Nefaria, 20th of Kaelos, 542 ER (Continuation)
Janeth stepped cautiously into the temple, the lingering silence pressing in around her like a burial shroud. No traps sprang, no spirits rose, no hidden blades lunged from the dark. She allowed herself to breathe—just enough to move forward.
The sanctum opened before her like a dream carved from memory. She paced its edge, fingers trailing along cold, timeworn stone. The pillars bore engravings so fine they seemed to breathe. Two rows of darkwood pews stretched forward—polished to a gleam, every curve a master's touch.
She walked beside the first row, boots whispering against smooth stone. Halfway down, she paused to sit for a brief moment, then crossed the aisle and continued toward the far end. Each step echoed faintly through the sacred hush. The entire place felt suspended—frozen in time's grasp.
Beneath her boots, the floor shimmered—silver tiles, or something near enough, catching the torchlight like still water. Above, a simple arch of unadorned stone loomed. It drew her attention not for its beauty, but for its absence of it. Her trained eye knew how to spot what didn't belong—or what didn't appear at all.
A subtle pull tugged her gaze toward the wall. A recess. Nearly invisible. She drifted toward it, drawn by instinct. A doorway? No. A hollow. Still. Watching.
From her satchel, she drew a crude torch, struck flint to stone, and coaxed a reluctant flame to life. Smoke hissed as fire licked the wood. Shadows leapt, then steadied. The glow revealed walls painted in unsettling hues—dried crimson and muted charcoal.
At the far end of the recess, atop a low dais, lay a figure.
Skin the color of spilled blood. Black tail curled like a question mark. A demoness—statue? No. Real.
Alive?
She didn't stir.
A chill climbed Janeth's spine. She would never voice it aloud, but unease needled her. She stepped back, raising the torch higher, then returned to the main chamber.
Her pace quickened past the pews. She approached the far dais, where four wide stone steps rose before her. Upon the platform stood two high seats—thronelike, imposing—flanked by three lesser chairs. A place of rulership. Perhaps a council once gathered here.
She was about to ascend when a sharp whistle cut through the stillness—sudden, vicious, aimed to kill.
Instinct roared.
Janeth dove into a roll, landing low and wide as a massive spear slammed into the stair behind her. The crack of impact echoed like thunder. She swore under her breath.
And then… she saw it.
The spear itself—blood-red shaft, black-iron tip gleaming like obsidian under firelight. A weapon, yes—but also a work of deadly art. Even as her pulse thundered, she couldn't help but admire the craftsmanship.
A soft clink of chain.
Janeth spun, eyes narrowing.
At the far end of the temple stood a girl—no more than eighteen—garbed in a pale gown, silver-trimmed veil draped over her face. She looked like a priestess. But the spear was hers, and she wasn't finished.
The girl retrieved it effortlessly, dragging the long black chain attached to the base. Her grip was firm, practiced. She twirled the weapon with grace born not of ritual, but of war. The way she moved told Janeth all she needed to know.
This wasn't theater.
This was bloodshed.
Without a sound, the girl lunged, the spear soaring once more—chain hissing behind it like a serpent unleashed. Janeth twisted aside, the weapon slamming into the stone floor at her heels.
She didn't wait.
Even mid-dodge, she'd already drawn two daggers—palmed low, blades downward, hidden in the sweep of her motion. As her feet struck ground, she released both.
The girl—later known to her as Alisha—wasn't ready.
One dagger tore through the veil, severing its cords. The fabric floated to the floor. The other blade struck true, slicing a thin line across Alisha's cheek.
The girl hissed.
Then roared.
She whipped the chain with a snarl, dragging the spear back with brute force. The artistry vanished. Now there was only rage.
Janeth grinned.
She stepped aside, used the spear's tension as a springboard, and flipped cleanly over it—dagger flashing mid-air as she hurled another.
Alisha's eyes sharpened.
With startling speed, she dropped the first spear and drew another—smaller, lighter—from beneath her ceremonial gown. Janeth blinked. A second weapon? Hidden there?
Steel met steel as the smaller spear knocked her dagger from the air in a flash of sparks.
Their eyes met. No words. Only violence.
Alisha hurled the short spear.
Janeth leapt sideways, landing atop a pew, balance perfect. The spear crashed behind her, and she launched again—this time crashing down with a clenched fist into Alisha's wounded cheek.
The girl cried out. The gash split wider, blood pouring. She staggered back, one hand scrambling for a pendant around her neck.
An alarm? A summon?
Not today.
Janeth surged forward, wrapped an arm around the girl's waist, and hurled her overhead in a clean throw.
The girl hit the ground hard.
And didn't rise.
Janeth stumbled back, chest heaving. Her right hand ached. Shoulder out again—damn it.
She flexed it. Range limited. Pain sharp, but tolerable.
Adrenaline was still masking the worst of it.
With a wince, she let the arm fall limp at her side, torchlight dancing across her face. Silence returned like a curtain falling over the end of a scene.
Nearby, a small medicinal coffer had spilled from Alisha's robes. Janeth bent down, scooped it into her satchel, buckled the flap, and slipped the small key into her pocket. Her fingers were slower now. Her limbs heavier.
She rose—barely—and turned.
There it was.
The war hammer.
Resting at the base of the stairs. Slightly dented. Familiar.
Her old companion.
She stared at it for a long moment. Her fingers itched for the weight of it. But her shoulder... no.
That time had passed.
She gave it a slow nod. A farewell.
Then turned and walked deeper into the temple, boots hushed against age-worn stone.
Relics whispered their secrets from the alcoves. Dust lay thick. Yet the air thrummed—quietly, unmistakably—with ancient power.
Janeth moved like a shadow, every sense on edge.