Mother of Midnight

Chapter 201 – Realm of Ice

Vivienne was very pleased.

Lucidity was returning. The maddening haze that had plagued her for so long was lifting, the blackouts growing fewer and farther between. No longer did she wake to find the barrier cracked and repairing, her mind fractured and uncertain. She was piecing herself back together, moment by moment.

She had time.

More than that, she had privacy.

The laboratory was empty more often than not. They didn’t keep constant watch over her, no vigilant eyes tracking her every move, no machines humming with hidden purpose. She’d listened, waited, tested the air for the telltale thrum of recording devices. There was nothing.

Fools.

So, she experimented.

Her cage, while meant to confine her, gave her ample room to work. When she was certain she was alone, she let herself slip back into her true form—her prime form. Obsidian scales gleaming, claws flexing, her tail sweeping the floor behind her as she stretched, feeling her body settle into the shape that was right.

But this shape, as much as she loved it, was not what she needed for her plan.

So she worked.

Before, shifting had been a laborious thing. It was simple if she consumed an aetherbeast, if she took its shape for herself, devoured its essence and became. But creating form—molding it—had always been a slow, painstaking process. It had taken hours of focus, of deliberate effort.

Now?

Now, it was easier.

Her body bent to her will with less resistance. The process was still imperfect—there were limits she had yet to overcome—but the raw act of shaping had become second nature, as though her own flesh had simply been waiting for her to command it properly.

Still, one thing eluded her.

Colour.

No matter how she twisted her form, no matter how she smoothed her skin, her body refused to hold pigment. Shades of grey, obsidian black, shimmering crystal—those came easily. But true colour? The flush of warm skin, the gleam of vibrant eyes, the natural hues of the world?

Nothing.

It was as if she had been designed to be absent of it. As if her very existence rejected it outright.

Still, she had her little girl to save.

That thought anchored her, held her steady in the storm of her own fury. Her heart wept for Liora, but she would not let sorrow rule her—no, her rage was far more useful. And unlike sorrow, it sharpened her. Focused her.

It burned hot enough to scorch the heavens themselves.

She savored every fleeting moment she was allowed to lay eyes on her daughter, even if it was through the veil of an act. Even if it meant letting them believe she was nothing but a beast, wild and barely restrained. She hated it. Despised the way she had to snarl and bare her teeth when all she wanted to do was hold her. To press her forehead against Liora’s, to whisper soft reassurances that everything would be alright.

But they were watching. Always watching.

And she was trapped in the heart of enemy territory.

So she had to play it smart.

Smarter than the arrogant fools who thought they had tamed her. Smarter than the wretches who dared to put their hands on her child. Smarter than the monsters who thought they were the ones in control.

She could not strike yet. Could not let the embers of her fury erupt into open flames. Not until the moment was perfect.

Because when she did—when she finally played her hand?

There would be nothing left of this accursed place but blood, ruin, and screaming.

And then she and Liora would be free.

Over the next few days, she made a breakthrough.

Shapeshifting had never come naturally to her without something else’s flesh to steal, but now, it was becoming easier. Smoother. She could feel the control settling into her bones, the instinct sharpening like a blade being honed.

Bit by bit, she stripped away the features they considered monstrous—her claws, her scales, the shadows that curled around her like eager serpents. Her skin smoothed, shifting, changing.

When she finally looked at her clawless hands, she found red.

Not quite right. Not human. But it was a step forward.

Her lips curled slightly, satisfied.

She almost looked normal. Almost looked human.

Soon, she would make herself harmless.

Then she would make them pay.

Caelum stood in the snow, staring down at the two mounds of dirt in the backyard of his parents' home.

Home.

The word felt hollow now. This place—once warm, once filled with laughter, once smelling of his mother’s cooking and his father’s old books—was empty. Devoid of their presence. It would never feel like home again.

He would never again feel his mother’s strong embrace, the unshakable warmth of her arms around him. Never again feel his father’s gentle touch, the reassuring hand on his shoulder that made him believe everything would be alright.

Never again.

The purge had been successful. Mostly. The village remained ignorant, still unaware of the rot that had festered beneath their feet. The surviving acolytes were aimless without their priestess, without the hierarchy that had dictated their every breath. Some had left, scattering like dust in the wind, seeking refuge in other parts of the Empire. Others stayed, too afraid or too uncertain to leave behind the only life they had ever known.

And then there were those who refused to see the truth.

Those who looked at the horrors beneath the temple and saw not cruelty but righteousness. Who believed—truly believed—that the church must have had a reason for their atrocities. That Caelum’s actions were unjust. That he was the villain.

They were dead now, too.

He had so much blood on his hands. So much.

It would never wash away. Never fade. Never be truly clean again.

Grunhilda had been right about him. He wasn’t a fighter. He wasn’t strong.

And yet, his goddess had chosen him.

She had seen him. And she had placed this burden upon his shoulders.

There had to be a reason.

There had to be.

More blood would be spilled. More lives would be taken. More lives would be saved.

He stood there, unmoving, as the cold bit into his skin. As the wind howled through the skeletal trees. As the weight of everything pressed down on him like a great and terrible hand, forcing him to his knees.

For a full bell, he stood. Staring at the graves.

And for the first time since last night—since he had found his father in that cage—he let himself break.

The tears came slowly at first, burning hot against his frozen skin. Then they came faster, unstoppable, wracking his body with silent sobs.

He could not pray. He could not beg. There was no comfort to be found in the faith he had once known.

There was only this.

Snow, silence, and grief.

Then—warmth.

A gentle wind wrapped around him, impossibly soft, carrying the scent of something familiar yet distant—wildflowers in bloom, the earth after rain, the memory of summer. It felt like an embrace, like unseen arms drawing him in, cradling him against the cold.

And then—he was somewhere else.

Gone was the grave, gone was the village, gone was the world he knew.

Before him stretched an endless expanse of snow, untouched and pristine beneath a sky of deep, velvety black. A single moon hung above, stark and luminous, casting long, pale shadows across the land.

Unlike the endless meadow of late spring where he had once stood before, this place was different. Stranger. Wilder.

Dark evergreen trees dotted the landscape, their needles weighed down with snow, their twisted branches reaching skyward like skeletal fingers. Movement flickered at the edges of his vision—small, delicate creatures with thick fur, their bodies blending into the frost as they scurried through the underbrush.

And then—spiders.

Massive things, far larger than any he had ever seen, their bulbous bodies covered in thick, frost-dusted hair. Their long, spindly legs moved with a slow, deliberate grace as they wove intricate webs between trees and boulders, strands of ice-kissed silk shimmering in the moonlight.

Yet it was not them that commanded his attention.

No, that belonged to the palace.

It loomed before him, rising from the frozen ground like a monolith carved by the hands of gods. Jagged towers stretched toward the sky, their peaks uneven and sharp, glistening with the cold clarity of ice. The walls were translucent, reflecting the light of the moon in shimmering, fractured hues of blue and silver.

And at the top of a long, sweeping staircase lay the entrance—a massive gate of thick, frozen ice, untouched by time, as still and unyielding as the land around it.

Something in him stirred.

Something ancient. Something deep.

An unseen force pulled at him, calling him forward, a whisper at the edge of his mind that carried no words—only urgency.

And so, without hesitation, he walked.

Step by step, his feet left imprints in the untouched snow, his breath curling in the frigid air.

At the top of the steps, he found himself dwarfed by the sheer scale of the entrance. The doors were colossal, each one a towering slab of ice twice as tall as the church he had… purged. The thought lingered for only a moment before the doors groaned to life, moving without a single hand to push them, parting soundlessly to reveal the darkness within.

A vast hall stretched before him, its ceiling lost to shadows, its walls lined with the soft, eerie glow of magical lanterns. Their light was not warm, not inviting—it was distant, muted, casting long, flickering silhouettes that danced against the ice. The air was thick with stillness, untouched by time, heavy with something old.

He hesitated.

One step into the threshold, and the great doors behind him sealed shut with an echoing finality.

The silence that followed felt suffocating.

He moved forward, slow, cautious, the weight of his sword a comfort beneath his palm. Each step sent the faintest echoes through the chamber, the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots giving way to the smooth, frozen floor.

And then—he saw it.

A throne.

Not merely a seat of power, but a monument of ice and shadow, sculpted with the weight of divinity itself. It loomed at the end of the hall, an intricate construction of jagged peaks and curling frost, its back rising high enough that it seemed to scrape the unseen ceiling. The throne’s surface shimmered with an unnatural brilliance, refracting the lanterns’ dull glow into sharp, fragmented patterns.

And upon it—her.

Even before his mind recognized her, his bones did. His very essence screamed in recognition.

Heraline.

The Goddess of Dusk sat with an impossible stillness, her form draped in flowing garments woven from the night itself. Deep, ethereal shadows clung to her, moving as if alive, shifting like mist in the dim light. Her face was obscured—half in shadow, half in the soft glow of the lanterns, unreadable yet utterly consuming in its presence.

And on her lap, held with the reverence of something both treasured and possessed, was her.

A light in this realm of darkness.

A radiance against the cold.

His goddess.

“So you did choose him,” Heraline mused, her voice impossibly smooth—cold as the ice that surrounded them, yet not entirely unwelcoming. It carried a weight beyond mere sound, sinking into his bones like the whisper of a coming storm.

“Yes,” Yenhr responded, her voice a golden warmth against the dusk. “I thought he was an excellent choice.”

Caelum barely hesitated. The moment the words left his goddess’s lips, he dropped to one knee, bowing his head low. Reverence was instinctive, a response that felt right in the presence of divinity.

But Heraline merely waved a hand, a motion as lazy as it was absolute. “None of that.” Her tone left no room for argument. “Rise. I will not have my love’s champion kneel before me.”

Caelum swallowed and obeyed, standing slowly. His pulse thundered in his ears, though he could not tell if it was from fear, awe, or something far more dangerous.

Then—she moved.

Yet, she did not move at all.

Heraline still lounged on her throne, Yenhr resting on her lap, but at the same time—she was behind him. The presence was unmistakable, a shadow stretching through reality itself.

He stiffened.

“Yes… yes,” her voice purred from behind him, and then—before he could so much as blink—she was at his side. Then circling him. Then standing before him once more.

It was not teleportation. It was immediacy. As if the Heraline before him had always been there, waiting for him to notice.

She was tall. Half again as tall as Yenhr, her presence swallowing the space around her, making even the grand hall feel smaller.

Her hair was woven from living shadow, shifting and curling like ink spreading through water. Her eyes were cold, distant stars, their light dim and ancient, watching him with the patience of something beyond time. Her robes were not fabric but night itself, a seamless blend into the surrounding darkness.

She was beautiful.

She was terrifying.

And she was looking at him.

“He suits you well, dearest.”

Heraline’s voice lingered in the air like the last note of a song, and then—she was gone. Or rather, the copy of her was. One moment there, circling him like a predator assessing prey, and in the next, she had simply ceased to be. The transition was seamless, unnatural, as if she had never truly been separate from herself at all.

Caelum barely had time to process before Yenhr’s voice, warm and steady, cut through the silence.

“You may speak freely here, Caelum.”

Freely.

His heart pounded in his chest as he stood before them—the radiant sun and the looming dusk, two goddesses who held him in their gaze. He had been so ready to speak when grief had burned hot in his veins. So certain of his rage when he first struck down those who had betrayed his family.

Now?

Now he felt small.

His throat tightened, but he forced the words out, weak and uncertain. “Why me?” A pause. He swallowed. “Surely there were better choices.”

Heraline let out a quiet chuckle, rich with amusement. “Questioning the choice of a goddess? That’s brave.”

Yenhr gasped in mock offense and playfully swatted Heraline’s shoulder. “Don’t tease my champion! He is scared enough as is!”

Heraline rolled her eyes but made no further remark, her expression unreadable as she lounged on her throne, watching him with something between mild interest and quiet amusement.

Caelum shifted uncomfortably, clenching and unclenching his hands. Why me? He had asked that before, hadn’t he? The night she first spoke to him, the night his entire world had changed.

Yenhr tilted her head, golden hair shifting like threads of light. “You asked that before, did you not?”

Slowly, he nodded. “I know. But there had to have been better choices than me. Someone stronger, someone smarter. Someone… better.”

Yenhr blinked at him, almost as if she found the question odd. “It’s all subjective, is it not?” she said, her tone as gentle as it was certain. “There were stronger candidates, yes. But not kinder. Smarter, but not more decisive. Some were so very close to what I was looking for… but they had not yet endured what they needed to endure to be suitable.”

Caelum felt anger flare up in his chest, a heat that burned away the cold grip of grief, if only for a moment. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Did I have to lose everything to become ‘suitable?’" His voice came sharper than he intended, but he didn’t care.

Yenhr tilted her head, her golden eyes watching him with an almost childlike curiosity. "It was part of it, yes," she said sweetly, as though the concept of his pain was nothing more than an abstract thought to her.

His breath hitched. He had expected reassurance, some divine wisdom to justify his suffering, but not this.

"You fit much," Yenhr continued, her voice as warm as a sunbeam, yet as distant as the stars. "But more importantly, you have something far greater than strength, intelligence, or even experience."

Her lips curled into a wide, radiant smile. "Potential."

He stared at her, uncomprehending. "What?"

"It is something the divine use to measure a suitable champion," she explained. "We have rules."

Caelum scoffed, unable to help himself. "Rules?" He hadn’t thought gods needed such things.

Yenhr nodded, unfazed. "Yes, rules we choose to follow. The level of potential, for a champion to grow into their power. Too much, and the balance is upset." Her gaze softened, and for a fleeting moment, she almost seemed human. "You had the most potential I could choose, with the right conditions and at the right time."

Potential.

Was that all he was to them? A seed, waiting to be cultivated? A piece to be played at the perfect moment?

His fingers twitched at his sides. He had no idea if he wanted to laugh or scream.

Yet despite himself, he couldn’t hate her. Even as his anger simmered beneath the surface, he couldn’t bring himself to direct it at Yenhr. She was warmth, a guiding light, his goddess. And whether he liked it or not, she had chosen him.

He exhaled, steadying himself. "What would you have me do?"

Heraline tapped her fingers against the armrest of her throne, regarding him with a cool, knowing gaze. "You could send him on that errand," she mused, her voice smooth as ice.

Yenhr frowned, her golden eyes flicking to her sister. "It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?"

They spoke as if he wasn’t even there.

"He only needs to release her," Heraline countered, tilting her head slightly. "That would be enough."

"I suppose so," Yenhr relented with a huff. She turned her gaze toward Caelum, her radiance settling on him like the warmth of the sun on a cold day. "There is another champion imprisoned. You are to free her."

Caelum blinked, his mind scrambling to keep up. "Another champion?"