Chapter 22 – The Heart of the Dead Moon
The air smelled of ozone and panic. The sight of the silent army on the horizon had shattered the camp's discipline, replacing it with an orchestra of chaos and desperation. Orders were being screamed, the shriek of metal against metal echoed as barricades were erected, and the hum of energy shields activating filled the air, forming translucent domes that trembled with contained power.
In the midst of it all, Sir Veldora rushed to the princess's arm, her face a mask of iron resolve. "Highness, we must evacuate you. Now!" she ordered, her voice trying to rise above the din. "Guard, prepare a retreat portal for the princess!"
But Elizabeth stood firm, her body refusing to yield a single inch. She pulled free from Veldora's grasp with surprising strength. "There is no more time to doubt my words," she said, and her voice, though not loud, possessed a resonance that silenced the nearby guards. "I cannot leave. Somewhere on this moon is the key to stopping that army, and I will find it."
Azrael, who had been observing the tide of knights with an analytical coldness, intervened. There was no fear in his tone, only the terrifying calm of a scholar reading a death sentence. "We speak of an army from the depths of hell. Though seemingly small, its resilience is beyond comprehension. It took Vhalmir's most powerful attack to stop one. By the time we manage to defeat half of them by force, we will already be dead. And what's worse, we still don't understand their destructive power, only their ability to withstand ours."
Elizabeth blinked. A flash of understanding shone in her eyes. She turned sharply to Azrael, grabbing him by the shoulders with an intensity that startled him. "You're right… That's it!"
Azrael was left confused by Elizabeth's feverish behavior as she had already turned to Mayron, her mind racing at a dizzying speed. "Prince Mayron, do you know a spell? A deep scan that can analyze the internal structure of this entire planet in a single motion?"
Mayron, who was overseeing the calibration of several magic turrets, thought for a moment, the gravity of the request reflected on his face. "Such a spell exists. A Master-level Arcane Geo-Probe. But the energy it requires… my own mana would be insufficient, consumed in an instant. I need a catalyst. Several refined Bloodstell stones, perhaps three, to be able to cast it in one go."
"Bring them!" Elizabeth's order rang out, and an instant later, three aides-de-camp were already placing three lead-lined chests before Mayron. Inside, resting on black silk cushions, lay the stones. They were a deep red, each the size of an ostrich egg, polished until they shone with an internal light. They didn't just shine; they beat with the pulse of a trapped star, and the air around them grew noticeably warmer.
Meanwhile, the activity in the camp reached a fever pitch. Healers ran to the dragons, applying magical ointments and chanting recovery spells to mitigate the effects of the forced amplification. Soldiers formed phalanxes behind the energy shields, their spears and swords imbued with light. And everywhere, mages prepared for a battle that, in their hearts, they felt would be their last.
Mayron placed the three Bloodstell stones in a triangle before him and began to recite. The air around him thickened, the complex and delicate words of his spell weaving an invisible web of power. Magical energy, a crimson torrent, emerged from the stones and was absorbed into the prince's body. His hair began to float and his eyes glowed with borrowed power.
It was at that precise moment that the enemy's pattern changed.
The arrogant, synchronized march ceased. For a second, the army of nightmares stood still. And then, they charged.
They no longer walked like an orderly army. Now they ran, a stampede of iron and hunger, a cacophony of scraping and clashing metal as they blindly rushed the camp.
Why change their attack pattern? Dren mused from atop the carriage, his knuckles white from the force with which he gripped his sword. His predator's instinct analyzed the scene. Perhaps it's related to the magic Mayron is using… They want to hide something… No… Their behavior was feral, with no order in their ranks. They just ran, even trampling one another in their haste to be the first to reach…
Dren's eyes flew wide as he connected the dots. The spell. The energy. The source. From his elevated position, his shout was a warning siren that cut through the chaos.
"THOSE THINGS ARE COMING FOR THE BLOODSTELL!"
Dren's shout was a death sentence. The horde of Black Knights, which until that moment seemed like a mindless plague, now had a clear and terrifying purpose: the Bloodstell stones, the heart of Mayron's spell, were their target. They had become the epicenter of an imminent siege.
The realization struck Sir Veldora like a lightning bolt. Her oath, her purpose, everything narrowed down to a single imperative: protect the princess. The battlefield was about to erupt right at their feet. She acted without hesitation.
With a swift and fluid motion, she took the princess by the arm. "I am sorry, Highness. In seconds, this will be hell. I must get you out of here, whether you agree or not."
But before she could take a second step, a shadow fell from the sky. Dren landed in front of her with an impact that shook the carriage floor, his war boots marking the luxurious carpet. The tip of his enormous sword, cold and emotionless, came to rest against the gorget of Veldora's armor, stopping her dead.
"A knight who disobeys the orders of her princess deserves only death," Dren said, his voice a low, lethal growl. "Let go of Elizabeth, or I swear on my honor you will lose more than just your hand."
Veldora did not back down. Her eyes, firm as steel, met Dren's. "This does not concern you, Prince of Tharnhold. My oath is to protect her life, not to fulfill her suicidal wishes. Her safety is my priority."
"And her priority is to find the answer," Dren retorted, the pressure of his blade increasing by a millimeter. "And for that, she needs all of us here."
"Oh, by all the gods…!" Elizabeth exclaimed, but she wasn't paying attention to them. Her gaze was fixed on the air in front of Mayron.
The Arcane Geo-Probe was completing. A trembling hologram, woven from threads of crimson light, materialized before them, showing a cross-section of the moon. And inside, at the very heart of the satellite, was an impossible structure. An unnatural cavity that housed a construction of colossal magnitude.
"...so there is an underground temple," Elizabeth whispered, her eyes tracing the ethereal map. "According to this, the entrance is far… on the other side of that horde."
Narel, who had entered the carriage amidst the chaos, wore the face of a warrior ready for battle. His laziness had been replaced by a sharp seriousness. "The dragons can carry ten people without issue. Take one, and nine of my best men. Go now!"
"I'm going too," Dren declared, not moving his sword from Veldora's neck.
"I am her guardian. Where she goes, I go," Veldora joined in, her own dispute taking a backseat to the new mission.
"Without my guidance to interpret the map, you won't find the entrance in time," Mayron added, wiping sweat from his brow, the spell nearly complete.
"Do not count on me," Azrael said from the carriage entrance, his gaze fixed on the battlefield. "My place is here. I will help buy you time for whatever you are planning."
"I cannot accompany you either…" Narel's voice was heavy with the weight of duty. "I cannot leave my men alone in a slaughter. Those who wish to escort the princess, go with her! The rest of you, prepare for battle! For Vhalmir!"
There was no more time for words. Dren withdrew his sword. Veldora nodded, a silent truce forged in urgency.
Elizabeth, along with Mayron, Dren, and Veldora, climbed onto the back of one of the nearest dragons, accompanied by six elite guards: three from Aurél's Royal Guard and three from Vhalmir's Star Legion.
The beast, like a giant airplane made of scales and fury, rose to its feet. With a single, powerful beat of its wings, it launched into the black sky, a gust of wind and lunar dust marking its departure.
From the air, Elizabeth looked down one last time. She saw the armies of Vhalmir and Aurél form a desperate defensive line, a wall of steel and magic against a tide of darkness. She saw Narel and Azrael, two princes from opposing worlds, standing back-to-back, ready to receive the first impact of a war that could be their last.
And as they flew at a dizzying speed toward the entrance of a forgotten temple, Elizabeth knew they were not fleeing the battle.
They were racing to find the weapon that could win it.
The knight steering the dragon wasted no time, barely murmuring the incantation. The runes on his saddle glowed like red-hot embers. A second-level speed amplification spell flowed through the magical creature's veins like contained lightning.
And then, the world became a blur.
The acceleration was so brutal and sudden that the lunar landscape dissolved into a gray-and-black smear. Elizabeth, unprepared for the jolt, was thrown backward, colliding with Dren's solid chest.
His grip was instantaneous, devoid of any kindness or courtesy, but not rough—it was firm. As if holding something he could not afford to let go. It was the grip of an iron anchor in a storm. A powerful arm wrapped around her delicate waist, holding her securely against him. It might not have been protocol, but feeling Dren's unwavering strength around her filled her with a much-needed sense of protection, an island of safety in an ocean of terror.
Elizabeth, still tense from the momentum, did not pull away. Her hands searched for purchase, and unconsciously, one of them came to rest on the enormous hand that held her. It was an instinctive gesture. Delicate. Almost tender.
Dren blinked.
It was as if something in his chest—where there was no room for tenderness, where only scars lived—had quietly ignited. He said nothing, but awkwardly looked away. A faint blush crept up his sun- and war-hardened neck. He didn't understand why… but Elizabeth's soft touch had pierced him in a way no enemy blade ever had.
Perhaps, he thought, it's not a bad day to die… if it's to protect this.
And the dragon, immense as a flying mountain, continued its flight. Beneath its wings, the moon's sky darkened. The abyss roared. The war was beginning.
While they flew, below, hell claimed its throne.
The horde crashed against the energy shields. The impact was not a simple blow; it was a tsunami of black iron, a sound like a thousand glaciers cracking at once. The magical barriers buckled, groaning under an unsustainable pressure. At the same time, a rain of spells—fireballs, lances of ice, and arcane lightning—fell upon the front ranks of the enemy army.
Then, the unthinkable happened.
All the magic they fired did not explode. It unraveled in mid-air, its threads of power being absorbed by the black armor as if by sponges. And the creatures' behavior changed. Their bestial charge paused. They drew themselves up, their movements becoming more elegant, more deliberate, more intimidating. The rain of destructive magic falling from the sky became for them a nourishing shower, their silhouettes glowing with stolen power.
"STOP THE ATTACK!" Vincent's shout was one of pure horror. "THOSE THINGS ARE FEEDING ON OUR MAGIC!"
The strategy shifted in a heartbeat. There was no time to question, no time to ponder why. The battle mages stopped attacking and instead channeled their power to the physical warriors, amplifying their strength, speed, and endurance.
But the tide had already gained too much power. The black knights walked through the energy shields as if passing through a strong gale; the barrier slowed them, distorting their image, but it did not stop them. One by one, the magical defenses were breached. The front line of battle was about to break.
Narel looked at Azrael, his face grim. Finally, he asked the question he had avoided since they had brought him to his kingdom. "Tell me… how did you defeat Zerek?"
"It was difficult," Azrael admitted, his eyes fixed on a knight cleaving a Vhalmir soldier in two. "I had to make a pact with a primordial god. An exchange."
"Can you use that power now?"
Azrael offered a bitter smile. "Even if I could, it was a very specific pact: a power to kill Zerek. Against these things, it would be useless. For some reason, I believe Zerek would be more useful to us here than I am."
"A pity to hear that," Narel said with a sigh that sounded of resignation. Then, a tired but determined smile formed on his face. "I will try to buy as much time as possible. Baku!"
"Tell me, Narel…" Baku's lazy voice echoed as his form appeared, lounging on his usual ethereal cloud. He stared wide-eyed at the army before them. "Why is it that lately you always summon me in such complicated situations?"
"What are you talking about, my friend?" Narel replied, his smile widening. "Today you will profit like never before in your entire existence. Today, you can swindle me for all I'm worth."
Baku looked at his companion. He knew that smile. It was the one Narel wore when he was afraid, when he was about to sacrifice everything. The spirit huffed, a strangely human gesture. "What are you talking about? Didn't you hear? Today is a special day. It only happens once every ten thousand years. It's the day that Baku, the great devourer, works for free."
An immense, ancient, and drowsy power flowed into Narel. His physical body became translucent, ethereal, and a dense, milky-white fog began to emanate from him, rapidly blanketing the entire battlefield, confusing friend and foe alike.
Two voices, one human and one ancient, spoke in unison from the heart of the fog, their words resonating in the mind of every soldier.
"It is time… to devour the bad dreams."