Chapter 38: THE ARTIFACT COLLECTOR
The mountain paths wound treacherously beneath a sky that defied natural law. Shimmering rifts pulsed overhead, bleeding fragments of void energy that twisted the air into nauseating patterns. Reed led his ragtag force through narrow passes where the rock itself seemed to whisper, ancient voices scratching at the edges of sanity.
Three of their fighters had already succumbed to the influence, their minds fracturing under the void’s proximity. Reed had ended their suffering personally, driving his blade through each throat with mechanical precision. No time for sentiment. No room for weakness.
"The barrier thins here," Shia observed, her void tendrils probing the air ahead. She no longer attempted to maintain a human form, instead hovering above the ground as a writhing mass of shadow punctuated by those unsettling starfield eyes. "We’re close to one of the old breach points."
Reed nodded tersely. The void fragment embedded in his chest throbbed with increasing urgency, resonating with whatever lay ahead. Four hours until dawn. Four hours to reach Crimson Peak and stop the ritual that would transform innocent children into vessels for the Monarch of Emptiness.
"We should rest," Dorn suggested, his weathered face haggard with exhaustion. The militia fighters behind him swayed on their feet, weapons dragging in the gravel. "Just a few minutes. The men can barely—"
"We don’t have minutes," Reed cut him off. "Every moment we delay—"
"Is a moment you risk failure through exhaustion," interrupted a new voice, smooth and cultured, emanating from the shadows ahead.
Reed’s blade was in his hand instantly, void energy coiling around the steel. "Show yourself."
A figure emerged from between two massive boulders—a tall man draped in an elegantly tailored coat of midnight blue, adorned with intricate silver embroidery that seemed to capture and refract the unnatural light. His face was angular, aristocratic, framed by silvery hair that fell past his shoulders. Most striking were his eyes—pale amber, almost golden, with vertical pupils like a cat’s.
"Peace, Lord Reed," the stranger said, raising empty hands. "I come seeking conversation, not conflict."
Reed didn’t lower his weapon. "You know my name."