The first thought to meet Kieran's alarmed mind was as bad as an assumption could be, for his predicament at least.
This current feeling reminded him too much of the sensations felt before the beginning of the Trial. Did that mean the Trial had ended… and he perhaps failed?
That distraught thought flitted through his mind, and it wasn't an implausible assumption. Much of his afflictions now resembled his restrictions inside that bridge of strange, viscous blood.
However, as he thought about it some more, Kieran realized his guesswork may be wildly inaccurate. If he discounted the puissant restriction severely limiting his movements, the sensations felt… similar to traveling through the Night.
Blackened space shifted imperceptibly around him, which he only noticed due to the wails passing vertically instead of horizontally. That meant his body was moving upward or downward as opposed to sideways like when Altair traveled through the Night.
How was ascending and descending inside this darkness possible, though?
Kieran couldn't fathom the answer, which was understandable given it was an event precipitated by a God, albeit a Fallen and Broken one.
Still, no mere mortal could compare to a fraction of a God's power. Otherwise, what would be the purpose of ascending to godhood?
Granted, there were anomalies no divining entity could account for, but those rarely appeared as they possessed destinies and fates at a station comparable to Gods, making their subversion or sabotage hard to realize.
Another hint the Trial had not ended… was his connection to the Sacred Inheritor, who, in her terror, clung to him like a terrified anklebiter. He naturally didn't fault her for what she felt.
Kieran was taken aback by the sudden development as well.
Once again, the transpirations alerted Kieran to the inevitable events of these Trials. No matter how much he tried to act according to his belief, an apt and equally devastating response lay in wait for his decision.
In Kieran's opinion, there was no allegorical "lesser of two evils," only two greater evils with personal or impersonal effects. Yet even if he chose the unbiased route, it left Kieran riddled with guilt.
Because he had decided not to become the Flame's almighty pawn… Adeia had suffered in his place, enduring the torment of whatever power the Flame had forcibly instilled in her.
He had only caught a glimpse of her new power before being catapulted into this utter darkness he faced. Still, it was enough to inspire dread in anyone who met eyes with the newly created Fiend.
Which was strange, in Kieran's opinion.
When he fought against Adeia inside the War Phantasmagoria, though the whole experience was hazy in his mind, the fierce fighter didn't seem like a Fiend. Had her isolation eroded the madness a Fiend was to endure? Was that possible?
Perhaps it was… if a Fiend could be cut off from the source long enough.
Considering the nature of the Bloodied Font and how none of its energy leaked outside of its medium, it made sense that it could sever a Fiend's connection to the source of Madness.
But, now… Kieran couldn't tell if the source of Madness was Argexes… or the Flame itself? Granted, he had only met one and not the other. Kieran couldn't make an educated guess without first meeting Argexes.
Though, from the stories he had learned about Argexes and the litany of frightening monikers attached to that being, Kieran somehow feared Argexes more than the Flame. Fear usually deterred someone from acting… yet this "fear" Kieran felt incited him to act.
It was bizarre, but the risks somehow seemed insignificant to him.
Many would deem him a fool if they learned he wanted to stand face to face with a Monarch, a being that commanded so much pull in the Place of Bane it warranted apprehension from the likes of Agrianos and a few others.
But for that very reason, Kieran feared Argexes more than the Flame. From what he gathered, Argexes was not a God, or a uh….
Kieran blinked.
'What is the counterpart of a God? I have no damned idea! Oh well.'
Kieran shrugged, continuing on that earlier thought.
Argexes was not a God, meaning he… or it, if that identifier suited Argexes more, could influence whatever lower Boundary he stepped into. That alone made Argexes a much more significant threat than a Fallen God who likely wasn't even spoken about in the current Age.
Unlike the Flame, who defied death and was remarkably elusive, Argexes sounded mortal. Kieran assumed he could die, and when he did… he would stay dead.
But that also got Kieran thinking. If that were true, why hadn't Argexes been killed instead of imprisoned? What was the reason behind that entire endeavor?
Just as he arrived at some additional questions, the darkness surrounding Kieran and the Sacred Inheritor began shattering like an impacted eggshell. The twilight disintegrated, revealing a scenery of diffuse crimson light.
'No… this isn't light.'
Blood!
They had arrived in an ocean of blood.
A look around gave Kieran his much-needed information. Somehow, they had traversed the Darkness Below and returned to the Ravaged Plains.
As soon as they appeared in the center of the Ravaged Plains, Altair stepped beside them, gripping Kieran's shoulder firmly. The voice he used became unusually grim.
"We need to move. Create as much space from that thing as possible."
While he talked, Altair pointed toward the disturbing changes occurring before the Ruined Bastion's door. It had always been a veil of darkness too troublesome to pierce with ocular abilities alone.
Kieran had tried and failed beautifully.
But Altair was different. He didn't use his eyes to sense what was going on. No, it was more fitting to say that Night itself spoke to him, manifested as the tenebrous shade that shadowed him.
It had become his eyes and ears in lieu of what he had lost. And it warned him of the peril to come, of the forces barreling through the Night to emerge from the Ruined Bastion's newly opened doorway.
The Scorched Door of Wailing Resentments.
That, too, had risen from the Darkness Below, displaced through the Night to act as an impetus for hellish events.
The situation had easily shifted from bad to worse.
Only ten people remained to combat the Dark… eleven if one counted Adeia, who, much to Kieran's dismay, stared at the Ruined Bastion with a distant expression.
Her eyes, crimson and glimmering like sanguine jewels, seemed enthralled. As if her identity of self had been imprisoned and replaced by a presence she couldn't overcome alone. She had become a thrall of the Flame in taking in all that power.
The Adeia now couldn't be compared to the Adeia before.
It was like the traits that defined her had been ruthlessly burned away.
Perhaps that was why she shed tears of blood while the energy of the monolith burrowed into the body, the power wrested away from the blood inundating the Ravaged Plains.
Despite wanting to focus on Adeia for a while longer, Kieran listened to Altair's advice, retreating from their current position. Rather, he tried to.
Still, he could not move. He settled for throwing the Sacred Inheritor in Altair's arms and resigning himself to stay here while tightly gripping Heartsbane.
Seconds later, the gateway's center warped, its corrugated edges unfurling to form a dizzying circle of tenebrous energies.
Then, the Nosferatu, Bloodwights, and Banehounds became the least of everyone's worries.
