68

  Night had fallen over Diospyrus Castle, thick fog rolling over its broken battlements like white serpents. The great halls were dim, quiet, and heavy with dread. It had been days since the Revenants returned from the ruined druid castle—days since Barang drank the blood of the Goblet of Fire.

  There had been no healing. No power.

  Only decay.

  Barang lay on a slab of blackened stone at the center of the hall, his once-towering form nearly unrecognizable. His skin had turned completely gray, cracked like dried magma. Faint red light pulsed beneath the fissures, as though molten blood struggled to move inside him but had nowhere to go.

  The insects that once crawled across his body in swarms were dead—melting off him like sludge, dissolving into the stone. His breaths came in ragged cracks, as if every inhalation tore his throat. Sometimes his fingers twitched, reaching into the air as if trying to speak.

  But no voice ever formed.

  The Revenants gathered around him, each more uneasy than the last.

  Lyra kept her distance. Her body was still wrapped in thick bandages, wounds from the Haribon’s talons slowly closing but still burning. The Guardian paced near the wall, fists clenched. Lionel, Lucille, and Therson stood together, staring at their Lord with a helplessness none of them had ever felt.

  “What… do we do now?” Lucille murmured, her voice trembling. “It’s been days.”

  “Nobody has seen anything like this…” the Guardian muttered. “His body—look at it. What if the transformation is not done? What if—”

  “Enough. He suffers as he is.” Therson cut in quietly.

  It was then that footsteps echoed across the hall.

  Baldirion entered.

  His cloak trailed like a shadow, and though his face remained unreadable, his eyes flickered once toward Barang—an expression none of the Revenants could place. Fear? Urgency? Or something else?

  He stepped forward, voice calm and steady.

  “Our Lord drank dragon blood,” Baldirion said, each word heavy. “The Goblet of Fire does not forgive. There is no cure in this land.”

  Silence fell like a blade.

  “We must go to the Elven lands,” he continued. “The Irin lands.”

  A murmur rippled through the room.

  “The Irin…?” Lyra whispered.

  “That’s impossible,” Lionel snapped. “How do we get there? No human knows the path. Only druids and the elves themselves!”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “The gates,” Lucille said weakly. “Aren’t there gates?”

  Baldirion shook his head.

  “Their locations are hidden. And each has its own key phrase, its own destination—if we use the wrong gate, we could end up anywhere. Even a dead realm.”

  Therson’s jaw tightened.

  “Then we have no way.”

  Baldirion lifted his staff slightly. The dim light reflected off the iron rings.

  “We cross the Dark Cloud Passage.”

  Every Revenant flinched.

  Even Barang’s cracked fingers twitched violently at the words.

  The Guardian’s voice broke first:

  “Baldirion… no one survives that passage. The water alone can crush a fortress. The lightning—”

  “And the beasts,” Therson added. “Colossal serpents. Storm dragons. Waves taller than mountains. Entire fleets have been lost.”

  Lucille stepped back, pale.

  “You’re suggesting suicide.”

  “It is the only known route,” Baldirion said. “Unless you can whisper the true key phrases of the druidic gates.”

  Silence.

  The Revenants looked away. Only druids knew those sacred lines. And the druids of Maharlika had been gone for centuries—what few remained would never offer such knowledge.

  Baldirion exhaled slowly.

  “Crossing the Dark Cloud Passage is dangerous… but not impossible.”

  His voice deepened. “And our Lord cannot remain as he is.”

  Their eyes turned to Barang again.

  His chest rose once—shuddering—lava-like light pulsing beneath the cracks—and fell just as violently. His breathing sounded like rock scraping rock.

  Lucille swallowed hard.

  “If we make it past the passage… then what? Who can save him?”

  Baldirion hesitated.

  Then spoke:

  “There are two options in Irin. Neither is certain.”

  The Revenants listened like children awaiting judgment.

  “First,” Baldirion began,

  “there is the Archmage of the Glory Kingdom. Beren. The most decorated Archimage alive. Even the Arch Seer Hector stands a mile below him.”

  Murmurs.

  Disbelief.

  “Second,” Baldirion continued,

  “the Angel Manta user. The King of Mistral. The Angel’s Representative—King Vergilius.”

  Lyra blinked.

  “Manta… another Manta user? Not just Therson?”

  Therson stiffened.

  “I’ve read of the Angel Manta,” he muttered. “But I know no details. My Ox Manta rarely speaks.”

  “Manta choose their paragons,” Baldirion said. “Their spirits remain only if their paragon embodies their ideals. Otherwise, they flee.”

  Lyra bit her lip.

  “Can this king… save Barang?”

  Baldirion looked toward their Lord again.

  “Angel Manta wield healing. But dragon blood is… beyond natural healing.”

  He paused.

  “There may be a temporary change. Enough to stabilize him. Perhaps enough for Beren to act afterward.”

  “But will they help us?” Lionel asked.

  Baldirion raised both hands, expression unreadable.

  “That… depends on what they see in us.”

  Again—silence.

  Each Revenant stood frozen, their future stretched before them like a long shadow. The unknown. The dangerous. The impossible.

  But even knowing the risks, their eyes turned to Barang—their lord, their reason for living—and the decision became clear.

  Lionel broke the silence first.

  “I can prepare a ship,” he said, stepping forward. “A Paraguan vessel. Strong enough to withstand the outer storms. Dense. Heavy. Resistant.”

  His fists trembled.

  “It will be the best chance we have.”

  The Revenants exchanged looks.

  Fear.

  A little hope.

  A lot of uncertainty.

  Baldirion nodded once.

  “Prepare everything.”

  The Revenants bowed and began to disperse, each lost in their own spiraling thoughts.

  Only Baldirion remained.

  He looked toward Barang—then turned his gaze to a sealed chamber deeper inside the castle. A faint thrum echoed from within… another heartbeat. Another burden.

  Another body.

  Kael’s.

  The Revenants knew nothing. None of them suspected that Baldirion’s plan to cross the Dark Cloud Passage involved more than just saving Barang.

  The vessel Lionel would build…

  would carry more than they expected.

  Baldirion exhaled deeply—almost painfully.

  Then whispered, so softly that even the Guardian did not hear:

  “We go to Irin… for both of you.”

  And the torches flickered as if agreeing.