1189 Order Before Chaos
Oriole knelt beside the fissure, the raw energy humming against his skin. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, a bittersweet smile tugging at his lips. This gateway was both his creation and his undoing – a desperate gamble born from necessity.
He reached into his coat, fingers brushing the smooth, egg-shaped artifact. It pulsed with a dim blue light, the coordinates of Alka encoded within, along with the instructions he dared not speak aloud.
With a final glance at the chaotic swirling depths of the fissure, Oriole tossed the artifact into its core. It disappeared with a shimmer, an offering to a world on the brink of war.
"The die is cast," he whispered, his voice barely registering over the constant drone of the fissure. He was a strategist, a healer, not a warrior. Yet, against time, against an omniscient king… this was his only weapon.
His return to the hidden cabinet was marked by an uneasy prickling at the back of his neck. The Giant Garden pulsed with life, but a chilling silence clung to the area around the fissure, an accusing void in the otherwise teeming wilderness. Something felt wrong, a sense of eyes upon his back, a premonition clawing at his composure.
The sight that greeted him at his cabinet was enough to confirm his fears. The door hung open, its rune-engraved lock shattered, the potent warning meant to ward off any intruder's useless wreckage. "Someone was here," Oriole gritted out, tension snaking down his spine. Caleb could taunt him safely, but escape was impossible with the poison coursing through his veins.
The inside of the cabinet was a tableau of chaos. Furniture smashed; his precious equipment scattered in disarray – the evidence of a hasty, desperate search. Time was his enemy now, every second wasted pushing him closer to an unknown peril. Oriole spun, heading towards the back room where his prize lay sprawled.
"You'll regret this, you know," Caleb rasped from the floor. His voice was weaker now, laced with a new note of fear. "I can see it… the visions, they… they're relentless."
Oriole ignored him. His focus was singular. His hands moved in a frantic blur, shoving scattered supplies into his subspace as he searched for vital components. Each second stretched, every rustle a potential threat.
"So much spilled blood…" Caleb's voice rose to a strangled cry. His eyes darted wildly, fixating on unseen scenes.
"Shut up," Oriole snapped, his voice barely a whisper. Had Caleb truly seen his end? Was this all a futile struggle against an unyielding fate? No. Oriole shoved the traitorous doubt aside. Arthur needed him.
Finally, his hands closed around a small rune-engraved cylinder. He turned, a chilling certainty washing over him as the figure silhouetted in the damaged doorway.
"My, my…" a woman's voice drawled, cool as frost. Her mask gleamed dully in the dim light, obscuring her features but not the predatory glint in her eyes. "Always thought you a bit brilliant, Oriole. Such a pity."
A bolt of ice shot through Oriole. This wasn't a mere intruder, a petty thief… this was someone with purpose. "And you are?" he countered, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm. He didn't recognize her, but the aura of control around her was unmistakable.
"Let's just say… someone interested in cleaning up a mess." Her voice curdled around the words. "All this… insurrection… chaos. Quite disruptive to the natural order, wouldn't you agree?"
"Order?" Oriole spat out the word, bile rising in his throat. "This kingdom thrives on suffering, on lies! You speak of order, yet let innocents rot in their cells."
A laugh bubbled up from the masked figure, cutting through the tension like a blade. "Oh, Oriole. So na?ve. The world is never so simple, is it? Change always comes with sacrifice, with… difficult decisions. The Yalen line is old, its power waning… a new age requires new leadership."
"And you'll provide it, I assume?" Oriole countered, stalling, his mind racing for a way out – a trick, an illusion, anything. "Tell me… can *you* see the future?" He gestured toward Caleb who huddled against the wall, eyes wide with a terrible realization.
The woman hesitated, just a flicker in her perfect control. "Why… why does that matter?"
"Because," Oriole pressed, his voice gaining a deceptive calm, "I think he does. He sees what you intend, the blood you're willing to spill. And he doesn't like the ending, does he, Caleb?"
The prince shrieked, scrambling back from the two figures facing off in the doorway. "It's everywhere, the red…you'll both drown in it, I promise you!"
Seizing the moment, Oriole triggered the cylinder in a burst of blinding light. Teleportation runes flared, engulfing him and Caleb in a blinding flash. His grip tightened around the prince, both of them wrenched away as the woman's enraged screech echoed behind them.
They landed in a heap in an unfamiliar forest. Dense foliage and strange, buzzing insects marked a world far cry from the Giant Garden. Oriole shoved Caleb away, a flicker of grim satisfaction as the prince's eyes darted, filled with a new kind of terror.
"No…no, this isn't right…the visions…" Caleb muttered. The arrogant prince bordered on hysteria, his perfect prophecies twisting into nightmarish possibilities before his very eyes.
Oriole felt a cold, unwelcome certainty. Escape was an illusion, he knew, even if it wasn't into the clutches of his enemy. Yet, he forced his mind away from the bleakness Caleb's mutterings implied. Oriole didn't dare waste time. The unfamiliar world around them was a tapestry of hidden dangers, the buzzing and chittering of insects a constant reminder they were far from familiar territory. Each step was a gamble, tension a coiled snake inside him.
Caleb couldn't manage more than a stumble before collapsing, the poison's effects leaving him a shivering, helpless burden. His incessant muttering of 'blood' and 'darkness' grated on Oriole's nerves, a constant prophecy of doom hanging over them. Yet, even those warped visions might be distorted by the shock of relocation. There was still hope.
Then it came – the faint hum of power he recognized instantly. The telltale tang of spatial runes singed the air. She was close, too close. "We have to move!" Oriole hissed, adrenaline spiking as he scooped Caleb up with his telekinesis. The effort was surprisingly easy – the poison weakening the prince further was one sliver of a silver lining.
Every fiber of his being screamed against it, but he plunged off the path, into the thick, choking foliage. Movement would expose them, but stillness meant capture. He forced his way through the grasping vines, praying for some semblance of concealment. The added strain of his powers left him breathless, but stopping wasn't an option.
They didn't have long. A flash of movement, a flicker of runes, and the masked woman materialized in the clearing they'd just abandoned. Her eyes swept the area, landing on their trail with disconcerting accuracy.
"Oriole…" she breathed, and the sound was less a shout, more a chilling promise.
Panic surged through him, a bitter metallic taste on his tongue. Caleb's frantic whimpers echoed his own rising fear as they pressed deeper into the undergrowth. Oriole's hand clenched, fingers brushing the runic dagger still tucked in his sleeve.
He'd avoided using his runic creations against others. They were tools for healing, for saving lives, not… this. But Arthur… Alka… everything he'd been fighting for depended on making it out of this jungle alive.
As the woman neared, Oriole found a burst of desperate strength, forcing a path through the unforgiving terrain with his powers. He knew it was unsustainable, but delay was their only weapon.
"Stop!" the woman commanded; her voice sharp enough to cut through the undergrowth. She halted; the space charged with volatile energy. "The prince isn't my target, nor am I truly his protector. There are… larger forces at play."
Oriole paused, her words sending a ripple of confusion through him. "What are you talking about? He's the heir to the throne," he countered, gesturing towards Caleb whose form was a trembling weight hovering beside him.
"A throne I intend to see toppled," the woman said. Her voice wasn't loud, yet it reverberated with undeniable resolve. The revelation hit Oriole like a physical blow. Rebellion brewed in the shadows of Yalen, yet this wasn't the resistance he'd known.
"You… you're one of the rebels?" he asked, mind reeling, his focus wavering dangerously as he struggled to keep both himself and the prince afloat.
"Not a rebel, Oriole. A revolutionary," she corrected, a flicker of something akin to amusement behind the mask. "The throne has fostered tyranny. It's time for a reckoning, time the Yalens faced consequences."
A sliver of understanding began to dawn on Oriole. Her focus on him, this relentless pursuit…it wasn't about keeping the prince safe; it was about stopping HIS potential interference.
"I won't hand him back," Oriole said firmly, the effort of defiance straining his voice. "Not until I understand what you intend. Your 'revolution' will bring bloodshed, too."
The woman seemed unfazed. "There's a difference, Oriole. Mine is bloodshed with a purpose. Order must be restored before it can break. Chaos can achieve nothing. This rebellion you've sparked won't last beyond the Yalen's wrath."
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