Chapter 71: Veins of Memory
Awakening in the Quiet
Tasiya Notha stirred, her cheek brushing against camel wool blankets. The world outside lay hushed—frost etched delicate fractals on the windowpane, muffling even the wind's breath.
She sat up, disoriented. The hearth's embers had died. No laughter or clashing blades echoed from the tournament grounds—only the muted glow of watchmen's lanterns drifting through the dark.
This peace… is it real?
Fragments of her dream lingered—a scorched earth, Nathaniel's first stumbling steps as a newborn demon. But the memory dissolved like smoke, leaving only the aftertaste of loss.
"No more sleep," she muttered, swinging her legs over the bed. Her boots scraped against stone as she shuffled toward the living chamber.
Nathaniel knelt at its center, palms pressed to the floor. His horns gleamed faintly, threads of lightforce weaving through his fingertips into the ground below.
Tasiya stepped into his aura—a warmth that smelled of sunbaked clay—and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.
"I saw you learning to walk," she whispered into his hair.
He didn't stir.
The Book of Beginnings
A leather-bound volume peeked from his coat. Gods and Demons—its spine cracked from centuries of rereading.
Tasiya flipped to the first page.
"Three millennia past, the gods led their people to a barren waste…"
Her throat tightened. He wrote this. For me.
Annotations crowded the margins—Nathaniel's meticulous script dissecting every myth.
Page 23: "Human resilience fascinates. They named this hell 'home' and carved hymns from its screams."
Page 67: "Tasiya asked why demons crave hearts today. I lied—said it's tradition. Truth is, we starve for the warmth they stole from us."
She traced the words. His confession hidden in fiction.
Caves of Despair
Merlada's Crucible:
The cavern reeked of bile and burnt hair. Merlada's pestle clattered against the mortar—a metronome for screams.
Lud circled her workstation, his shadow swallowing the firelight.
"Another vial," he demanded, glass clinking.
Merlada's arm trembled as she extended it. The blade flashed.
Blood arced—a crimson parabola staining Lud's cheek. He licked it clean, grinning at her flinch.
Fifth incision today. Her bandages seeped rust-brown.
Lud's Epiphany:
Merlada's blood reacted uniquely to demonic toxins—a dormant Grey Scale thread.
If reignited…
He injected a milky serum into her latest sample. The liquid writhed, forming jagged crystalline structures.
"Fascinating," Lud breathed. His scalpel hovered over her unconscious form. "Let's test viability in vivo."
Snowbound Revelation
Sigrid's Gambit:
The fourth cave yawned before them—a maw lined with icicle teeth. Farsht pressed his palm to the permafrost, veins fluorescing blue.
Sigrid studied his frozen profile. Beauty as lethal as the storm.
"Why persist as Archfiend?" she blurted.
Farsht's exhale crystallized midair. "Mountains shift when I dream. Rivers forget their courses. Control… is interesting."
Sigrid's laugh cracked like thin ice. "You're mad."
"Madness implies alternatives." His glacial eyes met hers. "What's yours?"
The Unspoken Contract:
Sigrid's ideal: A life draped in velvet indolence.
Farsht's price: A heart steeped in cowardice.
She gripped her dagger's hilt. Better a gilded prisoner than a beggar queen.
Threads Intertwined
Tasiya's Vigil:
Nathaniel's pulse thrummed through the stone—a seismic lullaby. Tasiya nestled against his back, the book open in her lap.
Page 102: "She asked if I regret becoming demon. I should've said yes. Instead, I praised her human hands—so adept at mending what they break."
A tremor shook the chamber. Nathaniel's claws unsheathed, carving fissures into bedrock.
"Wake up," Tasiya whispered. "Your bones are fracturing."
Chapter 72: Labyrinth of Flesh
Veins of Descent
The cave swallowed Sigrid's breath. Frost's armoured grip hauled her over jagged outcrops—a marionette dragged toward Gehenna's throat.
Too slow.
Her boots skidded on obsidian slopes. Each stumble cost seconds. Seconds Melrada might not have.
"Leave me," she rasped, knuckles bloodied from clawing at basalt. "Mark the path with your shadows. I'll—"
Frost's glacial eyes flickered. "Human lungs collapse here. Follow or die."
He wasn't wrong. The air reeked of sulphuric necrosis, a miasma that curdled resolve. Sigrid gagged, clutching her holy pendant. Saint Illya's Mercy glowed faintly—no comfort when the walls themselves pulsed with cancerous dark energy.
Cradle of Madness
First Revelation:
Frost's Warning: His palm flattened against a stalactite. "Traps. Not demoncraft… human."
Sigrid's Epiphany: They're using our own alchemy against us.
Nathaniel's theory crystallized:
"The enemy didn't infiltrate Eighth District's summit. They became the summit."
Now, Frost's ice-magic neutralized tripwires of condensed despair—soul-grinding mechanisms only mortals could devise.
Second Revelation:
Melrada's Trail: A blood-smeared rosary wedged in a crevice.
Frost's Snarl: "She's baiting us deeper."
Sigrid pocketed the beads. Or begging for salvation.
Theatre of Flesh
Light exploded ahead.
Crystalline monoliths jutted like broken teeth, refracting Frost's pale luminescence into a mockery of daylight.
The Captives:
Living Skeletons: Chained to geodes, their arms flayed to tendon maps.
Sigrid's Revolt: "Release them!"
Frost's Restraint: "Corpses. Their minds are gone."
A prisoner giggled, pupils blown. "S-she took the grey path… became art…"
Sigrid recoiled. The man's tongue had been replaced with a writhing centipede.
Rain of Rot
Water fell.
Wrong.
Acid-rain pooled in Sigrid's collarbones, eating through her cloak. Frost shielded her with his wings—a gesture that left his back steaming.
Flesh Symphony:
First Movement: A woman's wail echoed—inhuman, multi-throated.
Second: Stone ruptured. A thing with melded limbs scrabbled into view, its mouth a spiralling void.
Crescendo: Lute's laughter.
"Ah, Frost! Here to collect your donations?"
The Eighth's spymaster leaned against a stalagmite, Melrada's mangled form twitching at his feet.
Grey Scale Revelation
Melrada's Metamorphosis:
Skin: Sloughing to reveal iridescent scales.
Hands: Talons cracking from nail beds.
Eyes: Pupils splitting into twin voids.
Lute kicked her ribs. "Behold! Grey Scale's apex—humanity reforged as art!"
Sigrid retched. This… this was in the forbidden codices.
Frost's Diagnosis:
Alchemical Betrayal: "You spliced demonic marrow into their spines."
Lute's Pride: "Perfected it! No more frail flesh. Just… evolved soldiers."
Melrada lunged.
Her new jaws snapped an inch from Sigrid's throat.
Dance of Frost and Void
Frost's Gambit:
Ice Bindings: Chains of permafrost anchored Melrada.
Sigrid's Light: Saint Illya's Mercy seared the abomination's eyes—a momentary reprieve.
Lute's Counter: A dagger of condensed miasma aimed at Frost's third vertebra.
The Unspoken Truth:
Frost's weakness: His glacial core lay exposed during intricate spellwork.
Lute's intel: Gained through Nathaniel's coerced confession in Ch.71's torture scene.
Sigrid intercepted.
Her palm met the blade.
Sacrifice and Scourge
Sigrid's Hand:
Flesh: Blackening where miasma seeped into veins.
Soul: Saint Illya's Mercy flared gold—a divine counterstroke.
Lute staggered. "You… burn?"
Frost's Fury Unleashed:
The cavern plunged to absolute zero.
Lute's smirk froze mid-face. Ice shards erupted from his pores—a grotesque chrysalis.
Melrada howled, her Grey Scale armour cracking under dual assaults.
Aftermath
The Price:
Sigrid's Corruption: Her right hand now clawed and scaled.
Frost's Secret: A hairline fracture in his glacial heart.
Melrada's Fate: "End me," she rasped, still human enough to beg.
Nathaniel's Voice (echoing from Ch.70's prophetic dream):
"Some roots must burn to bear fruit."
Sigrid raised her mutated hand.
Lightning struck.
Chapter 73: The Unspoken Pact
Cassbia Manor – Night's Embrace
The desert winds howled beyond Cassbia's walls, sculpting dunes into new labyrinths. Servants scurried to anchor bronze lanterns along shifting paths, their flames flickering like trapped stars.
In a guest chamber at the manor's edge, Tasiya sat cross-legged on Nathaniel's discarded overcoat—a silken avalanche of midnight velvet. She had tucked the hem around her legs, its silver embroidery grazing her ankles like frost-kissed vines.
The room hummed with contradictions: charcoal braziers warded off the chill while jasmine blooms perfumed the air. A harmony of warmth and fragility.
Nathaniel stirred.
His lashes lifted slowly, as though weighed by centuries. Without turning, he murmured, "Tasiya."
She snapped her book shut—a treatise on desert cartography—and scrambled to kneel before him. "You're awake. How…?"
"Farsht succeeded." His voice rasped from disuse. "He signaled through the ley lines."
Tasiya's breath hitched. "Melrada?"
"Recovered. Details will wait."
Relief unspooled her tension. She reached for her sword, already pivoting toward strategy. "Then we focus on the Fourth District. If you handle Forth alone—"
"No."
The single syllable hung between them, sharper than blade steel.
The Fractured Compromise
Nathaniel rose, his shadow swallowing the firelight. Three steps brought him toe-to-toe with her.
"You'll stay."
Tasiya bristled. "Annette's outpost is a straight shot from here. With Abyss as escort—"
"Abyss is a scout, not a shield." His thumb brushed her collarbone—a fleeting touch that betrayed his fear. "Your lightforce signature paints you as prey."
"So disguise me!" She gripped his sleeves, urgency fraying her composure. "Mimic my form, as you did during the Kestral siege. Let a decoy draw attention while I move unseen."
His jaw tightened. That gambit had cost him weeks of recovery, his demonic essence strained to replicate her mortal vitality.
"Or are you afraid," Tasiya pressed, "that I'll outpace even your illusions?"
The Weight of Three Words
Nathaniel stilled.
Memories cascaded—Tasiya's first death (a bandit's arrow through her throat), her second (poison in a diplomat's cup), her third (crushed beneath a siege tower). Each loss had carved deeper into his core, until his nightmares bled with the scent of her blood.
She misread his silence as reluctance. Rising on tiptoe, she pressed her lips to his ear. "I read your new chapters. The way you wrote our first contract… how I laughed when you tripped over your own tail."
A shudder wracked him. That manuscript was meant for no eyes but his own—a confession etched in allegory.
"I love you."
The words detonated in his chest. Centuries of restraint crumbled. He gripped her waist, desperate to anchor himself as the room tilted.
"Let me prove I'm more than your weakness," she whispered against his mouth.
Ember and Ash
Firelight gilded their entangled shadows. Tasiya's fingers traced the flush creeping up Nathaniel's neck—a vulnerability no enemy had ever witnessed.
"You're… overheating," she teased, though her own pulse rabbited beneath her skin.
He captured her hand, pressing it to his sternum where his core pulsed—a star trapped in flesh. "This is your doing."
The admission hung raw between them. For a heartbeat, the world contracted to the space where their breaths mingled.
Then duty reasserted its claim.
"Two days," Nathaniel conceded, his voice gravel. "If Annette's outpost isn't secured by then, I drag you back myself."
Tasiya's grin outshone the braziers. "One."
The Art of Disappearing
Preparations:
Decoy Ritual: Nathaniel's claws pricked his palm, blood swirling into a Tasiya-shaped mimic. The clone blinked, flawlessly mortal.
Abyss's Role: The bat-demon grumbled about "glorified babysitting" but curled around Tasiya's shoulders like living armor.
Parting Glances:
Tasiya paused at the threshold. Wind whipped strands of silver across her face. "Keep my decoy reckless. The more chaos she causes…"
Nathaniel's smile held winter's edge. "Oh, she'll have every eye in the Eighth District."
As she vanished into the sandstorm, his whisper chased her:
"Return to me."
Chapter 74: Fractures of Legacy
The Weight of Crowns
Ignatius stared at the wine swirling in his goblet. Its crimson depths mirrored the bloodless coup unfolding in his own palace—his daughter's blade still hovering in memory.
Marquis Vincent coughed awkwardly. The Third District's parlor, once a sanctuary for political theater, now reeked of spilled secrets and paternal failure.
"So," the king rasped, "am I cursed to sire only vipers?"
Vincent's knuckles whitened around his chalice. Hypocrite. You abandoned your children long before they drew steel. Aloud: "Claire's ideals differ from yours. Youth often mistakes destruction for revolution."
Archbishop Reynolds intervened, pouring more wine. "The capital's crisis demands clarity. Lord Nyle's abduction—"
"Let the brat rot." Ignatius' chuckle held jagged edges. "If my throne collapses, let it bury us all."
Daughters of Dust
Claire's Soliloquy (Third District):
Moonlight fractured on the lake's surface. Claire hurled her gauntlet into the water, where it sank like her father's regard.
"Why won't you fight me?" she hissed at the night.
The demon envoy slithered closer, sulfurous breath tickling her ear. "Lady Siđney grows impatient. Your sister's fate—"
Claire backhanded him. The creature's jaw dislocated with a wet crack.
"Threaten Aurora again," she whispered, "and I'll feed you your own entrails."
Sands of Delusion
Amos' Folly (Eighth District):
The dunes birthed mirages.
Amos sprinted, sweat gluing sand to his wounds. That silhouette—it must be Carmela!
"Lady Carmela! Wait!"
The figure paused. Moonlight revealed a stranger wearing Carmela's stolen face.
"Who…?" Amos recoiled.
The mimic smiled, lips splitting into a carnivorous bloom. "Darling boy. Let's discuss your obsession."
Roots of Ruin
Ignatius' Confession:
Wine-loosened tongues unraveled dynastic decay.
"Vincent… did you know?" The king gestured vaguely. "My father's ghost visits. Laughs at how I replicated his mistakes."
The marquis stiffened. Tasia's face flashed before him—not his blood, yet the child he'd most profoundly failed.
"Children aren't clay to mold," Vincent muttered. "We plant seeds in poisoned soil, then act shocked when thorns sprout."
Reynolds crossed himself. "Free will is God's test."
"God?" Ignatius snorted. "My wife prayed daily. Where was He when the birthing fever took her?"
Blades of Revelation
Claire's Epiphany:
Dawn approached. The demon envoy's corpse floated in the lake, its true form—a writhing mass of eel-like tendrils—now food for carrion birds.
Father never taught me to rule, she realized, because he never learned himself.
A rider arrived, bearing Eighth District's seal.
"Lady Carmela's challenge. She demands combat at the Blood Obelisk."
Claire's lips curled. Finally, a worthy opponent.
Echoes of Obsession
Amos' Descent:
The mimic pinned him against sandstone, its breath reeking of decayed roses.
"She'll never love you," it crooned, fingers elongating into Carmela's signature clawed gauntlets. "But I can be her. Would you like that?"
Amos' dagger found its throat. The mimic gurgled laughter as it dissolved into ash.
"Pathetic," came Carmela's voice from the shadows. "You reek of desperation, boy."
Kings and Corpses
Vincent's Warning:
"Ignatius, if Claire marches on the capital…"
The king refilled his goblet. "Let her. My children's war will be their inheritance."
Reynolds paled. "The demons—"
"—will consume whichever side falters. Natural selection, Archbishop."
Vincent rose abruptly. Tasia. I must warn Tasia.
Ignatius' gaze sharpened. "Running to your bastard daughter? How… paternal."