Took a little bit longer than expected to write this chapter out, life got in the way. Already working on the third chapter and it should be complete soon.

Chapter 2

His father had always had a knack for hunting. He would always say that the primal feeling experienced during a hunt could cure even the most broken of souls. The beating of your heart combined with your ecstasy-driven breathing—although Artos couldn't say whether he agreed with that. Looking back at the corpse of the baby elk he and Inigo had tirelessly hunted down, at the dragging flesh that would no doubt feed them for the coming future, Artos would never regret learning what he had from his father.

As the frigid air bit at his exposed face, Artos found his eyes landing on the sand-colored hair of Inigo. His mind began to recall what he had learned so far of his companions. Inigo, although quiet, was surprisingly chipper, a smile adorning his face even now, though it was almost convincing. Almost.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and by looking deep into Inigo's silver eyes, all Artos saw was despair. From what he knew, Inigo was down by the sidelines of the arena when it all happened; he would've had front-row seats to the explosion that claimed his father's life.

Then there was Pyrrha Nikos, the red-headed girl. She was just as silent as Inigo, yet there was a ferality to her unseen in the others. A dim fire was alight behind her emerald eyes, a palpable anger.

An ear-ringing snap, accompanied by a grunt, snapped him out of his thoughts. To his right, Inigo had broken through a rather large branch, cutting his ankle against the sharp, mossy, wet stone hidden underneath. The cut was shallow, yet clean, and a small amount of blood pooled messily from the gash.

"Shit," Artos said. "You okay?"

Instead of answering, Inigo tore off a piece of fabric from his loosely fitting shirt and harshly wrapped it around the wound. "Yeah, I'll be fine."

"Why didn't you use your aura to stop that?" Artos's voice lingered with traces of anger.

"What, and attract the Grimm over here? If I used my aura for everything, the Grimm would come like moths to a flame."

Looking down at the dirty rag tied tightly to the fresh gash, Artos couldn't help but disagree.

"And if that gets infected, then what?"

Sighing as if the conversation was tiresome, Inigo replied, "When we get back, I'll perform a few meditations my dad taught me. They'll allow me to gently move my aura around my body, greatly lowering the risk of Grimm sensing me."

To that, Artos whistled lowly. "So you know aura manipulation then? Any other benefits?"

"Nah, I just know what my dad taught me," Inigo said. "Just the basics. Through meditation, I can increase the effectiveness with which I can use my aura, as well as regain it quicker. I could teach you if you like."

If I could learn how to do that, I might be able to unlock Celia's aura, or maybe Inigo could?

"I'll take you up on that. One last question, though—could you maybe, oh I don't know, unlock someone's aura?"

Inigo had begun applying ample pressure to his injured ankle, no doubt to see if he could still walk and help drag the carcass behind them back to camp. When he was satisfied, he finally answered, "I could give it a go, but I don't know it well enough to teach it, if that's what you're asking."

Artos could see the clear question in his eyes. "It's for Celia. She was supposed to get hers unlocked this year, but, you know…" A wet sting permeated from behind his eyelids, an onslaught of tears trying to break way.

"Yeah, I can try." A slight smile bloomed on Artos's face, cutting through the emptiness he had begun to feel upon remembering what life had been not but a short time ago.

Seeing Inigo take a few limping steps, it was clear they could begin moving again, but Artos would have to do most of the work.

Breaking through the thick treeline and entering a small, open, frost-tinged landscape, the last vestiges of fall could be seen breaking away as a gentle stream of snow began to fall onto them. As the air in front of him condensed from his labored breaths into a thick fog, he could see the walls of white jagged stone rising high into the sky.

He remembered when they had run until their muscles burned, the fear, the cold they had felt. Honestly, thinking back on the events of the past week, the only reason he hadn't already given up was because of Celia, the last words his father told him ringing in his ears: "You take care of her, Artos, for me." That feeling still engulfed him now, that hopelessness, yet when he looked up at the spiraling jagged white arches of the cliff face before him, at the man-sized slit situated in the middle where the warm orange glows of a fire bathed the sides of the pristine walls in a sun-kissed beauty, he felt a semblance of warmth he hadn't felt in a while.

Squeezing through the gap into the lightly steamed cave, Artos was greeted to the sight of a smiling Celia huddled around a large, crackling fire. To her right was Pyrrha, her hungry emerald eyes locked on the elk behind them. Yet when her eyes found Inigo, a deep anger could be seen growing beneath her emerald eyes.

They had found that building the fire close to the entrance meant that most of the smoke could ventilate out, and the resounding heat would spread among the slabs of stone quickly, meaning that while most of the cave remained cool and damp, the section surrounding the flames was quite cozy. That, of course, didn't fix the fact that they lacked anything to sleep in, but it was a start.

"Help me move it one last time; I have to gut it quickly," Inigo urgently barked, breaking Artos out of his state of contemplation.

They dragged the elk until it rested on a rather smooth slab of stone, adjacent to the bright flames.

Looking down at the now wet, dirty cloth that was sealing Inigo's wound, Artos couldn't help but feel his priorities were off. "You should fix your ankle first," Artos pointed out as Inigo unsheathed a small, serrated knife off of his hip.

"I have to do this first, can't risk losing any of the meat to rot or maggots. Unless, of course, you know how to."

He didn't.

Shaking his head slowly, he watched as Inigo started to draw lines along the front of the animal. "I helped my dad do this a few times, leading up to the festival. From what he taught me, I have to gut it first, then we can skin it, and use that to—"

"It's your dad's fault this all happened," Pyrrha spat, the venom dripped heavily from her loud tone. "If he hadn't won, no, if you two hadn't shown up, none of this would have happened. I wouldn't be an orphan now, and

neither would they!" The veins on her neck looked ready to burst as she finished with a snarl, her breath was heavy, not from exhaustion but anger, that was clear to see.

"Your father lost because of his own arrogance; maybe if he managed to actually put up a fight, we wouldn't be here either." Inigo's words added to the already growing tension.

Without a moment's hesitation, Pyrrha had sprung up from her place by the fire and lunged at Inigo, only for Artos to get in her way. She collided messily with him, causing him to stumble backward, yet his grip on her caused her to follow.

"Enough!" The noise clearly knocked some semblance of sense back into her, as her eyes seemed to return to lucidity, yet remained full of anger. "No matter what you may believe, we all are stuck together, for better or for worse." This time the words came out gently, yet that did little to remove the tension in the air.

After a few moments, she growled, roughly disengaged from him, turned on her heels, grabbed a torch, and ventured down a dark path into the deeper parts of the cave, that they hadn't explored yet.

Turning to look at Inigo, Artos noticed his face was reddening, and his movement had stalled. "You good?" A nod was all he got in return.

"Celia, help Inigo; I'm going to make sure she doesn't get herself killed."

"Uhh, okay, yeah."

It hadn't been easy making a torch, not that the process of doing so was difficult, rather they simply lacked the resources to make too many, and so Artos ran after where he had seen Pyrrha stalk off to in the infinite damp dark of the cave system.

Off in distance he saw the last vestiges of a vibrant hue cling to the old cave walls, and as Artos's right foot landed in an unknown wet substance, and he felt something crawl up his leg, he just wished he could run faster.

She hated this. That was the reverberating thought that slushed through her mind, as her metallic boots pounded into the damp cave floor beneath her. The dancing orange hues outcast from her torch licked at the uneven protruding walls, allowing her to see momentarily what was around her before the ever-present darkness swamped back in to devour her surroundings.

It would've been easier to leave the cave, and run through the open wilderness angrily, until the cold cooled her mind, or until her muscles burned too much to think, but she couldn't have done that. No. To do that meant passing him, and she knew she wouldn't have been able to restrain herself a second time, had that happened.

Just thinking of him made her blood boil, her left hand tightening around the handle of the torch until her knuckles shook. If they had never been there, during the tournament, then her dad would be alive right now, none of this would have happened, and right now she wouldn't be in this godforsaken cave.

Her thoughts were ground to a halt as up ahead there was a divot in the pathway. To the left was an old, rusty-looking door; to the right, was more darkness.

Again it would be easier to turn right, or even go back, but staring at the rusting metallic door to her left, at yet another obstacle standing in her way, trying to control her, she knew what she had to do.

The hinges of the door were loose, causing it to sag backward slightly. She pooled her semblance into her raised free hand, watching as a distorting black wave covered her hand. She felt for the metal in front of her, and when she felt it, she pushed.

When she saw him earlier today, being useful, integral even to her own survival, a deep searing anger had rushed through her. And then there was Artos. His life had been ruined just like hers, and yet he was capable of talking to Inigo? Capable of being friendly even. Didn't he see? Understand that if that boy hadn't been there, then none of this would have happened. Were they all just blind?

A sudden echoing bang freed her from her thoughts. When her eyes came back into focus, no longer was there a blockade in front of her, the door had been flung deep into the darkness in front of her, no longer in vision.

A silence overcame her, a silence only disrupted by the crackling of the torch in her hand, and her own labored breath. How long had she been panting?

"Hey," the voice was muted yet firm.

Turning, she found the wide amber eyes of Artos. He wasn't staring at her but at the now gaping hole she had blown apart. "Uhh, okay, are you alright?"

The question was silly, yet she couldn't answer it. Was she ok? No she wasn't, but did she want to talk about it either? Again no.

"Just go back, I'll be fine" She all but snarled.

"Well, you see I followed you... and you have the only torch, so... you're stuck with me."

She just stared at him for that comment, her eyes willing him to disappear, unsuccessfully, until she relented with a sigh.

Turning toward the now opened-up tunnel, she moved towards it, holding the torch right in front of her, akin to a lighthouse guiding the way against the unsalable darkness ahead.

"You know you can talk to me, right?" The reassuring tone of his voice only caused her irritation to rise. "Why should I?"

"Well, it's not like you have anyone else to talk to, is it? And sometimes it's nice to let your thoughts out, or at least I've heard."

Was he trying to be her therapist? Well, she didn't need one. But the idea of releasing her anger on someone that wasn't her was quite alluring.

"I just don't understand how you can tolerate him! I mean, didn't he ruin your life?"

Looking over to him, she was met with silence. Silence! Now he was the one ignoring her! "The idea of relying on the person who caused all of this is-"

"You can't blame him." That caused her to pause.

Turning sharply to face him, she made to yell, only to hesitate at the out-of-place stern youthful face. "Pyrrha, listen, I've been thinking about that day a lot, as I imagine all of us have been, and I think that in all honesty it had very little to do with either of your parents." His words struck deep into her mind, but then he continued. "Whoever caused that explosion had obviously planned on doing so beforehand, and they just used the rioting crowd as cover. Also, he himself lost his family during the exchange. You can't blame Inigo for simply existing."

His words hurt, not because they were harsh, but because deep down she knew it was true, that she was just projecting her pain onto Inigo so as to not have to face the reality, that no matter what, what happened would have happened, and that no one around her was to blame, and that hurt a hell of a lot more than blaming Inigo did.

A warm wetness began to leak from her eyes, and she instinctively took a step back, right into a puddle of murky cold water. It clung to her skin, so cold that it burnt. Without thinking, she swept her leg back away from the water and impacted with something stiff.

Then a deep rumbling started as the very ground beneath them began to shake. A set of arms wrapped around her and yanked her backward until her back collided with both Artos and the wall behind them. A torrent of stones collapsed upon themselves, causing smoke and dust to pool violently and attack their faces. Covering her eyes and mouth, to both protect her eyes and nose from the rising dust but also to cough violently against her free hand.

And yet just as suddenly as it had happened, it ended, and silence took over them. Only then did she realize that Artos had stuck his head into the nook between her shoulder blade and neck to cover his own face, as his hands were busy holding her.

Opening her eyes slowly, she had to squint through the thick vapors of smoke and dust to see what had happened. The wall that had been in front of them had collapsed in on itself, revealing a room that was previously hidden, the contents of which were shrouded in darkness.

The hands wrapped around her left, and she found herself missing the semi-embrace. Artos reached over and took the torch from her hand before cautiously stepping toward the now revealed room, all the while his hand was covering his face.

That's when the smell hit her like a semi-truck: the smell of rot, death, and excrement all combined, making her gag and sending chills down her back.

Stepping through the thick plumes of smoke onto the fragile rocky outcropping leading into the newly discovered room, Artos wasn't sure what they would find. In all honesty, they should have gone back by now. He had found Pyrrha, reclaimed the torch, and survived a near cave-in. Now wasn't the time to go exploring, yet he felt compelled to enter the room. Something was drawing him in, and he couldn't deny whatever it was.

Brushing the torch through the air in front of him, the gentle hues of flames helped illuminate the room before them. The rubble from before had fallen messily, cascading downward, forming a disheveled slope. Near what he discerned to be the center of the room looked to be a table. Yet, that was all he could see.

A tug on his arm drew his attention to the wet eyes of Pyrrha, her hand tightly held against her mouth, and slight convulsions ran through her. She tried to pull his arm in the direction they had come. Shaking his head, he motioned to the opening down below.

Ignoring her distressed noises, he followed where the tugging of his mind was leading him. He crossed over the barrier separating the outcropping from the slope of rubble. Artos felt something pass over him, a slight electric pulse.

Reaching the bottom, the first thing Artos noticed was the smell had lessened considerably. Removing his hand from his mouth, he took a deep breath of air. The smell had gone from hair-burning putrid to tolerable, all within the span of 10 seconds.

To his left, loose rocks came apart and slid across the uneven tile as Pyrrha landed with expert agility next to him. Her face still tightly scrunched up. "The air is fresher down here, try to relax."

Watching as her hand dropped hesitantly from her mouth and nose, she took a few short breaths until she was seemingly satisfied. "We should go back. I don't know where here is, but we shouldn't be here."

Memories of seeing her blow apart a metal door moments ago flashed through his mind. "Where was that attitude when you blew through a door to get here?"

"Yeah, okay, but this is different..."

She was right. They shouldn't be here, but he just had to be at the same time. "We've already come this far, let's just take a quick look and then head back."

The blazing light from the torch allowed them to see much more of the room now. In front of them was a rustic stone-carved table. Upon closer inspection, there seemed to be crudely drawn runes, in dark red ink, etched along the surface of the table.

As they inched their way towards the center of the room, Artos felt his blood chill. By the back wall, there seemed to be a resting silhouette of a person. With his free right hand, he reached down and unholstered the pistol that rested on his hip. Sharing a look with Pyrrha, she too readied herself by drawing her spear-like weapon to her hands by the use of her semblance.

She went to the left side of the center table while he took to the right, inching their way tentatively closer to the end of the room. Finally, a breath he didn't know he was holding sagged its way out of his lungs.

A brutally massacred corpse lay bare against the cold dark stone, the remains of its bony arms spread wide open. Down where its midsection should have been, was a torn open rotting hole, with intestines spreading out wildly akin to spiderwebs, forming an image that seemed to be of a bird.

"Wha... what? What could have done this?" Pyrrha all but whispered.

"It wasn't Grimm, someone did this."

Underneath the corpse's right arm lay a single stone slab, contained on which was a spiraling bloody circle. As soon as Artos set his eyes on it, a sharp pang of pain throbbed through his mind, yet he also felt compelled to come closer.

"Here, take this," he said as he handed over the torch to Pyrrha.

"Artos... we should go," she gripped the torch loosely, not allowing herself to take her eyes fully off the scene in front of her.

As much as he wanted to listen to her, he couldn't. His feet moved on their own, bringing him closer to the slab of art. With every step he took, a distant grinding noise began to grow in tempo until it consumed his very mind. His very blood began to thump in its rhythm. Finally, when within arm's reach, his fingers went to graze the object, and as soon as he did, a deep searing pain jabbed into the back of his mind.

Where are you?

I sense you.

I see you.

He felt his mind split into fragments, each filled with a tidal wave of images. Focusing through the pain, the mind fracturing pain, he began to see. He saw this room, only it was full, a bloody pentagon splayed on the floor, hooded figures at each corner, chanting an ungodly, inhuman song. Chained children strung up in shackles adorned across the room, their bodies badly beaten, lashed, rotted. Finally, his mind filled with an image of a red-eyed raven reaching into his soul.

Next, his hands were bloody, the hilt of a blade rested in his right hand, the blade protruding into white flesh, while his left caressed the broken soul of a rendered neck.

Finally, he saw himself bathed in flames.

Come to me.

If you were to ask her how she expected her day to have gone, this, she couldn't have guessed for the life of her. In front of her, next to the decaying flayed corpse was Artos, desperately grabbing at a stone of all things. His eyes had latched together, his breath labored, his body shaking erratically.

She knew this was wrong, so wrong. Her instincts screamed at her to leave, yet she couldn't leave him.

Rushing over to him, she grabbed harshly at his shoulders, shaking him. "Artos, snap out of it, let's go!" she screamed at him, all to no avail. Then he started mumbling inconclusively, deep rumbling noises escaped from his throat, wholly unnatural.

Oh, you'll thank me later. She swung with the flat end of the javelin forum of Milo, the mecha-shift weapon her father had gifted her for her 13th birthday, right at his temple. It impacted with a solid shimmering crack; his vibrant red aura sparked to life, briefly covering him in a second skin, absorbing the blow's damage, yet it didn't stop him from spiraling limply onto the jagged cave floor.

His breathing remained labored as she stood over top of him, yet his eyes had flung open, no doubt from the force of the blow, his eyes seemed distant, as if he could stare through her. His silver hair was matted with sweat, and a trickle of blood flowed from his nose. Bending her knees slightly, she extended her hand down to him. "Artos...?"

A moment passed.

Then two.

Then five.

His weak hand grasped at hers, his palms drenched in sweat, and yet at the same time almost burned her own with the pure heat emanating from them. She wasted little time in yanking him to his feet. "We're going, now!"

She stormed up past the table, only to stall when she noticed a map sprawled on top of it. It looked to be a map of Mistral, with certain areas circled and annotated. Settling to look at it later, she rolled it up and stored it in her hanging satchel.

Looking back, Artos was staring longingly at the slab of rock from before. Oh hell no. "Hey!" His startled eyes quickly turned to meet hers. Extending her free hand towards him, palm facing up, she whispered, "Do you trust me?"

A small smile threatened to spread amongst his lost face as he marched forwards until he could meet her hand.

Hint: Raven Branwen.

Next chapter shit will hit the fan a little bit.