5 years Later
The Under world
June 14.....
Five years passed.
And there he remained.
And there he grew.
In Lydaeus Forest.
And he knew no human except the one who calls herself his mother.
And the spirits became his brothers.
Cause that's what he imagined them to be.
Brothers with no human body,just mere dark figures.
And he liked them. He cherished them.
They taught him all that they knew, even though he seemed not to comprehend the words that they teach him.
And they named him after the forest itself.
Lydaeus!
Cause he was cold, unyielding, without emotions,and never uttered a word since birth.
Cause a spirit more deadlier than the ones he imagined to be his brothers lives in him.
He and mother ate nothing except the fruits given to them by the forest.
And those fruits they sold during the day to purchase some clothes for themselves.
Before the sun sets, they would return to the forest.
And thank the forest for giving them the opportunity to leave.
Unknown to them,the fruits were poisoned by the spirits.
Though once taken it offers sweetness and relief the victim of pain and sorrows.
At night,the spirits take control of their body and forces them to commit suicide.
Yet,it never affected him and his mother!
Castle of Salvatoris....
June 28....
Mist rolled across the hillside, dragging its pale shroud over stone and soil alike.
From that haze,the castle rose- not standing,but crouching,as though it had been waiting for centuries to be seen again.
Its towers cut the sky into jagged shards, sharp as spears, its walls gleaming with a whiteness that was not purity but bone laid bare. The gargoyles hunched in eternal sneers.
The gates groaned. Beyond them, the grounds stretched immaculate and lifeless,lawns clipped to perfection, hedges trimmed into walls that seemed built to contain more than to adorn. Rose's climbed in regimented beds, their petals lush and velvet - dark. Along the path, statues glistened in the mist. Saints with hollow faces, angels whose wings bent as though broken mid- flight,kings with crowns that had worn into thorns.
The fountains whispered as they spilled, their waters black in the night. No reflection trembled across their surface, no glint of coin caught the light. Whatever was thrown into their depts was swallowed whole,as though the fountains themselves refused to give anything back.
And then,at the edges of the gardens,the forest pressed in- thick, restless, its trees scarred with age. No bird sang there. No insect stirred. Only the groan of wood in the darkness, like something in its sleep.
The yews are rarely noticed,but once glimpsed, they were impossible to ignore.
A glance become a stare,and a stare became the uneasy sense of being stared back at.
The yews never moved, never changed,but their presence lingered like the pressure of an unseen hand at the back of the neck, reminding all who wandered the grounds that some things were older than the castle, perhaps darker still.
All of it - the gardens,the fountains,the forest,the ruins - bent toward the castle. From the branches, from the stones, from the soil itself, its presence pressed inescapable,as though the land had grown from the fortress rather than the fortress from the land. Its windows glimmered faintly through the mist, high above, watching.
Always watching.
And to step beyond the gates was not to approach a house. It was to cross into something vaster, something alive. A body of stone and shadow, its roots sunk deeper than earth, waiting in silence for what it would claim next!
....
The Great Hall....
At the heart,a cavernous space with a vaulted ceiling supported by ribbed arches.
Chandeliers of wrought iron drip with electric candles that flicker like flame.
The victim had been placed at the centre of the great hall, strapped to a high- backed chair of Oak.
The victim responsible for the recent deaths in the capital.
The victim who sold the poisoned fruits that led to their death.
One who's possessed by the spirits from the
Lydaeus Forest!
Velvet cords bound her wrists,her chest heaved against the strain, and her eyes flickered with too many colours - sometimes dull human brown, sometimes a glowing, feral gold. Every breath that left her crawled along the walls.
The princes stood a far off
All seven of them.
And watched the woman struggling to free herself
And then ..... He entered.
And as he stepped in the double doors groaned shut, the hall darkened until only the cold gleam of candlelight remained.
An exorcist.
Father Damian corvi !
Tall, gaunt, with a presence that felt carved from stone. His robe black, lined with crimson, carrying a faint scent of smoke and incense. His eyes are pale gray, nearly silver, and seem to catch light in strange ways—sometimes soft, sometimes like cold steel. His hands ,thin but strong, often wrapped in leather gloves worn smooth at the palms from clutching relics too long.
And he immediately began his work
He approached the victim.
Brought out his beads.
And began to chant words...even the princes couldn't comprehend except one who had the knowledge.
The response was immediate. The victim convulsed, her chair shuddering across the tiles as though dragged by invisible hands.
The air thickened, and a sound rose - not from her mouth, but from the walls themselves. A layered chorus, whispering in a language older stone, sliding from the tapestries, seeping from the portraits, moaning from the iron suits of armour lined against the walls.
Suddenly, she began to scream in a loud voice!!
" My son!!!"
" My son!!!"
" They cannot hurt my son!"
" You promised!"
" You promised that you would protect him!!!"
" Who's her son?"
One of the princes asked as he adjusted his spectacles. Long white hair , silver white eyes,and was never found without a book in his hand. His mouth utters nothing but wisdom.
Lord Charles.
The 4th prince.
" Just a five year old. Locked in the Dungeon" Ian replied.
The fifth prince. Black hair, dark brown eyes,his gaze alone could kill a child.
" This exorcist's spirit is really strong " Charles commented flatly. " But can he handle it,till the end?"
" Whispers claim he has performed more exorcisms than any living priest in the mortal realm. Others murmur that his survival is proof, not of his worshipper's favour,but of some deeper bargain. He arrives where he is needed without explanation, as if summoned by something older than prayer"
Charles scoffed.
" The evil spirits in the mortal realm were created by the demons, but the spirits here weren't created by the demons, but by something else. They were created by the VIVAT...."
" The Living aura. Hence, it never Dies. It continues to live on , no matter how many times we destroy it. It comes back after 100 years, in another shape, another body, another form " Ian completed his statement.
The spirits refused to let go of the victim and neither did the exorcist flinch.
His voice rose , measured and relentless,each word striking the silence like a hammer against glass. The bound victim screamed, the sound cracking into inhuman registers, rattling the chandeliers so hard their chains screeched in protest.
Then the hall itself turned. The portraits' eyes glistened, following the priest. The suits of armour leaned forward with a slow creak,steel faces catching the glow like sentinels about to march. The castle resisted, not the spirit alone but the expulsion itself - as if the walls had grown hungry for what dwelled within.
With one final cry, the beads flared white! The black vapor split apart, shrieking, scattering into corners, fleeing the light.
The victim collapsed,body limp, breath shallow but her own.
But the hall did not quiet,the echoes lingered, faint whispers circling the rafters, threading down the stone.
Father Damian's eyes lifted.
Not to the victim,not to the ground, but to the ceiling beams high above, where the darkness has gathered thickest.
Indeed!
The Exorcism had succeeded!
But the castle was not defeated.