Mother of Midnight

Chapter 194 – What Lays Beneath

Lorne, Briswen, and Grunhilda had left for the east two weeks prior. Caelum had sent Yenhr a few silent prayers for their safety, for their feet to be swift and sure, for their bodies to withstand the bitter grasp of the northern winter. He hoped she heard him. He hoped she cared.

In the meantime, he had been accepted as a Paladin apprentice under Makiva. The woman was older than his parents, perhaps even older than his grandparents, but her body showed no sign of weakness. Her slicked-back grey hair was always neat, her posture rigid, and her bright green eyes burned with a fire that had not dimmed with age. Caelum had known of her, of course—everyone did. She had been in the village long before his birth, an unshakable pillar of faith and discipline.

Training in the army had been harsh, but under Makiva, it was something else entirely. Each day began before dawn, a bell and a half spent on his knees in prayer. The slightest movement earned him a sharp strike across the back with a cane, a reminder that discipline came before all else. He spent every moment of those prayers not on Praxus, but on Yenhr. He had to hope that, if nothing else, she was listening.

Then came the real work. Sword training. Sparring. Grueling, unrelenting combat drills with Makiva herself. He had come in with skill, but she crushed him effortlessly. Each time he thought he might land a blow, she would shift the tempo—moving faster, hitting harder. It was as if she could read his every intention before he had even committed to it. He left their sessions battered and bruised, only to be healed by a priestess adept in dawn and tidal aether before the cycle began anew.

The only real comfort was the food at the end of the day—generous portions, hearty meals of root vegetables and meat. Tasteless, but filling. He ate in silence, rested his aching limbs, and prepared himself to do it all again.

Eat. Pray. Eat. Train. Eat. Sleep. Repeat.

It was grueling. Exhausting. But he did not complain. He had a goal. And every moment spent enduring Makiva’s brutality was another step toward it.

On the twentieth day of training, after Makiva had trounced him yet again in the snow, she finally stepped back and let out a slow breath. For the first time since he had begun, her posture relaxed.

“I am impressed,” the severe woman said.

Caelum groaned and dragged himself upright, shaking the snow from his clothes. He stared at her blankly, chest heaving.

“Was that praise?” he asked, genuinely curious.

Makiva’s sharp green eyes narrowed. “Praise should be given where it is due,” she said, tone as unyielding as ever. “You had a good foundation from your training, but you lack experience. Your faith is true. Your spirit is willing. You will make a fine paladin after a few years of proper training.”

Caelum nodded, though he had no intention of ever becoming a paladin of Praxus. A paladin of Yenhr, though—that was another matter entirely. Was she in need of one?

A warmth curled around him like a cloak, seeping into his aching muscles, spreading through his limbs like sunlight through winter frost. He sucked in a breath, his entire body tensing against the foreign, yet undeniably familiar sensation.

Was she watching him? Could it be anything else? The presence felt so warm, so kind, so unlike the rigid, brutal doctrine of Praxus that surrounded him here. A smile tugged at his lips before he even realized it.

“Thank you, Paladin Makiva,” he said, inclining his head.

“Wipe that smile off your face, boy. You have a long way to go,” she said curtly, already turning away.

But the smile was not for her. Her approval was meaningless compared to the presence that lingered around him, as gentle as dawn’s first light.

Caelum huffed, his breath misting in the frigid air, sweat cooling too fast against his skin. His muscles ached, his hands trembled from exertion, but he remained standing, heart pounding with the lingering thrill of battle. Before him lay the massive, twisted corpse of an aetherwolf, its inky blood seeping into the snow, steaming against the cold. Something like that would have torn him apart before—but now? Now, he had felled it with his own hands.

Training had paid off. His body was stronger, his instincts sharper, and his aetherpool had expanded tremendously since augment training had been incorporated into his regimen. The constant discipline, the relentless prayers, the grueling spars—he had cursed them at times, but they had tempered him. And now, he was reaping the benefits.

This hunt had been different. He had fought alongside Paladin Makiva and a handful of the village militia. Too few. Far fewer than there should have been. Each hunt, their numbers dwindled, yet the clergy insisted it was sickness taking them. More missing. More gone. No bodies, no answers, just whispered reassurances from the priests.

Blissfully, his mother was still here. That thought alone was a small comfort. He wanted to be by her side, to offer whatever protection he could, but the church had him bound. Forced to live within their halls, under their watchful eyes.

Still, he had his ways.

Caelum had taken to wandering the tunnels beneath the church, using the excuse that he needed to move, to stretch his limbs, to keep himself sharp without venturing into the brutal northern winter. It was easy enough to pass off. And eventually, his curiosity had borne fruit.

A storeroom. An old, unremarkable thing, stacked with barrels of salted meat and bags of dried grain. But beneath a worn rug, half-hidden by crates, he had found it—a trapdoor.

Locked. Not with iron or chains, but something far more troublesome. He had recognized the faint shimmer of aether, the careful etchings worked into the very grain of the wood. A magical seal.

His jaw tightened.

He would have to force it open if he wanted to go in.

Caelum needed a plan. A solid one. Breaking into the church’s hidden chamber was only the first step—getting his father out alive and avoiding the wrath of the clergy would be the real challenge. He wasn’t naive enough to think he could stand against Paladin Makiva or Paladin Hart in a direct fight. Not yet. But he wasn’t weak anymore, either. He was no longer just a common soldier thrown into an unjust war. He had trained. He had grown.

But where would they go afterward? He couldn’t simply take his father home. That would be the first place they searched. His mother, too—she’d be vulnerable if they left her behind. Maybe Serkoth was the answer. His father was a skilled hunter, and Caelum was confident in his own ability to fend off aetherbeasts. The journey would be treacherous, but it was better than staying here, waiting for the church to tighten its grip. He wouldn’t let them take his father again.

A few days after discovering the trapdoor, he began his preparations. He packed his bag carefully, selecting only the essentials—things for a long trek through the wilderness, tools to survive on the road. Rations would only last so long; they would need to hunt. He made sure to acquire a bow and a quiver of arrows. Not his preferred weapon, but necessary. Every moment counted. If they were to escape, they would have to move fast. Suspicion would undoubtedly fall on him the moment his father went missing.

“Paladin apprentice Caelum! Focus on the fight!” Makiva’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts.

The training sword struck his thigh, sending a sharp jolt of pain through his leg. He gritted his teeth. That would leave a bruise.

“Yes, Paladin Makiva!” he shouted, forcing himself back into the present. He raised his wooden and leather training sword, gripping it tightly.

He lunged forward, angling his weapon in an apparent strike—then feinted, shifting his weight to attack from the opposite side. His sword connected, striking Makiva’s side with enough force to draw a grunt from the seasoned warrior.

He hesitated. He hadn’t expected to land the hit.

A mistake.

Makiva’s sword crashed against his arm before he could react, the blow hard enough to knock his weapon from his grasp. His fingers stung, and he barely held back a curse.

“Do not get cocky, whelp,” Makiva snapped, stepping back with an unimpressed glare. “Hesitation is deadly on the field of battle.”

Caelum exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulder to shake off the sting.

She was right. Hesitation would get him killed. And he couldn’t afford that. Not now.

He felt as ready as he was ever going to be.

Caelum had waited patiently, biding his time until the perfect moment arrived. When word came that both Paladin Hart and Makiva had been summoned to a nearby town for urgent business, he knew this was it. The best opportunity he was going to get.

His pack was stuffed with supplies for the road ahead—rations enough to feed three, provided they supplemented their meals with small game. He had packed a bow and a quiver of arrows for that very reason. The journey to the steppes would be long, but he had prepared for this.

Under the cover of darkness, he crept out of the church, his breath visible in the frigid air. The village was still, save for the distant sound of wind against the rooftops. Moving with practiced caution, he placed his pack in a hidden thicket at the village’s edge, nestling it deep within the bushes. He memorized the spot, ensuring he could retrieve it swiftly when the time came. Then, he slipped back into the church as quietly as he had left.

In his small, bare room, he donned his half-plate armor, securing each strap with careful, steady hands. Over it, he pulled his tabard, the sigil of Praxus stark against the fabric. He scowled at the sight of it.

Praxus was cold. Not in the way of Heraline, the Lady of Dusk and Dreams, whose cold was gentle—a quiet embrace in the dark, a promise that all things would end, and there was peace in that. His cold was the rigid, unyielding kind, the indifference of a god who demanded structure and sacrifice without ever offering comfort in return.

Yenhr was different.

The Dawnmother’s warmth had found him in his darkest moments, a golden light against the cold. He had prayed to her first in desperation, but she had answered. He had felt her presence ever since—soft, persistent, like the first touch of the sun against frost. She made the ice more tolerable, the training less grueling. She made him feel seen.

Caelum pressed a hand over his heart and shut his eyes. A quiet prayer. A deep breath.

Then, he moved.

The tunnels beneath the church stretched out before him, twisting veins of stone and damp air. He walked them with confidence, his steps sure and steady. He had mapped them out in his mind, memorized every turn. It didn’t take long to reach his destination—the trapdoor he had discovered the week before.

He stared down at it, rolling his shoulders, flexing his fingers.

No turning back now.

He wasn’t an exomancer, so he couldn’t rely on intricate spells or delicate manipulations to open the magical lock. Instead, he pressed his palm directly against the seal, feeling the pulse of energy beneath the surface, cold and resistant. He closed his eyes and focused, circulating the power of the tide through his veins—each pulse of aether draining his pool more than he liked, but it was necessary. His breath came short, and he could feel the strain as he forced the seal to give way, brute-forcing it with sheer will.

For a moment, he feared the effort would fail, that the magic would push back and shatter him instead. But then, with a soft, almost imperceptible shift, the seal fractured beneath his touch. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It shattered silently, the faintest whisper of resistance before it fell away.

He quickly withdrew his hand and exhaled, sweat beading on his forehead. Silence. The room remained undisturbed. No one had heard.

With cautious care, he replaced the rug over the trapdoor, making sure it covered the outline perfectly, ensuring there was no sign of disturbance. Then, with practiced movement, he lifted the trapdoor, its hinges barely creaking under his touch. He descended into the tunnel, taking a step down, then another, his boots muffling the sound of his footfalls. The weight of the dark pressed in on him, the air thick with the smell of stone and damp earth.

As the trapdoor closed softly behind him, he surveyed the space. Aether-powered lanterns hung from the walls, their dull blue glow casting an eerie light over the rough-hewn stone of the tunnel. The light was weak, fading with age, struggling against the darkness that clung to the corners. It was just enough to see the path ahead, but not enough to feel truly safe.

Caelum’s eyes narrowed, and he tapped into his vision augment. The world shifted. The shadows receded, and the faint outlines of the tunnel grew sharp and defined. He could now see every crack in the walls, every stone beneath his boots, the faint shimmer of residual aether lingering in the air.

The passage ahead was clear, but he couldn’t afford to relax—not yet. He moved cautiously, every step deliberate, every breath slow and steady. His heart thudded in his chest, his senses heightened, but the familiar touch of Yenhr’s warmth lingered in the back of his mind, a reminder of the light that guided him even through the deepest dark.

The tunnel stretched on before him, winding deeper beneath the church, the walls sloping downward as though pulling him into the earth itself. His steps were measured, the sound of his boots faint against the stone, but the weight of the situation pressed heavily on his shoulders. Every step he took brought him closer to something unknown—answers, danger, or both.

He slowed as he approached a sharp bend in the tunnel, instinct urging him to be even more cautious. He couldn’t afford to be caught now, not with everything hanging in the balance. He kept his hand close to the hilt of the knife at his belt, the weight of it a small comfort against the unknown.

A distant sound echoed down the corridor—a faint scraping, the shuffle of boots on stone. Caelum paused, holding his breath, his mind racing. He was sure no one had heard him yet, but the noise carried through the narrow space, amplified by the walls.

He peered around the bend, heart hammering in his chest, but saw nothing. The sound had stopped, leaving the tunnel eerily quiet. It was probably nothing—just the building settling or some creature in the distance—but his instincts told him to proceed with even more caution.

Caelum moved forward again, taking slow, deliberate steps, his mind sharp as ever. The further he went, the colder the air became, and the heavier the silence grew. It was a different kind of silence than he was used to, the kind that made every breath feel too loud, every footfall too heavy.

He heard the shuffling of dozens further down. None of the clergy were in sight. He continued down the tunnel until he reached another door. The shuffling was louder from there. He carefully opened the door, dancing when its rusted hinge creaked.

He stood frozen in the doorway, his breath catching in his throat as his mind struggled to make sense of the scene before him. The dim, flickering glow of aetherpowered lanterns bathed the room in an eerie, blueish light, casting shadows that danced across the cold stone walls. The room was filled with cells—dozens of them—each housing eight twisted, humanoid creatures. Some were squatting in the corners, some hunched over, their limbs unnaturally bent, while others shuffled around in a slow, almost rhythmic dance. Their bodies were pale, sickly, stretched too tightly over brittle bones. Their eyes were dull and lifeless, fixed on nothing, as though they had long since lost any semblance of their former selves.

Caelum’s heart thudded painfully in his chest, and his stomach churned. Aetherbeasts. But this—this wasn’t just some collection of beasts to be contained. There was something far darker at work here, something he couldn’t begin to comprehend.

He stepped further into the room, his mind racing, heart thundering in his chest. The creatures didn’t seem to notice him, their focus entirely inward. But the air around them hummed with a strange, ominous energy, one that felt wrong. His skin prickled as if the very atmosphere was charged with the twisted power of the aether.

His eyes scanned the room, moving from one creature to the next, until they fell upon a figure in the far corner, hunched over, its body misshapen, its limbs twisted and unnatural. It was nothing but a shadow in the dim light, but there was something about it that made Caelum’s breath catch in his throat.

His heart stopped for a moment as recognition crashed over him.

It was his father.

The man he had left behind, the man who had once taught him how to hunt and survive in the wild. His strong hands, his steady gaze, the voice that had guided Caelum through his youth—all of it was gone, replaced with this... this grotesque imitation. His father’s face was barely recognizable. The features were stretched and warped, twisted by whatever dark magic the church had unleashed. His eyes were dull, sunken, and empty, not the warm, familiar eyes Caelum remembered. There was nothing left of the man who had once held him close, taught him right from wrong. Only this—this monstrous shadow of what he had once been.

Caelum’s knees nearly gave out beneath him, his body trembling as the horrifying truth sank in. This wasn’t just any aetherbeast. This was his father, transformed into one of them—lost, corrupted, and trapped in a hellish cage beneath the very place he had once trusted.

His heart felt as though it was being squeezed in an unrelenting grip. He swallowed hard, the bitter taste of fear rising in his throat. How had they done this to him? How could the church—those who claimed to uphold the light—have done something so vile?

His gaze shifted, the anger rising in him like a tidal wave. He had to do something. He couldn’t just leave his father like this. But before he could move, a sound broke through the silence—a low, grating sound, as one of the creatures in another cell shifted. Caelum froze, his body tensing as he heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching.

Priestess Polana and Paladin Hart had entered the room, their presence undeniable. The paladin was a towering figure, his armor clanking softly as he moved beside the priestess. Their voices were low, but Caelum could hear their words clearly.

“Have you been monitoring the aether density in this area?” Polana asked, her voice cool and detached.

“Yes, the fluctuations are increasing,” Hart responded, his deep voice carrying a slight edge of concern. “But nothing we can’t handle for now.”

Caelum’s heart skipped a beat. They were talking about the creatures—his father. Were they planning to do something to them? Were they experimenting? He couldn’t bear the thought.

Polana’s voice cut through the thick silence of the chamber like a blade, smooth and sharp with absolute certainty.

“We need to ensure they stay contained. We can’t risk the knowledge of what we’re doing getting out.”

Caelum felt his breath still in his chest. What they’re doing. It wasn’t just the existence of the aetherbeasts they wanted to keep secret—it was how they came to be.

Hart’s voice was just as calm, just as detached. “We should convert the rest of the village. It’s far away enough that it shouldn’t be noticed until winter passes.”

Caelum bit down on his lip hard enough to taste blood. Convert? His stomach twisted, nausea rising up his throat. The pieces slid into place with a sickening certainty—this wasn’t a containment effort. It was a process. A system. These weren’t just prisoners.

They were test subjects.

Polana nodded. “Agreed. High Priest Kaelen has notified me of a pair of unique specimens he acquired. By the grace of Praxus, we will hopefully finally make some strides. These creatures are too weak and stupid to be useful.”

Caelum clenched his jaw, his fists trembling at his sides. He felt sick—sick with anger, sick with horror. They spoke of people as if they were things. Just like they had spoken about his father.

Hart grunted. “And Makiva’s apprentice?”

Polana waved a dismissive hand. “He is a fool. Too soft for our cause. He still prays to Yenhr in secret, no matter how much he thinks we do not notice.”

Caelum’s breath hitched, and a cold chill ran down his spine. They knew.

A low growl broke the air, and Caelum’s attention snapped back to the corner where his father stood. His heart leaped into his throat as the creature—his father—looked up, meeting his eyes for the first time.

It wasn’t a recognition, not in the way Caelum had hoped. There was no flicker of recognition, no spark of the man his father had been. Only cold, empty eyes. The creature’s lips curled back in a snarl, its teeth bared, and for a moment, Caelum’s heart skipped a beat. But then, just as quickly, it turned away, retreating into the shadows of its cell.

Polana continued, her tone colder than the ice outside. “The boy was always disposable. If he shows resistance, we will break him like the others. If not, he will make a fine candidate for ascension in time.”

He swallowed hard. His heartbeat roared in his ears, his vision narrowing.

They weren’t going to let him leave.

They never planned to.

Every moment he stayed, every second he lingered in this damnable place, he was closer to meeting the same fate as his father. As the villagers. As everyone.

The world tilted around him as he turned, every instinct screaming for him to run. His body moved before his mind had caught up, his boots striking the stone floor harder than he would have liked.

Polana’s voice sharpened. “Did you hear that?”

Shit.

Caelum bolted, all thoughts of stealth abandoned. The corridors twisted and turned, and his breath came in ragged gasps as he tore through them. Behind him, he could hear hurried footsteps—faster, heavier.

They’re coming after me.

He hit the stairs two at a time, shoving himself through the trapdoor and sealing it shut behind him. It wouldn’t hold for long.

His pack. His weapons. They were waiting at the village’s edge. But the snow was deep, and the moment he stepped outside, he would leave a trail.

He didn’t have a choice.

They were treating his father, and the others, like... like experiments. Objects to be studied and controlled. He felt a sickening anger surge through him, his hands balling into fists at his sides. The very people he had sworn to serve were nothing more than monsters.

Caelum’s breath was ragged, his entire body shaking. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he knew he couldn’t stay here. Not with his father—no, the thing that used to be his father—so close.

With one last breath, Caelum sprinted into the cold night.