Inside the castle, where few dared to venture and even fewer returned, the air was thick with mystery. Despite the sun's descent, light poured through sheer curtains, casting wavering patterns on the stone walls. A gentle breeze swept in from the tall windows, carrying the overwhelming scent of flowers—cloying and far more potent than Ailva's.
Andras awoke with a start, his breath shallow as his eyes darted across unfamiliar surroundings. He lay in a spacious, well-kept chamber, the bed beneath him soft but foreign. What unsettled him most wasn't the grandeur of the room—it was the sight of his bare body sprawled on unfamiliar sheets. Panic flared as he ran his hands over his skin, searching for wounds or signs of tampering. Nothing.
His sword was gone. So were his clothes. All that remained was the long, white sheet draped over him, spilling onto the floor. The delicate song of birds drifted in from outside, their serenity a cruel contrast to the tension coiling within him.
"Art thou awake, my lord? Thou hast been long in slumber…"
He snapped his head to the side and caught sight of a figure—no, a grotesque creature, its form too warped to discern a face. A trail of black slime oozed in its wake as it crawled forward, closing the distance with unnatural urgency.
It gurgled—a sickening attempt at speech—its melted eyes dripping down its face. Then, its maw stretched impossibly wide, poised to swallow Andras whole.
"Siste!" he commanded.
Light flared in his grasp, taking the shape of a sword. Luminous droplets splattered onto the floor, while others drifted upward like fireflies caught in an unseen current.
The creature did not understand his words, but it recognized the threat of the blinding sword and what would become of it upon contact. Its webbed arms unfurled like the wings of a monstrous bird, and another eerie gurgle bubbled from its throat.
Andras stepped down from the bed, gripping the sword's hilt with one hand while his other remained open. A ball of fire swirled to life in his palm, its surface fluid like water yet hotter than molten lava. The flames crackled as he raised his hand, ready to hurl the blazing orb at the lurking abomination.
"Hold your horses, sir!" A sharp, feminine voice cut through the air, stopping him in his tracks. His vision sharpened, and to his surprise, he found himself facing an elven creature and a young maiden.
"Thou art insufferable! I cared for thy wounds, let thee rest in my bed, and yet—yet thou wouldst dare to harm my friend?! How could you?! Do you have no honor?!" the girl cried, her face flushing red with fury.
Andras was momentarily caught off guard but masked his surprise with a practiced poker face. His gaze trailed from the wild strands of her hair down to her bare feet. She was young—too young—thin as twigs, fragile as a little bushtit.
"State thy name, and be quick about it," he commanded, lowering his sword to his side. The fireball in his grasp sizzled out, leaving behind faint wisps of smoke.
The girl ignored him. Instead, she turned her back to check on the elf, her fingers grazing the fae's palms and cheeks. Only then did she slowly turn to Andras.
"I meant no harm, my lady..." His voice was steady, the blinding sword now absent from his grip.
"I awoke to find myself face to face with a… a demonic creature…"
"My friend is no monster!" she snapped, eyes burning with fury. "You pointed the sun at him as though you sought to end his life!" Her final words rang sharp with accusation.
"You… you are the monster here!"
Andras drew a deep breath. The misunderstanding had cast him in a villainous light before his would-be savior. Still, he kept his voice calm, measured. "I did not intend to describe your companion in such a way, my lady."
Her silver eyes narrowed, sharp as blades, while the bridge of her nose crinkled in displeasure. A flicker of indignation crossed her face as she held his gaze. "My eyes have never failed me—"
"They have failed you now," she cut in, her tone unwavering, like steel meeting steel.
Andras exhaled slowly, reining in his frustration. "Pray, allow me to explain, my lady," he said, his voice tempered with patience. "I swear upon my name, I beheld a monstrous creature—nothing akin to thy friend—and it sought to devour me whole, in the full light of day!"
She blinked, her brows knitting together as she turned to the elf. Her fingers, still resting lightly against the fae's palm, twitched. "Did you catch that?" she muttered, leaning closer as though proximity would help her understand. "He spoke with such haste, I could scarce make sense of it…" She faltered, then cleared her throat.
The realization of her blunder dawned upon her, and with it, an unbidden warmth crept up her neck to settle on her cheeks. She averted her gaze, pretending to fix the fabric of her sleeve, but the pink hue blooming across her skin betrayed her.
Andras, keen-eyed as ever, caught the shift in her demeanor. A knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, though he masked it with a courteous nod. He found amusement in her embarrassment over such a minor slip.
"Pardon mine unseemly conduct, my lady," he said smoothly, dipping his head in a gesture of respect before turning to the fae. "And my humblest apologies to thee as well, young elf."
A comfortable silence settled between them, the tension from before ebbing away. Then, the elf stepped forward, his movements light yet deliberate. His eyes, twin emeralds set ablaze by the fire's glow, gleamed with an unnatural brilliance—the kind that could drive men to ruin in their lust for wealth.
In contrast to the frail-looking girl beside him, the young elf had a fuller, rounder frame, his presence more grounded.
"Art thou the prince?" he asked, his voice rougher than his delicate features suggested, yet carrying the unmistakable pitch of a young boy. "The prince foretold to deliver my mistress from peril?"
Andras tucked the question into his calculating mind before responding with ease. "Who is thy mistress?"
Before an answer could come, a large, blackened hand seized his throat from behind. The grip was instant—tight, suffocating. A sickening pressure bore down on his neck, and he knew that with the slightest increase in force, his bones would snap like brittle twigs.
"M̸̛͇͈͎̆̾̿ê̸͖̮̬̈́."
The whisper slithered into his ear, dripping with malice. A creature, oozing with black slime, leaned in, its head tilting forward until it loomed before his eyes.
Beyond the faceless entity, the girl and the elf began to melt like wax under an open flame, their forms losing shape, dissolving into an unnatural sludge. A terrible chill coiled around Andras's spine as he felt something far worse than fear—the slow, seething drain of life itself.
The black creature let out a low, guttural sound, a twisted imitation of laughter. Its formless grin widened, as if reveling in his horror.
Andras's face contorted, his skin paling with every passing second. This was no mere demon. It was something worse—something unholy. It resembled a mass of living tar, shifting and writhing like a fusion of mud and squid's ink, yet unmistakably sentient. Whatever had brought it to life needed to be destroyed. Whoever had granted it the will to exist needed to die.
Then, like a shooting star streaking across the void, Andras's blade carved through the darkness. A brilliant flash—light forged in the shape of a paladin's sword—slashed through the entity's body. The black slime sizzled upon the blade, releasing thick fumes as dark as coal.
The creature let out a deafening roar of agony, its form swelling, expanding—growing threefold in size. The room itself darkened as its presence devoured the space around them. If not for the sword's radiance, Andras would have been swallowed whole, lost within the abyss of the demon's making.
"Daemon Deimos ruinae, minister Diaboli. Non solum oro, sed deos invoco! Ego sum Andras—ego sum filius Nicolai, filius Irenes!"
He closed his eyes as liquid fire coiled around him, heat licking at his skin like a living serpent.
Distorted voices rose in a haunting symphony—wailing in pain, weeping in grief, seething in rage, exalting in twisted joy. They overlapped like a witch's ballad, a chaotic hymn that clawed at his mind.
The black slime began to boil. Bubbles surfaced and popped with sickening wet sounds, filling the air with the stench of decay. Dark whispers slithered into Andras's thoughts, invasive and insidious—visions of blood, of ruin, of murder. Sweat trickled down his temple as he fought against the creeping madness.
Then, in a sudden flash, his eyes snapped open.
The room remained—but it was not as he had left it. The air was stale, thick with the scent of rot. The walls, once intact, stood battered and worn, as if ravaged by time. Black goo spattered every surface, dripping from the ceiling in grotesque strands, some stretched like tangled spiderwebs.
Threads of fabric wove themselves over his form, stitching together with unnatural precision until they shaped a red, short-sleeved tunic. His carmine locks cascaded over his broad shoulders, flowing like silk with each subtle movement. Slowly, his amber eyes fluttered open, sharp and searching as they adjusted to his surroundings.
Andras stepped out of the decrepit bedchamber, his posture at ease, yet his mind remained razor-sharp, ever watchful.
Even as he moved through the dimly lit corridor, intrusive thoughts gnawed at the edges of his mind, whispering violent temptations. He forced them down, pressing forward.
The walls bore deep, jagged gashes—marks left by something far larger than a brown bear from Baltruna. The air was thick with the coppery stench of blood, mingling with the overwhelming scent of decay. Each breath he took felt tainted, the weight of something unseen pressing heavily upon the silence.
There was color beyond the window—if it could even be called that. A shifting, distorted haze painted the outside world, neither sky nor land, but something in between.
Andras took a step past the doorway. The ground should have met his foot. It didn't.
Instead, his body plunged downward, the air whipping past him as he realized too late that he had stepped off a sheer ledge.
Behind him, creatures—twisted mockeries of the one he had slain—burst through the doorway in pursuit. Some tumbled over the edge in the chaos, their shrieks slicing through the air. Others clung to the threshold, their guttural roars fading into silence as he descended.
CRACK!
Pain exploded through him upon impact. Bones snapped—where, he couldn't tell. Fresh wounds tore open, blood seeping into the dirt beneath him. The agony pinned him to the ground, his vision swimming, darkness creeping at the edges.
And yet—this pain, this moment—it was familiar.
A memory, half-buried, surfaced through the haze of suffering. Gritting his teeth, Andras forced himself to move, to push past the searing torment. His left leg protested with a sickening sight—a jagged bone piercing through torn flesh.
He dragged himself toward the nearest wall, his fingers clawing at the uneven stone for support. Every shift sent fire through his body, but he refused to remain where he had fallen. Bracing himself, he managed to stand—if only on one foot.
Blood and sweat soaked his tunic, his breathing ragged, each exhale laced with a pained groan. The only sounds that filled the vast, oppressive chamber were the distant drip of water and the unsteady rhythm of his breath.
He tried to take a step—only to collapse. With no other choice, he rolled onto his back, staring up at the cobbled ceiling. His eyes fluttered shut.
Then, warmth. A faint golden glow curled around his broken form, seeping into his wounds like liquid fire.
Pain. Searing, blinding pain.
Andras screamed as the bones in his calf snapped back into place with a sickening click. Flesh knitted together, mending itself as if woven by unseen hands. The agony was unbearable—yet beneath it, strength began to return.
He exhaled sharply, his breath coming in steady bursts as he pushed himself upright, strength slowly returning to his limbs. Yet, exhaustion clung to him like a shadow, each step forward a battle against the lingering strain.
As he pressed on, the narrow corridor began to widen, its suffocating walls gradually retreating, revealing a path that stretched into the unknown.
Then, at last—light.
Torches lined the walls, their iron brackets rusted with age. With a flick of his fingers, flames erupted to life, chasing away the gloom and casting flickering shadows across the stone passage ahead.
Andras' eyes widened, an overwhelming sense of reverence washing over him as he took in the sight before him.
The space was vast and intricately designed, its grandeur unlike anything he had expected. The walls, once rough and infested with decay, gradually transformed into smooth, polished stone—each surface bearing the unmistakable marks of a master craftsman's chisel and hammer. It resembled a temple, yet there was no idol, no godly effigy to kneel before.
Instead, at the heart of the chamber stood a sarcophagus, its presence commanding. Crafted from pure white porcelain and adorned with delicate veins of gold, it gleamed in stark contrast to the solemn atmosphere around it.
Above, the ceiling was a masterpiece in itself. The paintings looked untouched by time, their colors rich and vibrant, as if freshly laid by the artist's hand. Every sculpted design remained crisp and precise, each detail a testament to the patience and skill of its maker.
The violent thoughts that had plagued him moments ago faded as he neared the sarcophagus. Every step was measured, his gaze sharp with caution. Though its craftsmanship was exquisite, he could not shake the feeling that whatever lay within was far more dangerous than its gilded prison suggested.
Creak.
His breath hitched as the lid shifted, a whisper of movement that sent a shiver down his spine. Then—crack. The sound splintered through the silence, growing louder as fractures webbed across the porcelain surface.
Distant, distorted shrieks echoed through the chamber, drawing closer at an alarming speed.
A blinding light surged around Andras, wrapping his form in its grasp, intensifying with every break in the sarcophagus. The air was thick with tension, the sound of rushing water overhead blending with the chorus of inhuman cries.
He exhaled sharply, the weight of inevitability settling upon him. Despite it all, a faint, knowing smile tugged at his lips as his fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword of light.
"O lux solis, præbe tibi virtutem."