Chapter 16 – Mount Aurelis

Chapter 16 – Mount Aurelis

 

Commander Theron Luxvale paced restlessly at the foot of Mount Aurelis, boots striking the pale stone in clipped, measured turns that did nothing to settle his nerves.

Behind him, the Gates of Dawn rose in solemn majesty, twin doors of white-gold metal veined with old enchantments and engraved with scenes from the First Age. Beyond them lay the Pilgrim’s Path, a winding ascent of ancient steps and flowering terraces that climbed toward the sacred Font of Light at the mountain’s peak.

Morning sunlight spilled over the holy mountain in soft sheets of gold. The air smelled of incense, cold stone, and the faint sweetness of sunblessed lilies planted along the lower approach. Usually, the place soothed him. Mount Aurelis had always felt like a sanctuary, like a steady hand against the brow of a fevered world.

Today, it felt like the held breath before disaster.

An hour ago, Aethon Yggdris, the First Warrior, Father of All Martial Arts, founder and Grand Master of the Golden Compact, had appeared without warning at the Cathedral of Sunlight and delivered his orders as if he were announcing the weather.

Mount Aurelis was to be locked down immediately.

The Font of Light was to be cleared of every pilgrim, every priest, every worshipper.

No one was to interfere.

Theron had asked why, because no man with a functioning mind heard such orders and failed to ask why. Aethon had looked at him with those ancient, unreadable eyes and said only:

“This is the will of the Goddess. The fate of the world may depend on it.”

Then he had turned and walked away.

That had been all. The First Warrior had offered no explanation, no room for argument, and no reassurance.

And now Theron was here, waiting beneath the mountain while tying himself into knots with worry.

Behind him, his paladins stood in shining ranks before the Gates of Dawn, guarding the only sanctioned entrance through Mount Aurelis’s holy barrier. Their armor had been polished until it caught the morning light in sharp, blinding flashes. White cloaks stirred in the mountain breeze. Every helm plume stood straight, every sword sat precisely where it ought to be, every posture would have made a bard weep with patriotic gratitude.

If only they would stop talking.

“Did Lord Aethon really come in person?”

“I heard he crossed the cathedral courtyard and every candle in the nave flared at once.”

“No, that was because High Priest Malver nearly fainted.”

A snort of muffled laughter.

Another voice, lower and reverent. “What was he like, Commander? Truly.”

Theron pinched the bridge of his nose.

He understood the excitement. Every knight who had ever picked up a blade had grown up on stories of Aethon Yggdris. The First Warrior was not merely admired. He was a standard against which every swordsman in the world measured his own inadequacy.

But admiration had a time and place, and this was not it.

“Silence in the line,” Theron said sharply, without turning.

The murmurs died at once. For all of three heartbeats.

“I’m only saying,” one of the younger paladins whispered, badly enough that everyone could hear him, “if all six of the World Tree’s children are involved, maybe we should be more worried.”

Theron’s jaw tightened. That was the problem. The boy was right.

He wished, with sudden bitterness, that he did not know enough to be afraid. Ignorance would have been a mercy.

He stopped pacing and looked up at the mountain.

The upper slopes of Aurelis gleamed white in the distance, crowned by prayer towers and sacred groves. Wind moved through the terraces in soft, rustling waves. Bells chimed somewhere far above, thin and clear in the morning air.

Everything looked peaceful. Everything felt wrong.

Then space folded.

No thunderclap accompanied their arrival. No dramatic surge of magic. There was only a smooth and elegant distortion in the air before the gates, as though reality itself had politely stepped aside.

The High Elven Lords arrived in all their impossible majesty.

A hush fell over the gathered paladins so quickly and completely that Theron could hear the distant cry of a mountain hawk.

His heart lurched in his chest.

Excluding Lord Aethon, who waited for them at the summit, all of them were here.

Seralyth Yggdris, the First Priestess, Source of Sacred Rites.

She stood draped in layered robes of white and pearl, silver-gold hair spilling over one shoulder like poured moonlight. Her face held the serene composure of a woman who had buried empires and still remembered how to smile gently at frightened children.

Thalanor Yggdris, the First Druid, Warden of the Living World.

Tall and grave, with eyes the green of old forests after rain. Even standing still, he seemed to carry the scent of cedar bark, moss, and deep-rooted earth with him.

Vaelir Yggdris, the First Ranger, Walker between Light and Shadows.

Dark-haired, sharp-eyed, and visibly unimpressed by almost everything. He wore his elegance carelessly, like a man who had long ago grown tired of being beautiful and merely tolerated it now.

Ilyrien Yggdris, the First Mage, Architect of Spell and Law.

Cold brilliance sat on her like a second skin. Her robes shimmered with hidden runes, and the air around her felt precise, as if even stray motes of dust had to obey geometric principles in her presence.

Kaerthis Yggdris, the First Alchemist, Binder of Craft and Creation.

A bespectacled girl with a gentle and studious air, she wore softly colored robes embroidered with delicate alchemical sigils. She looked almost harmless, which only made Theron warier.

Theron took a slow breath, stepped forward, and bowed.

“Welcome to Mount Aurelis, honored Lords and Ladies.”

It took everything he had to keep his voice steady.

“We have been awaiting your arrival. Allow us to escort you to the summit.”

Lady Seralyth inclined her head with gracious warmth. “You are courteous as ever, Commander Luxvale.”

Lord Vaelir’s gaze flicked over the assembled paladins and their very obvious awe. “You do know half your men look one strong breeze away from fainting.”

One of the younger knights made a strangled noise. Theron ignored it with the desperation of a man trying to preserve military order through sheer force of denial. He turned to issue orders, then paused.

Something tugged at the edge of his awareness. There were two hooded figures standing behind the High Elven Lords.

He frowned. How had he missed them?

They were unremarkable in every possible way, clothed in plain travel cloaks and standing with the quiet passivity of attendants. Yet the very ordinariness of them struck Theron as unnatural. His paladins, dazzled by the presence of the High Lords, had not spared them a second glance.

But such magic could not fool Theron’s eyes. This was the work of an extremely high-level presence concealment spell.

The only question was… why would such exalted individuals need to hide anything?

Theron’s eyes narrowed. He let his senses sharpen, drawing upon years of discipline and divine training. He did not cast a full revelation prayer, only a careful, probing divination, subtle enough to pass for scrutiny and respectful enough not to count as open hostility.

His attention fixed first on the smaller figure.

A child, by shape and size. Dressed in black. Limp with sleep in the arms of the woman holding them.

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Theron reached with his senses. The concealment barely trembled, but the brief contact was enough.

His breath caught.

Cold horror flooded him so abruptly that his fingers went numb around the hilt of his sword.

It felt like sinking bare-handed into grave soil slick with rot. Like something blind and hungry writhing just beneath the skin of the world. Like a tomb cracked open after centuries and breathing into his face.

He drew his blade in one smooth motion. Behind him, the line of paladins jolted in alarm.

“Commander?”

“Commander, what are you doing?”

“My Lords and Ladies,” Theron said, forcing each word through a throat gone tight, “I must ask that you remove the concealment spell from that… child.”

Silence fell, as oppressive and heavy as cathedral stone.

The High Elven Lords stared at him impassively and Theron felt the weight of their attention pressing down on him like a mountain. His legs almost buckled under him, but Theron held firm.

Duty. Faith. Breathe.

Lady Ilyrien was the first to speak. Her cool gaze sharpened with visible annoyance.

“You saw through Kaerthis’s enchantment.”

Kaerthis blinked behind her glasses, then gave a small, almost apologetic smile.

“Only a little,” she corrected gently. “Though… um, I did work very hard on it, so that is a tiny bit discouraging.”

Lady Seralyth stepped forward before either of them could make things worse.

“Commander Luxvale,” she said gently, “this is not what it appears to be. The child, Seris, is under the influence of a malicious curse. It provokes extreme aversion and irrational hostility in those exposed to it. The concealment was for everyone’s protection.”

Her voice was soft enough to ease panic from a battlefield.

“We have brought the child here to be healed at the Font of Light. Please let us pass.”

For one dangerous moment, Theron almost believed her. Almost.

The pressure in his chest eased under the warmth of her presence, and doubt brushed against him. Was what he had felt simply the curse at work? Was he overreacting?

Then his training slammed back into place.

No, that was not it.

He was one of the Twelve Holy Sword Bearers and Guardian of the Holy Sanctuary. He had spent decades hardening his mind against possession, glamour, madness, seduction, despair, and every variation of spiritual assault the world could produce.

A curse might trouble him, but it should not have made every instinct in his soul scream for extermination.

He straightened.

“My lady,” he said with measured dignity, “the Church of Light holds the sanctity of the mind above all else. We train from childhood to resist corruption of thought and spirit.”

His gaze did not leave the cloaked child.