Chapter thirty
The burning purgatory
Night had fallen in Alfheim.
With a flash of light, the three of them appeared in the doorway of an enormous building, shimmering in the moonlight—the Ethereal House.
Elizabeth twirled her dagger with rage. Percy and Penelope stood beside her on each side. Penelope had her arrows pointing at the gate, and Percy raised his sword to shoulder height.
Elizabeth snapped her fingers and kicked the gate open. They crept into the Ethereal in ease.
They walked past decorated offices and halls, and they came across large dormitories and beautiful gardens.
Until Elizabeth stopped in front of a small iron door at the end of the garden.
The exact door led to the Evil Scarlet’s prison.
And a jailbreak sounded interesting.
Anything that was gonna cause chaos in the Ethereal House sounded interesting.
Elizabeth's fingertips brushed against the cold, rusted surface of the doorknob, sending a shiver down her spine. The keyhole twisted with an eerie, semiautomatic grace, and the heavy wooden door groaned as it slowly cracked open. Inside, a haunting array of empty cells loomed like silent sentinels, their barred windows gaping vacantly toward her.
As Elizabeth’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, she caught sight of stark bloodstains splattered grotesquely across the iron bars, along with deep, jagged scratches that told tales of frantic desperation and hopeless struggle.
The Fairy Lord had clearly relocated his unfortunate prisoners, but she doubted they were far from here.
With each cautious step, Elizabeth felt her foot slip against something slick on the cold stone floor, nearly sending her sprawling. She quickly steadied herself, her heart racing, and leaned down to investigate.
Pushing aside the tangled straws and debris, a small glimmer caught her eye—the outline of a heavy, iron trapdoor, square and forbidding.
“Good, then, let’s take a risk,” she murmured to herself, the spark of courage igniting within her as she grasped the heavy latch and swung the door open. What lay beneath was a dark, yawning mouth that led downward.
A seemingly limitless staircase glittered underneath, the muddy steps descending into an oppressive darkness, each step coated in thick mud that clung to her shoes.
As she ventured deeper, the air grew heavy and suffocating, thick with an overwhelming sense of despair that wrapped around her like a shroud.
The passage spiraled and twisted down into a large, rectangular chamber, its walls lined with stark, iron-barred cells that faced inward. Through the dimly lit gloom, she discerned shadows swaying within—some captives thrashed fitfully, yet were soon swallowed by an unnatural slumber, while others lay still and motionless, lost to their dreams.
Raising the oil lamp she had brought with her to illuminate the dank surroundings, Elizabeth’s heart skipped a beat as she recognized Narcissus, the spirited candidate they had encountered during the Election Campaign. She was huddled in a corner of one cell, fighting the oppressive drowsiness that weighed on her like a lead blanket.
In that moment, resolve surged through Elizabeth like a tidal wave; these were her kindred, the soulblenders, and she had to rescue them from this nightmare.
But then a pungent odor invaded her senses, cloying and sweet, swirling around her like a sinister embrace. Her heart caught in her throat as she realized with a jolt that it was the unmistakable aroma of poppies. The intoxicating fragrance had lulled the prisoners into a deep, dreamless slumber, allowing the Evil Scarlets to carry out their vile experiments on the others.
Penelope, ever perceptive, snapped her fingers, and instantly the scent began to fade.
As the scent dissipated, the victims jolted awake, confusion etched across their faces.
“Thanks!” exclaimed Narcissus, her voice a mixture of relief and urgency as she burst forth from her cell, flinging her arms around Elizabeth in a heartfelt embrace. “I don’t know how we ended up here, but we must unite against the Dark Lord!” Narcissus whispered fervently, pulling Penelope and Percy close, their bond strengthened by a shared determination.
“Everyone, listen up! We have to go through this door—now!” Elizabeth instructed, her voice steady despite the rising tension, conjuring a shimmering portal in midair with a flick of her wrist. “Move quickly, you can’t allow yourselves to be caught again!”
A wave of panic swept through the group as loud, heavy footsteps echoed ominously, drawing closer with each passing second.
“Quickly!” gasped Percy, panic creeping into his voice as he hastily sealed the trapdoor behind them with a determined thrust, fear crackling in the air. One by one, the victims slipped through the luminous doorway, their expressions shifting from bewilderment to a glimmer of hope as they escaped the clutches of despair. Elizabeth watched the exuberance in their eyes mingled with the rapid echo of the approaching footsteps, creating a symphony of urgency that spurred them on.
Finally, as Narcissus and the last of the captives rushed through the portal, the trapdoor swung shut behind Elizabeth just as she stepped into the safety of the other side. The shimmering entryway flickered and vanished, leaving her breathless, mere moments before the Fairy Lord and his guards stormed into the chamber, their faces twisted with rage and disbelief, anger radiating off them like a tempest.
———————————————————————After ensuring the victims found refuge away from danger, Elizabeth and her friends stealthily returned to the enigmatic confines of the Ethereal House.
As they stepped inside, the grand ballroom unfolded before them, a once-magnificent space that had borne witness to the splendor of the Mystic Masquerade.
Now, the air was thick with a haunting melody that reverberated against the ornate walls, an invitation to a forgotten celebration.
“It was the winter solstice parade.” Whispered Penelope.
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“Having a party, eh?” cursed Elizabeth. They crept into the parade, and Elizabeth sneaked toward the radios.
Music blared all around; Evil-Scarlets celebrated on the platform, scattering golden rose petals with joyful abandon. Their merriment seemed almost oblivious to the sorrow nearby.
The floor, once polished to a mirror-like sheen, seemed to pulse with shadows, and the flickering candlelight danced like specters among the opulent drapes and mesmerizing chandeliers.
This was beyond cruelty—this was unforgivable.
Elizabeth's fingers trembled as they sought out the radio, clicking the dial in quick succession. The air, once alive with exuberant melodies that enraptured the heart, now turned somber, echoing a slow, sorrowful lament. This new song, heavy with grief, mourned the lives that had been claimed, a prelude to the desperate fate awaiting them in mere hours.
With the final notes of the joyful music dissipating into a chilling silence, the cacophony of yells and shouts faded, replaced by an eerie stillness. Every Evil-Scarlet raised their heads, their expressions contorted with dread. High on the imposing platform, crafted from dark stone and shadow, stood Elizabeth, her lips twisting into a cruel, icy smile that sent shivers down the spines of those who dared to look her way.
Datura stepped forward, her glinting blade slicing through the air as it swung casually in her hand. “What brings you to this dark place, may I ask?” she taunted, an unsettling grin spreading across her face.
Elizabeth’s heart raced, a mixture of confusion and dread swirling within her. Why the smile?
But as she registered the sight before her, understanding crashed over her like a frigid wave breaking upon rocky shores.
Datura had captured Percy, dragging him forward like a trophy, and before Elizabeth could react, the chilling edge of Datura’s blade was pressed mercilessly against Percy’s throat, a clear threat radiating from the gleam of the steel.
In a surge of instinctive desperation, Elizabeth's hand shot toward Emily. Grasping a fistful of her hair, she yanked Emily’s head back violently, her own blade pressing against the soft skin of Emily’s neck, a wordless plea for a dangerous standoff.
“Let Percy go—face me instead!” Elizabeth shouted, forcing calmness into her voice while chaos raged within. Every nerve in her body screamed with fear. What if Datura followed through with her deadly intentions? She was definitely cruel enough to kill somebody who had been the obstacle blocking her way all those times.
Elizabeth remembered the images Skuld had shown her earlier—that sent chills down her spine. Would she and her tribe vanish entirely, as foretold by the prophecy—and with their headquarters used as a base for further evil? Would she betray the trust of the soulblenders and turn against them?
Yet, one lingering thought burned fiercely in Elizabeth’s mind: Emily was the single person Datura held dear. The knowledge that Datura would go to great lengths to protect Emily made Elizabeth’s heart race even faster.
Suddenly, Datura erupted into a fit of laughter, a sound that felt like ice clattering against glass—a delightful malice that sent chills down Elizabeth's spine.
"Dolores, you fool," she jeered, her voice laced with venomous delight. "If I had rid myself of you sooner, or if the police had been clever enough to imprison you, you wouldn’t even stand a chance against us. Do you ever wonder why Miss Bianca sought to break you?” She paused, her eyes glinting wickedly.
“There was never a Miss Bianca; I am Miss Bianca—your sister, yes, yours." She closed her eyes, her hands trembling, and with a steady breath, she slit Percy’s throat with her blade.
Then, like a roaring monster, she jumped onto the stage and charged toward Elizabeth.
Elizabeth’s mind went blank. Perce, dead?
But as she lowered her eyes, a torrent of anguish surged within her, forcing her to look away from the sight of her beloved's fractured figure sprawled upon the ground.
The once vibrant light in his eyes had dimmed, and the gentle contours of his face were marred by bruises and cuts. The weight of despair pressed heavily on her heart, making it impossible to bear the heart-wrenching reality for even a moment longer.
In Datura’s wide-eyed disbelief, Elizabeth, her heart racing and tears streaming down her face, plunged her dagger with a swift, desperate motion toward Emily’s chest, a whirlwind of emotion swirling around them like a storm.
The shimmering blade glinted ominously, its edge reflecting the turmoil that no words could capture.
Datura yelled in rage, her legs shaky.
“You both deserve this,” Elizabeth uttered coldly, her voice slicing through the tension as she forcefully hurled Emily to the floor. Before Datura could spring forward, Elizabeth's boot pressed down firmly on Emily’s chest, pinning her like a trophy.
“Keep your mouth shut,” Elizabeth hissed, her voice dripping with venom, brows furrowing in disdain. “Think about what you’ve done to me.”
“Please, sister,” Datura implored, her voice trembling with urgency, desperation radiating from her as she faced the brutal scene. “Dolores, please!”
For a brief moment, Elizabeth's expression flickered, the icy mask cracking under the weight of memory. Images of Percy, her beloved, flooding her mind—his tragic death mere inches away from her, leaving her shattered and full of unresolved pain. Her heart hardened once more; she would not let his death be in vain.
With a feigned air of sorrow, Elizabeth pivoted, her eyes dark with determination. In one fluid motion, she sent her dagger plunging into Emily’s chest, the blade sinking deep into flesh with a sickening squelch. Blood erupted like a dark blossom, pooling around them, vibrant crimson staining the floor. Emily lay still, her vital spark extinguished, leaving a haunting silence in her wake. “You killed my sister! Your own sister!” Dolores cried out, her voice a ragged wail, eyes wide and luminous with torment, the rage and grief intertwining like a tempest in her chest.
Datura’s heart raced as she sprang into action, launching herself high into the air, her blade lifted like a vengeful angel ready to strike. In that same heartbeat, Elizabeth hurled her dagger toward Datura with lethal accuracy, the blade spiraling through the air like an arrow seeking its target.
Time itself seemed to stretch as the two figures moved in a slow dance of fate—one rising with unwavering resolve, the other plummeting in fierce defiance.
The dagger found its mark, piercing Datura just above her heart—the only place that could claim a life. The impact sent a shudder through the air as Datura continued her descent. A gasp escaped Datura’s lips, a sound of helplessness, as the strength left her body and she fell, a tragic figure cascading to the ground in a final, graceful arc. The sound of her body hitting the floor was a dull thud, reverberating through the charged air like a funeral bell tolling for the lost, their bodies entwined in death, the weight of their breaths gone forever.
Elizabeth withdrew her dagger, now glistening with blood, the metallic tang filling her senses, and turned her steely gaze toward the retreating Evil-Scarlets—dark silhouettes scattering down the hall, swallowed by the shadows of their own cowardice. The night was thick with tension, but Elizabeth stood resolute, a harbinger of vengeance over the fallen.
“Keep dancing!” Elizabeth commanded, her voice slicing through the cacophony of laughter and music like a knife through silk.
She fixed her gaze on Penelope, eyes glimmering with determination, and leaned in conspiratorially to whisper, “I’m going to do what they’ve done to us, but on our terms.”
Penelope met her look with an encouraging nod, the fire of rebellion igniting in her own eyes.
As the music throbbed and pulsed, Elizabeth wove through the throng of dancers, her movements fluid and purposeful. She twirled with abandon, weaving between guests adorned in vibrant gowns and sharp suits, the fabric of their outfits swirling around her like colorful waves. With each twirl, she let loose a shimmering trail of liquid—a viscous stream of gasoline that glimmered ominously under the soft, flickering lights.
Carefully, she traced a vast circle around the Evil-Scarlets, the gasoline pooling in dark, foreboding patterns that hinted at her intent.
With her task complete, Elizabeth strode to the front of the room, her heart pounding in rhythm with the beats of the music.
She flicked the switch, plunging the space into an enveloping abyss where shadows danced and merged, the abrupt silence amplifying the thrum of her heartbeat.
Then, grinning wickedly, Elizabeth extracted a match from her pocket, the slender stick feeling almost weightless in her fingertips, yet it held the power of destiny.
With a deft snap, she ignited it, and the golden flames bloomed to life, radiating warmth that flickered in the oppressive darkness and casting an otherworldly glow that danced wildly in her hands.
Lifting the match high above her head, Elizabeth marveled as the golden flames crackled and flickered in the inky blackness, their light revealing the wide-eyed expressions of those nearby—some caught in awe, others in dread.
With a graceful dip of her wrist, she brought the match downward, her grip loosening ever so slightly. The fiery beacon fell, trailing embers as it descended toward the gasoline below.