The only sounds in the dank stairwell were ragged gasps and the thunder of boots on stone.
Jet took the steps three at a time.
Behind him, Eirlys matched his pace, her hair whipping behind her, one hand skimming the damp wall for balance.
"Slow down, you daft horse!" she snapped, her voice sharp and clear despite the exertion. "Not all of us have regenerative lungs!"
Jet skidded to a halt at the bottom, and scanned the small, circular chamber. Weak moonlight filtered through cracks high above, illuminating a stone well dominating the center, its water black and unnaturally still.
Walls offered nothing but damp, moss-covered stone.
"Dead end," he grunted, kicking a loose pebble. It clattered against the wall, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence.
Eirlys reached the well, bracing her hands on the cold rim, barely winded. Her eyes narrowed as she studied the water. Without hesitation, she plunged her hand in past the wrist.
A flicker of surprise crossed her features. She pulled her hand back – perfectly dry.
"Not wet," she murmured, turning her hand under the faint light. "Feels... like dipping into cold air. A breeze on the other side. Strange."
Jet raised a skeptical eyebrow, crossing his arms. "Breeze? In water? You finally crack under the pressure, Princess?"
"Put your head in," Eirlys commanded, pointing at the well. Her tone brooked no argument.
Jet recoiled. "My head? Why the hell would I do that?"
"Because I felt air," Eirlys stated flatly. "This is likely a portal. Our way out."
Jet snorted. "Then you stick your pretty head in. See what happens."
Eirlys mirrored his stance, crossing her arms. Her gaze was icy. "And risk decapitation by some monster? No, thank you. You regenerate. Perfectly disposable." She gestured dismissively at him. "Stop whining and do it."
Jet scowled, his knuckles whitening. "You stuck your hand in! Nothing happened. Why would your head be different?"
"Because it's attached to my brain, something you clearly undervalue," Eirlys retorted, her voice dripping with condescension. "You're the designated reckless idiot. Act like one. Dip your thick skull in there now."
Jet glared, muttering a string of curses under his breath.
He approached the well with theatrical reluctance, rolled his shoulders, braced his hands on the cold stone, and plunged his head into the black water.
There was no splash. No wetness. Just a sudden transition into open sky. Clouds scudded impossibly close across a twilight expanse. He gasped reflexively – clean, cool air filled his lungs. "Holy SHIT!" His muffled shout echoed strangely in the chamber below.
Eirlys didn't flinch. "Jet? Stop playing!" She saw only his shoulders; his head had vanished into the surface as if submerged, yet the water remained unnervingly still.
Before she could react, his body lurched forward. With a startled yelp, Jet slid entirely through the water's surface and disappeared. The well remained placid.
Eirlys stared, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arching.
"Idiot," she murmured, a hint of exasperation in her voice. Taking a measured breath, she mimicked his posture, braced her hands on the inner rim, and pushed her head through.
The sensation was profoundly disorienting. Dank chill vanished, replaced by a cool, gentle breeze on her face. She opened her eyes. Cobblestones stretched before her under a dusky sky. Jet stood nearby, a grin splitting his face. "Took you long enough, snowflake."
Eirlys pulled her head back into the chamber, then pushed her upper body through the impossible surface. It felt like passing through a cold, dry curtain. She hauled herself out onto sun-warmed cobblestones beside the well, rising smoothly to her feet, brushing non-existent dust from her clothes. Her eyes immediately scanned the horizon.
They stood on a raised stone platform, the well at its center. The sky was a deep twilight purple, stars emerging. Below them, nestled in a gentle valley, sprawled a village ripped from a storybook. Timber-framed houses with steeply pitched thatched roofs clustered together, smoke curling from stone chimneys. Cobblestone streets wound between them, lit by lanterns hanging from wrought-iron posts. Lush gardens bloomed in pockets, and a sparkling stream bisected the lower levels, crossed by arched stone bridges. The air hummed with distant life and carried scents of woodsmoke, baking bread, and wildflowers.
Dominating the far end of the valley, perched atop the highest point, stood a palace built of deep, volcanic crimson stone that seemed to absorb the dying light. Towers clawed at the twilight sky, sharp and imposing, windows glowing with a fierce inner light. It radiated ancient, watchful power.
"Destination confirmed," Eirlys stated, her voice cool and focused, nodding towards the distant crimson edifice.
Jet followed her gaze, then scanned the platform's edge. Below was a sheer drop into a lush garden. He craned his neck. "Whole place is boxed in," he grunted, pointing towards the distant valley walls. Faint, shimmering lines of crimson-tinged energy traced the boundaries, rising high and curving overhead into a colossal dome. "Saw glimpses of it on the way down. Some kinda barrier."
He turned, flexing his legs with a predatory grin. "Shall we?" He gestured towards the drop.
Eirlys rolled her eyes with palpable disdain. "Don't be an idiot," she snapped, striding past him towards a sturdy wooden door set into a small stone structure built against the platform's wall. "There's a door, you walking muscle spasm. How do you propose I descend? Levitate?" She lifted the iron latch with a soft clack and pushed the door open.
Jet shrugged, the grin not fading. "Life's more fun when you're not so rigid. Oh yeah, what about Lavender?"
Eirlys stepped into the dim interior without looking back.
"She sent us ahead for a reason. Likely didn't want me to be an audience for her... interrogation techniques. She'll find us. She always does. Our task is to proceed." Her voice was matter-of-fact.
Jet ducked under the low frame, following her in. "Yeah, didn't want you seeing her work. What about me?"
Eirlys turned. In one fluid motion, she reached up and delivered a sharp, precise thwack with her knuckles to the top of his head. Jet winced.
She stated coolly. "We are finally here, Jet. Actual proximity to Vathyls. After all these while. Cease acting like a brainless berserker and focus. One reckless act could doom us both." She turned away, surveying the small, tidy space – a simple living area with a woven rug, a wooden table, and a cold hearth. Doorways led to a sparse bedroom and a small kitchen. Potted plants thrived on the windowsill.
"Hers," Eirlys murmured, touching a vibrant leaf. "That Gardener's post."
Jet poked his head into the bedroom – a narrow cot, a chest, more plants. "Cozy cage for a watchdog," he commented.
Eirlys emerged from the kitchen, shaking her head. "Nothing of value. Only signs of habitation. We move." She strode back to the door leading out onto the platform's edge, where stone steps descended into the garden below.
They emerged into a small, meticulously kept garden bursting with night-blooming flowers that glowed softly. Eirlys paused, inhaling the complex fragrance. L
"Beautiful," she acknowledged, a rare softening in her expression before it hardened back into focus.
"Guard's post," Jet stated, eyes already scanning the path down. "Means there's another one... guarding the front gate?"
Eirlys shot him a look of pure exasperation. "Surprising coming from you, with your empty head. Yes. A rear guard implies a frontal defense. Now, let's go." She started down the path.
The descent wound through terraced gardens and orchards before spilling onto the village's main street. It was a scene of timeless, rustic life. Cobblestones, worn smooth, wound between timber-framed houses with wattle-and-daub walls. The rhythmic clang-clang-clang of a blacksmith echoed from an open forge. An old woman mended a fishing net on a stool. Children laughed, chasing each other around a central well. People moved with a deliberate, unhurried pace – men in rough-spun tunics, women in long skirts and aprons. Their faces were lined with a weathered, deep-rooted peace. They felt ancient, settled.
Jet nudged Eirlys as they walked, keeping his voice low. "Feel anything... off?"
Eirlys's eyes took on a distant silver sheen for a fleeting moment. "No," she murmured. "They're real. Just people. But they feel... old."
Passing a bench where an elderly man with a long white beard whittled wood, Eirlys paused. "Excuse me, sir?" Her tone was polite but direct.
The old man, looked up, milky eyes kind. "Aye, lass? What can old Garvin do for you?"
"We were curious about the red palace," Eirlys gestured towards the distant spires. "Our parents spoke little of it. Could you enlighten us?"
Profound reverence settled over Garvin's face. "Ah, the Residency," he breathed, setting down his knife. "Home of our Benefactor. The one who made all this possible. Gave us sanctuary, peace, order. Made the land flourish, the waters pure. Before Him..." He shook his head slowly. "We owe Him everything. His wisdom guides, His power protects. A true god walking among us, though He shuns the title." He continued, his voice warm with devotion, extolling the unnamed figure's virtues.
Eirlys listened intently. "Thank you, Garvin. You've been most helpful." She offered a polite nod.
The old man beamed. "Welcome, lass. Mind your steps."
As they walked away, Eirlys's expression was resolute. "Let's go"
Jet chuckled. "Surprised you didn't dazzle him with small talk. Old guy was laying the devotion on thick."
Eirlys didn't break stride. "I speak when necessary to gather intelligence, not to socialize. Unlike some, I prioritize function over frivolity."
Jet sidled closer, throwing an arm around her shoulders with exaggerated gallantry. "Ouch. Frivolity? And hey, you managed all that without a single... hesitation. Impressive. Almost charming."
Eirlys stopped dead, ducked out from under his arm, and let out a clear, bright laugh of pure derision. "Oh, that's your rizz? That tired, moth-eaten line?" She wiped an imaginary tear, her eyes sparkling with amused contempt. "Is that how you plan to escape perpetual bachelorhood, Jet? Keep practicing. You're a veritable court jester." She patted his cheek twice, condescendingly, and strode ahead, leaving him momentarily speechless, indignation warring with grudging amusement on his face.
"Classics are classics for a reason" he protested, jogging to catch up, their bickering fading as they moved deeper into the twilight village towards the looming crimson palace.
High above, on a balcony carved into the valley wall...
A man watched them. His gaze, sharp as a honed blade, tracked the silver-haired woman and the boisterous man as they navigated the winding street below. He stood immobile, clad in dark, practical leathers that drank the shadows, a hand resting lightly on the long sword at his hip. His face was a mask of stern impassivity, but his eyes burned with focused intensity.
A scent of night-blooming jasmine and cold steel preceded her. Nyx appeared beside him as if coalescing from the twilight itself. She leaned against the balcony rail, movements a languid, predatory ripple. Her crimson dress, seemingly woven from shadows and defiance, clung to her curves. She didn't look at Gareth, her eyes also fixed on the figures below.
"Borak and Rose have fallen from their posts," she purred, her voice a low, dangerous melody. "Such clumsy endings. I do hope you don't stumble into that rather tedious category of failures, Gareth." She shifted, turning to face him, her body a breath away. She reached up, fingers trailing with deliberate slowness down his arm, then grazing lightly over the hard planes of his stomach. Her touch was electric, invasive. "Who knows?" she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. "Succeed... and I might find a way to... entertain you."
Gareth remained rigid, a statue of resolve. His hand tightened on his sword hilt until the leather creaked. "I, Gareth, the Eight Knight of The Crimson Watch," he stated, his voice clipped and formal, betraying nothing, "will discharge my duty."
Nyx stepped back, a slow, satisfied smile cutting across her lips. "Good," she murmured. "See that you do. And be swift." Her smile turned razor-sharp. "Secure them before Riley does. Since you're sharing his post, after all." She gave a final, dismissive glance towards the distant palace, then turned, her form seeming to dissolve into the deeper shadows of the archway behind the balcony. "Ta."
Gareth didn't watch her go. His gaze remained locked on Eirlys and Jet, nearing the village's edge, heading towards the path to the crimson palace. The order echoed: no commotion. A slow, precise hunt. He would take them quietly, efficiently. He stepped back from the railing, deeper into the shadows, becoming one with the watching stone.
Below, in a narrow alleyway.
Nyx emerged from the gloom. She leaned against a rough stone wall, tilting her head up. "Awwwn, waiting for me, darling?" Her voice was a playful purr laced with venom.
Her gaze lifted to the roof ledge above. A man stood silhouetted against the twilight sky, a sleek, darkwood bow held loosely in one hand, an arrow nocked but undrawn. His expression was colder than the stone beneath his feet.
"Unnecessary," he stated, his voice flat, devoid of warmth. "I told you. Cease your games."
Nyx pouted theatrically. "But he looked so delightfully motivated afterwards! Besides," she shrugged, a fluid ripple of shoulders, "it's tedious being the weakest of the Crimson Watch. He needed... incentive."
The man's eyes narrowed to glacial slits. "First, curb your tongue. He is the Eighth, chosen by His Majesty. He is a Crimson Watch. Secondly," his voice dropped, colder still, "if he requires your ...motivation... to fulfill his oath, he forfeits the title. He dies regardless."
Nyx grinned, a flash of feral white. "Or... is that jealousy talking, my icy sentinel?" In a blur, she leapt, landing silently on the ledge beside him, pressing close. One hand rested on his chest, her face inches from his. "Jealous of the mere idea of me amusing that brute?" Her breath ghosted over his lips.
",I told you," she whispered, her voice dropping to a husky murmur, "this game, this skin... it's yours. Solely yours."
Before he could react, she closed the distance, kissing him with fierce, possessive hunger. The bow remained slack in his grip, his body rigid for a heartbeat. Then, with a low growl that vibrated in his chest, one hand snapped up, tangling fiercely in her hair, pulling her deeper into the kiss.