As she scanned, her eyes bulged out of her sockets, nearly causing her black hood to dislodge from her head, pressing both her black-gloved hands against the glass as a perfect set of yellow sapphire-studded dirks shone immaculately at her. Immediately, she began picking the lock to the cabinet until a satisfying click reverberated through the room. Elyna pulled back the doors as she gripped the dirks in her hands, admiring the yellow pommel that graced the obsidian grip, examining the nine-inch silver blades, which were both engraved with the letters MAB alongside the signature Seltookra lightning bolts. The engravings were on the right-hand side of the dirk, near the grip. Elyna pondered the engravings for a moment as she masterfully spun the dirks around in her wrists, slashing with close-quarter accuracy at the air in front of her.

  A light came on in her head.

  The engravings were the initials of Master Assassin Bastein, the founder of the League of Seltookra. How had Laird Murray sourced Bastein’s dirks? Or rather, how had his family done so? Perhaps if she crossed paths with him again, she would get an answer to that question, but for now, she was grateful to be holding the dirks of the founding father of Seltookra. Back when assassins were righteous, pursuing worthy ideals. Elyna would utilise these weapons wisely. There was a calling to avenge Bastein three centuries on, to disperse the corruption within the League of Seltookra. Symbols of the past, present, and future, driving her forth.

  Manach stood outside in the crypt, staring at the painted white sphere on his room door as he gripped his oak staff. Subtle steps drew him from the trance state, coming towards him from behind, birling round as Baku appeared startled.

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you, Manach.’

  ‘All is well. I was elsewhere momentarily. How did the training go?’

  ‘We’re ready.’

  ‘Excellent. Word spreads amongst the soldiers and brothers that you continue to excel at a rapid rate. It appears you are of the warrior spirit. I never doubt my inner knowing about such matters.’

  ‘You knew?’

  ‘Yes, I saw your potential, but you have seized it of your own volition. And that is the most profound gift anyone can deliver.’

  Baku stood upright in his dark-coloured soldier garb marked with unique silver fittings. Buoyed by Manach’s kind words, his dull blue eyes gave off an effervescent energy. ‘It’s all thanks to your heroics at Naldenveer.’

  ‘I did what I had to do. When we do this, life becomes simple.’

  ‘And is life simple?’

  ‘In some ways. But often, simplicity is a telltale sign of our ignorance. A constant unravelling contradiction.’

  ‘I concur.’ Baku grinned.

  A comfortable silence persisted for a few ticks before Baku spoke. ‘I came to probe your mind on the dreams I’ve been having.’

  Manach narrowed his eyes, examining Baku. ‘Go on.’

  ‘They’ve ramped up nearly every night since the Council of Naldenveer activated the Salfizor cluster,’ Baku paused before continuing, ‘The chains and skulls appear surrounding and reaching out to me. It feels real… I wake up drenched in sweat, and occasionally, I hear myself scream from within.’

  ‘Come, take a seat on the bench. You must describe this vision. I sense it is not the trauma you have endured, but an insight.’

  ‘An insight into what?’

  ‘The dark heart of Naldenveer.’

  Baku sat down, his tanned face tightening at the thought of Manach’s words.

  ‘Every detail matters. When you're ready, close your eyes and rebuild what you have been seeing.’

  Baku closed his eyes as the darkness settled in between his eye sockets. ‘I lay strapped flat on a table. I could crane my neck only slightly. At first, the skeletal apparitions who bore dark cloaks had their backs turned. There were three of them, and I could hear their dull frizzling breath. The room was oval-shaped, built with musty-looking stone, as I wriggled from side to side on the table, they turned, and the black gaping holes in their faces clawed at my spirit, but I could see the orange lining around the outside of their cloaks. They said something… I c-can’t…’

  Manach stared at Baku with intent, not saying a word as he waited patiently for him to remember. ‘They said, “He is resilient, Barashi. He must not learn the depths we span. Induce further nightmares upon him. Keep him spiralling within the physical nightmare.” What does that mean?’

  ‘The Council appears to have a link to you. Even after I removed the demon from you. It seems they wish to keep former knowledge from you. What that is, I do not know. You must fight harder to stop them from entering your consciousness, exert complete control over your autonomy.’

  Baku gulped as he kept his eyes closed. ‘Why is it we always have more questions than we do answers?’

  ‘A question is easier to source than the inquiry to retrieve the answer.’ Manach continued, ‘And are you strapped down in every dream?’

  ‘I am, except they slither over the top of me like swirling clouds as their darkness seeps into me. How do I stop them?’

  ‘You must deconstruct the reality they have programmed you to see and believe. Physical manifestation is the greatest trick perpetrated upon humanity. The inner world holds the key to our power and freedom.’

  He listened, reopening his eyes as Manach spoke once more. ‘Resist them. Command your spiritual vessel. They wish to waver your confidence before you meet them at Naldenveer. Seek to remember what came before, Baku. This is all the guidance I have for you.’

  He nodded. ‘Thank you. Manach, but there is one last thing I must ask. Who is Barashi?’

  ‘One of the thirteen council members. He was my primary torturer at Dejero-Obitus.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. You were only telling me what you knew.’

  ‘How would I tell Barashi apart from the other members?’

  ‘Barashi has a distinctive crack beneath his left eye, a crevice peering into his imperious malevolence.’

  ‘They will pay, I swear.’

  ‘I must warn you not to let what happened to you and me blind you. The Council of Naldenveer will weaponise it against you,’ Manach calmly said.

  Baku nodded, understanding it was time for him to leave as he walked away.

  Manach listened, waiting for his steps to disappear before he deeply exhaled. Things continued to complexify, small pieces of intelligence grouping together. Was the physical world prepared for what lay ahead? Or would human ignorance explode into insanity? He felt ever certain of the unseen layers tearing and ripping apart, a growing visibility occasionally flashing before his perceptive eyes. Shadows lurked in every corner, waiting to pounce as the Salfizor constellation spewed an energetic web of darkness across Ophlen. What consequences would Tyrora experience?

  He had to steady himself, for he knew the answers were coming, and he had to keep his allies and himself alive as long as possible in order to realise the light. He walked through the crypt. The black marble floor symbolised the Malevolent in that moment, the bright sandstone ceilings the Benevolent. Manach stood in the middle of both polarities, feeling a reverberating vortex surging above and below him. Confrontation looms.

  Chapter Nine

  I walk the line between

  fantasy and reality

  though I attest in good conscience

  I cannot tell the difference

  Magus Salvatore

  Coire settled down to sleep in the pitch blackness of his room, closing his weary eyes as he rolled onto his side, and within a matter of minutes, he would breathe with rhythmic rest. Entering the vessel of his dreams.

  He found himself sitting within an immaculate light brown oar boat made from what he sensed to be an ash tree; the boat was varnished with a coating to which he was unfamiliar, but it appeared to protect the boat from the calm but bottomless abyss of the sea. The sun shone hotly on his brow, wincing upwards toward its fiery endeavour. Both oars were attached neatly on either side, shaped with smooth grey hide. Coire removed the oars as he rowed the boat, moving his arms in a circular motion, realising there was no land in sight, panning around with his head. How had he gotten out here? The oars were fresh, not carrying any signs of wear. He rowed on diligently as the sea’s graceful swirls chopped at the edges of his boat. Relaxing was the sea’s nature on this day. Coire continued to paddle forth but drew no closer to seeing any land. Until he heard a gentle rumble pulsating through the sea, the sky turned in a matter of seconds from a bright blue to a blackened charcoal as clouds gathered, hanging over with thunderous intent; the water darkened as the boat swayed from side to side. Calmness was gone. Instead, he felt the panic in his own heart amidst the turbulent conditions manifesting before his eyes. Rain poured as the heavens flooded with thunderous rage, as the boat travelled backwards on the crest of a massive wave. He turned to see a surging vortex dragging the helpless boat closer; the vortex propelled with a furiousness, but he could do nothing but watch on as his boat dragged closer; the boat cracked from the sheer force of the sea as he plunged into the depths, dragged under water as he tried to punch and kick his way upward…

  He threw himself upward in his bed. His entire body was dripping with sweat as his skin stuck to the sheets. He got up, standing on the cold stone floor in complete darkness, his mind speeding with a shoulder-crunching fear at his experience. The dream lingered with him, unable to shake the realism he had felt. Looking down towards his feet, he saw his neckpiece glow with the faintest blue before it disappeared as he grasped the whirlpool symbol in his hand. Why was his neckpiece glowing? And what had he experienced, and why? These questions percolated in his mind before he began reassuring himself in attempts to cling to his water-laden sanity. He dried the experience off in his mind, focusing his attention on the stress he had been under in the lead-up to the Brotherhood’s battle with Naldenveer. He sat back down on the edge of his bed as the night air cooled his warm body, staring into the abyss of his dark room where only shadowy outlines of objects existed. Coire gripped the whirlpool symbol in his right hand, holding onto it, pressing it close against his chest. He had found the silver chain as a youngster on the sand dunes that graced the southern beaches of Ophlen. The symbol held a sentimental value he couldn’t understand or place, yet he felt strangely attached to it; his spirit drawn to it, and he could only envision a faint blue glow as he curled up to sleep, holding the whirlpool between his fingers.

  He scrambled up the steep rocky terrain, having left the well-trodden path that led to the Ruins of Kalseadur, eager to get a view of his surroundings before proceeding any further. Heavy smoke lingered in the air, blown from the multiple mine shafts outside of Naldenveer that burnt endlessly. He reached the summit, close to the trees that hugged the northern side of Beinn Idrah, overlooking the scattered grey foundational remains of Fort Kalseadur. Lachlann spotted the mercenaries who were occupying the ruins, preparing for the looming battle. He gritted his teeth in excitement, yet his destiny was at Loch Khemis before he could spare a thought for what would occur on the plains of Kalseadur; bloodshed and death were a guarantee. The warring factions would contend for everything else. The sheer numbers the council had accumulated gave him cause for concern, as droves of mercenaries lurked within the ruins with thousands of tents to the southeast, where hundreds of smoke trails filtered up into the air. Beyond the ruins was where he had to go, and the easiest route was straight through them to get to the loch, which hid in another glen. He could see all the way over to Naldenveer, where Dejero-Obitus lurked, and further afield was the sea, where he could see several boats lined up near the coastline.

  Could these be Heztawzee ships? Lachlann wondered.

  He wasn’t in possession of a spyglass to confirm his suspicion, but his gut all but confirmed it. The Heztawzee had, no doubt, delivered the last weapons to prepare for battle; how cunning they had been in liaising with Seltookra and Naldenveer. It was clear they had an agenda beyond the brothers and knights.

  Lachlann descended back onto the dry, brown path that ran towards the ruins, deciding he would take the quickest path to get to Loch Khemis. There was no time to waste; he had a duty to uphold. He began walking with forthright motion, his black cloak filtering out to the side as a light breeze blew from the south. He had had a lot to consider. His meeting with Selina and Elyna had been unexpected, but he welcomed the friendly faces, nonetheless. However, the meddling ascendants and unfinished business with the archdemons were cause for concern. What tricks were both playing? And how was he being leveraged? What troubled him was that his confrontational behaviour would come to a head if these ascendants and archdemons continued to pester and stand in his way. No one would control his path. Lachlann felt dry rock underfoot, slipping and sliding as he followed the path towards the Ruins of Kalseadur. He had cut across the terrain efficiently, scanning the grey stone remains of the once proud fortress. Which had reduced to a section of eroding foundations, worn and malformed stone. He stopped two hundred paces from the ruins, noticing as well as feeling a few mercenaries watching him, seeing their heads peeking over one of the larger foundation walls. He smirked, proceeding forth with disregard, and as he got within a hundred paces, a voice shouted. ‘Oi! Where do you think you’re going?’

  Lachlann said nothing, continuing towards the ruins as five men greeted him at the pathway, passing through the ruins. Lachlann sensed the mercenaries’ apprehension as he got close. Observing as they came to terms with what stood before them. The men wore similar charcoal-coloured padded armour, which appeared to have downward indentations, and they had a selection of swords, axes, and maces as weapons, gleaming in the daylight. Lachlann recognised those weapons from when Keegan and he had boarded the Heztawzee ship and found the crates. The unused appearance of the weapons dispelled any doubts he might have had; recently issued.

  ‘Are you deaf?’ a man with a black goatee asked.

  Lachlann’s eyes flickered from steely blue to glowing green. ‘No.’

  ‘Eh... um. What business do you have here?’

  ‘None. Just passing through.’

  ‘This is about to be a war zone. Not the best time to be passing through.’

  ‘Oh, I’m well aware.’

  ‘Well, as long as you're not heading to Naldenveer, we’ll let you go.’

  ‘And if I am?’ Lachlann challenged.

  The man with the goatee looked down, as did the rest of the men, who were feeling uncomfortable in the Demonslayer’s presence.

  ‘Do what you please.’

  He nodded as he made his way through the mercenaries. He was glad to have passed them with no bloodshed, but just as he moved beyond them, the mercenary spoke obnoxiously. ‘We’re here to kill brothers and knights. That’s our top priority.’

  Lachlann froze, as though someone had committed a heinous crime in front of him. He glanced backwards as the Claymore of Shaldorahuran clung to his back. ‘What did you say?’ But before the mercenary could answer, Lachlann unsheathed the claymore, closing the distance in a fraction of a second as he stabbed into the mercenary’s sternum, dropping him to the floor. The rest of the mercenaries attempted to flee, but he wasn’t done. Shadows moved around him as he descended onto two others, whom he eviscerated with a couple of slashes, blood splattered against the ancient ruins. The remaining two had hightailed it the way Lachlann had come. He caught up to them within mere moments as he slashed at one’s calf before cutting through the other’s torso as screams of agony echoed into the air. He turned, seeing the man whose calf he had targeted crawling helplessly on the ground. A ruthless Lachlann stood over him. ‘Never threaten the Brotherhood.’ Stabbing the claymore downward with both hands into the man’s spine, snapping from the force applied, his eyes had a green glowing permanence, returning the hulking weapon to his back as he walked casually away. There were other mercenaries present, but he ignored them, knowing they would not bother him. He sent a message that would ripple through the encampments, reaching the Council of Naldenveer. Lachlann had learnt within himself that the Braemuir Brotherhood still meant something to him, at least to his mortal essence. And as his adrenaline and emotions calmed, the green glow left his eyes as his blue eyes exuded the protective nature of his unbridled soul.

  He got beyond the ruins, staring at a steep ridge he would have to ascend if he was to reach Loch Khemis, and with that thought came the unfinished interaction he had with Evangeline, and whatever new spawn of archdemon lurked here with more scheming treachery. And the elusive hidden master of the archdemons, and what of Mathos? Who had been eager to see the lochs cleansed and the archdemons destroyed. Had Mathos learnt of Lachlann’s deception at Loch Albra? What concerned him more was the probability of Mathos observing him without his knowledge. The faceless figure with the scythe had knowledge and tenebrous malice within. Mathos devised a clever, interconnected gambit, leaving Lachlann conflicted about whether to treat him as an enemy or befriend the ascendant to obtain a drop of his gnosis. He scrambled up the ridge, his hands grasping the rough brown exterior, feeling firm and spiky as he did so. He had tough calluses built into the undersides of his hands from all the fighting, trekking and climbing he had become accustomed to doing. His grip had never felt stronger, yet he couldn’t escape the torturous pain that burdened him. Prying at his spirit as he carefully placed his feet, which slipped as the ridge became steeper, dust and stone descended, creating a misty haze. Lachlann looked upward, maintaining his focus.

  At the summit, he caught his breath, observing the putrid waters of Loch Khemis, which had a grim, stony shoreline all the way around. The energy far heavier like an invisible heavy blanket forcing itself downward onto his head and shoulders as he stared at the loch, Lachlann was too far away to tell for certain but it appeared to bubble like a pot of turbulence ready to explode, no nature existed around, just stones and rubble that had witnessed the fall of civilisations and the untold history of the landmass, holding omnipotent secrets. Secrets that may remain forever unknown. He began walking along the ridge as he nimbly traversed the well-trodden path. His eyes remained focused as he tried to tune into the loch, but nothing. No black and white vision or shadowy apparitions, just an invisible heaviness, wrestling his suffering soul. Lachlann narrowed his eyes, sensing a disturbance afoot. He descended into the glen, struggling to keep his feet as he slid, throwing his arms outward to keep his centre of gravity. He drifted ten paces before grinding to a halt on a grey boulder poking out of the glen. He stood on it, his eyes unmoving from the loch. He waited a second before descending, charging downward with momentum as his feet got away from him. He held his concentration and footing as he got closer to the bottom of the glen, stumbling on his left toe, which threw him a few feet into the air, but instead of bracing for impact, he rolled forward onto the pebble surface with his right shoulder, as he flipped forward, grazing his left knee and hand on the ground. Otherwise, remaining intact as he winced before taking a deep adrenaline-induced breath. Staying in the crouched position he had landed in, closing his eyes, eager to get a sense of Loch Khemis, reaching out with his consciousness, but he couldn’t see or feel anything through his mind’s eye, a coating of blackness was all he stared within. Lachlann gritted his teeth in frustration. Had he missed something? He stood up, walked over towards the loch’s edge, and reached down to touch the muck-filled water. Holding his hand in the water as he tried to sense something, but felt nothing. The previous power he had assumed felt distant, yet he had not struggled to gain that power; he had merely walked into it. But things were different now, and Lachlann felt ignorance gnawing within. Had he relinquished his demonic power by sparing Evangeline? Perhaps his strategic thought, hoping to snare Mathos, had backfired majorly, and there was no telling if Evangeline had warned the archdemons and thus, they had disappeared in anticipation of his arrival. A hellacious anger pulsed through Lachlann, not too dissimilar from the loch’s surface. That spat and raged with grimy pollution. He felt alone and without purpose, unable to make sense of the conundrum that was Loch Khemis. His breathing was deep, cradling a viciousness as he stared with a probing intensity across the vastness of the water. Lachlann, in desperation, began walking into the loch, hoping that it would ignite the spiritual sight he had had previously. He walked further and further in, hearing no spirits or screams as he came up to his neck. The water felt draining and cold, nothing more. He submerged his head and began diving under the water, staring into the barely visible gloominess underneath, before returning to catch his breath. Lachlann bit down tightly, grinding his teeth together. His head bobbed above as he began swimming back to the shore. A soaking body emerged from the loch, feeling bamboozled, fuelling his inner fury.