Chapter 100: The Looming Shadow of Avangard
The air in the dungeon was a stagnant cocktail of damp limestone, rusted iron, and the acrid, lingering scent of Amalie's cheap tobacco. Kyle shifted his weight, the heavy shackles biting into his wrists as he struggled against the cold stone floor. He was a bird in a cage of shadows, watching the flickering torchlight dance across the face of his captor.
Amalie sat perched on a wooden crate, her dark purple hair falling in messy layers over her eyes. She took a long drag from her cigarette, the cherry glowing bright in the dim light before she exhaled a cloud of grey smoke.
"Stop squirming, kid," she muttered, her blue eyes devoid of sympathy. "The more you pull, the more those chains find a way to hate you."
The heavy oak door at the top of the stairs slammed open with a violence that shook dust from the ceiling. Father Ezekiel marched in, his face a mask of frantic, righteous fury. Behind him, the other four members of his ragtag group looked up from their various tasks—sharpening blades, counting coins, or studying maps.
"So, Pops," Amalie said, flicking ash onto the floor. "What's the word? What's the play with the brat?"
Kyle tried to shout, but the thick gag in his mouth reduced his protest to a muffled, desperate murmur.
"He is our leverage," Ezekiel declared, his voice trembling with a zeal that bordered on madness. He paced the small cell, his fingers twitching near the crucifix hanging from his neck. "The ultimate bait."
"Leverage against what?" Amalie asked, narrowing her eyes. "We're supposed to be laying low, not inviting the wrath of the heavens."
"Against that barbarian, Leornars!" Ezekiel roared, turning to face his crew. "That monster has carved a scar across this continent. We will use this boy to lure him into the light, and then... then we shall exorcise the demon from this world."
A sudden, sharp whistle of air sliced through the tension. Kyle had gathered the mana in his lungs, firing a concentrated burst of wind that sent the gag flying across the room. He coughed, his throat raw.
"And what makes you think," Kyle gasped, "that Leornars would ever come for me?"
The room went silent. Amalie tilted her head. "Aren't you one of his retainers? His little golden boy?"
"No!" Kyle spat. "Why would I ever side with the man who murdered my father? You've got the wrong person, you senile old fool!"
Amalie stared at Kyle for a heartbeat before she burst into a jagged, mocking laugh. She turned to Ezekiel, who had gone pale. "Yo, Grandpa. You kidnapped the wrong kid. All this trouble for a stray?"
Ezekiel's jaw tightened. "Tell me something I don't know," he hissed, his calm facade returning like a thin sheet of ice over a boiling lake. Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out, the door slamming so hard a framed photo of a younger, smiling Ezekiel fell from the wall and shattered.
The corridors of the Cathedral were a labyrinth of white marble and hushed whispers. Ezekiel walked with a stiff gait, his mind a whirlpool of paranoia. How could I have confused them? The reports said the boy was close to him. If Leornars doesn't care for him, then I have no shield.
"Peace be with you, Ezekiel."
The voice was like grinding stones. Ezekiel froze. Standing in the center of the hallway was Father Gerald. He was a titan of a man, his white eye patch a stark contrast against his weathered skin. A jagged scar ran down his left eye, a souvenir from a war Ezekiel preferred to forget.
"And to you, Gerald," Ezekiel replied, trying to sidestep the giant.
Gerald stepped into his path, his presence heavy and suffocating. "Ezekiel. I have heard whispers. Ugly rumors that a member of our clergy is kidnapping children from the streets. Tell me... are they true?"
Ezekiel felt a bead of sweat roll down his spine. "Me? Kidnapping? Don't be absurd, Gerald. I am doing the Lord's work."
"Let us sincerely hope so," Gerald said, his voice dropping to a glacial chill. "Because if I find a grain of truth in those whispers... I will break you. Not as a priest, but as a man." He leaned in closer, his one good eye boring into Ezekiel's soul. "Everything we do is for the sake of God. There is no greater privilege than wearing these robes. Do not stain them."
Gerald walked away, his heavy boots echoing like drumbeats. Ezekiel watched him go, his hands shaking. "How did that titan find out? If he gets proof... I'm a dead man."
On the outskirts of the kingdom, where the grass met the iron-grey sky, Leornars stood motionless. Before him sat a heavily armored carriage containing Sahara and Sasha. The air shimmered, and Stacian appeared beside him as if woven from the wind.
"So," she said, crossing her arms. "What's our next move against the Holy Kingdom of Rurva? They've taken a pawn; it's only fair we take a king."
"Our leverage borders on the logical to the impossible," Leornars replied, his voice a calm, low melody.
"Cryptic as always," Stacian sighed. "Explain."
"The Holy Kingdom thinks they are untouchable behind their walls of faith," Leornars said, looking toward the horizon. "But months ago, they sent a Demon Lord to Lurtra to incite chaos. We have the evidence. We can forge contracts, trace the Pollium drug trade directly back to their high altars. There are infinite ways to sabotage a nation, Stacian. We simply need to choose the one that hurts the most."
"And? Have you picked?"
"I picked months ago," Leornars said with a cold smile. "The burning of the Church of the God of Law wasn't an act of rage—it was a beacon. It drew their eyes exactly where I wanted them. A backdrop tactic to keep them distracted while we weave the real noose."
He turned to her, his gaze sharpening. "But Selalyndra... she will poke her nose into this. She is as annoying as she is essential. We need her for the Skyvault Citadel meeting. She knows our history better than anyone else."
Stacian nodded slowly. "So she's leverage too. She lives in peace while we handle the filth. If we don't keep the elves and the Rurva knights separated, and with the Seraphim and Durmount currently neutralized... we can't afford a long war."
"Exactly," Leornars agreed. "Which is why we rely on the subtle rot. Have Salene and Ayesha finished their preparations?"
"Yes," Stacian said, a dark glint in her eyes. "The birth of biological and geographical warfare. They won't even know they're at war until their rivers turn to poison and their soil refuses to grow."
"Perfect," Leornars whispered. "Highly effective. Precisely what they deserve."
Weeks bled into one another. In the dungeon, the tension had evolved into a strange, weary domesticity. Kyle sat on the floor, leaning against the damp wall as he watched Amalie clean her nails with a dagger.
"Look," Kyle said, his voice tired. "Tell Ezekiel I'm not snitching. I don't even have anyone to snitch to. I'm just a guy caught in the crossfire."
Amalie laughed, a short, dry sound. "You know Ezekiel. Talking sense to him is like asking the air to bleed. He's paranoid, delusional, and convinced he's the hero of a story that ended years ago."
The door creaked open, and Xavier walked in, holding a fresh newspaper. His eyes were wide. "Guys, did you see this? The Avangard Kingdom has completely shifted the power balance of the southern continent. The Skyvault Citadel just declared them an 'indispensable asset.'"
Amalie leaned over to see the headlines. "So the plague-bearer actually conquered those meatheads? Impressive."
Kyle looked at Amalie. "How do you even know Ezekiel? You don't seem like the 'holy' type."
"He's an old childhood friend," she said, her expression softening for a fraction of a second before hardening again.
"He looks twenty years older than you," Kyle noted.
"Paranoia does that," she said, lighting another cigarette. "That, and the drugs. He's been taking things... substances no one can identify. He used to be a good man, Kyle. I'm not sure what crawled inside him and turned the lights out."
Meanwhile, in the bustling heart of the Lotus Citadel—the capital of the newly risen Avangard—Leornars and Stacian walked through the market. The city was a marvel of dwarven stonecraft and elven aesthetics, a testament to Leornars' vision.
"With Durmount out of the way, the Skyvault planning is moving ahead of schedule," Leornars said, adjusting the half-mask on his face. "The dwarves and elves are at our beck and call."
"Are you planning a repeat of the Luiphonia incident on Rurva?" Stacian asked, eyeing the fine silks in a nearby stall.
"Something similar, but more grounded. More permanent." Leornars pulled a shard of his original mask from his pocket, the ceramic edges jagged. "I still can't believe this broke while I was sleeping. Having to wear this half-piece to the meeting was... infuriating."
"Fashion is the least of your worries," Stacian teased.
"Perhaps. But now we focus on Rurva and the Dirrium Kingdom. They'll be scrambling after Ziwah's downfall."
Miles away, on the south-western slopes, the weather had turned foul. Rain lashed down in icy sheets as Jessica and Jennifer led the remaining heroes up a treacherous incline.
"There! A cavern!" Jennifer shouted over the thunder.
They scrambled inside, shivering and drenched. They managed to spark a small fire, the orange glow providing a meager comfort against the howling wind outside. But the peace was short-lived. From the depths of the cave came a rhythmic, heavy breathing.
Jessica turned, her hand flying to her sword. Deep within the shadows, dozens of glowing red eyes snapped open. The low growl of monsters echoed off the stone walls.
"Again?" Jessica groaned, her shoulders sagging with pure exhaustion. "Don't these things ever sleep?"
As the beasts lunged from the darkness, the heroes drew their steel, the firelight reflecting off blades that had already seen too much blood.
Back in the backdrops of Seraphim kingdom a region that was not liberated
Lyra ran until the adrenaline burned out of her veins, leaving only a hollow, throbbing ache. Her hand—the one she had used to strike the cage—was a mess of purple bruising and dried gore. Every time it brushed against her tunic, a white-hot spark of agony shot up to her shoulder, but she couldn't stop. To stop was to die. To stop was to let the silence of the desert swallow her mother's sacrifice.
The first sun rose like a mocking eye, vast and pitiless. The "forty miles" her mother had whispered felt like a manageable number in the dark of a cage. Under the heat of the Seraphim sun, it became an infinite stretch of jagged rock and heat shimmers.
By noon, the lush outskirts of the Seraphim waypoint had vanished. She was in the Grey Basin, a wasteland of salt flats and dead scrub. Lyra's throat felt as though it had been lined with sandpaper. She found a cactus, its skin thick and waxy. Using her teeth and her one good hand, she tore into it. The pulp was bitter, chemical-tasting, and barely damp, but she choked it down, her fox ears drooping against the heat.
As the sun dipped, the temperature plummeted. The desert was a fickle master; it tried to cook her by day and freeze her by night. Lyra huddled beneath a rocky overhang, her small body shivering violently.
Every sound—the scuttle of a beetle, the moan of the wind through a crevice—sounded like the heavy boots of a Seraphim guard.
"Mama..." she whispered into the dark. She tried to conjure Vila's face, but the image was beginning to fray at the edges, replaced by the memory of the cold, rusted bars. She fell into a fitful sleep, dreaming not of rescue, but of the sound of the guard's whistle, over and over, piercing the silence of her soul.
The third day brought the hallucinations. The horizon began to ripple, teasing her with the image of a towering citadel made of white stone .Avangard.
"I'm here," she wheezed, her voice a ghostly rattle. "I'm almost... there."
She took a step, but her legs, now thin as spindles and mapped with scratches, gave way. She tumbled down a shallow ravine, her body bouncing off the dry earth like a discarded doll. She landed at the bottom, the wind knocked out of her. For a long time, she simply lay there, staring up at the vultures circling in the blue void above.
One of the vultures landed a few yards away, its naked head twitching.
"Not yet," Lyra hissed, her amber eyes flashing with a final, dying spark of defiance. She dragged herself upward, using her elbows. Her feet were no longer recognizable; the soles were shredded, leaving faint, rusty stains on the grey rocks.
By the fifth day, Lyra no longer knew who she was. She was no longer a girl, or a daughter, or a messenger. She was simply a heartbeat struggling against the silence.
She reached the crest of a high dune. Ahead of her lay more of the same an endless sea of heat and dust. There was no White King. There was no light. The "forty miles" had been a lie born of hope, a distance too great for a starving child to bridge.
She collapsed, her face pressing into the burning sand.
"I'm sorry, Mama," she breathed, the words barely vibrating in the air. "I can't... I can't find the light."
She didn't cry. She had no water left for tears. She simply watched a small desert lizard scurry past her hand. In her fading mind, she saw Lina and Kael. They were playing in the red sands of their old home, before the chains, before the "Iron Gullet."
Lyra closed her eyes. The wind began to blow, slowly dusting her small, fox-like ears with the fine, grey silt of the basin, beginning the long process of turning a tragedy into a landmark.
"No, I must get to Avangard kingdom. The king will save me, I know he will, the white plague will save me" she said tears falling down as she rose
"IM NOT GIVING UP!!"She shouted as she continued to run towards Avangard kingdom, she looked behind to see dust storms and it was the slavers . Panic drew in.
"I must reach LEORNARS!!"She shouted as she sprinted her feet aching in pure agony
The shout ripped from Lyra's throat, raw and jagged, sounding more like a wounded animal's howl than a young girl's voice. The salt in the air stung her split lips, but she didn't care. The sight of the dust plumes on the horizon—the unmistakable sign of heavy steeds and iron-rimmed wheels—had reignited a fire in her soul that even the desert couldn't quench.
"I am not... a slave!" she hissed through gritted teeth. "I am Lyra! I will be a citizen of Avangard!"
Behind her, the silhouette of the Seraphim slavers grew larger. They weren't just guards anymore; they were the embodiment of the chains she had fled. She could hear the faint, rhythmic thumping of horses' hooves against the sun-baked earth. They were closing the gap. They had magic, they had steel, and they had stamina.
All Lyra had was a name: Leornars.
She sprinted. Each step felt like driving a rusted nail through the soles of her feet. The shredded skin of her heels left a trail of dark, crimson spots on the white salt flats. The world became a blur of grey and gold, centered only on the shimmering heat of the horizon where she prayed the White King waited.
"Faster!" she screamed at her own legs. "Move, you useless things! Move!"
The wind picked up, swirling the dust around her until it felt like the desert itself was trying to pull her down, to bury her before the slavers could reclaim her. A heavy bolt from a cross-bow whistled past her ear, thudding into the sand a few feet ahead.
The slavers were laughing. She could hear them now—a guttural, mocking sound over the wind. They were playing with her, waiting for the moment her heart finally burst from the strain.
"Look at the little fox go!" one shouted, his voice carrying on the gale. "Run all you want, brat! You're just increasing your price with all that muscle tone!"
Lyra reached the edge of a steep plateau. Below her lay a valley choked with mist and jagged stone needles. Beyond that... nothing but more haze. There was no gleaming city. No white flags of the Plague King.
She skidded to a halt at the precipice, pebbles tumbling into the abyss. Her breath came in ragged, wet gasps. She looked back. The lead rider, a man with a face like scarred leather, was pulling his reins, slowing his horse to a trot. He had a coiled whip in one hand and a heavy iron collar in the other.
"End of the line, little fox," the slaver said, a cruel smirk twisting his lips. "You did well. Forty miles. I've never seen a cub last forty miles. But there's no Leornars here. There's no Avangard. Just us. You took a wrong turn to Avangard by 3 miles,still be proud"
Lyra looked at the collar, then at the misty abyss behind her, and finally at her own blood-stained hands.
"The White Plague... is everywhere," she whispered, her eyes turning cold and vacant, mirroring the very man she sought. "He is in the wind. He is in the rot. And if I die here... he will be the ghost that chokes you."
" I AM LYRA ! I AM NOT A SLAVE! " Lyra shouted her voice cracking
With a final, defiant glare, Lyra didn't surrender. She didn't cower. She took a single, staggering step backward, letting the gravity of the cliff take her, choosing the mercy of the fall over the certainty of the chain.