Chapter 17: In the Starlight Cave of Frostveil

Author's Note: Mature Content Warning. The following chapter may contain depictions of blood, gore, or violence. Reader discretion is advised.

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Resigned to my grim fate, I trudged wearily behind Cassandra and Camus, with Narb's relentless push urging me forward into the ominous depths of the cave.

As my eyes struggled to adjust to the dim light within, a sense of dread washed over me, replacing my previous resignation with a gnawing unease. And then, in the flickering glow of the cavern, I beheld a sight that froze the blood in my veins.

There, sprawled upon the cold, unforgiving floor, lay the man from Aether, his battered form a grotesque tableau of suffering and despair. His once-commanding aura was now eclipsed by a pall of deathly stillness, his limbs contorted in agony, a silent testament to the brutality of his tormentors.

Blood pooled beneath him, staining the ground in a macabre tapestry of crimson, while his arms bore the unmistakable marks of brutality, bruised and broken beyond recognition. And at the center of it all, a large magic circle glimmered with an eerie silver light, its arcane symbols casting long shadows across the chamber, a harbinger of the dark forces at play.

In that moment, the true horror of our situation dawned upon me, and I recoiled in horror, my mind reeling at the sheer cruelty of it all. For here, in the depths of this accursed cave, lay not just a victim, but a martyr to the merciless whims of those who sought to wield power over life and death itself.

Standing beside the prone figure was an enigmatic figure, cloaked in a robe of pristine white adorned with intricate gold filigree, the emblem of the Ashborn clan emblazoned upon its back. His presence exuded an aura of ancient wisdom, his weathered visage shrouded in the shadows cast by his pointed hat.

Though his appearance was that of a stereotypical mage, there was an undeniable air of mystery that surrounded him, hinting at depths of knowledge and power beyond mortal comprehension. Indeed, he was no ordinary man, but a legendary figure renowned throughout the land of Celestia.

Known as Draeneal Ashborn, he was revered as the first to achieve the coveted 10th Circle of magic—the Transcendent Stage—a feat that had eluded even the most skilled practitioners for centuries. In terms of magical prowess, he was said to rival that of a mighty dragon in its prime, his mastery of magic unmatched by any living soul in Celestia.

As my eyes swept over the grisly tableau, I could discern the twisted forms of creatures both familiar and unknown, their grotesque shapes frozen in death's embrace. Among the carnage lay the remains of demon hounds, direwolves, shadow panthers, and other monstrous beasts, their once fearsome visages now reduced to lifeless husks.

These were creatures of legend, the stuff of nightmares, whose mere presence would strike fear into the hearts of seasoned warriors. To see them lying in a lifeless heap, their vitality snuffed out by some unseen force, filled me with a sense of dread unlike anything I had ever known.

A quick glance at Narb revealed a fleeting expression of shock and surprise, swiftly masked by a facade of feigned enthusiasm. But beneath his false smile lurked a deeper sense of unease, a silent acknowledgment of the horrors that lay before us, waiting to be uncovered.

To the far right of our group stood two diminutive figures, dwarfed by the imposing presence of three heavily armored soldiers. Among them, I recognized one as my master, her form unmistakable even from this distance.

Though a surge of urgency welled within me, compelling me to call out to her, my physical and mental exhaustion held me captive, rendering me unable to do more than observe the unfolding scene.

Yet, as I strained to discern the identity of the second figure beside my master, a nagging doubt crept into the recesses of my mind. Could it truly be my master standing there, or was there something amiss, something subtly askew about her demeanor or appearance? The uncertainty gnawed at me, casting a shadow of doubt over the scene before me.

The other was a little girl, shorter than master, with greyish white unkempt hair and bright fiery red eyes, her skin although covered in dirt, bruises and dried blood was pale. Her outline almost doll-like; however she exuded an air of desolation and resignation. Her expression was one which said that she had nothing else in her life to go on for, a completely defeated and exhausted expression.

Yet, it was the sight of her bound hands and shackled leg that struck the deepest chord within me, a cruel reminder of the captivity and oppression that she had endured. With chains encircling her wrists and a heavy ball and chain tethering her to the ground, she stood as a symbol of defiance in the face of adversity, her eyes betraying a mixture of anguish and resignation.

She was someone I neither knew or recognized. Yet, while her presence remained a mystery to me, the same could not be said for my master.

In the depths of her gaze, I glimpsed a profound sense of protection and empathy, a silent acknowledgment of the trials that had befallen the young girl. With each fleeting glance directed towards her, my master's eyes spoke volumes, conveying a depth of understanding and compassion that transcended mere words.

In her protective gaze, I saw echoes of a deeper connection, one born from the unbreakable ties of loyalty and kinship. I know it because I am the same when I look at master.