The Primordial Record novel Chapter 1812

Chapter 1812: The Caretaker

This palace was gigantic, greater than any structure he had seen except the Arena, and Vyraak expected that he would be hearing a multitude of noise being this close to it, but a greater part of the palace was covered in fog, leaving only the gate visible, and what was most noticeable was the silence.

A silence so deep that the Dragon God could hear his heartbeat, and the sound of it felt like a vulgar intrusion in this place of silence. Vyraak knew that what he was feeling was the sensation of being out of your depth. This was not a place for a lesser immortal like him.

However, there was no way he was turning back. The corruption in his core had become an itch so great that it was driving him to madness, and he needed to resolve it.

The shimmering black gate of liquid chronology beckoned him like a moth to a flame, and Vyraak’s legs were almost moving without his intent. There were promises of answers here, and if not answers, then an end to a life of shame.

His weakness, which had led to the extermination of his entire universe, would finally be answered. He would pay the price for mediocrity.

As his steps grew closer to the gate, his blade began to heat up so drastically that he could feel a sharp pain pierce through the defenses of his palm and settle on his bones.

Vyraak did not discard the weapon; instead, he tightened his fist. The pain was an anchor stone for his consciousness. The Dragon God was a powerful Old One, but he suspected that this place was not meant for Old Ones.

Without this sword in his hand, Vyraak had no reason to be in a place like this. Of course, he knew that the maker of this blade had a purpose for it, and the corruption within him also had its purpose, leaving him stuck in the center of two titans, but Vyraak believed that his connection with the blade would break whatever hold its maker had on it.

“Stay with me,” he whispered to the blade, “Whatever is to come, it is me and you against everything… To the end.”

He stepped closer to the gate, and he began to sense rather than hear a dull thrumming sound coming from it. He closed his eyes to focus all his senses on this hum, as it almost felt as if the gate was trying to talk to him.

“That is far enough, traveler.”

The voice was calm, conversational, and it came from directly beside him. Vyraak jerked his head around, a low growl rumbling in his chest, and the eye on his chest shining with a red glow. His batlike wings behind him spread wide and his seven tails positioned themselves like scorpions.

Vyraak had taken his battle form and was ready to rend and tear anything that was a threat to him. Focusing on the target, Vyraak was a bit surprised at his unexpected nature.

A man stood there. He was tall, dressed in simple, grey robes that seemed to absorb the ambient light of the place.

His features were sharp and ageless, and his eyes held a peculiar, weary amusement, as if he had witnessed the same joke play out across a million different timelines. 𝘧𝓇ℯ𝑒𝓌𝑒𝑏𝓃𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭.𝒸ℴ𝓂

He leaned casually against nothing, his arms crossed over his chest. He did not radiate power like Rowan or the Primordials; he felt more like a function of this place. Which was a weird way to describe somebody, but that was what Vyraak felt as he looked at this man.

“This is a private residence,” the man said, a faint smile touching his lips. “You can’t just wander in off the street. Especially not carrying… that.”

Vyraak’s growl deepened. “Who are you to bar my path? I am Vyraak, God of Dragons and slayer of the divine!” The titles felt hollow and childish, even as he spoke them. In any other place, this would be a grand announcement, but not here.

“Titles are noise here,” the man said, his smile not unkind. “Still, I am a man of culture, and I do not slap away an open hand. I am the Third Prince. A caretaker. A janitor, if you like. I sweep up the paradoxes and oil the gears of causality. This place has been kept unkept for so long, you would not believe the difficulty of my job.”

His gaze, which had been fixed on Vyraak’s eyes, drifted downward, settling on the hilt of the Red Moonlight Blade. The amusement in his eyes sharpened. “And I must say, you have brought a particularly troublesome bit of grit with you.”

Vyraak’s instinct was to draw the blade, to remind this ‘janitor’ of his might. But the memory of the Arena, of his own powerlessness, stayed his hand.

Verify captcha to read the contentVerify