that its empire, for all its glory, was built in the shadow of a sentence that could never be lifted.
Meanwhile, far from the thundering histories of empires and the whispered tales of divine punishment, the small city of Riverton lay quietly at one of the nearest radial tips of the web-like mountain ridge. Its position was singular—nestled against a jagged spur of stone that thrust outward like a finger pointing toward the central plains, only two days' travel from the edge of the central region. Beyond those plains sprawled the immense central-eastern kingdom of Solnara Cererindu, a realm whose vast heartland was ruled less by the hand of its monarch and more by distant nobles who, in truth, rarely deigned to set foot there.
Riverton's people, along with the scattered villages and hamlets of the surrounding lowlands, lived according to their own slow rhythm, untouched by the urgency of greater politics. Life here unfolded beneath the dual shadow of the mountains and the quiet neglect of absentee lords. Occasionally, a train of trade wagons would rattle through the city streets, their wheels throwing up dust on the way to the gorge or the plains beyond, but for the most part Riverton governed itself, an island of predictable routine hemmed in by stone on one side and endless, loosely tended farmland on the other.
Yet to those who watched the shifting tides of power with sharp eyes, Riverton's position—so near the ridge, so close to the central routes—was no backwater. It was a sleeping prize, biding its time until the day someone bold enough reached out to claim it.
The surrounding landscape was as varied as it was strategic. To the northwest stretched a seventy-acre swamp, its stagnant pools glinting darkly in the sun, ringed by twisted cypress and reeds that whispered in the wind.
Though small in size compared to the greater wilderness beyond, this swamp connected to the edges of the vast fortified forest that guarded the approach to the gorge. Few outsiders knew that a narrow, concealed track threaded its way from Riverton through the swamp and into the forest's shadowy depths.
This hidden path, used only by locals and the most discreet of travelers, could cut three full days off the journey to the gorge, an immense advantage for anyone who valued speed and secrecy. In contrast, the more common route wound across open farmland dotted with villages before finally reaching the gorge forest's territorial border, a road longer and far more exposed to watchful eyes. In a land where geography could be as much a weapon as an army, Riverton sat quietly beside a blade waiting to be drawn.
From above, the lands around Riverton unfolded in layers of stone, water, and forest, each feature stitched to the next in a pattern shaped by both time and purpose. The city itself clung to the base of a jagged spur of the web-like mountain ridge, the stone rising sharply behind it like a natural wall. To the south and east stretched open plains, broad fields broken by tilled farmland, winding dirt roads, and scattered villages that dotted the horizon in small, uneven clusters. These settlements fed both themselves and the occasional passing caravan, though most of their produce never traveled farther than the nearest market.
Northwest of Riverton lay the Seventy-Acre Swamp, a dark, waterlogged basin that shimmered under the sun in patches of dull silver and shadowed green. Thin trails wound through the marsh, some disappearing into pockets of mist, others crossing over with crude wooden planks and narrow embankments. From the swamp's far edge began the rise of the Fortified Forest—a thick, ancient woodland that acted as the outer skin of the gorge's defenses. Its trees were massive, their trunks armored with gnarled bark, their canopies so dense that sunlight rarely touched the ground.
Between the swamp and the forest, hidden from all but those who knew where to look, lay the Secret Track a narrow path of packed earth barely wide enough for a wagon. It cut through the marsh on a winding route before vanishing into the forest's shadow, bypassing the more traveled southern road entirely. This path was dangerous to the unwary, its course marked by subtle landmarks like a leaning pine, a ring of mossy stones, or a bend in the stream where the water ran unnaturally clear. But for those who could follow it, the reward was time: three full days shaved off the journey to the gorge.
The common route, in contrast, began at Riverton's eastern road, passing through the wide farmlands toward a string of populous villages before entering the southern edge of the Fortified Forest. It was safer, more open, and far better known but it was also watched. Anyone who traveled that way was seen long before they reached the gorge.
In this way, Riverton's geography formed a quiet crossroads: one road open and visible to all, the other buried in shadow and known to few. To the casual traveler, it was nothing more than a quirk of the land, a fortunate accident of swamp and stone. But for those who could sense the tremors beneath the surface of daily life, something had begun to stir.
The lesser noble charged with managing the city, an obscure branch of the old Dreswick clan, had become a source of unease.
Whispers told of a dark force seeping from the ancient castle that loomed at Riverton's farthest edge, its weathered towers rising over the clustered roofs of a thousand households sworn to the Dreswick banner. By day, the castle seemed little more than a relic, its walls mottled with age, its courtyards quiet save for the clatter of the garrison's boots.
But at night, faint lights flickered in the high windows, and the wind carried strange, almost mournful tones across the rooftops. Some claimed the ground around the keep had begun to sour, its grass growing pale and brittle, and that birds no longer nested in the trees closest to its walls. The people of Riverton kept their heads down, speaking little of the change, yet in their silence lay the shared understanding that the balance of their quiet city had shifted and that whatever had awoken within the castle's stone heart was no longer content to remain hidden.
Inside the highest chamber of the old Dreswick castle, the air was thick with the scent of burning resin and the metallic tang of blood. Countess Marivelle Dreswick stood at the center of a circle etched deep into the flagstones, the lines inlaid with a dull, coppery gleam that caught the flicker of the torchlight. In her hands, she cradled a relic swaddled in dark silk, a summoning artifact older than the castle itself, its surface crawling with faint runes that shifted like living things. At her command,
The mage kneeling before her traced the last of the sigils, his voice low and steady despite the rising pressure in the room. He was not merely some hired spellcaster, as her husband believed, but her elder brother, Serath Valmoré, bound to her by blood and by the long, shadowed history of their family.
Their lineage was entwined with a sin far older than Riverton's current troubles: the abduction of the trueborn sons of Duchess Elleena Laeanna Rothchester and the violent death of the duchess's husband, a killing the countess's kin had orchestrated in whispers and daggers decades ago.
The Duchess had never forgiven, never forgotten, and in quiet, ruthless increments, the Valmoré bloodline had waited for the day they might repay any vengeance with their own. Now, as the artifact's power pulsed in Marivelle's grasp, the waiting was over.
The walls trembled faintly as the summoning began in earnest. The torches flared, their flames drawn toward the circle as though pulled by an unseen wind. Shadows twisted unnaturally along the stone, forming shapes with too many limbs, too many eyes, and the faint echo of a voice that was not human. Serath's chant deepened, his words shifting into a tongue no longer spoken in any living kingdom.
The artifact grew warm in Marivelle's hands, its runes flaring to life, and she could feel the weight of something vast and hungry pressing against the veil between worlds. Outside, Riverton slept, unaware that in the heart of their city, the old castle was no longer just a seat of governance; it had become the threshold to something far older and far darker than any of them had imagined.
Duchess Elleena was interrogating Count Ailmar Dreswick; she was convinced that the Count knew something about the incident that nearly destroyed her family. But seeing his arrogance shattered with a mere draw on her weapon, she understood that the real person that has a connection to that incident has started their counterattack.
Serath Valmoré had come to Riverton under the guise of a wandering scholar-mage, his age-lined face and measured, deliberate speech giving the impression of a man whose best years had long passed. Count Ailmar Dreswick, ever practical in his appointments, had welcomed him into service upon the warm recommendation of his wife, Marivelle. To the Count, Serath was nothing more than a capable spellcaster with a deep well of obscure knowledge—useful for reinforcing the castle's wards and conducting the occasional ritual that his garrison's priests were ill-equipped to handle.
What Ailmar did not know what Marivelle had taken great pains to conceal, was that the "wandering mage" was in truth her elder brother, bound to her not merely by family, but by the shadowed legacy of the Valmoré line.
For decades, Serath had moved unseen across the fractured noble courts, his hands shaping events from the margins, always beyond the reach of suspicion. It was the Valmorés who had once orchestrated the abduction of Duchess Elleena Laeanna Rothchester's trueborn son and who had arranged the death of her husband in an act of calculated cruelty. That bloodstain had never been washed clean, and the duchess's enmity had never cooled.
Now, within the high chamber of the old Dreswick castle, the siblings worked in silent collusion. The Count believed Serath's presence that night was for a simple reinforcement of protective enchantments. In truth, Marivelle had set her brother to a far darker purpose, the activation of a summoning artifact whose power exceeded anything her husband would have sanctioned.
As Serath's voice rolled in steady incantation, the runes carved into the flagstones flared to life, and the air thickened with the oppressive weight of something vast pressing against the fabric of the world.
Unaware, Count Ailmar tended to the sudden visit of Duchess Elleena at his own keep, while above him, his wife and her true kin prepared to open a door that, once unlatched, could never again be closed, thinking it will save her family from ruin.
The roar was deafening. Count Ailmar Dreswick flinched as the ceiling above the great hall exploded in a hail of shattered stone and dust. The air filled with the acrid stench of scorched mortar as a massive, hulking shape crashed down into the center of the room, the floorboards groaning under its weight. The creature that straightened from the rubble was a nightmare given flesh, a towering, broad-shouldered male demon with skin the color of molten rock cooling to black, thick cords of muscle rolling beneath it like living steel.
Two horns curved forward from his skull, their tips jagged as if broken in ancient battles, and his eyes burned with a sickly orange glow that pulsed with each slow, rumbling breath.
Above, two more figures emerged from the gaping wound in the ceiling, dropping down with predatory grace. They were female, their forms lithe but no less menacing—skin stretched smooth and red as fresh blood, marked with curling black sigils that writhed faintly like living tattoos. Their faces were cruelly beautiful, framed by long, shadowy hair that swirled in an unseen wind.
One bore clawed hands tipped with talons like obsidian; the other carried a long, bladed chain that coiled and uncoiled with a serpent's hunger. Both smiled wide, feral smiles, letting laughter spill into the hall, a low, delighted sound at odds with the carnage around them.
Count Ailmar's panic spiked as his eyes fell to the far side of the hall. There, slumped against the wall, lay the lifeless husk of Marivelle, his wife. Her once-vibrant face was gaunt and hollow, skin shriveled to parchment over bone. Several household maids lay beside her in the same grotesque state, their bodies drained of life until nothing remained but withered shells.
Steel rang as Duchess Elleena Laeanna Rothchester drew her sword in one fluid motion, her head steward Custodia and ten armed attendants following suit. The duchess's gaze flicked briefly to the count, her expression unreadable, before she gave her command in a voice that cut through the demons' laughter.
Evacuate the people in this quarter immediately!" Her eyes narrowed, never leaving the three towering foes. "They are infernal demons," she said, each word cold and sharp as steel. "Do not let them leave this place."
The great hall erupted into chaos. With a bellow that shook the rafters, the male demon lunged forward, his clawed feet splintering the stone tiles beneath him. His immense arms swung in wide, crushing arcs, the force of each blow shattering furniture and sending shards of wood and plaster flying through the air. Every movement was a blend of brute strength and predatory precision, his glowing eyes locked hungrily on Count Ailmar.
The first of the female demons struck with a shriek, her bladed chain snapping out like lightning. It sliced through a table as if it were paper, the broken halves clattering to the ground. She moved with a dancer's grace, spinning the weapon in sweeping arcs that kept Custodia and two attendants pinned back, their shields ringing under the relentless strikes. Her laughter never faltered, a sickeningly musical counterpoint to the clash of steel.
The second female demon was the most silent and perhaps the most dangerous. She closed the distance in a blur, her taloned hands slashing at one of the duchess's guards before he could even raise his sword. Blood sprayed in a fine mist as he fell, his throat opened in a single, fluid motion. She flowed past his body without pause, her movements eerily smooth, as though she were gliding rather than stepping. The curling black sigils along her skin pulsed with each strike, as if drinking in the lifeblood of her victims.
Duchess Elleena did not hesitate. She stepped forward into the fray, her sword a silver arc in the firelight. With one hand she caught the Count by the collar, dragging him behind the protective wall of her attendants, while with the other she struck at the male demon's reaching claw, her blade slicing deep enough to draw a hiss of black smoke from the wound.
"Form two lines!" she shouted.
"First line, hold the hall! Second, get the civilians out through the servants' passage!"
Custodia roared a wordless battle cry, intercepting the chain-wielding demon with his heavy shield, the impact ringing like a gong. Around them, the Duchess's attendants fought in a tight formation, shields and spears locking into a bristling wall, forcing the creatures to meet resistance at every step. But the demons moved with unnatural speed, every clash of weapon against claw sending shockwaves through the ranks.
Over the din, the Duchess's voice cut clear and sharp:
"Do not falter! They feed on fear; deny them the taste!"
And still, above the clash and shouts, the two female demons laughed, as if this was nothing more than a game they had waited centuries to play.
The clash inside the great hall grew into a maelstrom of steel, fire, and shadow. Every blow from the infernal trio sent shockwaves through the walls, and the air was thick with the stink of burning stone and the metallic tang of blood.
Beyond the locked shield wall of the Rothchester guards, the remaining servants of the Dreswick household fled in a desperate, stumbling rush, maids clutching what few possessions they could snatch, and grooms and cooks shoving through the narrow side corridors toward the gates. Among them was Halric Dreswick, the Count's only son, his face pale and drawn as he turned once in the doorway.
Through the billow of smoke and torchlight, he saw his father surrounded by the ten Rothchester attendants, their black-and-silver coats gleaming in the firelight as they formed a living barrier against the onslaught.
Swords and spears flashed, the polished steel cutting through the gloom, every strike measured, every step taken with military precision. For an instant, Halric felt a pang of shame seeing his father guarded not by Dreswick retainers, but by outsiders sworn to a family his mother had hated. Yet the next moment, the roar of the male demon drove him into motion, and he vanished into the press of fleeing bodies.
Above, the gaping wound in the ceiling still smoldered. The summoning circle in the chamber above had not gone dark. Its runes burned hotter, their light bleeding through the cracks in the floorboards like veins of molten gold. From that unseen source came the first of the hellhounds, lean, skeletal beasts with hide stretched tight over their bones, eyes burning crimson, and jaws dripping streams of fire.
They poured through the opening in a tide of claws and teeth, leaping down into the hall, then scattering through every open arch and door.
Within moments, the battle inside fractured. Three guards broke from formation to intercept a pair of hounds racing toward the stairwell, while the others pressed back against the advancing demons. Duchess Elleena's jaw tightened as she realized the danger was no longer confined to the castle.
Outside, the night exploded into chaos. The fleeing servants reached Riverton's streets only to find the hellhounds already upon them, snapping and lunging, their flaming breath igniting thatched roofs and market stalls. Screams rose from every quarter as the beasts spread through the city, striking with terrifying speed. Shadows twisted in the glow of burning homes, and the sound of panicked footfalls echoed against stone walls.
Inside the hall, Elleena shouted above the din, "Hold them here! Protect the people ! No one leaves for the city until the civilians are clear!" But even as she spoke, more shapes gathered in the hole above dark silhouettes writhing against the glow of the summoning circle, promising that the nightmare had only begun.
The clash within Dreswick Castle had already descended into chaos when Daniel arrived with Melgil at his side. Outside, the moon cast a pale sheen over Riverton's rooftops, only for the light to be drowned out by the hellish glow spilling from the ruptured ceiling. Within the great hall, Duchess Elleena Laeanna Rothchester and her head steward, Custodia, fought in a tightening circle, their ten black-and-silver-clad attendants clashing against the three infernal demons.
The creatures, snarling and laughing with perverse delight, anchored themselves at the heart of the chamber, their very presence keeping the gaping void in the air from collapsing.
From that shimmering tear, the night spat forth hordes of horrors, hellhounds that burst into the streets beyond, fangs snapping, eyes glowing red as they hunted Riverton's fleeing citizens.
The muscular male demon stood at the center like a living bulwark, its obsidian skin stretched over corded muscle, every breath steaming with molten heat. Curved black horns swept back from its skull, and each slow, deliberate movement promised devastation. To its left and right moved the two female demons, lithe and whip-fast.
One was draped in ragged silks that fluttered like shadows, her clawed hands tracing symbols in the air that fed the summoning rift; the other wielded a hooked glaive with cruel precision, each sweep forcing back the Rothchester guards. Their laughter was not human; it was the sound of cracking stone and splintering bone.
Through the chaos, the last of the Dreswick household fled, Halric Dreswick among them. He glanced back only once, just long enough to see his father huddled behind the duchess's defensive line, shielded by steel and spell. Then he ran out through the shattered gates, down into the streets now choked with screams.
Daniel's arrival was a break in the tide. With Melgil flanking him, he cut through a cluster of hellhounds at the entrance, the creatures bursting into smoke and cinders beneath the arcs of his blade. Yet even as they pushed forward, Daniel felt an unnatural pressure gnawing at the edges of his mind.
The summoning rift didn't pulse like a normal infernal breach. Its widening edges were being dragged open, forced beyond the power of the three demons themselves. Somewhere beyond the veil, an unseen hand was prying it apart. The sensation was cold, invasive, and laced with authority, and Daniel recognized it instantly.
Zero.
The same entity whose administrative power had once infected the Hallowtree, corrupting it from within, was here again as an invisible puppeteer, pouring its will into this invasion. Every moment the rift remained open, Riverton's doom became more certain.
Daniel tightened his grip on his weapon.
They weren't just fighting demons tonight. They were fighting Zero's will itself.