31. The Submerged Sanctuary
31
The Submerged Sanctuary
Dorian
“Look at this place,” Ren said, breaking the heavy silence. “Hard to believe it was once a prestigious home of magic and academics.”
The ruins of the old Blackstone Academy sprawled before us, half-swallowed by the sea. Waves licked at the eroded stone walls, their once-proud grandeur reduced to crumbling silhouettes against the horizon. Beside me, Cassian, Rowan, and Ren stood motionless, looking out over the ruin.
“Indeed, my dear boy,” I mused. “The very stones seem to whisper secrets of the arcane, don't they? Oh, if these walls could talk, the tales they would tell!”
I stepped forward, my boots splashing through the shallow water that now carpeted the once-grand halls. The salty tang of the sea filled my nostrils, mingling with the musty scent of ancient magic. Overhead, the twisted remnants of a chandelier hung precariously, its crystals now home to clusters of barnacles and swaying tendrils of seaweed.
“Look there,” I exclaimed, pointing to a series of intricate sigils carved into a nearby pillar. “Necromantic glyphs, used to bind and command the spirits of the deceased. Absolutely fascinating! And over here, the remains of an alchemical laboratory. One can only imagine the wondrous elixirs and potions that were once concocted within these walls!”
“They say the academy was abandoned after a great magical cataclysm, some hundred years ago,” Cassian said, his deep voice echoing through the cavernous space. “A ritual gone wrong, or perhaps a dark force unleashed from beyond the veil. Whatever the cause, it left the place uninhabitable, and the mages were forced to relocate to the modern Blackstone Academy we know today.”
As we ventured deeper into the ruins, the water rose to lap at our knees, its icy caress sending shivers down my spine. The once-sturdy floorboards groaned beneath our weight, their timbers softened by decades of salt and damp. It was as if the very bones of the academy were crying out in protest, lamenting the indignity of their fate.
“Stay close to me,” I murmured, reaching for Ren's hand. The touch grounded me, as it always did. Even here, surrounded by ancient dangers, his presence was my anchor.
We picked our way through the detritus of the past, marveling at the opulence that lay strewn about like so much forgotten treasure. A moldering tapestry hung from the wall, its vibrant threads now faded and thick with brine. An overturned desk, its surface encrusted with barnacles, lay half-submerged in a pool of stagnant water. And there, glinting beneath the surface, the tarnished silver of an inkwell, its contents long since bled out into the sea.
As we ventured further into the heart of the ruins, I couldn't help but marvel at the sheer magnificence of it all, even in its state of decay. The intricate stonework, the soaring arches, the delicate tracery of the windows, all spoke to a level of craftsmanship and artistry that was truly breathtaking. It was as if the very essence of magic had been woven into every brick and beam, imbuing the place with an ethereal beauty that endured even now, a century after its abandonment.
“Can you feel it?” Rowan breathed, their eyes wide with wonder. “The energy here... it's like nothing I've ever encountered before. It's ancient and powerful, but also... sad, somehow. As if the very stones are mourning the loss of the life and learning that once filled these halls.”
I nodded in agreement, my own senses attuned to the subtle currents of magic that swirled around us. It was a palpable presence, a force that seemed to permeate every nook and cranny of the ruins. And yet, there was something else too, a sense of absence, of emptiness, that was almost more unsettling than the power that thrummed through the air.
“Ren,” I said, turning back to him. “Do you sense any spirits here? Surely a place with such a history must be teeming with lost souls, yearning to be heard and acknowledged.”
Ren's brow furrowed as he closed his eyes, reaching out with his necromantic senses. After a long moment, he shook his head. “I don't sense any spirits here at all. It's like the ruins are... empty. Devoid of any spectral presence.”
“How peculiar,” I mused. “For a place so steeped in magical history, one would expect it to be positively brimming with restless shades and whispering phantasms. And yet, as you say, there is only silence. Most intriguing!”
I began to pace along the flooded corridor, my mind awhirl with possibilities. Could it be that some force had driven the spirits away? Or perhaps the cataclysm that had claimed the academy had also severed its connection to the ethereal plane, leaving it a barren husk, cut off from the cycle of life and death. That might explain why Alistair would perform his ritual here. A place between life and death, between land and sea. A liminal space, brimming with untapped magical power.
As I pondered, I caught a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision.
Ren went rigid, his eyes fixed on the dark water that lapped at our legs. “There's something down there,” he hissed, his voice tight with tension. “I saw it move.”
I peered into the murky depths, my eyes straining to pierce the gloom. At first, I saw nothing but the swirling eddies of silt and the darting shadows of small fish. But then, as I watched, a shape began to coalesce in the darkness. It was a sinuous form, long and lithe, with the unmistakable glimmer of pale flesh.
“Steady on, my boy,” I murmured, placing a reassuring hand on Ren's shoulder. “Whatever it is, we shall face it together. But let us not be too hasty in our judgments. The sea holds many mysteries, not all of them malevolent.”
Even as I spoke, however, I felt a prickle of unease at the nape of my neck. There were whispers, rumors that had reached my ears in recent months. Tales of strange creatures lurking in the waters around the old academy. Merfolk, some said, but not the kind that populated the storybooks of my youth. No, these were said to be twisted, feral things, their minds and bodies warped by the eldritch influence of some ancient aquatic deity.
I kept these thoughts to myself, not wishing to alarm my companions unnecessarily. Still, I urged Ren to stay close as we ventured onward, picking our way through the debris-strewn halls with renewed caution.
As we stepped into another grand hall, its vaulted ceiling lost to the shadows above, my eye was drawn to a most peculiar sight. There, nestled against the far wall, stood a massive stone fireplace, its hearth still strewn with the charred remnants of a recent blaze.
“Well, well, well,” I mused, my voice echoing through the cavernous space. “It would appear we are not the first to venture into these hallowed halls in recent times. See how the ashes still smolder, the embers clinging stubbornly to life? Someone has been here, and not long ago at that.”
I approached the fireplace, my boots crunching on the scattered debris that littered the floor. Up close, I could see the intricate carvings that adorned the mantelpiece, their features worn smooth by the relentless march of time.
Cassian crouched beside me, sifting through the ashes. “Driftwood,” he declared, holding up a charred fragment for my inspection. “Gathered from the shores outside, by the looks of it. Whoever built this fire knew the ruins well enough to scavenge for fuel.”
I nodded and opened my mouth to reply, but a splash, followed by the clatter of wood against stone, shattered the eerie stillness. I whirled around, my heart leaping into my throat, to see a figure emerge from the shadowed recesses of the hall.
It was a Merfolk, that much was immediately apparent. But this was no fair-featured creature of myth and legend. No, this poor wretch had bulging, unblinking eyes, a curiously flattened nose, and a grayish-green pallor to his clammy skin. He clutched a bundle of driftwood to its chest, his webbed fingers wrapped tightly around the sodden branches.
For a moment, we simply stared at one another, the Merfolk's inky black eyes wide with shock and terror. Then, with a panicked yelp, the creature flung its firewood aside and turned to flee, its sinuous tail churning the water into a froth as it sought to propel itself to safety.
“Wait!” I called out, my voice ringing through the cavernous hall. “Please, we mean you no harm! We are but humble scholars, seekers of knowledge and understanding!”
To my surprise, the Merfolk paused, its narrow shoulders heaving with exertion and fear. Slowly, cautiously, it turned back to face us, its gaze darting warily from one face to face.
I took a tentative step forward, my hands held out in a gesture of peace. “Forgive our intrusion,” I said softly, my voice low and soothing. “We didn’t mean to startle you. I’m Professor Crowe and these are my friends, all students at the academy at one point or another.”
The Merfolk regarded me with suspicion, its webbed fingers twitching nervously at its sides. But as I met its gaze, I saw a flicker of something in those inky depths. Curiosity, perhaps, or a desperate longing for connection.
“You...you are not like the ones who came before,” it rasped, its voice a guttural croak. “The ones who come with magic and blade, seeking plunder our ancestral home.”
I shook my head, a sad smile playing at the corners of my mouth. “No, my friend. We are scholars, not thieves. We seek only to learn, to understand the secrets of this place.”
The Merfolk hesitated a moment longer, then nodded slowly. “I am called Fisk,” it said, its tone guarded but not hostile. “You’re standing in my home.”
I offered a gentle smile and bowed my head in greeting. “Well met, Fisk. We apologize for the intrusion into your abode. It was not our intention to trespass or cause alarm.”
Fisk's posture relaxed slightly, though wariness still glinted in his bulbous eyes. “Few surfacers come here with peaceful intent. The ruins hold many secrets, yes, but also great danger for the unwary.”
“Indeed,” I mused. “We have heard whispers of the dark magic that lingers in these halls. But we also believe this place may hold the key to preventing a great catastrophe.”
I placed a protective hand on Ren's shoulder, drawing him closer. After everything we'd been through, every tender moment and hard-won victory, I wouldn't let any harm come to him. Not from Fisk, not from Alistair, not from anything lurking in these depths.
“Please, Fisk,” Rens said. “We're searching for a man named Alistair Grimshaw. He's a necromancer, and we believe he plans to perform a ritual here that could shatter the boundaries between life and death.”
Fisk's eyes widened, his fins flaring in agitation. “The Mad Mage? Yes, I have seen him. He comes with tools and tomes, offerings for the Deep Father.”
My throat tightened at Fisk's words. “The Deep Father? Is he referring to...?”
“Dagon,” Cassian breathed, his deep voice trembling. “The ancient sea god of the merfolk.”
Fisk nodded gravely. “The Mad Mage seeks to open a portal to the Drowned Halls, where the Deep Father slumbers. He believes that by offering a powerful soul, he can gain the boon of immortality. He’s a fool. The Deep Father knows only one thing: hunger.”
A chill ran down my spine as the pieces fell into place. The ruins, positioned between sea and shore. The lack of spirits, consumed by Dagon's hunger. And at the center of it all, Alistair, driven by his twisted obsession with cheating death.
“Please, Fisk,” I implored. “We must stop him. Can you tell us where he's performing the ritual?”
The merfolk hesitated, torn between fear and a flicker of hope. “I can show you the way, but…The way is in the deep. You land dwellers will never be able to reach it. There’s no air for you below.”
I smiled faintly, holding up a hand to reassure him. “That won’t be a problem.” I reached into the folds of my robes and withdrew a small vial of shimmering blue liquid. “This is Breath of the Abyss , a spell I perfected for situations like this.”
Fisk’s head tilted slightly, his expression skeptical. “And this…will let you survive the deep?”
“Not just survive,” I said, uncorking the vial. The scent of salt and ozone filled the air as a faint mist spiraled upward. “It will adapt our bodies to the depths, allowing us to breathe water, withstand the pressure, and even move freely, as though we belong there.”
I turned to my companions, who regarded the potion with varying degrees of trust. Ren’s brow furrowed as he studied the liquid, while Cassian crossed his arms, looking unconvinced. Rowan, of course, leaned closer, their curiosity overriding any hesitation.
“Does it taste as bad as it looks?” Rowan asked, their lips twitching into a smirk.
“Worse,” I admitted with a chuckle. “But it works. I’ve tested it myself on dives far deeper than this.”
Ren glanced at the vial, then at me. “Will it work for us, though? We don’t all have…your experience , Professor.”
I held his gaze, my tone gentle but firm. “I wouldn’t offer it if it didn’t. Trust me, Ren. I wouldn’t risk your safety, any of you.”
He nodded slowly, and I poured a small measure of the potion into a shallow dish. “One sip each should be enough to last for several hours. The spell adapts to your individual biology, so don’t worry about side effects.”
Rowan reached out first, their fingers brushing mine as they took the dish. “Here’s to not drowning,” they said, tipping it back. They winced as they swallowed, coughing slightly. “Oh, gods, that’s vile.”
Cassian took the dish next, sniffing it warily before taking a hesitant sip. His face twisted in disgust. “It’s like drinking kelp and regret.”
Ren hesitated a moment longer, then squared his shoulders and drank. He shuddered but said nothing, his resolve evident.
Once everyone had partaken, I drank the remaining potion, feeling the familiar tingle spread through my body as the spell took hold. My lungs felt lighter, as though filled with cool, flowing water instead of air, and a faint hum resonated in my ears, tuning my senses to the rhythms of the ocean.
“Give it a moment,” I said as I set the vial aside. “The spell needs a few seconds to settle.”
Fisk watched us with open astonishment. “You…you truly mean to follow me into the depths?”
“We do,” I said simply, meeting his gaze. “If we can stop Alistair before he completes his ritual, we might save not just your people, but the surface world as well.”
The merfolk regarded us in silence for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. Follow me, surfacers. But heed my warning: the deeper we go, the closer we come to the Deep Father’s grasp. Stay close, and do not stray from the path I show you.”
With that, Fisk turned and dove into the water, his sinuous form cutting through the shadows. One by one, we followed, plunging into the cold embrace of the ocean, our bodies now attuned to its alien depths.
As the light of the surface faded, the ruins of the sunken academy stretched out before us—a labyrinth of ancient stone and swirling currents, steeped in a dread older than memory.
Massive Victorian arches rose from the ocean floor, their intricate carvings softened and worn by centuries of saltwater erosion.
“It's beautiful, in a haunting sort of way,” Ren murmured, drifting closer to me.
I nodded, watching as he reached out to touch a tendril of kelp winding through a broken parapet. Even here, surrounded by decay, his curiosity and wonder made my heart ache with affection.
“Beautiful and dangerous,” I replied softly. “Stay close to me.”
A once-proud clock tower stood at an awkward angle, its face cracked and encrusted with sea life, the hands frozen in time as though defying the inevitability of decay.
I swam closer to an enormous archway that must have served as the academy's grand entrance in its prime. The wrought-iron gates, adorned with arcane symbols and floral filigree, now hung askew, their ornate beauty dulled but still discernible beneath layers of rust. For a moment, I could almost picture a steady stream of students and scholars, bustling with purpose, their laughter and debates echoing through these very halls.
The architecture itself told a story: a blend of Gothic revival with touches of Victorian opulence. Towering spires, once designed to touch the heavens, now pointed solemnly to the depths, and stained-glass windows, shattered long ago, littered the ocean floor with glimmers of vibrant color. Here and there, remnants of carved gargoyles peeked out from their watery graves, their grotesque faces seeming to leer at us with silent judgment.
“This place…” Ren murmured, his voice thick with awe as his hand brushed against the eroded edge of a railing. “It’s like the ocean kept its bones, even after it drowned.”
Rowan swam closer to one of the stone walls, their sharp eyes tracing faint inscriptions carved into the surface. “Look at this,” they said, gesturing for us to follow. “Runes. Old protection spells, I think. Whatever happened here…it wasn’t supposed to.”
Cassian lingered near what must have been the main lecture hall, now a cavernous expanse filled with darting schools of fish and drifting detritus. Broken desks and shelves were scattered across the floor, their wood swollen and warped. A massive podium, still upright, loomed like a sentinel over the desolate scene.
“This place is as old as Massachusetts itself,” I said softly, turning in a slow circle to take in the sunken academy’s vastness. “Built during the colony’s earliest days, meant to be a haven for those who sought to understand magic’s mysteries. And now…all its knowledge, its history, lies buried here.”
Fisk swam ahead of us, his tail slicing through the water with practiced ease. He paused near a crumbled statue of what looked to be a mage in flowing robes. “The surfacers built much in their arrogance,” he said, his tone tinged with both reverence and bitterness. “They did not respect the deep or its power. Perhaps this was their punishment.”
I stared at the statue, noting the missing head and the cracks spiderwebbing through its torso. The mage’s outstretched hand pointed forward, as if beckoning us deeper into the ruins, or perhaps warning us to turn back.
“There’s more to this,” I muttered. “This wasn’t just the sea reclaiming the land. Something happened here, something deliberate.”
“The Deep Father hungers,” Fisk said ominously, glancing back at us. “And he does not forget. Follow me. The way grows darker from here.”
As we swam deeper, the ocean floor dipped into a chasm, and the ruins became more fractured, the architecture twisted and warped as though some immense force had wrenched it apart. Shadows coiled in the crevices, and the faint sound of a low, rhythmic pulse reached my ears.
“What is that?” Ren asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“The heartbeat of the deep,” Fisk replied grimly. “The closer we get to the Drowned Halls, the louder it will grow. Steel yourselves, surfacers. The Deep Father stirs.”
We swam through the final stretch, the weight of the water pressing against us, until we finally emerged into a large chamber, an air pocket suspended in the depths of the ruins. It was as though the ocean had swallowed the building whole, but here, within this strange sanctuary of dry air, the past still clung to the walls, preserved in haunting stillness.
I felt the subtle shift as the water released its grip, and for the first time since entering the ruins, I drew in a full breath without the pressure of magic. It was strange, almost surreal to feel air once again. The space before us was vast, a cavernous room with high vaulted ceilings, cracked and peeling.
Ren's hand found mine in the darkness. “This was a ballroom once,” he whispered. “Can you imagine the parties they must have held here?”
“Indeed,” I said, squeezing his hand. “Though I prefer our quiet evenings at home to any grand soirée.”
“Even with all this splendor?” Ren asked, gesturing at the ruined grandeur around us.
“Even then.” I turned to face him fully. “No amount of architectural magnificence can compare to sharing a cup of tea with you in our kitchen.”
The moment of tenderness was broken as Cassian cleared his throat. “Speaking of splendor gone wrong...” He nodded toward the far end of the room.
There stood an altar, or what could have once been one. Now, it was a grotesque mockery of its original purpose, built from broken stone and debris, stained black by whatever foul energies had been summoned here. Strange sigils were carved into its surface, dark symbols that pulsed with a faint, malevolent glow.
Around the altar lay a ring of blackened stone, burned and cracked, as if something enormous had been dragged across the floor. The walls were adorned with mismatched tapestries, their once-vibrant colors faded and rotting, depicting images I couldn’t quite make sense of. Some seemed to show creatures from the deep, others ancient figures in robes, arms outstretched toward the sea. But all of them, like the academy itself, were deteriorating, fading into the shadows.
In the center of the room, a large stone basin rested on a pedestal, its surface covered in a strange ichor that had coagulated and turned a sickly shade of green. Around it, blood-red candles flickered weakly, casting long, jagged shadows across the walls. The sickly sweet, almost cloying, scent of the candles clung to the air.
I couldn’t help but feel the room was holding its breath, as if waiting for something… or someone.
Then, my gaze fell on the most disturbing part of the scene.
At the base of the altar, an intricate circle had been drawn into the floor, filled with a network of black lines and runes that shimmered faintly in the dim light. The air around it buzzed with dark magic, old and forgotten. The circle itself was incomplete, the final segment, the last rune, waiting for something to complete it.
As I stepped fully into the chamber, a sense of unease crept over me, as tangible as the damp chill that clung to the air. This was a place that had known darkness, where the boundaries between life and death had been blurred and twisted. The very stones seemed to whisper of secrets long buried, of rituals best left forgotten.
“By the gods,” Cassian breathed, his eyes wide as he took in the macabre scene. “What manner of madness is this?”
“The worst kind,” I replied grimly. “The kind born of desperation and a hunger for power at any cost.”
Rowan moved to examine the altar, their slender fingers hovering just above the stained surface. “These symbols... They’re…”
“Eldritch,” I finished, nodding.
Rowan frowned, turning back to me. “But Alistair was a necromancy student, wasn’t he? These would have required a master Eldritch mage to draw them.”
“Maybe he had help,” Cassian suggested.
That was a troubling thought, but not one we had time to debate.
“Quickly now,” I urged my companions, my voice a hoarse whisper in the oppressive stillness. “We must dismantle this circle before Alistair returns. Cassian, Rowan, see if you can disrupt the runes. But for the love of all that's holy, do not step within its bounds!”
Fisk lingered near the entrance, his bulbous eyes darting nervously around the chamber. “We should not linger here,” he rasped.
I approached the eldritch circle, my heart pounding in my chest as I surveyed the intricate web of runes and sigils. The lines seemed to writhe and shimmer in the flickering candlelight, as if imbued with a malevolent sentience of their own. I could feel the dark energy radiating from the incomplete pattern, a cold, clammy sensation that clung to my skin.
“Careful now,” I cautioned, my voice barely above a whisper. “This is no ordinary ritual circle. The magic here is ancient, primal. One wrong move, and we could unleash something far worse than Alistair's twisted ambitions.”
Rowan nodded grimly, their expression taut with concentration as they began to study the outer edges of the circle. I watched as they worked, their hands tracing delicate patterns in the air, weaving counter-spells and wards to contain the dark energies that seethed within the runes.
My gaze kept drifting to Ren as he moved through the chamber. Even in this eerie setting, he was graceful, confident, so different from the hesitant student who'd first entered my classroom. Pride and affection swelled in my chest, though now wasn't the time to dwell on such feelings.
I turned my attention to the altar itself, my eyes narrowing as I examined the grotesque array of artifacts and talismans that littered its surface. There were shards of bone, blackened and pitted as if by some corrosive substance, and vials of viscous liquid that glowed with an eerie, sickly light. A tattered grimoire lay open at the center, its pages stained and crumbling, the text written in a spidery hand.
I leaned closer to the grimoire, my breath catching as I studied the arcane diagrams.
“What is it?” Ren asked, placing a steadying hand on my shoulder. The warmth of his touch helped ground me against the darkness emanating from the pages.
“These sigils...” I shook my head, reaching up to cover his hand with mine. “Remember that night we spent in the library discussing the theory of soul-binding?”
“When you kept getting distracted by my excellent questions?” He smiled faintly at the memory.
“When I kept getting distracted by you, period,” I admitted. “But this is similar to what we discussed then, only twisted into something far darker. Alistair isn't just trying to achieve immortality. He's attempting to merge with Dagon, to become a living conduit for the god’s power.”
Cassian glanced up from his work, his brow furrowed. “Is that even possible?”
“In theory, yes,” I replied grimly. “But the cost would be unimaginable. To complete a ritual of this magnitude, he would need a catalyst of immense necromantic power. Something able to bridge the gap between life and death, to anchor his soul as it's torn asunder by the eldritch forces he's invoking.”
I turned another page, my gaze falling upon an illustration that made my blood run cold. There, etched in exquisite detail, was an image of the Chain of Echoes.
My heart seized in my chest as I stared at the intricate drawing. The Chain of Echoes, the very artifact I had been studying. The thing my parents had corrupted with their ambition. And now, here it was, the centerpiece of Alistair's twisted ritual.
And we had brought it right to him.
I whirled around, my heart leaping into my throat. “Ren, you must…”
I trailed off when I saw Ren standing rigid, his eyes glazed and unfocused. His lips moved soundlessly, as if in response to some unheard whisper, one hand jammed in his pocket.
“Ren?” I called out, my voice sharp with concern. “Ren, what's wrong?”
But he didn't seem to hear me. His gaze was fixed on some distant point beyond the chamber's walls. I hurried to his side, my hands gripping his shoulders as I tried to shake him from his trance. But he remained unresponsive.
My eyes darted to Ren's pocket, where his hand remained buried, clutching something unseen. A wave of dread crashed over me as I reached out, my fingers trembling, and slowly, gently, extracted his hand from his pocket.
There, in his fist, was the Chain of Echoes.