Chapter 8: The Weight of Worship
Part 1: The Marquis' Gambit
At the word "worship," Marquis Vincente's grip tightened imperceptibly on his teacup. His youngest daughter—the one specifically requested by the mountain deity this year—stood before him with mud-caked boots and eyes brighter than the storm outside.
No god ever demanded a named sacrifice before. Though he knew Tasiya was different.
The mountain lord's promise echoed in his bones:
"I know about your clandestine research, Vincente. Hand over Tasiya, and I'll grant clear streams, snow-fleeced lambs, soil fertile enough to bury your family's debts. Refuse, and your half-baked experiments won't save you."
Threat and reward entwined like serpents. Yet the Marquis yearned for a third path.
"If you choose the capital," he said, tracing the condensation on his window, "I'll send some nameless girl to the mountains. But if you walk this thorned road..." His reflection fractured in the rain-streaked glass. "...I pray you carve survival from its flesh."
Part 2: Questions in the Armory
Scene: The Rusting Arsenal
Tasiya tilted her head at the wall of antique weapons. "Who's the Church Militant's true enemy?"
When her silence stretched, the Marquis laughed bitterly. "You wanted to join the royal forces—to test your strength against the capital's best. But tell me, child, what do you think those gilded soldiers actually protect?"
"The... king?" Even she heard the uncertainty.
Her father's blade hissed free from its scabbard, revealing engravings devoured by rust. "Every lord offers children to their god. The crown turns blind eyes until..." He pressed the corroded edge to her palm. "...someone disrupts the dance."
Tasiya studied the pitted steel. "So your experiments are treason."
"Worse." His smile turned ghastly. "The block would be mercy compared to what awaits dissenters."
Part 3: The Road to Sacrifice
Drizzle blurred the mountain path as Tasiya spurred her horse past waterlogged wheat fields. The convent's storage barn loomed ahead, nuns scrambling like ants to salvage rain-sodden grain.
"Sister Tasiya!" Novice Nora nearly dropped her armful of mildewed ledgers. "Shouldn't you be at your birthday feast?"
"Father caught my lies." She tossed a cloth-wrapped bundle—tomes stolen from the Marquis' forbidden library. "New bedtime stories for the dormitory."
Before the nuns could protest, she wheeled her mount toward the treeline. Let them puzzle over treatises on geothermal alchemy and bloodline covenants.
The higher slopes swallowed sound. Rain became needles stinging her cheeks, the forest shifting from familiar medicinals to twisted pines oozing resin like congealed blood. Somewhere ahead lay the grazing plateaus—and beyond them, the god's domain where even shepherds dared not tread.
Three shadows coalesced through the downpour. Figures in oilskin cloaks waved, their gestures too fluid, too hungry. Tasiya's hand found the dagger at her waist—its hilt warm with stolen chapel incense.
"Lost, little lamb?" crooned the centermost figure. His hood fell back to reveal eyes like cracked amber. "The mountain's embrace awaits."
Chapter 9: The Demon's Masquerade
Part 1: Silver-Tongued Mirage
The silver-haired youth stepped through veils of acidic mist, his embroidered cloak miraculously untouched by the dissolving rain. Behind him, three women exchanged glances heavy with centuries-old exasperation.
"Lost lamb," Nathaniel called, amber eyes crinkling with practiced warmth. His gloved hand brushed a pine branch—sap hissed where fingertips lingered too long. "We're cartographers from the capital. These shifting borders demand..."
Tasiya's mare snorted, hooves etching nervous circles in the toxic mud. She cut him off: "Turn back. What lies ahead consumes more than maps."
As her silhouette vanished into white haze, Nathaniel's smile froze. The youngest attendant dissolved into giggles.
"Perhaps she dislikes antiquated titles," mused the demon lord, examining his reflection in a poison pool. "What think you, Cyax? Should I adopt 'Salar' as the mortal priests suggest?"
The man called Cyax cringed. "Master, she'll gut you with that chapel dagger if..."
"Precisely why we need proper staging!" Nathaniel clapped, sending startled crows exploding from dead oaks. "A wounded traveler aiding another—classic compassion trigger. Cyax, you'll play the crippled horse."
Part 2: Sulfurous Waltz
Scene: The Corrosion Fields
Tasiya's boots left smoking prints. She catalogued the terrain with a scholar's precision:
Pool Composition: pH <1 (instant fabric disintegration)
Vapor Density: 3.2kg/m³ (olfactory nerves paralyzed at 15m exposure)
Footprint Traces: Recent equine disturbance (single rider, 70kg mass)
Her father's words echoed through the chemical haze: "They need us as much as we need them." But these bubbling hellsprings defied symbiosis. What god required such defenses?
The scream came as calculated—a stallion's panicked whinny laced with Cyax's poorly-muffled curses. Tasiya found Nathaniel sprawled beside a shrinking safe zone, his mare's hindquarters dissolving in a pool.
"Don't move!" She uncoiled her whip, the chapel-blessed leather sizzling against his palm. "Grab on!"
Nathaniel bit back laughter. Perfect.
Part 3: The Devil's Gambit
Cyax's equine disguise trembled as Tasiya examined his "wound"—a clever illusion of bubbling flesh. Nathaniel leaned closer, catching her scent: gunpowder and sacramental wax undercut by something... electrical.
"Your dedication to cartography astonishes," Tasiya deadpanned, binding his "sprained" ankle with charmed gauze. "Most scholars flee when their boots melt."
Nathaniel's finger grazed her pulse point. "Some treasures warrant risks."
She recoiled, dagger unsheathed. The blade's edge glowed faintly—reacting to his concealed hellfire.
"Salar." Tasiya tested the alias like a poison sample. "Capital surveyors shouldn't reek of burnt amber."
His attendants materialized through fog, weapons disguised as measuring tools. Cyax whimpered, hooves reverting to clawed hands mid-transformation.
"Ah." Nathaniel rose, centuries of ennui shredding the charming facade. "Shall we converse as predator to prey, Fire-Bearer?"
Chapter 10: The Demon's Gambit
Part 1: Steam and Shadows
The thermal spring's vapors flushed Tasiya's cheeks crimson. Nathaniel studied the girl at arm's length—the rebellious baby hairs at her hairline, the feline jawline contradicting her raptor-sharp eyes.
"Other fiefdoms fare worse than this," he offered, silver hair catching sulfurous light.
"Good." She stepped back, putting three paces between them.
"Might I know your name, my lady?" His smile curved like a ceremonial dagger.
"Tasiya."
He launched into a volley of questions about Vencent territory's customs, each met with "Ask the Marquis." When he praised her beauty with courtier-perfected solemnity, her olive-green eyes mirrored the look one gives rabid squirrels.
The black stallion's return saved him further humiliation. Tasiya checked her mare's hooves with battlefield urgency. "My thanks," she said already mounting, vanishing into mist-shrouded pines.
Nathaniel stared at the hoofprints swallowing her silhouette. "Where did I err?"
"Everywhere," muttered Sykes through gritted teeth, envisioning devouring the girl's heart to overthrow his master.
Part 2: Cage of Dust
Scene: The Forgotten Dungeon
Cobwebs draped the interrogation cell like rotting lace. Sykes sneezed violently as侍女B demanded, "Why not forge credentials?"
"Pardon?" Nathaniel brushed spider silk from his sleeve. "The wax seals use royal crimson lacquer—extracted from Ognivo's fire-moths. Irreplicable without..." He paused, savoring the memory of Tasiya's gloved hand confiscating his maps. "...proper resources."
侍女A's eyes narrowed. "You planned this arrest."
"Love requires sacrifice." He pressed palms against moss-eaten bars. "When she chains you, you see her truest self."
Sykes choked. "You—the Shadowless Sovereign—want a human's love?!"
"Demons know nothing of love." Nathaniel's pupils bled into void-black. "But her hatred... her suspicion... ah, that crystalline wrath! I'll kindle it until..."
Dust rained as he laughed, the sound echoing through forgotten torture implements.
Part 3: Crimson Harvest
The patrol captain rode eastward, sunlight glinting on his newly polished badge. He'd almost reached the gates when the wind flung his cloak upward—a scarlet curtain revealing the butcher Hank, face smeared with viscera.
"Since when do you slaughter clumsily?" The captain's jest died as Hank raised trembling hands.
"Not livestock..." The man's nails clawed at clotting blood. "The gates... corpses stacked like firewood..."
Through the butcher's splayed fingers, the captain glimpsed flayed skin clinging to the road—not animal hide, but human flesh tattooed with Ognivo's cogwheel sigil.
Somewhere in the pines, a fire-moth emerged from its chrysalis, wings still damp with metamorphic fluid. Its crimson patterns precisely matched the seals on Vencent's forged documents.
The Maids' gazes locked onto Nathaniel in unison. Beneath the mountain sun, the silver-haired youth's smile flickered like a candle in drafty corridors.
"Credentials, you say?" His fingers brushed against an empty sleeve lining—the scroll that should have borne the royal seal was conspicuously absent. "My dear Lady Tasiya, must we resort to such tedious formalities between..."
The patrol captain's spear tip pressed against his collarbone, drawing a bead of black blood that evaporated upon contact with sunlight.
Tasiya observed the phenomenon with clinical detachment. Non-human hemolytic reaction. Her father's laboratory journals flashed through her mind—page 237 detailing how demonic ichor sublimates under UV exposure.
"Bind them." Her order sent steel chains clinking. "We'll verify their identities at the chapel interrogation chamber."
Maid A's fingers spasmed toward hidden daggers, but Nathaniel shook his head almost imperceptibly. His eyes never left Tasiya's face, tracking her every micro-expression as the patrolmen shackled his wrists with cold iron.
This isn't over, his smirk whispered through the clang of prison manacles. You'll come seeking answers where no chains can hold us.