Mother of Midnight

Chapter 65 – Pondering

Tharon glanced over his shoulder, his breathing heavy and ragged from the exertion of running. His knuckles were white around the grip of his cleaver, and his sweat-soaked hair clung to his forehead.

“Damned creature and its damned automaton,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice trembling with frustration and fear.

A sound echoed in the narrow corridor behind him—a faint, rhythmic clicking, like wooden limbs tapping against the stone. His heart skipped a beat. Muttering a curse, he darted into an offshoot passage. The walls here loomed closer, the air feeling heavier. He knew this place like the back of his hand—a labyrinth of twisting halls and dead ends. If he could just stay ahead, just lose her in the maze…

The clicking grew louder, steady and deliberate, like the ticking of a clock counting down to his doom. His boots scraped against the stone as he made sharp turns, twisting through the corridors in a desperate attempt to throw her off his trail.

But no matter how many twists and turns he took, the sound followed, relentless and unchanging. His chest burned, his legs screamed in protest, but fear pushed him forward.

He ran until his body could take no more. With a gasp, he collapsed against the cold stone wall, his cleaver slipping slightly in his damp grip. He tried to catch his breath, but it came in shallow gulps, his pulse pounding in his ears.

A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision. He turned his head just in time to see her round the corner.

She stepped into view, her movements both rigid and fluid, as if she were a doll pulled along by invisible strings. Her ruined gothic dress fluttered with each step, the fabric hanging in tatters, yet the intricate design beneath the decay suggested something once elegant, something meant for service or ceremony.

In each hand, she held a massive sewing needle, their sharp points gleaming faintly in the dim light. Her stitched face tilted toward him, the motion unnervingly deliberate.

“Don’t suppose you’ll leave if I ask you to?” Tharon managed, his voice thin and shaky, though he tried to mask his terror with a sneer.

The mannequin paused mid-step, her head tilting further, as if his question puzzled her. The silence stretched, broken only by the faint creaking of her wooden frame as she straightened. Without a word, she flicked her wrists, sending both needles plunging into the stone floor beside her with a resounding clang that echoed through the chamber.

Tharon flinched, his grip tightening on his cleaver.

She reached into the folds of her dress and produced a writing slate and a stub of pencil. Carefully, she scribbled, the scratching sound absurdly mundane in the tense atmosphere. When she finished, she held the slate up for him to see.

Mistress told me to take care of you, so I will be doing that.

Tharon’s stomach twisted, his eyes darting between the mannequin and the message. He barked out a laugh, high-pitched and nervous. “You can write? You’re kidding me. What the hell are you even supposed to be?”

The mannequin stored her slate within herself, the motion oddly smooth for something so mechanical. Her hands returned to her massive needles, and she gripped each with a measured calm. One by one, she pulled them free, the metallic screeching sound clawing at Tharon’s nerves. It was methodical—too methodical—as though she was savoring the tension she was building, making him stew in his fear.

Tharon cursed again under his breath, forcing himself upright. His legs felt like lead, and his arms trembled as he raised his cleaver. “I wasn’t paid enough for this,” he muttered, his voice cracking.

Then she moved.

The mannequin surged forward, her wooden frame creaking as her body blurred into motion. The sound of her feet slapping against the stone floor was sharp and unnerving, and her needles gleamed menacingly in the dim light. Tharon stumbled backward, instinctively raising the flat of his cleaver to block.

But just as she closed the distance, her foot caught on a raised tile. The forward momentum sent her sprawling face-first onto the ground, her body clattering with an almost comedic lack of grace. One of her colossal needles slipped from her grasp, spinning away with a metallic clang before skidding to a stop several feet away.

For a split second, there was silence. Tharon blinked in disbelief, staring at the motionless mannequin sprawled before him. His lips twitched as a laugh bubbled up, wild and almost hysterical. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he managed between gasps.

She didn’t stay down for long.

Renzia’s arms pressed against the floor, her frame snapping upright with a speed that didn’t match her earlier clumsiness. She tilted her head sharply toward the dislodged needle, then rolled into a crouch with a fluidity that made Tharon’s skin crawl.

“Stay back!” he barked, waving his cleaver wildly.

The mannequin didn’t obey. Instead, she moved toward the fallen needle with a peculiar mix of precision and awkwardness—her legs moved too straight, her joints bending in exaggerated motions. Reaching the needle, she snatched it up in a quick flick of her wrist, spinning it experimentally before fixing her headless gaze back on him.

This time, there was no pause.

She lunged again, this time with calculated intent. The needle in her right hand whistled through the air, forcing Tharon to twist his body to avoid the strike. He swung the cleaver in a wide arc, hoping to catch her mid-movement, but she bent backward at an impossible angle, her joints creaking loudly as her torso contorted to dodge.

Tharon staggered as she sprung upright and lunged again, one needle striking his cleaver. The sheer force of the blow rattled his arms, and the weapon was almost knocked from his grip. Her other needle darted toward his ribs, forcing him to pivot and retreat further into the corridor.

But even as she pressed the attack, her movements retained an unnatural inconsistency. She bounded forward with an acrobat’s grace one moment, only to narrowly avoid tripping over her own feet the next. The erratic rhythm was maddening, giving Tharon no opportunity to predict her next move.

“What are you?!” Tharon shouted, desperation cracking through his voice as he swung wildly with his cleaver. The blade whistled through empty air, the mannequin twisting unnaturally to avoid the strike. Her needle darted forward, grazing his shirt just enough to send a shiver of dread crawling up his spine.

She froze mid-motion, her head tilting to the side with a slow, mechanical creak, as though his question required deep contemplation. There was no response—no sound, no motion save for the faint twitching of her fingers on her remaining needle. Then, almost carelessly, she raised her arm and hurled the needle past him.

The weapon struck the stone wall behind him with a deafening clang, embedding itself deep in the rock. Tharon flinched as the sound reverberated through the corridor, his heart hammering in his chest. He turned, his gaze lingering on the trembling needle for a fraction of a second too long.

When he looked back at her, dread pooled in his stomach. She was still standing there, perfectly still, her stitched face pointed directly at him, as if she could see the fear spilling from his wide eyes. It wasn’t an attack. It wasn’t even a miss.

It was a message.

The realization hit him like a sledgehammer: he was being toyed with. She was playing a game, and he was the unwitting participant.

Tharon's chest heaved as his breathing quickened. “Enough of this!” he bellowed, charging forward with his cleaver raised high. If he was going to die, he wouldn’t go down cowering like some animal.

Renzia moved then, but not in the way he expected. Instead of bracing for his attack, she stumbled backward, her footing catching on a loose piece of rubble. Her body pitched sideways, arms flailing like a clumsy puppet, and she toppled to the ground with a resounding crash. The remaining needle she clung to skittered out of her grasp, spinning wildly across the floor.

Tharon blinked, his cleaver faltering mid-swing. His lip curled into a sneer, half disbelieving and half elated. “You’re not so perfect, are you?” he jeered, taking a step closer.

But just as he raised his blade again, she moved with startling speed, pushing herself upright in one fluid motion that seemed to erase the clumsiness of her fall. Her hand darted out, seizing the dropped needle mid-spin, and she twisted her body around in a single seamless movement to face him.

The mannequin’s head tilted again, this time almost mockingly, as though she were daring him to try again.

“Damn you!” he roared, swinging the cleaver in a wide arc aimed for her midsection.

She ducked, the movement unnervingly smooth, and slid past him with a dancer’s grace. He stumbled, overcompensating, and nearly lost his balance as her needle struck the ground just beside his foot, digging deep into the stone.

The air around them felt heavy, charged, like the ruin itself was holding its breath. Tharon pivoted, sweat dripping down his face, and found her standing a few feet away. She twirled the retrieved needles with almost playful elegance before planting it on the ground with a deliberate tap.

Her motions were maddening, shifting between childlike clumsiness and cold, calculated precision. It wasn’t a fight anymore—it was a display, and Tharon was the audience.

“You’re nothing but a damn doll!” he spat, his voice cracking under the weight of his fear. “A broken thing!”

The mannequin froze, her frame unnaturally still, as though his words had struck something deep within her. For a fleeting heartbeat, it was almost as if she were considering his accusation. But then the stillness shattered. Her entire body began to shudder violently, each motion sharp and unnatural, like a marionette caught in a storm. The grating sound of creaking joints and taut fabric filled the air, her stitched seam rippling grotesquely, as if something beneath it stirred to life.

With a sudden, predatory grace, her arms coiled back like a serpent ready to strike. Her needles gleamed, each one perfectly aligned and aimed with unerring precision. In an instant, they shot forward—a blur of silver slicing through the air.

The needles pierced his chest and neck with sickening precision, the force pinning him against the wall. His eyes widened in shock, his lips parting as if to scream, but no sound came. Only a gurgling rasp escaped as blood welled at the corners of his mouth, his head slumping forward in final, futile defiance.

The mannequin remained there for a moment, her frame eerily still once more, as if admiring her handiwork. Then, with a deliberate motion, she withdrew her needles, each one sliding free with a wet, unsettling sound.

As Vivienne licked the last streak of crimson from her lips, the faint echo of soft, deliberate footsteps reached her ears. She turned, her dark eyes gleaming with curiosity as Renzia emerged from the shadows of a crumbling corridor. The mannequin moved with her usual eerie mix of grace and clumsiness, dragging a corpse behind her. The body scraped along the uneven stone floor, its limbs bent at unnatural angles, a testament to her work.

Vivienne’s grin widened, sharp and predatory, the blood on her teeth glinting in the dim light. She straightened and stepped forward, her movements slow and deliberate, savoring the moment.

“Oh, you took care of him,” Vivienne purred, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. “Good girl.”

She reached out and gently placed a hand on Renzia’s head, her claws lightly grazing the mannequin’s dark red hair. Renzia froze, her featureless face tilted upward toward Vivienne, and for a moment, she seemed to preen under the praise. Her shuddering body stilled, and her hands released their grip on the corpse as if the task were now secondary to this rare acknowledgment.

Vivienne chuckled softly, her bloody tongue flicking lazily over her teeth. “It seems I have a very efficient friend. What more could a woman ask for?” She tousled the mannequin’s hair with deliberate fondness, her claws snagging lightly on stray threads.

Renzia, still voiceless, tilted her head sharply to the side as though to ask Is there more to do? Her fingers flexed slightly, metallic tools glinting faintly as if eager for the next task.

Vivienne laughed, stepping back and gesturing lazily toward the corpse. “For now, my dear, we must find this Rathik. I am eager to meet him as I have heard much about it.” She cast a glance at the crumpled body and her grin turned wry. “Though maybe I could take another snack break. Just a treat. For me.”

After some bloody and wet crunches and a half eaten body later, Vivienne wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smirking as she turned away from the remains of her “snack.” Her black eyes glinted in the dim light, and she gave Renzia a playful pat on the shoulder. “That was delightful,” she purred, her voice thick with satisfaction. “Now, let’s find this Rathik. I’d hate to keep him waiting.”

Renzia tilted her head in acknowledgment, her stitched face betraying no emotion but her movements conveying quiet obedience. She adjusted her grip on her needles and followed Vivienne as they delved deeper into the twisting corridors of the undercity.

The undercity stretched endlessly before them, its maze of tunnels twisting like the guts of some forgotten beast. The air grew colder, and the faint sounds of dripping water echoed through the stone halls. Vivienne led the way, her sharp claws clicking softly against the floor, her forked tongue flicking out now and then to taste the aether lingering in the stale air.

“Rathik is down here somewhere,” she muttered, her voice low. “And I’m dying to see what all the fuss is about.”

Renzia followed silently, her movements unnervingly smooth, save for the occasional clumsy scrape of a needle against the stone wall. Her head turned sharply at intervals, as if catching faint whispers that eluded Vivienne. She carried herself with a strange blend of innocence and menace, the ruined maid’s dress swaying as she moved.

As they delved deeper, the air thickened with the telltale tang of concentrated aether. Vivienne stopped, crouching low to press her fingers to the cold ground. The energy thrummed faintly beneath her touch, like a living pulse.

“This way,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She turned to Renzia, her black eyes gleaming. “Stay sharp. I wouldn’t be surprised if Rathik’s pets were lurking nearby.”

Renzia nodded once, adjusting her grip on her needles as the two pressed onward. The tunnel narrowed, forcing them into single file. The shadows grew longer, and the distant sound of grinding stone rumbled faintly through the air.

The massive chamber loomed before them, carved deep into the ancient rock. Its walls, once majestic, were now lined with skeletal remnants of statues, their forms mangled by time. Faces that might have once inspired awe had been worn down to grotesque smears, the details stripped away by centuries of neglect. In the center of the chamber stood a massive iron gate, towering and ominous. Flanking it were crumbling stone pillars, their surfaces etched with faded carvings that hinted at a forgotten language. Chains coiled at the gate's base, gleaming faintly in the dim light like sleeping serpents, their weight a testament to the gate’s long-sealed nature.

Vivienne stepped forward, her lips curling into a grin that exposed bloodstained teeth. “Well, well. What have we here?” Her claws tapped rhythmically against her thigh, the sound sharp and deliberate. She gestured toward the gate, her black eyes glinting with interest. “It looks like someone has been through here recently. Don’t you think, darling?”

Renzia approached the gate with a cautious grace, her footsteps barely disturbing the dust underfoot. She tilted her head, examining the iron barrier with an almost childlike curiosity. Her fingers brushed lightly against the cold, rusted metal, tracing the jagged edges of the carvings on its surface. The stitched seam of her face seemed to ripple faintly, as though she were pondering something unspoken. She turned to Vivienne, tilting her head in a silent question.

Vivienne shrugged, stepping closer. “Only one way to find out.” She pressed her hands against the gate, pushing with a firm strength. The rusted metal groaned in protest, resisting at first before giving way with a shriek that echoed through the chamber. Dust and fragments of rust rained down as the gate creaked open, revealing a dark corridor beyond.

Without hesitation, Vivienne stepped through, her movements fluid and confident. “Come along, Renzia. Our mystery awaits.”

The corridor led to a spiral staircase carved directly into the stone, its steps slick with condensation and worn smooth by untold years of use. The air grew heavier as they descended, the faint taste of aether thickening with every step. It was almost intoxicating, a sharp tang that coiled on Vivienne’s tongue like smoke.

Renzia followed in silence, her needles glinting faintly as she gripped them tightly. Her stitched face betrayed nothing, but the tension in her posture spoke volumes.

The descent seemed endless, the staircase spiraling deeper and deeper into the earth. Time lost meaning as the oppressive air grew thicker, the taste of aether now almost suffocating. Finally, after what felt like hours, they reached the bottom.

The space that unfolded before them was nothing short of colossal. The chamber stretched hundreds of meters in every direction, its ceiling lost in shadow. Dominating the center was a large castle, certainly larger than the Serkoth clanhall, and a few hundred metres above it was an orb of light, massive and radiant, its glow filling the chamber with the hues of a perpetual day. It pulsed with raw energy, the kind that made Vivienne’s skin prickle uncomfortably.

Vivienne hissed, instinctively recoiling from the light as though it were a living thing. Her sharp black eyes narrowed, and she quickly darted back into the shadows of the staircase, her movements swift and fluid. She cast one last, resentful glance at the orb. "This is going to be a problem," she muttered, her voice thick with irritation and a hint of apprehension.

Renzia, ever the stoic presence beside her, stepped forward cautiously, her wooden frame creaking softly as she moved. She raised her needles, poised and alert, ready for any potential threat. She tilted her head slightly, studying the orb with an unnerving lack of fear, as though its blinding light held no sway over her. Her featureless face betrayed nothing, but the tension in her posture was unmistakable. She turned toward Vivienne, her silent question hanging in the air, clear even without words.

Vivienne leaned back against the cold stone wall of the staircase, her claws digging into the surface as she contemplated their next move. She took a deep breath, exhaling sharply through her teeth. "It’s pure dawn aether," she muttered under her breath, her voice strained. "Ouch." She winced as the words left her lips, as though the very idea of it pained her.

She stared at the orb, her black eyes narrowing as the raw, pulsing light filled the chamber. It was like the sun itself had been distilled into this one brilliant sphere, and the aether it radiated burned against her skin. There was no way she could walk through that. No direct approach would work. Not without more preparation, at least.

Vivienne turned to Renzia, the faint pulsing of the dawn aether overhead making her skin prickle. Her black eyes glimmered with an almost childlike amusement as her lips curled into a wry smile. “Renzia,” she murmured, her tone soft but edged with a sly darkness. “Would you mind carrying Mama?”

Renzia paused, her wooden frame unnaturally still, then tilted her head slightly. A quiet nod followed, her movements precise and deliberate. Without hesitation, she stuck the needles into the ground beside her, working to unbutton her ruined, threadbare dress, revealing a smooth, off-white cloth skin beneath. Buttons, once stark and pristine but now dulled with age, ran in a straight line down her torso.

With a deftness that bordered on eerie, Renzia unfastened the buttons along her chest. The hollow interior of her frame was revealed: an unsettlingly pristine space lined with more of the same cloth, slightly frayed at the edges but surprisingly clean despite her ancient appearance. The space seemed unnaturally inviting, an absence designed for something—or someone.

Vivienne’s grin widened, the sharp points of her teeth catching the dim light. “Such a good girl,” she cooed, her voice dripping with genuine warmth. She stepped closer and gave Renzia’s cloth-wrapped shoulder a gentle pat. “Thank you, my dear.”

Taking a steadying breath, Vivienne began to release her form, her body melting and shifting as though dissolving into shadow. Her humanoid outline blurred, collapsing into a writhing, shapeless mass of flesh and aether. It was a disturbing sight: a black, semi-liquid essence that pulsed faintly as though alive. She compressed herself as much as she could, the process akin to forcing herself into a space too small, the sensation claustrophobic despite her lack of need for breath.

The transition was slow and deliberate, her essence flowing like ink into the mannequin’s frame. The hollow interior of Renzia’s chest seemed to accept her without resistance, though Vivienne could feel the unnatural tightness as she condensed herself further. It was like holding her breath indefinitely, every ounce of her being compacted and restrained. Her thoughts remained sharp, though, her focus heightened by the discomfort.

Once Vivienne’s form was fully condensed and nestled inside, Renzia rebuttoned her torso with swift, deliberate fingers, the faint click of each button sealing Vivienne safely within. With a final adjustment of her dilapidated dress, Renzia straightened her posture, a subtle shift in her bearing that hinted at newfound purpose.

Inside the hollow mannequin, Vivienne’s voice resonated, muffled yet clear, dripping with wry humor. “Cozy, in its own macabre way,” she remarked, her tone half-amused. “But don’t get used to this. I prefer being the one in control.”

Renzia tilted her head briefly, as if acknowledging the comment, though she remained silent. Her movements, however, spoke volumes. Fluid and deliberate, she retrieved her massive needles from where they rested and held them at the ready. At Vivienne’s urging, she stepped forward into the oppressive light of the chamber, her wooden frame absorbing the radiance without hesitation.

The moment Renzia crossed the threshold into the blazing aura of the dawn aether, Vivienne hissed softly, the intensity of the energy seeping through the mannequin’s frame. “It’s still getting in,” she growled, her voice low and edged with discomfort. “But I can manage for now, sweetheart. Just get us into that castle.”

Renzia quickened her pace, her footsteps unnaturally quiet against the uneven stone floor. The oppressive light from the radiant orb above cast sharp, angular shadows across the chamber, yet she moved like a phantom, her presence a dark contrast to the blinding glow. Navigating the scattered debris of the ancient fortress with a dancer’s precision, she finally darted behind a massive boulder, its shadow offering a brief reprieve from the open chamber.

Peering from her cover, her head tilted slightly as she studied the ruined walls of the castle. Figures moved along the battlements—guards, their silhouettes etched against the glow of the orb. They were clad in mismatched armor, their movements weary but watchful. Some bore torches, their flames flickering futilely in the artificial daylight, while others carried weapons that gleamed faintly in the light.

Inside her hollow form, Vivienne’s voice hummed, low and calculating. “Ah, they’ve managed to survive down here all this time, haven’t they? Poor fools. They’ll wish they hadn’t once we’re through.”

Renzia shifted slightly, her joints creaking softly as she tightened her grip on her massive needles. Vivienne’s voice returned, sharper this time. “No direct assault. We don’t know their numbers or what’s inside. We need subtlety, Renzia. Think like a hunter.”

The mannequin nodded faintly, her stitched head tilting once more before she moved. She hugged the base of the boulder, her wooden frame blending eerily with the jagged rocks around her, and began slipping from shadow to shadow. Every movement was precise, each pause calculated to avoid the gaze of the sentries above.

One guard turned, scanning the chamber below. Renzia froze instantly, her form rigid, as if she were just another lifeless relic scattered among the ruins. The guard’s eyes swept over her and moved on. Only then did Renzia continue, inching closer to the fortress walls with unrelenting patience.

Reaching the base of the wall, she pressed herself flat against the crumbling stone. Above her, the guards’ footsteps thudded faintly as they patrolled, their weapons clinking softly with each step. Vivienne’s voice echoed again, her tone almost teasing. “You’ve done well so far, sweetheart. But we need to get higher.”

Renzia’s head turned upward, her faceless visage tilting as she examined the wall. Its surface was rough with age, cracks spider-webbing through the stone, offering potential handholds. With deliberate care, she stowed her needles into the hollow of her torso and began to climb.

Her movements were almost unnatural—smooth and efficient, her hands and feet finding purchase with precision. Despite her wooden frame, she ascended with the ease of a spider scaling its web. The sound of her joints was barely audible over the ambient noise of the chamber.

As she neared the battlements, Renzia paused, her head swiveling toward a nearby window. It was partially shattered, its edges jagged but wide enough to slip through. The light from the orb cast fractured beams through the broken glass, highlighting dust motes dancing lazily in the air.

Vivienne’s voice came again, this time a hushed murmur. “Perfect. Quiet now, sweetheart. Let’s not ruin the surprise.”

Renzia shifted her position, her fingers gripping the edge of the window frame. With a single fluid motion, she pulled herself inside, her form vanishing into the dimly lit interior of the castle.

The room she entered was silent, a forgotten space cloaked in shadow. Dust coated every surface, and old furniture lay strewn about, rotting where it had fallen. Renzia’s movements were careful as she stood, her head turning slightly to take in her surroundings.

Vivienne’s voice echoed faintly, a mix of satisfaction and anticipation. “Now, let’s see what secrets this old keep is hiding, shall we?”