A soft thudding against wood brought the wayward Sargerrei out from his slumber. Bartholomew felt the epithelium of his corneas tear as he opened his dry eyes and beheld the ceiling of his cold, lonely bed. Around him, the silken, thin bedsheets had long since lost their clean crispness. Now, they reeked of the same, pungent onions as his pits and the decay lingering at the back of his mouth. It had been long since he had last imagined he would not survive the after-effects of the wines and he cursed himself for it, as the suffering reminded him that- for now- he was still alive... he would make the best of it.

He groaned in agony as he wormed over to the edge of his filthy bed and dropped his arm over the ledge to find a half-empty bottle of glass. Swirling it, he felt a tinge of excitement as he pondered whether it contained urine, wine or a mixture of the two. He raised it to the bed and tipped it gently from his side- relieved to find that it appeared to be, at least in part, wine. Soon, the alcohols would relieve his headache and serve to lessen the discomfort of looking out across his fanciful prison-cell.

He lay his head back down on his crusted pillow and took deep breaths to steady himself for the sight of what had once been a chamber of pleasure, but had since then become the confines of his imprisonment. Torn curtains, shards of glass, wine-stained walls and what he assumed to be feces spread out on his window, all warned him that the previous evening had ended in another series of petty protests against the disgusted guards at the door.

Days, weeks or months had passed since his internment in his chambers and nearly as long had passed since he last saw Ingvard, Lita or even his father. Not even the chambermaids visited his humble cell- why would they? These were chambers only in name, but a jail in truth. He groaned as he rose and sniffed his hands to verify that he had, indeed, washed his palms from yesterday’s tumble with the feces. It was only then that he remembered that something had awoken him- a repetitive, cautious sound from-… he blinked his sore eyes with disbelief and looked over towards the door, where a narrow crack revealed a deep-blue iris and a warm smile.

“Lita-” He startled as she opened the door and revealed her glorious, white-robed form. In the dim moonlight peering in from between the streaks of feces, he was awed- as always- by the beauty of her timid being. Despite his disheveled, filthy state, she never batted an eye- never wrinkled her nose as she stepped inside and left the door wide-open in her wake.

“Let us get you cleaned up, Master Bartholomew.”

Naturally, Bartholomew had been as shamed as he had been silent as she cleaned his skin, oiled his scars and somehow soothed the splitting headache with a single stare- reminding him of her arcane nature. Though no words were exchanged, the atmosphere never ceased being as comfortable as it ever was with the Empath- even when she sparked a chain-reaction of crashing bottles on the floor with a misfortunate misstep of her left foot.

As she finally assisted the prisoner in buttoning a fresh, silken, red shirt, she finally spoke: “I apologize, Master Bartholomew... I should have come sooner, but I assure you, I had reasons not to-” Bartholomew’s stomach ached as he imagined how he must have appeared to her as she entered into the chamber. He raised his hands to cradle hers and shook his head- his cheeks flushed with shame.

“Do not apologize for doing your duties, Lita. You’ve two to look out for now...” Her slight smile brightened beneath her hood and he wished above all else, she would slide the white cloth back so that he might see her radiant, white hair. Then again, he was hardly deserving of such a sight- not after how he had let himself deteriorate so rapidly.

“Thank you, Lita... for wasting your time here with me. You are kind to spare me your precious attention as I await my death.” To his surprise, she giggled at his pessimism and obliged with his unspoken wish by dragging back her hood to reveal her gentle, blue-eyed gaze. Somehow, she seemed more radiant than ever as she looked up at him- her pale cheeks reflecting the bright moonlight as if she were a heavenly body, herself. She raised her gentle hand to touch his forehead and tenderly spoke: “We are all awaiting our death, Bartholomew... but fortunately for both of us, those days are still far off in the future.”

Had she not let her hand wander down his cheek, down his chest and intertwined her fingers with his, he might’ve scoffed at her hopefulness. She slowly turned and graciously spoke over her shoulder: “Have faith, Bartholomew. This will pain you... but we must move on.” This time, Bartholomew could not stifle a bitter chuckle as she dragged him towards the door.

“I am quite certain they will kill me if I attempt to-” His boots stilled on the floor as the two came close enough to the door to see the two guardsmen posted on either side of his door- both with their blades raised beneath their jaws- poised for a suicidal strike.

“Worry not... they are quite preoccupied- I assure you.” Bartholomew felt his stomach contort as he heard the dissonant speech- the maliciousness expressed by the soft, gentle voice. Disbelieving of this surprising turn of events, he studied the lack of a tremor to their arms and knees and the distant fixation of their gazes- as if they were far removed from the room.

“Lita, what-” He turned away from the two, frozen guards, only to see that the eye staring back at him from over the white-robed, divine being’s shoulder had transformed. No longer did the blue bulb inspire calm and infatuation. Instead, a green, malicious iris glowed back at him from over a wide grin... the same eye that had signaled his brother’s descent into madness.

“Forgive me... But we must make haste.”

Bartholomew felt as if he had just awoken from a terrible nightmare. He jerked forwards and fell to his knees- clamoring to the metallic object in his hand. It struck the ancient, black, smooth floor with a resounding clang that seemed to echo forever, yet he could scarcely hear it over his loud, ragged breaths. His chest ached as if he had crossed the city in a sprint and the unmistakable taste of blood tainted his tongue and mouth- despite these discomforts, the question burning in his mind remained... where the Hell was he?

The overwhelming darkness complimented the cold, black slabs beneath his knees. The deep, furrowed runes carved into the floor were filled to the brim with the blood seeping from the six, lifeless, white-robed forms on the floor ahead of him. It took him but a moment to notice the scarlet staining of the blade in his hand and drop the hilt to the floor. He hurriedly leapt back onto his buttocks, only to feel a tangible pang of panic as the hairs at the back of his neck stood to attention.

The powerful presence somewhere out in the darkness exuded an atmosphere of terror-inspiring malice, but with an intangible power in its presence to support the frightening phenomenon. His stomach squirmed as he attempted to break free of his stupefaction and face the unseen, looming terror... but to no avail. Despite his best attempts, his muscles refused to obey him- his eyes refused to move anywhere but to the dead laying in piles around him.

In between Bartholomew’s heavy breaths, he could hear... something. A second set of lungs, inhaling and exhaling through a smoke-scorched larynx from somewhere nearby... somewhere behind him. Clicks of something solid against the floor cut through the eerie silence of the chamber, growing louder and louder by the click.

A particular smell hung thick in the atmosphere- a peculiar tang of aged, burnt steak grew increasingly more pungent until the clicks sounded right behind the disheveled Sargerrei.

“Do not be afraid, Bartholomew.” Her melodious voice sang in the darkness. At the sound of her angelic voice, he felt the terrorizing claws squeezing at his chest disappear and, in their stead, he felt a profound warmth spread through his being. He shut his eyes and groaned as he rose from his kneel and spun about to see Lita- in all her white, robed, wide-armed glory- smiling widely back at him.

The green of her eyes had faded, but she glowed no less. Her pale skin and the white robe seemed to dispel the darkness of the mysterious chamber and for a moment, he might even have forgotten the terrible presence from only seconds before. She blinked slowly and took gracious steps forwards to face her still-pale supposed Master. The maliciousness of her smile had faded in tune with the green taint of her eyes, but the pretenses of being comfortable around her had dropped.

“Your eyes-” Bartholomew spoke as he took a step back and raised his hands to his defense.

“Please. You need not worry- not in here. He watches over his loyal subjects.” Only a moment previous, he had stood in his well-acquainted chambers, but now, he stood in a strange place- surrounded by dead Purged while shielding his eyes against the magus that had stolen him away from his chambers.

“What did you do!? We were just in-” Still concealing his eyes, she giggled from beyond his lids and fingers and took determined steps forwards. “You are owed a great deal for what you have done for Him. The Souls you brought him have taught us much and in turn, He wishes to teach you.” Bartholomew jerked backwards as her warm finger touched his cheek- thudding his foot against something behind his left heel.

Blinded by his own devises, he hit the hard, black surface with the full force of his weight and suffered breathlessness as the collision forced the air from his lungs. The shock and startle of his fall inevitably caused him to open his eyes and finally, he saw it- the hole.

There- behind the white Purged, he saw an impossible object- a purple, undulating mass of thin, tentacular growths- reaching for the walls, the ceiling and the floor. Unable to remove his gaze, he was forced to question whether the absence of all materia even had a shape, where it hung an arm’s length above the floor. What he had first thought to be tremors or movements soon came to resemble movements of the world, instead, rather than any true motions of the entity.

It seemed to exude a dim, purple radiance from around its rims, but at the center, Bartholomew could earnestly say that he saw naught but pure, unadulterated darkness, the likes of which he doubted any man had ever seen. Through clattering jaws, he uttered a breathless:

“What the Hells is that?” A single, silent step sounded her approach from the side. She knelt down next to her supposed Master and turned to look in the direction of the anomaly- her eyes full of as much reverence as Bartholomew’s were with terror. In a tender whisper, she spoke: “It is beautiful, is it not? The Centre of the Empire- of this world and the next... For now, He is locked to appear to you only in this chamber. But when the Green Flames have incinerated the world, He will be here- with us.”

Before Bartholomew could question the existence of this alien entity of hers, he let his presence be known by the appearance of something green in the midst of the undulating monstrosity- a distant, growing body of viridescent radiance. “Please... forgive Him for the pain you must endure. This lesson is one of flesh and blood.” She spoke with the same, tender tone as before. In his peripheral view, he could see her smile warmly towards him, but Bartholomew had heard enough of her pleas.

He turned to grimace at her and prepared himself for the confrontation, but before he could part his lips, his left eye caught another, minor movement. The center of the alien body remained still and silent, as opposed to the tendrils curling in on themselves around the perimeter of the impossible being. In the blink of an eye in which he let his gaze stray from the dark pit at its core, the green sphere in the distance was joined by another and by the time he had looked back, the distant lights were no longer lights... they were the eyes of a creature.

The creature’s head hung mid-air inside the anomaly- grinning widely at both his loyal subject and the paralyzed Sargerrei supine on his back. Its lower jaw was bared in patches for the missing skin- as was the being’s chinbones. Its nose has long since rotted off- replaced inside by an anthracic ulcer as dark as the stump of the broken horn stemming from its left temple.

Even Bartholomew recognized a monster such as this- he had read the books, after all. The Satyr’s grin grew wider as the tentacles around the rim of its shelter began to unfurl and elongate towards him. They slithered through the air as if they were crawling on a surface- tunneling through invisible gases as if they could support their weight- all headed for his clammy flesh. Finally, he broke free from his stupor and rose to his height and made the startling realization... He had seen those tendrils before.

Though he hadn’t any idea as to which way he should run to reach the exit, he knew that he needed to get far away from the tendrils silently slithering through the air. He pushed past the reverent, smiling, pale woman and immediately leapt to a sprint- uncaring for the slickness of the blood on the smooth floor. He only moved three or so paces before his boots slipped and he again crashed to the cold stones.

“Lita- stop this!” He commanded as he pathetically scuttled to get to his knees and palms.

“He is the Teacher and the Lesson, Bartholomew. You need not resist- it is as futile as it is painful. Accept his wisdom-” As she spoke, he felt the first of the tendrils wrap around his ankles and forcefully drag him back to the floor. The umbral snakes quickly traversed his legs, knees and rump to press on his flesh.

“No! Lita!” He roared- his eyes wide with panic as the black-purple tendrils swallowed his arms, chest and legs. Drool and sweat clung to his fuzzy chin when finally, the tentacular shades entered into his mouth and began to pull at his cheeks.

While the panicked Sargerrei slid across the floor- towards the head of the Satyr within the impossible sphere, Lita turned towards the distant, heavy door obscured in the shadows. Her radiant form seemed to dispel the shades as her feet tipped silently across the floor- signaling her arrival to the aged man on the opposite of the door.

Ingvard ran his hand over his face- deeply unnerved by the insinuating sounds from the other side of the ancient, reinforced barrier. Amidst a trio of corpses, the aged General exuded an aura of doubt that permeated even the ancient makings of the Tower- a doubt Lita was quick to hone in on as she whispered: “Worry not, General Ingvard. This will not harm him... He assures-”

The usually high-chinned, stoic General’s voice sounded weak and frail as he interrupted her with a slam on the door and a strict: “I do not wish to know-… You have guaranteed his safety and the assistance of whatever entity your associate is. Now, be done with it. We’ve not much time- the guards will already be searching!” Lita smiled as the bravado returned to his voice. Turning around, she just barely caught sight of a pair of desperate eyes sliding across the floor within a meshwork of hungry tentacles, before the alien entity turned the Sargerrei around to face it.

Ingvard retched as Bartholomew’s scream echoed through the entirety of the Tower- reminding him of the desperation of this last-ditch effort to save his ward.

“May the Gods forgive me...” He muttered as he leaned against the wall and wiped a single, pained tear from his cheek.