Chained, p.18
Chained, page 18
He could not afford to be wrong again.
And whatever truth lay buried within Kreyn—whether danger or injustice—it was awakening.
Slowly.
Painfully.
And Caelum would be there when it did.
Caelum stood by the window, his attention divided between two worlds.
Outside, the street continued its restless rhythm. Lanterns swayed gently as dusk deepened, casting warm halos of light over stone and timber. Footsteps echoed, voices overlapped, someone laughed too loudly, someone else argued over nothing important at all. Mortals lived on, unaware of how fragile their peace truly was.
Inside the room, the air was quiet.
Caelum’s gaze lingered on the street a moment longer—out of habit more than interest—when movement behind him caught his attention.
Kreyn shifted.
It was subtle at first: a slight tilt of the head, a faint tightening of his brow. His eyes remained closed, but his breathing changed, becoming more conscious, less distant.
Caelum turned immediately.
He watched as Kreyn’s lashes fluttered, then parted slowly. Kreyn blinked once, then again, eyes unfocused, staring at nothing as awareness seeped back in piece by piece.
Caelum crossed the room in three silent steps and sat down at the edge of the bed.
Kreyn groaned softly and pushed himself upright, one hand immediately going to his head as if to anchor it in place. He winced—not sharply, but enough to betray lingering discomfort.
“…What happened?” Kreyn asked hoarsely.
Caelum reached for the pitcher, poured water into the glass he had prepared earlier, and held it out.
Kreyn took it with both hands. “Thank you,” he murmured, then drank slowly, carefully, as though afraid the act itself might trigger something again.
When he finished, Caelum spoke.
“You collapsed in the town,” he said calmly. “I don’t know the exact reason. I heard someone shout that someone had fainted. When I went to check… it was you. You were already on the ground.”
He paused, watching Kreyn closely.
“Do you remember what happened before that?”
Kreyn lowered his gaze to the glass in his hands. For a moment, he said nothing. His fingers tightened slightly around the rim as his brow furrowed, the muscles in his jaw shifting as if he were bracing himself.
“I was walking,” Kreyn said slowly. “Just… enjoying things. Then I saw a church.”
Caelum remained still.
“People were coming out,” Kreyn continued. “They were wearing white. Some were crying—loudly. Others were quiet about it. Some had handkerchiefs pressed to their faces like they were trying to keep something from spilling out.”
His voice wavered, not with emotion, but with strain.
“And then… a group of people came out carrying a box.” He swallowed. “Not a box. A coffin.”
Caelum’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“That’s when it happened,” Kreyn said. “The pain. It hit all at once.”
He lifted his free hand, pressing his fingers briefly to his temple.
“There were flashes,” he said. “Images. Not clear memories—more like pieces, overlapping.”
He closed his eyes briefly as if seeing them again.
“I saw the same thing. People walking together. But this time they were wearing black. All of them. They surrounded a coffin just like the one I saw in town.”
His breathing grew uneven, though he pushed on.
“There was another image—me… holding something. A book. A ledger, or a diary. I was writing in it. I don’t know what, but it felt important.”
Caelum’s focus sharpened.
“I was wearing white,” Kreyn said. “Long sleeves. Like… like a priest, maybe. Or someone officiating something.”
His hand trembled faintly.
“And I wasn’t standing on the ground,” he added quietly. “I was barefoot. But I was floating.”
He stopped speaking abruptly.
The glass rattled faintly as he set it down. Kreyn bowed his head, both hands now pressing against his temples. The pain didn’t surge this time—but it lingered, a dull echo, like a warning.
Caelum did not interrupt.
Inside his mind, thoughts aligned quickly and sharply.
Mortal setting.
Ritual.
Witness.
Floating.
Not mortal.
Kreyn had remembered something—enough to confirm what Caelum had already suspected, and enough to complicate it further.
Kreyn lifted his head slowly, meeting Caelum’s gaze. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
Caelum almost laughed.
If only you knew, he thought.
If only Kreyn knew that Caelum’s first reaction had not been fear—but suspicion. That for a brief, shameful moment, he had assumed betrayal.
Escape. Manipulation.
Instead, Caelum simply smiled—a small, controlled expression, but genuine.
“That’s fine,” he said. “Take your time. Don’t push it.”
Kreyn studied his face, as if searching for something hidden behind the calm.
Caelum remained steady.
Inside, however, the truth was already shifting.
Kreyn was not just remembering.
The past was responding to the present.
And whatever he had been—whatever role he once played—it was beginning to wake up, piece by piece.
This time, Caelum would be ready.
Kreyn exhaled slowly, his fingers still resting against his temple as if grounding himself there.
“I thought…” he began quietly, choosing his words with care, “I thought that once I was out of the abyss, remembering wouldn’t hurt anymore. You said the abyss was the one inflicting the pain.” He looked up at Caelum, confusion written plainly across his face. “So why did it feel like my head was about to explode when those flashes hit me? It wasn’t just discomfort—it was like a surge, like something slammed into me all at once.”
Caelum listened intently, his expression unreadable but his attention absolute.
“That’s what I believed as well,” he said after a moment. “When I saw you in pain earlier—before you collapsed—I reached into your mind. Not deeply. Just enough to understand what was happening.” His voice lowered slightly. “And I felt something there. A force. Active. Deliberate. It was trying to prevent you from remembering.”
Kreyn’s eyes widened.
“So…” he said slowly, testing the thought aloud, “you really were the one who shielded my mind that time.”
Caelum froze.
Just for a fraction of a second—but it was enough.
He hadn’t intended to reveal that. It had slipped out, carried by the momentum of explanation rather than intention. He didn’t respond, his silence heavy with unspoken admission.
Kreyn watched him closely.
“I knew it,” Kreyn said softly, not accusing—almost relieved. “I knew it was you. And I think… I think you were also the one who removed the pain in my body when we first met. When I woke up. Am I right?”
Caelum turned his gaze away, jaw tightening slightly.
He said nothing.
But he didn’t deny it either.
Kreyn smiled.
It wasn’t triumphant or smug. It was quiet. Grateful. The smile of someone who had just had a long-held suspicion gently confirmed.
“Then,” Kreyn continued, the smile fading as seriousness returned, “why did I feel the pain again just now?”
This time, Caelum turned back to him.
“I don’t know for certain,” he said honestly. “But I have a hypothesis.”
Kreyn leaned forward slightly, listening.
“Maybe the abyss was never the source of the pain,” Caelum continued. “Maybe its purpose was containment. Suppression. A mechanism designed to stop your memories from surfacing at all costs.”
He paused, choosing his next words carefully.
“When you were in the abyss and tried to remember, the force locked everything down immediately. Pain, yes—but no memory. Not even fragments. Just punishment.”
Kreyn nodded slowly, remembering too well.
“But now,” Caelum said, “you’re no longer there. The abyss no longer has full control. So when you tried to remember this time, the force still reacted—but it was too late to erase everything.”
Kreyn’s breath hitched slightly.
“You felt the pain,” Caelum continued, “because the lock activated. But unlike before, the memory leaked through. Not cleanly. Not completely. But enough for you to see something.”
He tilted his head slightly. “It’s possible that the abyss functioned like an automatic failsafe. The moment a memory began to unlock, it would immediately seal it again—pain being the cost. Outside of it, the same mechanism still exists… but it’s weaker. Slower.”
Kreyn absorbed this in silence.
“So,” he said finally, “when I was in the abyss, I only ever felt the pain. No memories at all. But earlier… I felt pain and I saw something.”
“Yes,” Caelum said. “And from what you described, the pain wasn’t as severe as before.”
Kreyn nodded. “It wasn’t. It hurt—but it wasn’t unbearable like the abyss. I could still think.”
Caelum inclined his head slightly in agreement.
“That’s important,” he said.
They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the realization settling between them.
Something was trying to keep Kreyn from remembering.
Not passively.
Actively.
And now that the abyss was no longer in control, that force was losing its absolute grip—piece by piece.
Kreyn looked at Caelum, a mix of apprehension and determination in his eyes.
“So,” he said quietly, “that means the memories are still there.”
Caelum met his gaze.
“Yes,” he said. “And it means they can’t stay buried forever.”
Chapter 20. Heaven
Far beneath every realm—beneath sky and flame, beneath law and damnation—the abyss stirred.
It was not a sound in the way mortals understood sound, but a pressure—deep, ancient, and wrong. A groan rolled through its endless dark, low and vast, vibrating through stone that had never known light and through silence that had never known peace. The abyss felt the change.
The chains responded.
Metal that was never forged by mortal hands shuddered, resonating with that groan as though answering a call older than time. The vibration surged through them like a pulse—alive, intentional. It climbed upward, racing along the links that once held a single being in place.
Higher.
Further.
Until the chains split.
One strand stretched toward the radiant heights of Heaven.
The other descended toward the smothering depths of Hell.
The pulse travelled both paths.
Unstoppable.
Unignorable.
Far away—beyond clouds untouched by storms, beyond light untainted by shadow—stood a realm of impossible purity.
Heaven.
A vast palace rose there, white beyond whiteness, its structure neither stone nor light but something more absolute—perfect geometry formed from order itself. Towers reached upward as if in silent worship. Halls stretched endlessly, unmarred by age or decay. Even the air shimmered with sanctity, heavy with authority.
Within this realm, most beings remained unaware.
But not all.
The chain’s vibration reached a place sealed from sight—a chamber hidden not by walls, but by decree. A room that did not exist to the unworthy. A room whose presence could only be perceived by the highest of the high.
The signal struck.
Invisible, yet unmistakable.
Within moments, the sealed chamber awakened.
One by one, figures materialized within it—beings whose power bent reality subtly around them. They took their places at a long, gleaming table, its surface reflecting not faces but intent. There were only a few of them.
There were never meant to be many.
The doors sealed themselves without sound, layers of silence locking into place so completely that nothing—not even truth—could escape the room once spoken.
This was a closed council.
A gathering forbidden to all but those who carried Heaven’s ultimate authority.
For a brief, dangerous moment, no one spoke.
Then—
The realization settled.
The chain had vibrated.
Which meant only one thing.
The abyss had been breached.
Expressions shifted—not outwardly dramatic, but inwardly severe. A tightening of posture. A stiffening of wings. A flicker of alarm carefully suppressed beneath centuries of discipline.
Panic rose—not loud, not chaotic—but sharp and precise, the kind that came only when something thought impossible had occurred.
The prisoner had escaped.
The one being Heaven and Hell had agreed must never walk free.
The silence in the room grew heavier, thick with consequences no one wished to name aloud.
At last, one of them spoke, voice low, controlled, and edged with something dangerously close to fear.
“How?”
No one answered.
Because the truth was worse than ignorance.
If the abyss had failed—
Then the lie they had buried together was unravelling.
And this time, not even Heaven could pretend it didn’t know.
A voice broke the silence at the table—measured, sharp, edged with disbelief.
“How did this happen?”
No accusation yet. Just the question itself, heavy with implication.
Another figure leaned forward slightly, hands resting against the flawless surface of the table. “I was under the impression,” they said slowly, “that you dispatched a high-ranking enforcer. One authorized to verify the awakening and execute immediately if confirmed.”
A third voice cut in, brittle and tight. “This is not happening. The abyss was secure. The bindings were absolute.”
Silence followed—thick, suffocating.
Then another spoke, lower, almost hesitant. “We did send someone.”
All eyes turned.
“Caelum,” the voice continued. “He was deployed as instructed.”
The name lingered in the chamber like a fracture spreading through crystal.
“…And?” someone demanded.
There was a pause—too long.
“He has not reported back.”
That was when restraint cracked.
“What do you mean not reported?” one snapped. “Caelum does not delay reports.”
“Unless he is dead,” another said coldly.
The word fell like a blade.
“No,” someone immediately countered. “That is not possible. Caelum is among the highest rank. His record is flawless. He has never failed an execution.”
“Nor been defeated,” another added. “Not once.”
“Then explain the silence,” the first demanded. “If the prisoner awakened and Caelum failed to execute, there are only two outcomes.”
The room seemed to narrow.
“Either Caelum is compromised,” one said quietly.
“Or the being killed him.”
A sharp rejection followed. “Impossible.”
“Is it?” another replied. “We are already discussing an escape that should not exist.”
The word escape rippled through the chamber, sending a fresh wave of tension through those seated.
“If Caelum is dead,” one said, voice clipped and decisive, “we must verify it immediately. His essence would leave a trace. Even obliteration cannot erase that.”
“Then we check the abyss,” another said. “His remains would still be there. Or something would be.”
“But if he is not dead,” someone else said slowly, dread creeping into their tone, “then we are facing a far greater problem.”
The implication did not need to be spoken.
“If the prisoner truly escaped,” a voice murmured, “where would he go?”
Silence.
“The mortal realm?” someone suggested cautiously.
“Or worse,” another replied. “Somewhere deliberately hidden.”
A hand slammed against the table. “We cannot allow this to continue.”
“We must find him,” one said urgently.
“No,” another corrected, voice sharp with authority. “We must retrieve him.”
The distinction mattered.
Because retrieval meant correction. Containment. Silence.
One of them leaned forward, fingers steepled, eyes glowing faintly with restrained power. “Time is no longer on our side.”
A hush fell.
“Every moment he remains free increases the risk.”
Another finished the thought in a voice stripped of all pretence:
“Before he remembers.”
The words echoed.
Before the truth resurfaces.
Before the lie collapses.
Before Heaven and Hell are forced to answer for what they did.
Someone whispered, almost to themselves, “We should never have let him sleep.”
Another replied grimly, “No. We should never have let him exist.”
The chamber sealed tighter, as if reality itself recoiled from what had been said.
Orders would follow.
Searches would begin.
And Heaven—so pristine, so certain of its righteousness—had just entered a state it had not known in ages.
Fear.
Because this time, the danger was not the prisoner.
It was what he remembered.
The meeting ended without ceremony.
No declarations.
No proclamations of justice.
No light-filled reassurances meant to soothe lesser beings.
Only decisions—cold, immediate, irreversible.
The sealed doors of the chamber unlocked themselves in layered silence, each barrier dissolving only after the next was already in place. One by one, the figures at the table rose. Their movements were precise, controlled, betraying nothing of the unease now coiled beneath their composure.
