The Crown of Oblivion

The cathedral loomed in the darkness, its towering spires piercing the night sky like jagged teeth. Inside, the vast interior was swallowed by shadows that danced and flickered in the dim light of a hundred candles. The thick scent of wax and incense clung to the air, heavy in the throat. Moonlight pierced through the stained-glass windows, scattering sapphire, emerald, and crimson across the cracked stone floor. The shifting hues made the cathedral seem alive, as if it were breathing.

At the far end of the nave stood a statue.

It was colossal, easily three times the height of a man, carved from a single block of obsidian that seemed to drink in the light. The figure sat upon a towering throne, its posture regal and imposing, an obsidian crown resting heavily on its head. The shadows clung to its face, obscuring its features in an eerie, unsettling void. Its presence was oppressive, as if it were watching, waiting, its gaze heavy on the souls of those who dared to enter.

A dozen figures stood near the altar, their heads bowed low, their forms shrouded in dark robes that pooled around their feet like liquid shadows. Their murmurs blended into a low, rhythmic hum, a prayer that seemed to vibrate through the very stones of the cathedral. The sound was hypnotic, almost otherworldly, as if the walls themselves whispered in unison.

At the forefront stood a woman, her presence commanding yet ethereal. A thin veil draped over her face, but it did little to obscure her sharp, scarlet eyes that burned with an intensity to pierce the soul. Her hands were clasped tightly near her chest, her fingers trembling faintly as if the weight of her devotion was almost too much to bear. The air around her crackled with energy, a palpable force that made the candles flicker and the shadows deepen.

Her voice rang out, clear and resonant, cutting through the heavy silence like a blade.

"Accept our offerings, our prayers, our silent cries,
And let Your presence guide us, O God of the Unseen."

The words hung in the air, their echoes lingering as if the cathedral itself repeated them. As the final syllable faded, the woman unclasped her hands and let them fall to her sides. Her gaze shifted to the altar, where a newborn child lay swaddled in pristine white cloth. The child's chest rose and fell in the gentle rhythm of sleep, its tiny face peaceful and unaware of the darkness surrounding it.

The woman's scarlet eyes softened for a moment—a flicker of pity, regret, or perhaps resolve—before she reached for the knife beside the child. The blade gleamed in the candlelight, its edge sharp and unforgiving.

She held the knife firmly in her right hand, her grip steady despite the weight of what she was about to do. With her left hand, she hovered above the child's mouth, her fingers trembling ever so slightly. Then, without hesitation, she drew the blade across her wrist.

She closed her eyes and murmured, "Let this child bear the burden of our sins."

Crimson blood gushed forth in an unnatural torrent, cascading down in a thick, glistening stream. The first drops touched the child's lips, and its tiny body jolted awake. A piercing wail erupted from its mouth, echoing through the cathedral like a cry of both life and despair. The blood flowed faster, filling the child's mouth, staining its lips and cheeks a vivid red. It overflowed, drenching the white cloth in a spreading pool of crimson that shimmered in the candlelight. The blood trickled down the sides of the altar, dripping onto the stone floor with a soft, rhythmic patter.

***

Kael jolted awake. His body trembled as he tried to calm himself. The chains attached to his shackles rattled as he pulled his hands up, attempting to bury his head in his knees. A deep sense of horror gripped his mind. As his vision cleared and his trembling subsided, his surroundings came into view.

A dozen other men sat nearby, their hands and feet similarly shackled. Most appeared to be in their early twenties, though their sunken eyes, hollow cheeks, and malnourished frames made them look barely past adolescence. Kael realized they were all staring at him, their eyes wide as if witnessing a ghost.

"You okay?" Zarek asked, his voice low but steady. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his gray hair catching the faint light from the corridor. "You were muttering about blood and chains. Sounded like one hell of a dream."

Kael rubbed his face, trying to shake off the lingering images. "Yeah, just... the usual."

Zarek raised an eyebrow. "The usual? You mean the kind where you wake up screaming and drenched in sweat? Yeah, totally normal."

Kael shot him a half-hearted glare. "Go ahead, laugh. Bet you'd have nightmares too if you saw what I did."

Zarek sighed. "Yeah, yeah, whatever you say."

Kael chuckled softly, though the sound was hollow. He glanced at Zarek, his childhood friend, and for a moment, the grim reality of their situation faded. He remembered the days when they were just boys, running through the streets of their small town, chasing each other with wooden swords and dreaming of becoming knights. Those days felt like a lifetime ago.

Their town had been a quiet place, far from the borders where the Great War raged. Kael's father had been a blacksmith; Zarek's family had owned a vineyard. Life had been simple—until the night the sky burned.

Kael's chest tightened as the memory surfaced: a blinding light streaking across the heavens, followed by an explosion that shook the earth. The meteor—or whatever it was—had struck the center of town, reducing everything to ash in an instant. Kael had been outside near the river, and Zarek had been with him. They'd survived. Their families hadn't. The war had taken everything else.

"Hey," Zarek's voice pulled him back to the present. "You're doing it again. That far-off look. What are you thinking about?"

Kael shook his head, forcing a smile. "Nothing important. Just... old times."

Zarek's expression softened, the playful glint in his eyes fading. "Yeah. Old times."

Kael straightened his back and stretched his legs. "Is the guard still not here yet?"

"Eh, you miss him that much?" Zarek grinned. Before Kael could reply, he added, "No one's come back since last night."

"Last night..." Kael mumbled, letting his thoughts wander.

It had been five years since the meteor fell. Both of them were adults now. After the war, the few hundred survivors of their town had been captured as spoils of war, turned into slaves, and scattered across the continent.

Kael barely remembered his carefree childhood. All that remained were memories of harsh labor, tasteless meals, and the dark, gloomy confines of their prison. He'd grown accustomed to it—the work, the exhaustion—but he still yearned for something more. Even as a slave, he was his own person.

His thoughts were interrupted by the ominous sound of footsteps. The corridor, usually filled with whispers and hushed exchanges, fell silent as the steps grew louder. Kael turned toward the iron gate where the sound had stopped.

A faint, almost imperceptible hum resonated through the stone walls. Kael felt it before he heard it—a low vibration that made his teeth ache and his skin prickle. The other slaves shifted uneasily, their whispers dying as the hum grew louder. Even the chains trembled, as if the metal itself feared what was coming.

Then, with a sound like shattering glass, the iron gate began to crumble—not bend or break, but dissolve into fine, glittering particles that floated in the air like dust caught in a beam of light. A figure stepped through the dissipating barrier, their movements unnaturally smooth, as if gliding rather than walking. Their mask, a featureless expanse of polished black, reflected the dim light in strange, shifting patterns. Their robe seemed to absorb the shadows, blurring the line between fabric and darkness.

The figure's head tilted slightly, their masked face turning toward Kael. For a moment, Kael felt as if they were peering into his very soul, their gaze piercing through layers of fear and despair. Then, in a voice both soft and resonant like the tolling of a distant bell, they spoke.

"Disappointing." The word hung in the air. "The aether within him hasn't even awakened yet."

Kael's breath caught in his throat, but before he could respond, the figure turned away, moving to the next cell.

The room felt different now—lighter, as if a great weight had been lifted, but charged with an unfamiliar energy. Some slaves wept openly, their sobs echoing off the stone walls. Others stared at the empty space where the gate had been, their expressions a mix of awe and disbelief. Kael looked down at his hands, half-expecting to see traces of the figure's power lingering on his skin. There was nothing.

Zarek's voice wavered. "Did that just... happen? Are we really free?"

Kael narrowed his eyes and muttered, low enough that only Zarek could hear, "Don't jump to conclusions. Nothing's certain yet."

He hated to crush Zarek's hope, but caution was necessary. For all they knew, another war had broken out, or something far worse. Even if this was their chance to escape, Kael needed to be sure.

Soon, the figure's footsteps returned. They stopped in front of the cell again, this time locking eyes with Kael. Behind the mask, Kael glimpsed blue eyes—deep and endless like the ocean—and felt an unbearable pressure. The figure clicked their tongue and said in a hoarse voice, "You can leave if you want."

Then they vanished as if they'd never existed.

The room erupted into chaos. Some slaves fell to their knees, weeping uncontrollably. Others laughed, a wild, manic sound bordering on hysteria. A few stood frozen, their faces blank, as if their minds couldn't process what had happened. An older man clutched his chest, his breath coming in panicked gasps. "Is this real?" he whispered. "Is this real?"

The air felt lighter, charged with an electric energy that made the hairs on Kael's arms stand on end. The dim corridor light seemed brighter now, almost golden. The shadows that had once clung to the corners of the room had retreated, as if afraid of the figure's lingering presence. The silence, too, had changed—no longer oppressive, but expectant, as if the world itself held its breath.

Kael stared at the empty space where the gate had been, his mind racing. He felt weightless, as if the chains had taken more than his freedom—they'd taken a part of his soul. Now, with them gone, he felt hollow. Free, yes, but unmoored, like a ship cut loose from its anchor. He looked down at his hands. Only faint, pale lines remained where the shackles had been.

"Kael," Zarek's voice broke through his thoughts, soft but urgent. "What do we do now?"

Kael didn't answer. For years, his life had been defined by chains, labor, and survival. Now, with the gate gone and the figure's words echoing in his mind, he felt adrift. Yet beneath the uncertainty, a spark of hope flickered—small, fragile, but there.

He stepped into the corridor, the other slaves following hesitantly. The blinding sunlight forced him to shield his eyes. When his vision adjusted, he froze.

The factory was gone.

In its place stretched a vast, empty field dotted with trees and overgrown grass. In the distance, mountains loomed, their peaks shrouded in mist. The air smelled cleaner, fresher—but beneath it lurked something unnatural.

"This... this isn't right," Kael muttered.

Zarek stepped beside him, his expression grim. "Where are we?"

Kael didn't answer. He didn't know. But one thing was certain: this wasn't freedom. Not yet.

The figure's words echoed in his mind:
"Disappointing. The aether within him hasn't even awakened yet."

What did aether mean? And why had the figure singled him out?

Kael clenched his fists, his wrists still marked by the ghost of his chains. He'd dreamed of freedom, but this wasn't what he'd imagined. His body was unshackled, yet something deeper had taken hold.

The chains were gone. But the weight in his chest remained.