Page 154 of Scarlet Wars
“Definitely the right place,” I mumbled under my breath.
The boat scraped against the rocky bank, the sound rough and jarring in the quiet. Emma was the first to move, slipping over the side and landing in the shallows with a soft splash. I followed, the water biting cold against my calves as I dragged the boat a few feet higher onto the shore. The oars clattered softly against the wood as I tucked them inside. No sense leaving them floating downstream if we had to make a fast exit.
Mist hung thick around us, clinging to our clothes as we climbed the narrow strip of bank toward the fort.
We stepped through the main arch and pushed open the heavy doors. They groaned in protest, the sound dragging through the air like something waking after centuries of sleep. The darkness that met us was dense, swallowing everything except the faint cone of light spilling from Emma’s phone.
“Why are these places always dark?” she muttered, her tone dry enough to scrape stone. “As if a few lightbulbs would ruin the haunted aesthetic.”
I reached for her hand and gave it a quick squeeze. Her sarcasm always flared when fear crept in, armor disguised as attitude.
Inside, the stone walls were damp, slick with algae and rot. Water dripped steadily from above, echoing like distant footsteps. The ground sloped downward, forcing us into the belly of the place, deeper and deeper with every careful step.
The hallway stretched on, cluttered with overturned chairs and warped desks, someone’s last stand that never happened. Metal groaned overhead, deep and hollow. A dying building remembering it used to live.
Every doorway I passed opened into another tomb of a room, stone tables shattered, chains dangling from iron rings, old torches collapsed in heaps of ash.
Then my light caught something ahead: a heavy iron door, its surface scarred and pitted with age. A thick film of dust clung to the stone around it, but the metal itself was clean, the handle rubbed bare and dull where hands had obviously touched it not long ago.
I went still, pulse tightening, and motioned for Emma to come closer.
“Why would there be less dust on the handle if they can simply open the door with magic?” she whispered.
I clenched my jaw. “Because they want us to know, whatever reason we’re here, it’s behind this door.”
We shared a look, one of those silent exchanges that carried a hundred conversations. She gave a short nod, and I pushed the door open.
The hinges shrieked, the sound echoing down a narrow corridor lined with stone cells.
Chains hung from the walls, their ends crusted with rust and old stains. Shallow grooves scored the floor where somethingheavy had been dragged, the marks disappearing into the shadows ahead.
A single lantern burned weakly at the far end, its flame guttering in the draft, barely illuminating the figures slumped in the corner.
Two men strapped to the wall, heads bowed forward: James and Jackson.
Their skin was pale, wet, their clothes stuck to them like second skin. Metal clamps bit deep into their wrists and ankles. The air reeked of rust and something worse, stagnant water pooling at their feet.
My pulse kicked. “Jesus.”
Emma was already moving before I could. She dropped to her knee beside them, flashlight swinging, knife flashing in her hand. The blade scraped against the restraints with a sound that set my teeth on edge. The surface shimmered faintly, shifting colors under the light like oil on water.
“Come on,” she hissed, cutting again. The knife sparked off nothing. The material refused to give.
“They’re bolted into the wall by magic,” I muttered, crouching beside her. I pressed two fingers to Jackson’s neck first, then James’s. Both warm. Barely. Their pulses trembled under my touch, weak but present, their breathing shallow enough to make me count twice.
“I can’t cut these,” I said, the words scraping out through clenched teeth. “The bindings are done with translation.” I scanned the cell, for anything that might’ve helped, but there was nothing. Only the stink of wet metal and the slow rise of water inching across the floor.
“Caden, the water is rising! We need to get them out, now!” Emma sounded panicked.
“I know.” My mind was already running through every exit, every possibility, until movement caught the edge of my vision.
A flicker.
A pulse of light.
And then, a thin slit of cerulean tore open against the far wall. Its sound wasn’t just heard, it was felt, a pressure that built behind the eyes and forced its way down the spine.
From the slit spilled a ribbon of gold light, twisting once, twice, before condensing into a circular device that hovered inches above the water, pulsing like a living heart.
