Daemon Targaryen
I panted heavily, swallowing the ragged scream that fought to escape my throat. The torn stitches in my side, combined with the blistering burns across my flesh, made for an agonizing mixture. After forcing my way up the winding stone stairs, I emerged into a cavernous, empty temple. Hundreds of thick beeswax candles—some still burning, others melted to stubs—were arranged across the floor in intricate, occult patterns. I paid the macabre display little mind, limping past the altar toward the heavy timber doors, desperate to find the invading Roman army.
I pulled the heavy door open a mere crack, only to freeze.
Nearly two dozen men and women—their bodies wreathed in the same suffocating, pitch-black shadows as the subterranean zealots—were shambling directly toward the temple steps. I immediately discarded any thought of breaking out and slammed the timber doors shut, throwing the heavy iron crossbar into place.
I carried Ana to the centre of the hall and laid her gently upon the cold stone floor, resting her near a cluster of burning candles to offer what little warmth they could against the unnatural, freezing dread seeping into the room.
Survival demanded steel. Dark Sister and the Valyrian claymore must have been brought to this temple along with our unconscious bodies, but finding them in this sprawling, dark sanctuary would not be an easy endeavour. Gritting my teeth against the pain, I began my search.
I tore through the adjacent antechambers, kicking open heavy oak doors and tearing through the priests' quarters. Outside, a heavy, rhythmic thudding began. The shadow-possessed had reached the temple. Fleshy fists and weapons hammered blindly against the reinforced timber of the main doors, the violent sound echoing ominously through the vaulted ceilings.
A loud, splintering CRACK warned me that the crossbar was already buckling.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced my exhaustion. I abandoned my search and sprinted back into the main hall. I scooped Ana into my arms, hauling her into a deeper, secluded vestry at the rear of the temple. I gently set her down and pulled the heavy door shut, praying the thick wood would hide her, before rushing back into the labyrinth of corridors to hunt for our swords.
The deeper I pushed into the temple's sanctums, the more grotesque the Black Goat's secrets became. I found no Valyrian steel, only horrors. Sacrificial altars were caked in layers of dried and fresh blood. Silver bowls overflowed with rotting, unidentifiable offerings. In one terrifying archive, I knocked over a stack of religious scrolls, only to realise the thick, yellowed parchment was fashioned from flayed human skin, inscribed with dark, rusted script.
A deafening crash shattered the temple's quiet.
The main doors had given way. A chorus of silent, slack-jawed shrieks filled the hall as the possessed flooded inside. I was out of time, and I was unarmed. I retreated back toward the vestry where Ana lay hidden, grabbing anything I could find to use as a bludgeon.
I hurled heavy, wrought-iron candlestands into the encroaching mob. I smashed thick oak chairs over the heads of the shadow-men, and battered them with heavy golden chalices, but it was utterly useless. The blunt force did not even stagger them; the unnatural, writhing shadows simply absorbed the blows, reknitting instantly.
They backed me directly against the heavy timber door of the vestry. I was surrounded, my breath coming in ragged, bloody gasps as a dozen pitch-black voids stared blankly at me. Their shadowy hands reached for my throat, bringing a suffocating, freezing cold with them.
Suddenly, the door at my back groaned open.
Ana staggered out from the vestry. She was deathly pale, her balance trembling, but her emerald eyes were wide open and fiercely lucid. In her trembling right hand, she gripped a polished stick—crafted of rich, red-tinted redwood.
She pointed the redwood directly at the encroaching horde.
"Expecto Patronum," she rasped, her voice weak but they were the same words I heard from the man in the caverns of the Altar chamber.
A blinding, brilliant white light erupted from the tip of the redwood wand. The light was soothing it offered naught the searing heat of the altar but hope that I was strong, stronger than I led myself to believe. The light made me remember the way I felt when I was on the back of Caraxes and how that made me feel complete.
The shadows shrieked—a high, piercing wail of sheer agony—as the light washed over them. The possessed threw their hands over their void-like eyes, scattering in blind terror. Those too slow to flee simply dissolved, their dark tethers burning away like mist beneath a summer sun, leaving behind collapsed, empty husks of mortal flesh.
The blinding light swirled, rapidly expanding and condensing as if trying to take the form of a massive, ethereal beast. But the magic violently sputtered. Exhausted by the blood ritual, Ana's strength gave out, and the glowing light faded entirely into nothingness.
Ana's eyes rolled back. The redwood wand slipped from her fingers, clattering against the stone, and her knees buckled.
I lunged forward, catching her before she hit the floor. I pulled her flush against my chest, my bloody, battered hands gripping her tight.
She blinked, her vibrant green eyes finding my face in the gloom. The edges of her pale lips curled into a faint, exhausted smile.
"Thank you," she whispered, her breath ghosting against my collarbone. "For saving my life."