Strongest Incubus System

The road to northeastern Arven was narrow and uneven, cutting through low fields where frost remained in the shadows even after the sun rose. The carriage advanced at a controlled pace, fast enough not to waste time, but without looking like an escape or a military mission. Elizabeth had chosen a simple carriage, without the crest of Mirath or Arven, only good enough not to raise suspicions of poverty and discreet enough not to attract unnecessary interest.

Damon spent most of the journey in silence, watching the landscape through the window. The dark hood kept part of his white hair hidden, but not all of it. A few strands escaped near his face, reflecting the pale morning light. Ester sat across from him, with the medical case beside her and an expression of constant vigilance. Elizabeth read the papers prepared by Aria with elegant attention, as if she were going to a business meeting and not to visit a woman perhaps marked by a geological root of living cold.

The first stretch of the journey was calm. No ambush, no suspicious messenger, no crestless rider pretending to be lost. Damon found that almost offensive. After so many days of problems emerging from doors, warehouses, and old registry offices, a normal road felt like a trap simply by being too normal.

”You are suspicious of the scenery,” Elizabeth said, without raising her eyes.

Damon looked at her. ”The scenery is too calm.”

”Fields tend to be like that.”

”They also tend to hide people.”

Ester answered immediately: ”If there are people hiding, you will wait for the guards to confirm before jumping out of the carriage.”

”I was not going to jump.”

”You thought about jumping.”

”I thought about considering the possibility.”

”That is already half the problem.”

Elizabeth turned a page. ”You two have developed your own language of preventive accusations.”

Damon leaned back. ”It is her therapeutic method.”

”Does it work?”

”Unfortunately.”

Ester did not show satisfaction, but Damon noticed the answer did not displease her. She opened the case, took out a small vial, and handed it to him without ceremony.

”Drink.”

”Are we in the preventive phase of torture?”

”We are in the phase where I do not wait for you to become unstable before acting.”

Damon took the vial and smelled it. He regretted it immediately. ”This smells like dead herbs and criminal intent.”

”It is to stabilize circulation.”

”What does it taste like?”

”Guilt.”

Elizabeth, still reading, commented, ”I find it remarkable how your medicines also seem like strategies for moral education.”

Ester looked at her. ”When the patient learns slowly, every resource is valid.”

Damon drank the contents with a discreet grimace. Not as discreet as he would have liked. The liquid went down bitter, cold and then hot, leaving a metallic sensation on his tongue. His body reacted a few seconds later; the meridians relaxed a little, like ropes loosened after prolonged tension. He hated to admit, even internally, that it helped.

Elizabeth finally raised her eyes. ”About Nera. The order that administers the convent is called the Sisters of the Serene Lamp. They care for war wounded, invalids, spiritual patients, and people considered unable to return to normal duties.”

”Spiritual patients,” Damon repeated.

”It is a broad term,” Ester said. ”It can mean damage to the meridians, magical trauma, mental collapse after exposure to unstable energy, partial possession, core rupture...”

”You could have stopped before partial possession.”

”You asked for an explanation.”

”I asked by repeating two words.”

”Your mistake.”

Elizabeth handed one of the sheets to Damon. ”Nera Solt was registered under the name Nela Sorn. Monthly payments come through intermediaries connected to Darius Kelm. The amount is high enough to guarantee an isolated room and administrative silence.”

Damon read the sheet. ”So she is not just being treated. She is being hidden.”

”Yes,” Elizabeth said. ”The question is whether Valcair hid her to protect her, control her, or keep her from speaking.”

Ester closed the case. ”We assume the worst option until proven otherwise.”

”What is the worst?” Damon asked.

”All of them.”

The carriage continued for a few more hours. The road climbed gentle hills, passing through small villages where few people looked for too long. Elizabeth kept the prepared story ready: a donation from Mirath to the convent, evaluation of arcane patients, and discreet consultation with an old prospecting specialist. It was not a complete lie, which made everything easier. Elizabeth seemed to have a particular talent for building sentences so true that they concealed better than a lie.

The convent appeared around noon, at the top of a low hill surrounded by pines and pale walls. It was an old construction, made of white stone and dark roofs, simple but well cared for. There was no luxury, only order. An herb garden occupied the front section, and small glass lanterns hung beneath the entrance arches, unlit during the day. The place seemed too calm for someone hidden there by Valcair.

Damon felt the elemental root before the carriage even stopped.

It was not a strong call.

It was a small vibration.

Like a muffled answer behind a wall.

Ester noticed at the same instant. ”Damon.”

”I felt it.”

Elizabeth looked at him. ”Strong?”

”No. Distant. Like an echo.”

Ester held his wrist. She did not ask permission, as always. Her Qi ran through his meridians, attentive to the slightest alteration. ”It is controlled.”

”I know.”

”I am saying it to myself.”

”Comforting.”

The carriage stopped before the gate. An elderly sister came to receive them, wearing gray robes and a white band over her hair. She had light eyes, thin hands, and a posture that mixed kindness with enough authority to command sick people, inconvenient nobles, and arrogant doctors without raising her voice.

Elizabeth descended first. ”Sister Maelia?”

The woman inclined her head. ”Lady Elizabeth of Mirath. We received your message. I confess such a sudden visit surprised me.”

”I hope I am not causing trouble.”

”Important people rarely expect to cause trouble. Even so, they usually do.”

Damon almost smiled.

Elizabeth truly smiled. ”I will try to be the exception.”

Sister Maelia looked at Damon and Ester. Her gaze lingered a little on the hair hidden beneath the hood, then on Ester’s medical case. ”Your message mentioned a consultation with a specific patient.”

”Yes. Nela Sorn.”

The sister’s expression did not change, but her silence was answer enough.

”That name does not receive visitors.”

”I imagine,” Elizabeth said. ”But perhaps Nera Solt does.”

The temperature around them seemed to drop half a degree. Not because of Damon. Because of tension.

Sister Maelia looked at the guards behind the carriage, then back to Elizabeth. ”Come in.”

The inside of the convent smelled of dried herbs, clean wax, and cold stone. There was no rushing, only measured steps and low voices. Some women cared for patients in an inner courtyard. An old man walked slowly with the aid of a cane. A young woman sitting near the fountain moved her fingers in the air, repeating invisible patterns, as if trying to relearn some forgotten magic.

Damon felt the discomfort before understanding it.

That place was full of people broken by forces they had not asked for.

Ester looked at him, perhaps noticing the change in his face, but did not comment. Sister Maelia led them through a side corridor, away from the common areas. The farther they went, the quieter the convent became. The walls were thicker there, the doors more spaced apart. Some had small containment inscriptions engraved on their frames.

”Is she dangerous?” Ester asked.

Sister Maelia answered without looking back. ”Not to others, most of the time.”

”That does not answer.”

”It answers enough for someone who understands patients injured by magic.”

Ester accepted it, but did not like it.

They stopped before a door at the end of the corridor. There was an unlit lamp hanging beside it and a circular rune marked on the wood, not imprisonment, but isolation. Damon felt the vibration of the root increase a little. Not strong. Only clear. As if something on the other side of the door were breathing at a similar frequency.

Sister Maelia placed her hand on the handle, but did not open it. ”Before you enter, I need to say two things. First: she does not like the name Nera. Second: if she starts talking to the north wall, do not answer.”

Damon looked at Ester.

Ester looked at the sister. ”Why?”

”Because sometimes she thinks the wall answers.”

”And does it?” Damon asked.

Sister Maelia looked at him for the first time with something sharper than kindness. ”I hope not.”

She opened the door.

The room was simple, clean, and cold. A low bed stood against the wall, a small table near the window, and a chair before a basin of water. Herbs hung from the ceiling, and stabilization symbols marked the corners. The window was open only a crack, but even so the air was icy.

Nera Solt was sitting on the floor.

She was younger than Damon had expected and older than she should be. Perhaps thirty years old, perhaps forty. Her dark hair was cut unevenly, with white strands near the temples. Her skin had a sickly pallor, but her eyes were the worst. Not because they were blind. They were too clear, with small bluish points around the iris, like broken crystals trapped in glass.

She was drawing circles on the floor with her finger.

There was no ink.

But fine marks of ice remained where she touched.

Ester immediately grew tense.

Damon did not move.

Nera stopped drawing.

Slowly, she raised her head.

Her eyes went straight to Damon.

Not to Elizabeth.

Not to Ester.

To Damon.

”You heard,” she said.

The elemental root pulsed.

Damon breathed and held it.

”Heard what?” he asked.

Nera tilted her head, as if the question were strange. ”The door beneath the mountain.”

Elizabeth entered the room with calculated calm. ”Nera Solt?”

The woman squeezed her eyes shut, as if the name hurt. ”Nera died in the fourth gallery. Nela stayed. Nela is lighter. Nela does not know how to open.”

Sister Maelia sighed quietly. ”She has moments of lucidity. Others, not.”

Damon took one step inside.

Ester grabbed his arm.

He stopped.

Nera smiled. It was not a happy smile. It was exhausted. ”The caretaker barks at winter.”

Ester narrowed her eyes. ”I already like her less.”

Damon almost laughed, but the root pulsed again. This time, Nera placed a hand on her chest at the same time he did. The gesture was too mirrored to be coincidence.

Elizabeth noticed. ”Do you feel something in him?”

Nera looked at Elizabeth, then back at Damon. ”He has root where there should be flesh.”

Ester went rigid.

Damon kept his voice low. ”Did you see the Underground Heart?”

Nera began rocking slowly back and forth. ”You do not see a heart. You listen. You feel it in your teeth. In your bones. In your nails. It beats slowly because stone is in no hurry.”

Aria would have written all of that down.

Elizabeth picked up the notepad.

”Did you enter the lower chamber?” she asked.

Nera nodded once. ”We went down when the Duchess ordered. She wanted name, shape, size, price. Always price. The stone did not like her.”

”And Valcair?” Elizabeth asked.

Nera looked at the north wall.

Everyone remembered the instruction.

No one answered.

After a few seconds, Nera spoke without looking at them. ”Valcair did not want price. Wanted key.”

Damon felt the word pass through the room.

Key.

The root answered, but the improvised lock around his wrist, invisible beneath the skin, held part of the pressure. The meridian burned. He slowly closed his hand.

Ester noticed. ”Step back.”

”I am fine.”

”Step back one pace.”

Damon obeyed.

Nera observed this with curiosity. ”He learned to close the snow.”

Ester looked at her. ”Do you know how?”

Nera laughed softly. The sound had no humor. ”No. I learned to survive open. It is not the same thing.”

Elizabeth continued before the conversation could break. ”What is the Heart?”

Nera stayed quiet for so long that it seemed she had forgotten the question. Then she began drawing on the floor again. A circle. Lines coming out of it. Veins. Roots. The drawing was too similar to the map found in the Duchess’s room.

”World root,” she said. ”Cold that fell before names. It was not born in Arven. Arven grew on top.”

Damon felt his mouth go dry.

Ester asked a question before he could. ”Is it conscious?”

Nera stopped her finger at the center of the circle. ”Does a seed know it is a seed?”

No one answered.

She continued. ”It does not think like people. Does not hate. Does not want gold. Does not want a duchy. It wants a path. Everything that is root wants a path.”

”A path to where?” Damon asked.

Nera looked at him.

For an instant, she seemed lucid.

Completely.

”Up.”

The room became very quiet.

Sister Maelia made a discreet religious sign with her fingers. Ester kept her hand on Damon’s arm. Elizabeth wrote without showing reaction, but her eyes were harder.

Damon spoke slowly. ”And I am that path?”

Nera tilted her head. ”You are a path. Not the only one. But the best it has heard in a long time.”

The simple honesty was worse than a threat.

Ester said, low, ”Enough.”

But Damon raised his free hand, asking for one more instant. ”What happens if I get close?”

Nera looked at his wrist, where the invisible lock was anchored. ”If you enter closed, it knocks. If you enter open, it sings. If you open too much, it rises.”

”And if it rises?”

Nera placed her palm on the cold floor.

The marks of ice slowly spread until they formed a leafless tree.

”Then the mountain stops guarding winter.”

Damon did not ask what that meant. He did not need to. Not completely. The image was enough: living cold rising through the veins of the earth, leaving the mine, finding a conductor, perhaps him, perhaps something else, perhaps something Valcair would try to manufacture if they could not use him.

Elizabeth closed the notepad. ”Does Lady Seraphine know this?”

Nera shrank at the name. The lucidity wavered. ”Seraphine wears gloves. Never touches the cold. Makes others touch. Makes men go down. Makes women lie. Makes the dead stay quiet.”

”Does she want to open it?” Elizabeth asked.

”She wants to possess the key before the door opens on its own.”

Damon looked at her. ”The door will open on its own?”

Nera began breathing faster. The ice marks on the floor thickened. Sister Maelia moved, worried. Ester stepped forward, putting herself slightly between Damon and the patient.

”Nera,” Elizabeth said firmly. ”When?”

The woman brought her hands to her ears. ”Faster heartbeats. Nine minutes. Eight. Seven. When it reaches one, the stone wakes. When it reaches zero, there will be no door. Only path.”

Damon felt the root pulse three times in a row.

Strong enough to hurt.

The internal lock cracked.

He closed his eyes and contained the cold before it could escape through his hand. Ester immediately held his wrist and poured her own Qi into him to stabilize the structure. The contact burned. Damon breathed through his nose, slowly, forcing the cold back into his chest.

Nera stopped trembling.

She looked at him with sadness.

”You still do not know how to listen without answering.”

Damon opened his eyes.

”Then teach me.”

Ester turned to him. ”No.”

Nera smiled faintly. ”The caretaker barks more.”

”And bites,” Ester said.

”I like her,” Nera murmured.

Elizabeth stepped closer, without invading the woman’s space. ”Nera, can you tell us how to stop Seraphine?”

Nera kept looking at the drawing on the floor. ”Do not let her take cold blood to the chamber. Do not let her take silver bell. Do not let her take child of ancient lineage. Do not let her take you.”

The last phrase was for Damon.

Sister Maelia went pale. ”Child?”

Elizabeth became very still. ”What child?”

Nera began to cry without sound. ”They have not found yet. Not yet. But they search. Ancient blood opens the first ear. Cold opens the second. Bell calls the third.”

Damon felt a cold anger, far more dangerous than fright.

Ester tightened her grip on his arm before anything could leak out.

Elizabeth spoke carefully. ”Names, Nera. Who is searching?”

”Darius. Salt men. Men without crest. A woman with a green veil.”

Damon looked at Elizabeth.

She nodded, her expression closed. ”That is already enough to act.”

Nera returned to drawing circles, but her fingers trembled. The lucidity was leaving. ”Do not go down when the heart is awake. Do not bring fire. Fire irritates. Do not bring singing metal. Metal calls. Bring silence. Bring stone. Bring someone who knows how to close the snow.”

Ester absorbed every word, even against her will.

Damon did too.

Sister Maelia approached the patient and placed a blanket over her shoulders. ”Enough. She needs to rest.”

Elizabeth did not protest. ”Of course.”

Damon remained for one more instant. Nera no longer looked at him. She had returned to being Nela, perhaps. Or something between the two. But before they left, she spoke again, almost inaudibly.

”The cold that does not die is not your enemy.”

Damon stopped at the door.

Nera kept looking at the floor.

”But it is not your friend either.”

Ester pulled Damon out before he could ask anything else.

In the corridor, the air seemed too warm after the room. Damon leaned a hand against the wall for an instant. The lock in his wrist was cracked inside, but not destroyed. That, somehow, was a victory. Small. Worrying. But a victory.

Elizabeth carefully closed the door and looked at Sister Maelia. ”Did she speak more today than she usually does?”

The sister stared at her in silence.

Then looked at Damon.

”Much more.”

Ester released his wrist, but did not step away. ”We need to return.”

Elizabeth nodded. ”Immediately.”

Damon looked at the closed door.

Nera Solt was alive.

Whole, no.

But alive enough to turn a mystery into a countdown.

Nine minutes.

Eight.

Seven.

He did not know how much time remained before the heart of the mountain reached zero.

But now he knew one thing for certain.

Valcair did not only want to take the mines.

They wanted to arrive first.