An Eldritch Legacy: Sin & Sacrilege

Figures could be seen moving in what appeared to be an underground arena in the wee hours of the night. The air was crisp and warm, suggesting that wherever the light from the great pillar passed or phased through, the air was heated. Even in places, this light was denied the right to enter.

The days may have passed by, but they had seemingly not changed anything at all. Things in the South only grew more eerie as the Surge thinned. But the happenings of the South and its Cardinal had nothing to do with the figures now lost in battle.

The audience seats were empty. The place that once would have held people of all kinds—roaring in frenzy and bloodlust—was now abandoned. The atmosphere shifted, becoming one where the figures clashing in the arena were watched only by the eyes hidden within the darkness—eyes the light never reached. Nothing stirred except the soft sound of the wind flowing across concrete seats, sweeping away nonexistent dust. It sounded more like the exhale of unseen entities. The oppressive nature of the emptiness left much to be desired. The only other sound was the clash of the figures locked in battle, but even then it was almost missed due to their style of combat.

No one watched. No one cheered. No one bore witness to the disgrace of the Southern Duchess's last-born daughter, defeated at the hands of her sister—a single year her senior.

There were no skies above, only a dome that seemed to hold the magnitude of the oppressive darkness that comes when light is denied entry. Though it was no fault of the structure—since it was built underground—there were no excuses that could ever stop nature from taking its course and correcting the mistakes of mortals.

But for all intents and purposes, this was the design. The arena had been built to mimic the world beyond the walls of Astrea. Yet unlike the world beyond, the darkness here was empty, almost artificial. It lacked the malevolence that was sewn into the very fabric of existence outside. Its history rooted deep in the forgotten past; no one remembers why their ancestors had built it this way. And the Cardinal Duchess would have it no other way. To give the masses the power of knowledge had seen many powers crumble from the ambition of their people, so the duchess would rather they rot in ignorance than have people seeking to destroy what little peace they had carved out for themselves, all because some idiots sought answers where there would be none.

The soft light from the numerous dotted lanterns hanging above seemed like echoes of stars long-forgotten—shadows of the brilliance they once offered to children they never birthed. The fluttering of glass seemed to provide a background for everything that was the silence of this place. These lanterns were not powered by flames but by the flutters within. As for what they truly were, these were secrets that would rather be forgotten, for the ire of their origins would doom them all.

Yet that did not stop them from using these great sources of light if they could. Living in fear was never the way of those who chose to become walkers.

But none of this had anything to do with the figures clashing below.

To call it a clash gave too much weight to context and too little to subtext.

It was more like a performance—a dance for unseen gods—until the sudden coughing and wheezing of a familiar figure tore the illusion away. This was a brutal beatdown, though it carried a refined grace that made it seem almost poetic, even mocking, to the one who suffered.

Her soundless, echoing cries of pain carried across the emptiness, boring through the material world, as the wind cried on her behalf where she could not release sound. For her lips were eternally sealed.

Though no one watched, the pressure of unseen gazes bore down heavier than any crowd. The pain of an audience you could not see—unsure whether they watched from afar or hovered near—shook the mind more than the certainty of visible scorn.

The sound of her blood hitting the ground was still beautiful.

It never fell in more than a single drop at a time. Yet, each one struck with a lyrical chime that soared through the cold air, soothing to those plagued by misery—at her expense. Even her own body mocked her weakness.

As her sweat mixed with her falling blood, adding a bass tone to every note seemed to add to the cinematic feel of this clash.

The way her hair swung with the wind, sounding like the strings of an instrument, added painful context to her humiliation.

Irina had never felt pain like this. No—she had. But this... this was different.

All her life, her pain had been for the lives of others—people she didn't know, people her mother, her sisters, or the nobles never cared about. Her heart ached for them, and that too had brought pain. But this was new. Physical pain—undeniable and raw—woke her to truths she'd preferred to ignore.

Until now, she'd been allowed to wallow in her world, the rebellious child she never truly saw herself as—a mercy from her mother.

All she did was train, eat, and sleep. She observed the world beyond her home from the windows of her opulent bedchamber, never knowing how deeply twisted her hypocrisy ran, but she was finding out more and more of what it truly meant to feel pain. She danced, composed, and explored the talents that ran in the blood of her family—daughters of the Cardinal Duchess of the South.

She would have sung, but that became impossible after what she did to her vocal cords—and the punishment that followed.

She had never truly seen her mother's fury—until then. That day, she learned to fear her, and she had believed her mother felt something for her, even when it was nothing more than what it seemed.

Sealing her ears had not helped. She had done it to spite her mother, only to be met with indifference. She wanted to see that fury again; at least then, she would know her mother cared. But it never came. She became crippled and disabled for nothing. Her tantrums had cost her everything she could have achieved—whether as mortal or something more.

Many things were now forever lost to her, but in her hindsight, she never once thought she had made a mistake, her perception deeply rooted in her world, where she failed to truly see what she was.

Her eyes would have been next, had it not been for a resistance—an external force—that prevented even the thought. So she chose to close them instead, never to open them again, never to see the godforsaken world.

Her life since then had been painless. Only the soreness of training, dancing until she bled, or the crashing ache of her mother's apathy ever disturbed it.

But this pain—this was different.

Only her self-mutilation had come close. But even then, she'd prepared for months, numbing herself beforehand, managing the worst of what would have killed her.

Now, being beaten brutally by her sister was an education in agony. A revelation. There was a kind of pain deeper than heartache—undeniable, immediate.

She had been sheltered for most of her life. Now she was learning the truth firsthand.

Their bodies weaved through the air like dancers. Grace and charm unfurled with every movement—movements that held no comparison.

Irina moved like a maiden, her humility steeped in every step. Her eyes remained closed, her breathing steady, interrupted only by the brutal kicks that met her body mid-flight.

Her sister, on the other hand, moved with wildness—like a barbarian or a street brawler. There was no grace, but talent turned that chaos into a charm all its own. Her dance was unrestrained defiance—opposite Irina's discipline and elegance. Years of suppression echoed in Irina's every motion. Perhaps that explained the sneer on her sister's lips.

There was nothing flowery in her movements. They were wild and vicious, soaked in venom brewed over time. And yet, if you only looked at her, you'd never believe it. Her style spoke the truth her face denied.

At every turn, Irina suffered.

The blows were brutal and relentless. So long as they caused no irreparable harm, her sister hit harder. As long as death stayed distant, she kept going. Irina had never prepared for pain like this.

Everything was unraveling; the walls she had built around herself were being torn down so ruthlessly that she was beginning to see herself for what she truly was, and what she saw, she did not like at all. Her mind was in turmoil, and the physical pain only sharpened the storm inside her.

Nothing worked as it should. Her mind was clouded by unfamiliar emotions—rage and unwillingness she never thought she could feel.

She had felt above all those things until she had to truly face them at this moment, and she did not like any of it.

Since she failed to awaken after the Surge, her life had been placed in the hands of those who didn't care whether she lived or not.

She had become useless. The truth of that fact now settled into her like a stone.

Even now, she refused to open her eyes, fighting to never have to see herself for what she was, struggling to maintain what little control she felt she needed.

Where her eyes would not help, she fought by 'listening' to the wind that sang.

Well, listening would not be the proper word for it, since her ears did not work as they should. Her body was so in tune with the notes that she could "see" through them. But her sister's wild combat style made the wind falter.

And she paid the price for it.