Page 52 of Off with Her Head
We move through shadow-space with increasing confidence, our merged magic creating a stable pathway. Shadow-warriors maintain a protective formation, using their bodies as shields to protect us against the dark magic.
The castle emerges from the shadow-dimension's darkness. We pass through outer walls, transitioning between shadow and physical dimensions in a fluctuating pattern that confuses detection systems.
"We’re getting closer," Scarlett observes as we penetrate deeper into the castle's substructure. "It feels more concentrated here."
I have the same disturbing feeling—not a random spread but the direct source. We proceed with heightened caution, shadow-warriors advancing in a reconnaissance pattern to identify potential ambush or containment threats.
Finally, we reach a juncture where shadow-walking must come to an end. The pool's chamber lies directly ahead, its concentrated poison creating dimensional distortion too severe for safe travel between realities. We must proceed on foot through the final approach.
"Together?" Scarlett confirms, her hand tightening around mine as we prepare for the final dimensional shift.
"Of course," I reply, gathering our magic into a protective ring around us both.
We step into the physical world, materializing in an antechamber that once served as Ironwood's most sacred ritual space. Geometric patterns cover the walls and floor, an iron inlay creating suppression sigils designed to contain magical outbursts during experimental workings.
But Mara’s work has transformed these containment sigils into conduits, redirecting suppression energy toward the pool itself in a perverse amplification circuit. Black crystal growths extend from iron inlays, creating a three-dimensional lattice that channels power with nauseating efficiency toward the inner chamber where the pool awaits.
"It's using Ironwood's own defenses as weapons," Scarlett realizes, horror flowing through our connection.
A sound interrupts further analysis—footsteps approaching from a passageway ahead, accompanied by a crystalline chime that indicates the poison is spreading. We press into a shadowed alcove as figures enter the antechamber from the inner sanctum.
Council members appear—three robed figures wearing Ironwood's traditional iron circlets now partially fused to their skulls with black crystal growths extending into brain tissue.
"The king returns," one states, voice distorted in a way similar to Mara’s. "Purged of proper evolution, restored to limited perspective."
"Unfortunate," another responds, cancerous growths pulsing with agitation as though they’re alive. "We continue regardless. The convergence approaches completion with or without the original vessel."
The third councillor turns slightly toward our position, dark eyes scanning shadows with inhuman perception. He shakes his head, and the three of them proceed toward upper levels, presumably to confront Edmund's delegation with a corrupted welcome rather than genuine relief for his safe return.
"The inner chamber," I indicate once their footsteps fade. "Now, while their attention is focused elsewhere."
We proceed through an archway that once bore sacred inscriptions, now infested by crystal formations that pulse with sickly light. Beyond lies the pool chamber itself—I can feel it.
The chamber's original structure remains partially visible beneath the ill overlay—a circular room with precisely placed iron columns supporting a domed ceiling covered in astronomical calculations. At the center, there’s a depression in the floor that once contained the pool.
Now, Mara has transformed this sacred space into a nightmare. The pool has expanded beyond its original boundaries, black liquid pulsing as it seeps up supporting columns.
Most disturbing, the pool's surface reflects not our physical presence but twisted alternatives—versions of ourselves that succumbed to corruption rather than resisting its influence. I see myself with growths extending from blood sigils. Beside me, Scarlett's reflection shows something similar.
"It knows us," she whispers, revulsion flowing through our connection.
I nod, feeling it too.
We approach the pool's edge cautiously, maintaining a magical shield.
"There," Scarlett indicates a precise spot at the pool's edge, where the sickness appears slightly less concentrated than surrounding areas. "Natural weak point in the pattern. That’s where we need to plant the seed."
“I agree,” I breathe, staring at the pool’s edge. “Let’s hurry.”
We kneel, and the Blood Tree seed pulses with increasingly urgent rhythm as we bring it toward the pool. It’s like itknows.
"Together," I remind us both as we prepare for the planting ritual.
"Forever," Scarlett confirms, her hand covering mine around the seed.
We press the seed into the ground at the pool's edge, simultaneously channeling our magic into it.
The seed responds immediately, roots extending with visible speed into soil contaminated by corruption's proximity. But instead of withering under this toxic influence, the roots fight back, dissolving it entirely.
