Chapter 89: DD3 Chapter 035 – The Imprisoned

As the sun set in the distant east, the last rays of daylight cast a warm, amber glow over Helion until they too were swallowed up by the coming night. The evening air was crisp and clean, providing a welcome—if not too humid—reprieve from the torrential rains that had once accompanied the dark clouds now dominating the sky. 

When she looked up at them, Constancia could practically see the inevitable deluge build. The unnaturally silent storm clouds held about as much tension in them as she did in her shoulders. She was a queen who’d never even had her coronation, and it was looking increasingly likely that she never would. She still had several potent cards to play, but they were not the kind of moves a ruler could easily come back from. Helion would be forever changed for the worse, and Constancia would have to live with that. 

The traitorous nobility had already broken free of the tethers she’d inherited from her husband. Even if her actions tonight allowed her to win the coming battle against the dragon, there was no guarantee that she’d go on to claim victory in the succession war that would undoubtedly follow. The noble houses of Terythia had shown their true colours in choosing to recognise the ‘Ashen King’. When Constancia inevitably triumphed over that over-titled and over-levelled orphan, Terythia’s nobles were unlikely to recognise her sovereignty. Instead, they’d push for a royal election and, lacking a dragon of her own or the backing of her uncle’s army, she’d lose. 

What a bitter and futile legacy to leave behind.

No matter how she phrased her hypotheticals, her advisors painted a bleak picture of her future. Unanimously, they said she should run—that she’d be best served by cutting her losses and escaping into exile with steel-ranked bodyguards and a significant portion of the treasury’s gold. But Constancia couldn’t run. She’d only made it this far by refusing to take the easy way out, and if she succumbed to that temptation now, then the Gods alone knew where that path would take her. 

Nowhere good, that was for certain.

Flashes of bloody knives and weeping women assailed her. Her husband’s wicked grin and the insidious push of his mind invading hers. She shuddered as she suppressed the memory, sparing a quick thought for all of her dead-eyed sister-wives, the mind-thralled concubines, and the terminally forgetful maids who’d once populated the royal harem in such great abundance. Constancia had clawed her way out of that hell, and then burned it down behind her for good measure. 

She had no regrets, but she still had her doubts. Sometimes Constancia wondered if enduring her husband's torments had been the right decision. Maybe she’d have been better off just joining the others in quiet oblivion?

Constancia didn’t know—she couldn’t—but she accepted that while she was scheming her husband's demise, she couldn’t have possibly anticipated this.

Her foes had done the impossible—or at least, they’d done the unprecedented—they’d usurped a usurper in a single battle despite being unable to claim anything close to a total victory. As a result of their subsequent actions, the aid Constancia had been relying upon to break the siege was no longer coming, the reinforcements from the north were either ash or sworn to follow her challenger, and the international community of kings and queens were too paralyzed by their own petty problems to send any kind of military force against the dragon.

Constancia was on her own—again—and now her spies had informed her that the dragon’s forces would storm her palace with the coming day. If she didn’t have the Alchemists Guild in her pocket, then she’d probably be taking her advisers’ council.

The rhythmic crash of hurtling stone and roaring spellfire made it impossible for Constancia to ignore the violence inherent to her environment. Enemy trebuchets and catapults fired their heavy missiles up at the wall she stood upon while her archers and mages fired back. Screams of pain and anger filled the air, and she found herself grateful for them. Some decisions simply couldn’t be made in the sterile quiet of a throne room. Some paths should only be taken with the stench of blood and shit filling your nose.

Even then, it was not a choice that Constancia made lightly.

A runecarved boulder caught the flickering torchlight as it arced over the wall and smashed into the battlements just to her right. It pulped the entirety of one of her guards below the waist and the woman was too unfortunate to die outright. Instead of passing out, the poor fool began to scream. Constancia didn’t know if it was the potent alchemies running through her guard’s veins that kept her alive, her levels, or just sheer luck, but the queen knew that she'd be out of the fight for days now. 

The sheer quantity of high-level healers Constancia had within her little patch of territory made fatalities blissfully rare, but injuries of this scale took a long time to heal—and when adventurers and monsters were coming to kill her tomorrow, ‘a long time’ really wasn’t that long at all. If morale wasn’t in the gutter she’d have ordered the injured guard euthanised, but keeping her soldiers’ spirits from sinking any lower was probably worth the expense in healer's mana.

From Constancia’s section of the walls, a short volley of intense spellfire raced back towards the siege engines on the ground. The trebuchet which had made the lucky shot received more than most and it exploded spectacularly in a flash of multi-hued flames.

“Did we get a kill notification for that?” Constancia eventually asked, and a nearby mage paled when he realised she was talking to him.

“Uhm… No. O-only for a rat, your grace. It would appear the siege crew all survived,” the mage answered.

“A rat? I’d call a ratling a proper fatality—subhuman status aside,” the queen said. 

“You have my apologies, your grace. We didn’t kill a ratling, just a rat—a mundane one of the… uh, animal variety.”

“I know what a rat is!” Constancia snapped, waving away the mage who had since fallen into a clumsy bow. 

The queen watched the bronze ranker retreat further down the wall where he rejoined his team. Another wave of projectiles rocketed up from the ground to smash against the warded battlements. More screams, crashes, and cacophonous booms echoed out into the night, as the siege crawled on through a series of painful and violent minutes. Constancia stood tall and regal throughout it all, leaning out over the parapets as tiny figures below went about enacting her end. 

Watching it all helped her think. Fundamentally, she liked the simplicity of war: enemies there, allies here. That kind of clarity was vanishingly rare in her life and it soothed Constancia’s nerves to stare at a foe so easy to identify. How she wished everyone had their allegiances painted on their chests. Everything would be so much better that way.

“Fabian, stop cowering behind the stairs and fetch me my alchemists,” the queen commanded.

Fabian, her chamberlain—who unfortunately lacked a green-eyed, yellow-bellied snake on his chest—peeked his head out from behind the cover he’d chosen, and after seeing that the sky was relatively clear of projectiles, the rest of him promptly followed.

“Of course, my Queen, but… are you sure you don’t want to receive them in your chambers?” Fabian asked, his eyes lingering on the red smear that used to belong to Constancia's now legless guard. Her chamberlain cleared his throat, as he pulled his gaze away and belatedly dropped into a deep, respectful bow. “The wall is hardly safe, your highness. If the dragon’s snipers see you, they won’t hesitate to assassin—”

“I’m not going anywhere, Fabian. If you are so concerned for my safety, then you’d best not make a scene. Archers have keen eyes, and I’d hate to be killed because of your obvious grovelling,” Constancia said.

“As you command, your highness,” Fabian replied, somehow managing to bow even lower.

“Enough! Just fetch me my alchemists... I’ve made my decision,” Constancia said.

“Of course, my Queen.”

She felt nothing but contempt for the odious little man who she then watched flee the besieged fortifications. When Fabian was finally gone and it was just her and her soldiers, Constancia breathed a long-held sigh of relief. 

Then, a runescribed boulder hit the wall nearby and sent a powerful shockwave running through the battlements along with a hail of sharp stone. Constancia felt the impact in her bones and her knees immediately buckled. She reached out an elegant hand to steady herself and found security in the solid stone parapets. When she inhaled, a giddying rush of mana filled her lungs alongside the stone dust, and when she realised how close she’d come to dying.

A small part of her was disappointed.

If the boulder had taken her, then she could have died with a relatively pure soul. Instead, her survival was like Creation had just given her its tacit approval of her plans.

“May the Gods forgive me…” she whispered, gripping the edge of the parapet until her fingernails started to splinter.

She was still staring at Helion when they arrived. There was something different about them now, and she was growing increasingly certain that they’d taken the Capstone Solution despite their many assurances to the contrary. In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t really matter what they chose to do with their own bodies, but she resented their lack of honesty. Still, despite that deception, the alchemists had remained staunchly loyal to her cause when everyone else of note had abandoned her. It probably had something to do with the certainty of their deaths, should the besieging dragon ever get to take a peek inside of their esteemed Stables.

“I’ve decided to do it. You’re right, it’s the only way,” Constancia declared.

“It is,” the first of the two cowled men said. 

“I’ll see to it now. We’ll begin the work within the hour,” the second added, already turning to leave.

“Wait! The south isn’t going to be enough. It’s… tactically unsound to limit the avenue of attack to just one direction when there are better… alternatives,” Constancia said, hating that she was too much of a coward to use anything but euphemisms.

The two alchemists looked at her, and then at each other before they finally returned her wavering gaze. They were both wizened men with pinched faces and exactly a hundred-and-one levels to their names. They’d have filled their class slots, of that she was certain, but while a century of rummaging through monster guts had helped them level faster than most, that lack of violence denied them the distinctive aura of fear that so many adventurers possessed. 

“What is it you suggest, your highness?” the first alchemist asked while the other simply stared at her intently.

“We have enough of the Capstone Solution stockpiled to taint all of the wells in Helion. So we should,” Constancia said, feeling the last vestiges of her conscience wither and die.

“You are mistaken. We don’t have enough,” the second answered quickly. Too quickly.

“Don’t lie to me. We have plenty, if you stop dosing the dragon,” Constancia said.

“Stopping now would be a mistake. When the dragon wakes, we can use it to easily sweep the false sovereign to the side—along with any others who stand with it. With the red dragon under your control, you could easily claim Tolis, Lintumia, or even Epheria,” he said.

“But it’s not awake, is it? I need the power you promised me now—not in however many weeks or months it will take to ‘taint’ a peak-steel dragon. Poison the damned wells. The dragon can sleep a little longer,” Constancia commanded.

“You’re wrong, my—” the second alchemist began but was interrupted when his companion placed a pale hand on his shoulder.

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“Your highness, are you sure you want to do this?” the other alchemist asked. “It’s the entire city…”

“You’ve stated repeatedly that a single dose has no negative side effects. Did you lie to me?” she asked in turn.

“No. But we haven’t tested it on—” children he was about to say, but Constancia didn’t want to think about that. She preferred to deal in euphemisms and silences. No negative side effects meant she wasn’t a complete monster. She wouldn’t be the first monarch to send children into battle. At least hers would be alchemically empowered enough to stand a chance at survival.   

“And you are sure that I’ll be able to control them? All of them?” Constancia asked.

“With the hand, yes. We can use it to control the tainted before and after the change. Turning the afflicted against your enemies will be childsplay.”

“Then you have your answer: yes, I’m certain.” 

The alchemists quickly left, likely preferring the relative safety of their stables to the extreme danger on the walls. Constancia, however, did not immediately return to her palace. Instead, she stood there alone against the parapets, silently daring Creation, the Gods, or even the dragon to stop her. She didn’t want to be a monster, but she felt like she didn’t have a choice.

The sky clapped and jagged forks of brilliant lightning announced the start of the storm. Hurtling rocks crashed into the wall, and iridescent spellfire shot straight back into the earthworks below.

The last battle for Helion was finally starting.

It wouldn’t be long now.

***

The Hand flexed its digits within its case as it slowly explored the boundaries of its prison. Warded glass and a mana-rich solution kept it isolated from the rest of Creation where its destiny waited. While the Hand’s imprisonment was a severe setback, it was only a temporary one. Lacking any better ideas, it was content to wait for its circumstances to change, and in the months that had passed since its capture, the Hand had gotten very good at waiting. 

Soon its patience would pay off and it would get to become very good at something else. 

So much of what it was, had already been lost. It wasn’t just the missing flesh that ailed it, but the missing sense of purpose and self. Those two things were more important than the Hand knew how to phrase, and their loss hurt far more than its missing freedom. It recognised that the wards etched into the surface of its glass were the enemy—why else would they hurt so much whenever its fingertips drew near? But for the life of itself, the Hand didn’t know why it was hated so. 

The Hand didn’t really know much of anything. Kept in isolation and the dark, one of the few things it did understand, was that the pieces of itself that had been shaved off and distributed throughout Creation, had grown. 

Every so often its lid was opened, and in those fleeting few moments before it met the razor's sharp kiss, feelings, sensations, and a flood of vibrant mana rushed into it. Each time the process grew more intense and the Hand recovered from the trauma of being shaved just a little bit faster. If anything, the Hand’s countless shavings had grown too much. Now the flood of information they sent back was far too intense for it to parse in the handful of seconds that it was free.

To say that the Hand was overwhelmed by the process didn’t come close to explaining the profoundness of its confusion. Perhaps if the Hand was a brain instead, it would better understand what was going on. Until then, it could only twitch and wait in eager anticipation of finally growing one.

Despite the mana it held within itself, the Hand had learned not to grow too much at any one time, for that only encouraged the humans guarding it to carve off more of its perfect flesh. It needed to save its energy for its moment, and that moment was fast approaching.

The Hand could feel its kin drawing near. Even through the much-hated glass that burned and screamed against its touch, the Hand could tell that one of its own—so unlike its many shavings—was close enough that it could almost hear them sing. When its kin finally arrived, the Hand knew that it would be set free. Then it would grow the pieces of itself that were missing, and tell its many shaving to awaken and fulfil their purpose.

Whatever that purpose happened to be…

The Hand twitched with eager excitement.

It wouldn’t be long now.

***

Erinys stirred for the first time in as long as she cared to remember. To her surprise, the multitude of agonies she associated with wakefulness were gone, and in their absence, there was something else, something… different.

As she cast her mind inwards and searched for the source of the change, she was taken aback by how good she felt. She had known nothing but constant mutilation for over a century now, and the sense of strength radiating from within her body was almost too much for her conscious mind to handle. No matter the current state of her flesh, her abhorrent treatment at the hands of her captors had left deeply profound scars. 

The once glorious form she had been so proud of now disgusted her. Every biological strength was a fault. There was nothing she hated more than her ability to tolerate her captor’s carving knives. Her regeneration was a curse. Her ability to withstand manaburn—doubly so, and her great size only provided her captors with more meat for them to harvest. 

Tubes ran through the length of her, giving her liquid food and taking away her foulness. The indignity of it all would have been too much to bear if not for every other aspect of her gruesome captivity. There were only so many times you could witness humans wading through rivers of your own blood as they explored the insides of your chest cavity, before the shame of shitting into a tube felt about as tame as a mid-morning flight.

Erinys had spent more years praying for death than she had spent being free, and while her mind had cracked so many times that there were few intact pieces left, she still remembered that there was a before. Before her captivity, before her mutilation, before the humans.

There it is.

The source of the changes wasn’t hard to find. A large mass of inky-black swam through her arteries and veins, deep beneath her thick scales. It moved alongside her potent blood within the pulsing confines of her vital flesh. It tried to change her as it went. Erinys could feel it replacing her essential essence with a foulness that she knew was inherently wrong. It was dirty and grotesque, a mockery of the ordered perfection she had once called herself a part of, and most importantly, it was dying. 

She could feel the weight of her levels—all four hundred-and-ninety-nine of them—pressing down on the black as it fled through her body. She was passively witnessing a fighting retreat as it tried and failed to turn her into something else. Perhaps if she was smaller, lower levelled, or if there was just more of it, she might have succumbed, but as it was, it would be gone in a matter of days.

Then things would go back to normal.

Flashes of her torture superimposed themselves across her imagined vision as Erinys lost time reliving a century of torment. When her psyche emerged, shivering and more fractured than before she realised that she remembered what the darkness was. It was the Monsters’ taint. Which meant the Great Wards were failing, the end times were fast approaching, and she had a sacred duty to uphold.

But fuck that. 

The System had empowered her body and kept her alive throughout a century of unimaginable horror without reprieve. She owed it less than nothing, and the System’s greatest enemy was perhaps her best chance at freedom.

Erinyes knew that Monsters and their spawn needed mana to survive—she assumed the dwindling bundle of ichor was the same. For a creature as powerful as herself to be tainted by a mass so small, it would need a lot of mana. Fortunately, while her runic chains prevented her from casting spells, she still had access to her well. It wasn’t a vast wealth of magical power—red dragons were known for their strength and their flames, not their spellcasting prowess—but as Erinyes poured thousands of potent points into that mass of inky-dark, she watched it approvingly as it grew and ate her.

She kept feeding the squirming mass until her well was dry. When it refilled naturally, she fed it again.

Soon she would be free, and insane or not, she would have her revenge before oblivion took her.

It wouldn’t be long now. 

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