Session 88
- Dax tried to persuade Ashurya, promising he would rescue Tahonis and help free her if she handed over the compass. Haslen quietly observed the conversation, later talking to Dax in his head.
- Ashurya agreed not to raise the alarm but warned that she would have to fight them, and it needed to look convincing. She admitted it was for her freedom. Deep down, she knew she would lose. Without Tahonis as leverage, surrendering the compass would doom her to a far worse fate under Lyudvik. Death was her only escape, and she accepted it.
- The battle with Ashurya was fierce. Sand and brilliant white motes of energy whipped around the room, caught in the chaos of her radiant power. Ashurya’s magic nearly killed Dax, forcing him to entomb himself to survive. Through the maelstrom, Peach broke through, landing the final blow that ended Ashurya’s life.
- Afterward, the group secured the portal key, valuable treasures from both the main chamber and a hidden room, and, most importantly, the compass needed to reach the Dark Spire. They now prepare to exit the library from the North Tower.
The air hung cold as a corpse’s breath, each exhale rising from Kervoite’s lips like mist from some long-forgotten moor. He knelt upon the stone altar, chest pressed to its timeworn surface, slick with sweat and blood. Crimson streaks laced his back…fresh lacerations that wept in slow, pulsing rivulets. No shackles bound his wrists now, but the iron had only just been removed, and the skin still bore the memory of their bite.
This was the rite of clarity, as the House of Traxdina called it…a grotesque ritual where strength was forged in suffering, and weakness was a sickness to be bled out. Only through agony, they claimed, could one see true and be deemed worthy of the Syn Tree’s blessing.
But Kervoite, bloodied and bare, saw madness in it. He had watched too many fall during the trial of Syn…frozen to death, or minds hollowed by pain…all for the promise of cold immunity, of living a little longer in a world that took more than it ever gave. And none had spoken against it.
None, save him.
So they turned the rite upon him, declaring it would purge his doubts, strip away softness, and leave only the will to reach the Syn Tree.
He told himself he must endure. That someone had to draw a line, or else the line would be drawn in others’ blood. But doubt gnawed at him now, sharp as the lash. Perhaps he was no martyr, no hero. Just another broken fool on a bloodstained slab.
The last session had nearly taken him. The pain had blurred to white, and he remembered little…only the image of Segunia’s eyes, dark and defiant, the way they looked when no one watched. A love forbidden in a dozen ways, and all the more sacred for it. In the end, it was Segunia he clung to as the torturers plied their art. Not honor. Not tradition. Not even justice.
Only him.