Page 34 of Vines of the Underworld

Oh my God, what did I get myself into?

I feel my restraints loosen, and rough hands sit me up. It presses me against its chest and drags me toward the center of the room, and I can sense its disturbing scent of thunderclouds and barren rocks.

Cyrell rises again, a wound gaping on his right cheekbone, his white hair loose and matted with blood. Arcane force flickers around his hands as he tries to cast a spell, yet a powerful kick to his chest sends him flying. A sickening crunch is the last thing I hear when the dark figure pulls me into a whirlpool of pain.

I wake up confused, covered in caked blood and Cyrell’s dried cum. A barren landscape in all shades of gray stretches to the misty horizon. The thin air scrapes my throat. My fingers dig into fine black sand, reflecting some distant cool light.

I blink and look around.

The monotony of this dark wasteland is disturbed by leviathan dead tree trunks. They strain to reach the invisible vaults above, fading into the heavy black sky above our heads. Light orbs dance between the withered branches and shriveled gray leaves.

I recognize the place, though it was a lush green paradise in Diaphonus’ book.

The Underworld.

Four black figures stare down at me. When they see me coming to my senses, the tallest one—the leader, gestures for me to follow.

I nod and slowly rise, my bones and muscles screaming in agony.

Sharp pain pierces my chest, and my breathing becomes shallow and fast. I recognize the symptoms immediately.

No. I cannot let it happen now. I need all my strength and wits to survive. So much has happened, and I have managed to avoid this, except for when I faked it to escape the priest´s hideout.

I can do this. This was my goal, after all—to search for other options to get rid of the cursed magic inside me. And my hope lies within this mysterious domain. I harness all my willpower to believe this.

The effort to slow down my breathing is physically exhausting. But it works. I wipe the sweat off my brow and follow the phantom figures, patiently waiting for my crisis to pass.

Each step raises a cloud of black shimmering dust, and soon my white, lacy, ballerina slippers turn entirely gray.

Where are they taking me?

The four tall specters are wrapped in darkness and move in complete silence and creepy synchrony. I cannot hear them breathe. Are they physical, or are they spirits bound to the wicked will of the Dreadful One? They pace ahead, not bothering to look back to see if I follow. Indeed, where would I go if I decided to flee? Nothing here can offer shelter or any means of survival.

Does the key to saving Faëheim lie here, deep in the Underworld? What sort of unimaginable terrors do my captors plot for me?

The eerie forest gets thicker; black leaves the size of a car stick from the petrified tree trunks. Indeed, it looks like this place flourished before, and some unknown plague destroyed it. Was it the madness of the Dark Prince’s mother?

We follow a barely noticeable path meandering among the mummified vegetation. The sand under my feet is replaced by white pebbles.

A landscape just like out of a Halloween school play stretches at my feet. Even my guards pause for an instant to acknowledge its haunting beauty.

The vines before us intertwine, building a gargantuan canopy over a filigree Gothic castle. The vegetation sparkles in a deep green shade, and dark flowers peep from the tall grass. The white pebbled road mouths to a deserted courtyard littered with the remains of what once was a magnificent garden. The chipped rings of dry fountains, broken marble statues, and stumps of ancient trees are all that remains now, yet decadent splendor wafts from the building and its surroundings.

Slender towers scrape the inky mists above, and tracery windows trickle warm light into the eternal twilight around. Faerie lights twirl everywhere, their timid glow smoothening the darkness and making it appear almost welcoming. A place like this would inspire countless stories of haunted palaces, cursed princes, and evil witches.

We ascend the imposing black granite stairs to the main building. I feel dwarfed by the symphony of stained-glass walls, arches, and gargoyles that look disturbingly alive.

A black veil of shadows covers the guardians´ faces, yet I can bet they wonder if I appreciate the dark grandeur of the palace. They urge me to enter, and I comply.

As soon as I set foot inside, they shut the heavy, wrought iron gates behind my back, and the sharp echo climbs the miles-high arches.

Distant candlelight dances on the polished black marble floor at my feet, making it look like dark water. I take a cautious step, afraid the shimmering surface might swallow me. The millennial silence greedily swallows the soft sound of my steps, and I wonder if this castle is deserted. I walk along a colonnade, peer into the impenetrable shadows that linger beyond it, and cold chills crawl up my spine.

I feel watched.

The deserted entrance hall leads me to a door, its tall, bronze wings covered in artful bas-reliefs of fantastic plants and unknown beasts. It’s open, and I step in.

The burning incense makes the darkness palpable. Fairy lights float around vine-covered pillars lined along the walls, and the checkered floor stretches toward a tall dais crowned by a throne.

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