Path of the Forsaken Sigil

Chapter 16

The Ashen Seraph was aging the doors. It was fast-forwarding time. 

Thousands of years of rust and decay happened in three seconds. The massive iron spikes crumbled into powder. The thick metal plates cracked and warped. The hinges groaned in agony. 

"Dust to dust," the Seraph whispered. 

The angel pushed its hand forward slightly. 

The massive, twenty-foot-tall wrought-iron doors completely collapsed. They did not fall; they shattered into a million pieces of brown rust and gray ash. The ash blew forward into the dark, carried by a sudden rush of cold wind. 

The barrier was gone. Destroyed with terrifying casualness. 

Bruce stared at the pile of rust on the floor. He realized just how much power he had sleeping inside his own soul. If the Seraph could do this to solid iron, what could it do to a human body? 

"The path is clear, Master," the Seraph said, lowering its hand. It stepped back, bowing its head slightly to let Bruce walk first. 

Bruce gripped his smoke-blade tightly. He stepped over the pile of rust and ash. 

As he walked through the ruined doorway, the narrow stone tunnel ended instantly. Bruce found himself stepping out onto a narrow metal walkway. It was a catwalk, suspended high in the air. 

Bruce walked to the edge of the catwalk and grabbed the rusty metal railing. He looked out. 

He froze. 

His breath caught in his throat. His eyes went wide with absolute, paralyzing horror. 

"Oh my god," Bruce whispered. His voice was completely lost in the massive space. 

He was standing on a balcony overlooking a subterranean cavern. But the word 'cavern' was too small. This place was the size of a mountain hollowed out from the inside. The ceiling was lost in the dark shadows far above. 

It was not an empty cave. It was a factory. A nightmare factory. 

Below him, stretching out for what looked like miles, was a sprawling complex of ancient, dark stone architecture mixed with brutal, modern iron machinery. 

The air was filled with a thick, red fog. Thousands of small, glowing red crystals were embedded in the walls, casting a bloody light over everything. 

Everywhere Bruce looked, he saw spirits. 

In the world above, spirits were majestic creatures. They were hawks made of wind, wolves made of fire, and golems made of earth. They were free creatures from the upper realms, bound to a sorcerer through mutual respect and magic. 

But down here, there was no respect. 

Bruce saw hundreds of spirits chained to the walls. Giant chains made of glowing black metal wrapped around the necks and wings of beautiful elemental creatures. There were fire-birds with broken wings. There were water-serpents pinned to massive stone tables. There were minor earth-elementals trapped inside tight glass tubes. 

The spirits were crying. The sound was a low, constant hum of agony that filled the cavern. 

Thick, transparent pipes ran out of the chained spirits. The pipes were sucking a glowing, colorful liquid out of the creatures. It was their spiritual essence. The pipes ran across the floor, carrying the stolen magic toward the center of the cavern. 

Bruce followed the pipes with his eyes. 

In the very center of the massive cavern, there was a raised platform made of black obsidian. Surrounding the platform were four giant glass vats. The vats were fifty feet tall, filled with a bubbling, dark red liquid. 

Blood. Giant vats of blood. 

And right in the middle of the obsidian platform, suspended in the air by dozens of glowing golden chains, was a woman. 

"Mother," Bruce choked out. A tear finally broke free and rolled down his dirty face. 

Victoria Thompson did not look like the beautiful high priestess from Bruce's memories. She looked like a ghost. She was incredibly thin, wearing a torn, white dress that fluttered in the magical wind. Her raven-black hair hung down past her knees. 

Her arms and legs were spread wide, held tight by the golden chains. The chains were connected to the massive vats of blood and the pipes coming from the tortured spirits. 

She was the heart of the machine. The Iron-Heart Clan was sucking the energy out of the chained spirits, pumping it into Victoria, and using her rare, pure soul to refine the magic before sending it up to the estate above. She was a living, breathing filter for their stolen power. 

And standing directly beneath her, on the obsidian platform, was Lady Hestia. 

The Matriarch of the Iron-Heart Clan was not alone. Five of the Clan Elders were with her, wearing dark red cloaks. They were standing in a circle around Victoria. 

Lady Hestia held a long, curved dagger in her hand. The blade was glowing with a sickly, purple light. 

Hestia raised the dagger high into the air. 

“The vessel is full!” Hestia screamed. Her voice was amplified by magic, echoing across the massive cavern. “The Deep Beast hungers! Let the blood of the traitor open the gate to absolute power!”

"No!" Bruce screamed from the catwalk. 

But his voice was too far away. Hestia did not hear him. 

The Matriarch swung the glowing purple dagger down in a brutal, shining arc, aiming directly for Victoria Thompson’s heart.