The eighth pillar, finally summoned by the carriage-sized device, synchronized with the seven other pillars, simultaneously manifesting a giant octagonal wall that closed into a dome, thoroughly enclosing the domain.

  Just looking at it, he could not help but feel it had been the right decision to rely on this product of Technomagia, one built by the creator of the art themself, not an attempted replication like those the people of the Citadel were pursuing. This device was capable of casting a nearly unbreakable prison or barrier, so long as the energy source powering it was not depleted.

  “This can practically replace an ancestral tree,” he could not help but note.

  No one would be able to escape from this place without the means to outperform the combined energy of these eight devices. There were only a handful of people in the land of men capable of that.

  “Messiah,” a voice called, its owner teleporting right beside him. “The barrier has been summoned. The hostilities have begun.”

  Looking past the masked Claudiu toward the Citadel, which in the middle of the night was experiencing bright flashes, bursts of lightning, and columns of fire, all suggesting a battle was underway, he nodded and asked, “A counterattack already. That was fast. Who is it?”

  “The Archmagister of Defense and the Second Magister of the Vault,” Claudiu reported.

  “Him? I did not expect him to join the fray.”

  “He has. Aurel and the angels are facing them.”

  “I see. Let’s get moving.”

  Putting on his blank mask, just as the others had theirs on, the Messiah gave a nod to the troops he was with. Two of the five closed in to follow him, while the remaining ones stayed behind to protect the barrier-manifesting machine.

  Under Aurel, a circular perimeter manifested around them. The next instant, everything changed. A moment before, they had been on the grassy plain surrounding the Citadel. Now they stood at its center, on a grassy courtyard filled with intense noise, screams, booms, and sizzling bursts of energy.

  From a distance it had already seemed intense, but from here it was on another level. Panicked and injured people ran and screamed. Buildings surrounding the courtyard were under attack, strikes coming from within, from outside, and from above. Winged figures flew overhead, unleashing destruction and targeting a particular group of people who, upon noticing their arrival, charged with killing intent.

  “Halt!” one of them shouted bravely as they rushed forward. Foolish. They had clearly been taking refuge from the carnage, and when their eyes met his, they should have seized the opportunity to flee. Instead, they charged.

  In that very moment, a winged figure crashed into them like a missile, tearing limbs from bodies.

  A shame, he thought.

  It was a grotesque sight, such a display unbecoming of what the winged creature appeared to be, an angel. At that moment, they looked more demonic than anything else.

  “As expected, they are very effective,” Aurel commented.

  —

  [Project MC-AA-12 Interface]

  Name:Race:Model:Title:

  [Status]

  M.A:V.D.F:

  —

  “Of course they are,” he replied calmly. “They are one of the overlords’ latest masterpieces. Only the gods know how much blood was drained to achieve that level of perfection in a mechanical construct.”

  His attention drifted from the slaughter below to the place within the Citadel that interested him most. Not that it just came into view. It had always been there, impossible to ignore. An imposing ivory tower rising above the rest.

  Something crashed against its side with a thunderous boom before plummeting to the ground.

  At first, seeing the wings, he assumed it was one of his angels. But he quickly noticed the difference. The iridescent wings were bloodstained—stained with his own blood, drawn from his own flesh. It was obvious: he was entirely organic. No metallic ribs or skull. No exposed mechanical framework beneath the skin.

  His angels did not hide what they were. From the throat down, their bodies were constructed from refined metal components, seamlessly integrated yet unmistakably artificial.

  This one bled.

  He recognized him at once.

  “The Second Leader of the Vault. Magister Luke.”

  Luke rose to his feet, battered and drenched in blood. Despite his condition, he reacted swiftly. The moment he spotted them among the attackers, he began conjuring an attack.

  He never released it.

  Two figures descended upon him. One was an angel. The other wore a technomagically engineered suit that gave him a rigid, almost robotical silhouette. Out of place in Fiendfell, yet undeniably human beneath the mask.

  “Do not kill him,” the Messiah ordered with a slight motion of his hand.

  The two immediately ceased their assault. They lifted Luke and secured his arms with specialized cuffs that severed access to active skill invocation.

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  “It is an honor to finally meet you, Magister.”

  Luke raised his head weakly. His bloodshot eyes glared with unfiltered hatred. “Am I supposed to know who you are?” he spat.

  “Not particularly,” the Messiah admitted. “I am not as well known as you.”

  Former scholar of the W?hppr Faith. Branded a traitor for abandoning the order and aligning himself with Queen Arianna. Until recently, the Messiah had assumed Luke to be a certain kind of man. A coward who would reasonably put his safety first.

  Now, staring into those furious eyes, he realized he had misjudged him. Whatever else Luke was, he was not a coward. He could have stayed in his tower. He could have fled.

  Instead, he fought.

  “You… What do you want?” Luke demanded. “Why are you attacking the Citadel?”

  “I want three things,” the Messiah answered evenly. “All of them are here.”

  He pointed toward the ebony tower.

  ***

  The doors of the ebony tower were sealed tight.

  It did not matter.

  With minimal effort, they blasted through the reinforced metal entrance. Immediately, they were met by a wave of veiled women dressed in half armor, moving with absolute killing intent.

  The outcome was predictable.

  They had come prepared to confront proto-monarch-level threats. These underleveled defenders could not stall their advance. The Messiah’s angels and the Children of Grace carved through them like blades through layered butter.

  One strike. Two at most.

  And yet they bravely kept coming. No. Actually, bravely was not the right word. Bravery required fear. There was none. Not in their posture. Not in their movements. Not even in hesitation before death.

  Their veils concealed their expressions, but the absence of self preservation was unmistakable.

  The sight unsettled him.

  He understood how elves functioned. More precisely, how elves bound to a Patriarch or Monarch functioned. Their long lives existed to serve their sovereign. To short lived races, that devotion looked like waste.

  But after living as he had, bound to a singular purpose, he could not wholly condemn it.

  The difference was simple. He possessed a means to undo death. They did not.

  Soon the defenders lay still, and the group advanced deeper into the tower. They reached a chamber leading to the upper floors.

  The Messiah turned slightly toward his captive.

  “Magister. Where is the Elven Queen Theta?”

  Luke answered with a scornful glare.

  One of the Messiah’s men tightened his grip, ready to force the answer out of him. The Messiah raised a hand, stopping him. There was no need for this.

  Footsteps echoed from the grand staircase. Descending calmly was someone Luke immediately recognized.

  “Eric?” Luke shouted hoarsely. “What are you doing here? I told you to seek shel—” He stopped mid sentence. Most likely he noticed.

  The young man’s face was serene. Too serene. He stood before the bloodstained attackers without fear. Without shock or even fear, if anything he seemed highly expectant.

  Understanding dawned.

  “You…”

  “Where is the Elven Queen?” the Messiah asked, looking at the young man who inhabited Eric’s body.

  “She’s—”

  “Eric, you damn traitor!” Luke snarled. “Ungrateful nobody. I gave you opportunity and this is how you repay me—”

  A gesture silenced him.

  Christopher turned his gaze to the Messiah.

  “It is true that the Elven Queen resides within this tower,” he explained calmly. “But she never uses the upper floors. Even when the attack began, I did not see her ascend. She is most likely…”

  “Down here,” the Messiah guessed. He turned to his followers. “Search this floor.”

  They scattered efficiently.

  Minutes later, one of them called out. Behind an unassuming door, hidden within the interior structure, they found a staircase.

  Leading downward. Unusual for a tower. But entirely consistent with what they had been told.

  Just like above, they were met with opposition from the veiled elves. These were just as stubborn as the ones before, yet significantly stronger. Their coordination was tighter, their strikes sharper, their magic more refined. Watching them fight, he could not help but feel a twinge of regret. Given time, he would have preferred to handle them differently. Bodies like theirs were precious. Many souls currently trapped in suffering in that place would dream of reincarnating into forms such as these, to live the long and vibrant lives the elves discarded so readily.

  But time was against them. There would be no careful harvesting these vessels today.

  The mechanical archangels moved forward, their trump card unleashed without hesitation. Steel wings tore through enchanted defenses. Blades flashed. Magic shattered against reinforced frames. Rank after rank fell beneath their advance.

  Soon, they stood before a large door.

  At his signal, the two leading the charge pushed it open while he, Aurel, the restrained Magister Luke, and Christopher remained several steps behind. He expected an immediate reaction. An ambush. A defensive spell detonating the moment the seal broke.

  Nothing happened.

  One of his comrades, Tran, entered first and scanned the interior, then confirmed, “it is safe.”

  They proceeded.

  The first thing they noticed was the temperature.

  Blue.

  The entire chamber was blue. From the icy staircase they descended to the ceiling crowded with stalactites, from the stalagmite-filled floor to the walls crusted with clustered frost, everything was carved from solid ice, formed and sustained by cold so oppressive, it bit through armors, clothes and even elemental resistances.

  Claudiu stepped off the stairs and onto the only portion of the floor spared from jagged formations. It was smooth, polished, reflective like a vast frozen rink. At its center stood an altar.

  An empty altar.

  “This place…” Claudiu muttered, his breath misting in the air. “…this has to be it. The cold. The enclosed chamber. The altar. This is the room, right?”

  “Yes,” the Messiah replied with a nod. “The description matched perfectly. But if this is the place, then where is it?”

  The object they had come for was not there.

  Has it been moved? If so, where?

  “You are certain they never went to the upper floors?” he asked Christopher.

  “Yes, Messiah,” Christopher answered without hesitation. “I guarded the first floor from the early minutes of your assault.”

  He studied Luke briefly, considering whether to question him, but quickly dismissed the thought. The man’s confusion was genuine. He had never known of this chamber.

  Which left two pressing questions. Where was the artifact? And where were the Elven Queen and the other elf they had heard about?

  He was still turning these possibilities over when footsteps echoed down the staircase.

  A figure emerged clad in knightly armor, smeared with blood and soot. The image was rough, almost savage, made worse by what he carried in his hand. A severed head.

  Magister Luke stiffened at the sight.

  “Louis…”

  The armored figure taunted the Magister with the head of his fellow Magister.

  The Messiah not expecting his arrival asked, “Aurel. What are you doing here?”

  He stopped what he was doing and reported, “I completed my task. The Citadel is under our control, so I thought I might assist here. It seems I left my post for nothing.” His gaze swept across the frozen chamber. “This is the place, correct?”

  The Messiah nodded.

  “Where are they? Where are th—”

  Aurel stopped mid sentence.

  “Aurel?” Claudiu asked.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Can you not see it?” Aurel replied quietly.

  They followed his gaze toward a corner of the chamber. At first glance, it appeared no different from any other section of the ice covered wall.

  Aurel narrowed his eyes.

  Without another word, he drew his blade and swung.

  A shockwave blasted into the corner he had indicated. The chamber trembled. Several stalactites broke free from the ceiling and crashed down in shards of blue ice.

  “Apologies,” Aurel said calmly. “That section of wall did not feel natural.”

  As the frost mist thinned and fragments settled, the distortion became clear. It was not part of the original structure. Something had been layered over it. Something meant to conceal. Behind the shattered ice stood a massive door behind which he could only imagine his target being hiding.