Lord of the Foresaken
Chapter 59: ASSAULT ON THE RITUAL SITE

Chapter 59: ASSAULT ON THE RITUAL SITE

Dawn had not yet broken when Reed’s forces assembled at the outskirts of the Whispering Grotto. The ancient limestone formation—a massive cave system that had once served as a holy site before the Covenant—now emanated a sickly green phosphorescence that painted the mist-shrouded trees in ghastly hues. The air itself seemed to resist their presence, thick and cloying with the scent of copper and decay.

Reed surveyed his assembled forces from the shadow of a gnarled oak. Fifty of his elite goblin warriors crouched in perfect stillness, their green skin now covered in dark ritual paint that rendered them nearly invisible in the pre-dawn gloom. Unlike the feral goblin troops used by most Lords as disposable fodder, these were the products of Reed’s controversial breeding and training program—intelligent, disciplined, and fanatically loyal.

Behind them waited the combined forces of their new allies—twenty knights from Lady Serena’s Northern Reaches, a dozen shadow-warriors from Lord Everett’s forest domain, and Lady Dalia’s renowned battle-mages. It was a formidable force, yet Reed knew it might not be enough.

"The ritual energies have intensified since yesterday," Lady Serena observed, her breath forming crystalline clouds despite the summer warmth. Her ability to sense magical fluctuations had proven invaluable in pinpointing the ritual’s epicenter. "They’re nearing the final stage."

Reed nodded grimly. "Then we strike now." He reached into his cloak and withdrew the artifact Thorne had completed mere hours before—three Purity Seekers melded together with fragments from the Heart of Aetheria itself, forming a device that pulsed with uncomfortable blue-white light. The light seemed to bend wrongly around it, as if the artifact existed partially in another dimension.

"Remember," he addressed the assembled commanders, "our priority is disrupting the ritual. Subdue rather than kill when possible—many of these Heroes are victims, not willing participants."

"And if they’re too far gone?" asked Lord Everett, his weathered face grim beneath his hood.

Reed’s expression hardened. "Then you do what must be done."

He turned to Grask, his goblin commander. "Your units will enter through the western tunnels as planned. Lady Serena’s forces will create a diversion at the main entrance. Lord Everett’s shadow-warriors will protect Lady Dalia’s mages as they establish the containment field."

With practiced efficiency, the groups separated, moving into their assigned positions with minimal sound. Reed himself would lead the primary strike team—twelve of his most trusted goblin warriors, along with the five Heroes who had been voluntarily separated from their Lords for this mission.

The Heroes looked unsettled, their faces pale with the strain of maintained separation. Without their Lords’ proximity, they were vulnerable to the whispers that sought entrance to their minds. Only the protective amulets Thorne had crafted—and their own will—kept them anchored.

"How much longer can they resist?" Serena asked quietly as they watched the Heroes check their weapons with trembling hands.

"Not long enough," Reed admitted. "We have perhaps four hours before the separation stress becomes critical."

With a raised hand, Reed signaled the attack to commence. Lady Serena’s knights charged the main entrance with battle cries that echoed across the valley, drawing the attention of the cultist guards. In that moment of distraction, Reed’s strike team slipped into the narrow western tunnels that honeycombed the limestone formation.

The passages descended at a steep angle, the ancient stone slick with condensation that seemed to glow faintly where it gathered in pools. The goblin scouts moved ahead with preternatural stealth, their eyes—enhanced through generations of selective breeding—penetrating the darkness far better than any human’s could.

"Movement ahead," whispered the lead scout, freezing in position. "Many bodies. Not moving naturally."

Reed signaled the team to halt, then crept forward to see for himself. The tunnel opened into a vast chamber whose ceiling disappeared into darkness above. Dozens of figures moved about the space in jerky, disjointed motions—like puppets controlled by an unskilled hand. Even from a distance, Reed recognized the insignia on their armor.

Heroes. At least thirty of them, all in advanced stages of possession.

But it was the central altar that drew his eye—a massive obsidian structure that seemed to drink in what little light existed, surrounded by thirteen robed figures performing synchronized movements. Above the altar hovered a writhing mass of darkness that periodically sent tendrils down to touch the possessed Heroes, causing them to convulse in apparent ecstasy.

One of the Heroes with Reed—a young woman named Lyra from Lord Everett’s domain—clutched her head suddenly, a thin stream of blood trickling from her nose. "They know we’re here," she gasped. "They can sense us... calling to us..."

Reed gripped the merged artifact tightly, its light briefly intensifying. "Then stealth is no longer an option." He turned to the goblin commander. "Signal Lady Dalia. Tell her to begin the containment ritual now, not when we reach the chamber."

The goblin nodded once before melting back into the shadows. Reed drew his sword—a blade of ancient design whose metal had been folded a thousand times and quenched in a mixture that included his own blood. Artifacts embedded in the hilt glowed faintly as they connected with his intent.

"Remember," he told the Heroes, "those are not your brethren anymore. What wears their flesh is ancient and without mercy."

"And yet you would have us not kill them?" questioned Tomas, the oldest of the volunteer Heroes.

"I would have you remember that some can still be saved," Reed replied, his eyes finding Lyra, whose trembling had intensified. "Some still fight from within."

A distant explosion signaled that Lady Serena’s diversion had escalated. Moments later, the chamber before them erupted into motion as half the possessed Heroes rushed toward the main entrance. Reed seized the opportunity, leading his strike team into the chamber from the side tunnel.

The first possessed Hero spotted them immediately, its head rotating unnaturally before its body followed. Once, it might have been a man of middle years, but now its flesh hung oddly on its frame, as if whatever inhabited it hadn’t quite mastered the mechanics of human movement. Its eyes—entirely black without sclera or pupil—fixed on Reed with ancient hatred.

"Lordling," it hissed in a voice that seemed to emanate not from its throat but from the air around it. "Betrayer of the pact."

Reed didn’t waste breath on response. He lunged forward, his blade tracing a perfect arc that should have severed the creature’s head—only for the possessed Hero to move with impossible speed, bending backward at an angle that would have broken a normal spine.

And then the chamber exploded into chaos.

The possessed Heroes attacked with unnatural strength and coordination, moving not as individuals but as extensions of a single will. Reed’s goblins met them with disciplined precision, using specialized weapons designed to incapacitate rather than kill—pronged spears that delivered electrical shocks, bolas weighted with artifact fragments that disrupted the entities’ control.

Reed fought his way toward the central altar, where the robed cultists had intensified their chanting, their movements becoming increasingly frantic as they sensed the threat. The writhing darkness above them pulsed in rhythm with their words, each syllable causing it to expand and contract like some monstrous heart.

Three possessed Heroes moved to intercept him—their bodies twisted into combat stances no human anatomy should permit. Reed parried the first attack, ducked the second, but the third caught him across the shoulder, tearing through his reinforced armor with claws that hadn’t been there moments before.

Hot pain lanced down his arm, but Reed had long since mastered the art of transmuting pain into focus. He channeled the sensation into his connection with his blade, causing the artifacts within to flare brilliantly. The nearest possessed Hero shrieked as the light touched it, its flesh smoking where the radiance fell.

"Reed!" The cry came from behind him. He turned to see Lyra surrounded by four possessed Heroes, their forms blurring as they circled her with predatory intent. Blood now streamed freely from her eyes and ears as she fought the influence attempting to claim her mind.

With a curse, Reed abandoned his path to the altar and cut toward her. But before he could reach her, Lyra threw back her head and screamed—a sound of such primal anguish it momentarily froze the battlefield. Blue light erupted from her body in a shockwave that knocked the possessed Heroes backward.

When she lowered her head, her eyes glowed with the same blue light that pulsed within Shia. "I can hear them," she said, her voice overlaid with harmonics that raised the hair on Reed’s arms. "I can feel what they feel."

Before Reed could respond, Lyra strode toward one of the dazed possessed Heroes and pressed her palm against its forehead. The creature convulsed violently as blue light spread from her hand throughout its body, illuminating its veins and arteries until it resembled a human lamp. With a sound like shattering glass, the blackness in its eyes receded, replaced by normal human irises filled with confusion and terror.

"How—" Reed began, but a deafening roar from the altar interrupted him.

The lead cultist—a tall figure in more elaborate robes—had turned from the ritual to face them. When he pulled back his hood, Reed recognized the aristocratic features of Lord Vermillion, the king’s Master of Ceremonies and a man known for his lavish entertainments at court.

"Lord Reed," Vermillion called, his voice carrying easily despite the chaos. "Always so eager to interfere in matters beyond your comprehension."

With a casual gesture, Vermillion sent a pulse of crimson energy outward that knocked Reed’s remaining forces to the ground. Only Reed himself remained standing, protected by the merged artifact he clutched in his left hand.

"This ritual has been in preparation for three centuries," Vermillion continued, stepping away from the altar with unnatural grace. "The bloodlines carefully curated, the positions of power methodically infiltrated. Did you truly believe you could stop it with a handful of goblins and some half-rate Heroes?"

Reed felt rather than saw Lady Dalia’s mages complete their containment spell. A shimmering dome of energy descended around the chamber’s perimeter, sealing them in—but also preventing the ritual’s energies from connecting to the other sites.

"Perhaps not stop," Reed replied, raising the merged artifact. "But certainly delay."

He activated the device, causing it to emit a high-pitched whine that quickly rose beyond human hearing. The effect on the possessed Heroes was immediate—they collapsed to their knees, clutching their heads in agony. The darkness above the altar thrashed violently, its tendrils lashing out at random as it tried to escape the painful resonance.

Vermillion’s aristocratic composure slipped, revealing something ancient and hateful beneath the human mask. "You fool! You have no idea what forces you’re tampering with!"

"On the contrary," Reed advanced steadily, the artifact’s light intensifying with each step. "I understand perfectly what you serve. What was promised to you. Power. Immortality. Dominion. The same empty promises They’ve made to ambitious men since before the Covenant."

The remaining cultists abandoned their positions, rushing toward Reed in a desperate attempt to stop him from reaching the altar. His goblin warriors intercepted them with brutal efficiency, their specialized weapons cutting through ceremonial robes and the flesh beneath.

Lyra and the other Heroes moved among the fallen possessed, touching those who could still be saved with the strange blue light they now all manifested—an ability Reed had witnessed only in Shia until now.

Reed reached the altar, holding the artifact aloft directly beneath the writhing darkness. The entity’s form contracted violently, trying to escape the light that now burned like a small sun.

"It ends here, Vermillion," Reed declared. "Your ritual fails today."

The aristocrat laughed—a sound that began humanly enough but descended into something that echoed wrongly in the chamber. "This ritual is merely one of dozens occurring simultaneously across the kingdom. You’ve won nothing but a momentary reprieve."

With inhuman speed, Vermillion lunged at Reed, hands transformed into talons that sought his throat. Reed sidestepped, bringing his blade around in a killing arc that should have separated head from shoulders. Instead, the sword passed through Vermillion as if he were made of smoke.

"Did you think I would come in person?" The form of Vermillion rippled, its features momentarily losing cohesion. "This vessel is merely a convenient puppet—one of many I control."

Despite the revelation, Reed pressed his advantage, forcing the possessed body back toward the altar where the merged artifact’s influence was strongest. "Puppet or not, your vessel can still be captured. Still be made to reveal what it knows."

Fear flickered briefly across Vermillion’s face—the first genuine emotion Reed had seen. With sudden understanding, Reed lunged forward, grappling with the possessed body and forcing it down onto the altar directly beneath the writhing entity.

"You cannot possess a body and maintain complete separation," Reed hissed into its ear. "Part of you is anchored here—vulnerable."

He pressed the merged artifact directly against Vermillion’s chest. The possessed body arched in silent agony as the artifact’s resonance disrupted the connection between vessel and controller. The darkness above them contracted into a tight ball before shooting upward, disappearing through the chamber ceiling with a sound like tearing fabric.

Vermillion’s body went limp, but Reed could see the chest still rising and falling. The entity had fled, but the man lived—and with him, all the knowledge of the cult’s plans.

Around the chamber, the remaining possessed Heroes had collapsed, some now stirring with their own consciousness returned, others lying still in death. The cultists who hadn’t fallen to Reed’s forces had fled into the tunnels, where Lord Everett’s shadow-warriors would be waiting.

"Secure the prisoner," Reed commanded, binding Vermillion’s unconscious form with specialized restraints Thorne had crafted. "And gather all ritual documentation."

Lady Serena entered through the main passage, her armor splattered with blood but her bearing still regal. "The outer defenses have fallen. We have control of the entire grotto." She surveyed the aftermath with grim satisfaction. "A victory, Lord Reed."

"A single battle won," Reed corrected, wincing as the adrenaline ebbed and the pain of his wounds returned. "The war continues."

A goblin messenger rushed in, clutching a communication crystal that pulsed with urgent light. "My Lord! Word from the capital!"

Reed took the crystal, activating it with a touch. Shia’s voice emerged, tense and breathless: "Reed, the Temple of Ascension is more heavily defended than we anticipated. The Chancellor has moved up Protocol Terminus—it begins at midnight tonight, not at the solstice. We’re trapped inside the inner sanctum, and—" Her voice cut off abruptly, replaced by sounds of conflict before the connection died completely.

Reed’s blood ran cold. "How long until midnight?"

"Six hours, my Lord," the goblin replied.

"Gather the wounded who can travel. Leave the rest with a protection detail." Reed turned to Vermillion’s unconscious form. "Bring him. His face will open doors in the capital that would otherwise remain closed to us."

"The capital is three days’ ride from here," Lady Serena objected. "Even with the fastest horses—"

"We won’t be riding," Reed interrupted, producing a small obsidian cube from his tunic. "Lord Vermillion was kind enough to establish a direct portal link between all four ritual sites. His blood will activate it."

As his forces hastily prepared for departure, Reed examined the artifact that had turned the tide of battle. Its light was fading, the power nearly depleted. It would not function again without recharging—something only possible near the Heart of Aetheria itself.

One of the rescued Heroes approached him hesitantly—a young man whose vacant expression suggested his mind had not fully recovered from the possession.

"The darkness," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "It spoke to me. It said this is only the beginning. It said the true vessel awaits in the capital."

"What vessel?" Reed demanded, gripping the man’s shoulders.

The Hero’s eyes cleared momentarily, focusing on Reed with sudden, terrifying lucidity. "The one who was prepared from birth. The perfect host." His voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. "The king’s only daughter."

Before Reed could question him further, the Hero’s eyes rolled back, and he collapsed into convulsions. Foam flecked his lips as he thrashed on the stone floor, his back arching impossibly before he went suddenly, completely still.

Reed stared down at the dead man, the implications of his final words sending ice through his veins. If the cultists had been preparing a royal vessel for generations...

"My Lord," Grask called from the newly activated portal, its surface swirling with sickly green energy. "We’re ready."

Reed turned from the corpse, his decision made. "To the capital. We have less than six hours to prevent the end of everything."

As he stepped toward the portal, Reed felt a strange resistance—as if the air itself sought to prevent his passage. Behind him, the bodies of the fallen Heroes began to twitch, black fluid leaking from their eyes and mouths.

The victory had been too easy. Vermillion’s capture too convenient.

It was a trap.