The man in the dark armor gave them his back. The words, “a pleasing acquisition,” hung in the cold, thin air, a statement of purpose more chilling than any threat. He did not look back as he walked away, his form swallowed by the gloom of the fortress he commanded. He left them under the watch of his guards.
They were not men. Not in the way Fedor was a man. Four figures, clad in robes the colour of dried blood and ash, stood motionless. Their faces were hidden by deep cowls, leaving only shadow. They held no visible weapons, yet their stillness was a weapon in itself. They were acolytes of this place, extensions of its will.
One of them detached from the group. It moved toward Sineus with a silent, gliding motion, its feet making no sound on the jagged iron platform. In its hand, it held a small device of dark steel and crystal, no larger than a man’s finger. A thin, needle-like stylet protruded from one end. It was not a tool of war, but of cold, sterile purpose.
Fedor shifted his weight, his shield rising a few centimeters. The other three acolytes turned their cowled heads in unison, a single, coordinated movement. They did not draw blades. They simply watched him, and the pressure in the air became a physical weight. Fedor froze, his jaw tight with a warrior’s frustrated rage. He could not fight a wall of silent intent.
The acolyte reached Sineus. It did not speak. It did not wait for permission. It took his left hand, its grip surprisingly strong, and turned it palm up. Sineus watched, his own stillness a match for the creature’s. He saw the worn leather of his glove, a familiar object from a world of sun and wind. A world that now seemed a thousand years away.
The stylet pressed against the tip of his index finger, piercing the glove and the skin beneath. A sharp, clean prick of cold. Nothing more.
A single drop of blood welled up, impossibly red against the grey light and dark metal. The acolyte held the device steady, and the drop was drawn into the crystalline chamber at its heart. The needle retracted with a faint click. The procedure was over.
The acolyte held the vial up to the dim light. Sineus’s blood swirled within, a tiny vortex of life in a cage of cold crystal. The creature seemed to study it for a moment, though with no face, its thoughts were a mystery. It then placed the vial into a padded, cylindrical container of the same dark steel. The container sealed with another soft, final click.
Without a backward glance, the acolyte turned. It did not rejoin its fellows. It walked past them, toward a different corridor that branched off into the fortress’s deeper darkness. The sample was secured. It was being taken somewhere else, to the one who had ordered the collection.
Sineus watched it go, a cold knot tightening in his gut. It was a violation deeper than any wound. A part of him, his blood, his memory, was now a piece of cargo, traveling to an unknown destination for an unknown purpose.
The remaining three guards moved as one. A single, gloved hand gestured forward, toward the high tower that loomed over them. They were being moved. Herded.
“Move,” one of them said. The voice was a dry rustle, like old parchment scraping on stone.
Fedor’s patience broke. With a low grunt, he drove his shoulder into the nearest guard. It was like hitting a pillar of rock. The impact was a dull, heavy thud that echoed the deadness of the place. The acolyte did not even sway. It simply absorbed the force, its cowled head not moving an inch.
Fedor stumbled back, his arm numb from the impact. His eyes, wide with disbelief, met Sineus’s. The message was clear. Physical resistance was useless.
They walked. Alani, pale and trembling, urged her horse forward. The animal’s fear was a tangible thing, a constant shudder running through its body. Fedor walked beside Sineus, his axe held low but ready, his anger a simmering heat.
As they drew closer to the tower, a low hum vibrated through the soles of their boots. Alani flinched, her hand going to her temple.
“The walls,” she whispered, her voice strained. “The agony. It’s not just in the armor. This whole place is built from it.”
Sineus understood. This was not a fortress of iron and stone. It was a structure of curated pain. A prison not just for their bodies, but for their minds. The path ahead led into a tower made of screams.
His blood now traveled through the fortress's dark corridors, a message for the power that commanded this place.
