Chapter 183
Daniel's hand hovered on the iron handle, every instinct telling him something was terribly wrong. The door should have radiated sanctity, the cathedral was the heart of purity, the very halls where the Heart of Dawn itself pulsed only a few corridors away. Yet the handle thrummed with a crawling corruption that burned faintly against his skin. He pressed his ear to the wood. No scratch of quills, no rustle of pages, no murmur of priests only silence, thick and unnatural.
Silence was never harmless. Darkness whispered behind it. Inside, Arnis Feldreldre knelt alone, not in prayer but in surrender. The relics around him lay dimmed, their light suffocated, as if recoiling from his touch. Whispers encircled him like chains, urging him lower, their promise of power curling around his mind. He drew the ceremonial sword meant for blessings and dragged its edge across his chest, shallow but deliberate, exhaling with a shiver that was neither pain nor devotion but something darker an intoxication that unmade him further. His lips moved, forming words not of faith but possession:
"I am their law… their savior… their truth." The chamber quivered with unseen approval, marble scripture twisting black in the candlelight.
From the corridor, soft footsteps approached. Daniel stiffened, narrowing his eyes. The door creaked open, and a woman entered, her presence wrong, as though she were born of the very shadows Arnis now served. Daniel had not seen her in the cathedral before, and later he would understand why, she was no priestess but a vessel of corruption, smuggled in by clergymen who had already bent knee to darker vows. Her garments, once concealed beneath a robe, slid free, revealing silks that clung in a manner meant for seduction, not sanctity.
She was not here by chance; she had been prepared, groomed for this moment, a lure fashioned by the demonic whisper to ensnare the Holy Vicar fully. Arnis' breath faltered, his trembling hands reaching toward her as if she embodied the voice itself. When she stepped into the moonlight and whispered, "You called, and I came," the last tether of faith inside him snapped. What followed was no act of union but desecration—flesh against flesh, the air thick with taint, a mockery of love wrapped in lust and frenzy.
Daniel watched from the threshold, his wards flaring in disgust as the weight of demonic energy pressed against him. His chest tightened; he wanted to turn away, but he could not. This was his first true witness of lust unchained, and it unsettled him more than any battlefield wound. To him, what unfolded was not passion but vileness a holy figure turned into a beast, feeding on corruption as though it were communion.
The woman's moans rang hollow, her sweat shimmering not with intimacy but with the stench of ritual, every sound a nail sealing the coffin of sanctity in this place. His thoughts carved sharp and cold: This is not love… this is desecration. This is lust. In that moment, he knew Arnis Feldreldre was lost. The cathedral's walls could never be clean again. His decision crystallized with a soldier's clarity.
Daniel's breath stilled as he watched, every instinct in him recoiling at the sight. This was no act of love, but corruption masquerading as intimacy, a desecration played out in the moonlight. His wards burned hot across his palm, begging release, but he mastered them. To strike now, to make himself known, would be to give the corruption notice—and he wanted no part of the spectacle any longer. With a swirl of glyphs that shimmered only faintly, he tore a gate into being. No sound, no flare, only the silent fracture of air itself. In the space of a heartbeat, he stepped through, vanishing from the chamber without a trace.
For a moment, Arnis did not notice. His body moved in fevered rhythm, his mind consumed by the woman's lure and the voice that puppeted him. But then—the absence struck him. The wards of the cathedral screamed awake, bells tolling, iron echoes shaking the halls. The sanctity of the place rebelled, shrieking against what it had witnessed. Arnis froze mid-embrace, the woman gasping as moonlight painted both of them in pale guilt. Her fear quickly sharpened into opportunity. From beneath her silks she drew a slender needle tipped in venom, her hand arcing up toward his throat in a betrayal honed with precision.
But she was already too late. Steel flashed in the lingering echo of Daniel's passage, the remnants of his gate spilling into motion. The blade struck true—one swift, merciless stroke. Her body stiffened, eyes wide in shock, before her head rolled from her shoulders and thudded against the stone, lifeless. Arnis staggered back, drenched not in his own blood but hers. The fever of lust collapsed into a storm of rage as his gaze snapped toward the place where Daniel had stood. His voice erupted, doubled by the whisper that owned him, jagged and vile, shaking the desecrated chamber:
"Who dares interrupt me?"
When Daniel emerged from the gate at a safe distance, the chill of what he had just witnessed clung to him like smoke that would not wash away. He was not naïve, nor was he sheltered—he had long known that humanity hid vile acts beneath thin veils of civility. Stories of corruption, abuse, and depravity were not secrets; they were news, widely spread and freely accessible, stains on the world that no one could ever truly scrub out. Yet knowing and seeing were different things. He had never intended for the Arcane Crusade to become a stage for such grotesque performances.
The battles he had designed carried weight, justification, and honor, even when they descended into bloodshed. Warriors clashed for cause and principle, not for perversion. But now the scene he had witnessed in the cathedral Arnis Feldreldre drowning in lust, sanctity overturned by the body of a woman wielded as a weapon of corruption gnawed at him, a violation of the very rules he thought bound his world.
His mind returned to his past life, to Damon Lazarus, and to the command he had once given Derick Collin and Miranda Saunders: to forge characters with realism, with randomized personalities so that no two would ever be the same. He had wanted depth, unpredictability, a living tapestry. But he now suspected they had taken his orders too literally, too dangerously, building personalities upon the raw essence of the Seven Deadly Sins themselves. Pride, Greed, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, Sloth, Wrath, vices woven into the marrow of human behavior, magnified until they no longer felt like quirks of character but forces of fate.
When the old gods made everything real, the limiters that once bound those rules as code were shattered, and what was meant to simulate humanity instead unleashed its darkest urges unchecked. Acts that were never acceptable, that were supposed to remain as coded warnings, now walked the world in flesh and blood. Daniel's jaw tightened as he accepted the truth: this was not a game anymore, not even a twisted one. It was reality, alive and merciless, and if he was to survive it, he would have to adjust not by rejecting what he saw, but by hardening himself against it.
Daniel lingered on the edge of Rothchester's gate for a moment longer, the chill of memory still coiled around him like a snake that refused to let go. He forced himself forward, step after deliberate step, until the familiar walls of the estate folded him back into the semblance of safety. The corridors were quiet, dusted with moonlight through tall windows, but his heart still carried the noise of what he had seen, the broken sanctity, the corruption of flesh and spirit, the reminder that the world no longer obeyed the rules he had written.
When he pushed open the door to his chamber, the sight awaiting him slowed his breath. Melgil lay upon his bed, curled gently as though trying to make herself smaller, as though the weight she bore was too much even in dreams. Her face, usually sharp with wit and edged with a strength few dared challenge, was softened now by sorrow. A faint furrow in her brow betrayed a sadness that sleep could not soothe.
Daniel stepped closer, his chest tightening at the sight. Of all the beings that now roamed this fractured world, Melgil was one he never thought he would hold such quiet fondness for. She was calamity-born, a monster on parchment, designed once as a trial for players to conquer. And yet, he had written more into her threads from his past, from a girl who had been his only light during the shadowed years of youth.
He remembered her clearly, Damon Lazarus sitting in a too-bright classroom, while other children whispered and laughed at the pale girl with the wig of silk-white hair. But not him. He had sat beside her, shared notes, traded questions and laughter where others offered only ridicule. She had been intelligent, composed, carrying herself with a grace that defied her illness, even as her body betrayed her little by little. She had been lovely in her quiet strength, a beacon in days where Damon had known only isolation.
That was the soul he had embedded into Melgil's core, the poise, the kindness, the quiet resilience of a girl who should have known only sorrow but refused to let it define her. Now, seeing Melgil's sad expression as she slept, Daniel felt the old ache stirring again. It was as if the past and present had merged, as though the girl from his memory had returned in another form, fragile yet unyielding.
For a moment, he stood there, not the architect, not the strategist, not the one burdened with decisions that could tilt entire wars. Just Daniel, watching someone who mattered. Someone he wished he could shield, even when the world itself was unraveling.
He drew the blanket up gently over her shoulders, careful not to wake her, and sat quietly on the edge of the bed. In her sorrowed sleep, Melgil seemed to remind him of something vital: that not everything created for battle must end in blood. Some things, some people, were worth holding onto not because of what they could do, but because of who they were.
Daniel pulled the blanket higher over Melgil's shoulders, tucking it softly beneath her chin. She stirred faintly, but her sad expression did not ease, as if even dreams could not grant her peace. He hesitated only a moment before lowering himself beside her, careful not to disturb her rest. The weight of the world pressed on his chest, but for once, he allowed it to slide away.
His body sank into the mattress, warmth seeping into his bones, and for the first time in what felt like an age, he permitted himself to drift, into nothingness, into silence. No alarms, no blood, no twisted faces of corruption just the slow rhythm of sleep and Melgil's quiet breath beside him. A few hours stolen from the chaos, a fragile reprieve.
But the world outside Rothchester did not sleep. Beyond these walls, the Empire of Graves loomed, its final quest still unresolved. Daniel's mind, even as it dulled with exhaustion, circled back to the plan he had already set in motion. He had entrusted it to his familiars, three pillars of his will, carved from the essence of evolution itself.
Daniel had laid the groundwork carefully. Each familiar knew their role, each force positioned like pieces upon a board where the stakes were nothing less than survival. If the Holy Empire of Álfheim acted as he feared if they moved to claim the final threads of power his familiars would be ready to counter them.
For now, though, he shut his eyes, letting the tides of exhaustion finally drag him under. His last thought before the drift carried him away was not of war, or empire, or quests, but of Melgil's fragile expression beside him. In that small sorrow, he found a reminder of why he fought at all.
After a few hours Daniel woke with the metallic taste of adrenaline at the back of his throat, the last threads of sleep still clinging to his limbs as the first hint of dawn lingered beyond the horizon. He rose in silence, every movement measured and practiced, slipping from the bed with the precision of habit. Across the corridor lay his father's study, the place he trusted most in such hours.
The door closed behind him with a tired sigh, sealing him into the hush of old wood, ink, and shelves heavy with books. Here the air felt watchful, but safer than any lock or bolt. Tonight, bolts would not suffice. He whispered the old ward in Damon's tongue, a soft, rolling cadence that carried more weight than volume, and traced the slow shapes of a sigil with his hands. The room answered like water disturbed, its air rippling faintly as silence wove itself into the walls. Candles flickered but held; dust hung suspended in the spell's grasp. The study became a sanctuary—blinded, deafened, unreachable to any who might pry.
The air rippled as if underwater, candles guttered but did not die, and invisible nets of silence and blindfold wove themselves into the room's bones: no scrying, no whispering spirits, no prying messengers only what he allowed would pass. The transfer gate opened in the study's center like a wound of night. Vaelith came through first taller than a man, scales like burnished iron catching the candlelight, wearing war-honed armor and a face that betrayed only cold calculation.
Nyxiel followed, descending as if gravity were optional; moonlight pooled along her silver wings and the slight tilt of her head read air currents like a map. Last, Kitsune slipped through, nine tails fanning like a silk storm and a smile that was a blade where Vaelith brought storms of steel and Nyxiel the sudden strike from above, Kitsune carried shadow-laced intent: courtesans' laughter as cover, poisoned chalices, whispered lists of names.
They dismounted respectfully, their familiar silhouettes filling the study with a presence that felt like both comfort and familiarity . Daniel listened to their reports efficient, clipped, without flourish because he had asked for facts. Vaelith said Álfheim's vanguard had taken the old mountain road, their supply trains half a day behind and their scouts overconfident; he had placed men along the ravine mouths to squeeze their line and starve their front of orders.
Nyxiel warned that the enemy secondary force would falter by dawn, just as they are already stationed the outer edge of the Rithakwood forest. But what troubled Daniel more was not the cavalry it was the shadow that accompanied them.
The holy floating garrison of Álfheim, vast as an earthborn aircraft carrier, had appeared with startling swiftness, drifting above the treeline like a citadel torn from the heavens. Within its decks it carried a thousand soldiers, and in its cavernous bays roosted nearly a hundred mature wyverns two meters high at the shoulder, four meters from snout to tail-tip, their wings unfolding three meters across. When they took flight together, they became a storm of leather and claw that could sweep entire squadrons from the sky.
Daniel's brow furrowed at the garrison's sudden deployment, but Vaelith bowed low and explained. The fortress had not crossed half the Web Mountains to reach the western territories—it had always been here, hovering at the very edge of Rithakwood. The forest stretched vast and ancient, nearly thirty-five thousand acres of tangled green cradled behind the jagged spine of the Web Mountains. Its canopy spread unbroken for miles, veiling secrets older than most empires. At its heart lay the kingdom of Tyriarn Isssëa, an elven realm so remote and insular that even the number of its inhabitants remained a mystery. Few mortals had ever walked their borders, and fewer still returned with their memories intact.
Above the divine tree that rose from the forest's center, the Majestic, as legend named it hung another marvel: the fortress-city of Rallos. Unlike Álfheim's mobile garrison, Rallos did not roam the skies. It hovered in eternal vigil above the Majestic, its foundations anchored not in stone but in the living roots of the tree itself. The city drew its strength from the ancient lifeblood pulsing through the heartwood, a wellspring of power older than kingdoms and empires alike.
To the elves of Tyriarn Isssëa, the Majestic was no mere tree but the axis of their world the pillar upon which their history, magic, and faith all rested. Its branches fed the winds, its roots fed the land, and from its crown rose the city that defined their dominion. Rallos was not just a fortress; it was the embodiment of their survival, their sanctity, and their claim to the skies.
For centuries, Álfheim's garrison had lingered near the borders of Rithakwood, its presence cloaked by distance and myth. It had been a shadow on the horizon, tolerated but rarely challenged, a symbol as much as a weapon. Now it stirred, drifting closer without herald or warning, its wyverns restless, its decks heavy with soldiers. That movement meant only one thing: the silent pact between Álfheim and the elves of Tyriarn Isssëa had ended, or worse, had never been as silent as the world had believed.
The tension between the two powers was nothing new. For generations, Álfheim and Tyriarn Isssëa had tangled in disputes born of creed and faith, their beliefs too different to reconcile. The Holy Empire of Álfheim commanded vast numbers, its populace swelling far beyond that of the isolated elves, but its strength lay not in sheer numbers. For all its grandeur, the empire fielded only a hundred thousand knights, zealous, disciplined, and sworn to their gods, but not limitless.
Against the depthless forests and the hidden mysteries of Tyriarn Isssëa, even Álfheim's holy banners might falter. The empire's knights were trained to ride beneath open skies, to march in shining ranks across fields where order could be kept and faith could be rallied. But the forests were another world entirely, labyrinthine, whispering, thick with wards older than memory. Every tree was a sentinel, every shadow a mouth that could swallow men whole. In such places, Álfheim's faith would meet silence, and its banners might become nothing more than cloth lost among branches that did not bend to prayer.
Daniel regarded these truths with a wary eye. Álfheim's garrison was dangerous in its mobility, a warship that could drift where command required, bringing soldiers and wyverns like a storm breaking over defenseless lands. Yet Rallos was something different, something older and far less predictable. It was not an army that could be routed or outmaneuvered but a symbol, a heart beating above the forest, one that bound an entire people to its power. To strike against Rallos would be to strike against the soul of Tyriarn Isssëa, an act that could rouse every hidden blade within the forest. The garrison might be a threat on the battlefield, but Rallos was a reminder that some enemies could not be measured by soldiers or steel alone.
Daniel took these movements in like a player setting chess pieces, and when the report finished his jaw hardened and he nodded once. "They walk a swollen path of piety and vanity," he said. "Trample them. Leave no time for repentance." He fixed each of them with a cold, personal look and gave orders that cut to the marrow: seek out the masked things in their ranks demonic predators that prey on the weak and destroy them with utmost pain; make sure every torch-bearer, every knight who makes cruelty a standard, carries the Neatherborn name home in shame.
He touched the underside of his sleeve and, for a heartbeat, the Neatherborn Insignia glowed and stamped itself into the air. A ripple of eager, horrific delight passed through the three, Vaelith's smile a slash of teeth, Nyxiel's eyes bright as polished steel, Kitsune's tails flicking.
They understood without lecture: their master hated those who used power to harm the weak; that code Damon had folded into Daniel's marrow guided them now. "Remember," Daniel added, and the words were as much for himself as for them, "giving empathy in battle is negligence.
Your enemies will not give you quarter. Bring back the living; bring back the dead the latter as lesson, the former as witness." They moved as one to their knees, an act equal parts worship and discipline, and their mirrored vow sealed obedience and something deeper: an unbreakable bond. When they left, the study felt smaller emptied of living shapes but full of the echoes of purpose and the ward held, leaving the world beyond the stone deaf to their plans.
"Do not trouble yourselves with the divine kingdom of Tyriarn Isssëa," Daniel said, his voice sharp and steady, carrying no trace of hesitation. "What is about to happen lies outside their reach, and they will not move against us."
"But do not make the mistake of thinking their silence is a sign of weakness."
"The gods of that land are patient, and patience is often more dangerous than wrath. Be quick in your work, precise in every step, and never let your guard falter."
"Remember this, when gods and the ancient trees of Tyriarn keep counsel together, the world may seem quiet, yet in that quiet lies a danger greater than open war. It is in silence that power gathers, and in stillness that the sharpest blades are drawn."
Daniel lingered a moment, watching the closed gate-sigil hover where the transfer wound had been, feeling the weight of what he had set loose. He did not return to bed. Instead he smoothed his coat, gathered a small pack maps, a vial of old-world medicine, the single dagger he trusted and let himself feel the old, quick fear that everything might yet fail before he folded it beneath Damon's practiced calm and stepped toward the door.
Beyond Rothchester, the Empire of Graves' final quest waited: Álfheim would move with pomp and prayer, and Daniel had placed his pieces and primed the board. Now the game would be played, and whatever mercy the world kept would have to be earned. He paused in the doorway to glance once at the closed study and once at Melgil, still asleep down the hall, curled beneath his blanket—then stepped out into the night he had chosen to meet.
As the first light of dawn spilled across the tall windows of Rothchester Mansion, Daniel bent close and pressed a gentle kiss to Melgil's lips. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open, only to find him leaning over her with a smile that carried both tenderness and mischief. The gesture caught her by surprise, Daniel was not one to act without thought—but the warmth of it made her cheeks flush, and she welcomed it all the same. He had not planned it, nor expected such a bold impulse to rise in him, yet in that quiet moment it felt effortless, natural, as though the morning itself had conspired to bring them closer.
The rising sun poured its golden light across the tall windows of Rothchester Mansion, filling the room with a soft glow that clung to the curtains and polished wood like a blessing. Daniel leaned down and kissed Melgil before she could even greet the morning, a tender press of lips that startled her awake. Her eyes widened at first, then softened as she realized what he had done.
"Daniel…" she whispered, her voice half-dream, half-surprise. "You never do things like this."
He smiled faintly, a warmth flickering in his eyes, though beneath it lay something heavier. "Maybe I should have, long ago," he murmured. "Maybe I should do it more."
Her hand rose to his cheek, fingers brushing his skin as if to reassure herself he was really there. She laughed softly, the kind of laugh that carried both affection and wonder. "If this is what mornings will be like, I could grow used to it."
For a moment, they held onto that fragile intimacy, the quiet rhythm of breathing, the scent of the sheets warmed by sunlight, the hush of a house not yet stirred by servants or duty. But Daniel's gaze lingered too long, his silence stretching until Melgil caught it.
"You're thinking of leaving again, aren't you?" she asked gently, reading him as she always did.
He lowered his head slightly, unable to mask the truth. Beyond the walls of Rothchester, the war forge was already stirring in secret, his familiars working tirelessly to prepare for sudden deployment. Every whisper of steel, every pulse of magic was a reminder that his respite here was borrowed time. "The enemy won't wait forever," he said softly. "Even if the old god's blanket shields me for now, Sigma is not the only one watching. The other administrators will move, sooner or laterand when they do, it will not be reasonable. They never are."
Melgil's hand tightened on his. "Then stay in this moment a little longer. Let them plot their schemes. Right now, you are here—with me."
Daniel exhaled slowly, his forehead resting against hers. The uncertainty of what lay ahead pressed against him like a storm at the door, yet here, in this fragile dawn, he chose to let it wait. For now, he would make the most of the time he had, holding Melgil close, as though the warmth of her presence could anchor him against the chaos waiting just beyond the horizon.