(Chapter 4)
As Holon stumbled deeper into the abyss of the forest, clutching his bleeding wounds, when the hooded figure stepped before him. Its presence was suffocating, as though the shadows themselves bent to its will. Holon's breath came ragged, but his grin widened at the sight of the face revealed beneath the hood—a visage so terrifying that even his crimson gaze faltered in awe.
Before he could speak, the shadows stirred again. One by one, eight other figures emerged from the abyss, their forms cloaked in black until they stepped into the dim light.
They surrounded Holon like predators circling prey.
A woman's mocking laugh cut the silence. Her voice was velvet laced with poison.
"Pathetic," she sneered, her lips black as midnight. "Defeated by children playing at knighthood. And you call yourself the Plague?"
Holon snarled, but her eyes glinted with cruel amusement as she lowered her hood. Tattoos coiled across her elven features, twisting beauty into something dreadful.
"Eldeya," she said, bowing her head slightly toward the first hooded figure. "At your command, Master."
Next came a giant of a man, muscles straining beneath his cloak. Three swords adorned him—two on his back, one at his waist. His grin was manic as he drank in Holon's bloodied state.
"Beautiful," he rumbled, licking his lips. "You bleed like an animal, Holon. I can smell the fear on you." His name left his throat like a growl.
"Gobura."
Holon glared, but the next figure silenced him with a single, calculating look. A gaunt man with spectacles, robes stained faintly with alchemical residue, stepped forward. His expression was calm, but beneath his eyes burned the hunger of one who dissected lives for sport.
"Obrion," he said simply, voice like a scalpel's edge. "I prefer test subjects alive. Don't waste yourself so carelessly."
Another laugh, sweet and melodic, drifted from the group. A young woman twirled her fingers as threads of cursed light spiraled between them. Her innocent smile did nothing to hide the madness behind her eyes.
"They called me a monster. Banished me from my home. And now?" She spread her arms wide. "Now I'll give them curses they'll never forget."
Her eyes met Holon's, lips curving in a mockery of compassion.
"Rietta."
A child's voice broke the air with a sharp bark of laughter. A boy, no older than twelve, stepped forth with wild eyes and a smirk that didn't belong on a child's face. The void itself seemed to ripple at his fingertips.
"Cities crumble. Monsters obey me. All it takes is one sacrifice." He scowled suddenly, stamping a foot. "And yet they treat me like a brat!" He hissed, glaring at the others. "I'll show them I'm stronger than all of you!"
"Nortorn."
From the far side of the circle, silence lingered until a figure stepped forward—smooth, faceless. No features marked his visage, only shifting flesh that rippled faintly as though awaiting a form to steal.
He spoke with many voices at once—male, female, old, young—as though mimicking all he had ever consumed.
"Visage," he intoned, every word echoing unnervingly. "Faces are masks. Masks are mine."
The air grew colder still as another revealed himself—pale as the grave, his cloak shivering with shadowy copies of himself that slithered around him like insects. His eyes gleamed with hunger.
"I wonder how your soul tastes like,"
he whispered, stretching out a hand. The nearest clone exploded into sparks of energy, feeding into him.
"And life is mine to consume."
His lips curved into a bloodthirsty smile.
"Gigaleon."
Last came a boy with long black hair and skin pale as moonlight. His expression was distant, unreadable, his eyes like hollow wells that had forgotten what it meant to be alive.
"I do not remember who I was," he said softly, almost mournfully. "But I cannot die. And so I walk, and walk, until Daath rises again to end me." His pale gaze swept toward Holon.
"Averus."
Holon's ragged breath came louder now, his crimson eyes darting among them all. He laughed—a broken, manic sound that turned to wild hysteria.
"Eight disciples… shadows of terror… all serving him."
The first hooded man—the one whose face had shattered Holon's arrogance—remained silent. Only the faint curve of his mouth betrayed his satisfaction. His identity lingered hidden, veiled in shadow, yet his presence towered above all the rest.
Holon threw back his head, laughter echoing like madness through the trees. "Yes! YES! Absolutely YES!" His bloodied grin was feral, his crimson eyes burning brighter. "Together—we will bring destruction upon mankind!"
The nine shadows closed around their master, the forest trembling beneath their gathering power.
And thus began the darkest chapter in Etherissia's history.
--
The Next day
When morning comes, as her consciousness finally returned. However, it came not as peace but as ache.
Azre stirred, her eyelids fluttering open to an unfamiliar ceiling of timber beams, faint morning light spilling across them. The scent of smoke and herbs clung to the air. She blinked, confusion giving way to memory—the forest, the shadows, Holon's gaze, the Executioner blazing in her grip—until exhaustion had dragged her down.
Now her body screamed. Every muscle throbbed, her ribs burned with each breath, and when she tried to move, pain lanced through her limbs so sharply she nearly cried out.
"Gods…" she whispered hoarsely, biting down against the groan that clawed at her throat. Slowly, stubbornly, she tried to sit up, but her body resisted like lead.
The room was simple: plain walls, a table with a pitcher of water, sunlight filtering through a single shuttered window. Not the barracks of the Purge Knights, nor her home.
An inn, she realized, recognition dawning as she caught the distant sounds of the city stirring awake. Ethille.
She fell back against the pillow, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Though she lived, her body felt broken, stretched to its limits and beyond. And still, part of her wondered—not whether she could rise again, but whether she should.
The memory of Holon's crimson gaze burned behind her eyelids, chilling her more than the pain ever could. He had escaped. Despite her awakening, despite her fury, he had slipped away like smoke.
Azre shut her eyes, fighting the sting of tears. I was not enough.
---
Rowan
Downstairs, Rowan sat opposite Eldhar at a sturdy oak table, its surface worn from years of use. The inn's common room was quiet save for the crackle of the hearth. The knights were resting in nearby chambers, their wounds tended, their strength spent.
Eldhar leaned forward, his expression grave, his voice low.
"Tell me, Rowan. How did you and Thalia come upon us in that cursed forest? And what of Lady Seraphine? When last we parted, you remained at her manor."
Rowan nodded slowly, fingers tightening on the hilt of his sheathed blade beside him. "I'll explain everything. But you won't like what you hear."
He drew a breath, eyes darkening as memory pulled him back to that night.
---
The Feast of Brightnox (Rowan's recollection)
The Brightnox manor had always been a symbol of wealth and refinement, a jewel among Ethille's noble houses. Lady Seraphine's lineage traced back generations, her family rising from merchants of humble stock to one of the city's most influential dynasties. Their trade fleets spanned the seas, their coffers deep, their archives vast with scrolls and relics collected over centuries.
It was said no family in Ethille rivaled their fortune—yet wealth had not made them cruel. Seraphine herself was known for her generosity, her wit, and her loyalty to the Purge Knights.
That night, the feast was lively. Candles glowed in golden sconces, music drifted through the halls, and the tables groaned with delicacies. Rowan had kept near Thalia, who was less enamored by feasts and more vigilant than most.
But beneath the merriment, something stirred. The servants moved oddly. A chill ran the corridors. Thalia had felt it too, her hand brushing her bowstring more than once.
Then—chaos.
The first scream cut through the hall like a blade. Rowan rushed from the table to find guards already cut down, their blood painting the marble floors. Dozens of cloaked figures had breached the manor, their blades curved, their masks etched with sigils of black flame.
The Trinity of the Abyss.
Rowan fought at once, steel flashing, but there were too many. Thalia's arrows sang from the staircase, each one piercing through a cultist before they reached the nobles. But the enemy had not come to slaughter for its own sake—they sought something.
And Rowan soon learned what.
---
Lady Seraphine's Peril
The manor's archive doors had been broken open, their locks torn apart by spellcraft. From within spilled smoke and shadow, the stench of dark magic fouling the air.
Rowan cut down a pair of cultists barring the stair while Thalia bolted past him, her eyes sharp. "Seraphine!" she cried.
At the heart of the archive, Lady Seraphine knelt, cornered, a dagger raised over her by a hooded zealot. The cultist hissed a prayer to Daath as he brought the blade down—
—but Thalia's arrow pierced his heart before it could strike.
Seraphine fell back with a gasp, her silken gown torn, fear wide in her eyes. Rowan joined them, his blade cleaving through three more cultists, his voice sharp. "Stay behind me!"
Together, he and Thalia carved a path through the invaders. Blood pooled across the once-pristine marble, bodies piling like discarded dolls. Yet amid the slaughter, one figure broke from the fray, clutching a tome bound in black iron—the Brightnox secret.
The cultist fled into the night before Rowan could reach him.
When silence fell at last, the once-splendid manor lay in ruin. Guards were slain to the last man, tapestries torn, noble blood spilt.
Lady Seraphine, pale and trembling, revealed the truth.
"The Trinity sought a book my family has kept hidden for generations… a key to the Altar of Daath, the second of its kind."
Her voice quivered as she spoke further. "One of them boasted—boasted of Holon, and of his trap. That he would ensnare the Purge Knights in despair before cutting them down."
Rowan exchanged a grim look with Thalia. Without delay, they carried Seraphine to Captain Viera's company, entrusting her safety to the soldiers. Then they rode hard into the night, following the knights' trail through the forest.
And so they had arrived—just as Darkan raised his blade over Aven, just as Holon's phantom cage threatened to swallow the order whole.
---
Rowan (Present)
Rowan's voice fell silent as the memory faded. He rubbed a hand across his face, exhaustion heavy upon him.
Eldhar sat in thought, the weight of Rowan's words pressing down on him like stone. "The Trinity of the Abyss…" he murmured. "And a tome that points to Daath's altar. Gods preserve us…"
At the stair above, Azre stirred faintly, her body aching but her mind catching fragments of their voices through the floorboards. Her father's words, Rowan's tale, Seraphine's name—threads weaving into a truth she could not yet piece together.
All she knew was this: their battle in the forest had been but one shadow in a storm that was only just beginning.
The room had fallen into silence after Rowan's grim account. Eldhar's jaw was tight, his knuckles white upon the table. The knights upstairs lay in exhausted slumber, and only the low crackle of the fire filled the gaps between their words.
The quiet did not last.
The inn's door creaked open, and in stepped Captain Viera, her armor dulled with travel and her expression sharpened with worry. At her side trailed three young acolytes in pale robes, their satchels heavy with herbs and vials of healing salves.
"You all look as though death itself trampled over you," she muttered, surveying the room. Her tone was clipped, but the concern in her eyes betrayed her. "Sit still. Let them work."
The acolytes hurried upstairs, their voices soft as they tended the knights. Azre, though still too weak to rise, felt their warmth flow into her battered frame, soothing the worst of her pain. She and Nilda had the gift of healing, yes—but their mana was hollowed out, dry as an empty well. They could do nothing but accept the aid, humbled.
Azre closed her eyes, relief washing through her despite the soreness that lingered in every bone.
Later, once the treatments were finished and the knights lay resting, Viera returned downstairs to draft a message. She contacted the capital, sending urgent word to Lady Seraphine's father in Ragnafiore. Her quill scratched against parchment, each word heavy with the weight of revelation: the Trinity of the Abyss, Holon's plot, the stolen tome.
But even as she sealed the letter, the door creaked again.
This time it was Seraphine.
She stood just inside the threshold, her silk gown travel-worn, her face pale and streaked with the remnants of tears. She lingered as though chained, her hands trembling against her chest. For a long moment she could not move further, shame holding her rooted in place.
When Rowan and Thalia turned, she bowed low—so low her golden hair spilled across the floor.
"I…" her voice cracked, breaking into sobs. "I owe you both my life. And yet… because of me, the tome is gone. Because of my weakness, mankind may suffer. Forgive me. Please forgive me."
Her body shook as she wept, unable to raise her head.
For a heartbeat, the room was still. Then Thalia rose without hesitation and crossed the floor. She knelt before Seraphine and pulled her into a firm embrace.
"Listen to me," Thalia said, her voice steady as steel. "This was not your fault. Do you hear me? If not for you, Rowan and I would never have learned of Holon's trap. We would never have reached Eldhar and Azre in time. We won because of you, Lady Seraphine. You are no failure—you are the reason any of us are still alive."
Seraphine's sobs deepened, her body trembling in Thalia's arms. Rowan stepped forward next, resting a hand on her shoulder. "She's right. You did not doom us—you saved us."
One by one, the others echoed their words. Viera bowed her head in respect. Eldhar spoke with the solemnity of a father. Even Aven, ever gruff, offered his gratitude. Each voice, each word, fell like rain upon Seraphine's parched heart.
Tears streamed freely down her face—no longer only of sorrow, but of release. She wept openly, overwhelmed by the unexpected chorus of praise from the very knights she had admired since childhood.
And then, the door burst open once more.
Lord Welhime Brightnox entered in haste, his cloak dusted from travel, his fine garments creased by the long road from Ragnafiore. Age lined his face, but his eyes burned with paternal fear.
"Seraphine!"
She turned just as he swept her into his arms, clutching her as though he would never let go. Father and daughter wept together, their reunion raw and unrestrained.
The knights stood in silence, granting them the dignity of their grief. When at last Welhime raised his head, his voice trembled but carried the weight of his house.
"My gratitude is yours, noble knights. You saved my daughter when I could not. The Brightnox name is forever in your debt."
No more needed be said.
Soon, he departed with Seraphine, promising aid and resources from his family's coffers. The inn grew still again, the fire crackling softly, exhaustion once more filling the silence.
But far from the sorrow of noble halls, in a quieter corner of Ethille, life moved differently.
Upon the back of a creaking hay wagon lay a young man. He reclined lazily in the straw, one arm tucked behind his head, the other idly toying with a toothpick between his lips. His chest rose and fell in the rhythm of sleep—or perhaps in feigned disinterest at the world rolling past him.
His hair was striking: black as midnight on one side, white as untouched snow on the other.
The farmer who drove the wagon paid him no mind. To most, he was just another vagrant hitching a ride to nowhere.
And though none in Ethille nor, the Purge Knights yet knew him, his path was about to cross theirs—and change everything.