Corruption Unhidden

The grand doors groaned as Maeliev heaved them open, the sound reverberating through the icy stillness. The chill of the winter storm pressed against their backs, but what greeted them beyond the threshold was far colder.

"Weapons ready," Maeliev commanded, his voice firm.

Steel whispered from scabbards. The Deathwatch shifted, the weight of their blades steadying them. For a fleeting moment, Maeliev allowed himself to wish for an Annealed blade or even a resin-infused one. How much easier this task would be if they had such tools—relics that could rend both steel and sorcery. But the Deathwatch were not blessed with gifts. They were given only what they earned and what they could carry to their deaths.

The hall before them was cavernous, vast enough to swallow sound. Winter's storm rattled the high, stained-glass windows, casting trembling shadows across the stone walls. Frost rimmed every surface, the frigid air sharp as a blade. And yet, it was not the cold that bit at Maeliev—it was the silence. A silence so absolute it seemed to breathe.

"Where are the guards?" Menik whispered, his voice trembling as his knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword.

Maeliev's lips pressed into a thin line. "There should be guards," he said, his voice a low growl. His eyes flicked across the hall, taking in every corner, every shadow. His instincts screamed at him. This is wrong. All of it.

At the far end of the hall, a spiral staircase climbed to a balcony that overlooked the room. It was the kind of structure built to showcase grandeur, to look down upon all who entered. Now it loomed like a silent predator, watching.

"This doesn't sit right with me," Volix muttered, his shoulders tense beneath his black armor.

Singas glanced around nervously, gripping the hilt of his sword with sweaty palms. "This feels like the kind of place where the villain makes their grand entrance. You know, in the stories."

Maeliev didn't answer. Every word spoken aloud felt like an invitation, a summons to the horrors lurking beyond sight. The others could feel it too—the way the air seemed heavier with each step forward, as if the walls themselves pressed down on them.

Then, her voice rang out.

"Oh, the Pureblooded elves come to my home uninvited. How very… uncouth."

The voice was sharp, scathing, and it sliced through the silence like a blade. All eyes snapped to the balcony. A figure stood there, staring down at them with a predator's amusement.

She was draped in rich, flowing robes, their edges embroidered with gold and silver thread. Her scarlet hair, bound in an elaborate clip, caught the pale light streaming through the stained glass. She was beautiful in the way of the Frostblooded—sharp cheekbones, angular features, and a cruel elegance that bordered on divine. But it was her markings that gave her away. Black lines etched across her face in intricate patterns, converging at the center of her forehead where a teardrop shape rested like a curse. When she smiled, her elongated canines glinted.

"Nothing to say to your gracious host?" she asked, her tone mocking. Her voice carried, filling the vast hall like a performance meant for a grand audience.

"What should we do, Maeliev?" Menik whispered, barely audible.

Maeliev's jaw tightened. His grip on his blade was firm but not anxious. "Be ready for anything," he replied, his voice cold and clipped.

The Frostblood elf tilted her head, as though appraising them. "So, you're the one leading this merry little band of rats into my halls."

"Quiet, corrupted," Maeliev snapped, stepping forward. His blade was raised, ready to strike, though he knew it would not reach her from this distance.

Her laughter rang out, light and melodic, but empty of warmth. "Corrupted? Oh, how little you understand," she said, her crimson eyes gleaming with mockery. "And yet, you dare call me by that name."

"Which Prince do you serve, Cervus Arden?" Maeliev demanded, his voice cutting through her laughter like a whip.

At this, her smile widened, her teeth bared. She laughed louder, the sound echoing through the hall until it became something else—something unnatural. She adjusted the clip in her hair with deliberate calm, her movements a mockery of gentility.

"They send a Prideborn to eradicate me," she mused, almost to herself. "How delightful. I wonder, do the Pride Potentates tremble in fear of what I might become? Is that why they send one of their own bloodlines to stain my Ruby Throne with their death?"

She extended her arms, as if welcoming them to some macabre theater. "It will be grand. Your blood will sing in the presence of my Prince."

"You still won't say their name," Maeliev observed. His tone was sharp, but beneath it was the faintest trace of unease. "You keep saying 'Prince.'"

Lady Arden tilted her head, her cruel smile unwavering. "And you speak so highly, but tell me, Prideborn, do your words ever reach the ears of your gods? Or were you cast aside, just as I was?"

She swept her robes dramatically, a flourish of fabric as she stepped toward the doors leading deeper into the palace. "Come. Try to reach my Ruby Throne, if you dare. I'll be watching."

The heavy doors groaned shut behind her, sealing her departure. The sound echoed through the hall, and then there was silence once more.

"What was she saying, Maeliev?" Singas asked, his voice tight. He looked to Maeliev with wide, uncertain eyes.

"Her words are poison," Maeliev replied curtly, his expression unreadable. "She seeks to distract us. Focus on the task at hand."

Damn her. Damn the Cervus and her games. He had needed more time, more information. But all he had was Petra's vague mention of machines in the depths of the palace. He could not even confirm which Prince the Lady Arden served. The Mourner? No, her demeanor did not quite fit. But she was too controlled to be Frenzy's.

"She's toying with us," Singas said, his voice shaking. His hand gripped his sword tightly, though the blade wavered slightly.

"She wants us to follow," Menik added, his tone uneasy.

"Then we follow," Maeliev said. His voice was firm, but inside, a cold certainty settled over him. This is worse than I thought.

"Do you know what's beyond those doors?" Volix asked quietly.

"Yes," Maeliev replied, his tone clipped. "If we're lucky, only her."

The hybrid grunted. "And if we're not?"

Maeliev didn't answer.

As Menik and Singas scavenged the hall for anything useful, Volix lingered near Maeliev. The hybrid's gruff voice cut through the silence. "She's a follower of a Prince, that much is clear. And from the look of this place, there's a rift somewhere in this palace. It's already spreading."

"Seems I'm not the only one keeping secrets," Maeliev said, casting Volix a sideways glance.

Volix shrugged. "Some secrets aren't mine to keep."

Maeliev allowed himself a faint smirk. "Any guesses as to which Prince she serves?"

"Not Frenzy," Volix said without hesitation. "You'd already be dead if it were."

"That narrows it down to seven," Maeliev said grimly.

Volix's voice lowered. "If it's a General, we won't walk out of here."

Maeliev glanced at the others as they joked quietly. Menik and Singas laughed, trying to mask their nerves, their camaraderie warming the cold room for a fleeting moment. He turned back to Volix, his voice soft. "What about you? Why did you join the Deathwatch?"

Volix hesitated. For a moment, Maeliev thought he wouldn't answer. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, the hybrid said, "I had two reasons. The first was to see my son born."

"And the second?" Maeliev asked, his curiosity piqued.

"To craft a blade that can kill a god."

The words hung heavy in the air. Maeliev didn't respond, nor did Volix elaborate. The hybrid stood, leaving the Prideborn to his thoughts. For the first time in years, Maeliev felt the faintest shiver of something close to fear.

What would Volix do with such a blade?

The group reassembled, ready to press forward. The doors to the Ruby Throne awaited, and beyond them, the horrors of Lorian.

There was no turning back.