Chapter 25 Out of Time
OUT OF TIME
The world shifted beneath Venrick’s boots as he crouched at the edge of a steep-tiled roof overlooking the western approach of the Vermillion Keep.
Beside him, Hardin and Yarla froze, gripping the weathered chimney to steady themselves as reality flickered.
For a heartbeat, the colors drained from the city spread out below them; buildings turned transparent before snapping back to solidity.
“The Flashover is beginning,” Yarla whispered, her knuckles white against the brick.
Venrick’s reply died in his throat as the taint of corruption he’d been bearing since the King’s attack triggered a response within him.
The scent of smoke in the air faded, the sounds of the city faded, and he became acutely aware that the layer of power separating their world from other realms was growing increasingly thin.
The sensation was less a thought and more a cold burning in his veins.
Not painful exactly, but something he felt.
The prospect of seeking other realms suddenly hungered within him.
Venrick blinked the irrational and alien sensation away.
His eyes drifted to the black lines still faintly tracing his veins.
He pulled his sleeve down to cover them and squelch the irrational desire he’d just felt.
Below, Astral City had become a battleground.
The market square, normally bustling with merchants and festivalgoers, now witnessed a different kind of chaos as rebel forces clashed with the King’s loyalist guards.
Barricades fashioned from overturned carts and furniture blocked major thoroughfares.
Smoke rose from scattered fires, and somewhere distant, a bell tolled in irregular, frantic peals.
“Look,” Hardin pointed toward the central fountain where water suddenly reversed its flow, streaming upward in defiance of natural law. Nearby, a flock of birds froze mid-flight, and remained suspended motionless for several heartbeats before continuing as if nothing had happened.
Venrick’s gaze lifted to the sky above Vermillion Keep.
Impossible colors twisted there, hues that had no names, auroras that writhed like living things against the afternoon sky.
And circling through that spectacle of light, dragons.
He counted six, then seven, their forms dark against the unnatural brilliance.
“Ingamar is up there,” Venrick said, the assuredness of it surprising him. He shouldn’t have been able to identify the golden dragon at this distance, yet somehow, he knew with certainty. “With White Eye and Quinthara. They’ve gathered others.”
Hardin gave him a searching look. “You can feel Ingamar now?”
“Since the corruption.” Venrick flexed his hand, watching the faint black lines pulse with his heartbeat. “It changed something within me. It’s not a rider bond, but we share a connection.”
“We need to move.” Yarla’s gaze turned to the Keep. “The inner sanctum will be beneath the central tower, if Cheyanne’s intelligence is correct.”
Venrick nodded, pushing aside his discomfort. “Stay close. When we reach the ward boundary, we’ll have one chance to slip through.”
They descended from the rooftop via a merchant’s scaffolding, keeping to the shadows as they navigated the chaotic streets.
Twice they were forced to detour as skirmishes between rebels and loyalists blocked their path.
The fighting had a desperate quality, neither side fully comprehending the greater threat looming over the city.
As they neared the Keep’s eastern approach, they encountered their first glimpse of the rimeshade.
The creature moved with unnatural grace among a squad of royal guards, its cloaked figure shrouding its features.
Frost spread in its wake, riming the cobblestones with delicate crystals despite the afternoon warmth.
“There are more of them than we thought,” Hardin murmured as they pressed into a doorway to avoid detection.
“The Void Drinker’s influence is spreading farther than anyone realized,” Venrick agreed grimly. “But not everyone in the Keep serves it willingly. Look there.”
He pointed to a confrontation unfolding at the guard checkpoint.
A Knight in the crimson cloak of the Vermillion Keep was arguing heatedly with the Captain of the Watch, gesturing angrily toward the sky where the auroras continued to writhe.
Other Knights gathered behind him, their hands resting meaningfully on sword hilts.
“The truth is spreading,” Yarla observed. “Thanks to Cheyanne’s influence.”
“Good. We’ll need allies inside.” Venrick studied the layout, calculating. “There, the service entrance. It’s lightly guarded, and those Knights look like they’re about to create a very useful distraction.”
As if on cue, the confrontation erupted into violence. The Knight drew his sword, bellowing about treason and corruption. His companions followed suit, engaging the loyal guards in a clash of steel that quickly drew attention from all directions.
“Now,” Venrick urged, and they sprinted toward the service entrance.
The wards around the Vermillion Keep were formidable.
They contained layers of protective magic built up over centuries, designed to keep out both physical intruders and magical threats.
But Hardin’s unique talent had grown stronger since bonding with Quinthara.
He placed his palms against the invisible barrier, his face tight with concentration as he sought the weak points in the magical structure.
“It’s different from last time,” he muttered. “More chaotic. The Flashover is affecting the stability.”
Venrick kept watch, painfully aware of how exposed they were. The clash between Knights and guards had drawn most eyes away, but it wouldn’t last forever. “Can you breach it?”
Hardin didn’t answer immediately, his eyes half-closed as his fingers traced patterns only he could see. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he pushed. Not physically, but with his will.
“There,” he said, voice strained. “Go through directly in front of me. Hurry, it won’t hold for long.”
They slipped through the momentary gap, Venrick feeling the wards’ energy wash over him like static as they passed. The service yard beyond was mercifully empty, the regular staff had either fled or been pressed into more urgent duties elsewhere in the Keep.
Once inside, they moved through kitchen stockrooms and servants’ passages, relying on the detailed maps Cheyanne had provided.
The interior of the Vermillion Keep was in a disarray.
Twice they encountered groups of panicked servants fleeing deeper into the fortress, bringing word of strange occurrences, statues that turned their heads to watch passersby, corridors that led to different destinations than they had moments before.
“I think the barriers between realms are growing thinner,” Hardin said after they’d narrowly avoided a patrol of guards. “The Flashover is accelerating.”
As if to confirm his words, the stone floor beneath them briefly turned transparent, revealing an vista of a star-filled void before solidifying again. Venrick stumbled, and the corruption in his veins flared in response, sending tendrils of cold fire skating beneath his skin.
“Venrick?” Yarla’s voice seemed to come from far away. “Your eyes—”
He blinked rapidly, forcing the world back into focus. “I’m fine. We need to keep moving.”
The deeper they penetrated into the Keep, the more pronounced the Flashover’s effects became.
They navigated a corridor where gravity periodically reversed, forcing them to grab onto wall sconces to avoid falling upward.
They passed through a ballroom where time flowed differently from one side to the other; servants on the far end moved at fractions of normal speed while their own movements felt unnaturally swift.
After descending a spiral staircase, they emerged onto a mezzanine overlooking a grand ceremonial hall. Below them, a disturbing tableau unfolded.
The Archmagus Hierro stood at the center of an intricate magical circle, arms raised as he chanted in a language that hurt Venrick’s ears.
Around him, a dozen mages knelt in smaller circles, their bodies rigid, eyes rolled back showing only whites.
From each, a stream of blue-white energy flowed toward a central figure, King Agadorn.
The King was changing. His once-regal features were melting like wax, reforming into something less human with each passing moment. The silver starlight that had flickered in his eyes now spread through his entire body, visible beneath his skin like a constellation trapped in mortal flesh.
“They’re preparing him,” Hardin breathed.
“Making him a suitable host,” Yarla agreed.
“The Void Drinker is going to use the King for his full manifestation,” Venrick said grimly.
A soft sound behind them made the three of them whirl, weapons half-drawn. A slim figure emerged from the shadows, hands raised to show they were empty.
“About time you two showed up,” Sasja said, her familiar blue eyes flashing with grim humor. “I’ve been tracking you since you entered the east wing.”
“Sasja,” Hardin said in relief, hugging her tightly.
“What are you doing here, I thought you were with Cheyanne?” Venrick said.
“I’m doing what I do best, gathering intelligence.” She crouched beside them, peering over the balustrade at the ritual below. “The Archmagus isn’t fully corrupted yet, but he’s close. He believes he’s working toward his own ascension, poor fool.”
“Have you seen Lark?” Venrick couldn’t keep the urgency from his voice.
Sasja’s expression turned somber. “No one has, not since the magical discharge in the tower. There are rumors she escaped through some kind of portal, but nothing confirmed.” She fixed Venrick with a knowing look.
“You need to focus on the task at hand. If she’s alive, our best chance of helping her is stopping this thing. ”