Page 137 of The Ascended
"Not just your fear," Thatcher said grimly. "Your sense of self-preservation. That's why you charged in here alone, why you fought so recklessly." He ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "You're not just fearless—you're incapable of recognizing danger."
"Is that such a bad thing?" I argued. "Fear holds us back."
"Fear keeps you alive," Thatcher countered. "It stops you from taking stupid risks—like attacking a man who could disable you completely without backup."
"Good thing I was following her," Marx interjected dryly. "Well, me and Bertha here." She patted the massive leviathan's side, and it rumbled in response. "Turns out when you've seen the worst the world has to offer, rage becomes just another tool. No emotion needed."
"So you feel nothing?" Thatcher asked.
Marx shrugged. "I feel plenty. I just don't let it control me. In turn, I can control Bertha." She gestured to the whisper key still hovering above the altar. "Now, are we going to claim that or keep chatting about our feelings?"
I swam to the altar and reached for the key. The whispers intensified as my fingers approached, though no specific words were discernible. But when I touched its surface, I heard them—fragmented confessions in different voices:
"We sold what should never be sold..." "The gold was worth more than faith..." "Forgive us, we have corrupted sacred trust..." "Divine knowledge for mortal coin..."
The voices faded as I placed the key in its container and sealed it tight. One whisper key secured.
"There has to be more," Thatcher said, already moving deeper into the temple.
We followed him through winding corridors, the whispers growing louder with each turn. Thatcher's movements were cautious, checking corners before proceeding.
"I'm not letting you out of my sight," he informed me as we swam. "Not until we find a way to restore your fear."
"If we can," Marx muttered, low enough that only I heard.
The temple descended into darker depths, corridors leading downward until we reached a section that appeared partially buried in sand. The whispers here were different—intertwined with what sounded like cries for help.
"Something's wrong," Thatcher said, pausing at the entrance to a large chamber.
I peered past him and saw the reason for his concern. Kyren was backed against a far wall, facing off against a massive crocodile-like beast with too many teeth and scales that shifted color. Kyren himself was flickering between different forms—sometimes solid, sometimes transparent, sometimes appearing to be in multiple places at once.
"Illusions," Marx said, watching the display with narrowed eyes. "He's trying to confuse it."
The whispers in the chamber were deafening, making it almost impossible to hear our own thoughts. I spotted what we'd come for—keys floating in alcoves around the room's perimeter, their surfaces rippling with escaping bubbles.
Thatcher grabbed my arm before I could move. "Thais, flank position, but do not move until I give the signal." His eyes bored into mine. "I mean it."
I wanted to argue, but the intensity of his gaze stopped me. "Fine."
"Marx, distraction. Your beast should draw its attention."
Marx nodded, already directing her leviathan forward. "On it."
"And Kyren?" I asked.
"I'll get to him," Thatcher replied. "He needs to calm down—that's his own manifestation attacking him. The more he panics, the worse it gets."
We moved into position, Marx's beast charging forward to engage the crocodile while I circled to the side, keeping to the shadows. Thatcher swam directly toward Kyren, avoiding the clashing manifestation carefully.
He reached Kyren, grabbing the man's shoulders and speaking directly into his face. Though I couldn't hear the words, I could see the effect—Kyren's frantic illusions began to slow, his form solidifying as he focused on Thatcher's voice.
The crocodile responded immediately, its attacks becoming less coordinated, its massive body beginning to lose definition at the edges. Marx's leviathan drove it back further, giving Thatcher and Kyren space to retreat to safety.
Within minutes, the crocodile had dissolved completely, leaving only swirling currents where it had been. Kyren slumped against Thatcher, exhaustion evident in every line of his body.
"What happened?" I asked as we regrouped.
"Panic spiral," Kyren said wearily. "I’m absolutely terrified of open water."
