Chapter 14 - Forbidden Trials

The morning air was brisk and damp as the remnants of last night’s campfire continued to smolder. Rhemar and Cato remained asleep while Marcus’ spot lay vacant. The sun peered over the horizon and filtered through the shifting trees surrounding their camp. All that could be heard was the occasional scampering of forest squirrels and the twitter of a soloist blue bird greeting the sun’s warm embrace. From the solitude of the hushed morning, a trodden grizzly sludged into the camp. Dripping crimson ooze from its jowls, the bear trudged over to Cato’s still sleeping nest with a fresh slaughtered goat crunched in its locked maw.

The massive bear reached Cato and stood above the unsuspecting shaman, dripping speckles of blood onto his smudged face. Cato awoke to the sensation of warm raindrops littering his forehead and cheek. The sight of the grizzly sent crippling fear through his body. He tried to scream but nothing came. Scared too was his voice and so it fled from his throat without a hint or chime to alert the attacker of its escape. Cato mustered his little left courage and commanded his majin to surge from his mouth. A howling typhoon erupted and crashed into the mortified goat, tearing it from the grizzly’s jaws and sailing the carcass outside the perimeter of their camp. As the bear focused on the carcass, Cato shuffled backwards and jumped to his feet, ready for an assault.

Instead of roaring and slashing the obstinate shaman, the grizzly peered at Cato with dead eyes, opened its mouth with a hungry grin, and spoke with an absolute baritone, “You know that was our breakfast, right?”

Cato’s face settled into a raging fit, “Are you fucking kidding me? I can’t believe you’re such a complete ass. I thought you were an actual fucking BEAR! What’s your major malfunction?”

The grizzly cast a sloppy smirk at the belligerent shaman and began to shift its form back to the dapper man from the previous night’s encounter, “Just trying to feed you twats, no need to shout.”

Before Cato could respond, Rhemar emerged from his tiny A-frame tent and spoke with a yawning tone in his voice, “What’s the commotion with you two?

“This psycho is completely mental. My heart almost exploded when I saw you lingering over me like you were deciding where to take the first bite, you bleeding ass.”

Marcus’ voice changed from the low baritone to a primp tenner as he spoke in a calming note, “Apologies all around, the goat was already in my mouth and I didn’t see reason in getting my hands dirty. Don’t be uptight, I’ll cook you both a noble’s breakfast. Will that unbunch your panties sire? “

Cato looked from Rhemar to Marcus with hungry reluctance before he spoke, “It better be tasty, you dick.”

Excited to receive a warm meal and sit with friends, Rhemar shouted with jubilance, “Aha! That settles it, let’s eat!”

The breakfast was everything Marcus promised. The three comrades were delightfully fed, and their spirits satisfied. Light from the rising sun bleached the grass and dirt with increasing intensity, as the noon’s temperature settled in and baked any remaining moisture into the air. Rhemar, Cato and Marcus cleaned up camp and finished packing for their continued journey.

Marcus sat his traveler’s pouch on a stone bench surrounding the extinguished campfire and motioned Rhemar’s attention, “So then, where are you chaps heading?”

“We’re heading west to the end of Garza. There’s said to be a labyrinth there harboring a monster in need of slaying.”

“Hmm. I’ve been to the end of Garza, nothing there but sea and sand. Not a labyrinth or anything resembling such. Although, I did sense a peculiar energy coming from a valley near the coast. Thick and eerie. If I had to guess, it’s at least four days trek from here.”

Excited by the nearing of his journey’s end, Rhemar broke Marcus’ prose, “Can you show us where this valley is?”

“It’s quite the opposite direction of my endeavors. I must regretfully decline. Though you invited me to camp, which I am grateful, it is a far detour to which I cannot afford.”

Cato snickered at Marcus’ comment and spoke under his breath, “Heh, no surprise there. And after we saved you from a sexually malnourished demise, prick.”

Rhemar waved his hand at Cato to dismiss his whining, as he confronted Marcus with a suave demeanor, “Dear friend of which I feel a brother’s bond, would there be nothing to accommodate such a brazen detour? Is there no memento nor charm that will persuade a genteel of your esteem? To what end would a week’s venture with brothers of witty banter and lively company satisfy you? Surely there’s something that piques your undying interests at the world’s end, where mountain peak meets the sea’s saltine spray?”

Marcus could not resist the tantalizing gesture of Rhemar’s elegantly crafted diction. He waved his hands in defeat and agreed to guide them to the valley in question. Conditional so long as he could stop to study any foraging animal or flying beast at his leisure and that he would lodge in Rhemar’s A-frame tent while the other two huddled for warmth. Rhemar was happy to oblige and the group came to a consensus. They shook on the agreed arrangement and headed west towards the Orzcan Sea, at the end of the Garza mountains.

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The next four days were filled with arduous trekking through the steep foothills of Garza, winding and weaving along the innumerable alpine trails. The three travelers became quite tightknit during their journey, having shared meals and stories the entire way. On the final day, the group reached a broad summit of the last great mountain in the Garza range. The view was transcendental, spiritual even, in its magnificent beauty; lush fields of emerald grass blended swooping valleys into coarse auburn sand of the Orzcan coast.

From their perspective, there hunched two lowly mountain peaks situated on either side of a seemingly void valley that lead into the churning cerulean sea. On a clear day, they could see anything for a hundred miles in whichever direction. Upon his studious inspection, Rhemar failed to locate anything resembling an architectural building, let alone an ancient labyrinth. His euphoria of reaching the edge of the world was brief and gave way to crushing, suffocating doubt.

Before giving up, Rhemar turned to Marcus with diminishing determination, “So…where’s that eerie valley you spoke of?

“You’re looking at it. It’s that gradual depreciation extending from the base of those two dwarf mountains. You can’t feel the energy from up here, we have to get closer.”

Before Rhemar could reply, Cato started for a trail leading off the summit and turned to his comrades as he climbed down the mountainside, “C’mon! I want to swim in that deep blue and see if we can’t stumble into some fine fishing.”

The three travelers made their way down the last mountain on their four-day’s journey and met the silencing splendor of the dancing wildflowers littering the valley. A swaying ocean of greens, yellows, and oranges cascaded with the sweeping wind, lifting a sweet chlorophyll nectar into the air. Cato’s excitement led him hundreds of paces ahead of Rhemar and Marcus, as he sprang and bounced down the hillside. He was nearly galloping his way through the valley when he suddenly halted his parade and stood stark and still.

Rhemar noticed his friend’s uncharacteristic demeanor from afar and shouted his concerns at the shaman, “Hey, are you alright? What’s the matter, did you find something?”

Instead of answering his comrade’s call, Cato just stood there, still as a fishing crane waiting for a flounder to swim in its stalking vicinity. Before Rhemar could reach his friend, Cato collapsed into a heap on the ground. Rhemar sprung to retrieve his fallen ally. The mage lifted the shaman into his arms and pressed his hand to Cato’s forehead. It was cold to the touch.

Rhemar began shaking his freezing friend’s shoulders as he plead for his friend’s return, “Cato! CATO WAKE UP!”

He carried the senseless shaman back to Marcus, who observed the encounter from afar. With Rhemar’s majin still recovering from the battle with the tsurbaron, he was reluctant to try and mend Cato’s condition. With no other options, he bit his lip in desperation and began the mending process. Before Rhemar could push his majin into the lifeless shaman, Cato cracked open his eyes in disarray. Rhemar retracted his hand from the shaman’s forehead, as the color in Cato’s cheeks started to return and his body heat steadily rekindled.

Rhemar did not wait long for the shaman to regain his bearings before he probed Cato with numerous questions, “Are you well? What happened? Can you move? Are you hurt? Do you know who I am?”

Cato replied with a sarcastic overtone, as he shifted to stand, “A loon with an ugly cape and rubber ducks for pets. Get off it. I’m fine, alright mum? Give me a breath.”

The shaman stretched and took several deep breaths before continuing, “I’m not sure what happened. It was like a draining wall of emptiness smacked into me. Everything went silent and frigid. I couldn’t move or think, for that matter. And then I remember waking up to your sobbing qualm.”

Seemingly concerned for Cato’s well-being, Marcus steadied the shaman and spoke calmly, “What do you reckon caused it?”

The shaman shook his head as he replied, “Not sure, but I remember hearing something before everything went silent and dreary. It was a low teetering hum that sounded like a thousand flies buzzing from far away, but somehow inside my head. It grew louder and then a flash of nothing.”

With a look of sudden shock and bafflement, Marcus quickly holstered Cato’s arms, inspecting the shaman for any traces or indications to verify his assumptions, as he spoke to himself and then back at Cato, “Mark of the…it can’t be. Are you sure? Was there anything else? Did your feet feel heavy and hot? Can you remember seeing anything particular?”

Cato was suddenly more worried than he previously felt and replied with careful rejoinder, “It’s hard to say. I felt like I couldn’t move, like my feet were stuck in mud. There was that buzzing and…a flash of yellow, but that was probably the sun.”

“No, the clouds were covering the whole area when you collapsed. You did not see sunbeams my dear wind whisperer. You saw Aurumaptra, the Golden City.” Marcus shifted to Cato’s rear, unfurled the shaman’s cloak, and exposed the shaman’s shoulders before he spoke with amazed excitement, “You have the Mark of the Locust! Bythion’s beard, you have been blessed by their goddess. Ha!”

“I don’t feel blessed,” as he looked over his left shoulder, Cato saw a brand of satin aurum, like a mesh of golden-alloy velvet seamlessly stitched into his flesh, “What –? What is this?”

Cato started touching the golden locust brand with perplexed anxiety in his expression, “It feels slick and rough like beach glass. What does this thing mean?”

With calming assertion, Marcus turned the shaman to face him, “It can mean anything. Truth is, I’m not sure what the Mark of the Lotus signifies and the stories I’ve heard are mysterious. Some say it’s a curse-mark that transforms the branded into demons. Others say it’s a blessing from the goddess, Chrysos, marking her flock. The most interesting of all rumors say it’s a key.”

“A key to what?”

With an excited glee churning his face, Marcus grasped onto Cato’s arms, “To the Golden City! Ha, it’s tantalizing to see it in the flesh. Aurumaptra disappeared over a thousand-score years ago. There are noble’s that would bet their honor on the legitimate artifacts adorning their mantels of decadence.”

Marcus released Cato and stood with his arms stretched as though he was welcoming home long-lost information, and continued his rant, “Museums claim to have the real Jane Martin when it comes to their recent plunders of ancient lands. From this, the mainstream story depicts a city erected from hardened gold. This gilded metropolis, sanctifying skyline, or what have you, was built by the golden goddess, Chrysos, and was a sacred sanctuary for her faithful worshipers. It is said that simply gazing upon her infinite beauty would bring a warded man to his knees in piety.”

Rhemar gave a whistle and muttered perverse intentions as Marcus gave him a wink before continuing, “The city welcomed all traveling clerics, merchants, and vagabonds alike. No one had ill will or misfortune preyed upon them at this blessed of hallows. But all things must be balanced and with every sublime goodness and light, there’s voided hated consumed with darkness lurking about. One day, the approach of a foreign king, known only as the Stone Czar, and his disciplined army marked the end of the Golden City. They marched on Aurumaptra to sack the city for its treasures.”

At this point, Rhemar had gradually inched closer to Marcus, during the shapeshifter’s last segment, and was nearly an inch from his face when the mage asked what happened next. The afternoon’s waning heat brought on the sea’s cooling breeze and reminded the travelers of their exhausted and ravenous state. Before Marcus answered Rhemar’s question, the shapeshifter stood tall and stretched his back. He suggested they set up camp for the night and take back to the story after a proper supper. Cantankerously annoyed, both Rhemar and Cato pestered Marcus about the details of the partially finished story, nagging him to reveal its secretive ending. Now boiling some hand rolled dough-string and preparing a wild tomato and basil reduction. Marcus simply ignored the childish pleas for mysterious knowledge until after he ate, for a true entertainer never performed on an empty stomach.

As the evening nightfall and their delectable dinner settled in, Marcus retrieved his whittled wood pipe, sparked up a cloud of aged tobacco, and reignited his previous story, “Aurumaptra, the city of life and prosperity, of beauty and splendor. A true utopia brought to the brink of destruction by a man beguiled with greed…”

Marcus pulled another toke of his pipe, tilted his head to the rising moon, and released the peppery smoke as he continued, “They say at the last hour, when the city was in disarray and nearing destruction, Chrysos emerged from her sanctum and saw the waste laid to her city. Instead of seeking wrath and divine vengeance, she cried and fell to the earth as a lamenting woah filled the vicinity. The sight of this celestial angel weeping sent crushing sorrow through everyone except the Stone Czar. Unmoved by the scene, he ordered his generals to seize Chrysos as his prize for conquering the holy city.”

Marcus shifted his gaze around the camp as though looking to an unseen audience, before looking back at Rhemar and Cato, “But the Stone Czar hadn’t noticed the change in his men. Instead of capturing the fallen goddess, they turned on the Stone Czar, encircling him with blind frothing rage. They despised the man that made an angel weep with such devastating grief. All at once, the Stone Army beat and tore at their king, dismembering and stabbing his carcass with his own filed bones. The men became enraged with fury and in the frenzy, killed one another until not one man remained from the Stone Army.”

Marcus tapped out the ashen tobacco on the bottom of his boot, blew out the dusted remains, and repacked fresh-mashed leaf. He rekindled the surly quaff with a matchstick and a flick to prevent burning his thumb. He heaved a long sinuous stream of smoke into the rising embers of the night’s campfire. Marcus stared at the stars for several long seconds, lost in thought about the world and his place in it. Rhemar and Cato sat in hushed silence, eager to hear Marcus’ thoughts but too scared to make a peep and disrupt the performance.

Marcus shifted forward onto his seat and rested his elbows on either knee, “Just as the blood began to settle and soak into the sand, Chrysos rose from her anguished position and floated above her ruined dominion. The remaining onlookers saw her rise toward the sun and became engulfed in golden fiery light. The burning sphere exploded with a shockwave of blinding light. Once the remaining inhabitants regained their sight, there was nothing left. No goddess, no golden city, just blood and bodies littering the land with sin.”

Rhemar and Cato gave each other a shamed look before Marcus started the story’s epilogue, “Since then, only fantasied rumors of the golden city are brewed by raving heretics and lost souls looking to trade a story for a meal. No one has given undeniable proof, but there are stories of Chrysos placing tokens of passage into her divine city in the form of her worshiper’s crest, a golden locust.

Marcus knelt near Cato and looked the shaman wholeheartedly in the eyes, “There is no doubt young Windwalker, you are marked.”

XIV. Forbidden Trials

Instead of being stricken with fear, as a normal person would react to being branded by an invisible force, Cato emanated excited curiosity and unfurled his golden locust to unlock its secrets, “How do you think I activate it? If it’s a key, where’s the door? I wonder what will happen if I push majin into it – ”

Rhemar and Marcus both motioned Cato to halt his curiosity as they shouted for him to refrain in tandem. As usual, there was nothing anyone could do to stop Cato once something piqued his interest. The wind shaman sent a surge of majin into the golden locust brand adoring his left shoulder before his companions could stop him. The brand flared with heat and blistered a molten hue, glowing with searing intensity. Cato clutched his jaw to quell the mounting pain but could not resist the excruciating torture of the bone-deep burn. He cried out in howling agony as his eyes ignited with scorched golden light.

Cato’s mind left his body and stepped into another plane of view. The shaman could no longer see his friends, nor feel the burning pain from the golden locust. He stood before two dwarf mountains, off the coast of a deep aquamarine ocean, just as he did the day before. On this day however, Cato did not see an empty grassland plain but a monolithic wall of golden bricks stretching the expanse of the valley. Beyond this wall stood a broken fortification, like an abandoned fortress still guarding a long-forgotten spice route. Adoring the top of the golden fortress was the rubbled remains of broken spires, statues, and cathedrals. Old commemorations to a goddess of light and beauty now laid decayed and wrecked among the gilded ashes of an ancient war.

Undeterred by his metaphysical transformation, Cato advanced toward the looming remains of Aurumaptra, the Golden City. As he neared the entrance to the first gate, he heard the same low humming of a thousand flies, that he now knew were locusts, approaching from the rear. Cato turned before touching the gate and saw a golden woman with long-drawn floss hair and diamond eyes that absorbed light and refracted infinitely within. Her presence evoked adoration and desire. Stricken with awe, Cato opened his mouth to speak, but could not fathom an introduction worthy of the elegant goddess approaching him.

She reached out her hand to the vexed wind shaman which he took graciously, obeying her inaudible command. The touch of her hand was like holding warm chocolate before it melted between your fingers. Her skin was supple and light, malleable yet taught, and smelled of Corinthian lavender. Cato was mesmerized and fully aware of the power evoked over him. He waited patiently for her next instruction while taking in every detail of her naked body.

When she spoke, Cato could feel it in his blood as though the sanguine fluid carried her words, “My dearest Cato, it is good to finally see you. I am sorry for any discomfort my bringing you here has caused. Are you pleased to meet me?”

The feeble wind shaman could only manage to nod his head, so the golden woman continued with a smile and an infatuating hymn in her voice, “I am known as Chrysos, which I am sure you have heard. I have appeared to request your aid. Standing in the distance is what remains of my beautiful city. I bore my essence into Aurumaptra and remain bound to its foundations.”

No longer paralyzed by Chrysos’ enamoring beauty, Cato spoke with earnest concern, “How do I help you my goddess? I will do anything my power can permit to aid in your rescue.”

With a brilliant smile only a lover could endow, the goddess pulled Cato into her embrace and spoke with jubilance in her tone, “Thank you, faithful hero. I will not forget your kindness. To help me, you must first come to the remains of my city. There you will need to penetrate its depths and seek the sigil anchoring me to this place.”

As Chrysos finished her instructions, she began to fade. The golden woman dissolved through his arms as the astral world began to blur with her evaporation.

Cato called out one last request, “How do I get there?”

A whisper on the wind told Cato to look inside himself for the answer and vanished with a heed of urgency. Cato returned to the dissipating swelter of the golden locust brand, as his physical body tensed with regurgitating pain and he clutched the moist dirt and grass in his knobbing hands. The light emitting from his silver eyes dulled and Cato gasped a deep breath. The real world’s sensory input filled the shaman’s brain with noise that washed over Chrysos’ voice. He already forgot what her face looked like, as the sense of her touch faded from his fingertips.

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Upon Cato’s return from his metaphysical journey, the shaman regained bodily functions and the pain ceased as the golden locust cooled. He informed Rhemar and Marcus of what he witnessed, every detail he could remember, and the promise he made to help. Cato and Marcus whirled with excitement as Rhemar took on a more stoic look.

“What’s up Rhemar? Why are you looking so downtrodden?”

“I’m not sure what I believe anymore. I came out here to find the monster that destroyed my home and now I’m coming to find a very different story has been laid out for me.”

“You can’t really believe what that demon summoner told you to be accurate? I mean, why would he tell you anyways?”

“I sensed truth in him before he died. I believed he wanted me to kill Lucan. But why would he tell me about a place that didn’t exist as far as anyone else was concerned? And why would I feel so headstrong about coming here?”

“Maybe the guilt of not saving lady Camila drove you to grasp at the few straws available? You almost killed me when you thought I was Lucan and that Seneca was the labyrinth. I don’t pretend to know the methods of deranged men nor the motivation of sadistic beasts, but I know that you and I meeting was no mere coincidence. Right now, all I know is that we must help this pleading entity because my gut says it’s the right thing to do. If by some astronomical chance Lucan is behind all this, I’ll give you the entirety of my power to take him down.”

Shaking his head in agreement, Rhemar composed himself and shook arms with Cato, “You’re right. Let’s not jump to conclusions until we know all the facts. First, let’s work on getting to Aurumaptra and progress from there. Thanks.”

Marcus broke the brotherly admiration of the two entwined companions with bemused condensation, “I don’t suppose Chrysos told you How to get to Aurumaptra, did she?”

“She did not. Just said that I would know the answer when the time was right.”

“And…?”

“And…nope. Haven’t the foggiest.”

“Well then. Let’s set up camp and continue our experimentation after some lunch.”

The group set up camp and discussed potential ways to unlock the Golden City. Cato tried pushing majin into the golden locust again, but nothing happened: no burning sensation, no astral projection, nothing. Marcus suggested that Rhemar try transferring majin into the crest to which both parties quickly declined. After the risky business with the stone cast turned shrapnel, neither Cato nor Rhemar wanted to test a less than sound plan of action. One faulty surge of power and Cato could be turned into a glowing cock with a fork for a beak.

The hours passed without a flicker of progression, as the night settled into a sizzling scamper and radiated the afternoon’s lingering stew. The three travelers were becoming demotivated and grasping at abstract ideas on how to activate the key to Aurumaptra. Rhemar suggested Cato try to turn the satin gold brand as though he was the door it would be unlocking. With a subtle chuckle from the nonsensical solution, the shaman twisted the crest and felt a tight pinch. Again, no indication of the mystical insignia prevailed.

Without fresh ideas on how to activate the golden locust, the group decided to sleep on the notion, call it enough for one night, and agreed to pick up where they left off the next morning. Letting the campfire’s heat soak into his back, Cato drifted into a deep slumber, where his dreams held dominion over reality.

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Cato broke out in a pooling sweat as he tossed and shifted in place near the campfire. He could not break free from the nightmare that controlled his dreams. Images of bronze insects swarming about filled the sky of Cato’s dreams, creating an impenetrable haze surrounding the valley they camped in. As the wind shaman turned to find some reference, the thicket of insects grew denser. The hoard closed in on Cato, preparing to engulf the vulnerable shaman where he stood. Before the bugs tore at his flesh, the sun began to rise over the Orzcan ocean and a molten beam of light pierced the buzzing slurry of locusts. The intense rays of light bombarded Cato’s golden sigil and reignited the fury of pain he felt the day before. As the pain filled his eyes, Cato saw the swarm of locusts dissipate into a fine-grain metallic mist. Waves of heat emanating from the golden emblem warped the mist into a swaying mirage that resembled the golden gates of Aurumaptra.

Just as Cato stretched his hands to push against the golden steel, a yoking tug brought him to the real world. Awake and dripping with salty dew, the wind shaman held out his hand to swat at the invisible fabric that swarmed with vulturous insects on golden waves. Cato sprang up with focused vigilance and inspected the night’s sky. The moon was descending behind the western dwarf mountain across the valley and the sun’s easy glow waned in the opposing distance. Cato knew the time was approaching and headed for the exact position. He did not wake his comrades. There was no need. He was going to save the goddess, gain her reigning glory, and be back in time for breakfast. Surely his friends would agree that saving them from trouble would be in their best interest.

Cato left camp and headed to the spot in his dream, a small indentation near the base of the wester dwarf mountain. As he vanished into the dark swill of dawn’s crossing, all that could be seen of the young starstruck lover was the irradiating glow of the golden locust guiding his blind path.

Cato smirked a sly grin as his expression steeled with clouded resolve and he told himself over again, “Yes, I will have her all to myself and she’ll be in my gratitude. She’ll thank me for everything I’ve done. Yess yess, I’m coming my queen.”

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Marcus, usually being first to get the worm, awoke next. He emerged from Rhemar’s A-frame tent (as per his contract for coming back to the west end of Garza) and took in the morning’s scent. A wet-dirt musk with smoldering firewood overtones and morning-lily pollen circled the area and rose with the slightest increase in temperature. He stretched and decided to go on his morning jaunt until he realized Cato’s vacant spot. Inspecting the area, Marcus could make no indication nor ascertain the shaman’s whereabouts. Thinking the shaman might be returning from nature’s call, he waited before alerting the still sleeping mage. Five minutes passed, and then ten.

Marcus stirred awake Rhemar and informed him of his suspicions, “Rhemar, wake up. Cato’s missing.”

The mage was not convinced of malfeasance and swatted the annoying shapeshifter away, “You already got my tent, what else do you want? The cloak off my back?”

“No, Rhemar listen. Cato isn’t here, and I’ve been waiting…”

“He’s probably taking a shit, leave him be. And leave me with some silence, would you?”

Marcus shifted his hands into a smooth-scaled trumpet and placed the bell against Rhemar’s ear before he blew an excited multitude of tones that fell into pace with a drill reveille. The mage shot up mad as a bull and ready to charge. Marcus shifted his form to a gorilla and unleashed a savage gnarled roar that spattered spit across Rhemar’s cheek, forehead, and a little on his left eyelid.

The rampaging gorilla steadied is breath and spoke with a thickened baritone, “Now listen to me, I am concerned for our friend’s wellbeing and do not want to sit here trying to pry you from a sex-fueled dream while Cato goes to the golden city without us! Are you coming with me?”

Rhemar did not reply, he fixed his cloak and strapped his traveling satchel to his side as he nodded to Marcus for commencement of Operation Shaman Down. Marcus transformed into a broad-winged hawk and soared above the valley to gain a vantage point as Rhemar pulled a peculiar set of spectacles from his enchanted cloak pocket. The lenses were made from serpent glass, a malleable transparent porcelain that changes its properties based on how it is molded. The current configuration was infused with majin to accurately detect energy sources of any kind. Rhemar adorned the serpent glass spectacles and inspected the surrounding area. He could see the emerald life-force of the plants and the ultraviolet radiation of the fading stars. He saw Marcus flying high, a swirling of sapphire hues composed the shapeshifter’s special adaptation of raw majin. The mage continued to look around until he saw the spark of pure white majin sputtering from Cato’s distant form at the base of the western dwarf mountain.

Rhemar shouted to Marcus as he pointed and sprinted in Cato’s direction, “He’s that way!”

The shapeshifter focused his avian eyes on the vicinity of Rhemar’s projection and spotted Cato roughly a thousand meters off, across the empty valley. Marcus dove with reckless abandon to gain velocity, only pulling up at the last instance of assured peril. He hovered above the grass line, leaving a vortex in his wake as he shot towards Cato. The sun began to rise over the eastern mountain peaks, piercing the valley’s shade with lasers of light descending into the valley.

Cato raised his arms to embrace the sunlight as Marcus reached him and grabbed ahold of the wayward shaman. Seeing that Cato was under some type of trance, Marcus shook the wind shaman and yelled for him to return.

Cato snapped out of the trance, unaware of his surroundings and confused as to why Marcus was holstering him like a dying wench, “Marcus? What’s going on? I was just having this weird dream…”

Marcus loosened his grapple on Cato and spoke with a reassured tone, “It’s alright mate, you were just sleepwalking. C’mon, let’s go back and get some breakfast.”

Before Rhemar could reach them, the sun hit Cato’s golden locust emblem and they disappeared in a sterling flash. Rhemar grasped at the air where Cato and Marcus stood a second before, but there was nothing. He could not believe they were gone, but there were no traces or indications left. Even the serpent glass spectacles failed to detect anything. They were gone, vanished like fleeing shadows severed by engulfing light.

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A carmine twilight tinted the valley where Cato and Marcus stood, replacing the cool morning air with the waning heat of an afternoon simmer. Rhemar was nowhere to be seen and in his place now stood the broken gates of Aurumaptra, the Golden City. The eroding ruins of the lost city left the two wayward travelers in sustained awe. They were no longer in their home realm. Engulfed by a flash of light and transported to an alternate plane of reality, just as Cato had previously. They could feel the city drawing them in like a draining syphon and without restraint, marched into the inner ward of the fortressed city.

The collapsed temple spires still glinted with a satin aurum hue that radiated from the crevices lining every edge. Even in its final stages, the Golden City continued to emanate a flooding bewitchment into the surrounding air.

Entering the gates, the once prominent square that bolstered the finest merchants and flocks of ambitious disciples from the six corners now lay barren and silent. Not even birds skimmed the skies above. One thing was certain, Death swept this land and left no stalk unreaped. Cato and Marcus navigated their ways through the rubble and into the inner sanctum of the city.

Once they entered the last frontier holding the castle of Aurumaptra, the two foreign travelers saw only the crumbled remains of the city’s innermost refuge. With no doorway to enter the castle, the duo began inspecting their surroundings for any clues or insights into their present situation. Marcus took the East wing and Cato took the West.

It wasn’t long before Cato noticed a peculiar tiled floor in the center of the West garden’s courtyard. The ground was split into thirty-six wedges all ten degrees apart and equal in size. At the center of the arranged tiles was a familiar stone altar in the shape of an obelisk.

With excited glee, Cato shouted to Marcus, “Hey! Come over here, I found something!”

Marcus, in his wolf-form, scampered over to the wind shaman and stood on his hind legs while transforming back into his normal form, “What did you find?”

Gesturing toward the stone obelisk, Cato placed his hand on the face that was etched with Chrysos’ emblem. Cato’s locust sigil burst with golden light as the floor rumbled with reanimated conviction. The radial tiles began lowering themselves in a clockwise fashion, each sinking lower than the last, forming a spiral staircase leading below the inner sanctum. The two interim archaeologists gave each other confirming nods and initiated their descent into the catacombs of Aurumaptra.

The crumbled splendor of the city above was replaced with decaying, slime-laden cobblestones that lead into an abysmal darkness. Marcus shapeshifted his eyes into a nocturnally adept form that revealed the darkest corners of the catacombs. Adjusted and on edge, Marcus took point and began marching down a corridor leading deeper into the city with Cato at his six.

A stirring scent of medinette basil and dried desert-lily composed a fragrant, bewitching melody in the halls that grew more robust the deeper they dove. They became entwined in the seductive perfume and pursued it with glints of glee in their hearts. Section upon section, the duo drove deeper into the ancient catacombs in search of an origin. Minutes passed before they entered an elliptical side chamber with seven doors, six branching off in opposing directions and the seventh standing directly across the entryway. Cato and Marcus were no longer befogged from the scent and now focused on the new surroundings.

There were seven unique doors depicting scenes of cardinal sin. The first door to their right was larger than the other doors, boasting a girth of no less than five feet. It appeared to splinter at its mapled edges, as though a beast were pressing incessantly from the inside, attempting to burst through the threshold. A mural of saturated hues mangled the warping lumber with a scene Cato found unusually humorous. It portrayed an incongruous scene of a man with jowls like a hound, his head plumped backwards by a bulging hippopotamus’ stomach. The snarling man-beast was dining on his right foot, fork and knife cutting into its porcine hallux, severing a tasty chunk at the knuckle. Below the table scurried a butlered waiter, sawing off his master’s other foot in preparation for the subsequent course. Etched into the stone mantle overhead laid the door’s title, Gula. Holding his own thickening paunch, Cato let out a lardy chuckle as Marcus drifted toward the neighboring entryway, absent from Cato’s experience.

The second door was slender in comparison to the first. Canarywood checkered with acacia planks wisped upwards with unnatural curves, almost reaching the ceiling before flaring outwards. There didn’t appear to be any hinges and yet it creaked and swayed when Marcus pressed against the smooth grain. When inspected, detailed carvings showcased a vivacious stage, seducing his gaze. It displayed a woman bending over to retrieve a ribbed baton while another woman saddled her with leather straps. A third woman stood to their left, crushing crimson grapes across her naked body while two men drank the sanguine juice dripping from her navel. This door seeped the sweet nectary scent Marcus yearned for. Looking up, he noted the name of this entrance, Fornicatio.

The two travelers were infatuated with the doors lining the chamber and began moving with an intoxicated stupor, unaware of each other’s presence. Despite the grave desire to open the door of Gula, Cato stole himself and proceeded to the third doorway. Avaritia distinguished the golden-laid, koa-wooded door at the right end of the sithly hallow. Here, a man stood atop a spiraling crystal staircase, full attention on hoisting a silver goblet that spilled gemstones and coins across the prismed balcony. Just below, a woman clutching for his coattails as she fell from the lucent portico to her inevitable demise. The entry handle showcased a golden hand clutching a diamond sphere. The doorknob seemed to spin as Cato engrossed himself in the scintillate luster.

Cato stole himself from the guile of the greed-infested door and moved across the chamber, without noticing Marcus’ departure into the sex-fueled door. Alone in the chamber, Cato approached the next door, Superbia. It showcased a fierce gladiator with a severed rival’s head in his grasp. The gladiator stood proud, flaunting his victory to spectators and using his free hand to beckon more challengers. Meanwhile, a white lion stalked the gladiator, hungry jaws dripped with anticipation and the remains of another man’s viscera. The gladiator would be this beast’s delicate dessert. Pride never found its way into the young shaman’s psyche and seemed to have no effect on Cato. He passed this door without batting a lash.

Cato could feel the warmth draining from his bones as he neared the subsequent door. Deep lacerations disfigured the images on this door and all he could espy was a young girl crouching in fear under a monster’s grotesque frame. This foul ingress engraved Tristitia across its spliced edges and infuriated Cato beyond the others he laid sights on. Emotions of the past boiled his veins, but Cato’s trained spirit would not be broken.

It took the wind shaman’s might to pull away from the fiendish void disguised as a doorway. He trudged toward the furthest door on the left which was perhaps the most auspicious. Acedia stood directly in the center of the other six doors. Its wood was hard to determine, “Sandal or perhaps yellow oak?” Cato murmured to himself as he patrolled back and forth, pacing hastily for no apparent reason. This door possessed three handles: an inter-looping copper pedal, a silver knob with an impressed thorn rose streaming the rim, and a golden slide-hook with waves molded into the side. This door gnawed at Cato’s percipience, causing him panic. Venomous pockets of fear and frantic anger bubbled to his skin. Cato wanted nothing more than to destroy this door. The carving that plagued this noxious eyesore was an exact replica of Cato on his knees, watching meekly as the villagers of Ventos were slaughtered.

Tears fell from his pointed jaw as Cato crawled to the last door, adorned with the name Ira. Her wood sturdy and still. Iron bands spanned her breast and legs as they compressed the wood panels until the seams evanesced. There were no paintings of frivolity, no murals of massacres, just wood and iron. The solemn depth of the last door stilled the emotional tidal waves flooding Cato and left a single note on the shaman’s mind, wrath. He opened the final door and stepped into pitch darkness.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Ventosi monk found himself in a pewtered-onyx room with a light coming from the far end of a long-drawn hallway. Without thought, he stepped toward the light. As he moved through the hall, the wind shaman noticed the light moving further away the faster he walked. With a swelling qualm developing inside, Cato began sprinting towards the light. A grinding sound akin to stones sliding against one another alarmed the young monk. When Cato stopped running, the sound abated but the light continued to move further away.

Before panic engrained itself, Cato summoned the power of wind to thrust him towards the light. A burst of air hoisted the wind shaman off the stone-cobbled floor and jettisoned him down the hall. The walls grumbled like thunder. Louder and louder the bouldering rumble intensified as Cato’s speed increased. Stone jowls suddenly snapped shut around the airborne monk, like a beartrap latching onto a grazing doe reaching for the last clover inside a mechanical jaw of death. There was no room for Cato to move and even less for him to breathe. The walls ceased their advancement as the ringing echo dissipated in the distance.

Cato inspected what was left of his surroundings. A meter and a half measured the remaining hallway’s width. Cato turned his body to free his shoulders from the embrace of the stone vice and the walls enclosed another centimeter. Claustrophobia can take over the most resolute of adventurers, leaving them suffocated in the encroaching darkness. The shaman kept his mind on his core beliefs and centered his thoughts.

Cato looked down the hall and the light appeared more than twice the distance he last recalled. Every step closer to the light, drew it further away. Every movement made, enclosed the pewtered-vice like a tightening noose. This was another test, a trial of patience. Cato took three deep breaths, closed his eyes, and went into pensive meditation.

He commanded his fears and anger to end their insidious slithering and banished them from his mind. Cato willed his body to release its tension and relax every fiber. With a clear head and acceptance of his fate, Cato felt the walls loosen and recede. He continued his meditation, further delving into the Zen of enlightenment. After several minutes, he opened his eyes and saw the illuminated exit within arm’s reach. He smiled, hailed the wind to lift him, and sailed into the warm embracing light.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When Cato emerged from the halls of Wrath, he was pleased to see his comrade taking notes in his journal, like he was recording a fascinating specimen newly discovered.

The shapeshifter looked up from his notes when he heard the shaman enter the room, “Ah Cato! You’re finally here! Been waiting a century for you. I see you made it through your door unscathed?”

Cato scratched the back of his head and grinned, “You can say that. Appears you made it through fine as well?”

“If I were a normal man, I would not have been so lucky, I’m afraid. But, having the endowment I possess has served its purpose and I feel younger than ever. If you want the details, read my Daily Heathen when it comes out next month.”

Cato let out a relieved laugh and Marcus joined. The two travelers survived the first trial of Aurumaptra more resolute than ever. They rested a bit and had some leftover jerky Marcus kept on hand. The next section of the inner catacombs was through an iron gate. Ready, willing, and able, they ventured deeper into the lost city.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After an hour of trekking through winding halls, Cato and Marcus emerged from the shadows into a giant sanctum. Vaulted ceilings and golden-laid buttresses withheld the city above and protected the integrity of a golden cell. In the center of this chamber was a prison constructed from hardened gold and glass forged from diamond. The golden restraints were each etched with a single rune that fortified the celestial cage.

Cato rushed toward the golden cell and inspected its prisoner. It was Chrysos, the angelic goddess of Aurumaptra. She was sprawled out on the floor inside a golden circle lined with more runes. These sigils were glowing a vibrant aqua hue and fed energy into a visible-forcefield barrier around Chrysos. She looked weak in her container, nothing like when Cato saw her in his vision. This angered the wind shaman as he searched sporadically for a way inside the gilded prison.

Marcus reached the ill-tempered monk and attempted to abate his frantic panging and futile actions, “You’re not going to get in there by banging on the door. Just going to give me a headache.”

Cato retorted quickly “She’s dying in there. We need to get her out!”

“She’s been in there a thousand millennia. I think she’ll be fine another hour or so. Let’s look for a weak point or a lock and see what we can do from there, eh?”

Calmed by Marcus’ level mind, Cato agreed to inspect the situation further. They snooped around the golden cage looking for an indication of an entry point, but the cage was perfectly symmetrical. The only differences were in the runes etched on each bar holding the fortification together. Marcus began drawing the various cryptographs in his journal to decipher them.

Once the shapeshifter finished the last rune, Cato began his inquisition, “What have you found? Any runes that stand out to you? Do they have a pattern or sorted order? How many are there? Can you–“

“Can YOU just Stop? You saw me finish copying them a second ago. Need more time than that to make any sense, for crying out loud.”

The shaman replied with demoralized shame, “Sorry, just eager to get her out.”

Marcus paid the monk’s last remark no due and began pacing the common area between the cell and the entrance to the sanctum. There were thirteen runes in total, each different than the last, and seemed to follow no apparent pattern or order at first glance.

The shapeshifter halted his pacing when he discovered a clue and shot up with excitement in his tone, “Hold the daffodils, I think I’ve found something! You see this symbol that looks like a broken stone? I’ve seen it used to represent the three pillars of Cao’qin! And this one looks like the Tyrhoan symbol for the Caesar which could be interpreted as a one”

At his friend’s side, Cato jittered with jubilance, “That’s great! Wait, why is that great?”

“I think it means these symbols have an order to them. Which could mean they are a combination to open that prison cell!”

Cato’s smirk elevated into a peaking grin, “Like a bank vault!”

“Precisely!” Marcus pivoted his notebook toward the shaman for a better vantage, “Do any of these symbols look familiar to you?”

They went through every symbol and discovered eight additional inscriptions that mirrored sigils of significance in Nazar. Out of thirteen, they were missing symbols for the numbers five, six, and eleven. Hours went by before their fatigue kicked in.

Scratching his head in perplexed defeat, Marcus presented a suggestion, “Well since we can’t figure out the last three, let’s just guess. There’s only six possible combinations that it could be.”

Cato liked those odds. The wind shaman agreed to try their luck and guess the order of the missing three symbols. He went to the first sigil representing the king of Tyrho and placed him palm flat on its gilded inscription. A flicker of majin into the prison bars caused the sigil to illuminate a crimson glow that did not dissipate when he lifted his hand. Pleased with Marcus’ assumption, Cato moved through the next three symbols, igniting them in the order they represented. He moved to one of the three unidentified inscriptions and placed his hand on top, as he did for the previous four.

When the shaman pushed his majin into this symbol, it glowed with a venomous chartreuse aura that signaled an incorrect selection. Just as Cato removed his hand, the walls began to shift. They scraped against the stone ground as the hardened mineral slabs encroached on the prison and the heroes.

“Shit, not this again.” Cato sighed.

Their leisure time ended, replaced with foreboding urgency. Cato began to scramble, reigniting the first four sigils in their prescribed order. He selected a different symbol for the fifth combination which to his relief ignited with the same crimson glow. This however did not stop the walls from enclosing on their location. Cato frantically picked one of the remaining unknowns as the sixth sigil and revealed the same poisonous green marking a wrong combination.

Marcus spat ferociously as he shouted to the flustered monk, “Don’t stop! The walls aren’t slowing down. Start over, there’s only one combo left!”

Cato began the sequence a final time, as the chamber grew dark and the air thinned. He reached the sixth selection and ignited the correct symbol. Seven remaining. The shaman rushed to select the rest of the sigils under Marcus’ direction. Cato lit the last symbol with only a meter of space between the golden prison and the onyx slabs remaining. They stopped their enclosing pursuit and shifted their direction backwards.

With all thirteen symbols ignited, the room was filled with a cinder-brick hue that pulsed with a rhythm akin to a heartbeat. The golden bars holding up the prison vibrated with reanimation, as they receded into the floor. All that remained was the illuminated forcefield containing the golden goddess of Aurumaptra, Chrysos.