Chapter 60: Summoning Ritual
Orson ducked low as a blade carved the air above his head. He rammed his shoulder into the soldier’s chest, sending the man stumbling back into a knot of rebels who tore him down with rusted steel and desperate fury. The clash of metal rang around him, chaos spilling through the streets of Ashenhold.
The Defiance was breaking.
Smoke burned Orson’s throat, rising from torched homes. Screams threaded through the clang of steel. For days they had pushed the Crimson Oath back, striking in alleys, burning supply wagons, luring patrols into traps. But tonight, the Oath had come in force—armoured lines sweeping block by block, cutting the rebels to pieces.
Orson’s sword arm ached, his breath ragged. He risked a glance to the east. A barricade that had taken half a day to raise was collapsing under the Oath’s push. Rebels fled in panic, trampled under shields and boots.
"Hold! Gods damn you, hold!" Orson shouted, voice raw. But even as he cried out, he saw it—the flicker of despair in the men’s eyes.
The Crimson Oath surged forward, a tide of red and steel. At their head rode their captains, banners soaked with the ash-and-bone sigil. The Defiance fought, but it was dying.
A horn blared through the city, but it wasn’t the one belonging to the Crimson Oath.
It cut through the clash like a blade, deep and resonant, rolling across the streets. Orson froze, chest heaving. Around him, rebels faltered, heads turning.
Another horn answered. Then another. The steady thunder of hooves followed.
From the northern gate, riders stormed into the city. Their armour gleamed silver beneath torchlight, shields stamped with the crest of the crown. At their head charged a man broad as stone, helm crowned with plumes—the Lord Commander of the Royal Guard. Beside him, sword raised high, rode Prince Arthur himself.
The royal charge split into the Oath lines like a hammer through glass. Horses ploughed into the enemy ranks, lances splintering, blades cutting crimson soldiers down where they stood. The Defiance roared in answer, emboldened, surging forward behind their rescuers.
Orson laughed, a rough bark of relief. He raised his sword high and joined the push, fighting at the side of men he’d once thought enemies. For the first time in nights, hope burned in his chest.
Arthur cut down an Oath captain in a single strike, his blade flashing white. The Lord Commander bellowed orders, wheeling his horse and driving into the next knot of soldiers with brutal efficiency.
"Form lines! Drive them into the alleys!" the commander roared.
The royal guard moved like a single body, horses pressing forward, shields locking. The Oath screamed, their formation breaking under the precision of mounted steel.
Orson fought with renewed vigor, cutting down a soldier who tried to flee. Around him, rebels shouted Arthur’s name, their fear drowned beneath the fury of survival.
The night itself seemed to shake with the rhythm of steel and hooves, dust and ash rising in clouds that turned torchlight into a red haze. Everywhere Orson looked, fire and silver clashed against crimson—an entire city caught in the jaws of war.
For a moment, victory seemed not only possible but certain.
And then the ground moved.
A low hum vibrated beneath his boots, subtle at first. Then the street shuddered, cracks veining through the cobblestones. Across the city, a sound like ripping cloth tore through the air.
Crimson light flared.
Orson’s breath caught as, all at once, rings of blood-red light erupted across Ashenhold. Circles, vast and perfect, carved themselves into stone and soil. They appeared in alleys, markets, beneath homes. The earth itself groaned as lines of red connected them, weaving the town into a lattice of pulsing crimson veins.
A ritual.
Soldiers from both sides froze, their war swallowed by the sight. Some rebels stumbled back in terror, crossing themselves. Royal riders pulled at reins, their horses screaming and bucking as the glow seared their eyes. Even the Crimson Oath soldiers stood struck with awe, many falling to their knees as if the light itself commanded obedience.
The stench hit then—iron and rot, thick as smoke. Orson gagged, his sword lowering. It was as if the whole city bled at once.
At the heart of it all stood the church. Its banners writhed in the heatless glow, and from its spire the crimson lines converged like rivers into a black sea.
Then, in that moment, every remaining soldier of the Crimson Oath stabbed themselves with their own weapons. Loud clatter echoed through the city as each lunatic offered themselves in sacrifice in order to fuel what’s about to come.
The summoning ritual had begun.
Inside the church, Edward felt the weight of it. The air thickened until it hurt to breathe, as if the walls themselves had become lungs pulling at the air. The blood-rings carved through the town pulsed faintly under his boots.
His summons flickered. Shadows trembled around him, their forms rippling, weakened under the crushing pressure.
Auren stood before the altar, arms raised, his voice lost in the swell of power coursing through the chamber.
"You see now, Edward," he said without turning, his words threading into the hum of the ritual. "This city was never mine to rule. It was nothing but a tool for something far greater, something beyond any or us!"
Edward’s jaw clenched. He signaled, and his shadows moved—blades and arms raised as they surged toward the man.
The assassin darted forward first, slipping through the gloom, daggers gleaming. The warriors followed with heavy strides, steel and shade crashing down in unison.
But the moment they reached the altar, the crimson lines flared brighter.
Power erupted, forcing them back as if struck by a gale. The assassin screamed as its form unraveled into smoke. One of the warriors split down the middle, its shape dissolved by the light.
Edward gritted his teeth, thrusting his will forward, feeding them strength. Shadows thickened, reforming around the altar. They clashed again, this time reaching Auren’s side.
Auren only laughed.
He turned at last, crimson cloak swirling, eyes aglow with something more than madness. "Do you think these tricks can halt me now?"
Edward advanced, blade low, his own aura wrapping him in dark smoke. "If this ritual finishes, Ashenhold dies."
Auren’s grin widened. "Not dies, Edward. Transforms." He gestured to the glowing lines that carved the town outside. "Every stone, every drop of blood, every scream—they all become part of the circle. All of them feed him."
Edward lunged forward.
His blade sang through the air, black flame licking its edge. Auren raised his arm, crimson energy forming a shield that caught the strike. The impact rattled the chamber, stone splitting beneath their feet.
The two of them locked eyes—one burning with fanatic fire, the other with cold defiance.
Shadows surged again at Edward’s call, wrestling with the crimson wards that guarded Auren’s body. A crimson blade formed from the ritual light, slashing through one of Edward’s shadow warriors. It fell in silence, dissolving into mist.
Edward sent forward his shadow assassin—now reforged from black fire—it lunged low. It’s short blade scraped across Auren’s shield, sparks of red and black flying as the barrier cracked.
The church groaned, rafters trembling as the ritual pulled harder and faster with each moment.
The walls sweated with a thin film of blood, drops pattering onto the wooden floorboards like rain. Edward’s boots slipped on the slick surface as he pressed forward, the reek of iron crawling down his throat until he nearly gagged.
Outside, the cries of men, women and even horses echoed.
The horns of the royal guard clashed with the screams of rebels and Oath fanatics, all of it drowned under the hum of blood-magic spreading through the streets. The ground itself seemed to chant, whispering in voices that did not belong to the living.
Edward pushed forward, teeth bared. "I’ll cut you down before it’s finished."
Auren laughed, even as his boots slid across blood-slick stone under the force of Edward’s blade. "No, Edward. You’ll bear witness. You’ll see the Lord of Undead rise once more!"
"He’s a complete lunatic..."
The crimson lines brightened, every circle in Ashenhold flaring at once like an open wound. The air split with a sound like a thousand voices whispering from beneath the ground.
Edward’s shadow warriors strained, one managing to drive its spear through the edge of Auren’s defenses. The strike pierced flesh—Auren staggered, blood running down his side.
Still, he smiled. "Pain means nothing," he whispered, and the ritual roared louder in answer.
The church floor cracked, slabs of stone rising as if pulled upward by unseen claws. A great fissure opened behind the altar, its depths filled with swirling crimson light. From within came the sound of chains breaking, links heavier than mountains snapping free.
Edward’s heart hammered. He didn’t need Auren’s words to know what clawed at the edge of reality.
And the ritual, like an unstoppable force, dragged itself closer to completion.