The Virtues' Magecraft

Page 79: Knocking on The Doors

Alexander groggily blinked his eyes open, winds howling against him.

His first sight was his arm, still black and scaly, still burning with demonic magic. He had transformed, and even as he lost consciousness, his body maintained that state for who knows how long. He could feel the distortion in his skull– the thick, single horn stabbing outward and connected to the dark veins that ran down his body and blackened his skin.

His first sensation was a poking at his ribcage. It only took an instant to piece together what was happening. He flew with Shadowfax, the trusted wyvern carrying his body in her mouth, gently picking him up and keeping him from harm– actively trying not to pierce Alexander with her sharp teeth, it seemed. At the same time, Furcas' demonic blade sat atop his chest. The sword capable of splitting Godfrey in two, he recalled.

Shadowfax must have swept him and it up into the air all at once, the second Furcas ordered her to. She flew with urgency towards the white tower, the Doors of Life and Death, with that sight being the one to remind Alexander of what had happened before he lost himself.

An army was approaching. Furcas was fighting. And Kieran was killed.

Furcas was somewhere, alone. Even if he could handle himself against an army, Alexander didn't want to leave his side, nor did he want that devilish encounter of death to be their last meeting.

Those memories brought a dense, dark thumping in his head as they crashed back into his murky skull. He let out a heavy breath, ignoring all else surrounding him. Even as they flew hundreds of feet from the ground, even while black storm clouds chased after them, he didn't think of any of that.

All he could hope for was that Kieran's death wasn't a demonic demise, only hoping that the boy wouldn't have to spend another minute in this hell.

It was nearly noon, by Alexander's guess, although that bright sun of the UnderWorld would soon be blocked out by the black clouds that trailed behind.

In just a handful of minutes, Shadowfax began the descent, gliding down with the wind and gaining proximity to the tower. As they finally caressed the ground, Alexander finally realized his unusual lack of pain.

His demonic transformation, combined with a quick period of rest as Shadowfax traveled, restored his body. Not to its best nor prime condition, mind you– but enough to keep him moving and fighting. There was no more bleeding, and even the muscles torn and pierced didn't ache or throb.

With gratitude, Alexander could only rub Shadowfax's snout. He didn't know what would come next, but to him, it may very well be their last moments together.

He smiled at the wyvern he once thought of naming 'Milky Way'. The creature's gentle eyes glistened again, as Alexander spoke to her.

"Thank you," he spat out. "For everything you have done. The fact that I'm standing with the Doors of Life and Death in front of me... was only possible through you. When you return to Furcas, make sure you tell him I'm grateful for everything."

She purred in response as Alexander lifted his hand and began to turn to the white tower. Right then and there, he stood on the one dirt path that led to the tower doors. Around him, for dozens and even hundreds of meters, stood chopped tree stumps and single roots left in the dry ground, where dirt and soil had turned arid and into stone.

The tower itself was built of a singular mass– pure rock. It was white stone, even after what could have been millennia of endless impacts of firestones and probable attacks and assaults from the force of demons. At the peak of the tower, its summit a dozen hundred meters above the road Alexander stood on, sat five horns, four of them facing into the cardinal directions. The last horn wasn't jagged or bent or twisted like the others– rather, it was straight, a linear pinnacle, as sharp as a spear point.