Prisoners of the wilds

The Crimson Cult

"Get those heavy steel benches over the cracks right now," Marcus Vance yelled, shouting over the terrifying sound of splitting stone as the red-scaled claws ripped further through his cell floor.

"Are you insane, Vance," Silas shouted back, his eyes wide with terror as he backed out of the ruined cell. "That thing is not from this world. Concrete is snapping like twigs."

"I said move, Silas," Marcus barked, his hands already glowing with thick, swirling shadow magic. "If that beast clears the floor, we are all dead before the Warden even loads his rifles. Briggs, grab the iron chains from the wall."

"I am on it, I am on it," Briggs yelled, dragging a massive pile of rusty iron security chains across the corridor, his boots slipping in the rising dust. "But we cannot hold a subterranean monster with just iron, Marcus."

Marcus didn't answer with words. He thrust his hands downward, sending a massive wave of independent shadow tendrils straight into the widening chasm. The black smoke wrapped tightly around the creature's massive, scaly wrists, forcing the claws backward into the dark, crimson-lit void. With a final, explosive surge of power, Marcus slammed a heavy stone slab over the opening, sealing the rift temporarily.

"It is coming from the other side," Marcus gasped, wiping sweat from his forehead as the shadows returned to his feet. "They are forcing the anchor point from the Wilds. I have to go through and cut off the source."

"You are leaving us here alone with a military siege outside," Silas demanded, gripping his stolen rifle tightly. "The guards are already hitting the front barricade with iron rams."

"Briggs knows how to hold a choke point," Marcus said, turning to the corrupt captain. "Keep them out for one hour, Briggs. If I am not back by then, save yourselves."

"You better come back with enough gold to buy me a kingdom, Vance," Briggs grunted, shoving a fresh clip into his rifle. "Now go."

Marcus pulled the loose brick from the wall, ignited his bloodline, and dove straight through the starlight-blue vortex before the inmates could protest.

The suffocating smell of prison mold vanished instantly, replaced by the heavy, burning scent of sulphur and charred wood. Marcus crashed onto the humid floor of the Wilds, his enhanced vision cutting through a thick blanket of black smoke. The beautiful bioluminescent jungle was on fire, the giant trees crackling with angry red flames.

"Marcus, over here," a sharp whisper called out from a nearby thicket.

Lyra sprang out from the burning brush, her silver hair covered in gray ash, her crossbow fully loaded and notched. "Thank the gods you came back. We have a massive problem."

"I know," Marcus said, rubbing his chest as the portal snapped shut behind him. "Something just tried to claw its way straight up through my cell floor. What is going on here?"

"The Crimson Cult found the exact location of your interdimensional anchor," Lyra said, grabbing his arm and pulling him behind a massive obsidian boulder. "Look down into the volcanic valley. They are forcing the gate open from this side."

Marcus peered over the edge of the rocky ridge, his jaw tightening. In the center of a massive stone amphitheater, dozens of masked cultists in long, blood-red robes were marching in a synchronized circle. They were chanting a deep, guttural language that made the very air vibrate. In the middle of the arena, a massive, ornate silver mirror artifact floated in the air, pulsing with a volatile crimson light that perfectly mirrored the exact shape and dimensions of his iron cell door back on Earth.

"They are sacrificing the jungle beasts to feed the mirror," Lyra whispered, pointing her crossbow at the chanting priests. "The raw life essence is burning a hole through the fabric of reality. That is why your prison floor is breaking."

"We need to destroy that floating mirror," Marcus said, his shadow shroud beginning to ripple around his arms. "If that glass shatters, the connection breaks."

"It is not that simple," Lyra warned, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper. "Look at the High Priest standing directly beneath the artifact. The one wearing the gold-trimmed mask."

Marcus focused his enhanced sight on the leader of the cultists. The man was tall, standing with absolute authority as he directed the dark ritual. As the priest raised his hands to channel a stream of red energy into the mirror, Marcus caught sight of a massive gold ring on the man’s index finger. It was carved with the exact royal crest of the Vance family.

"That ring," Marcus gasped, his heart stopping in his chest. "That is impossible. Only my father and my grandfather wore that crest."

"Marcus, wait," Lyra shouted, reaching out to grab his linen shirt, but she was too late.

Driven by pure fury, Marcus used his enhanced legs to leap down from the high ridge, crashing into the stone trenches of the arena like a fallen meteor. He drew a heavy steel sword he had taken from a dead prison guard, moving through the crimson-robed cultists like a phantom, cutting down the chanters with swift, brutal strikes.

"Stop this madness," Marcus roared, his shadow shroud flaring outward, knocking five cultists off their feet.

The chanting stopped instantly. The entire arena fell into a deathly, terrifying silence. The High Priest slowly turned his head toward Marcus, his golden mask reflecting the red flames of the burning valley. He did not look surprised; instead, he let out a low, familiar laugh that made Marcus’s blood run cold.

"You always were too impulsive, my boy," the High Priest said smoothly.

The leader raised his hands and slowly removed the golden mask, revealing the heavily scarred, weathered face of an old man with sharp, piercing gray eyes.

"Grandfather," Marcus whispered, his sword hand trembling as his mind completely broke. "They told me you died in the deepest dungeons of the capital decades ago. My father wept for you."

"Your father was a weak, idealistic fool, Marcus," the old man sneered, tossing the golden mask onto the stones. "He wanted to keep our family power hidden away in the dirt, rotting in that lower human realm. I faked my death to return to our true home. The Crimson Cult is mine. We have spent thirty years preparing for this exact night."

"You are trying to destroy our world," Marcus shouted, raising his blade. "You sent those mercenaries to my cell to kill me."

"I sent them to retrieve you before your idiot uncle Thomas could ruin everything," his grandfather laughed, his gray eyes gleaming with malice. "But it does not matter now. You brought your blood right to my doorstep. Your pure, royal Vance blood is the final catalyst needed to stabilize that mirror and launch our full-scale conquest of Earth."

"I will take your head before I let you touch my blood," Marcus snarled, tensing his muscles to charge.

"Watch your step, Lord Vance," his grandfather mocked.

Before Marcus could take a single step forward, a sharp, metallic click echoed from the gravel beneath his boots. Lyra, who had been trying to slip down the ridge to support him, accidentally tripped an ancient pressure plate hidden in the stones.

Suddenly, a dozen dark magic spears, glowing with a sickening purple light, shot out from the arena walls with lightning speed. The magical projectiles pierced straight through Marcus’s legs and arms, pinning his limbs firmly to the stone floor before he could even call upon his shadow shroud.

"Marcus," Lyra screamed from the ridge, her crossbow firing a bolt that was instantly deflected by a wall of crimson energy.

Marcus let out a guttural shriek of absolute agony as the dark magic spears burned through his flesh, locking his body in place. Blood began to pour from his wounds, flowing rapidly across the ancient ritual stones straight toward the floating mirror artifact.

"Perfect," his grandfather smiled, stepping forward with a long, curved sacrificial dagger. "The ritual is complete. The bridge is open."