Paulo heard the sound of bells tolling far away. The pealing, brassy tones were muffled by layers of stone and wood. Deep under Crystus Hill, Paulo was surprised that he could hear them at all. He took another shuffling step and ascended a marble stair in complete darkness.
Every time he moved, the pain in his guts stabbed at him. Ignore it, he told himself. You are strong. You are the son of Maximus Longoro, an Emperor of Novem. The crystal can heal you. The nation is counting on you. You’re going to marry Racquela and…
“Ugh,” he groaned, clutching at his side. The thought of Racquela gave him strength and he kept moving.
The bells grew louder as Paulo ascended, filling the silence between his grunts and footsteps. He wondered how long it would take for somebody to find his corpse if he didn’t reach the top.
A stabbing pain from his wound brought Paulo to his knees. He collapsed on the cold marble stairs and tried not to slip on his own blood. Paulo thought about crying out for help. He didn’t know if anybody would hear him, or if the right kind of help would come. A lot of people wanted him dead, and his loyal followers were far away.
“Shatters,” Paulo whispered. A cry for help would have taken too much out of him. He was spending the last of his strength keeping a foot wedged on a lower stair, pinned there to stop him from sliding. The steps were steep, treacherous to the unwary. The darkness and Paulo’s growing dizziness made it worse.
Paulo pushed himself up and stood on shaky legs, leaning against the central column of the stairwell. He returned a hand to his gut to cover the wound, pushed his sweat-slick hair back from his face and braved another steep step. He was the heir to the Empire of Novem; he refused to die ignobly in a forgotten staircase, reeking of sewers and viscera.
I am not going to die, Paulo told himself as he took another step. Shatters, where is that door? This staircase goes on forever.
Other sounds began to mingle with the ringing of the bells. Shouting and wandshot were distant but audible. Paulo smiled wolfishly in the dark. He was getting closer, and so were his rebels.
Paulo’s forehead struck something abruptly. He nearly lost his balance, steadying himself against the staircase column. He searched frantically for a doorknob or latch, but the surface in front of him was smooth and featureless. His staircase to the temple had been walled off long ago.
“No,” he said weakly. The bells replied forlornly. Paulo’s legs gave out and he slid against the wall to collapse upon the final stair. Out beyond the walls of the Old Temple, brave men and women were fighting to overwhelm the army and take the parliament building. They were fighting, unaware that their future emperor, the salvation of Novem, was dying.
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