Next in line was King Lunfen Ashford. Theon's fingers danced over the cryogenic chamber, a practiced grace in every movement. Each line, each curve hummed beneath his touch—a whisper of concentrated energy, a delicate dance mirroring the precise spellwork he'd woven for the Queen's chamber. This was familiar territory, a dark ballet he knew by heart.
The King's cryogenic chamber responded, its glow echoing the orchestrated dance of Lu. The king, once the unwavering pinnacle of Sylvan's leadership, lay trapped within the icy embrace of the chamber, his life force slowly ebbing away under the insidious influence of Theon's schemes. The stasis, designed for eternal preservation, had become a cruel vessel of demise.
As Theon shifted to the left side of the room, he approached the chamber housing Helga Emberstrike, the renowned alchemist. He actively calmed his racing heart, focusing intensely on the task at hand. Six small, intricate formations had already been deployed, and the subtle tremor in his hands, the faint ache in his temples, betrayed his growing fatigue.
His fingers traced the final sigil, and the formations sprung to life, injecting Lu into Helga's chamber. The azure glow intensified, reaching a fever pitch, but before Theon could move on in his perceived success, an unexpected jolt, far too powerful, disrupted the process—
—and then, the world jolted.
A sharp, violent crackle of energy ripped through the chamber. Helga's body convulsed, a violent spasm that rattled the glass.
That wasn't supposed to happen.
'Shit.'
A jolt, more violent this time. Helga Emberstrike's eyes, dulled by cryogenic slumber, snapped open. A guttural groan, raw with disorientation and pain, tore from her throat.
"Wha...what's happening?" she slurred, her voice thick with disuse, as the heavy door of her chamber hissed open, releasing a cloud of super-chilled air.
Confusion clouded her gaze as she attempted to make sense of the unfolding situation.
Theon's gaze sharpened, realizing the gravity of his mistake. Helga, even in her weakened state, was too great a risk.
His body moved before his mind could hesitate.
Crystalline blades materialized in his grip, their edges glinting with lethal intent.
Helga's gaze, still clouded by the lingering effects of stasis, finally locked onto him. The confusion in her sapphire eyes sharpened, transforming into a dawning horror that twisted her features.
"Y—You—?!" Helga's voice, a raw rasp, faded.
Without a flicker of hesitation, the crystalline blades plunged into her chest, piercing her heart.
Her eyes widened, not with pain, but with a kaleidoscope of surprise and a burning, bitter betrayal that mirrored the cold resolve in Theon's own gaze. A choked gurgle, not a scream, escaped her lips—a final, wet gasp as life extinguished, leaving only the deafening silence of a deed done
'Forgive me, my Prince...I-I have failed you...'
Then—silence.
Helga Emberstrike slumped back, her last breath stolen before it could form into a scream.
Theon exhaled slowly, the lingering scent of ozone and something metallic filling his lungs, his gaze unwavering as he stared at the corpse.
The flaw in Theon's formation lay in a miscalculation regarding a critical aspect of Helga Emberstrike's unique constitution. Having spent a lifetime immersed in the art of alchemy, Helga had inadvertently developed a resilience to electrical currents as a byproduct of constant exposure to the intense energies involved in forging and manipulating materials.
To overlook such a predictable factor… his focus was waning. He should have accounted for her resistance. Fatigue was no excuse.
His hands clenched. He needed to clear his head, he needed to rest.
Without another word, he turned, retreating to the control room.
A full day passed before Theon stirred from his restless sleep. His first order of business: resealing Helga's chamber. The heavy door hissed shut, securing the ghastly secret within. With a grim jaw, Theon meticulously wiped away the faint traces of Helga's blood and the lingering scent of ozone, ensuring the chamber appeared untouched.
He needed to ensure no further surprises. With renewed intensity, he delved into the detailed profiles of Reginald Hastings and Nigel Whitworth, determined to find any hidden anomaly, any secret that could derail his plans again.
His search was fruitless; he found no factors that could cause his plans to go awry. With renewed confidence, Theon once again began creating formations, this time on the back of the chamber holding Reginald Hastings, the head butler of the royal family and one of the most skilled spearmen within the empire.
Determined not to repeat the oversight that led to Helga Emberstrike's untimely awakening, Theon scrutinized the intricate details of the formation. As his fingers danced in precise patterns, the ethereal azure fluorescence enveloped the chamber, casting an otherworldly ambiance, the air thrumming with contained power. The chamber, bathed in the radiant light, seemed to hold its breath as the intricate process unfolded.
Theon's eyes remained fixed on the formation, observing the subtle interplay of energies. The glow sharpened, reaching a crescendo, and then gradually subsided. The room fell into a hushed silence as Theon awaited the outcome.
Theon's expression remained composed as he scrutinized the results. Reginald Hastings, though stirred by the influx of energy, remained in his dormant state. The butler's features, frozen in time, betrayed no signs of awakening.
Success once again.
With a newfound assurance, Theon proceeded to the final cryogenic chamber on the left side of the room, housing Nigel Whitworth, the man who had reached the ninth level within the second plane—a historical pinnacle of achievement in the Sylvian Empire. The stakes were undeniably high.
The intricate dance of energy unfolded, the azure radiance enveloping Nigel's chamber. The patterns formed a mesmerizing spectacle, a silent ode to the centuries of Sylvian history encapsulated within.
The glow bubbled, casting intricate shadows on the chamber walls. Theon's focus remained unwavering as he poured his expertise into the formation. Nigel Whitworth's dormant state offered no resistance to the influx of energy.
The culmination of Theon's efforts approached, and the room seemed to vibrate with an otherworldly energy. The glow reached its zenith, illuminating the chamber with a brilliance that transcended the physical realm. It was a delicate balance between manipulating the energies and respecting the profound slumber that Sylvian's finest endured.
Another success.
The once-humming cryogenic chambers now lay silent, their occupants oblivious to the imminent threat that Theon had unleashed.
Theon's gaze, sharp and unwavering, settled on the final cryogenic chamber, the one holding Prince Emeric Ashford—the last, fragile link to the Sylvian royal lineage. With a deep breath, Theon began the meticulous process of crafting formations around the chamber, his fingers dancing in precise patterns as he manipulated the energies and formed only the first formation.
Taking a deep breath, Theon hid the Scarlet Lifeblood Pendant, but kept the spatial ring in view to give him some shred of credibility.
As the azure radiance enveloped the prince's chamber, a sense of gravity hung in the air. Prince Emeric, frozen in timeless slumber, seemed untouched by the machinations that had unfolded in the other chambers. The glow intensified, casting an ethereal light on the prince's regal features.
The prince's eyelids, once sealed by the magic of stasis, now fluttered, then slowly, agonizingly, began to open. A sliver of sapphire, then another, until two wide, confused eyes, filled with a primal fear, stared directly at Theon.
Prince Emeric Ashford was awake.