Chapter 17: The Dungeon Massacre

As Aurora had said, the guards at the door didn’t even glance at them before letting them pass.

This was a side entrance specifically for the church, and the guards were used to it.

The two women hurried through the corridor with their heads down. Aurora used a basic illusion to conjure a magical cat, leading the patrolling guards away, and used the opportunity to slip into the stone staircase leading underground.

A chill, damp air hit them. At the entrance to the dungeon, behind a rickety table, sat a brutish jailer with a scarred face. Next to him leaned a drowsy guard.

The jailer looked up, blinked in surprise, then flashed a knowing, lecherous grin.

“Well, well, who’s the lucky one today, hiring the holy whore?”

He stood up, his gaze roaming over them, and reached a hand toward Aurora’s shoulder.

Aurora slapped away his greasy paw, her face darkening.

A whore?

Church nuns had that role too? Balian never mentioned it.

What disgusting doctrine.

And he dared mistake me for a prostitute? Unforgivable.

“Come on, don’t be shy…”

The jailer leaned in again.

No time for this.

Aurora exchanged a glance with Vapgis.

They raised their hands simultaneously, whispering the incantation—Sleep.

A pale blue light spread from their fingertips like invisible sand, sprinkling into the eyes of the jailer and the guard. The jailer’s grin froze on his face, and he toppled sideways with a dull thud. The guard, already nodding off, slid to the floor and slept soundly.

“Done.”

They hastily dragged the jailer back to his table, placed his head on his arms in a classic napping pose, and propped the guard back in his chair.

Aurora grabbed a jangling ring of keys from the jailer’s belt, weighed them in her hand, then unlocked the door.

“Let’s go.”

The iron lock clicked open, revealing the dim, deep corridor of the dungeon.

They tiptoed deeper inside. The dungeon was larger than expected. Beyond the iron bars on either side, shadowy figures filled the cells.

Aurora glanced sideways as she walked—the nearest cells held burly, tattooed thugs. One had a snake-coiled dagger on his chest, the emblem of the underground criminal syndicate “the Guild.”

Further in, the prisoners’ appearance changed. There were low-ranking officers in tattered but well-tailored imperial uniforms, and sunburned pirate captains with copper rings in their ears—clearly prisoners of war, abandoned here because no one could afford their ransom.

Vapgis muttered, “This place is Frank’s garbage dump.”

Aurora didn’t reply, pressing on.

Finally, in the cleanest row of cells at the far end, she spotted the familiar faces—the black market dealers of “Happy Water.” Surprisingly, they looked well, with no bruises or whip marks, and their cell was lined with dry straw.

No one had tortured them. Someone protecting them?

One of the merchants recognized her first. His pupils contracted, his lips moved, but he swallowed his words. The others lifted their heads, their gazes like nails fixed on Aurora, all silent.

Aurora stopped before the bars, bent down, and lowered her voice.

“Don’t be nervous. Can we talk?”

“Nothing to talk about.”

The merchants were tight-lipped. No matter how Aurora probed, they wouldn’t budge.

As they were at a standoff, footsteps echoed from deep within the corridor.

Not ordinary footsteps—heavy, steady, each step accompanied by the clank of metal joints.

Aurora’s expression changed. She grabbed Vapgis and pulled her into the shadows of an empty cell.

“A patrol knight?” Vapgis whispered.

Aurora shook her head. She knew that sound well—the clashing of steel plates at the joints. Not chainmail, but full plate armor. In Frania City, only one type of person wore full plate: the king’s personal guard, the Fran Guard.

Coming to interrogate prisoners?

The footsteps grew closer.

Torchlight outlined a tall figure, clad in silver-white plate armor. From her hiding angle, Aurora couldn’t see the face, only that the figure was well-proportioned.

Aurora held her breath, the hairs on her neck standing on end.

The armored figure stopped directly before the merchants’ cell. The merchants saw the face beneath the visor, their eyes lit up, and one opened his mouth to shout.

The figure drew a scroll from his belt and tore it open cleanly.

An invisible ripple spread from the scroll’s center.

Aurora’s ears felt stuffed with cotton. All sound vanished in an instant—the merchant’s mouth moved, his throat worked, but no sound came out. Vapgis instinctively tried to chant, her lips moving, but there was utter silence.

Silence spell.

This spell eliminated all sound within its range, including the caster’s incantation.

Aurora’s blood ran cold.

The spell’s area encompassed them as well.

Casting required incantations. No sound, no incantation. No incantation, no magic. She and Vapgis were now no different from two ordinary, defenseless people.

They didn’t even have swords.

Vapgis gripped Aurora’s wrist tightly, her nails almost digging into the flesh.

The armored figure didn’t search their direction, didn’t even turn his head. He picked a key from the ring he’d taken from the jailer, unlocked the cell, and stepped inside.

The merchants finally realized something was wrong. Their mouths opened in silent screams. Some shrank back, others lunged to escape.

The armored figure drew his sword. The blade glinted in the torchlight.

His movements were swift and precise.

The first merchant clutched his throat and fell, rolling twice before lying still. The second was impaled through the chest, pinned to the wall, his hands still in a defensive posture. The third knelt in supplication, his lips forming the words “I said nothing,” as the blade swept down from above.

In less than ten seconds.

The cell was silent as a painting—only the colors were wrong.

Aurora froze in the shadows. Vapgis’s face was paper-white, her lips trembling.

The armored figure sheathed his sword, turned, and walked out of the cell. He retraced his steps, his footsteps fading, as steady as when he arrived.

The silence spell gradually dissipated. Sound rushed back into their ears like a tide.

Aurora heard her own heartbeat, pounding like a drum.

She leaned against the wall to stand, her legs still weak. Vapgis was worse, curled up in the corner, shaking, her face as white as the lime-washed walls.

Helping each other, they stumbled out of the empty cell.

The corridor reeked of blood.

Aurora glanced back the way they came. Her stomach churned—bodies lay in every cell. Blood pooled in streams, flowing along the stone crevices to lower ground. The Guild thugs, imperial officers, pirate captains—all lay strewn about, not one alive.

That armored figure had emptied the entire dungeon.

Vapgis covered her mouth, fighting the urge to vomit.

Aurora clenched her teeth and approached the merchants’ cell. The three corpses remained in their death poses, blood no longer flowing.

She refused to accept this.

Was the trail cut off like this?

Had the guards who followed her into the church died for nothing?

“Vapgis, do you know Speak with Dead?”

Vapgis was taken aback, her voice still trembling. “I do… but I didn’t prepare that spell today.”

“Did you bring your spellbook? Prepare it now.”

“It’s too late,” Vapgis said with a grimace. “Speak with Dead is a third-circle spell, the model is complex. I’d need at least ten minutes to flip through and prepare it. Someone could come any minute—”

Before she finished, a hoarse voice came from deep within the corridor.

“Hey—you two girls over there—”

They both stiffened and spun around.

In an inconspicuous cell in the corner, a bloodstained hand reached through the bars, waving desperately.

“Get me out of here!”

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