ROBAR III
The sickly crimson skies of Caelid stretched endlessly into the horizon, painting the sickening landscape in farther blood-soaked hues as Robar trudged behind Abere. The land itself seemed to fester, oozing corruption. Robar's senses were dulled by the ever-present impossibilities this rotten land held, numbing to the sheer unnaturalness of it all. Not even a day past he recoiled in horror, now he barely blinked when a monstrous dog-like creature had snarled inches from his face just moments past. It was a realization that bothered him—was the land corrupting him, or was it simply that the horrors of this place were becoming too familiar like the stench of death and viscera to the mountain who rides?
Abere walked ahead with a measured grace, his form moving fluidly despite the hardness that clung to him. There was something in the way he carried himself that reminded Robar of the water dancers of Braavos, all finesse and economy of motion. But unlike the often jovial water dancers, Abere had a cold, unyielding edge, reminiscent of the sternness Robar had seen in Stannis Baratheon. It was a strange combination—elegant brutality—but it suited Abere perfectly. Every step the man took was calculated, he managed to perform this roll meneguar to dodge around many enemies seamlessly, he utilized this both defensively and offensively, as if he had spent a lifetime fighting, honing his movement and combat skills to perfection.
As they continued through the sickly air of Caelid, a dilapidated shack came into view. or what was left of it. Barely a handful of rotting baseboards, a few crooked support pillars, and a third of a roof that clung desperately to its place. The structure offered no real protection, not from the elements, it could likely collapse with a well meaning gust of wind if it was in the vale. Sickly Vines clung to the exterior, winding around.
An older man sat on a rickety stool in the middle of the ruined hut, hunched over with age or more likely madness given this place. His clothes were ragged, long, an unkempt beard gave him the look of a man who had spent far too long in isolation. Yet there was something sharp in his gaze, something that belied the disheveled appearance. It made Robar uneasy in a different way, reminding him of the grand maester the few times he accompanied Jon Arryn to the capitol, though he couldn't quite place why.
Abere approached the man with familiarity. "Gowry," he said, his voice steady, as though this was merely a routine encounter. There was an ease between the two that made Robar realize this wasn't their first meeting.
The old man—Gowry—lifted his head slowly. His eyes seemed to gleam with a strange intellect that clashed with the rest of his crazed, hermit-like appearance. "Ah, the tarnished Numen returns," Gowry rasped, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "And I see you've obtained the unalloyed needle. Well done."
Robar shifted on his feet, his gaze flicking between the two men. He had seen the needle in Abere's possession earlier, though he hadn't thought much of it at the time. Now, hearing it mentioned with such significance made him reconsider. What exactly was this "unalloyed needle"? It certainly wasn't a simple needle—no doubt carrying weight if the way Gowry spoke of it meant anything. Robar's mind raced, trying to connect the dots. Perhaps it was akin to a Valyrian steel heirloom, something ancient and powerful, passed down through generations for its unique properties. Or maybe it was something far more sinister, something beyond what he could yet comprehend.
Abere had been unusually guarded about it the day before, his behavior strange when handling it. Now, with the way Gowry looked at Abere, it was unmistakable. Whatever the needle was, it clearly held significance beyond its appearance.
As Robar mulled this over, Gowry's gaze shifted to Robar, and sharpened eyes studying him with an intensity that made Robar uncomfortable. His armor, his sword, even the scabbard he carried were being examined as if they held some great secret. Gowry's gaze lingered on the etchings on Robar's armor—runes of his homeland, Westeros, etched into the steel as part of his house's tradition.
"Hmm…" Gowry mused softly, tilting his head ever so slightly. "So that's where they went off to, in days of Uhl."
Robar frowned, confusion flickering across his features. "Excuse me? Where who went off to?" His voice held uncertainty as he glanced at Abere, who remained silent, watching the exchange with an unreadable expression. "Do you recognize these runes?"
The air grew tense, and Robar felt the weight of Abere's gaze on him, a silent warning not to pry too deeply. But Robar couldn't help himself. Something about Gowry's comment tugged at him. What did the old hermit know about Westeros? How could he recognize the runes that were specific to his homeland, a place far beyond these cursed lands?
Gowry chuckled softly, waving a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Ah, pay me no mind, young man. Seems I was mistaken. Just nostalgic for days long past, I suppose."
Robar opened his mouth to press further, but a ruthless glare from Abere silenced him. Whatever answers there were, they wouldn't be coming now. There was clearly more to this interaction than Robar was being told, but pushing the matter wouldn't get him anywhere—at least not with Abere keeping such a tight rein on the conversation.
Gowry, sensing the tension, leaned back on his stool and changed the subject with an ease that felt almost rehearsed. "Be that as it may," he continued, "I did promise I'd offer something valuable, didn't I? You'll need to reach the girl, and to do that, you must navigate Selia. The way forward is by lighting the braziers of the towns towers, far from a simple task these days"
As the old man spoke, Robar could felt something shift within. The mention of a girl, whoever she was, brought a new seriousness to the conversation.A girl? In a place like this how? Unless… unless this girl wasn't what he imagined. Perhaps she wasn't a girl in the ordinary sense at all. His mind drifted back to the four-armed witch, Renna. She had power, no doubt about it. Was every woman here like her? The idea unnerved him more than he cared to admit. This place might produce hardy people, but hardiness often teetered dangerously close to madness He barely had time to contemplate who she might be, before Abere's single eye glare yet again settled upon his visage.
They left the old hermit's shack behind, stepping back into the hostile landscape of Caelid, with its blood-red sky and festering, rot-filled earth. Robar cast one last glance at the crumbling remains of Gowry's dwelling. Despite how exposed it was, how it barely stood as more than a skeletal outline of what might have once been a home, Gowry had seemed entirely at ease there. Gazing casually at the grotesque landscape.
Robar himself still was reeling at how any land could be so thoroughly corrupted and unholy. A sharp whistle cut through the oppressive silence, startling Robar from his grim reverie. He turned to see Abere murmuring words he couldn't comprehend, eye closed in concentration. The air shimmered, and Motes of ethereal blue light swirled and coalesced, each pinprick of radiance pulsing with an otherworldly rhythm that set Robar's teeth on edge. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, fingers white-knuckled around the familiar leather grip. It was a futile gesture, he knew – what good was Valyrian steel against sorcery that could bend the very fabric of the world?
As the lights converged, a form began to take shape. At first, Robar's mind grasped for something familiar – a horse, perhaps, or some beast of burden. But as the creature fully materialized, he felt his breath catch in his throat. It was equine in basic form, yes, but there any resemblance to the sturdy destriers of the Vale ended.
The beast stood before them, proud and terrible in its alien beauty. Its body was a study in impossible grace, lean muscle rippling beneath a coat that seemed to shimmer with its own inner light. Robar's eyes were drawn inexorably to its head, where a pair of wicked horns spiraled upwards, their tips needle-sharp and promising swift death to any foolish enough to come within reach.
"Seven hells," Robar breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. He felt rooted to the spot, his mind reeling as it tried to reconcile what his eyes were seeing with everything he had ever known to be true about the world. In all his years – from the tourneys of the South to the wild lands beyond the Wall – he had never encountered a creature like this.
A cold sweat broke out across Robar's brow as he studied the impossible steed. Its coat seemed to ripple with an inner radiance, as if starlight had been woven into its very being. When it moved, its hooves barely seemed to touch the ground almost floating.
Is this what madness feels like? Robar wondered, a hysterical laugh threatening to bubble up from his chest. He had seen wonders and horrors alike since arriving in these accursed lands – walking corpses, dragons of scarlet rot, and abominations that defied description. Yet somehow, this spectral steed struck him as fundamentally wrong in a way that chilled him to his very core.
To his astonishment, Abere approached the creature with the ease of greeting an old friend. The Tarnished's calloused hand ran along its spectral neck, and Robar could have sworn he saw a flicker of warmth in the warrior's usually impassive eye.
"Torrent," Abere said softly, his tone tinged with an affection Robar had never heard from him before.
Robar's mind raced, grappling with the implications. How long had Abere traveled with this otherworldly companion? What other secrets did the taciturn warrior hold? The realization of how little he truly knew about his guide – and about this land they traversed – hit Robar like a physical blow.
"I've seen things in these lands that would turn a man's hair white," Robar said, finally finding his voice. It came out shakier than he would have liked, betraying the tumult of emotions roiling within him. "But this... this is something else entirely. In the name of the old gods and the new, what manner of sorcery is this?"
Abere mounted Torrent in one fluid motion, the pair seeming to meld into a single entity of flesh and starlight. The sight sent a fresh wave of unease washing over Robar. He had thought himself a skilled horseman, yet watching Abere atop this ethereal steed made him feel like a green squire all over again.
"Few things here are as they seem, Ser Royce," Abere replied, his tone dry. "We'd best make haste. Selia awaits, and the horrors of Caelid grow bolder as night falls."
The walk to Selia was longer than Robar expected, though not by distance.
The silence between him and Abere didn't help. Abere trotted ahead, his steed's pace steady, expression seemingly indifferent. Robar had grown accustomed to the warrior's stoic demeanor, yet it didn't make the silence any easier to bear. The further they went, the more Robar felt an uneasiness overtake his mind.
The path seemed to grow darker with every step. The ruins of Caelid were bad enough, but as they approached the gate to Selia, he could tell that this place was worse. There was a chill here that seemed to have nothing to do with the temperature. An eerie unnatural blue glow coming from the stones near its grand gate.
The first thing that struck Robar was the strange light. The town was bathed in an eerie bluish glow, almost as though the place itself was caught somewhere between to norm.. Distant figures moved among the ruins—strange mages with their pallid blue forms apparating as if they were made of shadow opposed to substance. They glided through the narrow streets, their hollow stone like masks glowing faintly beyond the robes . Robar had encountered all manner of strange beings since arriving in these cursed lands, but these sorcerers, with their otherworldly presence, made his skin crawl.
"What in the Stranger's name are these things?" Robar muttered under his breath, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword.
"They are the remnants of Selia's sorcerers," Abere replied, his voice low and calm, though his eyes scanned the surroundings with practiced precision. "They cling to this place, tied to the magic and memories that linger here."
No sooner had the words left Abere's lips than one of the specters whirled to face them. Its featureless face twisted into a rictus of hate, and it raised a hand wreathed in cerulean flame. Robar's world exploded into light and sound as a bolt of pure magic streaked towards him.
Time seemed to slow. Robar's body moved on instinct, years of training taking over as he threw himself sideways. He felt the searing heat of the spell as it whistled past his cheek, narrowly missing him by mere inches. The bolt crashed into the crumbling wall behind him, sending a cascade of superheated stone shards raining down on his armor. The impact jarred his senses, but there was no time to dwell on it.
Ahead, Abere was already in motion, Torrent carrying him in a blur of spectral light. The Tarnished's blade sang as it cut through the air, the sharp hum of the weapon echoing in Robar's ears as it cleaved through the nearest sorcerer. As Abere's blade connected, sparks flew, forcing the sorcerers to scatter and reform, some of them rushing toward Robar's position with unearthly wails.
Without hesitation, Robar gripped his own blade, swinging it with all the force he could muster. His sword met the form of one of the ghostly mages. For a brief, suspended heartbeat, the specter's hollow eyes widened as if caught off guard by the strike. Then, with a keening wail that sent a sharp shiver down Robar's spine, the phantom dissolved into a cascade of azure motes, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared.
As the last echoes of the sorcerer's scream faded, a deafening silence fell over the ruins. Robar's pulse pounded in his ears like the steady beat of a war drum, the rhythm urging him to flee from this cursed place. He glanced down, his breath catching in his throat as he saw the runes on his armor—the intricate etchings of his house—flicker with a faint, ethereal glow. For a moment, he thought madness had taken hold of him, that the horrors of Caelid were playing tricks on his mind.
The runes pulsed, an otherworldly light threading through the inscriptions, as though the ancient markings were responding to something. His heartbeat quickened. Was this some strange reaction to the magic in Selia, or was there something deeper—some connection between the runes and the cursed land? He didn't know, but the sight of the glowing inscriptions stirred something within him, a reminder of his house's long and storied past. There was power here, in the very metal that armored his body. But why now? And what was it about this place that had awakened it?
His thoughts were interrupted by Abere's voice cutting through the silence, sharp and commanding. "Stay close," Abere instructed, his gaze sweeping the shadows. "These sorcerers aren't your only concern here."
As they pressed deeper into Selia, Robar noticed the crumbling towers that dotted the landscape. They loomed high above the ruins, their broken spires stabbing into the crimson sky looking like the jagged teeth of some ancient beast. In the distance, he saw strange barriers blocking several of the paths through the town, shimmering with the same bluish light that surrounded the specters.
Abere's gaze lingered on the towers. "We'll need to inflame the braziers at the top of each tower to unlock the barriers," he said, his voice carrying an edge of weariness. "The way through Selia is always hidden by sorcery. It is the only way forward."
TThe first tower loomed before them, a dizzying spire of crumbling stone and twisting metal. As they approached, two more sorcerers materialized from the shadows. One raised its hands, conjuring a whirling vortex of magical energy. The other drew a sword that glowed with the same unearthly light as its wielder.
Robar barely had time to raise his shield before the vortex slammed into him. The impact drove him back, his boots scrabbling for purchase on the uneven ground. His arm burned with the effort of holding the shield in place as wave after wave of energy crashed against it.
Abere charged the sword-wielding specter, Torrent's hooves striking sparks from the stone. Their steel clashed together, each blow sending cascades of ethereal light spilling into the air. Robar watched in awe as Abere parried strikes that seemed to come from impossible angles, the Tarnished's movements a deadly dance of precision and power.
With a roar of defiance, Robar pushed back against the magical assault. He advanced step by grueling step, his golden brown shield a bulwark against the sorcerer's onslaught. When he was close enough, he lashed out with his sword. The blade passed through the specter's form like smoke, but where it cut, lines of gold blue light bloomed.
The sorcerer recoiled, its attack faltering. Robar pressed his advantage, each swing of his sword leaving trails of radiance in its wake. With a final, overhead strike, he clove the specter from crown to chest. It dissipated with a shriek that set his teeth on edge, leaving behind only a fading nimbus of blue light.
Panting, Robar turned to see Abere finishing off the other sorcerer. Blade flashing once, twice, and then the specter was gone, scattered to the winds like so much glowing dust.
Robar was forced to parry another more than once, the cold, unnatural steel clanging against his own sword, the impact sending a jolt up his arm.
"Damn them," he muttered as another spell narrowly missed him, crashing into the rubble behind him and sending shards of stone into the air.
"They will keep coming," Abere warned. "Selia is their home, and we are trespassers."
Robar nodded grimly, wiping sweat from his brow. His arms ached from the magical assault, and his ears still rang with the specters' cries. Yet as he looked up at the looming tower, a steely determination settled over him. They had come too far to turn back now.
"Then let's face them," Robar said, hefting his shield. "Whatever horrors Selia holds, we'll meet them head-on."
Abere's lips quirked in the ghost of a smile. Without another word, he urged Torrent towards the tower's base. Robar followed, his senses on high alert for the next inevitable confrontation.
As they neared the tower, the wind picked up a low howl that sent a chill through Robar's armor. The blue glow of the ghostly mages flickered in the distance, their forms darting through the twisted ruins.
Abere, without a word, vigorously patted his spectral steed. Robar blinked in surprise, watching, dumbfounded, as Abere urged the creature forward, galloping toward the nearest tower with a speed that left Robar standing in the dust.
Before Robar could even voice his confusion, Torrent performed something that left him speechless—its hooves kicked off the ground and propelled the two upward, then somehow again it performed that same movement with no surface to stand on, jumping in mid air. With an almost effortless leap, Abere and Torrent scaled the sheer walls of the tower, landing on a ledge near the top. Robar's jaw tightened, and a hot wave of frustration flared in his chest.
"He could have done that sooner?" Robar muttered, edge creeping into his words. Muscles ached from the brief climb, his breath labored from the exertion. Sweat dripped down his brow, stinging his eyes as he glanced up at Abere, who was already leaping up the side of the tower with an almost infuriating ease. The fact that Abere had been sitting on such an effortless solution the entire time grated on Robar's nerves.
Robar's initial shock gave way to a gnawing unease that settled in the pit of his stomach. The spectral steed's long, graceful horns twisted elegantly from its head, and for a fleeting moment, Robar was struck by how majestic the beast appeared as it effortlessly navigated the crumbling architecture of Selia. But those horns... they were unsettling, unnatural in their curvature, more akin to the twisted creations of a fevered mind than anything found in nature.
There was a silent, eerie intelligence in Torrent's glowing eyes, as if it understood far more than a mere mount should. Robar found himself avoiding that gaze, unsettled by the depth of awareness he saw there. It was as if the creature could peer into the very depths judging him for doubts and fears.
Robar shook his head violently, trying to push the thoughts aside. Not the time, he chided himself. The tension of the situation left little room for marveling over magical creatures, no matter how unsettling.
Abere, perched near the top of the first tower, seemed oblivious to Robar's growing frustration as he ignited the brazier. Purple flame flickered to life, piercing through the thick gloom of the town. For a moment, the stifling tension in the air seemed to lift, the surrounding silence stretching as though the very town itself had paused to acknowledge the light.
Robar could only watch from below as the shimmering barrier that had blocked their path flickered, then vanished in a pulse of faint energy. The sight filled him with a mixture of relief and dread. One obstacle overcome, but at what cost? What other horrors would this cursed town unveil now that they had disturbed its slumber?
"One down," Abere muttered, his voice carrying faintly from above. "Two to go." Without a second glance, he turned and descended the tower with the same infuriating grace that seemed to define his every movement.
Robar followed, Though the deeper they went, the more he feared what they might find. As they continued, the path ahead grew darker, the town's disheveled buildings casting menacing shadows over them. The silence was eerie, oppressive, broken only by the faint wind that carried with it a sound Robar couldn't quite place. It was a metallic scraping, like bones rattling together, but sharper, more mechanical. The sound sent shivers down his spine, each clatter feeling like icy fingers tracing his vertebrae.
Suddenly, the sound grew louder, a discordant symphony of metal and wood. From the crumbled ruins ahead, figures emerged, and Robar froze, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white. They were... wrong. Fundamentally, terrifyingly wrong in a way that made his mind recoil.
Thin, spindly figures moved with a jerky, unnatural rhythm, like they lacked any sense of structure. Limbs were of grotesque lengths, jointed in places where no joints should be, and they swayed and twitched. Their heads hung at unnatural angles, bobbing and weaving as they advanced. Some had more than two arms—each gripping a weapon, whether a curved blade that glinted wickedly in the dim light or a bow strung with what looked disturbingly like human sinew.
Their faces, or what could be considered faces, were the stuff of nightmares. Blank, emotionless metal masks with no holes for eyes. Some were cracked and broken, revealing glimpses of intricate small metal mechanisms within. Others bore the faded, chipped remnants of paint, ghostly echoes of features long since worn away.
"What in the name of the Stranger..." Robar breathed, his eyes wide as the creatures lurched forward. The creatures moved with horrifying speed, spinning and clattering toward him with precision despite their erratic movements. Each movement was accompanied by a bone-chilling rattle, a sound that seemed to drill directly into his brain.
"They're not men," Robar muttered, backing away instinctively. "They can't be." His mind raced to make sense of them, but nothing from Westeros—not the legends of the Others, not the tales of dragons or direwolves—had prepared him for something of this sort. These were abominations that defied categorization, mocking the very concept of life.
Abere, however, showed no hesitation. He drew his blade, Torrent moving beneath with eerie calm as they closed in. "Marionettes," he said, his voice steady, almost casual in its familiarity. "Mindless gears controlled by long-dead sorcery. Don't let their size fool you—when they start moving, they won't stop until they're broken or you are."
The closest marionette lunged at Robar, its thin limbs flailing as it spun toward him, blades flashing in the air like silver ribbons of death. Robar barely had time to react, raising his sword to parry the first strike, but the force of the blow sent a shockwave up his arm. The creature's other limbs twitched erratically, slashing out with impossible speed, each attack coming from an unnatural angle.
"Seven hells!" Robar grunted, swinging his blade in an arc. The edge caught one of the creature's spindly legs, severing it cleanly. But where he expected blood, only sawdust and a shower of blue sparks erupted from the wound. The marionette didn't stop, didn't even seem to register the loss of its limb. Its remaining appendages kept spinning, forcing Robar back as it collapsed into a twisted heap of flailing metal and wood.
"Stay close," Abere called out, already dispatching another marionette with a precise strike that sent it crumbling to the ground in a heap of broken gears and splintered wood. "The Marionettes often come in groups and once they start, they won't stop until every last one is destroyed."
Robar's breath came in short gasps as he parried another attack, the clash of steel on steel ringing out in the eerie silence of Selia. The speed of the marionettes was dizzying—one moment they were advancing slowly, their movements deliberate and menacing, the next they were spinning in a blur of steel, striking and jabbing from impossible angles with inhuman strength.
One of the creatures wielding a bow loomed in the distance, its arms moving with uncanny precision as it knocked arrow after arrow. Before Robar could react, a flurry of projectiles shot toward him, their rapid pace impossible for any living archer. The air itself seemed to warp around the arrows, trajectories bending in unpredictable ways.
"Move!" Abere barked, already dodging another wave of arrows as Torrent bounded forward. The spectral steed leapt into the air, carrying Abere in a graceful arc over the advancing enemies. For a moment, silhouetted against Caelid's blood-red sky, they looked like something out of the Age of Heroes— man astride a mythical beast, come to vanquish the forces of night.
Robar ducked, barely avoiding the arrows that embedded themselves in the stone wall behind him with a series of sickening thuds. His pulse thundered in his ears as he pressed forward, trying to ignore the madness unfolding around him. The marionettes were relentless, their hollow eyes glowing faintly as they spun and darted through the ruined streets, always advancing, never tiring.
As Abere continued to fight, his blade a blur of lethal precision, Robar's mind raced, struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. The rules of the world he learned from the Maesters, and his own parents—of life and death, of what was possible and what was not—seemed to hold no sway here.
Robar's arm ached from the constant onslaught, each impact of marionette blade on his own sending jolts of pain through his overtaxed muscles. His mind spun wondering who had created these abominations? What twisted purpose did they serve? And how many more horrors lay in this accursed town?
He glanced at Abere, who still moved with unnerving calm, cutting down marionettes with a skill that seemed almost effortless, a perfect synergy between man and mount that spoke of countless battles fought against these very foes. He felt further envy bubble up within.
Abere called "We're not out of this yet. The worst of this town is to come."
Robar nodded grimly, raising his sword once more. Its weight reassuring in this land of impossibilities. As the last of the marionettes was vanquished by him. The relentless onslaught of marionettes finally abated, leaving Robar panting, his arms leaden with exhaustion.
The eerie silence that followed was nearly as unsettling as the heat of battle moments before. Only a few feet away, the second tower's visage loomed, spire seeming to affront the very gods. His eyes swept the area, looking for any sign of movement, glint of metal, flash of blue, or hint of a silhouette. Fortunately the Warrior seemed to be allowing them respite. He turned to Abere a question forming on his lips but it died, seeing the man's intense glare.
Abere sat atop Torrent, utterly still save for his eyes, which darted from point to point with Longbowmen-like precision. Robar followed his gaze, trying to discern what had captured the warrior's attention so completely. Then he saw it – a massive branch, gnarled and twisted, stretching out from a nearby building. It curved gracefully, almost touching the side of the tower they needed to reach.
A plan seemed to crystallize in Abere's mind. He turned to Robar, his expression a silent question. Eagerness evident within his eyes , despite grim surroundings. Robar found himself nodding, almost unconsciously. He trusted Abere's judgment, even if he couldn't quite fathom what the man had in mind.
Without a word, Abere spurred Torrent into action. The spectral steed's hooves barely seemed to float across ground as it trotted forward, steps leaving a faint, luminescent imprint that faded moments later. Robar watched, slack-jawed, as horse and rider scaled the side of a crumbling building with impossible ease.
Torrent's movements were fluid, leaping from ledge to ledge, mattered not if the ledge was large or narrow. Abere moved in perfect sync with his mount, his body shifting and adjusting with each bound. Nearly a blur.
As they reached the rooftop, Robar's breath caught in his throat. The gap between buildings seemed ridiculously wide, a yawning chasm that no earthly horse could hope to cross. But Torrent was no earthly steed. With a mighty leap, the steed sailed through the air, mane and tail streaming sparkles of blue.
For a heart-stopping moment, they hung suspended against the blood-red sky. Then they landed on the next roof with soft thud, continuing their breakneck journey towards the tower.
Robar's eyes widened as he realized Abere's intention. The massive branch loomed ahead, and Torrent didn't slow. If anything, the spectral steed seemed to gather speed. At the last possible second, Abere leaned forward, becoming one with his mount as Torrent leapt.
Time seemed to slow as they soared through the air. Robar's heart pounded in his chest. The branch creaked ominously as Torrent's hooves made contact, but it held. In a display of precision that left Robar breathless, Abere guided his mount along the precarious path, inching closer to the tower with each careful step.
With a final, graceful bound, Torrent cleared the gap between branch and tower. They vanished from sight for a moment, and Robar found himself holding his breath. Then, Abere's figure appeared at the top of the tower, silhouetted against the angry sky.
A flicker of movement, and suddenly the tower was bathed in a beautiful, ethereal purple light. It flowed outward like liquid radiance, momentarily transforming the grim spire into something breathtaking. The light pulsed once, twice, and then faded, leaving behind a lingering warmth.
Robar exhaled slowly, realizing only then that he'd been holding his breath. Abere was full of surprises, yes, but each served as a reminder to the man's capability of navigating this nightmare.
As Abere and Torrent made their way back down, moving with the same fluid grace, Robar's mind turned to the challenges ahead. Two braziers lit, one more to go. The final tower awaited, and with it, undoubtedly, more horrors that defied imagination.
Robar tightened his grip on his sword, letting it become him. Whatever Selia had in store for them, whatever twisted creations or abominable sorceries barred their path, he would face them. Not just because he had to, but because standing beside Abere, he felt hope that they might actually succeed.
The man of the hour landed beside him with barely a sound which was to be expected at this point. "Keep your wits about you," Abere muttered, his voice low but firm as he led the way, his lone eye scanning the crumbling streets. Despite the helm that covered much of his face, Robar could sense Abere's constant readiness, for whatever Selia might throw at them next.
The path narrowed as they wound through more ruins, twisted trees, and decaying structures. Then, just as they rounded a corner, a low growl pierced the air.
Robar barely had time to react before something lunged at him from the shadows—a grotesque, ragged dog-like creature, its fur patchy and matted with pus and blood. Its eyes were wild, teeth bared as it snapped at him. Instinct took over, bringing his shield up just in time to block the creature's vicious bite. The force of the impact nearly knocked him off balance, as he staggered backwards.
Its body was bloated, oozing putrid sores pulsed and ruptured as It moved with unnerving speed, darting around his attacks and leaping out of range just as he swung his sword. Another growl came from his left, and he realized with a sinking feeling that there wasn't just one—they were surrounded.
"What a nuisance," Robar spat as he swung again, this time catching one of the creatures across its flank. A spray of foul-smelling blood splattered across his armor, but the dog barely slowed, its body twisting unnaturally as it circled for another strike.
Abere was already in motion, his blade cutting through the air in deadly arcs. Torrent moved with him, the spectral steed leaping. One of the creatures lunged at them, but Abere's sword met its neck mid-leap, severing its head cleanly from its shoulders. The headless body crumpled to the ground, twitching as its lifeblood spilled out in thick, dark rivulets.
"They're fast, but predictable," Abere grunted, parrying another attack with ease. "Focus on their movements. They rely on speed, not strength."
Robar nodded, trying to steady his breathing. The dogs were relentless, but their erratic movements were beginning to fall into a pattern. He sidestepped the next lunge, catching the creature's side with his blade. This time, his strike landed true, and the beast let out a final, agonized yelp before collapsing at his feet.
But the respite was brief. Just as Robar caught his breath, the eerie, blue glow of the sorcerers returned, their ghostly forms flickering into existence around them. Unlike the seemingly instinct driven dogs these spectres held purpose which made them more dangerous. As if reading his mind one of the spectres stilled as it began to conjure a spell of rich azur, a ball of cerulean flame forming in its palm. Robar rolled to the side just as the spell was cast, the heat from the magic searing the air where he had been standing moments before.
"Watch the rooftops!" Abere called out, his voice sharp. Robar glanced upward just in time to see one of the sorcerers perched above, a wicked sword of ethereal light in hand. It leaped down, blade aimed directly at Abere.
He raised his sword in defense of his companion and deflected the incoming blow, the clang of steel on steel echoing through the streets. Torrent reared up, its hooves kicking out at the assailant before Abere delivered a finishing strike, the sorcerer dissolving into blue motes of light.
His eyes darted around, searching for more threats. As he brought down another sorcerer with a well-aimed strike, he noticed the runes on his armor begin to glow again. It was faint, but unmistakable this time—an ethereal light tracing the ancient markings that had been etched into his armor generations long past.
Why does this happen? he thought, watching as the runes pulsed faintly. It had only ever happened in these lands, in the presence of these spectral foes. His mind spun with questions, but there was no time to dwell on them now.
The ground beneath their feet trembled, a low rumble that Robar felt in his bones. His gaze snapped forward, drawn by a shimmer in the air—a circle of light materializing from nothing. Within its boundaries, something massive began to take form.
"Seven hells," Robar breathed, his eyes widening as a colossal boulder emerged from the ethereal light.
Before Robar could fully process what he was seeing, the boulder lurched forward. Seeming to adjust its path with uncanny precision to bear down on them.
"Left!" Abere barked, his voice sharp with urgency. Robar didn't need to be told twice. He bolted to the side, narrowly avoiding the boulder's crushing path as it barreled through the town with terrifying speed. But even as he dodged, the boulder adjusted course, shifting to follow him and Abere as if it held its own purpose.
"This thing's alive!" Robar muttered, his breath ragged as he sprinted alongside the warrior. The boulder twisted around debris with impossible accuracy, as if it could sense where they would move next. He felt a heavy pressure in his chest as sweat dripped down. "How do we stop it?"
Abere's lone eye gleamed beneath his helm, the faintest trace of frustration evident in his voice. "As most else here, It won't stop until ruined beyond repair."
Robar swore under his breath as the boulder closed in again. It was relentless, adapting with every twist and turn, crushing through ruins, and ignoring obstacles. There would be no hiding, no tricking it—this thing would follow them until it reduced them to pulp.
Abere skidded to a halt, turning to face the monstrous boulder head-on. His scimitar-like long blade flashed in the crimson light of Caelid's sky, and with a powerful swing, he struck the boulder. The impact reverberated through the air, a sharp, metallic clang echoing as Abere's sword bit into the stone. It wasn't enough to stop it, but the blow slowed the boulder for a fraction of a second.
"We have to hit it!" Abere shouted, his voice strained as he swung again, the curved blade connecting with a loud crack. Another deep gouge formed in the boulder's surface, but it was still far from being defeated. "Keep hitting it until it crumbles!"
Robar's muscles ached from the exertion, but he knew he had no choice. Gritting his teeth, he drew his sword and joined Abere, each strike landing with a dull thud against the boulder's relentless surface. The runes on his armor flickered with each blow, the strange light pulsing in sync with his strikes.
The boulder twisted again, trying to ram into Abere, but Torrent leaped out of the way with impossible grace, the double-jump sending them soaring over the boulder's path. Robar's eyes widened in shock, watching the display of the steed's supernatural agility. Even after seeing it in action before, it still unnerved him—how the creature seemed to defy the laws of nature with each leap.
But there was no time to dwell on it. The boulder was still bearing down on them, its every movement calculated and unyielding. Robar swung again, his sword biting deep into the stone, a fissure forming along its surface. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging, but he refused to stop. He would not die here, crushed under some cursed rock.
Each hit was exhausting, his arms screaming in protest, but there was no room for hesitation. Abere was relentless, his blade striking the boulder with unyielding force, cracking it further with each swing. Robar followed suit, his strikes less powerful but precise, aiming for the weak points Abere had created.
The boulder shuddered, a deep groan emanating from within as cracks spiderwebbed across its surface. But it wasn't enough. The damn thing kept coming, adjusting, rolling toward them as though it had no concept of defeat. With every swing, Robar could feel the weight of the task ahead—this wasn't going to end easily. Forty hits, fifty hits—he lost count as the battle stretched on, every strike sending shockwaves through his bones.
"Hold on!" Robar grunted, dodging as the boulder twisted once more. His strikes grew more frantic, each one chipping away at the relentless mass of stone, but it still wasn't enough. "How much more of this can it take?"
Abere didn't respond, his focus entirely on the task at hand. He delivered another powerful blow, the edge of his blade sinking deep into the boulder's side. The crack widened, fragments of stone breaking away as the boulder finally began to slow. Its once fluid movements faltered, becoming jerky and uneven.
"Keep going!" Abere barked, his voice laced with strain as he swung again, his curved blade cutting through the air in a deadly arc. The boulder groaned one last time before, with a final, shuddering crash, it crumbled into a pile of rubble that seemed to slowly dissolve into what looked like melted silver. Dust and debris settled around them, the oppressive weight of its presence finally lifting.
Robar staggered back, panting, his arms burning from the effort. The boulder, once a sentient force of destruction, now lay in pieces at their feet. For a moment, he couldn't believe it was over.
"You've got to be joking," Robar muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow. "All that… for a rock?"
Abere glanced at him, his expression unreadable beneath his helm. "Not just any rock," he replied, sheathing his blade with a metallic scrape. "We're not done yet. The final tower awaits."
Robar nodded, his breath still coming in ragged gasps, but he steeled himself. As they approached the last tower, Robar kept his senses sharp, every step sending a dull throb through his body. He could feel the eerie stillness of the town lingering, but the silence was deceptive—Selia was never truly quiet.
Abere wasted no time. With a swift command, Torrent leaped, his spectral hooves making easy work of the obstacles as he ascended the tower. For a moment, Robar watched in awe, the same unsettling wonder creeping up his spine as before. How could the steed leap twice into the air like that? It defied all reason, all logic. He didn't have time to dwell on it now—Abere was already halfway up the tower, cutting through the distance with graceful efficiency.
Robar stayed grounded, eyes scanning the perimeter. But the eerie quiet didn't last.
The unmistakable clatter of metal hit his ears, a shrill, mechanical sound that grated on his nerves. Out from the shadows, another marionette burst forward, its spindly limbs moving in that unnerving, jerky manner. This one had twin blades in each hand, their sharp edges gleaming as it spun toward him. Behind it, two of the spectral sorcerers began to form, their bluish forms flickering in and out like dying embers.
"Damn it," Robar cursed under his breath. He had hoped the worst was over, but Selia had more horrors in store. He readied his sword, positioning himself defensively as the marionette charged.
The marionette was fast—far faster than the ones before. Its twin blades whirled through the air in a frenzy, each strike pushing Robar to his limit. He parried one, then another, but the force of the blows sent jolts up his arm, each impact a reminder of how close he was to losing his footing.
The first sorcerer appeared at his flank, its spectral hand already glowing with deadly energy. Robar barely had time to pivot before the spell launched in his direction, a streak of blue flame hurtling toward him. He twisted his body, dodging by a hair's breadth, the heat of the spell grazing his cheek.
But he wasn't fast enough to avoid the marionette's next attack. Its blade cut across his armor, the edge biting into his side with a sharp sting. Robar grunted in pain, stumbling back, but he held his ground. The runes etched into his armor flickered again, the strange light pulsing through the metal as if responding to his blood.
Fueled by a surge of adrenaline—or perhaps something more—Robar felt a clenching force from deep within. It was like a tightening root penetrating his soul, pushing him forward, granting him a strange, inner strength that he couldn't fully understand. He parried the marionette's next blow, then countered with a slash of his own, his sword cutting through one of its spindly limbs. Sparks flew as the metal and wood splintered, but the creature kept moving.
The sorcerers didn't relent either. One launched another bolt of energy at Robar, but this time, he was ready. He raised his shield, deflecting the spell just in time, though the impact still sent him reeling with some damage. The other sorcerer advanced, its glowing sword raised high, slashing down toward him.
Robar swung his blade upward, the impact of steel against magic reverberating through his bones. His arm screamed in protest, muscles burning from the strain. He wasn't as fluid or graceful as Abere, but he had something else—stubbornness, pure and simple. The marionette lunged again, but this time, Robar was ready. He ducked beneath its spinning blades and drove his sword upward, slicing through the marionette's torso. The creature twitched, a final mechanical spasm, before collapsing into a heap of scrap metal.
Panting heavily, Robar turned his focus back to the sorcerers. One was already gathering energy for another spell, but Robar didn't give it a chance. He rushed forward, his sword flashing as he cleaved through its ethereal form. The sorcerer let out a keening wail before dissolving into motes of azure light. The runes on his armor glowed brighter now, a warm pulse radiating through his body as if the magic of this place was reacting to him.
The second sorcerer fell moments later, its form crumbling under the weight of Robar's sword. With the immediate threat gone, Robar staggered back, his chest heaving with exertion. His armor was battered, his side ached from where the marionette had struck him, but he was alive. He couldn't say the same for his enemies.
Above him, he noticed the faint flicker of light—the final brazier had been lit. Abere had completed the ascent. The shimmer of the last barrier flickered, then vanished, revealing the path forward. Robar's gaze narrowed as he noticed something strange—beyond the absent barrier, there was a haze, a shimmering distortion in the air that seemed to warp the landscape around it.
Abere descended the tower with his usual precision, landing beside Robar as if the battle hadn't affected him in the slightest.
"ALl the barrier's are gone," Robar muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow.
"Yes," Abere replied, his voice calm. "But look closely. The way is not entirely clear." He nodded toward the strange haze, his tone shifting. "That... in their is a strong force that lies ahead."
Robar squinted at the haze. "What is it?"
Abere's mouth tightened within his helms opening. "Selia's forces have been depleted and dealt with for now. But if we do not deal with what lies beyond, they will rebuild. And next time, it will be far worse."
Before Robar could question him further, Abere spurred Torrent forward, the spectral steed trotting toward the hazy barrier. He stopped just short of it, turning to face Robar.
"Wait here," Abere instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument as the Steed disappeared into the blue light he was slowly getting accustomed to the sight of. "There is a touch of grace in that spot," he gestured to a small, unremarkable area near the haze and downward pathway. "Stay there. It will offer some protection, though you may not see it."
Robar opened his mouth to protest, but Abere was already moving. With a final glance, he rode into the haze, disappearing from view as though swallowed by the very air around him.
Robar stood there, his mind spinning. He looked at the patch of land Abere had pointed out—it seemed no different from the rest of the town. But as he stepped closer, a strange sense of calm washed over him, as if the oppressive weight of Selia had momentarily lifted.
He sighed, sheathing his sword, his body aching with exhaustion. Whatever lay beyond the haze, it was not his fight. Not yet, at least. He would wait as Abere had instructed, though his mind couldn't help but wonder what lay ahead for the warrior beyond that misty veil.
A.N. Well heres the update, would like to post another chapter a bit sooner than it took this one. Hope everyone liked what was here more will come I do realize I said I'd stick to one POV per chapter from now on, and I do plan to mostly abide by the rule though given the little cliffhanger this ends off on, along with last chapter. I think we will cover both Robar and at least one of the westerosi's back at camp next chapter.
Curious what everyones theories, and hopes are for the future of the story.
