Valthrix steps down from her throne, barefoot, each step leaving molten footprints that vanish seconds later.
Valthrix:
“You’ve seen your reflection, Pale Shepherd. Now, let’s polish the mirror, shall we?”
She waves her hand, and the mirrored void floods with colour.
Smoke. Screams. Firelight.
He’s there again — standing amid the burning streets of Grayhollow.
The smell of ash, blood, and wet earth assaults him.
Corpses line the cobblestones. The sky is nothing but red and black.
His reflection — the other Elaris — walks beside him. Younger, desperate, his robes torn, the beginnings of the Lattice carved into his skin like glowing runes.
Reflection (coldly):
“You told yourself you couldn’t save them. That you fled to fight another day.”
“But that’s a lie, isn’t it? You fled because you couldn’t bear to watch them die.”
Elaris stiffens, his jaw tightening.
Elaris: “I stayed until the last barrier fell. There was no saving them.”
Reflection: “There was you. And that was enough.”
The sound of a child crying echoes through the haze.
Elaris turns — he knows that voice. He runs.
He finds himself in the ruins of the chapel.
The cleric kneels there, hands stained with blood, murmuring frantic prayers over a small, still form.
His daughter’s.
Valthrix (voice echoing everywhere):
“The laws you broke to bring her back…
Were they for her salvation, Shepherd…
or to silence your own guilt?”
The Lattice sigil across his palm flares violently — silver and black colliding. The mirrored Elaris steps closer, voice rising to a scream.
Reflection: “You said it was mercy!”
“But mercy doesn’t bind a soul, it frees it!”
Elaris snarls, stepping forward.
Elaris: “She asked to stay. Her soul chose to remain. I didn’t chain her — I answered.”
The reflection sneers.
Reflection: “Convenient. She begged for life, and you called it choice.”
Elaris’s fists clench, trembling with fury — but beneath that fury is grief. The grief he’s carried for years.
Elaris (quieter now): “Maybe… maybe I did do it for me. But she lives. And I’ll bear that sin until my bones turn to dust.”
For the first time, the reflection stills.
The fire around them dims.
The runes across the mirrored floor pulse — truth accepted.
Valthrix’s smile falters for half a second — satisfaction and irritation mixing like poison and honey.
Valthrix:
“Oh… very good, Shepherd. You bleed honesty so well.
I could almost mistake it for redemption.”
She tilts her head, then flicks her fingers. The illusion shatters like glass.
Valthrix: “One truth spoken. Two remain.”
As the vision collapses, the infernal seal loosens just enough for the rest of the party to exhale again.
Sereth gasps quietly, clutching her chest. That faint warmth she once felt — his guilt, his love, his sorrow — surges through the mark she bears like a whisper she can’t fully hear.
Valthrix’s voice threads through her head once more, silken and cruel.
Valthrix (in Sereth’s mind):
“He admits his sin… and yet he thinks it noble.
Tell me, darling, when he breaks again, what will you give to fix him?”
The child-Sereth reappears at the edge of her consciousness — this time humming that same tune from the Fey’s heart.
Arden’s hand tightens around hers.
Vex’s tail flicks nervously.
The second rune ignites at Elaris’s feet — blue, cold, and pulsing like a heartbeat.
Valthrix:
“Truth the second… is about you.
The part of you even you can’t look at.”
She circles him like a vulture of flame, dragging a claw through the air. A door forms in the void, locked by a chain of runes.
Valthrix: “Shall I open it… or will you?”
The Second Truth
The mirror-ocean ripples outward.
The green necrotic light deepens to blood-crimson.
Valthrix’s laughter fades into a low hum that almost sounds… reverent.
Valthrix: “Let’s not look at the aftermath, Shepherd.
Let’s see how it began.”
The glass beneath his feet melts into memory.
The ruins rebuild themselves — cobblestones mending, houses reassembling, screams reversing back into laughter.
The smell of ink, candle wax, and parchment replaces smoke.
He’s back in Grayhollow.
He’s younger — perhaps mid-twenties, hair shorter, eyes alight with feverish purpose.
The Lattice stands half-built in the chapel’s cellar: veins of silver and obsidian tracing a pattern through stone, humming faintly between the worlds.
He remembers this room like a scar.
Elaris (hoarse): “No… not this. Not again.”
Valthrix (smiling): “Oh, yes. Again. You love repetition, don’t you? You call it research.”
The young Elaris at the table scribbles notes, muttering to himself about equilibrium, resonance, and “controlled necrotic transfer.”
Candles line the circle. In their flickering light, another shadow moves behind him.
A woman — cloaked, graceful, eyes bright like fresh blood. Her presence turns the room cold.
He doesn’t remember her face, only her voice.
The Woman: “It’s beautiful, this idea of yours. Life and death, holding hands.”
He smiles, bashful but proud.
Young Elaris: “If it works, no one will need to die in vain again.”
She laughs softly.
The Woman: “Show me.”
The vision accelerates — he does show her.
He explains resonance fields, necromantic harmonics, and demonstrates with a raven corpse.
The lattice flares bright, then dim, then breathes — the raven stirs, twitches, opens its eyes.
For a moment, Elaris looks triumphant.
The woman looks enraptured.
The Woman: “So it feeds from both realms at once…”
“What happens if you scale it?”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Young Elaris (frowning): “It isn’t ready. It could rupture—”
The Woman (smiling): “Progress never waits.”
She vanishes like smoke.
The next day, the bells ring.
Flame engulfs the city.
Through the illusion, the older Elaris screams as he watches his younger self drag his daughter through the streets, then falter as the Legion’s banner rises.
At the chapel’s threshold, the woman appears again—hood down now, eyes alight with red sigils swirling like suns.
The Woman (softly): “You’ve shown me what I needed. Rest now, little shepherd.”
She steps into the fire carrying the lattice in her hands; the flames bend around her form as though obeying.
He remembers this image from his nightmares — the silhouette walking through fire.
Now, in the infernal light of Valthrix’s court, he finally sees her face clearly.
The Crimson Queen.
He collapses to his knees, shaking.
Elaris: “No… no, I didn’t—”
A child’s voice interrupts him — sweet, broken.
Daughter (offscreen): “You did.”
He turns.
She’s standing there: pale, barefoot, smiling the way she did before she died.
But the glow of necrotic magic leaks faintly from her eyes and veins.
Daughter: “You showed her the lattice, Papa.
You showed her everything.”
He shakes his head violently.
Elaris: “I was trying to save you all.”
Daughter: “You were trying to save yourself.
You left us.
You came back when it was too late, because you couldn’t stand what you’d done.”
She steps closer, the chapel burning around her again.
Daughter: “You called me back with the same spell that killed everyone else.
You built me from the ashes of your failure.
I am alive because of the death you made.”
His voice breaks.
Elaris: “I know.”
She reaches out, touching his cheek with a hand that flickers between flesh and bone.
Daughter (softly): “And I love you for it.
But that doesn’t make it right.”
He bows his head, sobbing quietly, the lattice humming around him like a heartbeat of the damned.
The Crimson Queen’s laughter echoes through the fire—distant, triumphant, remembering.
Valthrix appears beside him, her expression unreadable.
Valthrix: “There it is, my favourite flavour of truth—shame marinated in love.
You didn’t just open the door between life and death, Shepherd.
You built it, and she walked through.”
The second rune at his feet ignites, red and silver threads spiralling upward.
Valthrix: “Two truths bared. One left, and this one won’t come from your lips.
It will come from theirs.”
At the court’s edge, the rest of the party reels from the vision.
Sereth’s body trembles, her bound mind flooded with pieces of what she’s seen — the memory of Elaris carrying the lattice, the image of the woman in red, the child calling him Papa.
It makes her heart ache — she feels the love and the guilt, but also that echoing pain that isn’t hers.
Valthrix smiles at Sereth across the chamber, a finger to her lips.
Valthrix (telepathic, to Sereth):
“So now you know.
Tell me, little flame, when he burns again—
will you save him… or join him?”
The third rune on the floor begins to glow—
pale white, almost holy, yet dripping red from the edges.
The final rune flares open beneath their feet—white shot through with veins of red.
The infernal court hums with judgment.
Valthrix lounges lazily upon her throne of glass and bone, voice syrup-smooth.
Valthrix: “Now, Shepherd. You’ve bled your past and your shame.
Let us see what your flock truly thinks of you.”
One by one, the air before each companion ripples—an unseen force dragging their innermost thoughts into sound.
Kaer: “He frightens me. The way death bends around him—like it obeys.”
Borin: “Aye, but I’d still follow him. A man who’s faced the grave can lead me into any fight.”
Vex: “He’s too calm. Too clever. One day that calm’ll crack.”
Laz: “And when it does, we’ll all drown in it.”
Garruk: “He’s my brother. But if he ever raises me as one o’ his skeletons, I’ll haunt him ‘til the planes freeze.”
Arden: “He carries guilt like a relic. I just pray it doesn’t carry him.”
Each truth lands like a blade.
Each word burns hotter than the one before.
Valthrix’s eyes slide—hungrily—to Sereth.
Valthrix: “And you, little flame… what do you think of your shepherd?”
Sereth’s throat locks. The spell of Hell itself demands truth.
She pleads silently, begging that he doesn’t ask—
but Elaris, not seeing the terror in her eyes, turns toward her.
Elaris: “Sereth?”
Her body seizes. Eyes wide, mouth trembling—
and then the words tear out of her like a confession carved in fire.
Sereth (through gritted teeth, trembling):
“I… love you.”
“I have from the moment you made me laugh in a graveyard.”
“Every time you risk yourself, it feels like my heart stops.”
“But I made a deal to protect you, and now I can’t feel anything.”
Her voice fractures into a scream.
Light bursts from her chest. The chair shatters.
She falls limp—the glow fading into cold nothing.
Valthrix (smiling): “Aww. Looks like heart’s flame is extinguished.”
Elaris’s world narrows to that single still body.
Necromantic energy flares up his arms, the mark blazing silver and black.
The temperature plummets; spectral whispers scream from the walls.
Valthrix: “Careful, Shepherd. Violence gets you nowhere.”
“She wasn’t happy anyway—she’d already lost herself.”
The world folds inward. The court collapses into absolute black.
Her body remains lifeless on the floor—
but behind him, a voice breaks the silence.
Sereth: “I told him. I finally did it.”
He spins.
She stands there—radiant, unburned, the same crooked grin that always undoes him.
Elaris: “Sereth?! How—?”
Sereth: “We’re in Hell, Elaris. Try to keep up.”
She jerks a thumb toward Valthrix, now frozen like a statue.
“The wrinkly ballsack over there can’t see us right now, so listen.”
The marks on their hands glow gold—for the first time.
Sereth: “She offered me a deal.
I could speak to you before you signed—but I’d lose what I treasured most.
First it was my aim. Then my grace.
Then every time I felt something for you, it hurt until nothing was left.
And when I finally spoke, she took the rest.”
She nods toward her lifeless body. “That.”
Elaris stands frozen—eyes wide, mouth dry.
Sereth: “You know, for a necromancer, you’re awfully quiet around the dead.”
She smirks. “Will this help?”
She leans in—kisses him. A soft, spectral kiss.
His mark ignites in blinding light; her ghost laughs softly.
Sereth: “Come on, Bones. Get a grip.”
The world snaps back into the infernal court.
Valthrix purrs, resting her chin on her clawed hand.
Valthrix: “Back so soon? Did you enjoy your little farewell?”
Elaris’s tone is calm—too calm.
Elaris: “Valthrix.”
Valthrix: “Shepherd.”
Elaris: “You can’t lie, can you?”
Valthrix: “A stupid question. No one lies in Hell. Ask your friend.” She gestures to Sereth’s body.
Elaris: “Good. Then a few things before you slither away.”
He unfurls the parchment—the infernal quill’s smoke still coiling.
Every rune flickers like molten oil.
His voice carries through the court like thunder in a cathedral.
Elaris: “Clause Four, Sub-Section D, Line Twelve—states:
‘Upon completion of three trials, the contracting souls are rendered free of all prior debt, servitude, or infernal obligation.’
Trial complete. Contract fulfilled.”
Valthrix (cutting in): “Eloquently pu—”
Elaris (snapping): “Not finished.”
He continues, the words slicing sharper.
Elaris:
“Clause Six, Paragraph Three—‘No addendum may be made post-signing without explicit consent of all parties present.’
You altered a living soul’s agreement after my signature. Null. And void.
Section A, Paragraph One—‘All deals must be conducted under equal awareness.’
She was not aware of the cost; you concealed the terms. That’s fraud—even by Hell’s standards.
And lastly, your own infernal law: ‘What is given freely cannot be taken by deceit.’
You returned her voice before I signed.
The exchange was completed before consent.
Ergo—your contract with her is broken.
Irreversibly.”
He steps closer. The floor cracks beneath his boots.
Elaris: “So in other words—”
Each word falls like a hammer striking stone.
“Give. Me. Back. My. Friend.”
Valthrix’s grin wavers—first time she’s shown doubt.
Valthrix: “Call her what she is.”
Elaris’s eyes soften. His voice is a whisper that still echoes.
Elaris: “My heart.”
The mark on his hand bursts into radiant flame.
Behind him, Sereth’s soul flares—pure gold, so bright even the devils avert their gaze.
Arden gasps, hands clasped in prayer. The others can only watch, awestruck.
Valthrix sighs, half amusement, half surrender.
She snaps her fingers.
The parchment combusts—scroll and quill turning to ash mid-air.
Valthrix: “Very well. The contract is ashes.
But remember this, Shepherd—Hell never forgets a good player.”
She flicks her wrist, sending one final ripple of infernal smoke across the chamber.
Sereth (grinning faintly): “See you soon, Bones.”
Her spirit winks out in a rush of golden air.
The world folds inside-out—
and slam! the group hits solid wood and dust.
They crash into a heap on the Ember Tankard’s cellar floor—
gasps, coughing, limbs, disbelief everywhere.
Sereth inhales sharply—lungs burning, eyes flickering gold before dimming to their usual emerald.
She meets Elaris’s gaze, whispering weakly—
then collapses forward into his arms.
He catches her, cradles her close, and—
for the first time since Grayhollow—lets himself feel.
He kisses her—publicly, openly.
A moment raw, unguarded, alive.
The tavern erupts.
Borin cheers.
Garruk howls.
Vex covers her face.
Laz fake-retches.
Arden smiles over her tea.
Kaer mutters just loud enough for all to hear:
Kaer: “About bloody time.”
Outside, thunder rolls—a storm breaking after years of drought.
Somewhere far below, in a chamber of molten mirrors, Valthrix raises her goblet and smiles.
Valthrix (to herself):
“Oh, Shepherd… I’ll see you again when someone needs a favour.”