Theurgy: The Journey's Dawn (Book One)

Chapter 18 Those Under

The catacombs didn't seem any less empty since last he entered. Men continuously walked in and out of various rooms carved through the rock. None paid him mind. Many had that blank stare that startled him once he saw it. White-eyes, void of soul and light. No emotion on their faces and no sense of purpose besides that fact of breathing. Yes, startling the Makhai are, but not the worst he has seen. Those lay deeper in the catacombs, in rooms no man has set foot in for decades at a time. The room he was headed to was simply beyond these doors—the doors sealed with power ancient and foreign. Nothing was able to break them. It could be laid siege for countless days without receiving damage. That was when his next startlement arrived. The doors were bent. One of the hinges appeared to of nearly snapped. A single impact dumbbells undid out all. The size fits a hand or a fist. Whatever it was, it destroyed any trace of magic he may have felt before. His training in Torlak made him sensitive to such things, and he had felt the magic to shake his mind before. But nothing was emitted from the doors now, as if the magic simply broke, like shattered glass. However, they were at least open now, and the court of the Noctum's throne room is directly accessible to anyone for the moment.

He dropped his gaze once entering, a custom of his home he kept, but more out of fear of meeting the faces of the Empousa who wondered the chamber aimlessly. At first glance, they seemed to be women. They appeared fair-skinned, dresses thin enough to show the form beneath. Faces too beautiful to be natural and entraps any who looked upon them. But this was not reality. They were gaunt figures. Their faces, while somewhat attractive, were also drenched in horror. Skin as white as the purest cotton, lips as black as night. Fangs that should belong to the beast instead decorated their mouths, occasionally curled into snarls and smiles. Hair did not fall past their shoulders but glided behind her, instead of being replaced by flames of reds and blues that shimmered and shifted as if alive. One leg, beneath the thin clothes of their gowns, made clanking sounds as it impacted the ground. Whirring and grinding like a machine and shimmering like bronze. Then the step of a hoof on stone came from the other. Fur as a mule that matched the shape. These things were not always here. They came just fifteen years ago. Just before the war, when he first heard of this Hecate, they arrived with her and were charged with protecting this chamber. They are notorious for ensnaring men, even those who accidentally gaze upon them, devouring their souls. The servants of Hecate, at least one of the many servants of this woman, whoever she is.

Thankfully they seemed to stay clear from the second half of the room, leaving only two women. One sat on the throne, and he had to stop the instinct to frown at her instead of keeping his stare steady. For dinner reason, he couldn't look at her face. A spell, no doubt, but it was undoubtedly a powerful one. He had to focus on other things. Her black hair was tied into a ponytail that swept across one shoulder. A black and mauve shawl covered her shoulder and almost became a cape in the back. This scheme flowed into a dress that gave no way to form but gave any necessary movements to her, a black band covering her abdomen and a set of different bracelets coving her arms and even her ankles. Her hands were covered in tattoos, depicting geometrics and words in another language, like his own, marking her as a mage. The staff laid across her lap was definitely an instrument in helping her cast magic, but he could not tell specifically what it could do. He did feel the power from those crystals, but that was it. He couldn't even correctly estimate how powerful it was, and that scared him more than the woman herself.

Standing beside her was someone who he could believe dethroned Umerius and took over the entire organization. She was impressively stout, wearing a dress that did not pass the knees. Her clothes were odd, unlike anything he had ever seen, but functional. The off-color wool was spotted with sashes of red and depictions of animals. A bear's skin was hung across her shoulders like a cloak, and even the fur was painted with red lines. She had a beautiful face, but few could contest. But the cruel test of her lips made her off-putting. It was hard to tell where she was from. She had honey-colored hair like anyone from the southern clans or even Hath. But her cheekbones were strangely pronounced, and her eyes a brown color. She wielded a spear in her hands, made from gold and bronze, and inscriptions carved into the handle and blade. An enchanted weapon, no doubt, made with Torlakian magic instead of the work the clans specialize in.