Chương 132: Chapter 65: Blessed Be the Flow

From the darkness of the main passage emerged two figures: Magnor and Alistair. But they were not the same. They came soaked to the bone, their clothes and armor dripping dark water that smelled of algae and stone wet for millennia. Alistair's hair, normally gathered with neatness, was plastered to his skull and face, his earthy tunic hanging from him like a muddy second skin.

Magnor, with his huge soaked cape, seemed even more colossal and somber, the water running down the scars of his hands and mixing with the dry blood on his gloves. The residual light from the sickly lines and the faint bluish bioluminescence that now seemed to seep from somewhere gave them just enough clarity to recognize one another. —What happened? —Selena blurted out without a second thought, her voice a harsh whisper that cut through the sound of the water.

She and Astrid fixed their eyes on them, scanning their faces for wounds, madness, or any sign that they had suffered a transformation or corruption. Alistair was the one who spoke first, his voice sounding strangely alive, almost euphoric, in contrast to his shipwrecked appearance. —It sent us into an open chamber —he explained, shaking water from a sleeve. —We fell… twelve meters at least. It was divine luck or a design of the Flow that there was water at the bottom. An underground lake.

He paused, looking at them with genuine curiosity. —You? Where did you end up? Astrid answered, her voice still laced with fear. —In a part of the cave that smelled of the sea. The sound of a dripping drop was the only thing to be heard. We followed protocol and… we returned. There was a profound sadness in her tone. Selena limited herself to a simple: —That is how it was. It was then that Alistair, with a flash of academic enthusiasm that seemed completely out of place, added: —But I found something.

Something that might interest you, Countess. On the wall of the chamber where we fell, underwater, there was an ancient wall. With engravings. The mention awakened Selena's instinct, her curiosity for secrets. The engravings could be a clue, a map, a warning. —Show us —she said, her voice regaining firmness. He guided them back, not through the saltwater passage, but along another path that Alistair, with his exceptional topographical memory, recalled.

They walked for nearly ten minutes, descending gently, until the air became fresher and the sound of the water transformed into the cavernous echo of a vast space. They entered a chamber that took their breath away. It was a gigantic natural dome, carved by water over millennia. Across the arched ceiling grew patches of a bioluminescent lichen of an intense, vivid blue, which bathed the entire room in a cold, ghostly light.

Below, occupying most of the floor, stretched a lake of black, still waters, whose mirror-smooth surface reflected the sky of blue lichen, duplicating the magnificence and the restlessness of the place. Alistair, without hesitating, headed to an edge of the chamber where the rock formed a relatively smooth, partially submerged wall. Carefully, he pointed. There, carved with a precision that had resisted the erosion of water and time, was a series of engravings. Selena stepped closer, her heart beating hard.

The first showed a human figure, diminutive against a landscape of rolling dunes, with a hand to the forehead as if scanning the horizon. Searching for something. The second engraving: the same figure, now on its knees before a crude stone altar erected in the middle of the desert. Upon the altar rested a dagger. The figure adored it, its arms extended in a gesture of offering or supplication. The third: the altar was empty. The dagger had disappeared.

And the figure, once again, was standing, looking into the distance, restarting the search. The cycle repeated in the next set of images, over and over, in an eternal loop of searching, finding, adoring, and losing. —Down here it says —Alistair murmured, his finger following one of the pictograms. —It is Veritasilba. The oldest language on the continent, prior even to Volg-Thûr.

He translated with the solemnity of a sacred epigraph: —"Artefact, adored and mighty; it does not wait, it demands to be found, and we shall seek it everywhere." The words resonated in the silence of the blue chamber. And for Selena, they were a direct blow to the center of her mysteries.

"We shall seek it everywhere" She remembered it. With chilling clarity, she returned to the cave of Corren, to the restricted books of the Path of the Voice, to the pages written by "The Deserter." The author spoke of an occult faction, so secret that not even the other heretical cults named it with certainty.

"They manipulated everything from the shadows," he had written, "with a single obsessive end: to obtain an artifact. An object of power so specific that its search spanned centuries, continents, and bloodlines." If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. It was, without a doubt, the Omnipresent Shadow. And the dagger in the engraving… was surely the artifact. The object of their millennial obsession, Selena thought with chilling clarity. She swallowed hard.

It was a deep, trembling inhalation, as if she had stopped breathing for days. Comprehension crashed down upon her with the weight of a stone slab: the most hidden faction, the one that had woven the web of her kidnapping, the one operating behind layers of intermediaries and anonymity… was following her. Or more precisely, it was following the original Crimson Duchess. What did you do?

she thought, directing the question to the ghost inhabiting her flesh, to the cruel and enigmatic woman whose body was now her prison, her armor. Isabella, what did you get yourself into? What did you have, or what did you know, that drew the attention of artifact hunters operating since the dawn of time? Fear mingled with a cold fury. She was not just a pawn in the King's game. She was also a prize, or a key, in the insane search of a spectral organization. There was no time for further reflections.

With a gesture from Magnor, they continued moving forward. They took the path that branched to the left, since they had come from the right, leaving behind the blue chamber and its ominous revelation. They reached another room, more artificially carved into the cave. It was circular, and along its perimeter stood human figures sculpted from the same black stone. They were crude forms, like silhouettes frozen in the middle of a movement or a prayer.

Barely had they crossed the threshold and their gazes landed upon them when the figures came to life. They did not move, but they began to resonate. It was not a sound in the air. It was a direct, violent intrusion into their minds. Voices that, overlapping in a chorus of agony and desire, repeated: —WE ARE HUNGRY. The voice, or the idea of the voice, exploded in Selena's skull with the force of a hammer blow. She fell to her knees, hands pressed against her temples, trying to block the psychic assault.

Looking through the pain, she saw that the others were no better off. Astrid was screaming silently, writhing on the floor. Magnor, standing but swaying, had his eyes closed and the muscles of his neck taut like steel cables. And Alistair… Blood was coming out of his ears. Two thin crimson lines tracing dark paths down his neck. But just when Selena thought her skull was going to burst, the flow stopped. Not because of the bishop's willpower, but because something else captured all his attention.

From the center of the room, from between the stone figures, a form appeared. It was a woman. Her shape was of a serene and perfect beauty, carved in light and shadow rather than matter. She wore a tunic, her hair loose and waving as if underwater, and in her hands she held a vase from which fell an eternal stream. Selena recognized her instantly: she was identical to the statues of Aelthra she had seen in the temples of Erabergh and in the town squares. The goddess of the Flow, in all her glory.

A paralyzing power, warm and oppressive all at once, emanated from her, pinning Selena, Astrid, and Magnor to the floor. They could not move, nor speak, nor look away. They could only observe, with growing horror. But Alistair… Alistair moved. With superhuman effort, against the pressure that immobilized the others, the bishop got onto his knees. His face, stained with dry blood, was transfigured by fanatical ecstasy. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, shone with an internal light. —The eternal flow…

—he stammered, his voice a purr of absolute devotion. —It will be revealed to me… The voices… yes, the voices! They are Her heralds… full of blessings… I see it! I feel it! The representation of Aelthra approached him, floating gently above the stone floor. Her face was of an infinite, terrible compassion. When she spoke, her voice was like the whisper of a crystalline stream, sweet and penetrating, full of a promise that curdled the blood.

—Drink of my water, faithful servant —she said, tilting the vase toward him, —and you shall obtain my gifts. The wisdom of the Flow shall be yours. Eternal peace, your reward. Alistair did not hesitate. Not for a microsecond. With the faith of a martyr who finally sees his savior, he raised his hands and drank. Directly from the stream of ethereal water falling from it. He swallowed greedily, gratefully, with a whimpering sigh of absolute pleasure. Immediately, the goddess disappeared.

She did not fade away, but exploded in a flash of golden and blue lights that blinded them for an instant. When their vision returned, the hungry voices in their heads had ceased. But something infinitely worse began to happen. Alistair's flesh… melted. It was as if his body, from within, had lost all cohesion. His skin, first, turned liquid and flowed to the ground, forming a viscous, multicolored pool at his feet.

Then, his muscles, one by one, detached from their bony framework, dissolving into the same liquid like wax beneath an invisible flame. The entire process was silent, except for Alistair's voice. Because Alistair kept speaking. His voice, clear and fervent, arose from the heap of liquefying flesh, from the bones that were beginning to be exposed. —Thank you, oh Benevolent One! Thank you for the gift! I feel the Flow! I feel Your love! My flesh is Yours, my spirit is…! He could not finish.

His jaw, devoid of muscles and tendons, separated and fell into the pool with a soft thud. But the skull, the bones of the body, remained joined together. By pure arcane force, of corrupted will. Alistair's complete skeleton, clean and gleaming, stood up over the pool of his own liquefied essence. And it began to walk. With stiff, ghostly steps, the skeleton walked toward a simple stone altar in a corner of the room that they had not noticed before.

With the same mechanical devotion, it knelt in front of it, crossed the bones of its hands, which still held the posture of prayer, and remained that way. Motionless. A living relic, an eternal offering. The hungry voices did not return. In their place, a new voice filled their heads. It was Alistair's voice, but purified, stripped of any trace of humanity, turned into a monotone chorus of absolute and terrifying beatitude.

"Blessed be the sacred flow of Aelthra, she who conquers all and she who dominates all with patience. The benevolent goddess of nature, she who gives us the beauty of her soul as comfort. Blessed be the Flow. Blessed be the offering. For ever and ever."

The voice repeated, over and over, an eternal mantra now carved into their minds, while the three survivors, still paralyzed by horror and loss, contemplated the kneeling skeleton of their companion, feeling the residual heat of his liquefied blood and dreams wetting their own trembling hands on the cold floor of the cave.