The Nexus was silent as Ostrava slept. Alvira sat awake beside him, keeping a watchful vigil. She counted each and every breath he took, her eyes shut as she bowed her head in prayer. Yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched, her muscles tense and ready to jump into battle at any moment…
The rustling of cloth caught her attention, her eyes flaring and her hand lashing out for her weapon. Just as her fingers were curling around the hilt, a familiar face revealed itself to her. She took a deep breath as Sabrathan approached her, his typical smile set into a firm line that was unusual for him. Alvira felt concern bubble in her gut.
"Brother, are you all right?" Alvira asked, the older man coming to a stop before her. He didn't bother to sit with her, so instead, she pushed herself to her feet to be eye level with him.
"I must depart soon," Sabrathan responded, his voice sounding grim. It was clear that something serious was bothering him. She'd never seen him like this, his calm and collected demeanor replaced with a pronounced unease, the muscles in his face and hands straining.
"Depart? Where are you going?" Alvira's own voice betrayed her discontent with the idea of him leaving the Nexus. While she acknowledged that Sabrathan was quite capable, she had fought the demons firsthand and knew just how vicious they could be. She reached out her hand as if to stop him, the action entirely subconscious, though Sabrathan caught it with surprising quickness and held her at bay.
After a moment, Sabrathan let his hand to fall to his side. His fingers trembled as they curled into a fist, his knuckles turning white. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were swimming with anger, but before he could speak, Elijah came following after him.
"Brother, please, we don't have time for this! We must-" Elijah started, but was promptly cut off as Sabrathan whirled on him. The older man glared, his gaze darkened by a righteous fury that caused the burgeoning acolyte to fall silent.
Then, with a sigh, Sabrathan turned back to Alvira, his expression softening and forcing the stiffness in his limbs to loosen ever-so-slightly.
"It has come to my attention that retrieving Saint Urbain is much more urgent than I originally anticipated," Sabrathan told her vaguely. Alvira cocked her head to the side in question, to which he continued, "If left to his own devices, the fool could be our undoing…"
"… Sabrathan?" Alvira husked, her unspoken question clear. She was obviously worried about what he was implying, but instead of giving her an answer, he drew himself away.
"I wish that I had more time to explain, Lady Knight, but this cannot wait. Elijah and I are leaving immediately."
Sabrathan didn't even allow her the time to process his words before he turned. Alvira pursued him, gripping him by the shoulder and holding him back with an astounding strength that halted him. She needed more of an explanation than that. She knew, ultimately, that she wouldn't be able to stop him from venturing forth, but his answer simply wasn't sufficient.
"Brother, please… just tell me why you must go," Alvira pleaded somberly. Sabrathan released another long breath, looking at her from over his shoulder, his gaze shone with determination and a hint of fear.
"Lady Knight, I believe the Saint may be dabbling in matters beyond our comprehension." Sabrathan's eyes then shifted away from her to Elijah, the younger man going rigid under his scrutiny. Then, they trailed back to Alvira, unblinking as he seemed to commit the image of her face into his memory. "I'm afraid that's the best that I can offer to you, because I understand little more beyond that."
It certainly wasn't the answer she wanted, but it was all that he could provide, so she had no choice but to accept it. He reached for her hand when her expression fell, squeezing it reassuringly before smiling at her once more. Her worry was writ upon her face for all to see, but in that moment, his resolve was like a shining beacon that counteracted her rising doubt.
"Pray for us, Lady Knight," he murmured soothingly. He let go of her then, and her whole body ached with the urge to force him to stay, though she held herself back. She considered going with him, but her eyes meandered to Ostrava's unconscious form. He was her first priority, so she nodded to Sabrathan in quiet understanding. This was undoubtedly another test of faith, something Sabrathan himself had plenty of. With his unwavering devotion, she knew that God would not abandon him in his tribulation. She smiled back at him, and to this, he beamed at her, the lines around his eyes and mouth creasing as if her acceptance emboldened him.
"Do not fret, for we shall return," Sabrathan said to her confidently. He beckoned to Elijah to follow him, the younger man doing so with trepidation in his step. Sabrathan's head was held high, his talisman clutched between his fingers and brimming with God's light. As he faded into the shadows, that light broke through the darkness. He was a prime example of what Alvira wished she was, with faith unbending to any force against him. When the light of his talisman finally disappeared, Alvira willed her apprehension down into the depths of her soul, looking to Ostrava and reminded of the miracles God could perform.
"… I know you will," Alvira whispered to herself, kneeling on the ground as she prayed for Sabrathan's safe passage.
It was time to leave again.
Although Alvira was reluctant to stray from Ostrava's side, she knew that remaining idle in the Nexus meant more souls lost and stronger demons born. However, she did feel some semblance of comfort knowing that Ostrava would be safe here.
He lay on a bedroll beside her, his back turned to her as he slumbered. He was almost completely still, the sound of his breathing scarcely traceable. Her fingers twitched with the desire to reach for him, a strange anxiety gripping her chest as she recalled the image of a dagger running through his stomach and streams of blood pooling from the wound. Ostrava had nearly died, and it was all her fault…
It was only by God's will that he had lived, but she wouldn't be brash enough to risk his life again. She silently rose to her feet, affixing her helmet to her head and grabbing her halberd, offering Ostrava one last glance as she reached for the archstone. The dim candlelight of the Nexus faded, giving way to the much deeper darkness of Latria.
Somehow, in spite of the numerous demons she had slain in this place, the shadows felt even more oppressive. Before her was the Queen's Ivory Tower, its once white, pearlescent walls dingy, its beauty stripped away by the touch of evil that moored into every crevice.
Alvira's augite guided each step as she approached the tower, beginning her long ascent to the top. The soft clanking of her armor bounced off the walls before being swallowed by the empty hall that twisted endlessly into the sky.
She felt strangely on edge without Ostrava behind her. Anxiety wrapped its fingers around her throat, making her breaths more labored. There was a vulnerability that stemmed from his lacking presence, almost like she had become dependent on him in ways she hadn't realized.
Her mind began to wander, intrusive thoughts wheedling in that he was somehow in danger. Perhaps it had been a mistake to leave him behind in the Nexus, but was bringing him here any better? What if the assassin they had foolishly rescued found his way into the Nexus and slaughtered him while she was gone? What if-
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an enraged mind flayer and a tinkling bell, followed by the fetid stench of rotten meat. She pressed her armored palm to her visor, but it did little to block the nauseating stench from piercing her nostrils. The smell steadily became more potent, the source soon coming into view: the mind flayer, slain and charred, tumbled down the staircase. She side-stepped the dead abomination, watching it disappear before unlatching her bow and nocking an arrow, keeping it aimed frontward.
Her first assumption was that the assassin had come for her, but the loud footsteps that echoed just above her had her second-guessing. He wouldn't be making so much noise, nor would his gait be so casual…
She held her breath and rounded the corner slowly, her eyes falling upon a familiar, yet equally unwelcome, sight. The mage that she and Ostrava had met in the prison block had freed himself. A vile part of her had hoped that he had expired in his cell, but of course, she was not so lucky.
"You've been slacking, Slayer of Demons," Freke tsked, his tone condescending. He glanced at her sidelong, looking none too surprised to see her there. "The monk isn't dead yet."
Alvira didn't bother to lower her weapon, keeping silent with her eyes trained on the mage. She didn't trust him not to turn on her or to attempt to take her soul for his own benefit. She knew he was like the rest, greedy and as power hungry as any demon would be.
Sensing her ire, Freke let out a low chuckle, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Come, now, there's no need to be defensive," he continued in a slow, even tone, as if he were addressing a child. "Besides, I believe we already established that arrows won't work on me."
"Silence your wicked tongue!" Alvira snapped back, prepared to reach for her talisman if necessary. She stepped forward, aware that Freke would have an advantage against her at a distance.
Freke sighed, a flash of impatience crossing his features at her prejudice. "As much as I would enjoy wasting my valuable time arguing with a fledgling," he began sarcastically, "we both have a much bigger problem."
As if spurred on by his words, the darkness around them became thicker, suffocating. Alvira felt a pressure on her chest that hampered her ability to breathe, leaving her gasping for air as she clutched at her chestplate. Freke seemed equally affected, coughing as he snapped his fingers and conjured a soul wisp. It hovered around his head and provided enough light to see a short distance in front of him.
Alvira soon realized what was happening: the fog was spreading, hastily encroaching upon them. The demon's strength seemed to be growing at an alarming rate, that fear that she had felt before wracking her spine and causing her to clutch her bow so tightly that the wood creaked.
"You feel it too, yes? That demon must be killed or we'll both die here," Freke iterated through strained rasps. He motioned for her to follow him as he began to climb the staircase once more, notably unconcerned by Alvira's earlier show of hostility.
For now, they were allies. Alvia begrudgingly trailed behind him, keeping herself on alert. She listened for ringing bells, but also kept her ears perked for any sudden movements that would indicate a betrayal from Freke. Yet, she was greeted by a silence that was so deafening that it made her head throb.
Each stair they took put Alvira increasingly on edge. Her stomach churned with nausea, her teeth gritted at the sensation of claws digging and pressing into her skull. Her eyes strained as the fog became more prevalent, her only guidance the bright orb of light that tagged behind Freke. A muted whine pounded against her eardrums, growing louder and making her feel delirious. Then, the faint scent of decay and sulfur assaulted her nose, far worse than the dead mind flayer she had smelled before.
She felt like she was going to be sick and was teetering on the edge of collapse when a steady hand gripped her. In her confused haze, she thought that Ostrava had been the one to catch her, only to remember belatedly that he wasn't here and that she shared her company with a sorcerer.
"Get off me, filthy mage" she muttered, batting his hand away and leaning against the wall as her lungs started to burn. Freke scoffed, thankfully keeping any quips to himself as they made their way to the very top of the tower.
It was like entering the eye of the storm, the atmosphere becoming lighter once they reached the end of the staircase. Alvira took in a lungful of much needed air, though the sulfuric odor surrounding them seemed to brand her chest and liquidate her organs. The fog had become a deep red, confounding her senses all the more, and through the muffled ringing in her ears, she could hear a dull scratching and the sound of wood being splintered.
But this was only the start. Just as she'd regained her bearings, a loud chant reverberated through the hall that caused one of her ear drums to rupture. She cried out, clamping her palm over her helmet as blood dripped down her face and neck, amplifying the sensation of delirium. Freke collapsed to the ground in front of her, a noisy retching sound coming from him as he emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground.
Just as Alvira felt her consciousness fading, the chanting ceased. She lifted her head weakly, clinging to the wall for support as her legs threatened to buckle. A gust of wind rushed past them, and through her bleary eyes, the red-tinted fog cleared away to reveal a once ornate throne room, its white walls stained with smoke and blood. In the far-off corner, a pile of chairs had been haphazardly stacked, leading several feet up into the air to create a makeshift throne. Sitting upon it was an emaciated husk of a man, his eyes sunken into the hollows of his skull with nothing but a thin layer of burnt skin wrapped thinly around his bones. His head turned sluggishly to Alvira, his empty sockets boring into her.
Swaddled around his broken frame was a shining golden garb that illuminated the small space in an eerily candescent light, chasing the shadows away from the room. It seemed to breathe on its own, shifting and curling against the movements of the man wearing it as he raised his spindly arms and waved the stark ivory staff clutched in his bony fingers.
"By Thy will, I sacrifice my broken flesh… I relinquish my power to become something far greater…" the withered man gruffed. As he finalized his chant, his voice grew weaker, his breaths clattering.
"… so that Thine poison may spread, and reveal unto us the true nature of mercy…"
A long, guttural groan left the Old Monk's lips as the golden cloth around him emitted a bright light. With his last breath, he laughed, the cloth condensing around him and reducing him to nothing but a smoldering pile of ash.
In the middle of the room, a symbol vaguely resembling a tree had been drawn in blood, its wild branches stretching to each corner. At its center, a nebulous figure began to take shape, flailing and undulating as it was birthed from the Old Monk's sacrifice.
Alvira's eyes widened, her body growing cold from the brunt of pure energy that hailed down upon her. Freke clambered to his feet, his gaze also glued to the spectacle before him with a morbid fascination, even as he stepped back.
The golden garb stretched and spread, swirling around the dusky specter's shifting form, as if drawn to the power it exuded. What had been indecipherable was rapidly becoming more humanlike, a pair of red eyes opening before its vision was suddenly obscured by the golden cloth wrapping around its head.
"Let go of me… aghhh!" the shadow screamed, its newly-shaped fingers clawing at the garment as it tied itself taut. It struggled against the golden cloth, writhing until it keeled over, but its presence was overwhelmed by the demonic power housed inside of the garb. The phantom's furious yells were cut short as the cloth gagged its mouth, forcing it to yield.
For a moment, the world stood still. Alvira dared to release the breath she was holding, staring unblinkingly at the prone figure. Freke took another step back, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of terror and recognition.
"A black phantom…" Freke muttered, his voice heavy with dread. Alvira gave him a questioning expression, preparing to ask what a black phantom was, only she wasn't given the chance.
The black phantom was yanked to its feet like a ventriloquist's doll, clearly possessed. The angry soul wailed out a desperate cry that sounded far too human as the cloth began to siphon its power, its body contorting in agony as a Homing Soul Mass took shape behind it.
Still disoriented, Alvira failed to react as two of the magic beams were fired in her direction. Three of them were aimed at Freke, who countered all of them by creating weaker, individual Soul Rays that collided with them and caused their energy to fizzle out.
"What are you doing?" Freke called urgently. "Fight!"
There was no way that this black phantom would allow them to leave. Their only course of action would be to destroy it. Freke had already come to this conclusion, though Alvira was still lagging behind.
As their spells clashed, it resembled the sparks of a hammer striking hot iron. Strangely, Freke was defending her while she stumbled forward with her halberd in hand. One of the beams made it past Freke's defenses, but her reflexes had recovered enough to repel it with her weapon's blade.
The black phantom's pained howls became louder as it fought against them, the golden garb swaying in the wind and shimmering blindingly as it consumed the phantom's soul. Alvira rushed up to it, her equilibrium still unbalanced and causing her steps to falter as she took a swing. The phantom deflected her attack with an oddly-shaped dagger, parrying her and leaving her open to a barrage from its Homing Soul Mass that hit her in the chest and knocked her to the ground.
Her armor absorbed most of the magic's evil energy, but while she was reeling, the phantom took advantage and used its weight to slam the dagger down into her shoulder. She screamed as it became lodged between her silver plates, a burning sensation spreading through her arm that caused it to go numb and limp. Some sort of highly potent magic laced with poison had coated the blade.
She dropped her halberd, reaching quickly for her talisman and channeling her own divine energy. The phantom made to swipe her again, a set of steel claws protruding from an armored gauntlet on its fist. She used Force to knock the phantom away, pushing herself upright as their adversary was sent floundering backwards into the stack of wooden chairs.
Pearls of sweat began to bead from her forehead as the toxin inside of her body flowed through her blood. Her chest cramped, her heart pounding as panic gripped her. Then, she remembered Sabrathan's teachings, her talisman heating up in her palm as she prayed for God to rid her of the contamination inside of her.
While she was indisposed, the black phantom flailed around on its back, another Homing Soul Mass gathering around the golden cloth. All five of them converged on Alvira, but Freke stepped into action. He weaved his staff, the room suddenly becoming unbearably hot as several pillars of fire erupted from the ground beneath the phantom's body. Most of the magic missiles fizzled out, and just before the last one collided with Alvira, Freke cast a spell on her that shielded her from taking any damage.
The black phantom broke through the flames, as if impervious to Freke's powerful magic. It scrambled forward, moving so quickly that it was nearly imperceptible. Freke raised his staff, attempting to conjure another spell, but Alvira could tell that he wouldn't be able to defend himself in time.
In a split-second decision, Alvira wrenched the dagger from her flesh and flung it directly at the black phantom. At first glance, it would appear that she had missed, the dagger hooking into the cloth instead of the phantom. However, she would soon see that the cloth was their real target.
"Uuugh!" the black phantom groaned, staggering back as the cloth constricted itself around its head. It reached for the cloth, tugging at it, only for the garment to hiss in response and force it to its knees. Alvira turned to Freke, ensuring that he was unharmed.
"Freke, target the cloth!" Alvira shouted, the sage giving her a deadpan look as if to say "I already knew that."
He summoned a fireball while the phantom was still writhing on the ground, aiming it at the golden cloth. It recoiled, a sharp, inhuman squeal echoing in the throne room. It reeked of burnt flesh, the cloth pulsing and tightening around the phantom to make itself smaller.
Even as the phantom fought against it, the demonic garb mustered more Homing Soul Masses. Alvira and Freke braced themselves for retaliation, though instead of attacking them, it targeted the phantom instead. The phantom yowled, its soul becoming dimmer as its energy was drained away by the parasitic demon that had enslaved it.
Alvira didn't wait. Now that the poison had been purged from her body, she gripped her halberd in both hands and swung the blade around, having a direct shot at the cloth. However, when she struck it, her attack bounced off, like the weapon had collided with a brick wall. The shaft split in two from the force of the impact, significantly reducing her reach.
"What the-?" Alvira started to say before she was forced to backpedal away from an uppercut of the phantom's steel claws. She put up her arms, defending from the powerful strikes with her plated gauntlets, but the phantom was ripping her armor to shreds with each blow.
A barrage of fireballs came from behind her, causing the phantom to ease its attacks as the cloth reined it back. The phantom had since stopped screaming, moving more efficiently now that it was no longer fighting against its demonic master. Its soul flickered, a brief sign of fading before it rushed forward again.
Freke hit it with another round of fireballs, the phantom stumbling as it tried to beat them away with its bare arms to defend the golden cloth. Once more, the garment hissed, momentarily distracted by the flames.
"That thing is only effected by magic," Freke announced as he sidled up beside Alvira. He kept his gaze forward, continuing to pelt the phantom as he spoke. "I don't suppose you have any spells that could help us?"
"I use miracles, not spells," Alvira growled in reply, clenching her teeth at the Sage's audacity. Freke simply rolled his eyes, deciding better of arguing with her. Then, his gaze shifted to the broken halberd in her hand, now reduced to the size of an axe.
"Keep the phantom on the defensive while I deal with the demon," Freke instructed, moving back and channeling his mana. Alvira didn't protest, using her enhanced speed to close the gap with the phantom and hacking away at its limbs.
The demonic garb began to frantically leech soul power from its host as it was bombarded by Freke's magic. Alvira and the phantom were evenly matched, each one blocking the other's attacks, although she could sense the phantom's evil energy becoming weaker as it began to ebb. The occasional Soul Mass would plummet into her, though she took each one in stride, her armor dissipating most of its magic.
Just as Alvira and Freke had gained ground, the cloth let out an ear-piercing cry. The phantom went still as a bright, blinding light erupted forth, followed by a massive shockwave that toppled the pillars holding the ceiling aloft and sent both Alvira and Freke careening into the wall.
Alvira's vision blurred, the blood pouring from her mouth and nose nearly causing her to suffocate. The nausea had returned, and she was so dizzy that she could barely stand. She spun around the room to try to find Freke, teetering from side to side and just barely catching herself as she toppled to the ground. She spotted the Sage on the opposite side of the room, half-buried under a pile of rubble and out cold.
"No…" Alvira rasped, sputtering around a mouthful of blood. She redirected her attention to the black phantom, which was slowly rising to its feet. That last attack had weakened it significantly, its soul flickering. It was nearly depleted, but it was intently limping towards her. The cloth started to unravel from the phantom's head, seeking a new host now that it had used its previous one...
It seemed to have selected her, but she couldn't let herself be overtaken by a demon. She would become a black phantom just like this one had, but more than that, she would effectively become one of the Old One's servants. She couldn't allow that to happen.
She reached for her talisman, praying to God to do anything to stop the demon from possessing her, but He had gone quiet like so many times before. She started to beg and plead, trying to have faith that God would answer, yet she heard nothing but the weak moans of the deteriorating phantom as it hobbled closer and closer.
"God, please…" she whispered, her fingers trembling around her talisman. The wood remained icy, so she tried again. "God… please!"
A spark of light caught her eye as three Soul Masses formed overtop the phantom's head. The garment intended to weaken her before assuming control. The bolts shot at her, and she raised her arm in a feeble effort to defend herself, bracing for impact…
… but the pain never came. She heard the clang of metal, opening her eyes just in time to see the demon's own attack deflected back at it. The cloth released a harrowing shriek as the weakened phantom fell, fading before it even hit the ground. It squirmed helplessly where its host had just been, now robbed of soul power and left utterly defenseless.
Through her jumbled haze, Alvira felt herself being lifted carefully off the ground and placed on someone's shoulder. Her eyes had become weary, no longer able to see as they fluttered closed. Despite the tower crumbling around them, a familiar voice broke through the chaos, the only answer to her prayers that she had truly needed…
"Do not ever fight another demon without me," Ostrava murmured softly just as sleep claimed her.