Captured Sky

Deep rumbling shook Havoc to his knees. The intense vibrations zigzagged up his legs. His stomach churned and his chest juddered about. Both hands pressed tight to his head, the vibrations rattled his skull. A boom shot through him. It was followed by another and another. The White Temptress could no longer bar deeper exploration of the cave. So jealous of admiration was she that even her lair was commanded to flatter. Imitating its mistress, it too began to fall to clear the way.

The ground pulled back. It formed a ring separating the centre terrain from the rest of the arena. From the left side of the dividing circumference, the ring clanked as it retracted into itself. Segment by segment, the side was pulled into the hollow rock of its centre. Luminous moss scraped from its surface. A sprinkling of illumination; the moss of the retreating stone fluttered down the opening pushed out from the ground.

Havoc staggered to his feet, steadying himself on the side wall of the arena, his mouth agape, watching as the final segment shrank into the remaining semi-circular platform to reveal a staircase leading down.

A clank, a clang, a bash, a boom—then silence. The path lay fully open. On shaken legs, he squished the mossy ground towards the centre and looked down. In a spiral, the staircase twisted below to sights unseen. He could not count the steps, but there were many. The steps—a crystal blue—began to glow. One by one, leading down, their radiance bloomed.

Like violets in spring… Though his rags stuck to sting his claw cut flesh, the tension he carried relaxed from his shoulders and he smiled. Beautiful and serene were the steps leading down.

Annalise had told him what to expect, but to see it for himself…

Hurricane would love this.

As one anticipating an unexpected blow, he slightly recoiled from the thought. He cared deeply for his sister—she was all he had—but since his inheritance, he had consciously kept the thought of her at bay, protective of his focus in this dangerous land. Slowly shaking his head, he could no longer dislodge his sister from his mind.

She was in Stone Garden—he, in a land of monsters and mystery. Long did he conclude the futility of wishing otherwise. Only once emerged from the Cell would he be able to turn his focus to her upkeep. His present shook with uncertainty so his thoughts could not fall into a period longed after.

At least not for too long…

His concept of time was unloosed. It roamed freely; too wild to be tamed. But it could be tracked. Having left his cavern at night, he had travelled three hours into the Marshland. Therein, in whatever secluded lodging he could find, twice had sleep taken him. A shiver crept his spine; he could still hear the howls and the growls of monsters prowling.

Though he considered returning to his hideaway, there had been much to do. He had treaded with care, tracking the lair where the Buried Strike was hid. Nodding his head, he knew it was worth it. Rough had been the nights on cold stone, but little was the added comfort offered by bloodstained mat left behind. Moreover, wherever he was did nothing to enhance the flavour of the toughened bread and meat strips he had at hand. And so he had stayed little more than two days and a half within the Marshland Cavern.

She’s a survivor. That won’t change while I’m away.

He was not sure they still shared the same sky, but it was likely still bright in Stone Garden. While the day-sun was high, there was money to be made – pots to wash, laundry to scrub – Hurricane never shied away from paying work. Their lives had been difficult, but they had always scraped by. More often than not, it was she who held the larger shovel.

A tepid sigh; It did not suit the grandeur of the sight ahead. But his surroundings were now background to the looming thought of his sister. Her hands shrivelled and raw from the scrubbing and soap. Many times had the scene played out; there was little doubt she was, even now, repeating the performance. But things would change. He would change them.

Wait a bit longer, sis… He sighed once more.

A groan from behind, he turned. One of the former thralls began to stir. His broken wings retracted, his cracked scales evaporating from his skin, Aaron pushed himself to his knees. His head swayed from left to right. He moved to one knee, and from a kneel, he then stood.

Havoc stood watching as Aaron slowly looked around. The former thrall’s eyes glanced over the liberated thrall who had struck with an extending blade. He swiftly moving on. Cold and pointed, they lingered briefly on Lucia. Visible to Havoc was Aaron’s tight lips lifted firm in a snarl. Aaron then fixed his sight on the Selenarian.

‘By the Stewards! Be okay!’ Aaron shouted as he took shaky steps towards the unconscious Selenarian. Limping, he crossed Havoc’s path. His was a brief examination— eyes running up and down—a passing curiosity, it seemed. His passion was clearly for the inhuman girl.

Reaching the girl, Aaron rested her on his lap. With one arm, he cradled. Cupping her cheek with his other hand, he directed her face towards his.

‘Please… be okay,’ he said, softly, resting his forehead to hers.

Havoc’s eyebrows lifted slightly. Annalise had said Lucia and Aaron were to be man and wife…

Shouldn’t he be more concerned for his fiancee? Havoc thought. It was true, between the alien girl and Aaron’s bride to be, the Selenarian appeared much worse for wear. Sweltering blisters patched her pale blue skin. It was as though she had sipped from a witch’s cauldron. Her chest rose and fell but there was a crackle and pop as she breathed. Her dress had been dreary before. Covered in muck and blood, if seen in the slums, she would have been pointed out to impoverished children as a lesson on gratitude. With the additional burns, no temple priest could have so thoroughly taught on the wages of sin.

Havoc could already imagine the gossip—Cranky Marge whispering to her sister, the nicer one; together they would intuit the wickedness the Selenarian was engaged with to have been so thoroughly punished.

‘It was probably a boy,’ Havoc had heard them say many times. ‘Something untoward with a boy,’ they would conclude before shooing him gone. For those sisters, whenever they nattered about some distressed damsel or another, the problem could have only been a boy. A nuisance to all around, but Havoc did not mind their prattling. In fact, he welcomed the advantage. They were fierce competition some days. Hecould not claim to have been undefeated; not every day could he steal home a pasty from their stall before they cried foul. But when those two started talking, really talking. The kind of conversations that could only be had between two women looking down upon a third, his mouth would salivate to the promise of warm meat pies and flaky sausage rolls.

They did make good pastries, Havoc thought as strained whimpers eked from the skeletal girl so lovingly held. “She could definitely use one.” It was an odd thought to have. He caught himself immediately. The girl had leapt into his tangle with the White Temptress and upstaged them both.

What was that power? He only saw it for a moment. She had held something in hand. One second, a rectangular stone, the next it set alight. Shielded by the Temptress, he was not badly burned. But the heat was imminence. A natural flame, it was not. On impact, it had wrapped around the Temptress, ensnaring only her. The fire died quick but it did its work. As she had been following the attack, she could neither dodge nor deflect his finishing strike.

Havoc frowned. The Selenarian had told him she was unable to fight. He did not believe she was lying, yet it was clearly not true.

What else are you hiding?

‘Boy!’ Aaron laid down the Selenarian gently and rose to his feet. He staggered towards Havoc. His eyes were like emeralds, hard and unrelenting. With unmasked aggression, he closed the distance with Havoc—face to furious face. ‘What have you done to her?’

Boy? You can’t be more than two years older, Havoc thought. Contempt, disrespect, and the arrogance of those who thought themselves above was not a rare occurrence. Aaron’s navy-blue tailcoat was down to one button on the left and two on the right, but they shone gold. His waistcoat, dirtied as it was, still spoke of his affluence. Like a fine, proper gentleman of high standing, of course he retained his neckcloth.

Being enslaved by a sadistic abomination is no excuse for poor style, is it, Aaron? What about being set free? Don’t you think that deserves the smallest amount of gratitude? They’re all same…

Aaron moved closer. He gripped Havoc’s collar and pulled him closer still. His tepid breath tickled the nostrils; his pungent scent flavoured the back of Havoc’s throat foul.

‘I shall ask one last time.’ Aaron growled. ‘What have you done to Naereah!’

‘Get off me!’ Havoc roared back. His hand on Aaron’s chest, he pushed him from his feet. ‘The only thing I did was save her life! Yours too, actually. If anything, you should be thanking me!’

Aaron’s eyes went wide and his mouth parted and closed. His face could not have been so flushed had he be slapped across both cheeks. Havoc’s lips twitched as he considered doing just that. But like it or not—he certainly did not—they would need to work together.

He’s just another arrogant bastard, I bet. But he can fight...

He had proven as much. Even while under the White Temptress’ control, he was formidable.

His hand lowered. Aaron took hold of his grip and Havoc pulled him from the ground. Aaron brushed his backside and straighten his dirtied, blonde hair. Back straight, shoulders back, he still exuded an air of superiority but gone was the pointed fury in his eyes.

‘What you say is true. There is no conflict between us,’ Aaron said, a deep exhalation followed his words. ‘I care deeply for my comrades. To see them wounded so… It has shaken me.’

Havoc could not have guessed Aaron’s relationship with Naereah. He cared for her, that much was obvious. But as he remembered how desperate she had been to leave them to the Temptress’ predations, it was just as clear that she did not feel the same way.

It seems like some “comrades” mean more to you than others. And the one who should mean the most doesn’t seem to matter at all.

Curious as he was, Havoc had no intentions of interpolating himself into a dynamics of the former thralls’ dynamics. They would serve their purpose and nothing more.

He looked around. Aaron followed the trail of his sight. They rested on a young man. During the battle, he had wielded an axe. The axe remained loose within his hand, but a deep wound pierced through his centre mass. Without question, he was dead.

‘Though it shames me, we were being controlled. I know you are not to blame for Nathaniel’s death. Even had I been slain, you would have been faultless…’ He paused. ‘Even still, this place harbours more dangers than I could have imagined. The loss of our man is not easily swallowed. I dare say, you showed great aptitude. I trust I can rely on you to fill the vacancy.’

Havoc waited but there was no apology in Aaron’s request. Nor was there gratitude for the rescue.

He thinks I’m in his debt, doesn’t he? Outrageous but not unexpected. Aaron did not have to say a word to convey his nobility. There was no question that Havoc’s lack thereof was equally apparent. It simply would not do for one such as I to be indebted to such riff-raff.

Havoc smiled. The impersonation in his mind was a caricature, but he did not think it inaccurate. Ultimately, it suited him just fine. He had intended on recruiting; being recruited worked just as well.

‘There’s safety in numbers.’ Havoc replied.

‘My good man, that is right, ’ Aaron chuckled as he lightly patted Havoc’s shoulder. A moment later, his laughter died down and his expression turned serious. ‘I have one misgiving. I took time to ensure familiarity with everyone I work with. You are not from any of our enlisted guilds. Tell me, how is it that you find yourself here? A Dungeon Cell is not entered accidentally. Most assuredly not this one.’ Aaron returned his hand Havoc’s shoulder with a firm grip. He looked into Havoc’s eyes and for a while did not speak a word. As though allowing the silence to punctuate the seriousness of his next words.

‘What has brought you to this place?’ Aaron finally asked.