บท 88: Liora - Chapter One
"You understand the terms, yes?" His voice danced around the corners of the booth, playful yet insistent. "Simple services rendered for simple payment. Quite the straightforward exchange, my dear, not a challenge at all."
I nodded, keeping my expression carefully neutral. "The terms are clear, but the outcome remains to be seen. What guarantees do I have that you'll hold up your end of the bargain?"
"Guarantees, oh how delightfully mundane! My dear, the world spins on promises and shadows. I assure you, my shadows are the most binding of all." He chuckled, a sound that seemed to echo slightly more than it should in the enclosed space.
I leaned forward, my voice low and steady. "This isn't a game. We're dealing with a man that doesn't care for human constraints or your... poetic notions. I need something concrete."
"Concrete, yes, quite the human obsession. Very well, my word is as solid as the stones of this fine establishment." He swept his hand around, encompassing the old pub. "Upon completion of the services, you shall receive what was promised—power unimagined, knowledge unfathomed."
"And if I refuse?" I asked, though the path to refusal had long since narrowed almost to nonexistence. I knew the risks, knew the weight of the decision. Yet, hearing it spoken aloud, the gravity of the pact seemed all the more binding.
"Refuse? Oh, a whimsical thought! Like a leaf refusing the wind." His eyes twinkled with mischief. "No, my dear, you are far too deep in the game to walk away now. We both know you crave the outcome as much as I enjoy orchestrating it."
I sighed, the weight of inevitability settling over me. This man, this entity, held cards I couldn't see, playing a game whose rules were known only to him.
"Fine," I said, pushing back my chair slightly. "But remember, your shadows aren't the only ones that bind. There are greater darknesses than yours, and they don't take kindly to broken promises."
"Ah, threats wrapped in velvet! Delightful!" He clapped his hands softly, the sound sharp in the quiet pub. "Fear not, Liora, for your diligence will be rewarded in ways you can hardly imagine. Now, off you go. Threads of fate await your skilled tailoring."
God, he is such a fool. As I walked away from the murky dealings in the pub, my thoughts inevitably drifted back to Felix. His presence had always been a whirlwind of chaos and brilliance, drawing in those around him like moths to a flame. Despite everything, a part of me was still helplessly drawn to that flame.
There was a time when Felix and I were inseparable, exploring the arcane arts together, challenging each other to push beyond the boundaries of conventional magic. Our romance was intense, fueled by the thrill of discovery and the heat of shared battles. But as with all things involving Felix, it burned too hot, too fast.
He was a man of extremes—capable of profound kindness and shocking ruthlessness. I had seen him save lives with a flick of his wrist and destroy monsters that no one else dared confront. Yet, there was always a cost, a reckoning that seemed to follow him like a shadow. His ambition, his need to prove himself the greatest among the mystics, often led him down paths I couldn't follow. Paths that cost more than I was willing to pay.
Yet, despite all his power and all his artifacts, Felix remained deeply human, plagued by a god-complex that was both his armor and his Achilles' heel. He believed he could shoulder the burdens of the world alone, that he alone could make the hard choices that others shied away from. It was this belief that had drawn me to him once, and the same belief that eventually drove a wedge between us.
Now, as I stepped out into the chilly night air, the reality of our impending reunion weighed heavily on me. The Felix I would face was not the same man I had fallen in love with. He was harder, more jaded, and wrapped in layers of magic and mystery so dense it might be impossible to find the real him beneath.
But one thing hadn't changed—his foolhardiness. He was still the same reckless, brilliant fool who believed he could bend the world to his will. And as much as it pained me to admit, part of me still loved that fool. Still believed in him, despite everything.
Nestled deep within the rolling green hills of County Meath, Ireland, near the ancient site of Tara, lay a secluded enclave known to few outside the esoteric circles of druidry. This was the hidden sanctum of a druid cult, the Keepers of the Old Lore, guardians of ancient wisdoms and rituals that had been passed down since the times when pagan chants filled the air of the Emerald Isle.
Under the cover of a stormy night, with the winds howling like the ancient Celtic warriors of old, I approached the enclave. My heart was set, my resolve cold and hard as the rain that pelted against my cloak. The druids, for all their mystical prowess, would not see me coming; I had cloaked my approach with spells of obfuscation, a necessary darkness for what needed to be done.
The enclave was a collection of stone cottages, thatched with straw and surrounded by a ring of standing stones, silent sentinels in the night. As I breached the boundary, the air tingled with the raw energy of the earth, a power these druids tapped into but could not protect them from what I brought upon them.
I unleashed a fury born of necessity, not malice. Arcane energies crackled from my fingertips, sorcery mingled with the harsh winds, tearing through the cottages. Druids, caught unawares, fell before they could muster their defenses. I was a storm, relentless and all-consuming, leaving only silence in my wake.
In the heart of the enclave, amid the chaos of collapsed stone and smoldering thatch, I found him—the eldest, most frail druid. He was hunched over ancient tomes in the central hall, his hands trembling not from age but from the raw surge of ambient magic that his brethren had failed to harness against me.
"Stand," I commanded, my voice cutting through the din of the storm outside.
His eyes, wide with a mix of fear and defiance, met mine, and he understood the gravity of his situation. With a weary sigh, he rose, leaning heavily on a gnarled wooden staff that seemed as ancient as he was.
Without a word, I bound his will to mine, an ethereal chain forged from necessity. He was to be my guide, my key to connecting the old gate at Stonehenge to Felix's otherworld. The journey to England was swift; I used pathways known only to those who walked the shadows between worlds, dragging the elder druid across realms and through time-thinned veils.
Stonehenge awaited us, its monolithic stones shrouded in the pre-dawn light, a silhouette of ancient power against the slowly brightening sky. The stones, gates to all other realities, were the perfect nexus for what I needed.
At the center of the stone circle, I forced the druid to his knees, his frail body a stark contrast to the enduring might of the megaliths. I showed him a diagram for the key to Felix's realm. With hands that trembled with both age and fear, he began the incantations, his voice a whisper that grew in power, resonating with the stones around us.
The air shimmered, reality bending and warping as the old gate was activated. The connection to Felix's otherworld was established, a bridge across the chasms of space and spirit, anchored by the druid's will and my unyielding intent.
When it was done, the elder druid collapsed, his energy spent. I looked down at him, a tool worn by use, discarded now that his purpose was fulfilled. Stonehenge stood silent once more, its power humming through the air, a portal hidden in plain sight.
"Rest now," I whispered to the druid, not unkindly. "Your part in this is over."
I snuffed out his lingering ember of life.
Turning away, I stepped through the portal, the stones of Stonehenge guarding my departure as I moved to rejoin Felix in a world that bridged myth and reality.
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