Corrin winced as he inched closer to the core embedded in Kieran’s chest. The rush of victory had mostly faded, leaving behind the pain in his leg, and the embers of his curiosity.

  “I’ve never heard of anything like it before,” Luscien muttered, shaking his head. “That elixir he used—that is the only explanation I can think of. Still, a human becoming a monster? To think he felt pushed so far…”

  Reaching into Kieran’s chest, Corrin grasped at the core, his fingers slipping a bit on the smooth, blood-covered surface. He pulled it from the chest as Luscien let out a small, disgusted sound.

  “Never extracted cores before?” Corrin asked.

  “The few times I’ve gone into the dungeon, I’ve had a porter.”

  Corrin snorted. “What a spoiled little noble you are.”

  Luscien raised a finger to argue, but after a moment he let out a soft chuckle. “Perhaps I am. Do you intend to sell it?”

  “Well, it does look high-quality. But that also feels a bit wrong. That’s not why I pulled it out though.” Corrin gestured as Kieran’s body slowly began to disintegrate, turning to black ash that drifted away, even without wind, before disappearing completely. He frowned. “Guess that answers that. He was a monster after all.”

  Even as he said it though, Corrin’s brain began to turn. What was a monster? They were separated from normal beasts under the pretense of having cores, but was there more to it than that? And then of course, there was Azoth. The more he thought about it, the more questions he had.

  “Whatever the case,” Luscien said, “he won’t be giving us any answers.”

  Corrin snapped his fingers. “The syringe! Is it still there?”

  “I doubt it. That spell I used likely destroyed it.”

  “Figures.”

  Corrin stashed the core in the shreds of his pocket and let Luscien haul him upright, careful not to put any weight on his useless leg. Together, they limped over to the remains of the cocoon, which was quickly dissolving into a foul sludge that soaked into the soil.

  “I can’t even channel to my eyes right now,” Corrin complained. “Do you see anything?”

  “Not a speck,” Luscien said.

  “Damn.”

  “I’ll not complain about the chips in my sword after surviving the battle,” Luscien said. “Besides. I believe we have bigger issues at hand.”

  He pointed up, and Corrin followed his finger towards the boughs of Haoma above. The leaves had darkened to a sickly black, and the sun had almost been entirely swallowed by the eclipse. Around them, withered leaves had begun to fall like snow.

  Reminded of their purpose, his eyes turned then to the door embedded into the great tree. Despite the fierce battle, it remained completely unscathed.

  “Ready to see what’s on the other side?” Luscien asked.

  “No use wasting time.”

  As they limped toward it, they passed the pile of ash where Kita had fallen. Luscien subtly veered in its direction.

  Corrin frowned. “I’m sorry about Kita.”

  “Don’t be,” Luscien shook his head. “Have you heard of the phoenixes of the Burning Isles?

  “Of course. Giant flying spirit beasts that can—” Phoenix’s didn’t interest Corrin as much as dragons or krakens, but growing up with Khaeli, he’d heard all sorts of stories about her grandmother’s home. “No way.”

  Luscien smiled faintly and knelt, resting his hand in the ashes. “I did tell you they were related.”

  Blind to mana, Corrin couldn’t see exactly what happened, but suddenly the pile burst into flame. As the fire grew, a tendril of flame broke off and spiraled up Luscien’s arm before disappearing into his chest. A moment later, a soft whine sounded, and the flames died back down, leaving Kita in their place, three tails flicking happily instead of two.

  “I’m sorry,” Luscien murmured, scratching behind the fox’s ears. “I did not want to waste one of your lives here. Thank you for lending me your strength.”

  Kita rubbed against him, chirping. Even without being able to communicate, Corrin understood the sentiment, and Luscien seemed to brighten.

  “Right,” Luscien said, standing. “The Sanctum.”

  Amidst the falling leaves, they reached their destination. Corrin could feel a warm power thrumming just beyond the door, though he hadn’t noticed anything in his mana sight earlier. He reached out and clasped the golden handle, turning the knob.

  “So, you two actually won after all?” A smooth woman’s voice came from behind. “I’m surprised.”

  Corrin spun—and immediately lost his balance as Luscien did the same. His grip slipped, and he landed face-first in the dirt.

  “Ow.”

  He pushed himself onto a knee, scowling.

  A young woman stood a short distance away, several years older than he was. Wine-dark hair fell past her shoulders, framing sharp amethyst eyes that danced between him and Luscien, like a cat trying to decide whether or not they were prey. She carried herself with an insurmountable confidence, and with one look, Corrin could tell she was dangerous—maybe even more dangerous than Kieran had been.

  “Who are you?” Luscien asked defensively.

  The woman smiled, her eyes lingering on Corrin. She winked playfully. “Relax. I’m not here to fight if I can help it. I just need to get through that door. You could even call us allies. I did defeat one of those acolytes for you.”

  Corrin assessed the situation grimly. His leg was useless, and he could barely channel. Luscien might still be able to fight, but if this woman was as strong as he suspected, that might be out of the cards.

  He glanced at Luscien, who shook his head slightly. Okay, so he was getting the same vibes. Good to know.

  “We’d rather avoid a fight as well,” Luscien said. “But trust is in short supply.”

  She laughed softly. “It’s not a matter of trust.”

  As she held up a hand, Corrin felt something sharp tighten around his neck. It didn’t cut off his air, but he didn’t breathe anyways—even such a small motion might cut him. Besides him, Luscien let out a faint choking sound.

  “If I wanted you dead, you already would be. But it really would be a shame to cut your victory lap short.” The pressure abruptly vanished. “So let’s all behave. I won’t interfere with you, and you won’t interfere with me.”

  “Comforting,” Luscien grumbled, rubbing his neck.

  He picked Corrin back up, and they pulled open the door, stepping past the threshold.

  Warm light washed over Corrin’s body, and the air itself seemed to change, shimmering as the darkness of the eclipse receded slightly. His boots sank into soft earth.

  The corruption was immediate. The grass on the floor of the cavern had yellowed, and the walls of the huge cavern were marred with rot. Down a short path, a topless tree sat in the center of a pool of murky water, casting a weak golden beam upwards, where it vanished against a strange false sky.

  “It feels wrong,” Luscien muttered. “To see such a sacred place defiled like this.”

  As the strange woman walked past, they followed her down the path, which curved gently around the boundary of the room before ending just at the water’s edge. She moved much quicker than them, and so by the time they reached the bottom, she had already been sifting in the pool for almost a minute. He watched as she pulled out a small, silver mirror, inspected it for a moment, and then casually tossed it aside.

  Though the water was only as deep as his calf, it was too murky for Corrin to see the bottom as they began to wade through. He quickly noticed something strange though.

  “This water, it’s not wet.”

  “I noticed the same,” Luscien nodded. He reached down and scooped some up. As it trickled through his fingers, it left them dry. “Strange. Is it even water at all?”

  Corrin’s foot thunked against something solid beneath the surface, and he almost fell again before Luscien caught him.

  “Careful.”

  “There’s something here,” Corrin said, reaching down.

  His hands clasped around metal, and he pulled up the object from the depths. Still dripping with not-water, a large, golden wheel emerged. The wheel had eight spokes, radiating from a clear gemstone at its center. Even dulled and tarnished, Corrin could tell it was a real relic.

  “Woah.” He whistled appreciatively.

  Luscien placed a hand on his arm. “I’d leave it if I were you. These are spiritual artifacts—best to let them rest.”

  “Fine,” Corrin sighed, setting the wheel back down. He leaned in closer and whispered to Luscien. “Think that’s why she’s here?”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Almost certainly.” Luscien nodded. “But there’s nothing we can do about that. We’re here for the tree. You really think Wyn’s blessing can fix things?”

  “It’s the best chance we’ve got,” Corrin said.

  “Then all we can do now is pray.”

  The woman hissed as she pulled her hands up out of the water, empty. “Damn it. It’s not here?”

  Corrin frowned. He tried to hold his tongue, but in the end, curiosity got the better of him. “What are you looking for?”

  He didn’t actually expect her to answer, but to his surprise, she did.

  “He said there would be three artifacts here—mirror, wheel, and lantern… But as far as I can tell, the lantern’s missing.”

  “How do you know what’s supposed to be in here?” Corrin asked. She clearly wasn’t part of the cult, but he didn’t know what her goal was either. That was exciting, but admittedly, dangerous. “Seriously lady, who are you?”

  She smiled slyly, but didn’t answer the question. Instead, after taking a deep breath, she turned away and placed her hands on her hips.

  “So the question is,” she mused, “if it’s not here, then where is it?”

  ***

  Wyn could hear the pounding of his heart in his ears. He could feel the rise and fall of his chest with each heavy breath. In his mind, sharpened by spirit fire, the moment between Sadirah’s words was all but eternal.

  “What’s happening?” she whispered, trembling as her eyes darted between them. “Father? Why do you look like that? And—Zavi!” She gasped as she saw her younger brother pinned against the wall, thrashing in his restraints.

  “He killed them Sadirah!” Zavi howled. “That bastard killed them!”

  Why are you here? Wyn wanted to scream, but he already knew the answer.

  “Sadirah,” Iskareth suddenly spoke up, his hollow voice shockingly calm. “Turn around and walk out of here. Everything is going to be alright.”

  Wyn glanced at the monster beside him. Beneath the mask, red light glimmered, and Iskareth inclined his head, just slightly, towards Wyn. For the briefest of moments, they understood each other, and the thought made Wyn’s stomach churn.

  “He’s right,” Wyn tried to keep his voice light. “Just… wait outside.”

  Sadirah shook. For a moment, it seemed like she might listen—like she wanted to believe them at any cost. She took a half step back, then stopped.

  “Don’t lie to me!” she cried. “What’s going on? Why do you and Zavi look like that? Where is everyone else?”

  Wyn’s fists tightened until his knuckles were white. There was no turning away. “I’m sorry Sadirah,” he said through gritted teeth. “Your father is a member of the cult.”

  “No,” she whispered, shaking her head. She looked at Iskareth, taking in his horrifying form. “Tell me he’s mistaken, Father. Tell me he’s wrong!”

  Iskareth was still, his face unreadable under the mask.

  Wyn stretched out a hand. “Sadirah I—”

  “No.” Iskareth’s distorted voice cut him off. For a moment, he glanced towards Wyn once again. Then, he turned back to his daughter. “Wyn is telling the truth.”

  She fell onto her knees. Her mouth opened, then closed, searching for words. In the end, she could only find one.

  “Why?”

  “This is not how I wanted you to find out. I am sorry, Sadirah.”

  “Where…” she mumbled. “Where are they?”

  Wyn turned on Iskareth. “Answer the question you scum.”

  The doctor spread his arms. “You still don’t understand? I thought that was why you’d come. Look around, Wyn. My children are all gathered here.”

  “They’re all—” Wyn’s breath caught.

  Around the room, the monster’s wails seemed to grow louder, ringing in his ears like twisted knells.

  Huge, fleshy wings that might have once been hands. Drooping fur falling from one of their heads—no, it was hair grown too long. Monsters came in all sorts of creative forms—but there was often still a logic to it. But the abominations were different, borrowing monstrous features seemingly at random, with no regard for coherency. No two were quite the same.

  Except in the ways that they all seemed, at least the tiniest bit, human.

  “No…” Wyn whispered, feeling sick. “Iskareth, what did you do?”

  Iskareth turned slowly, half of his mask crumbling away, revealing not one, but three red eyes connected by blackened flesh. Rather than focusing on a single thing, they flicked around independently.

  “Asura, like dear Zavi here, are filled with immense power, but they are not inherently immortal, and though their essence is entirely altered by the ichor, they remain flesh and blood. In becoming akin to monsters, the ichor also renders them incapable of growth. By harnessing the natural regenerative abilities of children, as well as their malleable souls, the effect can be perfected.

  “But the science of it is only half of the equation. The ichor is alive after all, and it responds to desire. Thus, it isn’t enough just to use children. No, it must be a rare type of child—one instilled with a great and present desire to live.

  “As malleable as they are though, the souls of children are weak. They cannot handle the strain of apotheosis, and they shatter, taking on the forms you see now. Make no mistake though, they are not dead.” He sounded proud of that fact, as though it was a great mercy. “They are the same as they’ve always been, but ageless, and with the ability to regenerate from even a single cell. These children of mine, they will never die.”

  One of the abominations crawled towards him—a bloated, furry thing with a shell like a tortoise, dragging itself across the floor because its legs were too small to support the weight of its body.

  It began to wail, and now that he was listening, Wyn could begin to make out its words, warped and mangled. “pAPA… iT hURtS.”

  “Parisa,” he said warmly, recognizing her even still. He reached out, and tenderly stroked the misshapen lump that had once been her head. “It is okay, little one. The pain will eventually go away.”

  “NOrmAn iS gONe,” she wailed, more of the grey fluid leaking out. “aMaYA IS goNE.”

  Norman, Amaya.

  The sword clattered from Wyn’s hand. He stumbled forward, reaching for the crying child—she was a confused, crying child—but he fell, landing on his palms. He couldn’t raise his eyes from the dirt.

  I killed them. Oh spirits… I killed them.

  “I know,” Iskareth whispered. “But do not worry. I’m sure they’ve moved on to somewhere very peaceful.”

  “cAN i gO TOo?”

  Iskareth stilled for a breath. “No… stay here Parisa. The rest of your siblings are here, aren’t they? You can stay with us forever.”

  “They’re gone?” Sadirah’s quiet voice tore at Wyn’s heart. He looked over at her, but immediately wished he hadn’t. Her eyes bloomed with panic as they caught on each of the abominations, one after another.

  Desperate, Wyn gripped his blade and got to his feet. He had to face Iskareth. Norman and Amaya were gone, but they could still—he could still… Wyn grabbed his chest—his heart was pounding, and he felt so dizzy he might collapse, but Iskareth was right there. It would only take one strike. Something black and vile crawled out of his throat.

  “Iskareth!” He growled, his vision tainted by deep, violet flames. “You don’t deserve to live!”

  His blade fell like the executioner’s axe.

  One of the children threw their body in the way, spreading dark leathery wings to shield their ‘Father’.

  They were screaming as they burned. They were writhing in pain.

  The flames flickered and died, he tore the blade off its path before it could connect. He’d killed them. He’d killed them.

  Another grabbed his leg, trying to stop his charge. Instinctively, his blade swept down. A single oversized eye stared up at him, pleading as gray fluid leaked from within.

  They were crying. Because of me.

  His grip failed him again, and Wyn retched.

  Something slammed into his back, crushing him against the ground. He heard a faint snap in his chest, but in comparison, that pain was nothing at all.

  “That blessing of yours is dangerous, Wyn,” Iskareth said. “It threatens my family.”

  A kick drove the breath from his lungs.

  “Norman wanted to be a teacher, you know? And Amaya loved gathering flowers for her siblings.”

  Another blow. Pain exploded behind his eyes, and he groaned as his stomach left him again, the vomit tinged crimson.

  “You stole it.” He ground the words out. His vision was spinning, flashing white with each blow. “You stole—their lives from them… Bastard.”

  “A part of me believes I should kill you. It’s a father’s duty to keep his children safe after all.” Iskareth kicked him again, and Wyn screamed. “But I can see it so clearly now. You’re the same as I was, back then. You could have stopped me easily Wyn. If you’d thrown that weakness away and cut them down. If you’d focused entirely on your goal, then I could have never hoped to win.”

  Wyn stretched his hand towards the sword that lay so close by. His arm shook, moving as if through water, far too slow. Iskareth’s boot drove it into the ground.

  “I… would never—”

  “Once, I thought as you did. I fought so hard to hold on to that weakness. To achieve my goal without any of the sacrifices demanded by it. It’s because I know how you feel that I pity you so. Already, you feel it, don’t you? Despair.”

  Wyn let out a cry as Iskareth drove the boot in further. Every drop of his being was pushing back against those words. “I’m nothing like you!” he spit blood as he tried to move.

  A tentacle wrapped around his waist and lifted him up into the air, forcing him to face Iskareth, who inspected him with his cluster of eyes. Even as inhuman as they were, they still managed to convey genuine pity.

  “Do you know what happens when the same place is wounded again and again?” Iskareth asked quietly. “At first, you feel pain—it bleeds, and you pull back.”

  One of the tentacles grabbed Wyn’s sword off the ground, bringing it into Iskareth’s grasp. Slowly, he pushed the tip into Wyn’s shoulder. Blistering pain flared up, and Wyn bit down a cry.

  “Then it happens again. And it bleeds again. The wound closes, scar tissue forms. Over time, nerves dull, and the sensation slowly changes. It still bleeds, but one day, you’ll look down and realize you didn’t react. The pain might have been there, but you didn’t even notice.”

  Wyn shook his head, thrashing as best he could, but his body was failing him, and Iskareth’s grip was like steel. “Stop!” He found himself begging. Not because of the sword, but because he couldn’t listen any longer. “Please stop!”

  “The world isn’t kind to men like you and me, Wyn. It will rip at you, and tear at your heart, over and over, until all that remains is a scarred, unfeeling husk. I am not going to kill you, and I hope you hold tight to that dream of yours, because I truly believe you will do good in this world. But that part of you that feels? It will die.

  “That pain you’re feeling—that hurt? I will help you kill it, even if you hate me for it. This may be only one wound of many, but it will help you get there sooner. So bleed, Wyn. Bleed, hurt, and I promise you: the pain will eventually stop.”