Chapter 39: Ch39 Fire In The Garden
Panic.
That was the only word Luther could think of as the temple garden turned into hell itself.
The explosion had barely stopped ringing in his ears before a torrent of fire surged into the crowd. Worshippers screamed and scrambled, robes trailing smoke, while the ceiling groaned under the weight of fresh cracks. Chunks of marble and flaming debris rained down.
Another blast of fire slammed into the floor not ten feet from where Luther knelt. The shockwave hurled him backward, heat licking at his skin. He rolled across the ground and pressed flat, heart pounding.
"Oh come on!" he shouted, his voice lost in the screams. "I did pray for something, but not like this!"
The scent of burning flesh clawed at his throat. People lay motionless, blackened, others writhing and clutching at scorched limbs.
Some of the stronger magic users managed to rally. They spread their arms, calling up shields of light or walls of ice, throwing themselves in front of the weaker ones. But the fire was relentless.
At the dais, the elders raised their staffs in unison, shouting incantations. A translucent dome shimmered into being, swallowing the altar in its protection. Every blast of fire that struck it rippled across the shield like a drumbeat.
Luther ducked as another fireball screamed overhead and exploded against the barrier. Heat washed over him, his ears ringing.
Through the chaos, a scream pierced the air.
Luther’s head snapped up—and his stomach dropped.
The boy. The same one who had been bouncing earlier, excited about seeing the statue. He lay sprawled on the floor, his leg charred, his eyes wide with pain.
And above him—a ball of fire, streaking straight for him.
Luther didn’t think. His body moved before his mind caught up. He sprinted, boots skidding across the marble, and threw himself in front of the boy. His hands shot out, and a golden shield shimmered into existence just as the fireball struck.
The impact rattled his bones. The shield cracked, spiderwebbing with fractures, but it held long enough to deflect the worst of the blast.
The crystal on Luther’s wrist glowed, then split down the middle with a sharp crack.
He didn’t notice. He was already dropping to his knees, fumbling to check the boy. The child groaned, sweat dripping from his pale face, his body trembling.
"Damn it," Luther muttered, pressing a hand to the boy’s shoulder. His eyes darted around the hall. Everywhere he looked, people were falling—some clutching wounds, others helping to hold the barrier as the elders strained against the next wave of fire. Even the Father was at the front, his staff glowing as he lent his power.
’This isn’t a book anymore,’ Luther thought bitterly. ’It’s not just words. It’s screams. It’s blood. It’s real. Too real.’
Above, a flash of steel cut through the smoke. Aithur soared in the air, wings of summoned magic carrying him, his sword slicing apart incoming blasts before they touched the barrier. Sparks scattered with each strike.
On the ground, Liliana was already hauling wounded out of the way, her ruby blade flashing as she carved a path through debris. Her face was carved from stone, but her eyes burned with sharp focus.
Another rumble. A wall cracked, a huge slab of stone breaking free. Luther’s head jerked up just as it began to fall—straight toward him and the boy.
"Move!"
He curled protectively over the child—only for the stone to smash sideways with a kick.
Liliana dropped in front of him, her blade still humming with impact. She glanced back, her hair streaked with ash.
"Get to safety," she snapped. Her lip curled in disdain. "Of all things, why must they ruin my mood today?"
And then she was gone again, back into the storm.
Luther clenched his fists. He wanted to scream, to curse, but now wasn’t the time. The boy whimpered, drawing his attention back.
His leg was charred, and his pulse was weakening. If he waited for the elders, the boy would die.
Luther swallowed hard. His hands trembled. He checked quickly—no one seemed to be looking. With a sharp breath, he pressed his palm to the wound.
A faint golden glow spilled from his hand, threads of warmth weaving into the boy’s burnt flesh. Slowly, agonizingly, the scorched skin began to knit. The glow was weak, nearly invisible under the firelight—but it was enough.
The boy’s breath steadied, though his body still trembled.
Luther exhaled in relief.
But someone had noticed.
From the dais, Elder Haro’s eyes widened. He stared at the faint golden glow in disbelief, his lips silently mouthing: How?
Before he could even take a step, a blast of fire screamed over the barrier and struck the statue itself. Elder Haro whirled, summoning a gust of wind to divert the flames. The water spilled harder from the statue’s jug, steam hissing into the air.
And then it happened.
The barrier flickered. Once. Twice. And then—it shattered.
Gasps and screams filled the hall as the protective dome dissolved into sparks. The elders turned in horror, just in time to see the Father collapse to his knees, blood spilling from his lips.
"Father!" Elder Nimo cried, rushing forward.
The old man crumpled, his staff clattering to the ground. The light faded from its tip.
The crowd froze. Panic spread anew.
And then—
A clap. Slow. Mocking.
From the smoke, figures emerged. White robes. Faces hidden by strips of black cloth.
The crowd recoiled.
The lead figure tilted his head. "I trust you enjoyed the little present we prepared." He gestured lazily toward the fallen Father.
"What have you done?" Elder Haro’s voice shook with fury.
"Nothing much." The figure chuckled. "Only a sip of something sweet. The old timber didn’t even notice the poison in his cup."
The elders’ faces blanched. The realization cut deep.
These weren’t outsiders. The white robes... they were apprentice robes.
Their own people.
Betrayal.
"Why?" Elder Vain roared, his voice shaking the rafters. "Why defile such a sacred day?"
"Why not?" one of the robed figures sneered. "Tell me, old man, what better day could there be? All the kingdom’s magic users gathered—rich and poor alike, nobles sitting beside peasants. One strike, and the balance crumbles."
A hush swept the hall. Even the fire seemed to dim.
The lead figure reached up. His hand tugged at the black cloth across his face. Slowly, deliberately, he pulled it free.
The crowd gasped.
Luther’s stomach dropped.
The face revealed beneath the hood was familiar. Too familiar.
"Harold..." Elder Nimo’s voice cracked in disbelief. "You—"
Harold smirked, his eyes cold. "Long live the new age."