Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Fire crawls up my arm like a possessive lover, eager and hot against my skin.
The narrow streets of Dern press in around us in a maze of worn stone and whispered fears.
We all wear plain cloaks to blend in and keep the night’s chill at bay.
This city is almost as old as Tirene’s capital yet, despite its proximity, not nearly as well-built or maintained.
We landed in the market, the only area large enough to accommodate the dragons. Unfortunately, the place we’re heading to is nowhere close to the open, well-traveled routes of Tirene’s third-largest city. The location is closer to the river, where the sewers drain and the leather is cured.
And where criminals lurk behind every shadow, if I’m to believe my brother. Erring on the side of caution, I cup a small flame in my palm as we weave through the twilight.
Bastian walks a half step ahead, his form tense beneath his cloak, while Helene’s gait remains loose and her expression carefully blank. She wears the perfect diplomat’s mask even in this decidedly undiplomatic excursion.
“Stay close.” Bastian’s directive barely carries over the distant noises of night markets and taverns. “The temple district narrows ahead.”
Agnar nods as he scans our surroundings, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
Since Leesa stayed back, I picked him up on the way out of town.
Rafe trails me, managing to scowl and look alert at the same time.
The streets twist and fold in on themselves, designed to confuse visitors and protect the sanctity of Cyphero’s domain.
Only those who learn the secret ways can find his temples.
My fire flares without conscious thought. The flame doubles in size, morphing our shadows into grotesque elongated shapes against the weathered walls.
“Careful with that,” Helene hisses. “Unless you’re trying to announce our arrival to the entire district.”
I close my fingers a bit, willing the flame to shrink. The magic resists for half a heartbeat before grudgingly complying. “Sorry.”
My mind races. The fire shouldn’t push against my will like a living creature with its own desires.
With a start, I remember what Sterling told me weeks ago.
That his water answers differently now. Quicker. As if the element anticipates what he needs before Sterling does.
At the time, I nodded without really comprehending. Now, with my own element practically purring beneath my skin, I finally understand. This is what happens when you’re more in tune with your element. You develop not just more control, but a partnership with your magic.
“Here.” Bastian stops before an unassuming stone building. No grand columns or ornate statues mark Cyphero’s temple, just clean lines and perfect proportions. A temple devoted to precision and knowledge. “The entrance to the crypt should be inside, hidden beneath the main altar.”
When Rafe tests the door, it swings open without resistance. “Unlocked.” His eyebrows draw together. “Probably not a good sign.”
Great. Just what I hoped to hear.
As we slip inside, I encourage my flame to reach higher to illuminate the modest interior.
Unlike the lush, fragrant temples of other gods, Cyphero’s sanctuary is austere.
Measurement tools hang on the walls instead of tapestries, and a simple stone table etched with mathematical formulas instead of prayers comprises the altar.
Bastian blinks a few times as if orienting himself. “The entrance should be—”
“Right there.” Agnar stalks ahead, pushing the altar aside with a scrape of stone to reveal a narrow staircase descending into darkness.
The stairs are worn smooth from centuries of footsteps, moss growing in the cracks between stones. I take the lead, my flame casting an unsteady light as we proceed. With each step, the air grows cooler and damper, carrying the scent of old paper along with a sharper odor. Chemicals, perhaps.
“So, this sect of the scientist-priests.” Bastian’s voice echoes in the narrow passage.
“They’ve been the kingdom’s thinkers for generations.
Measuring stars, charting weather patterns, creating medicines.
But in recent months, they’ve become afraid.
Some have gone into hiding. Others simply disappeared. ”
“Why?” I take cautious steps on the slippery surface. “What frightened them?”
Bastian shrugs. “That’s what we’re here to find out.”
“Let’s hope information is all we encounter,” Rafe’s ominous statement prickles my skin.
The stairway finally opens into a large circular chamber. Half laboratory, half shrine in appearance. My magic illuminates worktables covered with delicate instruments, shelves of books and scrolls, and in the center, a smaller altar to Cyphero.
But the room is in chaos, the air coated with a faint copper odor.
Papers scattered across the floor crunch beneath our boots. Chairs lie overturned, shelves hang broken from walls, and dark stains mark the stone floor in irregular patterns.
“Blood.” Agnar kneels to examine one of the stains. “It’s not fresh.”
Well, I guess that explains the copper.
No ever-lights illuminate the space, so I swallow hard and use my fire to light wall sconces and candles. The flames leap to their new homes, almost too eagerly, and bathe the crypt in dancing light that does nothing to dispel the heaviness in the air.
Anger and worry trickle down my spine. What the hells happened here? Who would disrupt Cyphero’s temple like this? “Spread out. Search for anything that might tell us what they discovered. And why it potentially got them killed.”
We disperse through the room, our shadows flickering across the walls as we cautiously navigate the debris.
Helene crouches to pick up a shattered crystal lens. “Someone didn’t want their research found.”
Rafe heads to a workbench where intricate measuring devices remain mostly untouched. His fingers brush over a brass instrument with delicate gears. “So methodical. They documented everything.”
I find myself drawn to a shelf of bound journals, their leather covers worn from frequent handling. Opening one at random, I find page after page of meticulous notes written in a cramped, precise hand. “I’ve got something.”
The others step over broken furniture and equipment to gather around.
The journal contains systematic observations of prayer responses throughout the kingdom. Pages full of data, tables, measurements, and conclusions that clench my stomach.
I start reading aloud. “Prayers are being answered more frequently. Worshippers leave temples feeling drained yet compelled to return. The prayer-response cycles are intensifying.”
Bastian flips open another journal. “They were tracking patterns across different gods. Look. Some prayers seem to build fear and desperation while others focus on hope and faith. But in either case…”
“Mortals have ramped up their devotion,” Rafe finishes, skimming over Bastian’s shoulder. “More prayers, more offerings, more connections to the gods.”
Helene scrunches her nose in disgust. “More power flowing to those ancient fucks.”
I can’t help but agree, which is a horrible thought. As I flip through more pages, my unease grows. The later entries become more frantic, the handwriting less precise. Charts show spikes in divine activity that correlate with increased prayer gatherings.
Two pages stick together. Once I manage to separate them, I turn to the next one and freeze. Reddish brown stains—probably the cause of the stickiness—discolor the paper.
Blood.
Ignoring the dread squirming in my gut, I read the final entries. They’re rushed. Desperate.
“Look at these.” Helene points to a series of sketches pinned to a wall on the other side of the room.
I move closer, and my blood chills. The drawings show crystalline formations. Beautiful, intricate, and vaguely grotesque. I know these formations too well.
“According to the notes here, these are growing in temples everywhere.” Helene stalks closer to the wall, and I cast extra light to help her read. “The scientist-priests were studying them.”
Bastian leans in, his mouth set in a grim line. “Like the ones from the fountain. And at the Divine Commons.”
Agnar catches my eye. “And the portal.”
“Exactly.” My fingers start to tingle, and I realize my fire is responding to my fear by heating the air around us.
“The scientist-priests learned the formations seem to appear during intense prayer gatherings.” Rafe flips through more journal pages.
“They tracked the patterns. More prayers equals more crystals. That could either mean more people praying, prayers being more intense, or prayers happening more often. They charted it out.”
I gravitate to a table where diagrams display what look to be energy measurements. Lines surge and fall but trend steadily upward. “What were they measuring?”
“They believe the crystals were connected to divine power somehow.” Helene shuffles through papers. She pauses, squinting at a page heavily stained with blood. “Their last entry is partially obscured. ‘The gods aren’t helping us.’ I can’t make out the rest. ‘Heeding’? ‘Seeing’?”
We all crowd around, but blood has damaged too much of the text. So much blood that the page is glued to the back cover, rendering the final words of the scientist-priests a mystery.
Bastian frowns at a small box containing crystal cuttings before lifting one carefully. The object glints in the light like frost on a window. “These remind me of ice chips that never melt. But what exactly is being frozen?”
Agnar shrugs. “Things could be trapped inside it. The same way salt will grow around other minerals, which changes the color and flavor.”
Discontent mounts as we ponder the possible implications. Gods gaining power from mortal prayers, crystalline formations appearing at sites of worship, scientist-priests murdered for their discoveries…