North Drake
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Book 1: Chapter 52: On A Spirit's Whim
🕑 Added 2025-06-21 15:10:54 +0000 UTCFunny thing—I just realized that in the last few chapters, I accidentally called Valewick "Velwick" a couple of times. I already fixed it on RR since you can do that with one click and update all the wrong names. But it's a lot more work here, so sorry if it causes any confusion! Then again, no one mentioned it, so I’m guessing you didn’t notice either! (:
Chapter 52:
On A Spirit's Whim
Corax hovered silently outside the great walls of Valewick's citadel, his form invisible to mortal eyes. Inspecting this place had proved a more challenging task than he'd anticipated. It wasn't a command from Grace, merely a request, but he found himself treating it with more importance than he could logically explain.
His thoughts drifted inevitably back to Grace. She had changed, profoundly and subtly, since he'd first bound himself to her. Ever since he had poured half of his essence into her being, she had become... more. More than human, more than mage, perhaps even more than mortal. He still didn't fully comprehend the depths of what had occurred within her, nor how a mere child could harbor a divine spark alongside her Void core.
Strange.
He often sensed Grace was older, wiser than her supposed five years. Yet she never discussed it, and he did not press. What interested him more were the changes occurring within himself. Ages of cold, detached observation were slowly fracturing. He was beginning to feel something faintly, something delicate he hadn't experienced in all his countless years. Interest. Curiosity. He almost smiled, though he had no form with which to express it.
Corax's thoughts snapped back sharply. He found a weakness, a tiny gap in the magical defenses of the citadel. It was impressive, and concerning, that a human fortress had been so thoroughly warded against supernatural entities like himself. But now was not the moment for idle speculation. With practiced ease, he slipped through the gap, unseen and unnoticed.
His target, he remembered clearly, was located in the dungeons. He moved inward, floating silently through halls of cold stone and flickering torchlight.
A curious thought struck him as he descended: since entering the mortal realm at Grace’s side, he had found himself in dungeons remarkably often. He chuckled softly, then stopped abruptly. Did he just chuckle? He, Corax, the ancient spirit? Was this… morbid sarcasm? He paused for a moment, puzzled by his own reaction.
After a brief hesitation, he shrugged inwardly. The invisible orb that was his essence resumed its silent glide down the stone staircase, deeper into the dark belly of the citadel, closer to the prisoner Grace had asked him to observe.
As Corax found the entrance to the dungeon, he paused for a moment before descending further. He marveled at his surroundings; his vision filled with the intricate sparkling of mana. Every wall, every iron-bound door shimmered with defensive enchantments. It was truly fascinating; never had he seen such careful, layered defenses in a mortal stronghold.
The citadel itself felt like a relic from an ancient age, a time long before current mortals remembered. A time when gods strode openly through the mortal realms, choosing avatars, waging proxy wars in battles that had long since faded into myth and legend. Even Corax, old as he was, had not witnessed those primeval struggles directly, but he'd felt their echoes through the Veil.
Here, in the heart of Valewick’s citadel, he recognized a whisper of something similar, a long-forgotten dread, the shadowy sense of ancient, lurking catastrophe. It reminded him of the oldest creatures he'd felt in the Veil, beings whose very presence twisted perception and radiated disaster.
Yet he felt no fear. Instead, his curiosity sharpened, burning brighter than ever. He had quite the story to share with Grace upon his return.
Corax reached the first level of the underground prison. It was remarkably mundane, plainer and more orderly than the Ashford dungeons, these cells even had small windows. But there were no Beastkin here, only quiet, sullen humans.
He descended again, to the second level. Here, the cells had no windows, and the doors were warded. Still, aside from those details, it appeared relatively normal. But still no Beastkin, only a handful of weary, silent humans chained to the walls.
Corax pressed further down, descending to the third level, and the atmosphere changed abruptly.
The air became thick with the stench of death and decay. Screams and sobs echoed off the cold, damp stone, begging for mercy or release. Peering into the cells, Corax saw cramped spaces with only scraps of hay to soften the bare stone. Prisoners were shackled by heavy chains at their ankles, each door etched with intricate, ancient runic wards, pulsing softly in his spectral vision.
If Corax had possessed eyebrows, he would have raised one in quiet surprise.
But now he knew, this was exactly where he was meant to be. Here, at last, were the Beastkin.
--::--
Rhel sat huddled against the icy stone wall, his hair damp and matted, eyes staring blankly at the bars in front of him. He didn't know how many weeks had passed, couldn't tell day from night. Everything blurred into endless darkness, broken only by the cold scrape of metal doors and the monotone footsteps of guards.
It was draining. Every moment he waited, tensed, ready for the footsteps to stop at his cell. Ready to hear the key scrape in the lock and know his time had come. Like it had come for the others. Some returned mutilated, scarred forever, their tails missing, ears cut away, eyes hollow from horrors unspoken. Others never returned at all.
He shivered, fear gnawing constantly at the edge of his thoughts. He was young, too young for this. Every "night," in the endless gloom, he thought of his father. Proud, strong, and then dead in mere moments, impaled by human magic, dying without honor or glory. It replayed endlessly behind his eyelids, the massive earth pillar erupting from nowhere, piercing fur and bone like a spear through cloth.
Sometimes, when his mind cleared enough, he spoke with the other prisoners, their voices hushed and broken. They whispered of hope, claiming the Ursin would soon come roaring through the gates, mighty warriors, unstoppable saviors.
Rhel doubted it. He had seen too much on the battlefield. He had watched the Wolfkin falter, scatter, fall. He had seen the monsters fighting alongside the humans, especially that flying horror, the dragon-like beast they called a "wyvern." Unnatural. Unstoppable. Terrifying.
He cursed bitterly the day the Ursin called the Drekkh Thar. He cursed the moment the Beastkin were summoned to fight. And most of all, he cursed this darkness, the endless waiting, and the slow erosion of hope.
Rhel pulled his knees tighter to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut. Waiting for footsteps, waiting for keys, waiting for whatever came next.
"Are ye Rhel?" came a voice, soft as a whisper, drifting lightly through the heavy air of the cell.
Rhel scrambled upright, eyes wide and alert, heart thundering against his ribs. "Who—who asked that?"
A low, amused chuckle echoed around him, strangely calm in this grim place. "Don't be answerin' a question with another question, young wolf. Yer the only wolf here, an' I'm searchin' fer a wolfkin. So again… are ye Rhel?"
A chill crawled down Rhel's spine, ice-cold and sudden. He swallowed hard. "Y-yes, I am."
"Good," the voice purred gently. "I was tasked to keep an eye on ye, young wolf. But I've seen so much more down 'ere than expected, an' I ain't exactly flush with time ta linger. Would ye kindly tell me what's goin' on 'round these parts?"
Rhel hesitated, unsure what to say. Trapped, frightened, and utterly alone, he knew he had no real choice. With a trembling voice, he started talking. It was strange how the words tumbled out of him, the horrors he'd witnessed, the cries he'd heard, the constant terror of being taken next. Weeks of pent-up fear and confusion poured out, leaving him oddly lighter when he finished.
The voice considered briefly. "Aye," it finally said, casually thoughtful, "Just as I figured. Yer all fuel fer some ritual, somethin' nasty from the old times. Suppose I oughtta peek into their ritual chamber, they surely got one 'round here somewhere."
There was a pause, then the voice added lazily, almost kindly, "Tell ye what, young wolf. If ye promise to keep yer trap shut 'bout our wee chat, I reckon I can help ye survive 'til they come fer yer sacrifice. Jus' a wee thanks fer answerin' my questions, ye see."
Rhel was taken aback. He blinked rapidly, confusion sweeping through him. "Wait—what? I—I mean… wait, no! So, I’d die anyway? Isn’t being a sacrifice even worse?" Panic flooded his voice, raw and desperate. He gathered every ounce of courage left in his body. "Couldn’t you just… help me instead? Please? I’ll do anything! I'll serve you, just—just don’t let me die here!"
The ethereal voice hummed thoughtfully, mildly intrigued. "Anythin', ye say? Ye really know what yer askin' fer, lad?"
"Yes! Please!" Rhel sobbed, tears streaming freely down his face now, voice cracking with desperation. "Anything! I swear it!"
The voice considered again. "I s'pose I could help ye… reckon she'd be mighty pleased to have herself a pet. But…"
It trailed off. Rhel lunged at the pause, clutching at straws in the darkness. The voice had mentioned someone—a ‘her’—someone who might hold his life in her hands. "I'll serve her! Whoever she is, I'll do whatever she asks! Please don't leave me to die like this—like the others!"
The silence stretched. Rhel could hardly breathe, his pulse hammering in his ears. Then the voice finally replied, oddly satisfied. "Fine, then… reckon ye might make a proper birthday gift. But I ain't around all the time, mind. Ye’ll need to forge a soul contract with her, directly."
Rhel blinked, momentarily thrown off by confusion. "A… a birthday gift?"
"Aye," the voice drawled lazily. "Yer new master's turnin' six soon. Seems only right I get her somethin'… special, fer the occasion. An’ I reckon that's you."
"Wait, she's turning six?" Rhel blurted, incredulous. "You're gonna gift me to a child?"
The voice only chuckled dryly, amused. "Oh, she ain't no child, wolf. Least, not like yer thinkin'. Now, how we gonna get ye outta here…"
In front of Rhel, a dark orb suddenly manifested from nothing, hovering in the air and pulsating gently. It emitted a sickening glow, dark purple, almost black, a color impossible to fully comprehend or describe. Rhel had never seen anything like it. Tendrils writhed slowly around its edges, mesmerizing and terrifying all at once.
Before Rhel could react, a tendril snapped forward, plunging directly into his forehead. He felt a sharp, searing pulse of pain, and then everything went mercifully dark.
--::--
Corax drifted thoughtfully above the unconscious Wolfkin, tendrils retreating into his orb-like form. It was all rather out of character for him, he mused—making such a decision on a whim. At first, he had felt mildly annoyed at having to waste precious time seeking out this beastkin at Grace’s simple request.
He paused mentally, savoring the realization. Had he actually felt annoyance? Now that was exciting.
Then, of course, boredom had set in. Observing a Wolfkin trapped in a dreary cell proved far less thrilling than anticipated. So, he had spoken to the boy, and suddenly, an unexpected thought struck him: He genuinely wanted to see Grace happy.
And what was it humans liked so much? Ah, yes. Gifts. He had observed it over countless mortal lifetimes, they loved presents. And what pleased them even more? When someone remembered their birthdays.
So why not offer the desperate little wolf as a gift? The young creature had begged him, a spirit, pleading for his life in exchange for servitude. It was perfectly fitting; spirits made deals, after all. And Grace herself had mentioned needing more "retainers." She could start her own little collection now, perhaps beginning with this pup.
Corax felt quietly pleased with himself. Truly, the bond with Grace had altered him, shifting his ancient, detached nature in ways he’d never predicted. But he embraced it.
Now, though, there was a more immediate question. What next?
He regarded the unconscious form lying at his intangible feet. Well now, little wolf, he mused with a lazy inward chuckle, reckon it’s time to get ye home.
