Chapter 15: Allatora

Chapter 15: Allatora

The morning light spilled through the grand windows of the palace, casting long golden beams across the polished stone floors. Sen and Dain walked, their footsteps echoing faintly against the high ceilings as they made their way toward the kitchen. The palace, though still bearing the scars of battle, felt eerily peaceful in the early hours, the remnants of the previous day’s destruction momentarily softened by the quiet hum of a city trying to rebuild. As they neared the entrance to the kitchen, the warmth of the ovens and the clatter of cooking filled the space ahead.

Dain: I’m telling you man, she was commenting on me.

Sen: Yeah, yeah. Should’ve hooked up with her then.

Dain: Nah, dude. Not my type. You’ll see her.

As Sen and Dain stepped into the kitchen, the rich aroma of sizzling meats and freshly baked bread greeted them, accompanied by the soft clatter of utensils. Behind the counter, a young maid worked with practiced ease, her long brunette hair cascading over her shoulder as she moved. The golden morning light framed her delicate features, highlighting the smooth grace of her motions as she carefully plated breakfast. Unlike the older maid who had previously made playful remarks about Dain’s physique, this one carried a quiet elegance, her presence almost serene. There was no teasing glance. She arranged the food, her gentle hum barely audible beneath the crackling of the hearth.

Sen (whispering to Dain): How is she not your type!?

Dain (whispering back): Dude, totally different girl!

Maid: Good morning, gentlemen! What can I get you?

Sen: Morning! A plate of whatever you made is fine.

Dain: Same here. Some extra eggs with that too if you can.

Maid: Coming your way.

The maid moved with effortless precision, her hands gliding across the counter as she prepared their plates. With a practiced flick of the wrist, she scooped generous portions of steaming eggs onto each dish, the golden yolks glistening beneath the soft morning light. The scent of crisp, pan-seared meats filled the air as she carefully arranged thick slices of cured ham alongside fresh-baked bread, its crust perfectly golden. She added an extra helping of roasted potatoes, their edges crisped to perfection, before finishing each plate with a side of ripe, freshly sliced fruit. Though her expression remained composed, there was an unmistakable hint of warmth in her actions, an unspoken generosity. With a final glance over her work, she slid the plates toward them, her delicate hands barely making a sound against the polished surface.

Sen: Oh, that’s a lot!

Maid (giggling): You two help saved us. It’s the least we can do.

Dain: Thank you.

Maid: My pleasure!

Sen and Dain accepted the plates and walked towards a near by table.

Sen: So, any word from Yerah?

Dain: Uhhh, no.

Sen: Hm, should we go get her?

Dain: Ummm, I think she’s hanging out with Makota and Shera.

Sen: Oh. She told you that?

Dain: Uhh, I saw her last night.

Sen: Oh. You didn’t mention that.

Dain: Yeah. Slipped my mind. All I could think of was bringing food back. Haha.

Sen: Makota and Shera?

Dain: What do you mean?

Sen: She’s usually hanging out with us. Not that there’s anything wrong with hanging with those two. It’s just, she’s usually with us.  

Dain: Um, yeah, I guess. Maybe she just wanted to talk to them?

Sen: Eh, I suppose.

Sen and Dain began to eat.

Dain: So, any new thoughts on what’s next?

Sen (swallowing his food): You mean, Allatora?

Dain: Yeah.

Sen: No, not really. Other than this war feels more real than ever… Now that Fex is dead.

Dain: I didn’t know those kinds of Zagons like that existed.

Sen: We didn’t know they existed at all.

Dain: Yeah, but I mean like the giant ones we fought. Never read about those kinds in our books.

Sen: Oh, that.

Dain: Makes you wonder how little we actually know.

Sen: What do you think Krutone is going to do?

Dain: You mean, how are they going to stop the Zagons?

Sen: Yeah. I hear they have all the military forces needed, but they haven’t done anything yet.

Dain: Hmm… And it’s not like they don’t know what’s going on.

Sen: And somehow Zarnem mentioning Penim’s name is supposed to make Krutone care.

Dain: Well, maybe that’s all the information they need. Maybe Krutone doesn’t know what they’re up against quite yet, so they’re taking caution. If anything, you got me thinking a lot about Zarnem.

Sen: You mean from our last talk?

Dain: Yeah… Why are we so afraid to ask him what’s going on? He seems to act like he knows everything.

Sen: It’s not that I’m afraid. It just feels pointless. All of this feels pointless.

Dain: Why?

Sen: Because something tells me Zarnem might just lie.

Dain: Hm.

Sen: And if not lie, tell partial truths.

Dain: You really don’t trust him.

Sen: I mean, we have to. He knows the way to Krutone. What’s left for us to do?

Dain: Yeah.

Sen: Well, what do you think? You said I got you thinking. What are your thoughts then?

Dain waited.

Dain: I get your concern. I think… He left Krutone. Why? Why come to a smaller place like Clyden? What did he do? Whatever it is, maybe this is his way of earning his spot back in Krutone.

Sen: And who are we then? Just pawns to sacrifice along the way?

Silence.

Sen: Like, Fex?

Dain: Well, he’s not intentionally trying to kill us.

Sen: Right… but we’re also not tools to be discarded when we lose usefulness to him.

Dain: Go talk to him about it.

Sen: Nah. Like I said, he’ll just give half answers.

Dain: You make him out to be like a politician. Haha.

Sen: He might as well be.

Sen and Dain continued eating their meal.

Dain: Anyways. A bit of training before we head out?

Sen: Sure thing.

As the last bites of their meal disappeared, Sen and Dain set their utensils down, their plates now empty save for a few stray crumbs. The warmth of the food lingered, fueling their bodies for what lay ahead. They stood, giving a brief nod of appreciation to the maid before stepping out of the palace kitchen.

They both made their way toward the palace’s backyard. The space was vast, enclosed by towering walls of white marble. The open ground, a mix of stone and hardened soil, stretched wide beneath the morning sun, perfect for training. Sen rolled his shoulders, feeling the energy settle within him, while Dain exhaled sharply, already mentally preparing himself.

Sen: Let’s not blow up the place.

Dain: Yeah. Just a spar.

Dain cracked his knuckles as he stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders loose before shifting into a comfortable stance. Sen stood across from him, his hands relaxed at his sides, yet there was something different in his posture—an ease, an effortlessness, like he was barely thinking about what came next. The morning air shimmered around them as the first sparks of their energy crackled to life.

Dain moved first, a small burst of fire sparking from his palm before he sent a concentrated beam of flames toward Sen’s chest. It was a test, nothing serious, just enough to gauge Sen’s reaction. Sen didn’t step back. Instead, with a flick of his wrist, a thin tendril of darkness spiraled upward like living smoke and ate the fire, consuming it in an instant. Before Dain could react, that same tendril split into multiple strands, twisting through the air like sentient shadows, whipping toward him with unnatural speed. Dain leapt back, barely dodging as a dark tendril lashed past his face, grazing his cheek with a cold, eerie burn. He retaliated immediately, snapping his fingers to ignite a swirling helix of fire in his palm. He swung it forward, sending it spiraling toward Sen like a flaming drill. Sen countered with a single step forward, raising his arm as chains of pure light shot forth from his fingertips, glowing with intense brilliance. The chains coiled around the flaming drill in midair, constricting it, and with a quick tug of his hand, the light chains crushed the fire, snuffing it out as if it had never existed.

Dain gritted his teeth, impressed despite himself.

Dain (thinking): Alright. Heat with heat. Didn’t cancel out my fires this time. 

He thrust his hands outward, igniting several pinpoint flares of fire that shot toward Sen from different angles, forcing him to move. Sen dodged. Then, darkness and light emerged together, thick walls of combined energy rose from the ground, absorbing the fiery projectiles one by one. Where fire would normally scorch or dissipate, these barriers of contrasting forces consumed the flames completely, neutralizing them. And then, just as suddenly as the walls appeared, Sen shifted them into something else entirely. The energy warped and twisted, shaping itself into swirl of energy. They hovered ominously for a split second before launching toward Dain at impossible speed. Dain had no choice but to match Sen’s creativity with his own. His fingers flicked outward, and from the flames in his palm, he wove lances of fire, each as thin as a needle but burning white-hot. He flicked them toward the incoming energy, the lances piercing through them, causing some to shatter into wisps of shadow.

Sen wasn’t finished. He swept his arm to the side, and from his palm erupted a beam of pure light, so bright and sharp it carved through the air itself. Dain barely had time to react, pressing his hands together and condensing his flames into an impenetrable wall of swirling fire. The light beam struck the barrier, and for a moment, the two forces struggled against each other, brilliance against heat. The impact sent a shockwave rippling outward, rustling the trees nearby and scattering dust across the training grounds. Just as the clash settled, Sen took it a step further. His energy evolved. The ground beneath them darkened as wisps of smoke-like shadows curled at his feet, spreading outward in an eerie mist. At the same time, spears of condensed light rose from the mist, glowing with radiance. The contrast was striking. The two elements intertwined so seamlessly, so naturally, that it almost looked like a singular force rather than two opposing energies. Dain was sweating now. Not from exhaustion, but from sheer excitement. Sen wasn’t just improving. He was mastering his abilities in ways Dain had never seen before.

Dain: You’re really pushing it today, huh?

Dain muttered to himself before inhaling deeply. He widened his stance, feeling the heat swell inside of him. He wasn’t going to sit back and be overwhelmed. With a shift in stance, he sent a ring of fire outward in all directions, clearing the mist, forcing the light spears to lose balance. Then, in a move that Sen wasn’t expecting, Dain cupped his hands together, compressing a single ember between his palms, making it denser, hotter. Then, boom, he unleashed it. A column of fire shot upward, then collapsed inward like an implosion, folding into itself until it formed something entirely new, a swirling mass of concentrated fire shaped like a drill, its edges sharpening as it spun wildly. The sheer heat distorted the air around it. Dain threw it forward.

Sen responded instantly. His hands moved fluidly, seamlessly integrating both light and darkness at once. As the blazing drill came at him, Sen forged a giant sphere of darkness and light, intertwining in an elegant, rotating pattern. The moment the fire drill clashed against the enormous construct, the energies twisted around each other—light against heat, darkness against raw combustion. Before suddenly detonating, sending waves of energy rippling through the battlefield.

The ground trembled from the sheer force of the explosion. Smoke billowed into the air. The echoes of the impact faded, leaving only silence between them.

Dain exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow.

Dain: Whatever happened to light sparring?

Sen: Haha. I can say the same for you!

Dain approached Sen.

Dain: Good stuff. You’re getting a hold of both elements quite nicely.

Sen: Yeah. Good stuff with you too.

Dain: Let’s head back?

Sen: Yeah. Sounds good.

The morning sun hung higher now, casting a warm glow over the palace grounds as Sen and Dain made their way back, their steps light despite the intensity of their sparring session. As they approached the carts, the quiet hum of preparation filled the air. Makota and Shera were already there, securing supplies and adjusting the straps on their packs. Sen and Dain gathering their gear, double-checking their equipment, and ensuring everything was properly loaded.

Sen: Where’s the rest?

Makota: Zarnem and Ira are finishing with the burial.

Sen: Oh… I see. And Yerah?

Shera: She finished loading already. I think she went to double check her room in case she forgot anything.

Sen: Hmm, I’ll go check to see if she needs any help.

Dain: Uh, she’ll be fine.

Sen: Hm?

Dain: She’s just double checking stuff right?

Sen: Yeah.

Shera: Yeah, she’ll be fine. All her stuff is already here.

The somber hush of mourning blanketed the palace courtyard, where rows of freshly dug graves stood beneath the morning sky, each marked by a simple wooden emblem. The soldiers of Troita lined up in solemn silence, their heads bowed as President Andin and a pastor led the ceremony, their voices steady in prayer to Yeshma. The people gathered in reverence, their voices rising in a mournful hymn, a gentle but powerful chorus that echoed through the war-torn city. The melody wove through the air like a lingering ghost, a farewell to those who had fallen. Among them, Fex’s grave stood at the center, draped with a simple yet dignified flag of Clyden, his sacrifice honored among Troita’s own. Far from the front, Zarnem and Ira stood together, their presence distant yet heavy. Ira’s arms were crossed tightly against herself, her expression unreadable. Zarnem, standing beside her, remained silent, his gaze fixed on the ceremony, though his mind was elsewhere.

“Yeshma, hear our voices,Take their souls into your hands.Let them rest beyond the sorrow,In the home of promised lands.”

Zarnem: Ira…

Ira: Hm?

Zarnem: Are you still upset with me?

Ira waited.

Ira: No…

Zarnem: I’m sorry I couldn’t be there.

Ira: It’s not your fault. I overreacted. You had to protect President Andin. I understand. I was just trying to make sense of everything.

Zarnem doesn’t reply.

Ira: I know you wouldn’t just abandon us like that. I just wish things were different.

Zarnem: I wish I could’ve been there. I could’ve saved him.

Ira: And if you saved Fex, Troita would have no leader. Fex died a real soldier.

Silence.

The Void. Sicrus leaned back against a massive boulder, one leg bent lazily while his sharp gaze followed the slow rotation of a small energy bullet between his fingers. Josar stood nearby, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his stare distant but restless. He said nothing, but his presence was heavy. Zan sat perched atop another boulder, one knee bouncing impatiently. His acid-scarred fingers drummed against the stone, each tap leaving faint sizzling pits where his skin met the rock. Penim stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the horizon. And then there was Mayzen. He sat calmly on a slab of stone, his posture relaxed.

Mayzen: Let’s move forward.  

Zan: Hell yeah!

Penim: Remember your place, Zan. Zarnem is mine.

Zan: Yeah, yeah. I know. I won’t kill him.

Sicrus: All this just for some stupid hybrids.

Penim: Hey, now. We gotta get into Krutone with the right kind of power, right? The Komodo is just about ready.

Mayzen: Will you all go?

Josar: No.

Mayzen looked to Josar.

Josar: I’ll stay.

Zan: Oh, sweet baby Josar. When will you ever join us on a little mission?

Josar: There’s no point in me going.

Zan: But aren’t you curious? Wouldn’t you like to know what you’re fightin’ for?

Josar doesn’t reply.

Sicrus: Up to you.

Josar looks away.

Sicrus: You don’t have to fight. You can just show up.

A moment of silence from everyone.

Penim: We have psychotic Zan over here who would annihilate an entire population. And then we have soft Josar here who won’t lift a finger against his own enemies. What a group we are.

Zan (smiling): And then there’s you, the one who does get shit done.

Penim: You’re mad because I called you psychotic?

Zan: Hahaha! Not at all. I revel in that shit. I’m just adding on to your comments.

Mayzen: Focus here.

Everyone looks to Mayzen.

Mayzen: We’ll go in about hour. Are your hybrids ready, Penim?

Penim: Almost. But if I have an hour, that should be enough time for me.

Mayzen: Then it’s settled. Those going, meet here in an hour.

The group splits. Sicrus lingers watching Josar. 

Sicrus: You don’t have to.

Josar still doesn’t reply.

The road into Allatora was silent, save for the steady creak of the carts and the distant, hollow wind weaving through broken buildings. What once might have been a thriving settlement was now little more than ruins, crumbling stone walls and homes scorched black by fire. The earth was dry and cracked beneath the weight of what had happened here, as if even the land itself had given up. As the crew, Sen, Dain, Yerah, Zarnem, Ira, Makota and Shera, moved deeper into the town, they passed hollow-eyed survivors huddled in doorways or sitting on splintered steps. Ragged children stared with sunken, empty expressions, their skin stretched thin over fragile bones. A few lifted their heads at the sound of approaching footsteps and wheels, but none of them called out. Their silence was more haunting than cries would have been, as if their voices had been stripped away along with everything else. The streets were littered with debris with shattered pottery, scraps of cloth, makeshift graves marked by crude stones. A toppled market stall still had the remnants of goods long rotted away. Flies buzzed in thick clouds near a collapsed well. Despite the ruin, there was movement, figures drifting like shadows through the rubble, scavenging for anything that might offer one more day of survival. The crew kept their heads down, saying nothing as they pressed forward.

Sen’s steps slowed as he caught sight of them, a small cluster of children crouched beneath the splintered remains of what was once a merchant’s cart. Hollow eyes stared back at him, wary and silent, as if even the instinct to beg had long since died. One of them, a boy no older than six, clutched a smaller child close to his chest, shielding her. Sen paused, glancing back at the others. No one was looking. He turned instead to the supply cart and quietly undid the leather straps, lifting out a small bundle of bread and a handful of bruised fruits. It wasn’t much, but it was something. He took a breath and stepped toward the children, holding the food out with an open hand. For a moment, they didn’t move. The boy’s gaze hardened, suspicion behind his dull eyes. He pulled his sister closer, as if expecting a trick. Sen said nothing. He simply knelt down, placing the food gently on the cracked stone and backing away slowly. The boy waited, then crept forward, still shielding the girl. His movements were cautious, but when his fingers brushed the bread, something snapped. Hunger took hold like wildfire. In a sudden, frantic rush, the children lunged for the food, snatching it up with trembling hands. The boy’s arms were like steel as he held the bread to his sister’s mouth, and then he tore into the fruit himself, juice running down his chin as he bit savagely. Within seconds, they turned and sprinted away into the ruins. Sen stood there for a long moment, watching the place where they disappeared. Then he exhaled softly. As Sen turned away, more civilians began to emerge from the shadows, hollow-eyed, gaunt figures drawn by the sight of food. Their hopeful gazes fixed on him, some hesitating while others took tentative steps closer, desperate for anything that might keep them alive another day.

Makota (approaching Sen): Stop feeding them.

Sen didn’t say anything back. They caught up with the crew without a word. Yerah saw everything unfold, but made no comments.

Makota (to Sen): It’s great you want to help, but it’s not your job. Feed them, then everyone is going to think we’re going to give up all our food, and what we have isn’t feeding everyone.

Shera: It’s a lose, lose. We won’t feed everyone, and we won’t have food for ourselves.

Sen: I just wanted to help the kids. At least the kids.

Makota: Respectfully, your kindness doesn’t matter here.

Zarnem: This is why we didn’t help those back in Revano.

Sen said nothing. As they pressed further into the ruins of Allatora, the quiet murmurs of suffering gave way to the steady hum of chanting voices. A small crowd had gathered in what remained of a public square, where a group of religious leaders stood elevated on a marble platform, their rich, embroidered robes gleaming in the hazy afternoon light. The leaders’ faces were clean, their bodies well-fed, untouched by the famine and decay that gnawed at the people below them. They raised their hands in unison, leading a chorus of worship to Yeshma. Their voices were strong, reverent, yet eerily detached from the hollow-eyed followers kneeling before them. Even from a distance, it was clear the leaders thrived while the rest of Allatora withered.

Dain: Damn… Here too?

Ira: Here too. Many places also.

Dain: All in the name of salvation?

Zarnem: We should meet with them.

Ira: What for?

Zarnem: To meet with Allatora’s prime minister. Perhaps he would let us use the underground passage to Luria. We’d get there faster.

The group approached slowly, keeping a respectful distance as the congregation’s voices rose in somber harmony. The song was hauntingly beautiful, a melody that drifted through the ruined streets like a fragile thread of hope woven through despair. Even in the wreckage of Allatora, the people sang with conviction, their hands lifted toward the pale sky as if begging for something beyond salvation. Perhaps peace, or simply relief from their suffering.

“Yeshma, guide our hands, make strong our way, Through fire and ruin, we kneel and obey. With labor we serve, with faith we endure, Your will is our path, our hearts are pure.”

When the song finally ended, the crowd lowered their hands in unison, heads bowed in silent reverence. Zarnem waited until the last echoes faded before stepping forward, his presence calm but commanding, as the pastors turned to acknowledge them.

Pastor 1: Welcome to Allatora. Where do you come from?

Zarnem: We come from Clyden. Although, I was a captain of Krutone.

Pastor 2: What brings you here?

Zarnem: I wanted to see if Prime Minister Jinra is here.

The pastors face each other with disappointment.

Pastor 1: You see… Prime Minster Jinra is dead.

Zarnem kept his composure.

Pastor 1: He was killed during the last attack here.

Zarnem: What happened here?

Pastor 2: Demons! They were black and white devils!

Zarnem: Black and white devils…

Pastor 2: Yes. We lost many soldiers, but the Lord Yeshma was with us and protected us from those demons.

Dain: Zagons.

Pastor 1: No. They are demons!

Zarnem gestured to Dain to not speak.

Zarnem: I am sorry you lost your prime minister. I’m sure he was a great man of Yeshma.

Pastor 2: Yes. His soul is at rest with Lord Yeshma.

Zarnem: I did want to ask if the underground tunnel is available for travel. We need to travel a faster route.

Pastor 1: To Luria?

Zarnem: Yes. We’re on our way back to Krutone.

Pastor 1: It’s available, but only to those that baptized in the name of Yeshma.

Zarnem: Since when was that the rule?

Pastor 2: It was always the requirement!

Zarnem looks to his crew, meeting eyes with Ira. He shook his head.

Ira (whispering to Zarnem): What’s going on?

Zarnem (whispering to Ira): They’re lying. I’ve been able to get through before.

Ira: So, we just take the long way?

Zarnem: We shouldn’t have to.

Pastor 1: Unless of course you bring offerings to Lord Yeshma.

Zarnem: Offerings?

Pastor 2: Yes.

Pastor 1: Trust Lord Yeshma with your finances, and you will be saved.

Dain: We have food.

Zarnem quickly looked to Dain upset, his gesture reminding Dain to not speak.

Pastor 1: Food is still offering!

Zarnem turned back to the pastors, unable to believe what he was hearing.

Zarnem (to Ira): Should we?

Ira: Is Luria the same way?

Zarnem: No. Queen Lessa would take care of us.

Ira: Then let’s pass on the food if it means we get to Luria faster.

Zarnem turns to the pastors.

Zarnem: How do we offer these sacrifices to Yeshma?

Pastor 1: Come with me to the house of Yeshma. There you can lay your gift before Him.

Zarnem: And from there, we can take the path to Luria?

Pastor 1: That is only up to Lord Yeshma.

Zarnem stood in silence, debating about the deal. He looks to his crew then back to the pastor.

Zarnem: Show us the way to Yeshma.

The crew followed closely behind the two pastors as they moved deeper into the heart of Allatora. Along the way, the broken remains of homes lined the streets like hollowed shells, their roofs collapsed, walls scorched and splintered. The air was thick with silence, broken only by the occasional wail of a hungry child or the groan of old wood shifting in the wind. It was clear the people here had long stopped expecting salvation.

Sen (to Yerah): Hey, you’ve been kind of quiet. All good?

Yerah: Oh hey. Yeah. All is fine.

Sen: You sure?

Yerah paused to think. Dain was next to them, wanting to break the awkwardness.

Sen: No worries if you just want time to yourself though.

Yerah: Oh it’s just hard to see how everything is, you know?

Sen: Oh, I see. Yeah, it can be kind of hard passing through places like this.

Yerah: You were really sweet.

Sen: Hm?

Yerah: To those kids. I saw.

Sen: Oh. I thought you all saw.

Yerah: Yeah, we did.

Sen: Wish I could’ve helped more of them.

Yerah: Yeah, me too… but we can’t.

Sen doesn’t know what to say back.

Dain: But at least you helped a little.

Sen smiles lightly.

Yerah: Something is better than nothing.

At last, they reached the church. A towering structure of faded white stone and dark timber, it stood in eerie contrast to the ruins surrounding it. The building was intact. It was clean, even and polished. The doors were framed by ornate carvings of Yeshma, arms outstretched as if in welcome. Bright banners of red and gold hung from the upper windows, fluttering lightly in the breeze. A small group of church leaders stood by the entrance, their faces calm, untouched by the suffering outside. As the crew approached, the pastors gestured toward the grand doors, which creaked open to reveal a warm, flickering light from within.

Pastor 2: Welcome to the house of Lord Yeshma.

They entered. They stepped through the grand doors and into cool, silent halls, their footsteps muffled against smooth stone floors polished to a gleam. The walls were adorned with golden tapestries depicting scenes of Yeshma’s supposed mercy, images of abundance and peace that felt cruelly ironic in contrast to what they had seen outside. As they followed the pastors deeper into the church, they passed by other church. Finally, they entered a large storeroom lit by soft lanterns. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, each stacked with sacks of grain, baskets overflowing with fruit, and crates of dried meats. Fresh loaves of bread rested in neat piles atop wooden tables. Without a word, Zarnem motioned for the crew to unload their packs. One by one, they placed most of their remaining food on the tables, the quiet thud of their offerings the only sound in the heavy stillness of the room.

Pastor 1: Now come with me.

The pastors gestured silently for them to follow, their flowing robes whispering against the stone as they led the crew down another corridor. The faint sound of chanting grew louder with each step until they emerged into a vast sanctuary. At the far end stood an ornate altar bathed in soft, golden light, where a few faithful knelt in silent prayer. The pastors moved with reverence, guiding the crew toward the front as if presenting them for judgment.

Pastor 1 (raising his hands): O great and merciful Yeshma, we thank You for Your endless provision and protection. We offer to You these gifts, humbly laid at Your feet by travelers from distant lands. May their generosity be a testament to their faith in Your divine will. Accept these offerings as a sign of their devotion, and in Your grace, grant them safe passage through the sacred way beneath Allatora. Lead them swiftly to Luria, under Your watchful eye, and deliver them from the evils that walk this broken world. In Your name, we trust. In Your light, we follow. Amen.

Ira: So, do we get to go now?

Pastor 2: The Lord Yeshma has answered yes and accepted your offerings.

Zarnem: Where can we take the tunnel?

Pastor 2 (gesturing to a young lady): Young Elma will take you.

Elma: I can feel the love of Lord Yeshma in this room. The blessings of Yeshma are heavy in this place. You are favored. Please follow me.

Zarnem (to the pastors): We’re grateful for your generosity in granting us an audience with Yeshma.

Pastor 1: May Yeshma’s light guide your path to Luria.

Elma moved with quiet purpose, her bare feet making no sound against the polished stone floors as she guided the crew back through the grand hallway. The soft glow of lanterns flickered along the walls, casting long shadows behind them. As they stepped out of the church, the light of day felt muted, the air heavier somehow, as if the church’s hollow sanctity clung to them. Elma led them around the side of the structure, down a narrow, winding path lined with cracked stones and brittle weeds. The ruined city loomed around them once more, but Elma’s expression remained serene, her eyes fixed ahead as she walked. The further they went, the quieter it became, the sounds of the suffering behind them fading.

Suddenly, a ripple of distorted air shimmered above the church’s steeple. A dark portal tore itself open in the space above, its swirling edges crackling with Intergy. From its center, three figures emerged, stepping through with an almost casual ease. Zan was first, his crooked grin spreading wide as he balanced on the edge of the roof, his acid mist already beginning to seep from his body in faint wisps. Beside him stood Penim, silent and imposing, his cold gaze scanning the streets below. Then Mayzen, quiet with an unreadable expression. The portal snapped shut behind them with a sharp hiss.

Zan: Ahh… look at all the fun Sicrus had before us.

His grin was wide, almost childlike, but there was a glint in his eye that promised nothing but cruelty.

Penim: Will he come later?

Mayzen (calmly): He said he would. Scray will stay back.

Penim: And Josar?

Zan: Does it matter?

Zan cracked his neck with a jerk.

Zan: Just help me find Zarnem.

Before Penim could reply, Mayzen’s head turned sharply. A low hum of Intergy thrummed in the air around him, like a deep vibration felt through bone rather than heard. He raised one gloved hand and pointed toward the horizon.

Mayzen: Zarnem is there.

A pause.

Mayzen: The full group of them.

Penim’s hand flexed, faint gravitational ripples distorting the space around his fingertips.

Penim: We should get their attention… before they get too far.

Zan raised his hand sharply.

Zan: Wait!

He grinned, his teeth bared.

Zan: Before you release your little monsters, let me do something real quick first!

His eyes gleamed as he stepped closer to the edge of the rooftop, Intergy already coiling around him in thick, smoky tendrils of acid. He stomped down hard, releasing a surge of Intergy through his leg. The stone beneath him cracked violently before shattering completely, and in an instant, he dropped through the roof like a falling blade. Dust and debris exploded into the air as he crashed into the sanctuary below. The religious leaders and pastors, recoiled in terror. Their prayers turned to screams as they stumbled back, shielding their eyes from the dust cloud. The congregation followed, gasping and crying out in confusion, unable to comprehend who had just invaded their sacred space. Zan stood in the rubble, his smile cutting through the chaos, that screamed of something evil.

Pastor 1: Who are you!?

Pastor 2: You can’t break into the house of Yeshma like this!

Some of the religious leaders began to build up Intergy from their hands, ready to defend themselves.

Zan: Oh, I’ve been waiting to do something like this.

Pastor 1: Identify yourself!

Zan: My father used to be super religious. Brings back good memories.

Pastor 2: Repent! Lord Yeshma will punish you!

Zan grinned.

Zan: You religious fuckers are such a cult!

Zan slowly paced side to side as they watched him in fear.

Zan (seriously): You know, people say I’m scary… They say mean things like I’m a monster.

Zan went back to his grin.

Zan (laughing): And they’re right, you know!

Zan stops pacing and glances through every religious leader in the room.

Zan: But at least I’m honest… What’s scarier are monsters like you. You paint yourselves as holy men. You stand here in your robes, preaching salvation while the people who worship rot in their own skin. You let them starve so you can fill your own mouths and call it divine order. You sell hope like it’s a drug, and you call yourselves saints. You think that makes you righteous? No… it makes you parasites!

Zan’s arms liquefied into acid.

Zan: You are insects, worshiping a lie. Yeshma isn’t coming. He never was. You bow to empty air. That’s all it is. A cheap little fantasy for people too weak to save themselves… But don’t worry… I’m here now, and I’ll give you what your god never could… an ending!

Zan moved like a specter of death through the sanctuary, his body shifting between solid and liquid, streams of acid dripping from his arms and splattering against the polished stone floors. One of the religious leaders hurled a blast of Intergy toward him, a desperate shot of searing light, but it fizzled on contact with the corrosive mist that clung to Zan’s form. He closed the distance in an instant, his grin widening as he drove a spear of liquefied acid straight through the man’s chest. Flesh sizzled. The man let out a strangled scream as his body collapsed in on itself, ribs and muscle melting into sludge. Another tried to run, but Zan’s hand extended like a whip, catching him by the ankle. The acid immediately ate through his skin, and he fell screaming, his leg dissolving beneath him. Zan yanked his arm back, snapping bone in two, then flicked his wrist, slinging bits of corroded flesh across the room like discarded scraps.

Then Zan immediately appeared next to of the pastors with blinding speed and blew out the pastor’s arms with an explosion of acid. Zan pinned him with one knee. The pastor’s face was twisted in horror as he struggled weakly to no avail. Zan tilted his head, studying him almost thoughtfully.

Zan (calmly): Have you ever been vomited on?

Before the pastor could respond, Zan’s mouth opened wide and a thick stream of bubbling acid poured forth. It splashed directly onto the pastor’s face, eating away skin, muscle, and bone in seconds. The screams didn’t last long. Only a wet gurgle remained as the man’s skull disintegrated into a molten pulp. Without pause, Zan turned, his acid-forged blades cleaving through the torsos of two more priests who tried to shield themselves behind a column of Intergy. Their protective barrier barely held for a second before collapsing, and their bodies followed soon after. Finally, Zan approached the last pastor. Zan sneered, then with two quick slashes, severed both legs at the knees. The man toppled forward, clutching at the stumps where his legs had been, shrieking in agony. Zan stood over him, watching with a disturbing calm.

The legless pastor attempted crawling away, painting the once clean floors with blood spilling from his knees.

Pastor 1 (crying above): Please spare me!

Zan (laughing): What a fucking sight! A human paint brush!

Pastor 1 (screaming): Please, Lord Yeshma, save me! I beg you!

Zan (annoyed): Quit praying to your cute make-believe Yeshma.

Zan’s grin immediately shifted to a sinister scowl, thick streams of acid spilling from his eyes. The corrosive tears hissed, but he didn’t so much as blink.

Zan: Pray to me, because in this moment, I am your god… and I’m sending you to Hell…

Zan unzipped his pants and began to piss all over the pastor. It wasn’t urine. It was acid, and the moment it splashed against flesh, the air filled with the sickening stench of burning skin. The pastor’s screams grew shrill as his face dissolved, the acrid smoke curling upward in greasy, yellow wisps. Zan watched with an almost casual amusement, waiting until the cries finally died away.

He resettled his pants and turned.

Zan: Can’t wait til we all go to Hell and I get to do this all over again.

Zan stepped out of the church’s grand entrance, wiping his hands on his pants as if brushing off the filth of the slaughter inside, though the grin on his face said he enjoyed every second of it. Above, perched casually atop the ruined spire, Mayzen and Penim watched in silence.

Penim: Looks like he’s done playing. Shall I start?

Mayzen: Proceed.