Chapter 4: The Dome
1401 Words
Chapter 4: The Dome
The sun was a flaming watchman in the pitiless sky, its glaring rays pouring down upon the old stones of the stronghold called the Black Reach.
Aric Blackthorn had been sleeping on the top floor of one of the harsh rooms that only the elite descendants of the Blackthorn bloodline dared enter the fortress.
No lifts here--no smooth-running engines purring to carry him to the heights. Most of the technology that existed in the old world had disappeared, lost in the rubble of the Fall.
And through the years that had turned like a cruel wind many of those lost inventions had been abandoned, their secrets arcane left to moulder in dusty vaults or stifled by superstition.
So Aric mounted the steep, echoing stair, and disregarding the whispered wonder and the incredulous looks of the battle-scarred warriors he overtook, their eyes full of doubt and contempt.
As he stepped out on the open balcony he was confronted by a scene both savage and grand--a row of warriors in heavy armor standing guard before tall creatures that had been developed by the corrupting breath of Vita itself.
The beasts were hideous, sinew-clad giants with jagged horns and claws which scratched the rock with frightening power.
In the midst of these lumbering monsters there lay a carriage, gaudy yet strengthened, a remnant of a time when beauty and battle were combined.
How did he manage to survive? That c**k-roach,” one warrior grumbled with a venom in his voice. I heard he was punched by a Grade Two Enhancer and survived.
Another sneered, shaking his head, Did he even evolve this time?
“Doubtful. He can live or die, but without evolution, he is still useless. Nevertheless, a failure.”
I wonder what devilish errand the Sovereign will next set him on.”
The murmurs wove like poison through the ranks, but they died under the sharp gaze of the captain—clad not in the dark grey of the Blood Knight lieutenants, but a deep crimson that screamed authority and menace.
Darius Blackthorn.
His angular face was set in a permanent scowl, eyes narrow slits of cold steel, every line of his body taut with simmering rage.
A silent aura of icy disdain hung thick around him, marking the undeniable chasm between him and the soldiers beneath his command.
The more he listened to the whispers, the darker his temper grew.
He had hoped—no, prayed—that Aric was gone for good. Dead, buried beneath the weight of the darkness he so stubbornly challenged.
But when Seris had delivered the news of Aric’s survival, the steel in Darius’s heart had cracked with bitter disbelief.
And now, watching Aric stride from the fortress without so much as a glance at the hissing whispers, Darius’s fists clenched until the knuckles screamed.
The boy had truly survived.
Darius could already taste the waste—the endless days siphoned by babysitting a failure, dragged on useless missions designed to force evolution from a body stubbornly refusing to change.
As a direct descendant, Aric’s failure was a stain the Blood Sovereign refused to ignore.
Because of that, Aric had been sent on the most perilous assignments, gambled like a pawn in a cruel game.
And as a member of the Sovereign’s faction—the Redmourne—Darius had drawn the short straw.
He and his unit were chained to the task of escorting the Blackthorn’s ninth vein, a burden that had cost him promotions, power, and prestige.
His resentment simmered with a poison only decades of frustration could brew.
“Enough.”
Darius’s growl cut through the idle chatter, sharp as a blade slicing through fabric, silencing the gathered warriors instantly.
As Aric neared, Darius and his men bowed with mechanical precision.
“Ninth Vein.”
The tone was neutral, but venom dripped from every syllable.
But Aric did not acknowledge the greeting.
No pause. No glance.
He strode past the sneers, his crimson gaze fixed forward, unblinking.
Seris held the carriage door open with silent grace.
Without a word, Aric stepped inside, Seris following close behind to seal the heavy door shut.
A hush settled over the courtyard.
The lieutenants could almost taste the dark storm of anger roiling beneath Darius’s cold exterior.
His jaw clenched hard enough to grind bone, fingers tightening mercilessly on the reins of the massive beasts.
His icy glare lingered long after the carriage had sealed away its passenger.
That worthless—
Babysitting this failure was the thief of his own ambitions, stealing the days and power he craved for himself.
But Aric was still a direct descendant.
And in Blackthorn law, a brutal truth remained:
Only a direct descendant could touch a direct descendant. At most, those bound by blood or oath.
Any other who tried was courting a violent death.
“We move.”
The carriage Aric had entered was medieval in its silhouette, but heavily reinforced with layered sigils etched into iron and crystal that shimmered faintly beneath the sun’s harsh gaze.
Four Equitaras stood at the fore—massive beasts whose evolved forms bore the unmistakable mark of Vita’s corrupting embrace.
Broad-winged, muscular, with talons that scraped the stone like sharpened scythes, their breath steamed in the dry air, nostrils flaring with the power coiled in their veins.
No machines or aircraft remained in this shattered world.
Instead, Equitaras had become the primary vessels of travel for Blood Knights and nobility alike—a brutal ballet of muscle, bone, and arcane energy.
With a sharp command, Darius cracked the reins.
The Equitaras surged skyward with a thunderous roar, wings beating a tattoo of power against the winds.
Aric’s gaze drifted downward as the Black Reach fortress shrank beneath the soaring carriage, a jagged scar across the fractured land.
His fist clenched, nails digging into leather armrests.
I failed again.
When the Blood Sovereign had entrusted him with this mission, hope had flickered deep inside him, mingled with the cold dread of certain death.
Dangerous, yes, a knife-edge chance at survival.
But also another chance—a chance to finally evolve, to break free from the chains that shackled his blood and soul.
And once again, the bitter truth: he had failed.
His eyes trailed the fortress, shrinking and fading into the patchwork of the wasteland below.
Beyond the fortress lay the vast expanse of the Dome, a titanic barrier swallowing one-third of the dying Earth.
Stretching across roughly 170 million square kilometers, the Dome was more than twice the size of ancient Asia.
It enveloped vast swathes of the Northern Hemisphere—spanning the broken lands of North America, Europe, and Asia.
The Blackthorn clan ruled the western regions, their iron grip extending over the Midwestern United States and fractured parts of Eastern Europe.
What once were towering skyscrapers and bustling cities had long since crumbled to dust beneath the Dome’s heavy hand, replaced by hardened fortresses and survivalist strongholds built not for beauty, but for endurance.
Yet much of this sprawling land remained untamed and empty—a silent testament to the scars of The Fall.
Despite the fertile soil and temperate climes, the western regions had been transformed into the primary breadbasket for the Dome’s fractured societies.
But make no mistake—the Blackthorns were not farmers.
They were warriors.
Cold. Relentless. Ruthless.
The journey back was uneventful, marked only by the distant thunder of the Equitaras’ wings and the steady rhythm of the carriage’s armored frame.
Aric’s eyes remained distant, lost in the churning storm of thoughts that battered his mind.
He had stood face to face with the darkness.
He had bathed in the elusive Vita.
He had fought tooth and nail, clawed his way through death itself.
And yet the transformation remained stubbornly out of reach.
His fingers curled tighter on the worn armrest, knuckles white with unspent fury.
Would it ever come?
For years, he had believed evolution was merely a matter of time and will.
Now... that certainty was beginning to fray like a dying ember in the wind.
His gaze drifted toward the horizon.
The sun was sinking, bleeding rich streaks of orange and crimson across the bruised sky.
The weight of the carriage slowed their progress, stretching the journey longer than expected.
But by nightfall, they finally touched down on the edge of a western city held tightly under Blackthorn control.
Ironhold.
- Writer
