Chapter 7: Sky-Fall
The journey to the Aethon spires was a tense, silent affair. Corvus flew ahead, a grim scout in the clouds. The rest of them traveled on foot, pushing towards the mountainous region where the stone fingers clawed at the sky. The Dew of the First Bloom was applied, making the world seem slightly muffled, as if they were walking through a dream.
When the spires came into view, the sight was even more daunting than Astra remembered. They were no longer symbols of majestic isolation; they were fortress towers, their open arches now looking like arrow slits.
"The main entrance is impossible," Corvus reported, landing silently beside them. "Patrols have tripled. They are not Aethon warriors; their eyes… they have a faint grey film. They are already touched."
"Then we don't use the main entrance," Riven said, a mischievous glint in his eye. He pointed towards the lowest of the spires, one that was connected to the main cluster by a long, delicate-looking bridge. "That is the Spire of the Unworthy. Where they exile those who break their laws. It's the least guarded point. We scale it."
Kaelen looked at the sheer, smooth rock face and then at Lykos's bad leg. "Scale it? With a wounded warrior and a human who can't cling to a tree, let alone a cliff?"
"Oh, ye of little faith," Riven chided. He approached the base of the spire and placed his hands on the stone. He closed his eyes, and a complex, shimmering illusion unfolded from his fingertips. It wasn't an image; it was a feeling, a persuasion woven into the very air.
To Astra's amazement, handholds and footholds began to appear in the smooth rock. They looked utterly real, a perfectly spaced ladder leading upwards.
"They're not really there," Riven explained, sweat beading on his temple. "But your mind, and more importantly, the stone's 'mind,' will believe they are. You will be able to grip them, push off them. Just don't look down and question the reality I have so generously provided for you."
It was the most insane plan Astra had ever heard. She was going to climb an illusion.
Kaelen went first, testing each illusory hold with a grunt of surprise as it held his weight. Lykos followed, moving with slow, painful determination. Astra went next, her heart in her throat. As her fingers closed around the first "hold," she felt solid, rough granite. It was real to her touch because Riven's magic willed it to be.
It was a terrifying, exhilarating ascent. The wind whipped at them, and the drop was dizzying. Halfway up, a patrol of two corrupted Aethon flew past, so close Astra could see the grey film over their eyes. They glanced down, their gazes sliding over the climbers without a flicker of recognition. The Dew and Riven's illusion were working.
They reached the top and hauled themselves onto a deserted, wind-swept platform. The moment the last of them was safe, Riven released the illusion with a gasp, slumping against the wall. The handholds vanished.
"See?" he panted, offering Astra a weak but triumphant smile. "Flawless."
Kaelen grunted. "Adequate."
They were in. The heart of the enemy's territory.
The Spire of the Unworthy was a cold, empty place, its only feature a single bridge leading to the main spires. As they crept across the narrow, exposed span, the true scale of their task became clear. The central spires hummed with a malevolent energy. The graceful carvings on the walls seemed to writhe, and the air was thick with the same cold hunger Astra had felt in the Shattered Glen.
They needed to find Theron. And they needed to do it without being sensed.
Riven took the lead, weaving illusions of empty air around them as they moved like ghosts through the grand, deserted hallways. They passed Aethon who moved like puppets, their movements stiff, their conversations a dull, monotone murmur.
Suddenly, Kaelen froze, pulling Astra into a shadowed alcove. Riven and Lykos melted into the darkness beside them.
Down the hall, a figure emerged. It was a tall, powerful Aethon warrior, his wings a majestic grey. It was Theron. Or what was left of him.
His form was still regal, but a web of black corruption pulsed beneath his skin, visible like dark veins. His eyes, once stormy and intelligent, were now pits of the same swirling void they had seen in the General. He was speaking to a subordinate, his voice a horrifying dual-toned rasp—the echo of Theron's noble baritone layered over the Rot's dry, rattling whisper.
"The Heart is here," the Theron-General said, its head tilting as if sniffing the air. "I can taste her bonds on the wind. She is a brave little morsel. Find her. But remember… she is mine to break."
The subordinate bowed and flew off. The Theron-General stood for a moment, a cruel, facsimile of a smile twisting its features. Then it spread its wings—one magnificent and grey, the other now tipped with the same corrupted black feathers they had found in the Glimmerwood—and launched itself into the central chamber of the spire.
They had found their targe
t. And he knew they were here.
The hunt was on.