The Ascended

The Ascended — Chapter no 64

Chapter 64

Temple of Darkness

THE TEMPLE'S CORRIDORS SWALLOWED ME WHOLE, DARKNESS PRESSING against my skin like a living thing. I crawled forward on hands and knees, stone scraping my palms raw, each movement careful and deliberate. The air tasted like dust, decay, and a metallic tang that set my stellar powers writhing.

Then I saw it. A glint of light ahead, barely visible through the oppressive dark.

I froze, pressing myself against the cold wall. My heart hammered so loud I was certain whoever was ahead must hear it. But no one came. No footsteps echoed through the stone passages. Just that steady glow beckoning me forward.

Inch by inch, I crept toward the light, peering around the corner into a

vast cavern in the heart of the temple.

My blood turned to ice.

On a raised dais in the center of the chamber, Thatcher lay bound and unconscious. His shirt had been torn open, exposing his chest to the cold air. And standing over him, a figure in dark robes traced patterns on his skin with one pale finger.

I didn't think. Couldn't think. The stars were inaccessible here— separated by tons of stone and earth, but that didn't matter. I pulled from the power within me—that well of light that had always burned at my core. It rushed through my veins stronger than ever before.

A dagger of pure starlight materialized in my palm. I drew back and hurled it at the robed figure with everything I had.

The figure waved a hand without even looking up. My dagger dissolved into nothing.

"I wondered when you'd be joining us." The voice was cultured, amused, and entirely unfamiliar.

Fuck subtlety. I launched myself from the shadows, sprinting toward the dais, toward Thatcher. I made it three steps before an invisible force slammed into me like a battering ram. The impact drove me back against the temple wall with bone-shattering force.

I heard the crack before I felt it—ribs splintering under the pressure.

The pain was immediate and absolute, driving the breath from my lungs as I crumpled to the floor. But even as I gasped for air, I felt it. My bones shifted, realigning themselves. Sinew stretched and reknit. Muscle stitched back together as if guided by invisible hands.

A scream tore from my throat as my body forcibly healed itself.

"Fascinating," the figure murmured.

I pushed myself to my knees, spitting blood onto the stone floor. "Get your fucking hands off him before I rip them off."

In response, the figure pressed harder against Thatcher's chest. A bead of blood welled up beneath his finger.

"I cannot be interrupted," he said, voice carrying an edge of irritation now. "My window of opportunity grows short."

I staggered to my feet, gathering starlight once more. This time I didn't form just one blade—I formed a dozen, hurling them at the figure in rapid succession. His barrier caught most of them, dissolving them to nothing.

But one slipped through, slicing across the arm of his black robe.

He laughed. "Careful, child. If you damage the vessel, your death will be much slower and far more painful than necessary."

"What the fuck are you doing to him?" I demanded, already forming another blade. But not in my hand this time. My powers had evolved beyond simple manifestation—I could feel their reach extending, their control sharpening. A dagger materialized in the air directly above the

figure's head. "Who are you?"

I sent the blade crashing down.

It dissolved the instant it touched his hood.

The figure's hand snapped up, and I was slammed against the wall again. But this time, invisible bonds held me there, pressing against my wrists and ankles, pinning me like an insect to a board.

"I'm impressed you found this place," he said conversationally, finally looking up from Thatcher's unconscious form. "You truly are your father's daughter."

I thrashed against the bonds, feeling them burn my skin. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Something far older than anything you know, child."

"Why are you doing this?"

"How disappointing." He tsked softly. "Your mentor didn't teach you your history."

"History?" I snarled. "What does Xül have to do with this?"

"Xül." The name dripped with disdain. "The death prince playing at rebellion. It's rather endearing, really. Yet there are far bigger threats that no one seems to understand. The Gods and mortals alike share that small- mindedness, unable to see past their own ambitions to recognize what truly lurks in their glittering Voldaris."

"Stop speaking in riddles and tell me who you are!"

Slowly, deliberately, the figure reached up and pulled back his hood.

The world tilted.

Olinthar. My father. The King of Gods stood before me, golden eyes gleaming.

"You look so much like your mother," he said, tilting his head as he studied me. "Both of you do."

"Don't you fucking dare speak of her." Rage burned through me hotter than any star. "If you hurt Thatcher, I swear on everything divine I will shred you from the inside out."

"She was stubborn too. A fighter." Olinthar stepped away from Thatcher, moving toward me with predatory grace. "Usually, they end up enjoying themselves. But not her. She hated every moment."

Pain lanced through my chest as I struggled harder against the bonds. I felt power building inside me, burning hotter with each step he took. But I didn't release it. Not yet. I let it build.

Another step closer.

"He did always have a proclivity for mortal women," Olinthar mused.

"Such base desires were beneath me, of course. But he was always easier to

manage when I allowed him his vices."

My heart plummeted. "What are you talking about?"

"It was tedious at first," he continued, as if I hadn't spoken. "Allowing him such freedoms. But then an idea sparked, and I decided that something valuable might come from all these dalliances."

He stood directly in front of me now, close enough that I could see the unnatural stillness in his eyes. I kept struggling, kept letting my power build until my skin felt like it might split from the pressure.

"I killed most of them before they could reach term," he said conversationally. "Couldn't have the mortal realm overrun with half-blood children. But I felt something different in her. A part of me that had slipped into the union."

"What do you mean, you?" My voice cracked. "Do you only speak in fucking riddles?"

"A Primordial seed found its way into the womb," he explained patiently, as if teaching a slow child.

He leaned down, dragging one finger across my cheek. The touch burned like acid.

"Your brother shares the power of my brother," he whispered.

I tried to jerk away from his touch, but the bonds held firm. His hand caught my chin, forcing me to look directly into his golden eyes.

And then I watched them change.

The gold bled away like paint washing off canvas, replaced by silver so bright it hurt to look at.

My breath caught. My heart seemed to stop entirely.

“You’re not Olinthar.”

The wretchedly handsome face smiled. "This body belongs to him, true.

But I rarely let him out to play." He tapped his temple with one finger.

"You're…"

"Moros, child." The name fell from lips that weren't truly his. "The Primordial of Endings. Vivros thought he destroyed me, but it was only my form he ripped from existence."

"When the priests came to Saltcrest," I said, stalling while I gathered my strength for another attempt at breaking free. "They were searching for us."

"For him," Moros corrected, nodding toward Thatcher. "You were merely an unfortunate complication."

When Olinthar's face twisted into a smile, I saw my chance. I released a fraction of the power I'd been building, slamming a sphere of pure light into his chest.

He stumbled to the left, more from surprise than actual damage. But the bonds holding me flickered.

"Impressive," he said, brushing off his robes as if I'd merely spilled wine on them. "But ultimately pointless."

He returned to Thatcher's side, and a curved blade materialized in his hand. The metal gleamed with an oily sheen that made my stomach turn.

"Your brother won't die," Moros murmured. "Not permanently."

Thatcher! I screamed down the bond.

I needed to distract him. The window of opportunity—whatever that was—seemed important. If I could keep him talking long enough for it to

pass…

"What do you plan to do with him?"

Moros rolled his head, stretching the muscles in his shoulders, then his arms.

"Take his body as my new vessel. After I absorb my brother's power, of course." Moros smiled, the expression grotesque on Olinthar's features.

"This shell has served its purpose, but your brother offers something I've long wished for. Long waited for."

"You couldn't corrupt Vivros," I said, pieces of Xül's history lessons falling into place. "So, this is your second chance? Tie him down, make him unconscious, because you're too weak otherwise? Like you were before?"

Olinthar's jaw clenched. His hand trembled slightly as he set the dagger

back on the table.

Good. I'd hit a nerve.

He cocked his head, studying me with those wrong silver eyes. "You think you know so much. The young always do. Just because most of my power was stripped away doesn't mean I cannot bring endings to civilizations. Especially once I reunite with the realm that waits for their master's return."

"Big talk for someone hiding their true identity," I pressed. "Very intimidating, indeed."

That terrible smile returned. "I knew you were going to be a thorn in my side from the moment I saw you begging for his life at the Proving." His

head tilted further, an unnatural angle that made my skin crawl. "Even more so when you somehow evaded all of my attempts on your life."

Realization crashed over me. Kavik's vacant eyes during the second trial. My overly drugged drink in the third. I'd thought it was Olinthar's doing, and I hadn't been completely wrong.

"Feeble attempts, really," I said, forcing bravado I didn't feel.

"A complication I could end right now," he mused, studying me with those wrong silver eyes. "But where's the poetry in that? You’ve managed to make it this far." He smiled, and it was terrible on Olinthar's face. "For that, I think you deserve something special. Something… fitting."

My skin crawled. "What are you talking about?"

"When I take your brother's body as my vessel, when his hands become mine…" He let the words hang in the air like a promise. "What could be more poetic than having him be the one to end you? The last thing you'll see

is his face, knowing I'm wearing it."

"You're sick."

"The most interesting beings are. But I won't fail today." He picked up the blade again. "And when I'm done, it will make for the most heartbreaking story."

"Well, don't stop now. I’m on the edge of my seat."

"I drew inspiration from your plan, actually," Moros said, his voice taking on an echoing quality that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

"Two children of disgrace, born to a mortal mother—an embarrassment to the throne of Voldaris. When mighty Olinthar discovered his shame walking these halls, he moved to eliminate it. But the children fought back with power beyond comprehension. Alas, only young Thatcher survived the battle. And in his righteous fury, he struck down his father to avenge his sister's death, claiming the throne as his birthright."

Gods.

"How could you possibly know about our plan?"

I nudged the bond again. Thatcher! Wake up, wake up, wake up!

"Confused?" Moros seemed delighted by my shock. "I didn't know your intentions until yesterday. Absorbing Vorinar proved most enlightening. The gift of seeing all possible futures is remarkably useful."

Ice flooded my veins. Vorinar. The trial ending abruptly. His domain destabilizing. The memory of those glassy, vacant eyes made my stomach turn. "You corrupted him."

"Very good, dear." His approval made my skin crawl. "It was the perfect opportunity. Imagine my delight when I discovered his plans to kill your brother during the final trial. Couldn't have that, of course. But what I didn't anticipate was gaining such intimate knowledge of the rebellion brewing across my domains."

He knew everything. Every plan, every alliance, every hope we'd built.

And he'd destroy them all if I didn't stop him here.

I needed more time.

"But not all domains are planning rebellion," I said, grasping for anything to keep him talking. "Some are loyal to you. More loyal than the balance should allow. Isn't that right?"

"You're full of surprises, Thais Morvaren." He actually sounded impressed. "I thought my merger with Axora was more… discreet."

"Why do you even need to merge with War?" I pressed. "Won't you be strong enough after this to command your will across the realm?"

"You're thinking too small."

"Well, mortal minds and all," I drawled. "As you've mentioned several times. Help me understand, if you're going to kill me anyway."

"Why stop at this realm when I could have the next? And the next after that?" His eyes gleamed. "I need an army for that. One that will eventually join the forces I left behind."

My blood ran cold. He wanted all the realms. All four pantheons.

And suddenly, Darian's death at the banquet made terrible sense. Priests stationed in military camps, seeking blessed amongst trained soldiers.

Specifically targeting those who already knew how to fight, how to follow orders, how to wage war.

Then Xül's admission crashed through me. So few of the Aesymar possess true gifts themselves. Immortal but essentially powerless.

"The Ascended," I said slowly. "You're gathering the power the Aesymar lack. But the Trials kill most contestants—how can you build an army when so few survive?"

Olinthar's expression didn't change. "The Trials serve their purpose.

Those who die were never strong enough to matter. Those who survive?"

He paused. "They've learned the only lesson that matters—that divine will is absolute. The perfect soldiers don't just have power. They have loyalty beaten into them."

Thatcher! This would be a great fucking time to wake up!

“You speak of other worlds, but no one even knows if the other realms survived the Sundering," I protested.

"I intend to find out." His expression turned distant, almost dreamy.

"Sometimes I feel my beasts, clawing across my skin when I dream."

The prophecy. The hordes of monsters from Vaerhuun. His army, waiting for their master's return.

But the woman with ashen hair—how did she fit into this nightmare?

"Enough talk," Moros said suddenly. "The convergence approaches."

I thrashed against the bonds with renewed desperation as he walked back to Thatcher's unconscious form.

"Thatcher!" I screamed. "Wake up! Please!"

Nothing. Not even a flicker of movement.

Moros smiled. "He sleeps deeply, dear. A necessary precaution."

But as he picked up the knife and turned his attention fully to my brother, I felt it—the bonds holding me weakened. Just slightly. Just enough.