CHAPTER 51: "Where Madness Bleeds and Shadows Whisper of the Forgotten
CHAPTER 51: "Where Madness Bleeds and Shadows Whisper of the Forgotten
Aria froze.
Milicent lay awake, her back to Aria , gazing out the window.
A sudden, profound joy surged within Aria , and she hurried toward her.
But her steps faltered midway when Milicent turned, her face pale, a gleam of madness in her eyes.
Drop.
Drop.
Drop.
Blood.
Milicent gripped a knife with trembling hands, the blade pressed dangerously against her wrist, and the blood dripped steadily onto the cold stone floor.
“Milicent!” Aria cried, rushing to her side. With frantic hands, she wrested the blade away and caught Milicent as she crumpled into her arms.
"Someone—anyone!" she screamed. "Get the healer—now!"
The door slammed open, and the Beta charged in, his face drawn with concern.
He knelt beside the two women, his voice a low, commanding whisper. "Stay with me, dove. Stay with me."
Without a word, he lifted Milicent into his arms, cradling her as though she were a fragile thing, and with a swift motion, he carried her out of the chamber, his footsteps echoing in the silence left behind.
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“She has recovered far too quickly in such a state,” Dylia reported, her voice tinged with disbelief.
“Now she understands the full extent of what has befallen her and is consumed by shame.”
“And yet, she suffers so, while the woman who wrought this upon her roams free? I will be the one to end her,” Aria spat, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her anger palpable.
“She is under the protection of the pack leaders,” Cedric interjected, his tone unwavering. “Just days ago, her rank was stripped for attempting to overthrow the Alpha of the Crimson Moon Pack. Realizing that would leave her vulnerable, she sought refuge among them.”
“So no one may touch her,” Aria muttered, frustration lacing her words.
“Without just cause or proof of her transgressions, no one may touch her,” Cedric replied firmly.
“You must remove Milicent from this chaos before it consumes her completely. She is teetering on the edge of madness,” Dylia urged, her voice softening with concern. “The very environment she remains in—the very people who surround her—remind her endlessly of her torment. You know the agony of a woman awakening to such horrors, as it is spoken of in human circles. She believes no one will ever deem her innocent enough to stand beside her.”
The room fell into a heavy silence.
“I can no longer bear this,” Aria murmured, her voice heavy with guilt, her eyes filled with sorrow.
“I cannot stand idly by while she endures such torment because of me.”
With a defeated sigh, she turned and walked from the medicine house, her heart weighed down by the gravity of her words.
She climbed into the waiting carriage, which carried her in silence toward the castle.
“Aphosius, brother,” Uthred greeted, drawing near with a cloaked man trailing behind him.
Aphosius cast a glance from the stranger to his kin. “And who is he?”
“Ah,” Uthred turned with a faint gesture. “This is a dark mage, one who possesses the craft to perform what we require.”
Aphosius's brow drew tight. He seized Uthred by the arm and led him aside, his voice low with caution. “Have you taken leave of your senses? We cannot summon all the dark mages to our cause—some wield their art for treachery.”
Uthred offered a light chuckle. “Ophelia herself sent him. She claims she is presently indisposed and cannot attend in person. Be at ease—he stands with us.”
He made to leave, but Aphosius’s hand pressed firmly to his chest, halting him.
“I do not trust this one. Smell him—does he carry any scent at all?”
“Since when do mages bear scent?” Uthred scoffed. “You grow overly dramatic.” He shrugged off the warning and returned to the mage.
“The altar is prepared. We may begin.”
The dark mage nodded and followed him into the depths of the cave. Along the walls, flickering candles had been lit, their wax weeping onto stone. In the center lay a shallow bowl, within it a pendant resting like an artifact long buried.
The mage knelt cross-legged, robed entirely in black, his visage hidden beneath a smooth mask. Only his eyes, dark as coals, and lips were visible beneath the veil.
From within his cloak, he withdrew a small blade. With practiced ease, he sliced his palm and let the blood drip onto the pendant and into the bowl.
He began to chant, his voice low and resonant:
“Adumbra per tenebras,
Sanguinem ducit ad veritatem,
Ostende nobis eum quem quaerimus.”
("Through the shadowed veil,
Let blood lead unto truth,
Reveal to us the one we seek.")
He repeated the incantation thrice.
The air thickened. His vision expanded.
A dark mountain emerged in his mind’s eye, its peak lost to storm and snow. Within its hollow heart, a chamber lay forgotten—untouched by sun or man. There, a man rested, half his face twisted by flame. His skin was ghost-pale, his lips cracked, his limbs stiffened by years of forced slumber. He did not breathe, yet he was not dead.
The mage’s eyes snapped open.
“What did you see?” Uthred asked, impatience etched upon his brow.
“He lies within the Old Mountain.”
Confused, Uthred turned to his brother.
Aphosius stepped forth, arms folded like iron across his chest. “The Mountain of the Old is no mere landmark. That is where the ancient witch once settled—their first stronghold, the cradle of their order.”
Realization struck Uthred. His eyes widened.
“The domain of the ancient one.”
“Indeed.” Aphosius’s voice was grim. “It is a lost cause now. None among us dare enter. That place has been forsaken for centuries.”
“The ancient one vanished long ago,” the mage countered. “No soul dwells there now. Perhaps, our cause is not entirely lost."
In a heartbeat, Aphosius stood before him, grasping him by the front of his cloak.
“Our cause? You presume much for a mere courier. By what right do you speak so?”
“Enough with your suspicion,” the mage growled. “I serve as messenger because Ophelia herself entrusted me. That should suffice.”
He scoffed. But before the tension grew worse, Uthred stepped forward.
“Let him go, Aphosius.”
Aphosius narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening before he finally released him with a shove.
“If I discover deceit in your words,” he hissed, “I shall strike you down before your next breath. Mark me.” With that, he turned and strode away.
Silence lingered.
Uthred gave a nonchalant shrug. “Well then. We ride at first light. It shall take no fewer than three days to reach the mountain, no?”
“Incorrect,” said the mage. “I shall conjure a portal. We can arrive before nightfall.”
Uthred smirked. “Now that’s more like it.”