“Ride faster, men! We cannot lose him!”
“Hyah!”
Knights clad in blue and silver thundered across the sodden earth, their stallions surging forward as though chasing the very storm on the horizon. They were Rosmayne’s finest—the most exalted cavalry regiment of the queendom, renowned for their dazzling speed and unshakable discipline. At their head rode Pierre Juraine, a rising star in the queen’s military ranks, sharp-eyed and relentless.
The storm lashed at them, but the violent rain and churned mud could not stall their pace. Their well-bred steeds devoured the treacherous terrain of the forest with unyielding strides. It was a race against time—and though none of them yet knew it, the hourglass had already emptied.
They reined in at the edge of a vast clearing. Before them sprawled a camp, larger than any of them had anticipated, nestled squarely in the eye of the storm.
“Captain Pierre!”
A knightess called from the front rank, her voice cutting through the howl of wind. She pointed toward blackened corpses strewn across the mire. Despite the deluge, the acrid tang of scorched flesh clung to the air like a cloying shroud.
"By the Goddess," Piere muttered
“Captain... these bodies...”
The knightess crouched near one of them, frowning. “It’s as though they were fleeing something.”
Pierre’s gaze followed the arc of their fallen forms. All of the corpses pointed in the same direction—away from something, toward a desperate escape. His jaw tightened. He spurred his horse toward the faint flicker of light deeper within the trees.
Minutes later, he found it: a yawning cave, dark and deep, large enough to shelter a multitude.
“Josephine! Dorian! With me. The rest of you—secure the area, gather the dead, and search for leads. Go!”
“Yes, Captain!”
The three knights dismounted and pressed forward on foot. The cave was unmistakably a hideout—rough-hewn, littered with broken weapons, and reeking of old smoke and spilled blood. And judging by the remnants, it had been more than a mere bandit den.
"This is either the work of bandits or cultists. Ready your weapon."
They all unsheathed their short swords and walked in a triangle formation, watching each other's blind spots. They moved around the place and went deeper into the underground. Finally, at one point, they hear a faint murmuring voice that came from the corridor on their left.
They silently cast their spell as they approach the one particular room that is the source of the eerie voices. When they take a peek to see what is inside, they cannot believe their eyes.
"C-Captain!"
"What in the world ...."
They witness an enormous cage inside the room with more than a hundred people inside. Each and every single one inside the cage put their hands together as they kneel and bow their head down. They are chanting every prayer they can remember. Pleading for salvation from something that the knights have no idea about.
“Slaves,” Dorian rasped. “It was a trafficking camp after all.”
“Captain!” Josephine pointed sharply. “The cage door—it’s open.”
Indeed, the latch hung loose, yet none of the prisoners moved. They remained as though shackled by something far heavier than iron.
Pierre slid his sword back into its scabbard, his expression grave.
“Klaus, return to the surface. Tell the men to finish their sweep and take shelter. Josephine, stay here and watch them.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Pierre delved deeper alone. He found no further signs of life or activity, only hollow corridors and emptied chambers. When he returned to the surface, his orders were swift and precise: distribute warm cloaks, ration supplies, and prepare to bivouac in the cave for the night.
Though his mission had crumbled into failure, Pierre’s resolve had not. While his men rested, he moved from one slave to another, coaxing whispers from broken lips, trying to untangle what had transpired.
Most were too shattered to speak. Their hollow eyes drifted past him, lost in horrors beyond words. But at last, he found one woman whose sanity clung by a fraying thread.
"I-It was God."
"God?"
"Y-Yes, it's god! A-A-And he was angry!"
His brow furrowed. "How does this 'god' look like?"
"H-He is bright. So bright that we can't even see his face."
Pierre scribbled in his journal with swift precision, recording her every syllable. No detail, however implausible, escaped his ink.
“What did He do?”
The woman’s hands trembled violently. “He... k-killed them. The wicked men. Without touching them. They just... dropped lifeless as if they were just an empty husk."
Pierre’s gaze sharpened.
The corpses inside the cave were unlike those strewn across the clearing. These bodies bore no scorch marks or burns—instead, they lay crumpled with eyes wide open, mouths agape in silent, frozen terror. Whatever had claimed them, it had done so without fire or blade.
Even the woman before him shuddered intermittently, her breathing quickening, as though she teetered on the precipice of another scream. Pierre steadied her gently but firmly, ensuring her fraying composure did not spark panic among the other survivors.
“When did this ‘god’ leave?” he asked quietly.
The woman’s eyes darted toward a shadowed corridor.
“It left... after He took a child. From the room over there.”
Pierre’s brow furrowed.
“A child? What room?”
“T-The room where that nasty mage lived...” she whispered, hugging her elbows.
Her words struck him like a blade’s point. He had already scoured the entire cave. No such chamber had revealed itself.
Illusion magic, he deduced grimly.
He softened his tone. “This child—can you describe her?”
“I... I don’t know.” Her brow creased in anguish. “I can’t remember. Only... dark hair. Very small.”
“How small?”
The woman tapped the crook of her elbow, her gesture hesitant but precise.
Pierre’s mind raced. A girl, no older than eight or nine. The detail was precious—a thin but critical thread. He inclined his head in gratitude.
“That will be all for now. You’ve helped more than you know.”
He turned crisply.
“Josephine!”
“Yes, Captain!”
“Give this lady an extra bowl.”
"At once, Captain!"
As Josephine moved to fulfill the order, Pierre’s thoughts sharpened to a singular focus. The hidden room.
Drawing his sword, he began his sweep anew. The gem set into the hilt shimmered faintly, a detection crystal attuned to false enchantments. He kept it close to the jagged walls, slow and methodical.
Minutes passed before the crystal pulsed red. Pierre halted before what appeared to be an ordinary stretch of stone. His knuckles whitened on his sword hilt.
“Reversi,” he intoned.
Like watercolor bleeding under rain, the wall dissolved—peeling away in translucent waves until the illusion melted entirely. Beyond it sprawled a hidden chamber, cramped and choked in shadows.
It was no mere living quarters.
The flickering light revealed a grotesque tableau:
Jars of preserved brains sat beside bowls brimming with nails. Half-flayed scalps dangled like grisly trophies. Racks of unfamiliar instruments gleamed dully with rust and dried black stains.
Pierre’s breath slowed. Catalyst dealing.Yarna practices. Or perhaps both. The crimes committed here were not merely of banditry—they verged into the occult.
The air was heavier here, saturated with something old and foul. The gloom thickened so deeply Pierre could scarcely see his own boots.
Then, underfoot, something crumbled.
He glanced down.
Blackened bone fragments snapped beneath his heel, as brittle as parchment. A skull lay shattered nearby, charred into onyx, its jaw fused open in a voiceless scream.
Pierre’s jaw set. His voice echoed low and resolute into the corridor beyond. He exhaled slowly, steadying his mind before raising his voice.
“Men!” he called into the echoing dark, “To me, now! We search this place until dawn! No stone left unturned!”
“Yes, Captain!”
When the heavy rain finally relented at dawn, a pale grey light crept over Etherton’s sodden rooftops. The squadron of knights rode back into the city gates, weary yet unbroken, their steel mail dulled by mud and ash. After escorting the slave refugees to the nearest jurisdiction, Pierre dismounted without ceremony. He neither washed nor changed his rain-slick attire. His boots still bore the mire of the cave floors, and his sodden cloak clung to his back like a second skin — but urgency left no room for vanity.
He strode directly to the stately granite steps of Etherton’s city hall. Fortunately, the grave weight in his expression and the glint of grim purpose in his hazelnut eyes made clear to the stewards and councilors that this breach of etiquette was no insolence, but necessity.
Inside the austere council chamber, tall stained-glass windows cast muted shards of colored light over carved oak benches. The councilors, clad in long robes of grey and blue, sat in semicircle around the elevated dais. All of them wore expressions that teetered between fatigue and apprehension.
"You may speak, Second Son of Edmund Juraine," intoned the chairman — a narrow-faced elder whose sapphire ring marked his rank.
Pierre knelt crisply on the marble floor, then rose, his sodden cloak pooling behind him. His voice, though hoarse from the storm, rang clear as he laid bare every discovery from the dispatch — from the burned encampment to the hidden torture chamber, and most unsettling of all, the nameless force the slaves called a god.
Gasps echoed like ripples over still water. What began as murmurs soon swelled into a clamor of voices overlapping in disbelief and dread. Papers rustled, councilors rose from their benches, and a few exchanged glances heavy with unspoken fears. Even the chairman had to raise his palm thrice before calm grudgingly settled back over the room.
"Pierre Juraine," the chairman finally declared, voice measured yet tinged with somber gravity, "you have our gratitude for your magnificent service."
Pierre lowered his gaze and bowed slightly, the shadows under his eyes stark against his gaunt cheeks.
"Your Highness, I do not deserve such praise. We lost track of our target. The mission stands incomplete."
"Do not be too harsh on yourself, young man," the chairman replied, leaning slightly forward. His lined features softened, though his gaze did not lose its edge. "What you have uncovered surpasses our expectations. This is no longer a matter confined to Etherton. We shall dispatch you to the capital. The Crown must be made aware."
He gestured to a scribe, who began hastily penning a letter upon thick vellum.
"A recommendation will accompany your report."
Pierre straightened, the embers of duty rekindling in his chest.
"I am deeply honored. I will carry it without delay."
"It is too soon to rest easy, Captain Pierre. Prepare yourself — you depart before the next bell."
"Yes, Your Highness!"
That very afternoon, without so much as a night’s reprieve, Pierre Juraine mounted once more. His destination: Fleurein — the City of Flowers, jewel of the Queendom of Rosmayne, where secrets festered as sweetly as roses bloomed.