Rise of Tyrus

The cathedral's courtyard stretched before them like a forgotten garden reclaimed by time and neglect.

Weeds pushed through every crack, reaching ankle high in some places, their stubborn green shoots creating a carpet of wild growth in what had once been carefully maintained stone. The air was thick with the musty scent of moss and rot, and brambles—tall as Tyrus himself—were scattered like hedges across the yard.

Tyrus eyed them and couldn't resist the thought: Maybe the greater hardscale had been a gardener whenever it wasn't hungry.

"If by 'gardener' you mean something that arranged deadly obstacles for tactical advantage, then yes," Eaubrus said. "Though I suspect its landscaping philosophy leaned heavily toward 'spike everything.'"

They followed what appeared to be a wide path through the courtyard, the only route that seemed clear enough for something the size of the greater hardscale to navigate. Deep impressions in the earth showed where massive feet had repeatedly flattened the weeds and smaller plants, creating a crude road between the cathedral and the square beyond. No danger prickled at his senses now. The oppressive tension that had nearly buckled his knees earlier was gone.

So it really was the hardscale that triggered my instincts, Tyrus thought with relief. If he'd ignored that warning, he and Reo may have walked right into its jaws unprepared. Fighting that thing near the hedges would have been a nightmare to deal with.

The group climbed the worn steps, boots scuffing moss from the ancient stone. The cathedral's broad double doors hung off rusted hinges, one canted half-open, the other sagging. Grant pushed, and the heavy wood groaned before giving way.

The air inside was heavy with old earth. Weeds sprouted from every crevice, their roots digging deep into the mortar between stones. Shattered stained glass lay scattered across the floor like multicolored snow, the fragments catching what light managed to filter through the largely missing roof. Brambles and vines had colonized the walls, their thorny tendrils reaching toward the streams of sunlight that poured through gaps in the ceiling.

Bones lay everywhere. Not human, as their shapes and sizes made it clear they had belonged to beasts. Some still bore ragged bite marks, others had been gnawed to splinters. In the center of the nave sat a crude nest of leaves and torn branches, wide enough for the greater hardscale's bulk to curl in.

"Charming place," Reo muttered. "Someone remind me why we came in here?"

"Because beasts like that don't guard ruins for no reason," Fiona said, her voice clipped. "Keep your guard up. And your eyes open. Look for anything valuable we can sell."

They spread out, picking their way carefully through the debris while avoiding the larger bramble patches. Tyrus kept his sword drawn as he searched through piles of detritus for anything that might have value.

Most of what he found was worthless; corroded metal that had once been ceremonial items, fragments of pottery too damaged to be worth salvaging, scraps of cloth that fell apart at the slightest touch. Whatever treasures this place might once have contained had either been destroyed by time, snatched up by others before them, or were buried too deep beneath the accumulated refuse to recover.

It was a real disappointment. Tyrus had been hoping to earn a bit more sil after getting his cut of the rewards. But, he couldn't say he was shocked. The cathedral looked ancient, like it hadn't been touched in ages, maybe even decades. He figured if you so much as breathed on it, the whole place would turn to dust.

After finding nothing of value, Tyrus made his way toward the largest gap in the roof, where a broad column of sunlight illuminated the cathedral's interior. The light pooled into a wide depression at the center, half a man's height deep. If someone fell in, they'd sink to their waist. Rubble and dirt filled the pit, but what caught Tyrus's attention was beyond it. On the far wall, mostly hidden under vines and dirt, lay a mural.

He crouched, squinting. Long claw marks and gouges scarred the stone, as though the hardscale itself had tried to erase it. Dirt obscured much of the image, but through the scratches he could make out one strange detail: a hand, rendered in faded colors, dripping some kind of black liquid onto an open patch of soil. In the soil sat a single white seed.

That was all. A fragment of something larger, a story ripped away by claws and time.

What does it mean? Tyrus wondered. He ran a hand through his hair, frowning.

Eaubrus stirred in his shadow, his voice hesitant. "I… remember this."

"You do?"

"A faint memory. I have looked at this mural before. Long ago, but I cannot recall why. The memory slips away when I reach for it."

Tyrus's brow furrowed. "You said something like that at the Wildwood sanctuary. Is there a connection between the two?"

"I… do not know," Eaubrus admitted reluctantly.

"It's progress, at least," Tyrus said, trying to stay positive. "You remembered being here. Maybe visiting important locations could be the key to restoring your memories, given that you used to travel around Dharmere."

The thought sparked another idea. What other important locations were there? The Elder Treant back at the Wasteful Wetlands came to mind, but his stomach churned at the thought of returning to that awful place. Dealing with the lizardmen and the other nasty beasts there again was not something he looked forward to.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He remembered the swamp stench, the lizardmen's ambushes, and the predators lurking under murky water. Tyrus didn't want to return there anytime soon. He would have to think about it later.

Still, it was a lead, so he filed it away.

His attention shifted back to the depression under the sunlight. He stepped closer and peered down into the rubble, searching for any glimmer or odd shape. Nothing interesting crossed his eyes, just broken stone and packed dirt. Yet the image of the seed lingered in his mind, nagging. A seed beneath sunlight, watered with black liquid… was it symbolic? A ritual? Or something else entirely?

His head throbbed with the mounting questions swirling in his mind. There were too many questions to think of, yet little to no answers to any of them. Why did everything have to be so complicated? It would be a breath of fresh air if answers came to him naturally...

Right as the throbbing faded, the sound of approaching footsteps made him turn toward his right, where a stone statue stood with only its legs intact. The statue depicted flowing robes carved with intricate leaf patterns, slender legs underneath, and bare feet rendered with remarkable detail. Near the base of the statue, he noticed a small opening in the ground that he hadn't seen before.

From that opening emerged a figure. The man who climbed into the light was tall and lean, wearing white robes over blue garments, both laced with golden outlines that caught the sunlight streaming through the cathedral's broken roof. He was clean-shaven, with a crooked nose and a square face.

"Alaran," Tyrus muttered just as the rest of his group ran up to him.

Alaran, Apostle of Thasmian, strutted over to Tyrus with a calm posture. From what he could recall, Alaran was a diamond explorer, and the same man who had presided over Blue Dawn's rank promotion. What was he doing way out here, far from a guild?

"I heard quite a commotion while I was underground," Alaran said, brushing dust from his robes. "I assumed the rock spiders and hardscales had finally decided to settle their territorial dispute once and for all. You are Blue Dawn, correct?"

Before anyone could respond, another figure emerged from the opening behind Alaran, causing Igneal to straighten with slight surprise.

"Sir Wayne?" Igneal called out. "What are you doing here with an Apostle?"

The knight emerged from the passage with his usual impeccable bearing. "Young master, after the battle concluded, and I was certain of your safety, I detected a strong mana signature emanating from this direction. I thought it prudent to investigate, in case it posed a threat to your continued well-being."

"You both were down there during the entire fight?" Grant asked.

"I was conducting a religious study," Alaran said, his gaze sweeping the overgrown interior. "This was once a temple of Mevena. The people here worshiped her to gain favor, but for reasons unknown, they abandoned it. Temples fall when faith withers, or when a deity renounces favor."

Fiona studied him. "And you're here to… what? Figure out why?"

Alaran's eyes moved to the desecrated mural. "This place has been ravaged by beasts and time. Yet truth survives even when obscured. What remains suggests devotion to Mevena, with practices built around the cycle of life, around the beasts themselves as instruments of balance."

"Balance?" Igneal repeated, skeptical. "From what I've seen, beasts care little for balance. They kill, they consume, they grow stronger."

The Apostle looked at him, and Igneal fell silent. Alaran didn't rebuke him or frown. He simply waited until Igneal averted his eyes.

Then, softly, he answered: "Mortals often mistake hunger for chaos. Yet even the killing of beasts is a form of balance, a culling, an order enforced without words. Mevena was not a patron of kindness. She was a patron of the natural order, both harsh and sustaining. She is the deity of nature and beasts."

Alaran turned back to the mural, his hands folding into his sleeves. "Mevena Scar is said to be her mark. A cleaving wound across the High Plateau. The scholars speak of it as proof of her divine existence and might. But the real truth often lies beneath a story. Why would she do it? To protect? To punish? To create? Or was it an accident of power, beyond even her control?"

He lowered his voice, and the others instinctively leaned closer. "Or maybe the answer is much more straightforward. Mevena wasn't separate from nature; she was nature. Mountains erode, rivers carve through valleys, earthquakes rip the ground apart... Why should it shock mortals that a goddess representing the living world could also leave her mark?"

The words sank in heavy. Even Fiona, normally eager to speak, said nothing. It was Reo, surprisingly interested, who finally asked a question.

"And the people who lived here? Why build a town so close to that scar, with so many beasts around here?"

"Curiosity," Alaran said. "We crave meaning in what we do not understand. To dwell near Mevena's Scar was to witness her power. To build a temple here was to beg answers from the wound in the earth. Danger is not a deterrent when faith burns as fierce as the sun. It is often the opposite. And yet, they disappeared. Did Mevena abandon them? Did they lose faith? Or did truth reveal itself, and they could not bear it?"

Was Alaran always this talkative? Tyrus was given the first impression the Apostle was a man of few words, yet here he was, almost as chatty as Reo. That, and the hundreds of questions spewing out of his mouth!

Tyrus's eyes had followed his too, and he found himself staring at the strange hand painted on stone, dripping silver liquid onto the soil and its single seed. He couldn't help himself in the name of Eaubrus. "Do you know what it means?"

The Apostle stepped closer. He studied the scarred image without blinking. "The hand is divine, so we assume it is Mevena. As for the seed, there are dozens of possibilities. It is said that seed signifies the Elder Treants that occupy Mevena's sanctuaries across Dharmere. Or maybe all life originated from that single seed. But the liquid…"

He tilted his head slightly. "The gods do not bleed as mortals do. Their essence is mana. Silver, red, black… truth is, we do not know the color of their life when it is spilled. But this depiction suggests Mevena watering the seed with her own essence. A gift of herself, or the blood of another, sacrificed for growth."

At the mention of blood, Tyrus felt Eaubrus stirring restlessly in his shadow. Normally the wolf remained perfectly still unless directly engaged...

"Everything alright?" Tyrus asked mentally.

"I am deep in thought," Eaubrus replied, his mental voice troubled. "Something about this place... this imagery..."

When Tyrus looked back at Alaran, he found the Apostle staring directly at him with those penetrating brown eyes, as if he could see something others couldn't. Just as Tyrus was about to ask what the matter was, Alaran looked away.

"My time here is finished. I have learned what I came to learn. I wish to travel with your group, if you permit it. The nearest guild branch is my next destination, and it is wiser to move together than alone."

The five of them exchanged quick glances. No one voiced an objection. How could they? To refuse an Apostle of Thasmian—a diamond ranked explorer as well—would be unthinkable and rude. Even Igneal, who often bristled at the authority of another, inclined his head in assent.

Fiona cleared her throat and addressed the older man. "It would be a blessing to have someone of your status accompany our little group! We're heading back to report our success, anyway."

Alaran remained straight faced and nodded toward the exit.

"Lead the way, Blue Dawn."