Silver Wings
Shaq'Rai’s ethereal feet met the surface beneath
her with a faint, crystalline chime—soft, precise, almost too small a sound to
matter in the vastness surrounding her. Yet, in the hush of shifting shadows,
even that delicate resonance felt like an intrusion. Her form—an intricate
fusion of ancient technology and cosmic energy—pulsed with a steady
undercurrent of power, a quiet hum thrumming through the air like an unspoken
warning.
Beside her, Mr. Spuds floated in his usual
way—somehow both weightless and jittery. His round eyes blinked rapidly, the
glossy sheen of his skin catching the dim glow of the fractured sky. Every
movement of his spindly arms twitched with anxious energy, as if he wanted to
reach for something—stability, reassurance, anything solid in the uncertainty
ahead. The Shackled Door loomed before them, its presence like an unsolved
equation pressing at the edges of Shaq’Rai’s mind.
The sky above twisted violently, an open wound in
reality itself. Shaq’Rai tracked the unnatural spirals, the way the heavens
churned as if some unseen force were wrenching them apart. A grotesque beauty
lingered in the chaos—a celestial ruin painted in sickly hues of violet and
black. The acrid scent of ozone stung her nose, mingling with something far
worse: a faint, bitter decay that coated the back of her throat. She exhaled
sharply, forcing control over the rising tension in her chest.
Baby Arthur hovered close, his translucent form
flickering like a candle in a storm. He was fragile, more suggestion than
substance, yet the glow that radiated from his spectral figure cast jagged
shadows along the craggy walls. Shaq’Rai didn't need to ask if he sensed it
too—that deep, crawling wrongness thickening the air. His wide, childlike eyes
watched the void, filled with an unspoken knowledge that made her skin prickle.
Then, from the abyss, they came.
Tendrils—massive, writhing things, slick and
pulsating with unnatural life—slithered forward, as if tasting the air for
prey. They moved with a grotesque grace, black and glistening like oil spilled
across a broken world. The tips crackled with malevolent energy, their silent
hum carrying a promise of ruin.
Shaq’Rai’s muscles coiled, her mind cataloging
the threat in a blink. The variables were shifting—unknowns pressing in,
calculations twisting into instinct.
Before the tendrils could strike, the earth
shuddered. A shadow fell over them, not one of malice, but defiance.
The Giant Tortoise crashed into the battlefield,
her massive form colliding with the ground in a thunderous impact. Plates of
ancient armor flexed as she pushed forward, pressing back against the writhing
mass with sheer, unrelenting force. The tendrils recoiled, screeching in a
voice that did not belong to this world.
Shaq’Rai exhaled—just a breath, just enough to
recognize the unspoken bond between them.
And then came the second roar.
The Minotaur was upon them, a hulking force of
muscle and shadow. He moved like a weapon in motion—each step an unshakable
statement of power. His horns cut through the air with brutal precision,
cleaving through the tendrils as if they were nothing more than smoke. The void
screamed. The dark forms spiraled away, their anguished cries swallowed by the
abyss.
Silence fell in the wake of destruction.
Shaq’Rai did not relax, but she let the moment
settle. The variables had shifted again. The battle had turned.
Shaq’rai’s Aetherial frame pulsed with a steady
hum as she stepped before the massive, timeworn door. Though its surface was
smooth with age, a lingering power coiled beneath the metal, resisting her
touch—aware, perhaps, of the forces that bound it shut.
A flicker of blue light pulsed through her hand.
Her interface responded.
[Scion’s Sanctuary]
The words appeared in crisp, radiant text across
her vision. Grant’s domain. She had been right. He was beyond exceptional—he
was singular, a force that defied ordinary limits. But if this was his refuge,
who had the power to imprison it? To forge chains strong enough to bind his
very essence?
Beside her, Mr. Spuds hovered, his small, round
eyes narrowing. “Egads! This reeks of old magic. You sure about this, Mi'Lady?”
His usual humor was gone, replaced by an uncharacteristic wariness.
Shaq’rai didn’t answer. Instead, she traced her
fingers over the thick chains coiled around the door. They weren’t mere metal.
They pulsed with energy, alive with intent.
Her interface flared again.
[Soul-Magic: Sage’s Ward]
[Soul-Magic: Chronos Hold]
[Chaos Magic: Puppeteer’s Hold]
[Black Magic: Soul Curse Binding]
Shaq’rai simulated a breath, her mind racing
through the implications. Two protective spells. Two curses. A delicate balance
between safeguarding and subjugation.
Baby Arthur drifted closer, his wisp-like form
flickering as he studied the bindings with eerie reverence. His tiny fingers
brushed the air near the cursed links, and the chains pulsed in
response—recognizing him. A shiver of recognition ran through Shaq’rai.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"What did you do?" she asked, her voice
quiet, calculating.
Arthur didn’t look at her. "What did we do,
you mean."
A cold certainty settled in her bones. "You
didn’t just lock this door," she murmured. "You built a prison around
it. Sage’s Ward shields what’s inside. Chronos Hold freezes time within. But
these—” her gaze hardened as she examined the deeper, more sinister runes,
“...Soul Curse Binding? That’s not protection. That’s control."
Mr. Spuds let out a low whistle. "So... do
we knock?"
"No." Shaq’rai’s fingers curled into a
fist. The energy around her flared, sharp and resolute.
"We break the chains."
A chill settled over the chamber, thick and
cloying, pressing against Shaq’rai’s synthetic frame like an unseen weight. The
air crackled, saturated with magic so ancient it felt less like a force and
more like the very fabric of reality itself. Before them, the door loomed,
wrapped in iron chains that pulsed—not just with power, but with intent.
Arthur’s translucent form wavered, flickering
like a candle in a storm. His voice, usually steady, trembled. “Hold on. I only
cast Puppeteer’s Hold. The rest… they aren’t mine.”
Shaq’rai’s processors whirred as she analyzed the
bindings. “Yes,” she murmured, her tone clipped, calculating. “The two
defensive layers belong to the sages. That much is clear. Which means, by
process of elimination, the Binding spell must belong to—”
A sudden surge of light fractured the void. Teal
brilliance cascaded across the chamber, cutting through the suffocating dark.
The cursed chains shuddered in response, their abyssal tendrils curling inward,
recoiling like a wounded beast. The runes flickered, their intricate patterns
unraveling at the edges, struggling to hold form.
Shaq’rai’s interface flared, data unfolding in
luminous script.
[Matriarch’s Healing]
Her breath—an unnecessary function, yet one she
simulated instinctively—stilled. Impossible.
Beside her, Mr. Spuds stiffened, his beady eyes
narrowing. “Sprocket?” he asked, voice tight, absent of its usual dry humor.
For once, there was no joke. Only reverence.
But it wasn’t just him. The abyss itself
recoiled. Arthur’s form dimmed as the cursed void shrank away, curling at the
edges where the light touched. And yet… this magic—it wasn’t Sprocket’s.
Shaq’rai lifted her gaze just as a second pulse
rippled through the chamber. Her interface brightened again.
[Apprentice’s Cleansing]
Her fingers flexed. An apprentice? But whose? The
magic was unfamiliar, yet precise, methodical. Whoever wielded it knew exactly
what they were doing. The spell cut through the corruption like a scalpel
through diseased flesh—clean, unwavering, merciless.
For the first time since stepping into this
prison, Shaq’rai felt something beyond calculation and strategy.
Relief.
Shaq’rai’s processors hummed, her interface
flaring to life. A luminous construct of Arthur’s soul-bindings unraveled
before her, rendered in shifting strands of energy. The Puppeteer’s magic wove
through his essence like a delicate tapestry—intricate, yet impossibly strong.
But something else had taken root. Tendrils of corruption coiled around Grant’s
soul, tightening with every pulse of the Curse Binding’s influence.
Her synthetic fingers flexed as she traced each
thread of power to its source. The affliction was unmistakable. The Curse
Binding had not merely corrupted the Puppeteer’s spell—it had merged with it,
entwining itself within the very fabric of Arthur’s existence. This was no
ordinary hex. The work was too refined, too insidious. An Ascended, perhaps
even a Scion, was behind this.
Her optic sensors dimmed for a fraction of a
second. Recalibrating.
Severing Arthur’s bindings would require more
than precision. It would require force.
Shaq’rai lifted her hand, releasing her own
spellwork—thin strands of living code weaving into the golden glow of cleansing
magic and the steady teal pulse of healing energy. The forces merged, a
confluence of will and raw power. The cursed chains constricting Arthur’s
essence trembled. Cracks formed.
“Control is an illusion,” she murmured, her voice
analytical, yet resolute. “A fragile construct built on deceit.”
A voice slithered through the dark, low and
unrelenting. “I am the Devourer. I consume all!”
Shaq’rai did not flinch. “You are but a feeble
thing,” she replied, her words colder than steel, “clinging to stolen life like
a parasite.”
A final surge of energy lanced through the
chamber. The chains shattered.
A wail tore through the void—hollow, agonized.
The darkness recoiled, writhing as though in unbearable pain. Then, without
warning, Tun’kus moved.
The great beast’s instincts flared, and in one
fluid motion, he seized Shaq’rai and Mr. Spuds, yanking them away from the
collapsing abyss. Arthur’s form flickered—then vanished.
Tun’kus landed heavily behind Willow, the ancient
tortoise. The sages moved as one, voices weaving an incantation. A luminous
dome of protective runes surged into existence, shielding them as the chamber
trembled beneath an unseen force.
Then the door—massive, ancient, defiant—slammed
open.
A screech echoed beyond the threshold, piercing
and unearthly. The air twisted, space itself bending as if no longer bound by
mortal perception. And then it came.
Something silvery. Something beyond
comprehension.
It surged forth, its form shifting between light
and substance, both majestic and unknowable. As it shrieked, waves of
silvery-golden light erupted from its body, cascading outward in an unstoppable
tide.
The Void—ancient, insatiable,
unrelenting—screamed. But this was not the wail of defiance.
It was the cry of something that knew fear.
And then, as the light consumed the dark, the
Void was no more.
In its place, Grant’s inner world—his
sanctum—stood whole once more.
“No… Mi’Lady…” Mr. Spuds’ voice trembled.
“Shh… it’s okay…” Shaq’rai rasped, her voice
glitching. Her form was cracking, dissolving.
“What did you do?” he asked, panic creeping into
his tone.
“What was needed,” she replied.
Mr. Spuds spun, frantic. “Help!” But no one
answered.
Tun’kus, Willow, the sages… they were gone.
“Worry not,” came a voice—soft, powerful,
otherworldly. "Child of the great harvest."
Mr. Spuds turned slowly.
Before him stood a Beast of legend, radiant, unshaken.
“The Silver Wing…” he whispered, awe-struck.