Chapter 13

Dane played with his dagger, spinning it around his fingers. He sat on the cold and hard floor, staring at the undead. The Sullied Corpses had returned to their mesmerized state, with their eyes locked on the lantern above the stairwell's door.

He tapped his feet on the ground rhythmically and bit the nails on his other hand. His mind was fixated on the Tyrant and its army of serpents. He was made aware that most of the iron-scaled ophidians were in the well, and only a minuscule portion of its forces remained with it. Atticus had briefed them on it, having had a ghost scout the well for him.

About a hundred serpents lurked at the cathedral's entrance, and another fifty remained with the Tyrant. They planned on starting with a bang. Sir would melt them all, and they would hope it inflicted lethal wounds on the Tyrant. From there, the men would enter a predetermined formation and attack the Tyrant.

It was a sound plan, Dane thought. Fire was the bane of iron, especially fire belonging to an Awakened. Yet, he could not help but dread the battle ahead of him. It was not every day that a mundane Aspirant met one of the sovereign creatures of the Dream Realm. When they did, it was the poor soul's last day. His nail chipped from the force, and he grimaced, shaking his hand to shoo away the pain.

'Eliana…are you watching? I'll be making history tonight…or dying a miserable death.' he mouthed. The wind whistled in response, and he chuckled. He didn't believe much in omens, but surrounded by darkness and the dead, he almost felt destined for death.

"Let us go," Atticus said, getting up. There was a weight in his voice. His mellow eyes were bleak and resolved. Death shrouded the host like the night. Dane stood up, forcing himself to smile. Eliana had always told him to smile, even when everything went wrong. He would honor her in death or victory. He picked up his sword and walked up the stairs, following the knight and the priest.

The white door was ajar, and a slithering trail, almost two feet wide, was left in the dust. He imagined the sheer size of the abomination and sighed.

It opened up to a corridor with three split paths. On the left was the path to the cathedral's entrance, where the most serpents had gathered. The quiet hisses could be heard from here. To the right was a winding staircase, and the center path led to two wide doors. They were made of white marble, and golden veins drew close together to display a painting of the tale of Heart's visit. The Blessed Well was at the very center, connected by the doors. They were open, and the well seemed to be broken in half.

Dark rage boiled in the eyes of the men surrounding him, especially Atticus, his calm eyes nowhere to be seen. The veins on their arms and necks throbbed. Even the man who had lost his arm was livid. It didn't take a genius to guess what they were feeling. This thing has come to their land and poisoned their most prized possessions. Physically and mentally. And the open doors perfectly portrayed that with the well's broken image. It was like a slap in the face.

Each step taken sent tremors through Dane's heart. He wanted nothing more than to turn and run, to find another way to pass this twisted trial. Unfortunately, no such way existed. Not if that thing got its hand on that Relic, he felt.

They stood right outside and split into two groups of fourteen. They leaned against the doors in silence, shoulders first and feet grounded. Atticus, Dane, and the knight stood just behind. They shivered as they heard the slithering and hissing from inside.

Wisps of flame materialized from Sir's old hands. They kept coming, becoming a dozen balls of fire. Sir's hands trembled, but they kept coming. Sweat dripped from their brows. This hissing stopped, and nothing but the sputtering of the fire could be heard.

"Now," the trembling man shouted and brought his hands together. The fire coalesced, forming a brilliant orb of incandescent light above him. He wasn't touching it, yet Dane thought he was burning.

The men shouted and pushed at the door. It creaked and opened wide.

Dane saw streaks of iron snapping toward them, so many of them. It didn't matter. The sun above his head flashed forward, taking the serpents with it. It went to the center, where he saw something coiled around an enormous pillar at the center.

The fire seemed to devour itself, becoming smaller and smaller but so much brighter. Then it burst. Long tongues of flames surged throughout the hall, and the place trembled. The marble floor cracked open, and the pained hisses of the cursed ophidians mixed with the roaring of fire. Dane was momentarily blinded. His eyes stung terribly, even through closed eyes.

He covered them with his hand, opening them gingerly as he stumbled backward blindly. He kept his sword in front of himself and blinked through the pain.

A haze of dust and orange filled the hall, obstructing his vision. Shards of stained glass were scattered on the floor, and the hot air escaped from the broken windows. The haze lifted slowly.

The host took careful steps forward. Heaps of melted iron goo and flesh covered the weak marble. The acrid smell of venom permeated the place, burning in the fumes. He coughed softly, not paying too much attention to it.

High in the hall, where the pillar was, two jewel-like eyes shone blue as sapphire. A vertical rupture ran through their middles like the abyss in an ocean.

Iron scales gleamed orange under the glow of the flames, and a blue tongue flicked back and forth from its closed mouth. It craned its neck and hung low, its tail slowly uncoiling itself from the black and gold pillar.

The Tyrant glared at them.