Chapter 91 (Part I): The Unseen Compass
Whispers of the North
The old sorcerer's silence hung heavier than the winter fog. Bennett seethed, his curiosity gnawing like a trapped beast. The King's Heart. What did it do? Why did the sorcerer refuse to finish the tale? But answers, like sunlight in this frozen hell, were fleeting.
"North," the sorcerer repeated, his smile infuriatingly serene. "All will be revealed."
Bennett clenched his jaw. Trapped between a knight forged in ice and a snake queen who saw humanity as a curiosity, he had no choice but to play his role—whatever that was.
Wolves of Winter
The sorcerer's whistle pierced the silence, summoning four Frostwolves from the skeletal woods. Bennett gaped as the creatures—muscular, silver-furred, eyes glinting like shards of moonlight—padded forward. They bowed to the sorcerer like loyal hounds, their primal ferocity tamed by his murmurs.
"Ride," the old man urged.
Bennett eyed the wolf assigned to him. It bared fangs, a low growl rumbling in its throat. "You're joking," he muttered.
"Trust," the sorcerer chided, pressing a hand to the beast's skull. Magic hummed, and the wolf stilled, its hostility melting into reluctant submission.
Hussein needed no coaxing. He mounted his wolf with a warrior's grace, his glare enough to quell any rebellion. Medusa, regal and aloof, perched sideways on hers. The Frostwolf trembled beneath her, its instincts screaming at the proximity of a apex predator.
"Your bond with beasts is… unusual," Medusa remarked, her voice silk over steel.
The sorcerer stiffened. "A relic of older times," he deflected.
The Stowaway
A shrill cry shattered the moment. A gray ball of fur hurtled from the gorge—Geggu, the rat chancellor, now stripped of his pompous robes and dignity. He flung himself at Medusa's feet, wailing.
"Abandon me not, Queen! The tree-men will skin me! Or worse—make me politician again!"
Medusa sighed. "Follow. But touch my tail, and you lose your paws."
Geggu scrambled, beady eyes darting. Four wolves, five riders. His gaze landed on Bennett.
"Please," the rat squeaked, shrinking to palm-size, his round belly and whiskers absurdly endearing. "I'll be quiet! Like a… a fluffy pebble!"
Bennett groaned, tucking the shivering creature into his coat. "Move an inch, and I'll feed you to the next spider we meet."
The Road of Bones
The Frostwolves ran—swift, relentless, their paws barely skimming the snow. Trees blurred into ghosts as the pack wove through the forest, leaping ravines and scaling ice-sheathed pines. Bennett clung to his wolf's fur, bones rattling, teeth clattering. Each jolt reignited his fury.
What am I doing here?
At camp, he unfolded his aching body, practicing the fluid motions Hussein had taught him—a dance of survival, honing strength he never asked for.
The sorcerer watched, his expression unreadable. "The knight taught you this?"
"Yes. Problem?"
"No," the old man murmured, turning away. "Only fate, stitching its tapestry."
The Face-Stealer
By the fifth day, the wolves faltered, their ribs heaving, tongues lolling. The sorcerer released them with a whispered thanks, then blew his silent whistle once more.
The earth shuddered.
A colossal spider erupted from the snow—eight legs bristling with frost-rimed hairs, its bloated abdomen striped like a venomous sunset. Worst of all was its face: a grotesque parody of human features, eyes bulging, mouth split into jagged mandibles.
Geggu shrieked, burrowing deeper into Bennett's coat. "Face-Stealer Spider Queen! It eats souls!"
The sorcerer climbed atop the monstrosity, unfazed. "Efficiency over comfort. Climb on."
Hussein's hand drifted to his sword. Medusa tilted her head, intrigued. Bennett stood frozen, torn between vomit and fury.
"You expect us to ride that?"
"Unless you'd prefer to outrun the Temple's hounds on foot," the sorcerer replied. "North waits for no one."
Chapter 91 (Part II): Threads of Memory
The Face-Stealer's Curse
Bennett's skin crawled as he clung to the spider's bristling back. The creature's grotesque humanoid face twitched with every lurch, its mandibles dripping faintly luminous saliva onto the snow. Face-Stealer Spider Queen. The name alone conjured nightmares.
He recalled Captain Beynrich's warnings: "They'll drain you alive, boy. Suck your marrow like syrup. And you'll watch while they do it."
The sorcerer, now revealed as a druid—a relic of a vanished race—rode ahead, his posture rigid. Medusa drifted behind, her serpentine grace at odds with the spider's jagged movements. Hussein, ever stoic, sharpened his blade with a whetstone, the metallic shink-shink cutting through the silence.
Bennett glared at the druid's back. How many secrets are you hoarding, old man?
The Ghost in the Machine
"You still don't see it?" Semel's voice crackled in Bennett's mind, sharp with frustration.
"See what? That he's a druid? You could've told me sooner!"
Semel's laughter was brittle. "I didn't know. Not until now. My memories… they're fragments. But this place…" Her voice faltered. "It feels like a wound."
The spider crested a ridge, revealing a valley choked with ice-veined ruins. Semel materialized abruptly, her scarlet robes whipping in the wind. She hovered above Bennett, silver hair blazing like a comet's tail, her eyes fixed on the druid.
"I don't know you," she hissed. "But I want to tear your throat out."
The druid turned slowly, his weathered face crumpling. "Semel… you truly don't remember?"
"I'm not your Semel!" Her fingers crackled with starlight, arcs of blue-white energy lashing the air. "I'm a shadow! A ghost! And you—"
"—are the reason she's trapped like this," Bennett finished coldly.
The Druid's Confession
The campfire that night spat embers into the dark. The spider crouched nearby, its monstrous face eerily placid. Medusa coiled by the flames, her blind gaze lingering on Semel's flickering form. Hussein sharpened his sword with unnerving focus.
The druid stared into the fire, his voice hollow. "Two centuries ago, Semel was a scholar. A genius. She sought to merge astrology with magic—to chart the heavens as spells. But she lacked the… spark."
Bennett's pulse quickened. The Starfall Codex. The same texts I studied.
"I gave her that spark," the druid whispered. "I showed her the Druidic rites—the communion with celestial forces. Together, we forged the Starfire Arts. But she grew obsessed. Began experiments even I feared."
Semel materialized abruptly, her spectral form trembling. "Liar. You used me. Stole my work. Turned me into… into this!"
The druid's hands shook. "No. You chose this path. You begged me to bind your soul to the stars when the Church hunted us. To survive!"
"Survive?" Semel's laughter was jagged. "Look at me! I'm a phantom! A scribble in the margins of my own life!"
The Veil of Storms
Dawn found them at the edge of a glacial chasm. A wall of black clouds churned ahead, lightning threading its depths like veins.
"The Veil of Storms," the druid said. "Beyond lies the Heart's cradle."
Bennett eyed the tempest. "And how do we cross that?"
The druid unsheathed a dagger—obsidian, etched with Druidic runes. "With blood. The King's Heart answers only to royal lineage." He turned to Bennett. "Yours."
Hussein's blade hissed free. "You said nothing of sacrifices, druid."
Medusa's tail coiled, ready to strike. Even Geggu peeked out from Bennett's collar, whiskers quivering.
The druid met Bennett's gaze. "The Heart isn't a trinket. It's a key. And keys… require forging."
Semel materialized, her starlight dim. "Don't trust him, Bennett. The Heart… it's not what you think."
But the storm roared louder, drowning her words.
Chapter 92: Celestial Bonds and Betrayed Hearts
The Druid's Confession
The wind howled across the frozen plains, clawing at the old druid's cloak as he spoke. His voice, rough as weathered stone, carried a tenderness Bennett had never heard before.
"Semel was a genius from the start," the druid murmured, his gaze distant. "I first saw her at the Royal Solstice Rites in the capital—the annual ceremony where the Emperor and High Pontiff pray for divine favor. All nobility attended. And there she was, barely twenty, already the youngest court astrologer in history. Her theories on celestial patterns had shaken the academic circles. Even the Emperor sought her counsel."
Bennett huddled closer to the fire, its flickering light casting jagged shadows across the druid's face. Medusa's snakes hissed softly in the cold, while Hussein sharpened his blade with methodical precision.
"Back then," the druid continued, "I had already mastered Aragorn's forbidden magic. As a senior mage in the Arcane Consortium, none suspected I was secretly nurturing rebellion against the gods. But time was slipping through my fingers. At nearly fifty, I needed an heir—someone brilliant, untainted by political ties. Someone like… her."
The Astrologer and the Rebel
Semel's laughter seemed to haunt the night air as the druid spoke of their early days.
"Her mind was a comet—bright, unpredictable. She theorized that starlight could fuel spells, a notion dismissed as madness by her peers. But I… I saw opportunity." His calloused fingers traced a constellation in the snow. "I became her mentor. Her friend. Under the guise of collaboration, I steered her research toward Aragorn's legacy. The so-called 'Stellar Magic' she pioneered? Merely repackaged fragments of demonic sorcery from Aragorn's archives."
Bennett's chest tightened. So even her greatest achievement was a lie.
For three years, they traversed continents—chasing meteor craters, deciphering ancient star charts, laughing over campfires. The druid's voice softened. "She made me feel alive again. Young. We'd debate until dawn, her eyes glittering like the Veil Nebula…"
Then came the fracture.
The Thorned Rose
"Everything changed when we returned to the capital," the druid spat, sudden venom staining his words. "At a royal banquet, your accursed ancestor—Zacharias Rowling, the Golden General of the Imperial War Council—set his sights on her."
Semel, radiant in silvery robes, had captivated the ballroom. Zacharias—charismatic, battle-scarred, with the Rowling family's infamous charm—swept her into a whirlwind romance.
"She chose him." The druid's staff cracked the ice. "Chose domestic bliss over destiny. Over me."
In a final, desperate bid, the druid revealed his life's work—Aragorn's war against the gods, the centuries-old conspiracy festering beneath Roland's golden facade.
Semel's response still echoed across the decades:
"Gods and demons can slaughter each other for eternity—what does that have to do with me? I won't be your pawn in some moldy historical grudge!"
Ashes of Vengeance
Years later, the druid returned to Rowling Manor.
Semel, now a mother of two, met him in secret. Though wary, she agreed to one final favor—deciphering texts he'd stolen from the Vatican's sealed archives.
"What she translated…" The druid's hands trembled. "Aragorn didn't just defy the gods. He stole something from them. A primal force sealed beneath the Frostspire Mountains—the Godspark."
Semel's curiosity overrode caution. Together, they breached the Vatican's inner sanctum, a vault older than Roland itself. There, etched on obsidian tablets, lay the truth:
The Godspark grants dominion over creation itself.
But woe to those who awaken it—
For gods do not forgive thieves.
"We triggered wards older than language," the druid whispered. "The Vatican's paladins swarmed us. Semel… she shoved me through a portal, stayed behind to hold them off. When I returned—"
His voice shattered.
Bennett's throat went dry. "What happened?"
"They burned her," the druid rasped. "Declared her a heretic. Zacharias pleaded for mercy, but the Pontiff demanded spectacle. They lit the pyre at dawn. Her final scream… it wasn't pain. It was rage. A vow."
From the flames, a wisp of starlight had escaped—Semel's soul, binding itself to the cosmos.