A few days prior, when Einar was captured and taken to the castle by the knights and the old noble, he had lost consciousness.
To be blunt, he had simply fallen asleep. Whether it was exhaustion or a subconscious defense chanism, his mind had shut down as the knights hauled him away.
Through the rugged terrain and the wild plains stretching before the crescent pond, the carriage rattled onward.
The hooves of the horses thundered against the dirt, dragging their burden ever forward. The night sky stretched endlessly above them, a void of muted stars and swirling shadows.
After what felt like an eternity, the carriage slowed with the neigh of horses. They had arrived.
Before them lood a pitch-black veil, utterly still. It was as though reality had been torn apart, leaving only a seamless void. Yet, when one neared it, a strange vibration resonated in the air, as though the darkness itself pulsed with silent hunger.
The old noble stepped out of the carriage, his weathered face betraying neither concern nor hesitation. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a half-crescent symbol, its surface etched with runes long forgotten by the common folk. With practiced precision, he pressed the symbol against the veil.
The reaction was imdiate.
The once-still void convulsed violently, writhing like a living beast. It raged against its bindings for several minutes before, at last, it relented. Then, without warning, it devoured them.
For a single breath, all existence ceased.
Their bodies, their minds—everything—were engulfed. They beca part of the void itself, a re speck in the boundless abyss. And then, just as suddenly, they erged.
Before them stood an enormous castle, its spires piercing the heavens. Crafted with the finest artistic design, it exuded an air of regal majesty.
The intricate stonework, the towering gates, the chilling absence of sound—it was both a masterpiece and a mausoleum.
The old noble bowed his head as he entered, as did the knights. But their path did not lead into the castle’s halls. Instead, they veered toward an isolated structure adjacent to it.
At first glance, it was nothing more than a simple wooden hatch—unassuming, unremarkable. But upon opening it, a spiraling descent into darkness was revealed.
A staircase carved from obsidian stone stretched endlessly downward, beckoning them into the abyss.
With Einar in tow, four knights dragged him into the depths.
The further they descended, the more the air thickened with the scent of decay. Gut-wrenching, blood-curdling screams echoed through the passageways, only to be swallowed whole by an unsettling silence monts later.
The walls bore the stains of those who had co before—dark splatters of blood, streaks of flesh left to rot.
The knights carried Einar into a chamber at the heart of the dungeon. The cell they placed him in was no different from the others—filthy, bloodstained, reeking of death. A rusted iron table stood in the center, shackles attached to its edges.
Without hesitation, they secured him.
Cuffs bound his wrists and ankles, their tal ice-cold against his skin. Thick, hand-sized needles were driven into his gut—slow, deliberate, cruel. Yet, as they withdrew, sothing strange happened.
The blood stopped flowing.
At first, the deep wounds bled freely, staining the table beneath him. But then, as if defying nature itself, the bleeding ceased. His body breathed, yet his wounds refused to obey the natural order.
The knights did not react. Their movents remained stiff, rigid—puppets in armor. Without a word, they turned and departed, their silhouettes dissolving into the shadows.
Hours passed before news of Einar’s capture reached Ebon Val Borg.
Reclining in his chambers, the Immortal King listened in silence as his informant relayed the ssage. He was uninterested at first.
A re prisoner, another sacrifice to Lord Skin. But then, the auburn-haired woman nestled against him stirred.
Priscilla.
Looking up at him with playful curiosity, she smiled. "Did you say Einar?"
Ebon’s dark eyes remained tranquil. He did not flinch, did not react. He simply listened.
Priscilla’s smile widened, mischief dancing in her gaze. "Ebon, he was the guy who kissed ."
The room grew still.
Ebon’s fingers, which had been idly caressing her cheek, paused. His touch was gentle, even affectionate, as he tilted her chin upward. "Are you unhard?" he asked, his tone devoid of any discernible emotion.
Priscilla’s expression softened. She leaned into his touch, intertwining her fingers with his. "We sacrificed plenty," she murmured. "Lord Skin’s corruption has dimd significantly."
A rare smile ghosted across Ebon’s lips. He pulled her closer, his fingers trailing down her jawline before capturing her lips in a kiss.
Their lips clashed, a slow and deliberate exchange of passion. Priscilla’s arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down as if she feared he would vanish. The kiss deepened—heated, lingering—until at last, they parted.
Ebon wiped the remnants of her warmth from his lips with his thumb, bringing it to his mouth with a smirk. Then, with practiced ease, he lifted her in his arms, cradling her against his chest.
He carried her to the bed, tucking her in as she grumbled in protest. Only when she had finally settled did he rise.
His deanor shifted.
All warmth drained from his eyes, replaced by sothing dark, sothing ancient. A black sphere engulfed him, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone.
He reappeared in the dungeon.
There, lying before him, was Einar—motionless, bound, impaled. The torches flickered, then snuffed out entirely. Darkness consud the room.
When it lifted, Ebon was gone.
And so was Einar’s head.
...
The following day, another ssage reached Ebon. This ti, he was lying in bed, Priscilla curled against him. His fingers idly combed through her hair as he listened.
"Your Majesty... he lives."
Ebon’s fingers stilled.
He exhaled through his nose, slow and asured. A frown creased his brow. In the next instant, darkness swallowed him whole.
When he erged, he was standing before Einar once more.
The boy’s body lay on the table, fully intact. nded. Reford. No evidence of execution remained.
And yet... sothing lingered in the air. Faint, but present. A force beyond comprehension, beyond mortality. Sothing primordial. Sothing older than ti itself.
Sothing which made him feel fear....fear of DEATH.
Ebon’s lips curled into a smirk.
He turned his gaze to the knights who had delivered the news. With a flick of his wrist, darkness convulsed and surged forward.
It devoured them.
No screams. No remains.
Only silence.
He stared into the void left in their wake, his voice a re whisper.
"There is always a way."
Reviews
All reviews (0)