"Millow." The demon's voice slithered through the air, cold and venomous. "Speaking your name is as delectable as rotting Dwarven flesh."
The eerie words struck like a blade dipped in frost, and yet they carried a cruel, deliberate composure. Neroth is truly a demon.
"But your soul is of the opposite, for I can only see chaotic clashing of colors deep within you. What are you? Is Millow your true name?"
"You…" Millow's voice was low, trembling with a mix of anger and unease. "What's the use of my name to you? Why are you sparing me?"
Neroth's eyes of winter narrowed slightly, his expression cold. "I am not sparing you," he said flatly, his tone devoid of emotion. "It may be that you simply haven't won the game yet, Millow."
"This is really all a game?" Millow repeated, his tone hardening. His words hung in the silence as his eyes darted around. The corpses of the other outworlders—their screams, their blood—had vanished. The emptiness around him felt suffocating. "What…? Where is everyone?"
"Dead," Neroth replied, his answer as unfeeling as the darkness around them. "And out. They've been sent back into the world to where they were standing, but as corpses. Only the two of us remain."
Millow's heart hammered against his chest. "How?"
Neroth tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "We are still within my dominion, games that demons always play," he said, his voice a measured monotone. "This dimension is mine—detached from Terraldia, from time, from reason—built purely by my own essence. I am a demon lord unlike any other normal demons, the rules I have established remain absolute."
"Rules? What rules? What do you mean—"
"I told you all. The game ends," Neroth interrupted, his tone sharp enough to sever Millow's protests, "when I or you all are dead."
Millow's breath hitched. "Then again…" He hesitated, swallowing hard before continuing. "Why am I not dead?"
For the first time, something flickered in the demon's expression—though it was not emotion but a glimmer of curiosity, distant and clinical. "Strange," Neroth admitted. "That is the same question I find myself asking."
The demon turned his back to Millow, his long, tattered black robes trailing like shadows on the ground. Each step through the grass echoed, heavy and deliberate, as he moved deeper into the dim, boundless expanse of his domain.
Millow remained frozen, his fists clenching at his sides. "What do you want from me?" he demanded, his voice echoing into the emptiness.
Neroth paused, his back stark against the nothingness. His head tilted slightly, as if weighing Millow's presence with detached curiosity. Then, with chilling indifference, he spoke, his voice cutting through the oppressive silence.
"Answers, Millow."
Neroth raised his right hand, fingers curling with an almost deliberate grace. Crimson lightning sparked to life along his palm, crackling in erratic, hungry patterns. The air vibrated with a palpable tension, the energy yearning for something to consume, to destroy.
Millow's eyes narrowed, his voice firm yet betraying a faint tremor. "Answers? What kind of answer are you looking for when you've already annihilated us before we even had a chance to live?"
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Neroth's lips, though it was devoid of warmth or humor. "Out of all the creatures I asked—of both light and dark—your answer just gnaws at me to seek more answers out of you. And it came from someone who had no... anything."
Millow's confusion was evident, but he didn't falter. "I don't understand—"
Neroth cut him off, his tone sharpening like a blade. "Surely, you don't. You can't possibly comprehend the power you hold, or should I say the Goddess hold, can you? You are an entity far removed from this world. You don't even speak our tongues, yet here you are—summoned by the Goddess's light—speaking to me and wielding the said weapons of annihilation."
Millow's jaw tightened, his frustration mounting. "What? But none of it justifies your actions. You speak of comprehension while spreading death. We didn't even wanted to be here-"
Neroth's expression darkened, his eyes glowing with an unnatural brilliance. "Death is a merciful gift. But how I wish I could show you what I've seen—what I've felt through their minds, their sickening memories and their hopeless souls. What I've done was not for destruction alone. It was my mission as a force against the one who summoned you all here."
Millow's eyes widened before it looked down, "I know." Millow responded, "Death is to darkness, as light is to life, I know that. But their deaths are not just endings you can assume, hope lives on, and maybe they will live with me despite that they are all strangers belonging of the same workd." Millow spat, his tone laced with defiance.
Neroth's voice dropped to an almost conspiratorial whisper, though his words were as vague as ever. "You are an intriguing case, Millow. I have lived for a millenia, years greater than of your kind, the memories your people have are just little moments for me, for I walked and met all kinds of beings in this damned world, only you have given meaning to the things I cannot fathom—so much for an outworlder with an empty or corrupted soul."
The crimson lightning in Neroth's palm flared brighter, illuminating his cold, unyielding gaze. The void around them seemed to pulse with his words, as if the very fabric of existence recognized the weight of his declaration.
Before Millow could react, an unseen force yanked his body upright, as if the very earth beneath him had turned traitorous. "Woah!" he gasped, his boots dragging across the shifting grass as it propelled him forward.
His heart pounded in wild panic, but the movement was relentless. The world blurred, the seconds stretching like threads about to snap. And then—suddenly—he stopped.
Millow found himself standing inches from Neroth's back, the demon's imposing form towering over him, still and deliberate. The space between them felt suffocating, the weight of Neroth's presence pressing down like a storm about to break.
"Your soul…" Neroth's voice was calm, but each word sliced through the silence with unnerving precision. "…seems to be locked away."
Millow's chest tightened, dread clawing at his insides.
"Let's see," Neroth continued, his tone a chilling monotone, "if your body will give me the key."
Without warning, Neroth whirled around, his movement unnaturally fast—a blur of pale skin and black, tattered robes. His glowing white eyes pierced through Millow's, and the world seemed to tilt.
Then, Neroth's hand shot forward, the crackling red lightning flaring like a predator baring its fangs. His palm slammed against Millow's chest.
A jolt tore through Millow, searing heat mixed with icy tendrils that crawled under his skin, clawing toward something deeper—something hidden.
Colors erupted in blinding flashes—yellow, red, blue—all twisting and glitching, tearing through his vision like splinters of broken glass. Images, half-formed and fleeting, raced before him. Faces he didn't recognize. Places he couldn't name. Whispers of voices that screamed too loud to hear.
It wasn't just overwhelming—it was suffocating. Like a flood, the torrent of sights and sounds pushed into his skull, filling it to bursting. A crushing weight pressed on him, waterlogged and heavy, as if he was drowning in memories he didn't own.
And then—red.
Red consumed everything. It bled into the chaos, overtaking it with visceral, pulsing horror. The red wasn't just around him—it was him.
The pain hit next, sharp and sudden. Millow's eyes felt as though they were tearing apart from the inside. A sickening pop echoed in his ears, and warm liquid streaked down his cheeks. Blood. His own blood.
It didn't stop there. His lips cracked, the metallic taste flooding his mouth as blood poured freely, dribbling down his neck. The red was everywhere now—running, spilling, soaking the ground beneath him.
His body couldn't hold.
Millow fell backward, his stiff frame collapsing with a dull thud. His wide, bloodied eyes stared at the sky, unblinking, as his mind spiraled into a chaotic oblivion.
And yet, amidst the agony, the colors began again.
Yellow. Blue. Red. Yellow once more.
And then—white. All-consuming, blank, and overwhelming.
Finally, purple. Deep and vivid, twisting with an ominous brilliance.
Then—black. Endless, yawning black.
Darkness.
Yet confusing.
Loud.
Overwhelming.
Yet lost.
Along the lines of light.
Like threads amidst the darkness.
Still, controlled, yet no clear direction.
Lost.
What is lost can never be truly found.
But if nothing is found, what is there to lose?
What defines a life's worth if its death is of seemingly an utmost insignifance? Life is perhaps a fragile thread, stretched thin between the fleeting moments of existence and the yawning abyss of oblivion. An intangible thing from memories, desires, and regrets—each seconds trembling under the weight of inevitability.
Loss carves its mark deeper than time, reshaping the soul like a sculptor chiseling stone. Yet the shape it leaves behind is unfamiliar, an echo of what was, and a question of what could have been.
Change comes not with the gentle whispers of understanding but with the violent rupture of certainty. It shatters, it mends, and yet the pieces never fit the same way again.
In the heart of change lies a paradox: to lose is to grieve what once was, but to remain unchanged is to stagnate, a death more insidious than the final breath.
And so, it stretches, thinner and thinner, each loss fraying its edges, each change pulling it taut. Until one day, it snaps—or transforms into something new.
For what is life if not the courage to see change from the fragments of the old? What is life when you walk a line with broken folds? Amidst the blackness of a rushing colors.
The darkness that consumes all.
It changes.
Now walking into the darkness.
Into the night.
Hands stretched forward, palms wanting to reach the silhouette of a man standing high up with the brilliance of the stars together with the city lights. Up in the edge, forward, trying to reach him before he falls into the edge.
"Millow!"
A sharp voice of a woman called out. As his name was called, so is that memory fading.
Her breath hitched as her eyes flew open. A golden, flickering light greeted her, casting long, intricate shadows on vaulted ceilings adorned with celestial carvings. She blinked rapidly, her vision sharpening to the sight of a vast, opulent room.
Its grandeur was overwhelming. Polished marble floors gleamed under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, their light refracted by stained glass windows that painted the walls in hues of red and gold. The room was filled with people, all dressed in the finest silks and velvets. Jewels glittered on collars and accessories, their reflections dancing like stars across the room.
Mauve sat up abruptly, her sleek mauve-and-black dress shifting around her. Its knee-length hem was split on both sides, revealing her toned legs in brown color, while angular lines of black stripes crisscrossed the fabric, giving her a modern yet unorthodox appearance in contrast to the archaic luxury around her. Her black formal shoes, polished and practical, seemed alien on the ornate red carpet.
The crowd had stilled, their whispers growing louder with each passing second. Faces turned toward her, a sea of noble astonishment. Some looked shocked, others curious.
Her golden-brown eyes scanned the room, sharp and calculating. She noticed every detail—the opulence of their embroidered robes, the weight of the stares, and the subtle tension in their movements. Her fingers grazed the light dusting of freckles on her nose as she steadied her breathing.
"Where… am I?" she muttered, her low, commanding voice cutting through the murmurs like a blade.
A ripple of unease spread across the court.
The sea of nobles fell silent, their whispers snuffed out as the crowd parted with an almost reverent urgency. Emerging from their midst was a figure who seemed to embody authority itself.
He was tall, his posture commanding yet effortless, with broad shoulders that carried the weight of undeniable power. His graying hair, streaked with silver like threads of moonlight, was immaculately combed back, accentuating a sharp, angular face carved by time and wisdom. His piercing blue eyes burned with a quiet intensity, a glacier hiding untold depths of calculation beneath their surface.
The man's attire was a masterpiece of royal opulence. A long, flowing cloak of deep sapphire blue draped over his shoulders, its edges embroidered with intricate golden patterns that seemed to shimmer like liquid sunlight. Beneath the cloak, he wore a doublet of midnight black, trimmed with gold filigree that traced patterns resembling ancient runes. A sash of golden silk crossed his chest, bearing a crest of a roaring horse surrounded by stars.
But it was his crown that stole attention. Resting atop his head was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, forged from pure gold and adorned with jewels of every hue—rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and amethysts, each cut to perfection and glowing faintly under the chandelier's light. The crown was neither gaudy nor understated; it exuded authority and majesty, each gem a silent reminder of the realm's power and wealth.
His boots, polished to a mirror shine, struck the marble floor with deliberate precision as he walked. Every step seemed to resonate through the room, a quiet declaration that his presence alone was law.
When he finally stopped, his gaze swept the hall, taking in every detail, every person, before settling on Mauve. Suspicion flickered in his eyes, though his face remained as unreadable as stone.
"You dare to appear in the center of the High Court unannounced?" he asked, his tone icy, authoritative.
Mauve straightened, her mind racing. The High Court? She glanced around again, noticing the throne—golden, massive, and empty—at the far end of the room.
"I didn't mean to intrude," she replied, her tone firm but wary.
"Intrude?" Another voice, sharp and female, cut in. A woman stepped forward, her gown trailing behind her like a waterfall of sapphire silk. "You arrived in a flash of white light, dressed like no one from this world. Who are you?"
Mauve's jaw tightened, her breath hitching as the silence thickened around her like a noose. She felt the weight of their stares—sharp, probing, unforgiving. The opulence of the room pressed down on her. Heavy velvet drapes framed towering stained-glass windows, the sunlight refracting in dazzling hues onto polished marble floors. Chandeliers hung like frozen constellations overhead, their glow illuminating the finely dressed figures before her, every eye locked on her as though she were an anomaly to be dissected.
But Mauve's thoughts weren't here. They were spinning, spiraling, tethered to a different time. Millow. The rooftop. His trembling figure silhouetted against a backdrop of midnight skies and fractured city lights. The wind in his hair, the vivid memory slicing through her heart. She remembered lunging forward, a scream caught in her throat—
And then nothing. Nothing amidst those purple night skies in her memory.
Dark.
Black.
Purple.
Pink.
Violet.
Mauve.
Her chest tightened. She dragged herself back to the present. The room, the strangers, the cold realization of being nowhere she recognized.
Her shoulders stiffened, her chin lifting just enough to mask the storm within. "I'm Mauve. Mauve Violet…" Her voice, steady but strained, cut through the murmurs. A pause, as her mind betrayed her with a fleeting image of Millow's eyes, hollow and anguished. "…And I'm not here by choice. I mean no harm."
The whispers swelled, rippling through the crowd like a rising tide. Mauve's fists clenched at her sides. Her eyes swept the room, locking briefly with a haughty noblewoman whose jeweled fingers fidgeted with her fan. Another figure—a middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard—whispered something to his companion, his expression a mixture of curiosity and disdain.
Luxurious royalty. Old-fashioned decor. The heavy scent of perfume. The thought surfaced, unbidden, as her gaze flickered across the room. I am in a parallel world, aren't I?
A man stepped forward from the dais, his ornate robes glinting with gold thread. His thin lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his cold, calculating eyes. "Mauve, was it?" His voice was silken, almost mocking. "A pleasure to meet you." He took a deliberate step forward, his gaze shifting behind her.
His smile vanished. "Seize her."
Before Mauve could process his words, a sharp clatter of metal boots filled the air. Two armored guards closed in, their hands gripping her shoulders with iron-clad force.
"Why?" Her voice cut through the noise, sharp and trembling with frustration. She twisted against their hold, glaring at the robed man with burning intensity. "Can't any of you undo whatever's happening and send me back where I was?"
The man's gaze remained impassive. "You're trespassing in the royal court of Calvian Castle."
Calvian Castle? The words ricocheted in her mind, unfamiliar and absurd.
"I didn't mean to!" Her voice rose, the edge of desperation slipping through. "I don't even know what's happening or why I'm here!"
The man's expression hardened, his tone brooking no argument. "Imprison her until she's ready to be questioned further."
"I already told you what I know!" Mauve snapped, her voice cracking with anger and fear.
"You have no say nor power here." He waved dismissively, turning his back on her. "Take her away."
The guards tightened their grip, dragging her toward the doors. Her boots scraped against the polished floor as she struggled, her mind racing. None of them seemed to know—or care—why she was here. She wasn't supposed to be here.
Just as the heavy wooden doors loomed ahead, they creaked open with a slow, ominous groan. The guards halted, their hands still gripping her arms.
The room, bathed in golden light from high stained-glass windows, seemed to still as the heavy wooden doors groaned open. All eyes turned to the figure who entered—a frail yet commanding presence. An old woman in a flowing white robe adorned with intricate golden symbols shuffled forward, her silver hair gleaming beneath the flicker of light. Around her trailed four hooded maidens, their movements sluggish, breaths labored, as though they'd been running for miles.
Her face was a canvas of deep worry, her thin lips trembling as she bent her body to take a bow and panted heavily. "Your Majesty!" she gasped, clutching at her chest, her voice urgent and cracked with exhaustion.
The man, tall and imposing in his navy and gold regalia, stepped forward. His square jaw tightened as his piercing eyes narrowed at the sight of her distress. "High Priestess Solmira?" he asked, his tone sharp but tinged with concern.
The woman raised a hand, still panting. "People," she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
"People?" His brows furrowed, his voice hardening. "Speak clearly!"
The High Priestess struggled to catch her breath, her hand trembling as she gestured to the four maidens behind her, who mirrored her exhaustion. "People… they're just appearing… everywhere in the cities my king!"
"King?" Mauve's eyes widened.
The king stiffened, his hand falling to the pommel of his ceremonial sword. "Appearing? What are you saying?"
"It must be…" She swallowed hard, her voice quaking. "The Emergence!"
Gasps rippled through the nobles behind the king, their whispers growing louder.
The king's expression darkened. "What do you mean of the emergence, High Priestess?"
"Emergence of the people..." She raised a trembling hand and pointed at Mauve, her finger wavering. "People like her!"
All heads turned sharply toward Mauve. She felt their scrutiny, their gazes piercing through her as though they sought to unravel her very essence.
"You…" the king said slowly, his voice now a low rumble. "You're an outworlder?"
Mauve's heart raced, but her face remained composed. "I'm… an outworlder?" she murmured, almost to herself. Her golden-brown eyes flicked downward, her brows furrowed in deep thought. "So, I'm not the only one."
"What do we do, Sire?" the old woman asked, her voice taut with unease.
The king turned back to the High Priestess. "Are they causing a rampage? What's their state?"
"I… I'm not sure, my King," she replied, her voice faltering. "But I am certain they are the outworlders of oracle-written divine fate."
"The awaited saviors and their cursion weapons from the prophecy," the king mused aloud, his hand stroking his chin. His eyes grew distant as though weighing the gravity of her words. "They've come… unexpectedly." He turned to the High Priestess, his tone softening. "You were right. I owe you an apology for disregarding your warnings these past weeks."
Cursion Weapon? How trivial. Mauve thought to herself.
The High Priestess inclined her head humbly. "Your Majesty, even us in the temple had not given it the attention it needs, I understand your reasons. But negligence is no longer an option. They might be the warriors summoned by the Goddess of Light! What must we do?"
The room descended into murmurs, the nobles behind the king exchanging glances, their faces pale with shock. Mauve scanned their expressions—the fear, the disbelief, the uncertainty. Her jaw tightened. She could feel the panic brewing, a storm ready to erupt.
"It's crucial," Her voice cutting through the growing noise, "that we all remain in control." she said firmly.
The king's head snapped toward her, his eyes narrowing. "What?"
Mauve's gaze was steady, unflinching. "I can't guarantee that we'll all be the saviors you believe us to be. If these outworlders are as confused as I am, then desperate, uncontrolled people will bring consequences."
"You dare to—" a noble began, his voice dripping with disdain.
But the High Priestess raised a hand, silencing him. "I agree with her, Your Majesty," she said gravely. "Especially when outworlders like her are summoned with potent weapons—cursions—believed to be summoned at will."
"Enough!" the king barked, his voice echoing through the chamber. "I know what must be done." He turned sharply, his presence commanding. "These outworlders need to understand they are under the rule of the Calvian Kingdom. They must be gathered immediately."
Mauve's shoulders relaxed slightly, her eyes flickering with a faint glimmer of hope. Perfect. She looked down, her lips pressing into a thin line. Now I just need to find you, Millow. You must be alive. You have to be.
The king's voice rang out again, decisive and unyielding. "High Priestess, it is my order to ensure every outworlder within our walls is detained. Inform the Grand General and the Guilds of the Thaumaturge to rally all forces."
The High Priestess bowed deeply. "Duly noted, Sire." As she turned to leave and made her few steps forward, she suddenly halted and turned her head around, her gaze lingered on Mauve, her expression unreadable.
"Intriguing," she murmured under her breath, Mauve noticed her as she turned her head back before continuing toward the exit, her four attendants trailing silently behind her.
"Guards!" the king barked. "Take her to the gaols. She will join the other outworlders there."
"The gaols?" Mauve echoed, her voice laced with frustration. But the king had already turned his back on her, his focus now on the nobles behind him.
"Nobles of Calvian," he announced, his voice commanding. "Take your wives and children to safety. The council must convene immediately." and they all moved hastily, Mauve looked closely.
"I see, things are still the way they were in here? And probably the worse," she whispered to herself and bit her lip as her eyes squinted and leered at them.
As the guards' iron grip tightened on her arms, Mauve's gaze flickered across the grand hall. Each step echoed off the polished stone floor, amplifying her rising tension. Her thoughts churned relentlessly. Grand General? Guilds of the Thaumaturge? What is this place? she wondered, a quiet sigh slipping from her lips.
Her surroundings began to shift into focus as the guards escorted her forward. The lavish chamber exuded a heavy air of authority and opulence. Gilded chandeliers hung high above, their golden lights casting intricate shadows on towering pillars carved with scenes of battles, harvests, and celestial figures. Plush red carpets lined the floor, stretching toward an imposing throne at the far end of the room.
Suddenly, her attention snapped beyond the immediate scene, drawn by the faint rumble of the castle's heartbeat—the sound of distant activity filtering through the walls.
This was Calvian Castle, a sprawling fortress nestled at the base of a towering mountain range, its turrets reaching into the heavens like fingers grasping for the sky. Located in the southern region of the kingdom of Calvian, it stood as the southern sentinel of Heron Continent's largest and most influential kingdom.
Calvian Cities itself was an architectural marvel, a city of stone and strategy. Massive walls encircled the kingdom's heart, designed not only for protection but to awe all who approached. These walls stood in layered rings, each section more formidable than the last, protecting the vast cities within. Beyond the kingdom's boundaries flowed a wide, circling river, its waters shimmering like liquid silver under the daylight.
Connecting the fortress to the outside world was the Great Bridge of Calvian, a masterpiece of engineering that stretched over the river, flanked by statues of legendary figures who once protected the realm. Beyond the bridge, the Calvian Forest loomed—a dark and ancient woodland with trees so tall their tops seemed to vanish into the mist. The forest was both a natural barrier and a place of mystery, home to creatures and secrets spoken of only in hushed whispers.
But here, inside Calvian Castle, the grandiosity of the kingdom was distilled into a single location. The castle itself was embedded in the mountain, as if Terraldia itself had grown it from the stone. Its back leaned against the sheer cliff face, merging natural and human-made defenses seamlessly.
Mauve's thoughts raced. This is no ordinary place. This is the center of power. The heart of something vast. She couldn't help but glance toward the windows, which offered glimpses of the outer world. From this vantage, she could see the maze-like cities within the kingdom's inner walls.
Calvian, seemingly the greatest kingdom on the Heron Continent, sprawled like a jewel set within the emerald plains. Its vast cities stretched out in concentric rings within towering stone walls that formed a layered defense. From her vantage point within the castle, she could imagine the bustling life teeming beyond its cold stones and trees.
The houses of Calvian Cities were a testament to the kingdom's blend of practicality and elegance. In the inner districts, closest to the castle, grand homes of polished stone with intricate carvings lined the streets. Their windows were adorned with vibrant blue banners embroidered with horses and stars, the symbols of Calvian's nobility and the kingdom's celestial blessing. These banners fluttered in the wind, a reminder of the kingdom's pride and its deep connection to both strength and destiny. Gardens and farming plains are also seen in these rich houses.
Farther from the castle, the buildings grew humbler but no less vibrant. Wooden homes with thatched or shingled roofs dotted the districts, their exteriors painted in earthy tones. Cobblestone streets wound between them, connecting city plazas and bustling markets. Smoke rose from chimneys, filling the air with the scent of baking bread and roasting meat.
In the streets, life thrived in layers of activity. Merchants called out from their stalls, offering everything from fresh produce to glimmering trinkets imported from distant lands. The forges rang with the sound of hammers striking metal, their glowing fires visible even during the day. Shops and bakeries spilled their aromas into the air, tempting passersby with the scent of freshly baked pies, spiced pastries, and warm loaves of bread. Carriages pulled by sturdy horses clattered along the roads, their wheels splashing through puddles left by an intricate sewerage system designed to keep the city clean.
At the heart of each district was a plaza, where life converged. Fountains carved from marble stood as the centerpiece, their cascading water providing a cool respite for travelers and locals alike. Children played around the fountains, their laughter mixing with the chatter of merchants and the occasional clink of coins. Guards in iron armor and blue cloaks patrolled the streets, their presence both reassuring and commanding. The emblem of the horse and stars gleamed on their breastplates, a symbol of their duty to protect Calvian and its people.
The taverns, however, were where the true pulse of the city could be felt. Wooden signs creaked in the wind, bearing proud names. Inside, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of ale, sweat, and roasted meats. Patrons of all walks of life gathered here: blacksmiths sharing stories of their craft, adventurers boasting of their exploits, and townsfolk unwinding after a long day's work.
Beneath the surface, the city's sewerage system ran like a hidden labyrinth. Designed to keep the streets dry and clean, these underground tunnels carried waste away from the city, their dark, damp pathways often doubling as hideouts for the less savory characters of Calvian.
Mauve could only imagine the lives of the people who lived within these walls. Tailors bent over their workbenches, stitching garments in the hues of Calvian's pride. Farmers from the outer plains sold their crops at market stalls, their hands calloused but their faces proud. Street performers dazzled crowds with acrobatics and music, their colorful costumes a sharp contrast to the gray cobblestones.
The city was alive in ways that were both familiar and alien to her. The fashion reflected the kingdom's medieval roots: men wore tunics and breeches, some adorned with belts and cloaks, while women dressed in gowns of linen or wool, their hair braided or pinned beneath coifs. Some passed by in rich silks and velvets, their clothing embroidered with the symbols of their houses, while peasants kept to sturdy, practical fabrics.
Everything changed in an instant. Brilliant lights shaped like human silhouettes erupted across the kingdom, revealing figures clad in peculiar and unconventional clothing. These were the outworlders—strangers from another realm, their presence both alien and unmistakable. More of them were summoned, scattered throughout the sprawling districts of the Calvian Cities, their arrival throwing the kingdom into chaos.
As the King's orders echoed through the castle halls, the response was swift and unrelenting. The knights mounted their steeds, their armor gleaming under the sun, while the city guards marched in disciplined ranks through the cobblestone streets. Their mission was clear: to find and secure the summoned outworlders before panic and disorder could spread across the kingdom.
The operation unfolded with calculated precision. Men, women, children, and even elderly outworlders were seized wherever they were spotted. The overwhelming presence of guards left no room for resistance as their hands were bound tightly behind their backs. The Terraldians of the Calvian Cities, both astonished and uneasy, watched the spectacle unfold. Whispers rippled through the crowds as witnesses pointed out the strange newcomers, their curiosity tempered by unease.
Some Terraldians eagerly assisted the guards, eager to gain favor or simply to rid themselves of the unsettling strangers. Others watched in concern or fear, unsure of what these newcomers might mean for the balance of their world. The outworlders were easy to identify; their clothing—so unlike the old-fashioned attire of the kingdom—stood out starkly against the backdrop of stone and timber houses.
Many outworlders tried to escape, darting through the narrow streets and alleyways, but they were no match for the organized and relentless pursuit of the guards. The city's curiosity only grew as rumors spread of the light that had heralded the outworlders' arrival. Some saw opportunity in the chaos, hoping to take advantage of these strange beings, while others speculated about divine intervention, but the guards' overwhelming numbers are inevitable.
Despite the rising tension, the guards remained steadfast in their duty, ignoring the questions and pleas of the onlookers. Their only explanation, given in brief and calm tones to the terrified outworlders, was that they meant no harm. "By the King's orders, we are here to keep you safe," they assured, though their firm grip and relentless march told a different story.
By the end of the day, the streets of Calvian Cities bore the evidence of the King's decree. Long lines of guards marched through the districts, each group escorting clusters of outworlders with heads bowed and hands bound. The blue banners of horses and stars fluttered above the solemn procession, a reminder of the kingdom's authority and might.
The procession of outworlders was ushered forward by an imposing assembly of guards with Mauve as one of the outworlders in front, their iron armor clinking rhythmically as they marched in unison. After a long walk, the large group approached a towering gate made of ancient wood reinforced with heavy iron bars. It loomed like the maw of some dormant beast, framed by massive stone columns etched with faded runes. Dozens of guards flanked the gate, their expressions stern and unyielding, torches in hand casting flickering shadows across the passage.
The gate creaked open with a deep groan, revealing a dimly lit staircase spiraling downward. The air grew colder as they descended, heavy with the smell of damp earth and mildew. Each step echoed, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence.
The outworlders hesitated but were prodded forward by the guards, who barked commands to keep moving. The group was tightly flanked, their bindings ensuring no sudden movements or attempts at escape.
The staircase seemed endless, carved from the very mountain beneath the Calvian Castle. Walls of rough-hewn stone surrounded them, glistening with moisture. Flickering torches, mounted in iron brackets, lined the descent, their meager light dancing across the damp, dirt-speckled surfaces. Shadows stretched and twisted unnaturally, giving the impression of unseen figures lurking just out of reach.
Guards carried additional torches, their flames swaying with each step, casting fleeting glimpses of the descending path. The outworlders, unfamiliar with the cold, suffocating atmosphere, exchanged nervous glances. Some stumbled, their nerves and the uneven ground betraying them, only to be hauled up roughly by the guards.
Finally, the spiraling staircase opened into an expansive underground cavern. The air here was thick, heavy, and carried a metallic tang. Rows of iron-barred cells lined the walls, stacked one atop the other like the ribs of a giant beast. Narrow walkways connected the cells, supported by rickety wooden platforms and creaking ladders. The faint sound of dripping water echoed, punctuated by anguished cries and muttered prayers from within the cells.
This was the Gaols of Calvian Castle—a fortress of despair hidden beneath the grandeur of the kingdom. Its size was staggering, stretching far deeper and wider than anyone could have imagined. The walls disappeared into the shadows, giving the impression that the prison extended infinitely into the abyss.
Prisoners clung to the bars of their cells, their gaunt faces illuminated by torchlight. Many reached out with skeletal hands, their voices hoarse from screaming.
"Feed me… please!" one whispered, his fingers trembling as they scraped against the bars. Empty-handed outworlders only watched him with pity.
Another prisoner, wild-eyed and ragged, hurled himself against his cell, shouting coherent curses, "Free me here you dumb fucks! I will kill you all! Shit shit SHIT!". His voice echoed like a maddened specter, causing several outworlders to flinch in terror.
Further down, bodies lay unmoving in darkened corners, their skeletal forms covered in grime. Rats scurried over them, feasting without hesitation. The air was rife with the stench of decay, blood, and human waste.
Guards moved with grim efficiency, ignoring the desperate pleas and deranged outbursts. Some outworlders began to cry openly; others whispered frantically among themselves, questioning their fate.
The outworlders were led further down, past the maze of cells and deeper into the mountain. The pathway split into multiple directions, each leading to ominous, shadowed corridors. The guards knew their way well, guiding the procession toward the lowest level—a cavernous chamber where the Gaols reached its final, most despairing and darkening depths. A huge gate that war similar to the entrance earlier was opened with its deafening creaking sound of rusted metal, and they were all escorted inside.
Here, the ceiling loomed high above, vanishing into darkness. Massive stone pillars supported the structure, their surfaces engraved with symbols of containment and suppression. The chamber's vastness was disorienting, even with the hundreds of outworlders gathered. The ground was uneven, a mix of packed dirt and jagged stone.
Despite the enormity of the space, it felt suffocating. The cries of prisoners echoed endlessly, their voices mingling into a haunting symphony of despair. Some of the outworlders tried to bolt in desperation, only to be swiftly tackled by the guards. Their attempts were futile, their bindings and the sheer number of guards ensuring no one could escape.
Finally, the outworlders were corralled into a circular area at the center of the chamber, surrounded by flickering torches mounted on tall iron stands. The guards formed a tight perimeter, their weapons gleaming in the dim light.
The outworlders murmured among themselves, their voices trembling with fear and confusion.
"Where are we?"
"Why are they doing this to us?"
"Are we going to die here?"
A group of younger outworlders huddled together, their faces pale and tear-streaked. Older individuals tried to maintain a semblance of composure but failed to mask their dread.
The guards ignored their questions, standing stoically as if awaiting further orders.
Above, from a shadowed balcony overlooking the chamber, a figure watched silently. Draped in royal blue, silver and gold, the overseer of the Gaols surveyed the gathered outworlders with an inscrutable expression. His presence added an even heavier weight to the suffocating atmosphere.
The outworlders' unease grew with every passing moment. The cavern seemed alive, the flickering torchlight creating phantom shapes on the walls. Some outworlders began whispering about escape, but the overwhelming presence of guards—and the ominous atmosphere—kept them frozen.
But not Mauve. As the gate behind them closed with a heavy thud, she stood apart from the rest, her eyes scanning her surroundings with relentless urgency. She turned repeatedly, her gaze darting from one face to another among the mass of outworlders. Her voice was barely above a whisper as she muttered to herself, "Millow, where are you?" The exhaustion in her tone was undeniable.
"You always stand out in crowds like this," she murmured, her words tinged with a faint, bitter smile. She pushed through the confused and frightened outworlders, her determination unwavering. Each unfamiliar face she passed only deepened the ache in her chest. Her mind began conjuring his image—a memory growing sharper in her desperation.
"Millow? Millow!" she called out again, her voice rising slightly, tinged with a mix of hope and dread. She weaved through the crowd, her steps quick and purposeful, searching for a glimpse of his familiar presence.
But when she finally emerged at the other end of the group, all that greeted her was the imposing sight of the massive gates now sealed shut, flanked by stoic guards. She stood frozen, her breath hitching as the weight of realization settled over her.
"No… he's not here," she whispered, her voice breaking. Her lips trembled as she stared at the unyielding gates, her hands balling into fists at her sides.
The murmurs of the outworlders died down as the sound of heavy boots echoed from above. From the shadowed balcony overlooking the cavernous gaols, a figure emerged into the flickering light of the torches. Draped in a flowing cloak of royal blue trimmed with gold, the overseer of the Gaols made his entrance. His posture was theatrical, his movements exaggerated as he spread his arms wide in an almost celebratory manner.
"Ah, our most honored guests!" he called out, his voice carrying easily through the hollow chamber. With an elaborate bow, he added, "Welcome, summoned heroes! Welcome to the Gaols of Calvian."
Mauve's eyes narrowed, her instincts flaring. This one's not sincere, she thought, already assessing his tone and exaggerated gestures. Something about the way he spoke oozed sarcasm, despite his words of respect.
The overseer straightened, his eyes sweeping across the assembled crowd of confused and frightened outworlders. His expression was unreadable—an unnerving mix of polite interest and detached calculation.
"You may be wondering where you are, why you're here, and what all of this means," he began, his voice taking on a tone of faux patience. "Allow me to enlighten you. This place—this grand labyrinth carved into the very heart of Calvian's mountain fortress—is what we call the Gaols. But do not let the name mislead you. Unlike the unfortunate prisoners you may have seen in the upper levels, this chamber serves a far more… noble purpose."
Mauve crossed her arms, listening intently, her sharp mind working as the man continued.
"You see," he said, gesturing dramatically to the expansive cavern, "this labyrinth was created not merely as a prison but as a proving ground. Here, those who seek redemption for their past transgressions are given the opportunity to train, to test their resolve, and, if they survive, to earn a place as knights of the Calvian Kingdom."
The outworlders exchanged uneasy glances, whispers breaking out once again. The overseer raised a hand, silencing them.
"And now," he said, his voice softening, "by the will of our beloved King, you, too, shall have this honor. You are not prisoners. You are the chosen ones, the outworlders of prophecy foretold by the Temple."
The mention of prophecy caused a stir among the crowd. Many outworlders looked even more bewildered, but Mauve remained impassive, her sharp mind turning over his words.
"Yes," the overseer continued, his tone almost reverent, "you have been summoned to Terraldia as saviors, the warriors who will shield this land from the darkness that threatens to consume it. But…" He paused, his smile tightening, "…we must ensure you are indeed the champions we can rely upon. Thus, by royal decree, you will undergo the trials of the Gaols. Do not fear—this is not punishment but preparation. Here, you will be tested, trained, and refined for the battles to come."
He spread his arms wide again, as if expecting applause. "This is your introduction, your chance to prove yourselves as protectors of the Calvian Kingdom and beyond."
As the overseer's words echoed through the cavern, Mauve's mind pieced together the puzzle. She glanced around at the outworlders—terrified, confused, some still clinging to a sliver of hope. So that's how they're spinning it. Trials for 'redemption'? No, this is quality control. They want to weed out the weak, find the most useful among us.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. They're dressing this up in noble words, but it's a culling, plain and simple. What better way to test us than to pit us against this labyrinth of horrors? Efficient, if nothing else.
If Millow's here, he'll probably just laugh at all of this happening but then her sharp gaze returned to the overseer, who stood basking in his self-assumed authority. Well played. But I'm onto you.
The overseer stood tall, his shadow stretching across the cavern as he raised his arms once more, his voice booming with sinister authority.
"The only objective," he said, his words deliberate, "is to survive. Your task is simple—endure the trials of the Gaols, navigate the labyrinth, and reach its end."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered outworlders, fear and confusion gripping their expressions. The guards began to move, their heavy boots clanging against the stone floor as they gestured for the outworlders to step forward.
"Move," one barked, his voice sharp and unyielding.
Mauve's gaze flickered from the guards to her tied wrists. The coarse rope dug into her skin, and she flexed her fingers, feeling the faint sting of rawness. Her sharp eyes caught the glint of steel on the guards' hips—their swords, securely sheathed but tantalizingly close.
If this gets out of hand… she thought, her eyes and mind seems to be in a hardened state.
But before she could delve further, a voice broke through the uneasy silence.
"Oh, wait!" the overseer called, his tone dripping with mockery as he stepped back into view. His silhouette loomed menacingly above them. "I've had a change of heart you fuckers."
The crowd stilled, their collective breath caught as the man unbelievably cursed, unusual from his words earlier.
"All this 'Gaols' bullshit—it's so dull, isn't it?" His voice grew more animated, a sickening glee threading through his words. "Why not spice things up a little? I'm getting bored playing as someone else here."
The room seemed to shudder with the weight of his statement, and then it began—a faint, high-pitched screeching.
At first, it was distant, almost imperceptible, but it grew louder, sharper, until the sound echoed through the cavern. The outworlders turned their heads, scanning the darkness with widening eyes. Then they saw them.
Rats.
Small at first, scurrying from the labyrinth's shadowy pathways, their screeching cries rising in a cacophony. But then, something unnatural occurred. Their bodies began to swell grotesquely, twisting and writhing as if unseen hands were forcing them into unnatural shapes.
Their fangs extended past their jaws, overgrowing into jagged, splintered monstrosities. Their dark brown fur erupted into chaotic tufts, patchy with bald spots oozing with pus. Bulging, bloodshot eyes glared wildly as their forms grew and grew—until they were the size of men.
One of the beasts let out a guttural screech and lunged.
And then a crunch.
A guard didn't even have time to scream. The monstrous rat's jaws clamped onto his head, biting clean through with a sickening sound of chomping. The sound echoed, silencing the cries of the other guards as the man's body slumped to the floor.
"No fucking way." Mauve muttered.
Then another was devoured, his limb was chewed off.
A woman's scream was heard.
The crowd erupted in chaos. Screams filled the cavern as the outworlders scrambled to flee, shoving and stumbling over one another. The guards near the closed gate turned their weapons on the creatures, but it was futile. More rats, grotesque and bloodthirsty, poured in from the labyrinth's depths.
Mauve froze, her chest tight as she struggled to process the scene. Her mind raced, piecing together the nightmare unfurling before her.
"Welcome," the overseer's voice rang out above the chaos, dripping with malice, "to my game, my dominion, the Hunt of the Dead, may you all have fun!" He spread his arms, his silhouette twisting unnaturally.
As his last words echoed, his form dissolved into a shadowy plume of smoke, vanishing into the darkness.
Mauve's gaze snapped back to the gate, where guards were being torn apart by the ravenous creatures. Blood splattered the stone walls, and the once-commanding shouts of the guards turned into desperate screams. The outworlders around her ran away, as the monstrous rats in the gates are devouring the guards one by one.
Somewhere, deep within the labyrinth, the cries of other animals joined the symphony of terror—howls, growls, and roars that made her skin crawl.
Mauve swallowed hard, her body trembling as she took in the carnage. "There's more of them out there in the trials' labyrinth."
Inside the labyrinth, the atmosphere was suffocating. The air was heavy with dampness, and the shadows seemed alive, stretching hungrily with each flicker of the flames. The outworlders, wrists bound tightly behind their backs, shuffled hastily through the vast, winding pathways. They moved in tight clusters, their breathing shallow, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls like a chorus of fear.
Among them, a group of four stuck close together, their eyes darting nervously. The torchlight painted their faces in stark contrasts, revealing every bead of sweat and flicker of dread. None of them spoke; the weight of survival pressed too heavily upon their tongues.
Their pace quickened as they turned a corner, entering a broader section of the labyrinth. The flickering light barely reached the edges of the path, leaving the far corners cloaked in an impenetrable black. That was when they saw her.
Mauve stood in the center of the pathway, her posture unnervingly calm. The sword in her hand glinted menacingly, its edge still wet with blood. Her hands were free, her wrists unbound, and her gaze sharp enough to cut stone.
The group froze, their collective breath hitching.
"Is that...?" one of them whispered, his voice trembling. "That's a guard's sword."
"How the hell did she—" another began, his words faltering as Mauve's eyes flicked toward them.
She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her silence was a noose tightening around their already frayed nerves.
"Where did you get that?" one of them finally demanded, the question more of an accusation than genuine curiosity.
Mauve didn't answer immediately. Instead, her sharp gaze flicked over them, assessing them from head to toe. Desperate. Clueless. They were little more than sheep running blind into the jaws of whatever horrors awaited in the labyrinth. She took a single step forward, sword gleaming faintly in her hand.
But then, without turning to face them, she spoke. "You wouldn't understand."
The words hung in the air, cryptic and unsettling. Mauve's mind drifted, piecing together the chain of events that had brought her here being questioned by other outworlders, where back then at the entrance—
"We're forced to enter the-"
The sudden force against her shoulders sent her sprawling to the ground before she finished her sentence, her back hitting the dirt as outworlders fled the gate in terror. "Shit." Mauve cursed under her breath, her hands scrambling for balance as she glanced toward the chaos unfolding ahead. The guards, once a bastion of order, were being torn apart by an onslaught of monstrous rats. One guard managed to fell a rat with his sword, but his victory was short-lived. The swarm descended upon him behind, ripping through armor, flesh, and bone. His screams hung in the air, mingling with the sickening sound of blood splattering across the stones.
Ever since they entered the gaols, she knew that a contigency plan must be made steps ahead of everyone's expectations, Mauve's sharp eyes darted around the scene, Nothing. No cover, no allies, and no salvation in sight, she knows anything bad can happen in such dark place. Panic clawed at her, but Mauve, ever the pragmatist, quickly assessed the situation. The other outworlders, their wrists bound, were fleeing, a desperate stampede of terror. Joining them was suicide. No, her survival hinged on a different strategy, a calculated risk that could either save her or seal her fate. She didn't allow that disadvantage or panic to claw its way up her spine. Instead, her mind spun like a web in the wind, weaving what must happen for her to survive. To do that, she has the vision to push through, and to survive she need the upper hand against the stronger threats, she needs to be stronger, she needed a weapon—any weapon. Her gaze fell upon a lone guard, battling a rat. An opportunity. His sword slashing through the beast's claw before plunging into its chest.
Perfect.
"Behind you!" she called out, her voice sharp and commanding. The guard flinched, twisting to meet the threat she'd warned him of. A rat lunged at him, its jaws snapping inches from his face as he blocked it with a grunt of effort.
"They're too many! Come here!" Mauve urged, but the guard, steadfast or foolish, stayed his ground. Her lips pressed into a thin line. Just like the others. But she wasn't deterred; words were tools, and she wasn't done wielding them.
"I can help you! I can wield my cursion if you free me!" she shouted, her tone tinged with urgency. That caught his attention. His hesitation cracked as he shoved the rat back and turned toward her. Mauve didn't wait for an invitation; she bolted, her legs carrying her toward a cavern wall where the shadows danced.
The guard followed. She could hear his heavy footsteps behind her, each one dragging him closer to her web. She stopped abruptly, turning to him with wide, pleading eyes. "Thank you. Untie me," she begged, her voice trembling just enough to mask the steel beneath it.
The guard obliged, his sword slicing cleanly through the ropes binding her wrists. Mauve's lips curled into a subtle grin like a spider as if a trap had been laid, and he had walked straight into it.
The moment the ropes fell, her senses sharpened. She saw it—the glint of death behind the man. Her body reacted before her mind could catch up, rolling to the side as the rats leaped, their jaws sinking into the guard. His screams pierced the air as they tore into him, but Mauve didn't flinch.
Sorry, I didn't realize they'd be that fast, she mused, already sprinting away. Her destination was clear, the sight she had seen at the opposite direction: the scattered remains of another guard. Blood pooled around the corpse, his sword resting amid a mess of broken armor and entrails.
She seized the weapon, the weight of it grounding her in the chaos. A quick glance confirmed her assumptions—the rats were fully engrossed in their gruesome feast at the guard—the man who had freed her was already beyond saving. She didn't look back, as it was all a part of the plan, she had to do it, she could've helped him but they'll both die in the process.
Mauve's eyes shifted to the labyrinth ahead, its yawning pathways beckoning her like a predator daring prey to step inside. The outworlders had vanished into it, leaving her alone with her stolen weapon, a sword she held for the first time.
Her grip on the sword tightened as she stepped forward hastily, her steps deliberate, her gaze fixed. Without looking back, she knows the guard's death had been necessary, a piece sacrificed for the game she now controlled. From a helpless outworlder summoned to the royal court, now being the only freed outworlder in the gaols' trials who has a sword, Mauve Violet entered the labyrinth with a single thought.
"Millow, you better be alive out there."