I Destroy the Empire

Chapter 9: A Naughty boy

In the deepest, most reinforced sub-level of the lair, Kaelen Yunis was walking around, calculating—he was in his element.

The room was a sterile, white-tiled surgical theatre, a stark contrast to the comfortable chaos of the command centre in the front. It smelled of ozone, antiseptic, and a faint, coppery tang of blood.

In the centre, Brog the Unbroken was strapped to a massive, tilted steel table. Thick, enchanted chains bound his wrists, ankles, and massive torso. He was unconscious, a network of wires and tubes snaking from Kaelen's humming alchemical devices into his thick, grey and green skin.

Pyralis Cinderfall stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his metal fingers tapping on his artificial bicep.

It had been a masterwork of chaos.

While Aelia and the others were staring at the empty sewer grate, Bo and Elara had circled back. They'd grabbed the unconscious Brog, whose own men had abandoned him in the party chaos and dragged him with Pyralis.

Now, their prisoner was Kaelen's new project.

"How long?" Pyralis asked, his voice flat.

"How long for what?" Kaelen didn't look up. He was too busy adjusting a bubbling, green beaker. "To fix him? Or to fix him?"

"To make him... ours," Pyralis said.

Kaelen finally turned, a bright, manic gleam in his analytical grey eyes. This was his art.

"Theron's conditioning is brutish. Purely psychological. Pain and reward. It's... sloppy. I, however, am an artist." He gestured to the tubes. "I'm not just breaking his mind, Pyralis. I'm... editing it. A little alchemical persuasion here, a bit of magical neurosurgery there... When I'm done, his loyalty to Theron will be nothing but a bad dream. His new, only loyalty... will be to us."

"Good," Pyralis said. "I can’t wait to see the look on Theron's face when he sees him fighting with us."

"But," Kaelen said, his smile fading, "art takes time. And ingredients. The half-ogre's physiology is... resilient. My current stocks won't be enough to complete the final binding. I need a few things."

He handed Pyralis a folded piece of parchment. "A shopping list."

Pyralis glanced at it. "Drake Woods. You're kidding me."

"The Heartscale of a Marsh-Drake is non-negotiable for the resilience serum," Kaelen said simply. "And... as a bonus... I hear the goblins in that wood are particularly plump this time of year."

Pyralis's lip curled. "Slimey has been pestering since Aelia did damage to him. If i don’t feed him, who knows when he’ll resort to eating the commoners. Right. Fine. I'll go."

He turned and walked back into the main lair, where Lyra was sitting on the couch, staring blankly at a wall, her mind a thousand miles away.

"So uh, hey," Pyralis said, trying to sound casual. "I need to go get some items for Kaelen, and Slimey some Goblins to eat at the Drake Woods. In the west. Wanna come with?"

Lyra didn't even look at him, her voice a bored, emo monotone.

"No."

She then stood up, grabbed her heavy black cloak, and walked toward the exit.

Pyralis smirked and shook his head. She hadn't changed at all.

The midday sun was a dirty, brass smear through the smog of the common lands.

Pyralis and Lyra emerged from the clinic's front door, and they were... nobody.

The cohort operated with two faces. At night, they were themselves. By day, they were invisible. Each of them wore a small, enchanted amulet—a 'face misshaping artifact'—that dulled their features.

Pyralis's striking silver hair was now a mousy, unremarkable brown.

His sharp, handsome features were softened into a forgettable, average face. Lyra's ethereal, pale hair was a flat, dull black. Her otherworldly beauty was gone, replaced by the plain, tired look of any other common-land girl.

They were ghosts, but of a different kind. The kind you saw every day and forgot instantly.

As they walked toward the city's edge, the streets were buzzing.

"I'm telling you, Gort, I heard it from my cousin's man," a merchant yelled over a cart of rotting vegetables. "The First Knights crashed the Astrea party! Just... smashed the door in! Started a riot!"

"Nah, you're wrong," another man argued. "It was demons. Purple fire, a scream that curdled your blood... The Shadows, they are. And they say the Knights ran. Cowards!"

Pyralis allowed himself a small, private smile. The chaos was breeding.

They reached a quiet street near the West Gate, where a simple, open-backed carriage was waiting. The driver was a young man with a wiry frame and quick, intelligent eyes.

It was Finn. The "paid-off waiter" from the Astrea party.

"Morning, boss," Finn grinned, his face a little bruised from the "riot." "Good show last night."

"You too, Finn," Pyralis said, tossing him a coin as he and Lyra hopped into the open back. "You did well. Let's go. Drake Woods."

"You got it," Finn said, snapping the reins.

The carriage rumbled through the massive, groaning West Gate, leaving the capital behind. The open back let them watch the city's thick, high walls recede.

The ride was quiet for a long time. Lyra was staring into the passing countryside, her mind clearly somewhere else. She was whispering to herself, a quiet, one-sided conversation with the Echo in her soul.

Pyralis watched her. "So," he said, his voice breaking the silence.

Lyra flinched. A full-body jolt, her hand flying to her locket. She whipped her head around, her eyes wide and wild for a second before she recognized him.

"Gods, Pyralis," she hissed. "Don't do that."

"Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "You were a million miles away. Just making conversation. When the group split all those years ago... you said you were going to hunt down those zealous Templars who raised you. The ones who... you know."

He'd expected a dark, brooding story.

Lyra just shrugged, her bored tone returning.

"Oh. Yeah. I did."

"...And?" Pyralis pressed.

"And what? I went back to the old priory. They were still there, doing their... 'purification' rites." She said the word like it was something she'd stepped in. "The Echo was happy to see them. It... dealt with them. Rescued the other girls. It was... Tuesday, I think."

Pyralis just stared at her. She'd single-handedly wiped out a Templar stronghold and narrated it like it was a trip to the market.

"You always make your accomplishments sound like... nothing," he said, shaking his head.

A grumpy, telepathic voice suddenly filled his mind.

<At least she has accomplishments, you glorified mannequin,> Slimey piped up from the satchel. <All you do is talk and get us hit by holy magic.>

Pyralis didn't even bother to answer. He was used to it.

An hour later, Finn pulled the carriage to a halt. "This is as far as I go, boss. The woods are... spooky. And the goblins have been getting brave."

"Thanks, Finn. Be back before dusk."

They hopped off. The Drake Woods was dark, the trees thick and gnarled, their branches blocking out the sun. It smelled of damp earth and something... sour.

Pyralis waved Finn off, and the carriage rumbled away.

He unhooked his satchel and turned it upside down. Slimey poured out onto the grass, but he wasn't the smooth, shimmering ooze he was supposed to be. He was... lumpy. And his colour was a dull, sickly green.

"You took quite a hit last night, didn't you?" Pyralis said, prodding the ooze with his boot. "Aelia's holy blast really did a number on you. You can't even form a chair right now."

<I am not your furniture, you arrogant sack of metal and stolen meat!> Slimey projected, his voice weak and cranky.

At the telepathic sound, Lyra's eyes, which had been dull, suddenly perked up.

"Slimey!" she said, her voice full of a rare, genuine affection.

She rushed forward and dropped to her knees, scooping the massive, weakened ooze up in her arms. She hugged him, burying her face in his gelatinous mass.

Slimey, in turn, formed a dozen little tentacles and "hugged" her back.

Then, faint steam began to rise from Lyra's arms. The skin of her forearms, where the ooze was touching her, began to fizz and dissolve.

Pyralis made a weird, disgusted face. "Lyra. You're... melting."

She was. The ooze was literally eating her skin. But Lyra just sighed, a look of blissful, strange contentment on her face.

"Fix yourself, Lyra," Pyralis sighed, rubbing his temples.

Lyra's eyes fluttered open. "Oh. Right."

She dropped the ooze, who landed with a wet splat. Her arms were raw, red, and blistering. A second later, a faint, dark energy washed over her skin, and it healed instantly, leaving it as pale and perfect as before.

It had always been like this. Their dynamic was... weird.

Slimey could control his corrosive touch—it was why her clothes weren't dissolving—but Lyra, with her strange relationship to pain, seemed to enjoy the searing, acidic burn. So, Slimey indulged her.

"Alright, you two," Pyralis said, trying to get his mind back on track. "Slimey, you're weak and you need to feed. This wood is full of goblins. Go. Eat and get your strength back."

<Finally!> Slimey perked up and began to ooze toward the trees.

"Lyra, go with him," Pyralis said.

She turned, her attention already fully on the retreating goo. "Will you be... fine?" she asked, not looking at him.

"Yes, I'll be fine," he said, amused by her transparent attempt to hide her concern. "I just need you to watch Slimey so he doesn't try to eat any humans, or get himself killed by something bigger than he is."

She nodded, her focus absolute. "He is a naughty boy... aren't you, Slimey?" she cooed, following him into the woods.

Pyralis smiled.

He remembered she was the one who had named the creature, all those years ago. When he'd left to join the knights, he'd had to leave Slimey with her. He'd give the ooze back to her, officially, one day. But the magical contract, the one that bound Slimey's life to his, was his and his alone.

The two of them disappeared into the dark trees.

Pyralis was alone. He pulled Kaelen's parchment list from his coat.

"Alright. Where to start..."

He scanned the items.

Heartscale of a Marsh-Drake. 2. Shadow-Rot Fungus.3. Eye of the croaking bird…

“Curse you, Kaelen! I have to fight some of these creatures.”