Necromancy In D Minor ✔️

Torchlight Duet

One of the few perks of being a criminal outcast in Hedalda, was getting to see parts of the village Octavia couldn't venture into otherwise. So, as the priests escorted her into the Council Hall, she kept her ears opened and eyes alert. Claud had said the nightwalker could be stowed away in the jailhouse. Now was her chance to find out.

The priests, led by Zhen, flanked her on both sides as they walked across the atrium. She looked towards the cold hearth, recalling a previous visit to this place, and felt a flash of heat through her palms. The discolouration on her hands from the burns hadn't faded yet, and neither had the memory of the fire licking at her skin.

They bypassed the benches, table and chairs and went through an opened door at the back. Octavia grimaced at the stairwell beyond the threshold, the throbbing pain in her body reminding her of her previous tumble. She went slow, easing her feet down to each step, and got to the bottom without embarrassing herself again.

Their trek continued to a small, wood door, which Zhen pushed open before nodding for her to go inside. The tight space beyond was more like a closet—occupied by a single, low table and shelves filled with old clothes. Hooks embedded into the walls hung heavy with keys and shackles strung through with cobwebs and dust bunnies.

Octavia stood by the table as the priest went about the room, surveying the shelves. Zhen pulled down a shift along with a pair of shackles and threw them on the table, disturbing the layer of dust clinging to it. "Get dressed."

Octavia undid her gown and pulled on the threadbare shift. The material scratched her skin like sandpaper, and fell off her shoulder on one side—the antithesis of the beautiful dress the clothier made her. She ran her hands over the delicate lace sleeves, knowing it was likely she'd never see or wear it again, and her heart broke. Before tonight, it had been years since she'd had an excuse to dress up. She was too busy running or fighting. Or both.

A clinking jingle drew her attention away from the dress and snapped her back to cold reality. Zhen held a ring of various keys, flipping through them before looping the whole thing around her wrist. She undid the ropes and secured the shackles around Octavia's wrists and feet, completing the jailhouse ensemble before escorting her from the room.

The short chains that linked the bonds, didn't allow for much movement, and their weight combined with her injuries turned her walk into an agonizing shuffle. Luckily, her new escorts were a little kinder than Diann, and would catch her before she became friendly with the floor again.

They walked the basement's main hall to the metal door at its end. A priest stepped forward to push it open, releasing a grunt from the effort. The miserable screech of rusted metal filled the hall, making Octavia's skin crawl. As the sound radiated outward, she ignored her discomfort and followed its vibrations.

Nothing. Octavia couldn't even react. She'd used up her quota of disappointment, and was jaded beyond reproach.

The passage beyond coughed out a cloud of dust and neglect. Zhen raised her hand and began to chanting, summoning glowing text to her fingers to light the way.

Octavia looked at the dust and cobwebs hanging from the walls and ceilings. The stale air tickled her nose and dried her throat, and the pathetic barrier of the threadbare shift was no match for the cold hanging in the air. This was a forgotten place, for forgotten people.

The walk into the passage was a short one, ending in front of a cell no bigger than the closet they'd just left.

Zhen unlocked it and the bars swung open with a metallic groan. Inside the cell were a pallet and a bucket. Nothing more. No light by which one could find their way, no window to allow fresh air in. Octavia stepped inside and the door was shut behind her. As the priests retreated, so did the light they brought with them, the slamming of the metal door signaling their exit.