20. Aphrodite's Guardian

The group advanced along a shattered path toward Aphrodite’s Hydria, their footsteps tentative as they approached the ruin. Before them, the once-proud edifice lay in disarray: walls battered into oblivion, windows splintered like broken dreams, and at the threshold, torrents of blood cascaded in eerie, crimson rivulets. It was unmistakable—the temple had been the very first target of yesterday’s brutal assault.   “Listen up,” Hey declared with urgent resolve, his voice rising above the oppressive silence. “Inside the room to the right, there are six linen dragons. They might have escaped; we must rescue them and bring them safely back to the village. Don’t worry about the mess—our people will tidy up later.” With deliberate care, he revealed six robust crates stuffed with warm, plush towels and nestled treats. “They love to curl up in soft, humid warmth. If one refuses the crate, offer it a treat,” he added, brandishing a few little pieces of meat as examples.   Inside the shattered temple, Ygwain lingered at the entrance, choosing to bide his time until word from his comrades. Meanwhile, the others stepped into a hall that still whispered of ancient grandeur. Here, pinkish-white marble shone beneath columns and pillars reminiscent of a Grecian bathhouse—a beauty now marred by deep blade marks and splashes of blood. The very water that once symbolized purity now ran dark and thick, resembling spilled wine. Beyond, a back chamber succumbed to an impenetrable haze of steaming mist, blurring every detail into an unsettling, ghostly veil.   With measured courage, Lia took the lead into the room to the right. The space bore fewer wounds than the grand hall, yet disorder reigned—objects were strewn about in chaotic disarray. Gwen and Hey followed closely, their eyes scanning the dim light for any sign of the elusive creatures. In a shadowed corner, they discovered two linen dragons, captured and caged by desperate hands. Pressing on, the group crossed into a room opposite where they uncovered yet another creature, trembling in fear, its eyes wide with sheer disorientation.   Suddenly, Gwen’s attention was seized by a furtive movement near a pool at the far end of the chamber. She edged closer, drawn by the possibility of another linen dragon. But as she reached the water’s edge, she was violently intercepted by a surge of swirling air—a capricious elemental that hurled her across the room. Lark’s scream rang out, a desperate cry for Ygwain’s assistance, and in that moment, chaos erupted into full-blown combat.   The ensuing melee was a blur of flailing limbs and crackling energy as the group braced themselves against three onrushing air elementals. Amid the clamor, an otherworldly voice boomed through the ruined temple, reverberating off the broken marble: “Who dares spill blood in my temple? Prepare to be cleansed of your lives!” At once, a portal yawned open before the venerable statue of Aphrodite, and from its depths emerged the imposing Myrmidon. The battle raged—sword against elemental fury—until, one by one, all four foes fell. In the quiet aftermath, a breathtaking transformation took hold: the temple’s wounds sealed beneath a radiant glow, rose petals drifting through the air, and the once-stained water miraculously restored to its pristine state.   Though still disoriented by the strangeness of it all, the group soon recovered the remaining three linen dragons. With the creatures secured, they trailed back to town under a pall of lingering confusion. Meanwhile, Ygwain departed from the dragon hunt and made his way to Djinn’ll Fix It—a local armourer’s shop. Inside, among the clutter, a young, nervous Jannasi named Bellow was hastily posting donation notices, his voice low and fraught with desperation. Learning of the village’s plight in the wake of devastation, Ygwain offered up his surplus armour. Intrigued by the unexpected bounty, Bellow then revealed a piece he’d been meticulously crafting from the rare, local frost Wyrm. With measured notes detailing the adjustments needed for a perfect fit, he urged Ygwain to return the next day to claim his new piece of armour.   As dusk approached, the remaining companions converged in the village. They filed into the tavern in need of solace and the comfort of a well-earned drink, just as the sun began its slow descent beyond the horizon. At one of the tables, Perrine and the uncles beckoned Gwen over and presented her with a small, weathered box. With trembling anticipation, she opened it to reveal a vividly familiar red cloak—the Robe of the Archmagi, once cherished by her late father. In that silent moment, the weight of loss and memory melded with a bittersweet reverence among the group.   Not long after, Lia’s mobile buzzed with a cryptic message from her mother: "I think I know where he is. Let me know when you get to Iron Oak; I’ll send the info." Something was off. Lia’s heart pounded as she pieced together the uncharacteristic phrasing—her mother must have meant her missing brother, yet the message struck an unsettling chord. Panic welled up inside her until it could no longer be contained. She bolted from the tavern, racing toward the village outskirts to spill the mounting chaos into the open air. Lark trailed at a wary distance, intent on guarding her from unseen perils. In the midst of her turbulent escape, a curious spectacle emerged—a spectral hand, shimmering with ethereal light, extended a playful cocktail towards both Gwen and Lark. With equal parts apprehension and relief, they accepted the drink. As the flavor melted upon their tongues, the stifling tension eased, and the night settled back into an uneasy calm. One by one, the group retired to their quarters, steeling themselves for the arduous journey that awaited in the coming day.   Later that night, in a scene shrouded by darkness, Cre was abruptly roused from sleep. There, cloaked in obsidian finery, a familiar—yet foreboding—figure stood before him. “How’s my favourite little soldier?” the figure purred, voice silky yet laden with menace. “I am so glad to see you ready to help—no questions asked. You have earned my trust, and it is time that I share the pact I hold with my warriors.” With a deliberate slowness, the figure extended a bony hand, its nails a twisted shade of blackish-green, and unfurled a contract as if unveiling a sinister promise. “In fairness to us both,” the figure continued, “you must perform a task for me, and in return, I will grant you additional power and skills beyond your wildest dreams.” Cre hesitated as doubtful whispers from his comrades echoed in his mind—what had begun as friendship now smelt of a business arrangement, cold and transactional. The figure’s tone hardened: “Your free trial is over. Commit to me now, or I will strip everything away. You need me far more than I need you. Do you want to remain a weak little street rat in the gutter?” Overwhelmed by the ultimatum, Cre’s defiant cry shattered the silence: “FINE!!!!!” In an instant, a surge of vivid green energy erupted, hoisting him from the ground. It was as though his very soul was being wrenched from within, searing pain coursing through every fiber of his being, burning like lightning and fire all at once. His scream, a raw symphony of agony and defiance, merged with the distant rumble of thunder—even as the clear night sky bore no hint of a storm. When his body finally collapsed, charred and broken on the floor, the cloaked specter cackled triumphantly, vanishing into the shadows with a chilling farewell: “It’s all yours now.”