CHAPTER 48: The Serpent's Prey
The Serpent's Spine – Imperial Hunt, Deep Underground
The relentless, methodical advance of Major Krell's Legates was a new kind of terror in the Serpent's Spine. No longer content to simply hold a blockade, they hunted. The tunnels, once Seyda's silent domain, now echoed with the heavy scrape of scorched-black plate, the rhythmic thud of engineer's mauls, and the fervent, guttural chants of Father Loris's Purifiers. They flooded the dark passages with their blinding oil lamps and the raw, acrid smoke of their torches, seeking to burn out the shadows where the Red Veil moved.
"They're splitting up, Major," Commander Valerius reported, his voice tight, his eyes darting into the oppressive gloom. "Three distinct sweep teams, all converging on the central arteries. They're using Goran's seismic readings to pinpoint unstable sections. Trying to seal them off."
Krell grunted, his jaw set. His mind was clear now, purged of the lingering dread. This was a direct, tangible enemy. A witch. He believed in steel and fire, and he had both. "Force them into the open," he commanded, his voice cold. "Blast any side passage that offers more than a rat's hole. Loris, let your chants fill these caves. Drown out their whispers. And any shadows that move… burn them."
Father Loris complied with zealous fervor, his voice rising to a fever pitch, leading his Purifiers in a cacophony of prayers and condemnations. Their brazer staffs cast long, dancing shadows, turning every rock formation into a monstrous, fleeting shape. The Legates, though still uneasy, felt a renewed purpose. They were hunting something real.
Seyda's Lair – The Hunted Becomes the Hunter
Deep within the twisting veins of the mountain, the escalating Imperial presence was a suffocating pressure. Seyda felt it, a distant thrumming through the very stone, a violent tremor that resonated through her bones. Her face, hidden beneath her crimson veil, was impassive, but her eyes, smoldering with that faint, internal light, were sharp, calculating. She was the prey now, but a predator did not simply flee.
"They seal the rat holes," Sister Lyra, one of Seyda's most trusted acolytes, whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant rumbling. "They push us into the light, Lady."
Seyda raised a hand. "No. They push us into *their* despair. The darkness is still ours."
Her small band of thirteen acolytes, their faces marked with war ash and luminescent fungi, moved with unnerving silence. They had spent weeks perfecting their terror in the Blackwood. Now, they would apply it to the confines of the Serpent's Spine.
They used the Imperial's own fear against them. Whispers, barely audible, would echo from unseen crevices – a dying man's last gasp, a child's whimpering cry, a soft, seductive voice calling a soldier's name. A Legate, separated by mere yards from his patrol, would hear his dead mother's voice, turning him into a panicked, disoriented target.
In one narrow passage, they laid a crude trap. Not a physical one, but a sensory assault. A fine mist, infused with a paralyzing herb, was released. When the Legate patrol marched through, they felt nothing but a sudden heaviness, a chilling cold. Then, their oil lamps began to flicker, their flames turning a sickly, impossible blue. Sounds became distorted – Father Loris's chanting turned into the agonized screams of the damned, echoing from every wall. In the ensuing panic, one Legate, hallucinating enemies, fired his crossbow wildly, piercing his own comrade. The sound of the bolt striking flesh was deafening in the sudden, maddening silence that followed.
Seyda watched from a hidden crevice. She gave no command. The Red Veil acolytes, trained to kill silently, surged into the chaos. Daggers found unprotected joints, slit throats. No mercy. No wasted movement. The Legates, disoriented and terrified by the phantom assault, were easy prey. The bodies were dragged into hidden fissures, the tunnels cleansed of their presence. Not a drop of blood left on the main path.
Krell's Obsession – The Serpent Witch
Days bled into a terrifying, maddening hunt for Major Krell. His progress was agonizingly slow. Every few hours, another patrol would either vanish or return with raving reports of ghosts, of illusions, of their own men turning on each other in the dark. The Purifiers' chants grew hoarser, their faith strained by the relentless, unseen terror.
Valerius, his face gaunt, reported another six men lost. "They leave no trace, Major. It's like the mountain itself swallows them whole. Or… the witch. That Serpent Witch."
Father Loris, his eyes wide and bloodshot, ranted about rituals of defilement, demanding more purifications, more fire. He was convinced Seyda was weaving profane spells, twisting the very fabric of the tunnels. Krell found himself agreeing. He had never believed in magic beyond the battlefield, but the relentless, mind-bending torment in these tunnels was something else entirely. It was a violation.
He found one of his Legates, a hardened veteran, huddled in a corner, sobbing uncontrollably, clutching his maul like a child's toy. He kept muttering about "the singing dark" and "red eyes." Krell had to have him restrained and sedated. This was the cost.
Krell's own sleep was haunted by the silence, by the imagined whispers, by the phantom sounds of his men dying without a fight. He became obsessed. He pushed his engineers harder, ordering more reckless blasts, more risks, desperate to find this "witch's lair," to face something, anything, tangible. He would drag Seyda out into the meager lamplight and put his axe through her himself. He would not break.
The Bloodied Trap – A Revelation
In a wider cavern, Krell found a grim display. Not bodies. Not even a trap. Just a single, perfectly preserved Imperial lantern, still burning brightly, casting a circle of warm light on the otherwise pristine stone floor. And meticulously arranged around it, in a crude circle, were the blackened helmets of his missing Legates, their featureless iron skulls staring out into the dark.
And within the circle of helmets, drawn in what looked disturbingly like fresh blood, was the symbol: a stylized flame, similar to the Church's, but subtly twisted. And beneath it, a single message, scrawled in the same chilling red:
*"We are the Serpent. We flow through your veins. And your blood is ours."*
Krell stared, his jaw tight. It was a message of utter dominance, of a terrifying intimacy. Seyda wasn't just hiding; she was playing with them. She was in their minds. He felt a cold rage, colder than anything he had known. This was not a witch. This was a monster, born of the darkness and thriving in the terror.
He understood then. Seyda was not fleeing. She was teaching them. She was proving Kael's prophecy. This was their true judgment.
He turned to Valerius, his voice flat, devoid of all emotion. "We will pull back the advance. We will reinforce the blockade, yes. But we will not chase her. We will hold the mouth of this pit. And we will starve her out. Let her try to move supplies. Let her come to us. We will show her what true despair is."
As the Legates began the grim, demoralizing work of establishing a deeper, more defensive blockade, the sounds of digging and hammering filled the tunnels. But through it all, Krell knew, the whispers would continue. The terror would linger. The Serpent's Prey was not yet caught. And the psychological battle for the Serpent's Spine had truly descended into madness.