Born of Flames

Chapter 22 ~ Separate Paths

    He had expected his life to end in a tale of dirt and suffocation, but to Arlon's surprise, he did not die. The shadows that bound him from head to toe continued to drag him through the soil until it gave way beneath him and he fell into a narrow tunnel.

    His head collided with the ground and black spots danced across his vision as he attempted to blink it back into focus. Arlon tensed as mangled corpses staggered towards him, then halted and stared down at him with unseeing eyes and empty sockets.

    He pushed his magic towards them, but it recoiled instantly. There was no mind to take within these creatures. They were as dead as these corpses should've been.

    Arlon struggled against his bonds, trying to reach one of the blades tucked in his boot, but the shadows only squeezed tighter. He gasped as air pushed its way out of his lungs, then sucked down a deep breath when the pressure on his chest eased.

    The corpses began to drift apart, clearing a path for another approaching figure. Arlon narrowed his eyes, straining to see through the darkness. This person was also a corpse, but he looked...fresher, than the others.

    His skin was still in one piece, although an unusual shade of gray. His gaze was hazy and his hair was limp, with a few missing patches of scalp, but he showed no other signs of decay. Arlon's gaze fell to the object in his grasp. His heart thudded a warning, but one he could not heed.

    The corpse's cracked lips parted and a breathless, rasping voice emerged. "My Lord is expecting you, Deimen. We should not keep him waiting." The words were jagged and slurred, as though spoken by someone who had only recently learned to talk. "Your power is useless on us, but the Master requires precautions. He bids me to give you this gift."

    He raised his pale hands, presenting the mask. Arlon's breath caught and his heart pounded faster. He didn't have to see clearly to recognize what that mask was made of. What it was designed to do.

    Cragged stone and iron had been forged into a faceless plate engraved with familiar runes. It was the same material used on the Prince's tomb. A material only Noxbane had been able to break. A material that would render him powerless, even more so than he already was.

    There were only a few openings where a nose would be to allow the wearer to breathe. There were no eye holes. Its creator knew his weakness. He had to be able to see his targets. If he couldn't see them, there was no controlling them.

    This attack had not been random. They had been targeted. Because this mask...it had been made for him. Arlon began to struggle anew as the corpse carried the mask towards him, one dooming step at a time.

    His shadowy chains tightened until he was gasping for breath once more, but he refused to stay still. Like Hel he'd accept this without a fight. Whatever Astaroth wanted from him, he wouldn't get it easily. He hadn't gotten what he wanted from his parents, and Arlon would not fail them this time.

    The corpse halted beside him and extended the mask. Arlon couldn't hide the shudder that ran through him. The mask descended, and a cold burn stretched through his face as it touched his skin. Straps tightened on the back of his head, catching his hair in some areas and pulling at it painfully.

    But that pain was nothing compared to the endless burn racing through his face and down his neck. Cold and stabbing, like an onset of frostbite. He gritted his teeth but a scream bubbled in his throat.

    The mask swallowed the sound. He was not only blind and powerless, but silenced as well. He understood now what Tarion had gone through during his imprisonments. If he ever saw the Prince again, he would owe him at least one apology.