Shackled Fate

Meanwhile, outside the ruined temple—off on a cliffside in the far distance.

Lilith, the Succubus Priestess, stood at the forefront, looking down at the ruined temple with a smile. Behind her, the priestesses stood in formation.

A soft rustling broke the stillness as another group approached. Selene, along with the rest of the priestesses, moved swiftly toward Lilith. As they neared, Selene dipped her head, her crimson hair cascading over her shoulders.

"Head Priestess, forgive our delay. We had to ensure the dreams of those souls were properly siphoned to be presented as an offering to our lord," she said, pulling out a jar that swirled with a shimmering white dust inside.

Lilith turned to face her, offering a small, knowing smile. "Ah, poor misguided souls. They will have the pleasure of offering up their dreams to our lord... I almost feel jealous. Well, I have an eternal duty at his side, so I am content."

She reached for the jar, holding it by the tip. Unbuttoning the collar of her dress a bit more, she revealed a large portion of her cleavage and the dark blue fang tattoos just above it.

Nestling the jar between her breasts, it seemed to dematerialize into blue dust, getting drawn into the mark as it glowed—until it was fully absorbed. She then buttoned back up.

"All is well, Selene. The timing is as it should be."

She lifted her gaze skyward, her lips parting slightly as the last remnants of cloud drifted away, unveiling the full brilliance of the moon. Its pale radiance spilled across the gathered priestesses.

Lilith clasped her hands before her chest, bowing slightly as she said,

"Our lord's brilliance bathes us this night. Let us be sure to savor it… as we carry out his will."

A solemn murmur rippled through the ranks, some of the priestesses touching their fingers to their lips before pressing them to their hearts.

Then, with a single, decisive motion, Lilith turned toward the ruin. Her wings, dark as midnight yet edged with a faint shimmer, unfurled slightly behind her.

"The time is here. Let us go."

....

....

Pain. That was the first thing Gareth felt. A deep, gnawing ache that pulsed through his body like slow-burning fire. His limbs were sluggish, his breath ragged. Something cold pressed against his back—iron bars.

His eyes fluttered open.

The world swam. A dim, flickering green light illuminated the cramped space around him, casting jagged shadows against damp stone walls.

The air was thick with the scent of rust, blood, and something foul.

He was in a cage.

His fingers twitched, brushing against cold metal. He forced himself upright, groaning as a fresh wave of pain surged through his ribs. His breastplate was gone. His sword, his belt, even his boots—gone. Only the tattered remnants of his tunic and trousers clung to him, stained with dried blood.

A low voice cut through the haze.

"Look who finally decided to wake up."

Tobin.

The rogue sat on the far side of the cage, arms crossed, face twisted in frustration. His blond hair was matted with sweat and grime, and his usual sharp, cocky grin was nowhere to be found.

Gareth turned his head. The others were there, too.

Elira sat with her knees drawn to her chest, her auburn hair tangled, her face streaked with dried blood. Her staff was gone, but her fingers still twitched as if casting some silent spell—but the strange collar she was wearing seemed to be preventing that. Brann leaned against the bars, his injured leg stretched out awkwardly. He was breathing heavily, sweat beading his forehead.

They were alive.

Barely.

"I told you," Tobin muttered, voice low and tense. "I told you stopping by that godsdamned village was a mistake."

Gareth swallowed, his throat dry. His mind was still piecing itself together, clawing back memories. The raid. The fight. The masked man.

The blade in his gut.

He looked down. His stomach was wrapped in rough bandages, the wound closed, but the pain still throbbed beneath. He should be dead. Why wasn't he?

"We couldn't just leave them, and it was a quest we all agreed to take on, remember?" Gareth rasped. His voice felt like gravel scraping against stone.

Tobin scoffed. "And look where that got us. Half-dead in some godsdamn dungeon. Probably about to be fed to something with too many teeth."

Brann grunted, shifting. "Least we're not dead yet."

"Yeah?" Tobin shot back. "And how long do you think that's gonna last?"

No one answered.

Gareth's gaze drifted beyond the bars. The room was vast, lined with more cages, more prisoners—slaves, mostly. Some huddled in corners, whispering in hushed, frantic tones. Others sat motionless, eyes vacant, like they had gotten their souls sucked out of them—yup, always a typical sign that you had landed yourself in the hands of a dark sorcerer.

The walls pulsed with a strange, sickly purple light—veins of dark, shifting energy creeping through the stone like roots of a dying tree.

A lab. And it seemed like it was alive.

Gareth clenched his fists. Whatever was happening here, whatever these monsters had planned—

They had to get out.

Gareth shifted, wincing as the pain in his ribs flared up again. He ignored it, turning his gaze to Elira.

"Elira, can you cast a fireball? Get us out of here?"

Elira let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. "Oh, I'm sorry, Gareth. I must really like it here. Thought I'd settle down, you know? Maybe decorate the place, get used to the whole 'rotting in a cage' aesthetic."

Gareth sighed. "I didn't say that."

She shot him a glare. "No? Then what exactly are you implying? Do you think if I could do that, we would still be here? Because unless you've suddenly gone blind, you might've noticed—we're still here!"

She raised a hand, tapping the metal collar locked around her neck. "And in case you really don't have eyes, this thing is stopping me from even circulating my mana. So no, Gareth, I can't just 'cast a fireball' and fix this."

Silence settled between them, thick with frustration.

Tobin snorted from the corner. "Well, that's one plan down. Any other bright ideas, fearless leader?"

Gareth exhaled slowly, forcing himself to think through the pain. The situation was bad—worse than bad—but panicking wouldn't help.

His ribs ached, his head throbbed, and his body felt like it had been trampled by a warhorse, but he couldn't afford to lose focus.

They needed a plan.

His gaze swept over the cage, the bars, the lock—anything that could give them an advantage. Then, he turned back to the others.

"Alright," he muttered, voice low. "We're not dead yet, which means whoever threw us in here has plans for us. That gives us time."

Tobin scoffed. "Time for what? To rot? Look at the others out there—they've already been reduced to bones. So sure, maybe we have all the time in the world… but I'd rather not stick around long enough to find out."

Brann shifted, groaning. "You know Tobin, don't always have to be an ass about everything."

Tobin shot him a look. "Oh, screw off."

Elira sighed, rubbing at her temples. "Look, we don't have many options. My magic's sealed, Gareth can barely stand, Brann's leg is useless, and we don't even know where our gear is."

Gareth ignored them. He was still studying the cage, his fingers lightly grazing the bars. Then, he looked up.

The ceiling.

It was high, dark, and lined with twisted, pulsating roots of whatever foul energy fueled this place. But past that, he could see the faint glint of metal. Hooks. Chains.

If they could reach them...

He turned back to Tobin. "How's your lockpicking?"

Tobin gave him a dry look. "Oh, sure. Let me just pull my thieves' tools out of the pile of absolutely nothing I have on me. I wonder why I didn't think of that, oh fearless leader."

Gareth rolled his eyes. "You still have a hairpin, don't you?"

Tobin hesitated, then smirked. "What makes you think that?"

"Because you always have a hairpin. I've seen you use them a dozen times. So, do you have one or not?"

Tobin sighed dramatically, then reached up, pulling something from his tangled blond hair. A thin metal pin.

"Congratulations, fearless leader. You win." He twirled it between his fingers. "Now, let's hope our captors weren't smart enough to use enchanted locks."

He shifted forward, reaching for the lock. It was old, rusted, and thick. But as his fingers worked, the others fell silent, watching, waiting.

Click.

The lock shifted.

Tobin froze, holding his breath. Then, ever so slowly, he twisted again.

Click.

And the cage door creaked open.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Tobin grinned. "Well, would you look at that?" He gave the door a slight push, and it swung open with a slow, agonizing creak.

Elira let out a breath. "Finally. I was starting to think you were just showing off."

Tobin smirked, stepping carefully out of the cage. "Oh, I was. But I also happen to be very good at what I do."