CHAPTER 817: EAVESDROPPING

"Get some sleep or whatever you have to do so you can heal me," Gayron said, leaning against the large rock that served as a natural wall to the summit peak. "I can’t think clearly with this pain."

I nodded, sinking to the ground. I touched my spatial ring, withdrawing a blanket. It was the softest I’d found in a store, yet it felt coarse and rough against my ravaged flesh. Ignoring the sting, I spread it across the ground and curled up, my tail wrapped around me tightly. Despite my exhaustion, the pain made drifting off impossible.

I glanced at Gayron, making sure he wasn’t looking before soul casting a healing spell. It wasn’t much, barely third-circle, yet it soothed the sting of the burns and cuts. My chest rose and fell for what felt like my first breath since the attack, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

As the pain faded, I felt myself beginning to drift off. A spark of panic caused my muscles to stiffen, and I half sat up, immediately wincing as my unhealed wounds protested. Even so, I shook my head, staving off the calling darkness, and focused on my soul. Of the many spells I’d encircled myself with during the battle, only a handful remained. Emlica’s spell to ward us from the world barrier was still in effect, but for how much longer I could only guess. My other wards were in various states of disrepair, and I let them go, hoping to conserve mana. Silent Stars alone I kept, modifying the spell to draw power from my aura in place of conscious concentration. Letting that spell slip would spell catastrophe far worse than being trapped on the southern continent under the world barrier. A single instance would be all Verity needed to find our location and send soldiers to capture or kill us.

With my preparations complete, I allowed myself to sink back to my blanket. In minutes, I was asleep.

The moment my eyes closed, I found myself in a large room. The ceiling was slanted, with long, slender stained glass windows serving as skylights. The light coming through was dim, overshadowed by the crystal chandeliers hanging between each window. Nighttime.

A wooden table with a tight, dark grain was situated in the middle, surrounded by a hemicircle of glass screens the size of a full-body mirror. They hung suspended by currents of mana, floating a foot above the ground and about twice that from the ceiling. Mana filled each one, giving it a cloudy, translucent appearance.

An illusory, three-dimensional map rose from the surface of the table, depicting the southern continent in its entirety. The water of seas, rivers, and lakes glistened wetly, tiny insect-sized cities and towns dotted the landscape, and clouds floated a few feet above. On the far side of the table, above a small port city, a few thunderheads flickered with lightning.

A creak came from behind me, and I turned, stepping back into the corner as a group of people entered the room. The first to enter was the Pope, followed by two Fathers, and lastly an old, grizzled soldier wearing full plate armor emblazoned with the sigil of the Divine Throne. Something about his face struck a chord in my mind, but the memory was blurry and indistinct.

The Pope looked drawn and weary, his hair snow white and wrinkles deep. He sank into a cushioned chair at the head of the table and propped his elbow on the armrest, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. The Fathers stood at his sides, flanking him, while the soldier leaned over the table, brow furrowed as he scrutinized the map.

"Is the Sun Hero waiting? We have time before the council starts, yes?" The pope asked in a tired voice.

One of the Fathers looked up, his eyes going vacant. After a few seconds, he nodded. "Yes, they’ve been waiting for a few minutes."

"Then put him on," The pope said, waving dismissively.

The Father chanted a spell, and one of the cloudy windows shimmered. Soltair’s bust, from his shoulders up, appeared within. He leaned forward, frowning slightly.

"Is this thing on? Can you hear me?" Soltair asked.

"Yes, yes, just like always. There’s no need to ask every time."

"Oh, Good." Soltair settled back, suppressing a grin. "I received your instructions, and I must admit they left me rather...displeased. Verity isn’t like that. Besides, she’s all too aware of what happened to the last fate hero who chose to betray the Divine."

The wrinkles on the Pope’s face deepened. "Did it work?"

Soltair shook his head. "No. The priests tried when she was sleeping, but it failed. And I insisted they refrain from trying when she’s awake."

"A pity. But, if you feel confident in her, I’ll let the matter rest."

"If that’s your decision, may I tell her she’s being sent back to the war? We could really use her help on the coast, preparing for the invasion," Soltair said.

"I suppose that’s acceptable. Just keep an eye on her."

"Oh, don’t worry. I’ve spent months ensuring she won’t leave my side no matter what. She’s too sensitive and vulnerable to live without me."

His words sent a chill down my spine. I gathered my tail, as much for something to grab as to keep it from swishing across the cold stone floor.

The other Father’s head rose, and he said, "Your Holiness, the council is ready to convene."

"Good. Connect us."

One by one, the magical windows opened up, bringing men and women from all over the continent together into the same room. I leaned forward as the last one joined, feeling a spark of recognition. It was the eighth-level warrior from the city Gayron and I had just fled. In the background, I could make out the sight of ship rigging and sails, and heard muffled shouts in the background.

"I’ve received your report, Wizlen," the Pope said, frowning at the warrior. "And I must demand an explanation."

The warrior saluted. "As you command, your Holiness. Approximately eight hours ago, a small force of high-level individuals appeared in the middle of Port Vensa, in the Cerxov Empire. So far, we’ve confirmed the presence of the Life Hero, Water Hero, the monstrous wolf that serves the Oracle, and a filthblood who wielded extraordinary fire magic."

"The Apostle of Fire, I would guess," a familiar voice said from one of the windows.

I turned, holding back a gasp as I recognized Father Ithris. There wasn’t much of his environment visible, save for a green wall with delicate gold etchings of vines crawling over it. The edge of a window, barely clipped in the frame, showed it was still light outside in his location.

As the others turned to regard him, he shrugged. "He’s been inseparable from the Water Hero since Brightlite. I would stake my life on that being him."

The Pope nodded slowly. "And what of the Oracle herself?"

Wizlen hesitated, scratching the bristle on his chin. "That’s...unconfirmed. I’ve received many strange reports of individuals receiving glimpses of the future, but if she were here, she didn’t take part in the battle. Reports are still scattered, so perhaps someone saw her, and we haven’t heard about it yet."

"Do we know why they attacked? And how did they reach the southern continent? Also, how could a filthblood fight beneath the world barrier?"

"I told you it was a waste of resources," A grizzled man growled, glaring at an elderly woman in the window across from him.

"Impossible. We tested it with the slaves. No filthblood can act with impudence under its hallowed dome." The woman snarled back.

For a moment, I was afraid the council would devolve into a petty argument. But the pope raised his hand, and all fell silent.

Wizlen cleared his throat. "Still uncertain. But I was able to ascertain their objective. They appeared in the cathedral and fought across the entire city, slaughtering everyone in their wake. They split up once they reached the central keep, scattering out forces and maximizing civilian casualties. Emlica, the assigned mage of the region, said she was confronted by one in their party seeking one of her ninth-level tomes. She drove them away, and they fled back to the cathedral. From all appearances, they teleported to and from the city using the shard."

"A tome? It must be for Xiviyah," Soltair said, "She’s probably trying to break through to ninth-level."

"And Emlica failed to capture or kill them?" the Pope asked, raising an eyebrow. "Isn’t she the one who oversaw the anti-magic barrier in Brithilte?"

"A curious coincidence," the grizzled soldier said, frowning. "Could she have been targeted because of their previous association? Perhaps they knew of no other mage to steal from."

Wizlen shook his head. "Forgive me, but I can’t answer that. I’m uneducated on that matter."

"Of course you are." The pope snorted. "How is it that hours have passed and you have yet to gather any real information for us? What of your diviners?"

"All of their spells have failed. Something seems to be blocking them."

The Pope’s frown deepened. "Then the Oracle must have been present, for only she could freeze fate around an entire city. And what of the ones you captured? Have you gathered any information from them?"