Ignatius-Valdis [Heaven’s Curse, #0]: Chapter 8

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Gothalia hit the ground with a heavy thud. She glanced back toward the distant circle of light far above, her brow arching as she gauged the sheer height of the fall. Though she knew her bones and muscles were prepared for such a drop, the scale of it still felt imposing in the heavy dark. Shaking off the impact, she turned her focus away from the light and toward the corridor that stretched deep into the earth.

Her vision sharpened as the darkness settled, her eyes cutting through the gloom to sweep the walls behind and around her. She hunted for a hidden fracture in the stone, a second exit, or a lurking threat, but the reality soon set in: there was only one way in, and only one way out. Her lips thinned into a hard, grim line as she measured the cramped space against the length of her blade. The corridor was a choke point—much too narrow for the reach she needed.

Anton and Leviathan touched down behind her with a heavy resonance. Without looking back, Gothalia set a relentless pace, her eyes cutting through the gloom to chart the path ahead.

“It’s dark,” Anton muttered, his voice flat and unsurprised as it rippled through the stagnant cave air. Gothalia frowned; Anton’s sight was as keen as her own in the blackness, making the observation feel like wasted breath. If the creature stalking these tunnels shared even a fraction of their nature, it wouldn’t need to see them—it would have caught the scent of his words long before it heard his footsteps.

“Hold on,” Leviathan asserted, his voice cutting through the heavy gloom. A sudden spark ignited, and fire blossomed in the dark, casting long, jagged shadows against the cave walls that even their keen eyes hadn’t fully pierced. Gothalia came to a halt, glancing back over her shoulder at the flickering warmth. She watched the small, rhythmic flame as it hovered steadily within his open palm, its orange light dancing in the reflection of her eyes.

“You’re a fire utiliser?” Anton asked, confused.

“He’s the Crown Prince,” Gothalia remarked. “Of course, he is.” Leviathan surged past Gothalia, his silhouette cutting a path through the cavern as he led them deeper into the earth’s cold embrace. Anxiety and fear churned like a slow-moving tide within Gothalia and Anton, a heavy weight that mirrored the press of the stone walls. Anticipation crawled along their skin, a prickling heat that flared every time their eyes darted to the jagged shadows just beyond the firelight. In the silence, their minds began to unravel, spinning the dark into the worst possible scenarios.

“Keep an eye out for any unusual fungi or fauna. It’s becoming damp.” Leviathan came to a halt, reaching into the depths of his pockets to produce three strips of heavy cloth. He handed one to Gothalia and another to Anton, who offered a sharp nod of understanding. Without a word, they moved in unison, pulling the fabric over their noses and mouths and securing the knots tightly behind their heads. With their breaths muffled and their faces masked, they resumed their steady march into the gloom.

After a few minutes of walking, everyone entered an even larger cavern. “Max!” Anton called, and silence greeted him, his voice echoing in return.

“Shh!” Leviathan hushed, hurriedly causing Anton to regard him with a raised brow. “We don’t know how many more of those things are down here.”

“It doesn’t matter. They’d already know we’re here,” Gothalia replied. They were far from silent. Gothalia knew that if the things in the dark were anything like her and Anton—a possibility that felt more certain with every step—they wouldn’t even need to see them. The creatures would have tracked them from the moment they crossed the threshold, listening to the frantic rhythm of their hearts and the heavy pull of their lungs. In the stagnant air of the cave, the sharp, salt scent of their sweat would be a beacon, guiding the monster straight to its prey.

“How?” Leviathan asked, confused.

“Did you see his eyes?” Anton asked. “Those red eyes are only common to Deamone and its . . . variations.”

After a thoughtful pause, Leviathan led the way deeper into the cave, following the downward slope of the earth.

“It never ends,” Gothalia noted. Then she froze. Her senses caught the sharp tang of fresh water a moment before the murmur of the stream drifted up to them. “Anton.”

“Yeah, I hear it.”

“What is it?” Leviathan asked.

“There’s water not too far from here.” Anton answered. “Let’s get Max and get out of here. And we need to find that flag. If we’re lucky we can do both without much trouble.”

Gothalia let his words hang in the stagnant air, offering no reply as she pressed deeper into the yawning chasm. She moved with a grim, singular purpose until the shadows began to take a definitive, gruesome shape. Anton and Leviathan surged to her side, their boots clicking against the stone. “We’re getting closer,” she murmured.

Her gaze narrowed on a carpet of splintered bone and the slick, grey shimmer of decaying meat. The stench was a physical blow; her heightened senses, matched only by Anton’s, couldn't filter out the rot. Beside her, Anton buckled, a sharp, involuntary cough racking his chest. Gothalia didn't blame him. Even Leviathan, whose senses were less acute, visibly bristled at the odor, though he seemed determined to endure it through sheer force of will.

Wrinkling her nose in primal disgust, Gothalia began to navigate the macabre landscape. She picked her way through a sea of ribs and gristle, ignoring the skittering of rats and the wet, rhythmic churning of maggots within the piles. She moved with agonizing precision, careful not to let her boots snag on a bloated corpse—knowing all too well that one misplaced step would rupture the flesh and unleash a fresh, suffocating wave of the abyss.

“You hear that?” Gothalia asked Anton.

He paused beside her. “I do. It sounds like a voice.”

“What voice?” Leviathan asked, glancing over his shoulder regarding them, with a small flame in his hand. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t,” Anton remarked, not coldly. “You’re not a Deamone.”

A few more minutes of trekking through the gloom brought Gothalia and Anton to a sudden, jarring halt. The distant, indistinct noise they had been tracking abruptly sharpened, cutting through the silence with jagged clarity. “Someone’s in pain!” Gothalia cried, her voice echoing off the damp stone as she surged forward.

Anton was a shadow at her heels as she sprinted down the corridor, her preternatural sight mapping the uneven ground far beyond the reach of Leviathan’s flickering flame. As they ran, the sound swelled into a deafening cacophony, spilling them out into a vast, open chasm. There, the air was thick with the raw, unmistakable screams of Maximus—intertwined with a woman’s piercing shriek that turned Leviathan’s blood ice cold.

A streak of fire split the darkness as a blazing arrow hissed across the chasm, its amber light illuminating the jagged walls and the nightmare below. The projectile struck with a dull thud, drawing a guttural snarl from the beast. It wrenched its teeth from Maximus’s shoulder, a dark spray of crimson following the movement as its blood-red eyes locked onto the ledge where Leviathan, Gothalia, and Anton stood.

With terrifying fluidity, the monster abandoned its prey and surged toward the cliffside. “Max!” Gothalia and Anton’s twin shouts shattered the air, the sound cascading down the stone face. Below, sprawled atop a jagged, suffocating bed of dried bone, Maximus drifted back to consciousness, his glazed eyes fixed on the silhouettes of his companions high above.

Gothalia and Leviathan watched from the ledge as a hail of arrows and bullets hissed across the chasm, unleashed by a group of shadowed figures on the opposite side. The projectiles bit into the silver-skinned beast, but it barely flinched, its crimson eyes burning with a predatory fever as it lunged toward its new attackers. In the chaos, a man slipped through the shadows, a silent ghost circling the monster to reach the woman collapsed on the floor.

The creature’s maw was a jagged smear of Maximus’s freshly spilled blood. As the metallic tang of it drifted upward, mixing with the stale rot of the pit, a primal fury ignited in the pits of Gothalia’s and Anton’s stomachs. They recognized that scent—Maximus’s life force, now mingled with the blood of another, staining the monster’s silver hide in a gruesome, taunting display.

The woman dragged herself across the jagged earth, a desperate, clawing motion that only ended when the man reached her and heaved her upright. Watching from the ledge, Gothalia’s eyes caught on the raw, weeping gashes at the woman's arm and thigh before her focus snapped back to Maximus. He remained collapsed among the bleached bones, one hand white-knuckled over a mangled shoulder as he fought the agony just to stand.

Seeing their window as the fresh recruits drew the beast’s ire, Gothalia, Anton, and Leviathan stepped off the ledge. They dropped through the shadows, hitting the floor of the deep cave bowl with a heavy, synchronized thud that rattled their teeth and echoed off the stone.

They froze, eyes locked on the silver-skinned nightmare, bracing for it to whip around at the sound of their impact. But the monster remained fixated on its prey; it didn't even flinch. Instead, it launched itself across the cavern, a silver blur hurtling toward the figures at the opposite end of the cave.

Both Gothalia and Anton ran towards Maximus while Leviathan pointed his arrow at the back of the monster as it attacked. Gothalia and Anton pulled Maximus from the bones that stabbed into his exposed flesh and crunched beneath each movement. Maximus groaned in pain while Gothalia hushed him as they pulled him to his feet and away from the monster.

Leviathan kept his gaze locked on the silver-skinned nightmare, his posture rigid as he tracked its every lethal twitch. Nearby, a dark pool of crimson began to spread beneath Maximus, his features twisted into a mask of raw agony. Gothalia’s lips thinned into a grimace; even without the phantom pull of their link, the sheer depth of the wound was written in the way he buckled.

Her eyes lingered on the wet, shimmering heat of the blood soaking his chest—a momentary lapse that cost her everything.

In a blur of silver and motion, a cold, iron-like hand clamped around her throat. The world tilted as she was hoisted upward and slammed into the jagged cave wall. The stone stung her chest and face, a sharp, biting cold that stole the air from her lungs. She gasped, a jagged sound of pure fright, as the darkness pressed back against her.

Anton and Maximus’s frantic shouts of her name were nothing but a distorted blur of sound, their voices drowned out by the sudden, violent roar of the impact. The monster had moved with a speed that defied the heavy air, slamming Gothalia into the cave wall with such force that the stone spiderwebbed into a shallow crater around her.

To Gothalia, the world narrowed to a high-pitched ring of white noise. She strained to look over her shoulder, her vision swimming as she locked onto the twin pools of crimson burning just inches from her face. The creature’s grip on her throat tightened, a cold and suffocating pressure, before it seized her head and drove it back into the fractured stone with a sickening crack.

“Let her go!”

The growl ripped from Leviathan’s throat, low and dangerous. His jaw set with a sudden, lethal determination as he drew an arrow back to its limit, the tension of the bowstring singing in the silence of the chasm.

The monster’s grip loosened on her head before gripping the back of her throat tighter. Immediately, Leviathan fired his arrow. Easily, the monster cut it in half with its claws, dropping Gothalia. Its deadly eyes were filled with sudden anger as it locked onto Leviathan.

Leviathan fired another arrow when the monster walked towards him slowly, closing the distance. “Why are you only firing arrows? Burn him!” Anton growled, watching as the monster strode past him and Maximus and to Leviathan, completely ignoring them. Gothalia crouched on the bones and turned around, watching Leviathan fire another arrow. Easily the monster cut it. “I can’t,” he replied, avoiding the monster’s claws in time.

“What do you mean you can’t?” Anton’s voice cracked, a frantic shout that barely rose above the rhythmic clash of the monster’s assault on Leviathan.

Through the shifting chaos of the battle, Gothalia stirred, her consciousness returning in jagged fragments. She dragged herself upward, fingers clawing at the cold stone as she fought to find her footing against the pull of the abyss. Anton’s voice reached her—a distant, desperate anchor—as she leaned heavily into the rock, seeking a momentary reprieve from the world’s tilting.

Every breath was a jagged struggle; her chest, throat, and face felt as though they were being seared by a localized sun, while a dull, rhythmic throb pulsed through her skull like a funeral drum.

Ignoring the fire in his own lungs, Anton hauled Maximus toward her, his arm hooked firmly around the larger man’s shoulder to keep him from collapsing into the sea of bone.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, worried.

Gothalia rubbed the back of her throat. “Better,” she remarked, clearing her throat. Alarmed, Gothalia regarded the expression marring Maximus’s clammy skin, then took in his sudden rapid breathing and his exhausted expression. “Anton, we need to stop the bleeding. Now!” Panic filled them and quickly Anton set Maximus on a flat piece of stone after they moved away the bones. She contemplated how long they’d been gone without taking notice of how badly wounded he was and why they hadn’t done something sooner. Until she realised they would have, if it weren’t for that monster.

Gothalia’s gaze flickered toward the blur of silver and fire where Leviathan held the line, before she reached up and ripped the heavy cloth from her own face. “Give me yours," she demanded, her voice a ragged rasp as she turned to Anton.

Without waiting for an answer, she took both strips and pressed them firmly against the jagged ruin of Maximus’s shoulder. The pressure brought a flicker of relief to his contorted features, but the reprieve was hollow; they all knew the makeshift bandages would soon be overwhelmed.

Yet, a cold realization began to gnaw at the edges of Gothalia’s pain. Why was Maximus still here? If the monster followed the rules of the others they had faced, he should have vanished into the ether the moment his blood hit the stone. Her mind raced, a frantic search for logic in the gloom. She watched the other recruits across the chasm—they were battered and bleeding, their injuries grounded in a stark, physical reality that mirrored Maximus’s own. Suddenly, a memory surfaced through the haze of her concussion: the recruits on the jungle hill. The pieces were beginning to shift into a terrifying new shape.

“Anton,” Gothalia muttered. Her eyes trained on the recruits. Blood pooled from their injured and unconscious forms. Gothalia was certain that those in the jungle had all suffered the same fate, even if they disappeared. “Their injuries.”

“I noticed that too,” he grimaced.

“Prince Leviathan!” Gothalia called, while he avoided the monster’s attacks. “If you get harmed by that thing you’ll be severely injured like Max and the others.”

Leviathan took in Gothalia’s words with a grim look, his attention narrowing on the monster. The creature regarded him coolly, then dissolved into motion, reappearing behind him before the air could even settle. Anton was there to meet it, his arms locked in a desperate block—a feat of speed Gothalia barely registered before she forced her eyes back to the fallen Maximus.

The monster glared at Anton before he heard the gasps and smelt the tears of a nearby recruit, that the monster had harmed when he’d taken Maximus.

* * *

Returning to Dragon Core, Danteus and his companions moved in a shared, quiet headspace, each of them preoccupied with thoughts of the Princess. The spell broke when a dark-haired figure stepped into their path, flanked by a Centurion. Demetria Cystallovis stood before them, dressed down in Excelian silks, a sharp contrast to her guard. “There you guys are,” she said, her voice cutting through their reverie.

“What are you doing here?” Altair asked, confused. “You’re not a Centurion. You don’t have any clearance.”

“Obviously, I’m running an errand for my mother,” Demetria said. She smoothed the silver-blue silk of her snowflake-patterned overdress, the loose sleeves contrasting with the dark, practical layers beneath. On the polished black marble, her boots struck a steady beat alongside the Centurion’s. Demetria cut a look toward the blonde-haired Centurion. “That’s why Gemma is here.”

“You should know better than to address Sar Lady Cystallovis with such familiarity Deamone,” Gemma declared, her green eyes narrowed on his dark eyes and Altair glared at the woman in return.

“That’s enough, Gemma,” Demetria said, her posture softening. “I need to head back before my father starts to worry.” She swept past them, catching Asashin’s eye with a quick, playful wink before disappearing down the hall. Asashin watched her go, a single brow arched in silent amusement.

Silence ensued the hall. Until, “That was so for you,” Altair remarked, elbowing Asashin, who brushed his arm away.

“We need to see Argos.” Asashin remarked and walked ahead.

“Obviously.” Danteus remarked, bored and followed.

Altair watched him and strode beside Danteus after Asashin. “What jealous, you’re not the one receiving Ser Lady Demetria’s attention?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Danteus muttered. “She’s not my type.”

“Uh-huh… sure, whatever you say,” Altair replied, his voice trailing off as he dismissed the statement with a skeptical look. They walked in silence for another ten minutes, navigating the corridors until they reached Major General Argos Ambrosia’s door. They pushed inside without a second thought, their eyes instantly finding Marquis in the lower level where he stood waiting.

Marquis queried glancing at his digital clipboard, “Successful mission, I presume?”

“How else would we be alive?” Danteus remarked, tapping the top of the clipboard in Marquis’s hands, who scowled at the arrogance complementing the action. Danteus smirked at his reaction before striding past him and up the stairs towards Argos’s office where everyone heard:

“Marq!” Argos demanded.

Asashin glanced at the poor man before he rushed up to the top of the stairs passing Danteus in the process. Danteus raised a brow and glanced at Asashin and Altair at the base of the stairs. “You two aren’t going to just stand there are you?”

“Not forever no,” Altair remarked, climbing the stairs with Asashin behind him.

Reaching the upper level, Danteus looked out over the floor below. He knew the reinforced glass only covered the open spaces—the windows and the loggia—to shield the Major General from distant projectiles. Yet, he also knew a determined assassin could bypass the wards entirely by scaling the balcony from the courtyard.

“What took you three so long?” Argos growled. The men instantly snapped to attention, hands over their hearts in a crisp bow before standing with their arms locked behind their backs. Argos’s eyes narrowed. “You were supposed to be back hours ago. What did you do? Stop for a picnic?”

“As if,” Altair muttered. Danteus glared at him.

“Normal soldiers don’t back chat their superiors let alone take their time.” Argos remarked, his eyes on the second lieutenant. “So why the delay?”

A thick silence filled the room until Danteus realized his companions were waiting for him to lead. He felt a flicker of annoyance; he wasn’t officially in charge, yet the burden of the report always landed on his shoulders.

“There was a fire, sir,” he finally said.

Argos didn't look satisfied, gesturing for him to get to the point and said, “Vised.”

Danteus continued, “We saw smoke from the road and moved to it. We found . . .” He let the sentence hang. The image of the woman flashed in his mind. Princess. Should he say it, or keep her identity a secret for now?

“Princess Evangelina Romuli-Drausus of the Northern Earth Reserve, I know.” Argos added placing his elbows on the table, resting his chin on the back of his hands. An unreadable expression masked Argos’s features when he declared. “Go on.”

“We found Princess Evangelina, but we didn’t know it was her until we pulled her from the fire and the child she had, before escorting them to the Fire Reserve then to the King and Queen.” Danteus finished. A thoughtful look flickered across Argos’s expression for a moment before disappearing. Missed by none of the men opposite him.

“Did you at least eliminate the Chenoo as expected? The farmers and merchants had trouble with trade because of the weather they produced.” Argos added.

“We did.” Altair said.

“Good. Not only the famers and the merchants will be happy with your success but the Colonial Lord as well. “You are dismissed,” Argos mentioned.

Altair and Asashin turned to leave before Danteus paused. “Excuse me sir but . . .” Argos regarded him from his holographic computer and didn’t say anything, but Danteus knew he had permission to speak. “What’s . . . Midnight Eclipse?”

Argos watched him for a moment then asked. “Where did you hear that?”

“The Chenoo . . . It uttered those words before it disintegrated.”

Argos watched Danteus carefully. “That is the last time you mention that to you anyone in this building. You do not have the clearance for that.”

“Then who does?” Danteus asked.

“I’m not at liberty to say.” Argos returned to his computer and Danteus bowed with hand over his heart before exiting the room. Asashin and Altair waited for him at the end of the stairs.

“What took you so long?” Altair asked, annoyed. “Surely Argos can’t keep up a decent conversation to make you stay that long? He’s normally ordering. Did he give you a secret mission or something?”

Danteus raised a brow. “No, just asked him a question but he didn’t want to answer it.”

“Figured.” Asashin added. “He’s always evasive but he probably has his reasons.”

“The question is why?” Danteus muttered.

* * *

Princess Evangelina Romuli-Drausus stared at the spread on the small table. Her grip tightened around the warm tea, her knuckles pale as her mind drifted elsewhere. In the amber glow of the torches lining the room, a frown creased her features, her brow furrowing with every passing thought. Finally, she let out a long sigh and her tension ebbed. “I don’t know why they think I can stomach anything right now,” she murmured, her gaze narrowing at the untouched meal. The very thought of eating made her stomach turn.

Evangelina took a slow sip of the lavender tea, certain the Queen had ordered it spiked with something to steady her frayed nerves. The warmth offered a fleeting comfort, yet the tension returned the moment her mind drifted back to her home, the brothers she’d left behind, and the shadows of those who had secured her flight. A cold knot tightened in her stomach at the memory; she had barely made it out alive.

A knock on the door permeated the silent room catching her attention. “Enter,” she voiced more confidently than she felt. The door opened. A man cladded in the uniform of the Grand Elders bowed with a hand over his heart before entering the room with another man at his heel.

“Forgive me your highness for the intrusion but I’m here at the request of Grand Elder Michalis.” The man declared and straightened.

Evangelina observed him carefully, before asking, “And you are?” After, she asked those words, her eyes lingered on the blond-haired man cladded in the Centurion non-combat uniform then to the rank on his chest and his family crest.

“Serban Aetós your highness. From the main house of Aetós.” Serban declared. Then he gestured to the man beside him. “This is General Dracon-Ignatius from the second house of Ignatius.”

General Dracon-Ignatius bowed before he greeted, “But call me Goran, Princess.”

Evangelina regarded his warm golden eyes and observed him critically before asking, “Not to sound ungrateful but why is a General here? Don’t you have more pressing matters to tend to then a runaway Princess?” Serban and Goran shared a look.