Chapter 79: The Banquet of Despair and the Crimson Tears of the Moon
The Sea of Agony: A World in Pieces
The air in the ruined manor did not just smell of smoke and blood; it smelled of the end of all things. Hope, which had once lived in the laughter of Rina and the quiet strength of Diari, was now a cold, dead bird in the dirt. To watch them now was to feel a jagged shard of glass being driven slowly into the soul. Rina, the celestial queen of starlight, lay broken on the floor, her body trembling with a rhythmic, helpless shudder. The mark on her face—that jagged, weeping Soul-Brand—burned with a sickly violet light that seemed to drain the very color from her skin. Every breath she took was a battle against a void that wanted to swallow her whole.
Beside her, Diari was a shadow of the man he once was. The 'Accursed Iron' chains were no longer just binding him; they were growing into him, fusing with his bones, pulsing with his own heartbeat. The physical pain was a mountain, but the emotional agony was an ocean. He watched Rina's fading eyes and felt a helplessness so profound it felt like drowning in liquid lead. For a reader, for anyone watching, it was impossible not to feel the phantom weight of those chains. It was the pain of seeing the person you love most being torn apart while you are forced to watch, your hands tied by fate and shadow. The silence of the house was punctuated only by the soft, wet sound of Elara's tears hitting the floor, a sound that felt like the tolling of a funeral bell for the living.
The Macabre Celebration: A Dance of Sorcery and Sin
Then, as if the suffering was not enough, Malakor and his Apostles decided to turn the tragedy into a festival. "Why mourn the death of a world when you can toast to its destruction?" Malakor whispered, his voice a chilling rasp. With a wave of his hand, the ruined courtyard was transformed into a grotesque ballroom. Tables made of bone and shadow appeared, laden with black fruits that wept blood. The Apostles—Xul-Kar, Vespera, and the others—began a rhythmic, terrifying dance. It was the "Witch-Dance of the Void," a series of jerky, unnatural movements that mocked the grace of the living. Their bodies twisted at impossible angles, their laughter echoing like the screeching of owls.
They poured wine that was not made of grapes, but of the distilled suffering of fallen kingdoms—a thick, crimson liquid that smelled of copper and old graves. They drank deeply, the wine staining their lips like fresh wounds. The demons joined in, howling and spinning around the bound heroes, their shadows long and predatory under the sickly moon. It was a carnival of the damned, a celebration of the fact that purity had been defeated. The air grew heavy with the smell of fermented blood and cursed incense, making the captives choke as they watched their tormentors celebrate their slow demise.
The Violation of Purity: The Drunken Demon
In the middle of this hellish celebration, one of the higher demons, a creature bloated with pride and fermented blood, stumbled toward Rina's prone body. He was staggeringly drunk on Malakor's dark magic. He leaned over her, his breath a foul stench of decay. "A pretty thing, even when she's broken," he hissed, his voice a jagged edge. With a sudden, violent jerk of his talons, he tore at the shoulder of Rina's silver dress, the delicate fabric shredding like a fallen leaf. He leered at her, his yellow eyes scanning her pale, terrified face. "Such a sweet prize... perhaps Malakor will let me keep a piece of you."
Rina, even in her state of paralysis, felt the cold touch of the demon's hand. A single, crystalline tear rolled down her cheek, passing over the jagged Soul-Brand. She couldn't move, couldn't scream, but her eyes spoke of a violation that went deeper than the skin. She wept silently, her soul recoiling from the touch of the filth. It was the ultimate humiliation—the Queen of Stars being handled like a discarded doll by a drunken beast of the pit.
The Red Storm of Diari's Rage
Diari saw it. He saw the demon's claws on Rina's skin. He saw the fear in her eyes. In that moment, Diari's pupils vanished, replaced by two burning orbs of pure, crimson fury. The air around him began to boil. His muscles strained against the 'Accursed Iron' until his skin split and blood sprayed the floor. He roared, a sound that should have shattered mountains, but the chains held. No matter how much his rage burned, no matter how much his soul screamed for vengeance, his body remained a prisoner. He was a caged god watching his world burn. His eyes bled from the strain of his anger, the crimson liquid mixing with his tears. He felt a fire in his chest that threatened to consume him, a rage so absolute it was a miracle he didn't explode into a supernova of hate. But he could do nothing. He was forced to watch, forced to endure, as his heart was trampled by the feet of the drunken demons.
Elias: The Silent Observer of the End
Through all this horror, Elias sat in a corner, bound and broken. He did not speak. He did not struggle. He simply watched. His eyes, ancient and weary, moved from the dancing Apostles to the weeping Elara, then to the enraged Diari. He looked like a man watching the pages of his favorite book being torn out and burned one by one. His silence was not one of defeat, but of a terrifying, hollow observation. He saw the patterns of the dark magic, the way the wine of blood fueled the demons, the way Rina's light was being suffocated. He was a witness to the death of hope, a sage who had seen many things, but nothing as dark as this. His stillness was unnerving, a silent prayer or perhaps a silent curse, as he watched the tragedy unfold with the cold precision of a man who knew exactly how much more pain was yet to come.
The Foul Departure: A Parade of Filth
As the moon reached its highest point, the celebration began to wind down. The Apostles and the demons were sated, their bellies full of blood-wine and their hearts full of malice. They began to leave the courtyard, staggering and leaning on each other, their voices thick with drunken slurs. They hurled one last wave of insults at the family. "Rot in your own skin, cowards!" Xul-Kar laughed, tripping over a piece of the ruined wall. They used the foulest language imaginable, words that were like poison to the ears, mocking the very concept of the Silver Line. They spat on the floor as they walked past, their shadows fading into the dark forest. They left the manor in a state of absolute silence, leaving behind the smell of vomit, blood, and the lingering echo of their filthy jokes. The party was over, but the nightmare had only just begun.
Written by: Dlin_myth