Aldin wasn't cut out to be a Cultist. The hushed chants, the unsettling symbols painted in what he knew to be more than just dye, the way the air crackled with a strange, almost palpable energy – it all made his stomach churn.
Truth be told, he'd only joined up because Samantha had talked it up. Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischief, had burned with a fervent conviction as she explained how she believed magic should be free to practice, no matter the element. Even if it was the death element, a taboo whispered only in hushed tones. She’d painted a picture of a world where magic flowed freely, unbound by the rigid rules of the Council, a world where their talents wouldn't be stifled.
Now, Samantha was gone. The memory of her laughter, the way her hair caught the sunlight, the shared dreams of a future where they could openly practice their craft – all of it now a painful ache in his chest. Her body, vibrant and full of life just days ago, had been used as fuel in one of the Sect's secret rituals. The image was seared into his mind, a grotesque violation that made him shudder.
He hadn't witnessed the scene firsthand, but he knew what ahd taken place. The only person to leave the chamber was the High Cultist.
It pained Aldin that he would never see her again. Worse than that, just as he'd decided to leave – sneaking away in the night might have been a better term – he'd stumbled into the High Cultist and Sect leader. Aaron Nyl. His red robes, rich and ostentatious, stood out wherever he went, a stark contrast to the drab browns and greys of the city.
Everyone knew he was a disgraced noble. Him and his brother. What they didn't know was why. The whispers ranged from gambling debts to something far darker, something involving the old bloodline and a supposed pact with something… Unnatural. It made sense.
Fortunately, Aldin wasn't punished for his transgressions. Not in the conventional sense. Instead, Nyl, his face a mask of cold indifference, had handed him a runic communication device, a small, obsidian-like stone that pulsed faintly with a strange energy. He was then sent off on a task.
A test, perhaps, or a way to ensure his loyalty. He would not be going back to the Cult, of that he was certain, but he may as well do as he was asked before running away. Better to leave in semi-good graces than on poor terms completely, he reasoned, his fear outweighing his grief and anger.
The task had two parts, but both were simple, at least on the surface. First: Keep watch on a cottage just off Central Street and report back only when the woman reported to live there left. The cottage was almost smack dab in the middle of Grower, prime real estate in the heart of the city. It wouldn’t be hard to find, its faded red roof and overgrown rosebushes a stark contrast to the bustling marketplace nearby.
Second: He had to follow the woman around without being seen and report again once she'd left the city. That was it. Simple instructions, but Aldin felt a prickle of unease. Why this woman? What was so important about her movements?
He did as he was told. The first part was easy. He found the cottage, perched on a low wall across the street, and watched. He noted the woman – tall, with dark brown hair that cascaded down her back, her eyes a striking hazel – as she left the cottage, her movements purposeful and quick.
The second part was more challenging. He tailed her through the crowded streets of Grower, keeping to the shadows and blending with the crowd, his heart pounding in his chest with every near miss. He felt like a criminal, a spy, a far cry from the idealistic dreams Samantha had painted.
Aldin followed her to the city gates, his breath catching in his throat as she passed through them, disappearing into the sprawling farmlands beyond. He reported back via the runic device, the message short and clipped, then, without a second thought, he turned and fled.
He may have come across three other Cultists on his leave, their eyes narrowed and suspicious, but Aldin didn’t stop. He didn't even slow down. He wanted to be as far away from Grower, from Aaron Nyl, from the memory of Samantha’s screams, as possible.
The image of the woman with hazel eyes, her face etched with a strange mix of determination and confusion, was fresh in his mind, adding another layer of unease to his already troubled thoughts. He ran, the cobblestones blurring beneath his feet, the weight of his guilt and fear a heavy burden on his soul. He didn't know where he was going, but anywhere was better than where he had been.
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It was all going according to plan. After receiving word of his target's movements, he ordered his group to move in. Their destination: the unassuming cottage just off Central Street. The message had been clear – whatever was preventing the ritual from going ahead resided within, and it had to be dealt with.
The Guild Bank sentinels, two stoic figures stationed just round the corner, remained rooted. Their fear of losing their posts, a tangible, realistic anxiety, kept them bound to their positions. They were irrelevant. The regular guard patrol, a predictable rhythm in the city's heartbeat, had just receded into the distance, leaving a window of opportunity, a brief, delicious vacuum.
Two dozen cultists, all clad in dark, rustling robes, save for the Head Cultist, Aaron Nyl, who sported a flamboyant crimson ensemble, surged past the queue of hopefuls waiting to chance the trial. They barged unceremoniously into the small cottage, disrupting the tranquil facade it presented to the world.
Inside, a bizarre scene unfolded. A heated argument began, the subject of which was a twelve-year-old girl dressed in a ludicrous frog costume. She stood her ground against a hulking cultist, her small frame radiating an unexpected aura of power.
She claimed to be the receptionist, the gatekeeper of sorts, and boasted of her ability to bar entry. To demonstrate, she casually flicked her wrist, and the verbally abusive cultist vanished with a poof, leaving only a faint scent of brimstone and a lingering echo of his indignant squawk.
Aaron didn't waste time on pleasantries. He recognized the girl's magic for what it was – an annoying obstacle. His own skill set was more tailored for commanding the dead, a feat he had yet to succeed in. The theory was sound, however. He had studied the ancient Grimoire diligently, absorbing its forbidden knowledge, confident that the transition from theory to practice would be seamless.
“(Dispel),” he intoned, channeling his will. He expected the girl’s magic to simply dissipate, allowing his cultists free passage. What he hadn't anticipated was the raw, visceral terror that erupted from the girl's throat, a sound that clawed at the edges of reality.
Her frog costume seemed to melt into her skin as she convulsed, her eyes rolling back into her head. Then, with a sickening thud, she collapsed, her small form now undeniably a corpse, a grotesque parody of the cheerful receptionist she had been moments before. The air crackled with residual magical energy, a testament to the chaotic forces at play.
Those in the seating area and the queue outside the cottage, witnessing this macabre spectacle, didn't wait for an explanation. They fled in orderly pandemonium, their aspirations of conquering the trial replaced by the primal instinct for self-preservation. The street, moments before bustling with hopeful faces, was now deserted, save for the Aaron and his increasingly apprehensive followers.
Aaron, unfazed by the carnage, marched towards the interior of the cottage. It was surprisingly spacious inside, the staircase that spiraled upwards seeming impossibly large for such a small building, as if magically enchanted to deter unwanted visitors. He ignored the unsettling feeling that the house was more than it seemed. He was on a mission.
“(Dispel),” he repeated, his voice echoing in the sudden silence. He ascended the seemingly endless stairs, his boots thudding against the aged wood and reached a landing where the stairs continued upward, or a doorway beckoned into what he assumed was one of the trial rooms.
Aaron wasn't interested in the trials themselves. He only cared about the source of the magical interference that had disrupted his meticulously planned rituals. The source was here, hidden somewhere within this deceptive cottage, his tracing spell confirmed it. He would find it, and he would silence it, permanently.
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Sebastian, despite his diminutive stature, possessed a mind sharper than any blade. He was the Overseer of War Tide, a game Sarah often likened to chess, and his strategic acumen was undeniable. Yet, strategy deserted him when faced with two dozen threats.
His class offered no solace. He'd yet to choose one, the constant demands of the tower leaving little time to discuss it with his master. He couldn't even leverage the game itself. The trial only activated with a challenger, and the pieces, bound to their squares, were useless in a brawl. Knowing there was only one other option to protect the tower, Sebastian burst through the door, a whirlwind of misplaced courage, charging into the stairwell where the invading cultists massed.
The ensuing clash was brutal and swift. Sebastian, small and lightly built, was no match for the dozen men. They swarmed him, their hands like iron clamps seizing his limbs, their eyes burning with fanaticism. He struggled, a small, defiant figure against the tide of their aggression, but it was a losing battle. He was dragged back into the room, his small body protesting with sharp, pained cries, and tossed unceremoniously onto the center of the game board..
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Aaron, watching the scene unfold, felt a flicker of annoyance. He’d lost too many cultists already this week, casualties of their own ineptitude and the strange anomalies plaguing the tower. He certainly wasn't going to risk any more of his followers to a child.
"(Render Wound)," he intoned, the words laced with dark magic. The spell lashed out, an invisible blade of energy, slicing across Sebastian’s neck. Crimson blossomed against the pristine white shirt of his miniature butler outfit, the crisp fabric instantly saturated, transforming the starched shirt into a gruesome canvas.
The sight was unsettling. Aaron, poised to unleash a torrent of blacklfire the moment the boy fell, found himself momentarily frozen. Sebastian hadn't flinched. Not a twitch, not a gasp. He simply stared at Aaron, his eyes wide and filled with an unnerving determination, as if to defy him rather than recoil from a fatal wound. It was a gaze that pierced through Aaron's composure, a silent question hanging in the air.
Aaron had only just noticed the magic that sustained the illusion of life downstairs. He tried again, just to see what would happen. "(Dispel)," his voice now full of curiosity, the word a counterpoint to the earlier curse. The effect was immediate and horrifying. Sebastian’s small body convulsed, a guttural howl ripping from his throat, a sound of pure, agonizing pain.
The illusion shattered, the boy's form collapsing like a corpse, the life force within him extinguished like a snuffed candle. (Dispel), meant to neutralize magic, seemed to have a far more potent and destructive effect on Sebastian than his initial attack. The boy was gone, his life ripped away not by the a fatal wound, but by the undoing of the magic that had sustained his form.
The unsettling stillness that followed was broken only by the ragged breaths of the cultists. Aaron, his unease growing, gestured them forward. Whatever was disrupting his rituals, whatever was causing these strange magical fluctuations, was somewhere in the tower and he was determined to find it. He and his followers resumed their ascent, leaving behind the small, broken form of Sebastian.
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Solus, felt a profound emptiness. The echoes of laughter, which usually filled the common room, had faded hours ago, leaving him in the quiet solitude he abhorred. He wasn't hungry, not for the usual tithe of attention or even magical energy. He was simply lonely. Each challenger who dared the trials within the cottage gifted him a sliver of power, a spark that momentarily ignited his ancient heart. But today, the sparks were few and far between.
Then he saw her. Melissa, her face a mask of desperation, bounded up the stairs. A flicker of something akin to a smile touched Solus’s wooden features. No need to appear anxious in front of the help, he thought, composing himself. He'd ask about the Riddle Room, perhaps comment on her progress. But before he could utter a word, Melissa whirled around, unleashing a torrent of raw, untamed flames down the stairwell.
"Let me in, Solus!" she shrieked, her voice raw with panic.
Solus couldn't. Even if he wanted to, which he decidedly did not. The master's room, Sarah's room, was currently empty. Sarah was likely honing her skills outside the city, as she often did at this time of day. If Melissa entered now, she could claim the tower, claim Sarah's place. Solus wasn't particularly attached to any one master. He had, however, developed a fondness for Sarah. She had even moved him from his dusty post in the hallway to the more comfortable common room.
More importantly, he was a guardian. His duty was clear. None would pass without enduring his trial. And Melissa… Melissa wouldn't stand a chance.
"I cannot," he rumbled, his voice resonating through the stairwell. "You are not strong enough. Even at my weakest, you would be incinerated." His tone was blunt, devoid of his usual dry sarcasm. He didn’t dislike Melissa. He just couldn't allow this.
"Fuck!" Melissa hissed, retreating towards the cafeteria. Solus heard the sound of more people ascending, their footsteps heavy and hurried. Moments later, a group of Cultists filled the common room, their eyes scanning for Melissa. A man in red robes, trimmed with gold, was more focused on Solus.
Meanwhile, in the cafeteria, Melissa fought with the ferocity of a cornered lioness. The wall she’d raised lay shattered, a glittering testament to her power, but it had bought her only a moment. Now, the Cultists swarmed, their eyes burning with fanaticism. Spells crackled from her fingertips – a dazzling, deadly ballet of fire that licked at the encroaching figures, a whirlwind that sent trays clattering, a torrent of water that momentarily blinded, a tremor of earth that bucked the floor beneath their feet. She had indeed mastered the basics, Solus observed, she displayed remarkable control.
But even a lioness tires. Melissa’s breath hitched in ragged gasps. Another wall, hastily conjured, splintered under the Cultists’ relentless assault. Her shoulders slumped, and the vibrant glow of her magic began to dim, flickering like a candle in a storm. She was good, Solus admitted, but against such overwhelming numbers, even raw talent would eventually succumb.
The cultist assault, a ragged wave of fanaticism crashing against the stalwart defenders, faltered. The crimson figure, the red-robed mage, orchestrated the shift in the tide. His voice, amplified by some unseen force, cut through the din of battle, a sharp command that resonated with the their fervent devotion. He pointed a finger towards Solus, the ancient, towering door that served as the final barrier against the encroaching darkness. "Focus your energies! The power lies behind the door! Destroy it with your magic!"
A ripple of understanding passed through the Cultists ranks. Their frenzied attacks against the defender lessened, replaced by a unified focus on the silent sentinel before them. Hands outstretched, chanting in guttural unison, they unleashed a torrent of arcane energies. Bolts of crackling lightning arced through the air, searing the ground before the massive door. Globes of fire, burning with an unnatural intensity, exploded against its surface, sending waves of heat shimmering outwards. From the gnarled staves of the cultist mages, streams of pure force, shimmering like liquid light, lashed against the ancient wood.
It was a veritable feast for Solus. The ancient door, crafted from wood older than the oldest empires, had stood silent for centuries, a stoic guardian against the forces that lurked beyond. Now, it drank deeply of the magical deluge. The raw power, instead of splintering and cracking the aged wood, was drawn into its very core.
Invisible veins of energy pulsed beneath the surface, spreading through the massive timbers like wildfire. The wood began to glow with a faint, internal luminescence. The intricate carvings that adorned the door, depicting scenes of ancient battles and forgotten gods, seemed to writhe and shift as the absorbed magic invigorated the dormant power within. A low hum, barely audible at first, emanated from the door, growing in intensity with each spell hurled against it.
The air around Solus crackled with building energy, a palpable sense of ancient power awakening. The cultists, caught up in their fervor, failed to notice the subtle shift, their focus entirely consumed by the act of channeling their magic, oblivious to the fact that they were not weakening him, but strengthening him.
His first act was to create a copy of himself, less ornate but still powerful, and place it at the entrance to the cafeteria. It would protect Melissa.
"Hahahaha," Solus boomed, his voice echoing through the tower. "It has been a while since I felt so… satisfied. Thank you, mortals." The spellfire slowed, the cultists momentarily taken aback.
"As gratitude for this hearty meal, I offer you one chance to leave." The offer hung in the air, sharp and decisive.
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Their leader, the man whose ambition easily outstripped his sense of self-preservation, remained unmoved by the sudden cessation of their spellcasting. He barked an order, his voice echoing through the common room, urging his underlings forward. "Don't falter now! Victory is within our grasp!" He ignored the nervous shuffling and the wide eyes fixed on the shimmering message that had materialized in the air, a spectral projection from the entity that blocked their path.
< The price for entry is high. Will you pay it?
The chanting died completely, leaving an unnerving silence in its wake. The cultists, a motley collection of zealots and desperate souls, reacted with a mixture of confusion, apprehension, and outright fear. Several exchanged uneasy glances. Aaron, ever the pragmatist, though one blinded by his own desires, saw only an obstacle to be overcome. He pointed at the nearest cultist, a young man with a face barely past adolescence.
"You! You'll accept this… Offer to open the door," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. The young man, visibly trembling, stammered, "What… What is the price?"
< Death.
A wave of murmurs, a mixture of protest and fear, rippled through the group. Even the most fervent among them seemed taken aback by the starkness of the demand. Aaron, however, stepped forward, placing a hand – heavy with rings – on the young man's shoulder. "Don't worry, my boy," he said, his voice dripping with false reassurance. "It will test our faith, our resolve. I will protect you. The artifact that awaits us on the other side… It will be worth any sacrifice."
It was a blatant lie, a promise whispered to manipulate the vulnerable. Aaron knew it, the cultists suspected it, and the young man, his face now ashen, felt the icy grip of dread tighten around his heart. But fear of Aaron outweighed his fear of the unknown. He nodded slowly, a single tear tracing a path through the grime on his cheek.
"I… I accept," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
A blinding flash of crimson lightning erupted from the door, illuminating the common room with an eerie, flickering glow. The air crackled with raw power. The young cultist, the sacrificial lamb chosen by his leader, didn't even have time to scream. He was instantly reduced to a pile of ash, his form consumed by the intense energy.
The remaining cultists recoiled, their initial apprehension now replaced by stark terror. The smell of burnt flesh and ozone filled the air, a grim reminder of the price demanded. Aaron, however, merely narrowed his eyes, his gaze fixed on magical construct. Did it move? Does it require more? The fear of his followers was a tool to be wielded, not a concern to be addressed. He had paid the first installment. The rest would follow, willingly or otherwise.
"Who else will test themselves against me?" It roared, a thrill coursing through his ancient frame.
With both the master's room and the cafeteria sealed, Aaron ordered the remaining cultists to search the bedrooms and living areas. They found nothing.
Aaron was furious. Not only had he sacrificed countless lives – Cultists, both here and during the rituals, and the children he'd encounter ascending – but he had also failed to find the source of the disruption. He couldn't enter the cafeteria, though he doubted whatever was thwarting him was hiding there with the mage.
The talking, lightning-wielding door was the only remaining mystery. It was the only room in the… Cottage? It seemed much larger on the inside than its exterior suggested.
Unable to progress further, and with no participants willing to be obliterated by lightning, Aaron stormed out, his mood blacker than a ash on the floor. He had suffered multiple ritual failures, and the source of the interference in the tower remained elusive. His brother would undoubtedly have words about his ill-timed assault and loses, but Aaron was beyond caring.
He had had enough. After so many failures, after being unable to locate the source of the disruption in the tower, he was going to bypass the petty rituals and level the entire city. Gods be damned. The ingrates be damned. And the class he was so desperately trying to reach? That could be damned too.
