-----Chapter 24: The Uncertain Resolve-----
The fortress felt hollow. Not empty—there were still people, still movement, still the sound of distant voices echoing through the stone halls—but the presence of absence was undeniable. The corridors carried the ghost of what had been, the weight of choices made and paths taken.
The war room was no different.
A large wooden table dominated the space, its surface scarred from years of use. Maps and reports were scattered across it, the edges curled from restless hands gripping them too tightly. The air smelled of wax, parchment, and steel, the lingering scent of a place that had always been a battleground of decisions.
The torches flickered, casting shifting shadows against the walls, but the heaviest shadow in the room came from the words that had just been spoken.
Varen stood stiffly at the head of the table, hands braced against the worn wood. His armor was slightly unfastened at the collar, a sign of exhaustion, but his stance remained sharp. His voice, however, held a quiet edge that betrayed the storm beneath the surface.
"Eighteen hundred are gone."
His words settled like iron into the room, pressing against the silence.
"Some followed the gods' path, hoping for salvation. Others just… ran." His fingers curled slightly against the table. "The ones who stayed either believe in our cause… or they have nowhere else to go."
He didn't look up. He didn't need to.
The silence that followed was thick—not from shock, not from disbelief, but from the weight of knowing. This was not a revelation. They had all felt it.
Sofia stood near the far end of the room, arms crossed, her posture rigid. Her gaze lingered on the map but did not focus on it. Near the door, Samantha leaned against the wall, her expression unreadable. But Sylvian…
Sylvian merely sat. One elbow rested against the arm of his chair, fingers tapping idly against the table's surface in an almost absent-minded rhythm. But his eyes—his eyes told another story.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was calm, even measured, but it did not soften the reality of his words.
"How many are still willing to fight?"
Varen exhaled sharply through his nose, as if grounding himself before answering. "Eighty percent."
Samantha raised an eyebrow. "That many?"
Varen nodded. "They know what's coming. The gods won't protect them, and the ones who left… most won't make it far." His jaw tightened. "But the rest—injured, elderly, children—they're unable to fight. We can't force them."
At the word children, Sylvian's fingers stilled against the table.
It was subtle. Almost imperceptible.
But Sofia noticed.
A flicker of something passed through his eyes—not relief, not guilt, but something far heavier. A momentary hesitation, as if recalling a memory buried deep, then locking it away once more.
The room remained still, filled with the quiet hum of torches burning in their brackets.
After a pause, Sylvian leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying a new weight."Sir Aldric has already begun preparing large supplies. The knights are in training. Alec is overseeing armor and weapon repairs."
Each word was precise. Each word carried the weight of inevitability.
A war was coming. And they would meet it head-on.
Sofia, however, wasn't looking at the map anymore. Her eyes were on Sylvian.
Something in his demeanor—that unshaken, resolute focus—made her stomach twist. Not in doubt, but in something she didn't yet have words for.
He carried this war too easily.
Too naturally.
And she wondered—how long had it been like this for him?
A long silence stretched before Sylvian finally exhaled, his gaze sweeping toward Varen and Samantha.
"Prepare the rest of the followers. We need them ready."
No hesitation. No delay.
Samantha pushed off the wall with a slow stretch of her shoulders, her crimson cape shifting as she moved. Varen gave a sharp nod, but neither spoke as they turned to leave.
Yet, as they stepped into the corridor, Samantha spoke.
She didn't turn her head, didn't look at him—just kept walking, her voice carrying in the dimly lit hallway.
"How do you do it?"
Varen blinked. "Do what?"
"Follow him without hesitation." Her tone wasn't accusing, nor was it admiring. It was a simple question, spoken by someone who had been waiting for the right moment to ask it.
Varen slowed slightly, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. His lips pressed together for a second before he finally answered.
"Because when someone has saved you more times than you can count… when they give everything without asking for anything in return… it stops being about duty."
His voice was softer than before. Not weaker—just quieter.
"Commander Sylvian's more of a parent than any of us ever had."
Samantha stopped walking.
She didn't respond immediately. She just stared at him, and for the first time since she had joined them, something inside her wavered.
A hesitation.
Not because she doubted Sylvian's strength. Not because she doubted Varen's words.
But because she didn't know if she had ever followed someone like that before.
Not in the way Varen described. Not in the way these people—Sylvian's people—moved without hesitation.
And in that silence, something in her shifted.
Without another word, they continued walking.
----
Inside the war room, the weight of the conversation still lingered.
Sylvian remained at the table, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of the map. Sofia hadn't moved either, though her gaze now rested entirely on him.
The room felt quieter without the others.
And it was in that quiet that Sofia finally spoke.
"Do you ever stop?"
Sylvian's eyes flickered toward her, but he didn't answer.
Not immediately.
Sofia leaned against the back of a chair, crossing her arms once more, her voice softer than before. "We're losing people. We've always been losing people. But you…" She tilted her head slightly. "You never seem like it affects you."
Sylvian finally met her gaze fully, his expression unreadable. "Is that what you think?"
Sofia didn't falter. "I think you've already decided how this ends, and you won't let yourself feel anything until you get there."
A small pause.
Then, Sylvian exhaled, tilting his head slightly, as if considering her words. His expression didn't change, but his next words carried an edge of something unreadable.
"Make your decision calmly, Sofia."
She frowned slightly. "What?"
Sylvian stood. "But make it with your heart."
And with that, he turned, leaving her alone in the dim light of the war room.
For a long moment, she didn't move.
She just stared after him, the weight of his words pressing against her like an unseen force.
Because it wasn't just about this battle.
It was about him.
About who he was, and who he was willing to become.
And Sofia…
Sofia wasn't sure which answer scared her more.
---
"Lord Eryx, the preparations are complete. We are ready to move toward the labyrinth."
Veylin knelt, his crimson-plated gauntlet pressed against the marble floor, his head lowered in unwavering reverence. His voice held neither hesitation nor doubt, only purpose.
But the god did not immediately respond.
Eryx lay sprawled across a lavish pile of silk cushions, his posture more befitting of an indolent merchant than a deity. The air was thick with the scent of aged wine and slow-burning incense, but beneath the overwhelming aroma, a sense of something more insidious lingered—something unseen, yet suffocating.
His golden eyes remained half-lidded, his fingers tracing the rim of a chalice filled with dark wine. For a moment, it seemed as if he hadn't even registered Veylin's words.
Silence stretched.
Veylin did not move. He did not dare to.
Then—
A sharp inhale.
Eryx's fingers tightened around the chalice. The liquid inside rippled, then sloshed over the edge, staining the pristine silk beneath him.
For the briefest moment, an emotion flashed across his face—one that had no place on a god's visage.
Fear.
It was gone in an instant.
Eryx exhaled, rolling his shoulders as though shaking off the weight of an unseen chain. His lips curled into a lazy smirk, though his gaze was anything but amused.
"Ahhh… the labyrinth, was it?" His voice was smooth, disinterested, as if the very thought of it was an afterthought.
He set the chalice down with an audible clink, golden eyes flicking toward Veylin.
"Yes, yes… we must retrieve 'that' before those wandering fools lay claim to it."
A lazy flick of his wrist.
"Move the forces. We depart at once."
Veylin rose smoothly to his feet, placing a fist over his chest in salute. "Understood, my lord."
His steps were measured as he turned and strode toward the grand entrance of the chamber, his crimson cloak trailing behind him. Yet, just before he reached the towering doors, Eryx spoke again.
"Veylin."
The strategist halted. "Yes, my lord?"
A beat of silence.
Then, the god's fingers drifted toward his throat, pressing lightly against the skin as though feeling for something unseen. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, the mask of lethargy cracked—just barely.
"…Be thorough." His voice was quieter now, lacking its usual nonchalance. "Leave no loose ends."
Veylin's lips pressed into a thin line. He bowed once more before leaving.
The doors groaned open, allowing him to step out into the corridor where the air was cooler, the weight of incense and wine fading into the background. He exhaled softly, his expression unreadable.
The grand halls of the temple stretched before him, lined with towering pillars engraved with celestial scriptures—remnants of a divine past that had long since lost its luster. What was once a place of reverence was now nothing more than a den for something far removed from holiness.
As he walked, armored figures straightened at his passing. The Holy Knights of Eryx—devoted warriors clad in silver and crimson—stood in disciplined rows, their hands resting upon the hilts of their weapons. Behind them, a battalion of lesser clerics and warriors murmured in hushed tones, awaiting their command.
Veylin stopped at the edge of the grand staircase that led down into the temple's courtyard. From here, he could see them all—the assembled forces, the faithful, the ones who would march toward the labyrinths under their god's will.
He spoke, his voice carrying with unwavering certainty.
"The time has come. The gods move toward the labyrinths, and we will move with them. Our lord has given the command—our goal remains unchanged." His crimson gaze swept over the gathered warriors. "The path ahead will not be walked without resistance. The remnants of this world still claw for survival, blind to the will of divinity. We will show them otherwise."
His words did not need embellishment. These warriors—these followers—were not here to doubt.
One of the Holy Knights stepped forward, his helmet tucked beneath one arm. His face was battle-worn, the lines of age visible even beneath the hardened exterior of a soldier.
"And the others?" he asked. "The fools who resist?"
Veylin's expression did not waver. "They will either kneel before the inevitable—" his gaze darkened, "—or they will be erased from it."
A silence fell over the gathering. Not one of hesitation, but of finality. The weight of what was to come was no longer something distant. It was here, pressing against them, pushing them forward.
Without another word, Veylin turned sharply on his heel and descended the staircase. The Holy Knights followed, their movements precise, their steps unwavering.
The march toward the labyrinths had begun.
---
A voice echoed in the dimly lit chamber, a whisper swallowed by the flickering shadows.
"They have been sent. The finest of the Unbound."
The speaker stood at the edge of the light, a figure cloaked in worn black fabric, his features barely visible beneath the hood's deep shadow. His posture was relaxed, but his voice carried weight—certainty.
From the darkness beyond him, another voice emerged, low and measured.
"And the gods?"
The hooded figure shifted slightly, stepping forward just enough for the dim light to catch the sharp edge of his jaw.
"They have started moving. But they are late."
He spoke without urgency, as if the gods' actions were little more than a formality—something expected, something accounted for.
The silence that followed was thick, stretched by something unseen.
Then, a step.
From the deeper darkness, the second figure moved forward.
A mortal—yet not entirely so. His form was human, but his eyes… his eyes were not.
Blood-red, not in the way of a man's rage, nor in the glow of some divine gift, but in the way of something wrong. Their depths did not reflect the light. They absorbed it.
And at his throat, something pulsed—a mark, a sigil, a wound. It flared for a moment, then faded, its presence lingering even as it disappeared.
The hooded man inclined his head slightly, as if in quiet reverence, though his voice remained the same.
"The gods will move to claim it, but we cannot allow them to take what is ours."
A pause.
The red-eyed figure raised his hand, fingers curling as a faint shimmer of energy crackled through the air around him.
"Then we make sure they never reach it."
The flickering candlelight dimmed, as if something unseen had smothered its glow.
And in the silence that followed, the unseen forces of the Unbound stirred.
---
Unmoving. Unbreathing. Hidden in the deeper dark. A third presence was there.
It had not spoken. It did not need to.
Yet its presence filled the space, pressing into the very air, making it heavy, making it wrong. The hooded man did not dare to turn toward it. The red-eyed one did not acknowledge it.
But they both knew.
Something older than the gods had begun to stir. Something that should not exist.
"The gods still believe themselves to be at the center of fate," the hooded figure murmured, as though speaking to the unseen thing beyond the veil of light. "They do not know what lies beneath."
A low vibration passed through the walls, not a sound, but a feeling—like a whisper traveling through bone, through marrow.
Something was listening.
Something was responding.
The red-eyed figure finally turned, his voice as calm as a blade sliding from its sheath. "Let them chase their illusions. We will move unseen, as we always have."
And for the first time, from the deeper darkness—something moved.
A ripple in the air. A presence shifting.
The candlelight in the chamber did not flicker. It simply stopped existing.
And in that moment, the gods' war for the labyrinths had already been lost.