“The second system is Divine Grace—the ‘Righteous Path’ the Curia proclaims,” she said, stowing the human-hide scroll. Her tone turned abruptly cold as she withdrew a silver pectoral bearing a cross from the wooden box. The emblem glowed faintly white, and close by one could smell the acrid tang of heated metal.
“They claim this is proof of God’s blessing on the faithful, yet they never explain the source of that ‘blessing.’”
She tossed the holy emblem onto the table; it rang sharply. Leaning forward, the gentle swell of her breasts bounced enticingly—an intoxicating sight that made Harlotte’s nose bleed. Unfazed, Margaret produced a lace handkerchief from her bodice and offered it to him with a small, indulgent smile.
“True divine grace was severed long ago when Heaven’s Gate closed,” she continued. “What the Curia now calls ‘Divine Grace’ is nothing but fragments of godly power scattered during the Great Sundering, forged to fool the masses.”
“They formed the Inquisition to hunt practitioners of the other systems, yet dare not reveal the origin of their own ‘grace.’”
Harlotte gripped the handkerchief until his bleeding ceased. Looking out the window, he saw the castle’s gray-green walls turn sickly in the gloom. Shadows writhed atop the distant tower in shapes that defied Euclidean geometry. He could not tell if his eyes deceived him—or if his mind, strained by truths, teetered on the brink of madness.
“The third is Vitae—Blood and Qi—most bound to the flesh. By condensing a seed of life-ether within their bodies, practitioners strengthen themselves. Nearly every knight in the kingdoms follows this path.”
Margaret stepped to the hearth; flames cast her twisted shadow across the wall. The slit of her robe revealed more skin as she spoke.
“This path relies on no external aid, but on forging the body to awaken its inner ‘life ether.’ It is the hardest and most self-reliant of the four ways. Any can grow stronger thus, but the cost is time: even the most gifted knight needs three to five years to form a Vitae Seed.”
She knocked on the hearth’s mantel, producing a hollow echo.
“Vitae adepts can toughen flesh to resist steel, ward off magic, even briefly withstand Outer-God’s psychic taint. Yet none disclose the method freely—this path is too arduous and feared by the Curia.”
His hand went to his arm, and a cold sweat broke out. Margaret had moved behind him; her warm breath brushed his ear, and he felt the silk of her robe against his back.
“The last is the Sage—rooted in knowledge.” Her voice, sultry and persuasive, trailed over his shoulder. “Sages seek no power from gods; they interpret the World’s Language to commune with all things—plants, wind, ley lines become their eyes and ears.”
“Novice Sages must master herbology, runes, astrology; intermediates resonate with the astral realm and glimpse fragments of the future; masters can warp physics, turning rivers upstream or bloating dead wood with blossoms.”
“The Curia hates Sages fiercely, for these seekers of truth know Divine Grace is a lie.”
His grip tightened on the teacup. The hard porcelain steadied him as his mind threatened to shatter. Then in his head came the sound of a die dropping—the crystal twenty-sided die of Will spun and settled on 19, accompanied by a flash of blood-red light and the words Critical Failure hovering above the die.
At that instant, the walls of Margaret’s chamber seemed to bleed a slick slime that dripped onto the floor, pooling in the stone joints, whispering countless strange prayers in a chorus of inhuman voices. He recalled Seraphina’s warning and fished out his pocket watch—its hands whirled madly before stopping at 9:35 PM.
“Damn it!”
He sprang up, knocking the watch to the floor; its glass face spider-webbed. Margaret’s robe had fallen open, revealing silver runes etched across her back, pulsing like living serpents in the firelight.
Unable to trust his senses, Harlotte bolted for the door, ignoring Margaret’s stunned cry. He burst into the corridor—and froze as a salty, briny gale slammed into him. The familiar hallway had vanished.
The walls rippled like water, slick with green moss and dripping acidic slime that hissed on the floor. Carved reliefs on either side twisted into tentacled horrors; knightly faces became writhing monstrosities, saintly eyes gaped into bleached voids, all gazing at him with malice. The corridor’s end receded endlessly, its straight path curving grotesquely, while countless translucent filaments dangled from the ceiling, each tipped with a frozen, blinking eyeball.
Most terrifying was the empty doorway behind him—it had merged with the wall, now etched with the same spiral sigils as the human-hide scroll, the slime outlining patterns beyond comprehension.
He reached out; his fingers met cold, viscous stone with no seam to pry. He beat at the wall until his palm was coated in slick slime, its pungent brine crawling into his pores in an icy grip.
From the darkness ahead came a subtle skittering—not footsteps, but the rasp of soft-bodied creatures sliding on stone. Reliefs wept blood that trickled into crimson rivulets, moving toward his feet. The eyeballs atop the filaments fixed upon him, then snapped open, their pupils reflecting his terror as they emitted a shrill, hissing shriek.
He turned to flee, but the corridor itself betrayed him: the flagstones beneath his feet drifted him deeper into the blackness. The slime bubbled, exhaling ghostly gray mists in which faint humanoid shapes reached out with hooked fingers.
Harlotte’s heart pounded so fiercely he collapsed, watching those arms extend from the fog. Behind him, the wall vibrated; the runes blazed brighter, more eyes surfacing in the slime, all staring, as though awaiting the opening rite.
The once-symmetrical halls and staircases contorted into chaotic, nightmarish architectures.
In that moment, he understood Seraphina’s warning was no jest. After 9:30 PM, the castle was no longer a human abode but a R’lyeh-like nightmare city, filled with unspeakable horrors.
And he had become the sole prey within this twisted fortress.