Chapter 3: Mount Syris

  ------------------------------------------------

  Mount Syris loomed over Aelrio, a titan of stone and myth, its peak piercing the heavens where clouds wreathed it in eternal secrecy. Its slopes, cloaked in dense forests and tangled vines, whispered of ancient rites, their shadows hiding secrets older than the empires that now carved the world. At its summit, legends spoke of a single, gnarled tree, its roots clutching the rock like the bones of the earth, a sentinel untouched by time. The mountain’s base was a labyrinth of jagged boulders and sparse pines, where the wind sang mournful tunes, carrying the chill of forgotten ages. To the Indrayans, it was sacred, a place of divine whispers; to scholars, it was an enigma, its unyielding presence a challenge to unravel.

  The sun blazed at its zenith, its heat a relentless hammer on the four figures trudging up the mountain’s lower paths. Their boots crunched on loose gravel, their breaths labored under the weight of packs stuffed with research tools—vials, maps, and strange instruments glinting with purpose. They sought the fabled tree atop Syris, to probe its mystery and uncover truths buried since the world’s dawn. Dante Warrick led them, his weathered face set with grim resolve, his eyes scanning the trail for unseen threats. Beside him strode Cyra, the navigator, her dark hair matted with sweat, her map clutched tightly. Behind lagged Thorn, wiry and charming, his heavy pack no burden to his buoyant spirit, and Felix, the prodigy, whose complaints echoed louder than the wind.

  Felix stumbled, his white spectacles flashing in the sun, his face flushed and dry. His pack dragged his shoulders forward, his steps faltering. “I can’t,” he gasped, collapsing beside a boulder, his voice thick with exhaustion. “I can’t walk another step.” He wiped his brow, slumping with a groan, his carefree nature crumbling under the climb’s toll.

  Thorn, a few paces ahead, turned, his sweat tracing rivulets from forehead to jaw, dripping to the earth. His pack dwarfed Felix’s, yet his grin was undimmed, his charm a spark in the heat. “Come on, mate,” he teased, his voice light but edged with impatience. “This is your third break since dawn. You’ll have us camping here till the stars fall.”

  Felix glared, shoving his spectacles up his nose. “Not everyone’s built like a bloody ox, you dumbass. I’m dying here.”

  Thorn snorted, planting his hands on his hips. “Dying? You’re weaker than a tavern wench after a long night. Get up, you lazy sod.”

  “Lazy?” Felix shot back, his voice rising with mock indignation. “I’m carrying half my weight in gear! You’re just showing off, you preening peacock.”

  Their bickering drew a sigh from Cyra, who paused ahead, her small frame taut with frustration. Sweat glistened on her pale skin, tracing a path from her forehead, down her smooth neck, and into her loose tunic, vanishing at her slender waist. She turned, her brown eyes flashing. “For the gods’ sake, you two,” she snapped, her voice sharp yet weary. “We’ve miles to go, and you’re squabbling like children. Felix, move your arse, or I’ll leave you for the snakes.”

  Dante, unyielding as the mountain itself, halted beside her. His pack matched Thorn’s in weight, yet he stood unfazed, his weathered face etched with alertness. “What’s this now, Thorn?” he asked, his tone low but firm, his eyes narrowing.

  Thorn shrugged, wiping sweat from his brow. “Felix’s decided he’s too delicate for Syris. Wants a nap, apparently.”

  “Dante, please,” Felix pleaded, his voice a whine. “We’ve been climbing since dawn, and the sun’s cooking us alive. A short break won’t kill us.”

  Dante’s jaw tightened, his gaze sweeping the path. “A break could,” he said, his voice like iron. “This mountain’s no place for lingering. Reptiles, beasts—Syris doesn’t forgive the careless. You’ll rest when the sun sets. Get up, Felix. Now.”

  Felix’s face twisted in a sickening grimace, his shoulders sagging. “Just ten minutes,” he muttered, kicking a pebble.

  Cyra stepped closer, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper. “Ten minutes? In a place crawling with anacondas big enough to swallow you whole? Want to be their lunch, Felix?” Her words, soft but laced with menace, struck like a blade.

  Felix’s eyes widened, his breath catching. He scrambled to his feet, brushing past Thorn with a scowl. “Fine, you lot, keep up then,” he huffed, his voice trembling as he hurried to Dante and Cyra. “Don’t dawdle, Thorn, you long-legged oaf.”

  Thorn chuckled, his grin infectious. “I’ll kick your scrawny arse later, you little bastard,” he called, hoisting his pack and falling in behind.

  The group pressed on, their banter fading into the wind’s mournful howl. Hours bled away, the path growing steeper, the air thinner. The sun dipped, casting long shadows as they reached a clearing where the trail ended abruptly. Before them stretched the Eldershade Forest, a dense wall of ancient trees, their gnarled branches interwoven like a fortress of secrets. Its canopy swallowed the light, its depths whispering of perils unseen.

  Cyra lowered her map, her brow furrowing. “This is far enough for today,” she said, her voice heavy with fatigue. “We camp here and tackle the forest tomorrow.”

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Felix collapsed onto a mossy stone, his relief palpable. “Thank the gods,” he breathed, dropping his pack with a thud. “My legs are done.”

  Dante scanned the clearing, his eyes sharp. “Where do we set camp?” he asked, his tone clipped, ever wary.

  Thorn squinted, pointing to the right. “Camp? There’s a house over there, Dante. Can’t you see it?” A few hundred meters away, on grassy land before the forest, stood a small structure, its walls weathered and moss-covered, its two windows dark as empty eyes.

  Cyra frowned, consulting her map. “There’s no house marked here,” she said, her voice tinged with unease. “The research center didn’t mention anything near Eldershade.”

  Felix adjusted his spectacles, peering at the building. “Looks abandoned,” he mused, his curiosity piqued despite his exhaustion. “Could be an old Indrayan military bunker from the war. Left to rot.”

  Dante’s eyes narrowed, his hand resting on his pack’s strap. “I wasn’t told of any structures,” he said, his voice low. “But if it’s shelter, we check it. Carefully.”

  The group approached, their steps cautious, the grass crunching underfoot. The house was modest, its stone walls crumbling, mold cloaking its roof. Dust and wild grass choked its base, and two small windows revealed glimpses of rusted wires and war-era equipment within—a hulking machine, its cables snaking out of sight. Dante paused, his gaze lingering on the wires, a flicker of doubt crossing his face.

  Thorn dropped his pack, rolling his shoulders. “I’ll get us in,” he said, his charm undimmed by the eerie silence. He squared his broad frame and charged the door, his arm slamming against the weathered wood. The door splintered with a groan, dust billowing as it gave way.

  *Boom.* A deafening blast erupted, a fiery shockwave tearing through the air. The house’s automated defense system, a relic of war, triggered in an instant. Thorn was engulfed, his body hurled back in a blaze of flame and shrapnel. Dante, closest to the door, was thrown yards away, crashing into the grass with a sickening thud. Cyra and Felix, farther back, stumbled, the blast’s force knocking them to the ground, their ears ringing.

  Cyra’s scream pierced the chaos, her eyes wide with horror as flames consumed the house. Felix froze, his spectacles askew, tears welling as he stared at Thorn’s burning form, half-buried in the wreckage. Dante writhed in the grass, his shouts of agony cutting through the smoke. Fire licked his legs, creeping toward his waist, his right cheek blackened and blistered.

  “Move!” Cyra choked, scrambling to her feet. She grabbed the fire extinguisher from her pack, her hands trembling as she sprayed foam at Dante’s burning limbs. Felix snapped from his daze, joining her, his movements frantic. The flames hissed and died, leaving Dante’s lower body charred, his breaths ragged with pain.

  Cyra dropped the extinguisher, tears streaming down her face as she fumbled for the medical kit. “Hold on, Dante,” she whispered, her voice breaking. She applied bandages with shaking hands, wrapping his burns as he screamed, each cry a dagger to her heart. Felix, his face pale, knelt beside them, his scientific training overriding his panic. “We need to amputate,” he said, his voice barely audible, tears tracing his cheeks. “The burns… they’re too deep.”

  Cyra nodded, her sobs stifled as Felix worked, his hands steady despite his grief. Dante’s screams faded to whimpers as Felix administered a sedative, his scalpel flashing in the fading light. The amputation was swift, brutal, and necessary, Dante’s legs severed to save his life. They bandaged his upper body and face, his right cheek a ruin of scorched flesh, his breathing shallow but steady.

  The house burned on, its flames dwindling as night crept over Syris. Felix and Cyra sat cross-legged before the ruins, their faces streaked with dried tears. Thorn’s body, reduced to charred bones, lay amid the ashes, a grim testament to their loss. Cyra’s shoulders shook, her quiet sobs mingling with the wind. Felix stared into the fire, his carefree demeanor shattered, his spectacles reflecting the dying embers.

  Dante stirred, his bandaged form propped against a rock. His eyes, clouded with pain, opened slowly, tears glistening but unspilled. He gasped, his voice a hoarse whisper. “It was my fault,” he said, his words heavy with guilt. “I should’ve known… a military bunker… defenses left active.” His hand trembled, touching Felix’s arm.

  Felix flinched, startled from his thoughts, his eyes meeting Dante’s. “No one could’ve known,” he said softly, his voice cracking. “Not you, not us.”

  Cyra, her face drawn, nodded. “The equipment’s gone,” she said, her voice hollow. “The radio, our tools—burned. We should head back at first light. Without Thorn…” She trailed off, her gaze returning to the ashes.

  Felix sighed, wiping his eyes. “Thorn was our shield. The forest’s crawling with beasts. We can’t go on without him.”

  Dante was silent, his breath ragged. Then, his voice broke the stillness, faint but resolute. “No,” he whispered. “We don’t turn back. Syris… it’s my destiny.” He paused, his eyes distant, lost in memory. “When I was eight, my father fell ill. The best doctors in Crownhold, even foreigners, couldn’t save him. My mother was breaking, and I… I didn’t understand.” He swallowed, his voice trembling. “Then a man came, covered in ash, his hair unwashed, wearing only an orange cloth. He stared at my father’s room, and I tried to shoo him away. But he grabbed my arm, his eyes burning into me. He gave me a powder, herbs, said to mix it with milk at dawn. I was terrified, but I nodded. He called me back as he left, said, ‘To the greatest mountain, your destiny lies. Three will join you.’ Those words never left me.”

  Cyra leaned closer, her tears stilled, her voice soft. “Why Syris, Dante? What did he mean?”

  Dante’s gaze lifted to the mountain’s shrouded peak. “That herb saved my father. I became a bioscientist to find that man, to thank him, to learn what he saw in me. Syris is my answer.” A tear fell, carving a path through the soot on his cheek. “Thorn’s gone because of me, but I can’t stop now.”

  Felix wiped his eyes, his voice barely a whisper. “We’ll find it, Dante. For Thorn.” Cyra nodded, her hand resting on Dante’s shoulder, her resolve hardening.

  Unseen, deep in the Eldershade Forest, a small figure moved through the shadows. A girl, no older than ten, clad in a flowing white dress, her long hair shimmering like moonlight. She skipped lightly, her voice a lilting hum—“La la la, la la laa”—as she paused at the forest’s edge, her eyes glinting with ancient knowledge. “So they are here,” she murmured, her whisper carried away by the wind.

  Night deepened, the stars faint above Syris’ peak. Cyra and Felix, exhausted, drifted into uneasy sleep beside Dante, their breaths mingling with the mountain’s chill. Dante’s eyes fluttered, his bandaged form still. As the hours passed, his breathing slowed, then ceased. The mountain stood silent, claiming another soul.

  Dawn broke, its first rays piercing the forest. Cyra and Felix stirred, their faces gaunt with grief. They found Dante still, his body cold, his quest unfulfilled. Tears fell anew, but the mountain offered no comfort. Only two remained, their path uncertain, Syris’ secrets looming above.