Novels by Artemis Dee

The bite.The memory of the Lava Ant’ searing venom was a beacon of reality. That pain had been real. This… this was a phantom. Aeltharion’s voice echoed, not as a command, but as a revelation. "You must learn to separate your mind from your body’s agony."This was agony. This was terror. But it was not real.With a Herculean effort of will, Zarek stopped fighting. He stopped clawing at the dead arm. He stopped trying to buck the weight off his chest. He forced his body to go limp, accepting the cold earth beneath him and the crushing weight on top of him.He let the phantom choke him.He stared up at the corpse’s hollow shroud, at the maggot now crawling towards his eye, and he did not flinch. He embraced the horror. He let the icy fingers feel as if they were crushing his vertebrae, let the lack of air burn in his lungs.And as he accepted it, as he stopped resisting the nightmare, something shifted.The pressure on his neck lessened. The cold began to recede, replaced by the famili

The first Lava Ant had bitten him.A scream, raw and primal, built in his throat, a pressure valve demanding release. He clenched his jaw so hard he felt a tooth might crack. Tears of pure, undiluted agony welled in his eyes, blurring the faintly glowing dome above.Silence. Aeltharion’s command echoed in his mind, now a lifeline. You will not scream. You will not move.The burning spread, a wildfire contained within the single limb. It was a pain designed to break minds, to make the strongest warrior beg for mercy.Zarek, his body trembling violently, his knuckles white where he gripped his knees, threw his head back and stared blindly at the stone eye above. He did not scream. He did not move.He let the fire consume him, and in its heart, he began the terrible, agonizing work of finding his silence. The pain from the ant bite was a forge, and Zarek’s will was the metal being hammered upon its anvil. For an hour, maybe an eternity, the world was nothing but that single, burning leg.

He lifted his eyes, half in search of distraction, half in rebellion against the encroaching dread, and stared upward into the dome above him.And what he saw made his breath catch.The patterns etched into the ceiling were far more elaborate than he had realized. Now, with his vision accustomed to the strange phosphorescent glow, he could see how they danced and twisted—not randomly, but with terrifying precision. Spirals of sigils, concentric rings of symbols older than language, drew the eye inward. They converged, all of them, toward a single point at the dome’s highest curve—directly above where he now sat.The feeling was unmistakable. It was like sitting at the bottom of a great, stone eye.Zarek swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat almost painful. He didn’t know whether to feel watched or judged or both. Something about the design pulled at the mind, bent thought into unnatural spirals. Were these the glyphs of an ancient priesthood? A forgotten sect? Aeltharion’s own cre

The trapdoor slammed shut above him with a final, resonant thud that echoed like the tolling of a crypt-seal, reverberating down the narrow shaft and into the hollow space below. In an instant, Zarek was plunged into a darkness so complete it became a weight on his chest, pressing down with a suffocating force.It wasn't merely the absence of light—it was a living, suffocating blackness, thick and absolute, like being swallowed whole by the mountain itself. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes flailed for orientation. Nothing. Not even the hint of motion or form. The silence was cavernous, oppressive, alive with the suggestion of unseen things watching, waiting.He did not move at first.m, His body had gone taut, held in place by primal instinct, every nerve ending aflame with the memory of what he had just escaped above—the seething mass of ants, their obsidian shells clicking, biting, swarming. But here, down below, there was no sound. No skittering.Only his own breath, raw

Consciousness returned to Zarek not as a gentle dawn, but as a rude shove into a world of dull, persistent ache. The memory of fire was a brand on his soul, but the reality was the coarse, scratchy wool of a blanket against his raw skin. He lay on a low, hard pallet, the thin mattress stuffed with what felt like straw and dried herbs that released a faint, bitter scent with his every movement.He was in a single room, a hut so small and sparse it felt more like a prison cell carved from wood and stubbornness. The walls were woven from dark, aged wattle and daub, cracked in places, allowing thin blades of searing morning light to cut through the dimness. The air was thick with the smell of dust, dried sage, and the faint, ever-present tang of ozone and ash that seemed to follow Aeltharion. The floor was packed earth, worn smooth and hard by generations of feet. A single, small, shuttered window was the only other feature, aside from a rough-hewn wooden door. There was no decoration, no

The beast snarled and lunged forward, driven by either fear or defiance. Its claws carved gashes into the ground as it hurled itself toward Zarek — but the moment it crossed the threshold of that infernal maelstrom, the explosion came.A wave of searing light and heat roared outward in all directions — a sunborn blast that swallowed man and beast alike. The ground split. The heavens trembled. The mountain itself groaned, as if unsure whether to collapse or burn with them.Then — silence.Ash rained down gently, like snow falling in a dead world.When the light finally faded, Zarek stood alone in the center of a scorched wasteland. All around him, the land had melted into glowing stone, still pulsing with afterheat. Cracks spidered across the ground, glowing like veins of fire beneath glass. His body trembled, his chest rising and falling in jagged, shallow gasps. His clothes hung in tatters, half-burned and still smoldering. His skin bore the markings of flame — his arms streaked with

“I think it’s a lock,” Enzo said, his voice barely more than a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might awaken something. “Or part of one. A ward. The diagram called it the ‘Ward of Last Breath,’ didn’t it?”Finn nodded, his gaze still locked on the symbol. “But a ward against what?”They didn’t have to wait long for an answer.As Enzo’s fingers brushed the carved lines, the stone beneath his touch vibrated — faint, but undeniable. It wasn’t warmth that spread beneath his skin, but something else. Intention. A pressure, a pulse that seemed to come from deep within the earth itself. The moss around the symbol began to twitch, peeling back like paper curling at the edges. Finn stepped back, his instincts screaming at him. His hand went to his blade, the cold steel a steadying presence.But Enzo didn’t move. His eyes were wide, fixed on the symbol as though it had drawn him into a trance. His hand remained pressed to the ancient carvings, unmoving, as if he had unlocked something beyond

Pages in the surrounding books began to stir, their corners curling upward as if drawn by some invisible force toward the flower. The parchment seemed to breathe, its edges turning brown, the ink fading as if it, too, was being drained, consumed by the presence hanging in the air. Even the diagram on the table had changed. The once-clear lines now bled fresh ink, new markings appearing, written in a language no one alive could understand — but the cursed might. A message was there, written by an unseen hand, waiting to be read by those willing to look.And then — so faintly, so delicately that Enzo might have thought he imagined it — he heard a voice. A woman’s voice. Not the insidious whispers that had plagued his mind, not the cold, slithering sensation that had clung to him before, but a voice, just barely audible, like a soft murmur on the edge of hearing.She was humming.The sound was low, almost imperceptible, a tuneless melody that swirled in the air like smoke. It was ancient

Finn stood still, feeling the heavy weight of worry slowly fade away. It lifted little by little, like a shadow moving away from light, replaced by a strange warmth that spread through his body. It wasn’t just a physical feeling, but something deeper, like a forgotten memory of a lullaby from childhood. The warmth calmed his racing heart and stopped his hands from shaking. He let out a long, shaky breath as a cool breeze gently moved through the room, stirring the still air and brushing against his damp hair like a soft touch.Then, suddenly, he was moving.Finn ran through the Academy's halls, his footsteps echoing loudly in the old stone corridors. The air felt thin and cold, making each breath feel like it was cutting through ice. It was wrong — like trying to breathe in freezing air, as if the very air was pushing back against him.And the mirror haunted him.Even as he ran, the strange image from the mirror stayed in his mind: the reflection that wasn’t his, the violet eyes that

“You’re summoned. By name. The Council requests your presence in the Hall of Recordings.”Finn’s heart skipped. The Hall of Recordings? That wasn’t supposed to be until the solstice, the next full moon. A meeting with the Council? They never summoned him outside the usual dates. He opened his mouth to speak, but Enzo beat him to it.“That’s not until the solstice,” Enzo said, stepping forward, confused. “Why now?”The girl didn’t answer. She turned and walked away, the sound of her footsteps sharp against the stone floor, each one heavy with urgency. She left the door open behind her.Finn looked at Enzo, his expression hardening. “Stay with the flower. Don’t let it out of your sight.”Enzo’s eyes flicked to the desk, torn between duty and worry. “And you?”“I’ll find out what they want,” Finn said, his voice quiet but uncertain. He hesitated, glancing back at the flower. “And if they already know.”Enzo nodded, but his gaze never left the bloom.When Finn arrived at the Hall of Recor

Finn stared at the flower, his face going pale and his breathing quick in the sudden silence.“I’ve seen this before,” he said quietly, his voice shaking.“Where?” Enzo asked, his voice tense, eyes locked on Finn.“In Eldergrove,” Finn replied, almost whispering. “It was carved into the cellar doors under the village temple. I thought it was just old graffiti—maybe a seal left from the war. But this…”The small study was completely still, except for the slow creak of the floor as Finn stepped away from the paper. Shadows danced on the stone walls, cast by a flickering lantern hanging low from the ceiling. The fire in the hearth was almost out, glowing faintly and giving off little warmth.Books were scattered in messy piles on the table, their covers worn and pages yellow with age. A cold breeze slipped through the cracked windows, rustling the papers like something invisible had passed by.Finn picked up one of the older books. Its leather cover was smooth from years of use. He pause

For a long moment, they said nothing. The festival sounds—once bright, wild, full of life—now felt distant and muffled, like they were echoing from another world. The Nightshade Blossom sat motionless in its box, quiet and still, its dark petals slowly opening like they were revealing a secret.Then Enzo leaned closer, squinting. “Wait. Do you see that?”Finn followed his eyes. At first, it just looked like veins—faint lines laced through the petals. But the longer he looked, the more they shifted in his mind. They didn’t twist and curl like normal veins. They turned at sharp angles—perfect corners. Some curved into smooth spirals, others crossed in neat, repeating patterns. The lines weren’t random.They were structured.Geometric.Too clean.Too exact.Too... designed.Finn’s voice dropped to a whisper, more breath than sound, "The Net of Lilith."“It’s a geometric pattern,” Enzo murmured, leaning in, his brow furrowed. “Some kind of… embedded structure. Like it’s been carved into t