Lyria’s timing couldn’t have been any more perfect. Her gallant stride eroded away the pride of the Tenebrous Weaver. Even the Arachnoloth stood perplexed and undecided. Her pale features wrinkled as she fixed her lavender eyes on Lyria, tracking her movement with concealed apprehension. All the bristles on the five heads of the Empyrean Hydra flared up like a second sun; proportionate to the level of the threat that Lyria posed.

Though my heart warmed at the sight of Lyria, awakening long-suppressed hidden desires in me, the rational part in me still clung to logical pessimism. Despite the phenomenal prowess backed by physical strength to boast, Lyria would not succede in killing the Hydra. Its regenerative powers would have been undoubtedly enhanced. Nothing short of a total pulverization of its body would solve our problem. Syrune, or even Vangere, would not be able to come up with a feasible solution given our circumstances.

Lyria herself seemed unperturbed by the strange company holding me captive, though her knuckles paled as she held the tight grip on her Warhammer. She cocked an eye in the direction of the Empyrean Hydra, appraising it. Witnessing the famed regenerative ability of the Hydra kicking in, Lyria’s accursed Warhammer struck with fatal precision on the broad trunk-like hindleg of the Empyrean Hydra. The blow connected with a hard impact, stunning. The sound of metal crushing bones reverberated throughout the terrain, followed by multiple howls of agony issuing from the five heads.

Even the Tenebrous Weaver abandoned her cool mask of composure and signalled the Arachnoloth. Her orders coincided with the shifting movements from one of the heads of the Hydra. Upon receiving orders with the promise of something exciting and thrilling, and more importantly, to challenge a worthy opponent, the Arachnoloth pushed herself with all six legs; clearing a remarkable distance and landed on the other side of Lyria. Empyrean Hydra and the Arachnoloth circled Lyria as a single unit, attempting to overwhelm her. Meanwhile, the lips of the Tenebrous Weaver moved wordlessly. Bright crimson streaks rushed, guided by invisible lines along the ground and gathered at her outstretched hands.

A flaming infernal serpent of a flame darted towards Lyria, while bolts of lightning struck where Lyria stood her ground. A feral whirlwind stalked Lyria threatening to toss her like a ragdoll. Between the infernal fire, burst of dancing lightning and oppressive whirlwind, Lyria faced a war raged by nature itself. With impressive alacrity, Lyria still held her ground, neither staggering nor budging. Soon pristinely silvery-white ropes of spiderweb raced towards her and coiled around her wrists and ankles. The jet of flames pumped ever onwards as if a fiery javelin lobbed towards Lyria. The flame placed its scorching kiss on Lyria’s exposed back.

Lyria slowly turned to face the Hydra. Finally unleashed, sheer mercilessness and vengeful fury dwelt in her scorned face.

“You call that a flame? My forge in winter is warmer than your pitiful threat,” sneered Lyria.

With a twist of her wrist, she grabbed the spiderweb in her callous palms and tugged the rope, pulling the Arachnoloth into close proximity. Leaping away and escaping the sudden yanking was night impossible for the hapless Arachnoloth. The thick spiderweb constraining Lyria’s ankles fared no better than a twig under a mammoth’s feet. Aided by rapid dexterity and her vicious anger, Lyria kicked the Arachnoloth. Her thunderous kick connected across the demon’s chest; collapsing the latter’s rib cage like a house of cards. Lyria wasted no moment. She spun and grabbed the thick voluminous green hair of the Arachnoloth. Instead of yanking the hair like what two women warriors usually do in such conditions or at least how most paintings depict, Lyria went direct for the kill. It came as a surprise for all when she wrapped the hair around the Arachnoloth’s neck and strangled the demonic spider with her own hair.

In a desperate measure, the Arachnoloth attempted to fend off Lyria with flailing limbs. She clawed and elbowed her resilient attacker. But Lyria’s iron grip -- tempered through years of toil at the smithy -- did not budge, until eventually one of the heads of the Empyrean Hydra darted forward with lightning-fast speed, threatening to close its ravenous maw on Lyria. Devious cunningness first and instant reflexes second, Lyria swung in a swift manoeuvre, releasing the hold on the Arachnoloth and instead trapped the trunk-like neck of the hydra under her left arm. She arched her spine forward, pinning the head to the ground. Her heels dug deeper into the dirt. With untamed rage, she rained a flurry of unarmed blows with her hand.

Ignoring the cacophonous cry from the other heads, Lyria ruthlessly aimed her fist and channelled her frenzy into execution. Her diamond-hardened fist jabbed repeatedly. Under her relentless assault, the rock-like exterior of the head was soon reduced to a dark purple pulp. Tendrils of flesh and nerves moved visibly and restlessly, like a million slithering snakes in a pit, below the pulpy mass of flesh in a vague attempt to reknit and repair the damage. Lyria doubled her efforts delivering punches with deranged rancour. In the end, even the famed regenerative ability failed before her righteous wrath. Gushing blood flowed from lacerations on the Hydra’s head, soaking the ground where she stood.

Amidst the precisely delivered punishment that Lyria kept inflicting on the pinned head, two heads regenerated back into place; their strength amplified with the regeneration.

“Lyria, you will never kill it this way,” I shouted a word of caution.

“I know,” said Lyria, dismissively, “Three of its heads are hidden in another plane.”

A ten-headed-Hydra with three of its heads anchored to another realm!

A meticulously crafted plan, indeed. Despite my obvious disposition towards Sinvaintra, I would give her credit for her tenacious planning. She made the Hydra immortal.

The remaining six heads converged on Lyria, who locked her arm tightly around the boney arch of the neck of the seventh head. It didn’t take long for the other heads to unleash their elemental powers on the pinned head. The six heads attacked the neck of the seventh; to sever it from the body. Bellowing an ululation akin to a hundred goats herded together to slaughter, the last head screamed its death wail before the neck disintegrated.

Showered in a disgusting rain of blood, viscera and bone fragments, Lyria tossed her head violently. A few smoking pieces of flesh that managed to cling to her hair, fell. Lyria took a moment to draw a deep breath. Without hesitating, she kicked the base of the severed head, sending it plummeting towards the spell-casting Tenebrous Weaver. Drained, exhausted, dripped with sweat and blood all over, Lyria turned her back to the remaining heads. She walked toward me. Her walk, both an assurance and a challenge; challenging the heads to attack her if they dare.

The Tenebrous Weaver continued collecting tentacles of crimson streak in the space between her palms. With a gloating glee, she cast her spell. Stygian tendrils darted along the directed path towards Lyria. Dark tendrils flicked from the ground where she stood and shot upwards with a superior speed that normal eyes cannot discern. Coiling around her legs, they spread with ophidian celerity, promptly completing their profane weave. Lyria’s muscular form stood still, held arrested by the creeping entanglement. Blooming carmine red runes appeared slightly over her skin, arrayed along an invisible ribbon that coiled around all over Lyria’s extended limbs and body. With every struggle that Lyria made, the runes glowed brighter.

A self-congratulatory smirk marked the Tenebrous Weaver’s face. Her whole expression was smug at the sensationless bondage that engulfed Lyria in growing fervent despair. Her snob expression said all that I needed to know. The prowess of Lyria meant nothing to her. She managed to snatch something that was mine. It was all that mattered.

The longer Lyria struggled with her bindings, the brighter it flared. I expected Lyria to grind her teeth and curse but instead, only a trace of defiance remained on her face which slowly settled to a solemn expression. Then, she threw back her head and cackled.

“So is this all you have?” shouted Lyria, “Parading in your borrowed powers,”

I knew what Lyria was hinting at. The spell would have no effect on a mundane mortal. It was a demon-binding spell. Except with her demonic heritage, Lyria was susceptible but not to the extent of a full-fledged demon. Just enough to arrest her movements. Such spells were usually cast by borrowing the powers of either a celestial or another demon; a far more powerful one. It was obvious which power the Sister of Tenebrous Weave leaned towards.

“You should get your excuses ready now, “ Said Lyria to her captor.

Her cryptic warning coincided with a big ripple behind the Tenebrous Weaver. Every hair in my body bristled and stood to attention. Lyria laughed. She continued while the ripple pulsated vibrantly setting a rock-shattering booming noise. Lyria’s laugh morphed into a fearful shriek. The space around her started to blur and alter rapidly. Lyria herself was distorted; like a murky world viewed through a translucent stained window. Her form grew, extending in an impossible dimension, almost as if reality itself struggled to comprehend her presence; as if Lyria had no physical boundaries or the laws of physics itself selectively scattered around her. For a moment, bony protrusion appeared on her back and on the sides of her hand, the next moment, Lyria was composed of formless ash and smoke.

Around where she stood, everything started to turn chaotic. Cracks appeared on the ground. A strange gust blew raising clouds of dust and dirt. When the wind finally passed, the debris fell and Lyria stood with a wicked grimace on her face. The shirt that she wore still clung across her shoulders in tatters barely covering her breast. Her wide knee-length skirt was torn and hung from her waist like a loin cloth. She still held herself with austere grace, being barely covered in rags did little to tarnish her modesty.

The Tenebrous Weaver fell to her knees. She cowered clutching her head with both her hands in reverence. Her head was buried deep in the dirt while the ripple shimmered for a long ambiguous moment. The breach between the planes gradually stabilised. Like someone had stretched a clear thin grey membrane between two wide arches, the stark rift manifested itself on the visible fabric of reality.

The scene behind the portal caused me to involuntarily shudder. The hair on my arms and neck stood on the end. An insidious stench of foul decay mingled with toxic vitriol assaulted my nostrils, making my tear ducts respond to the strong stimuli. I could hear the roar of blood and grunts of strenuous exertion mixed with the clicking of thousand mandibles echoing down the corridors of the unimaginable dimension. My heart hammered inside my ribcage.

Even my dark-elven eyes failed to the crepuscule of the realm beyond. Straining myself, I could only infer vague shapes. Something large and humanoid stirred behind the breach. I could make out large remnants of impossibly huge titanic skulls, interwoven carapaces and boiling lakes of vitriol. As the figure advanced close enough for individual features to be appraised, judging by its silhouette, I reckoned whoever or whatever it was and if it managed to cross over, it would easily dwarf any moderate city walls. Deep-set pools of green eyes, so vivid and arresting, that they could intoxicate the soul of any sensible mortal. Wild unkempt hair flew behind like a billowing cloud. Four pairs of limbs with claws at the end, extended from the back and chopped the empty air menacingly. Suddenly the figure began glowing. Just as quickly, the glow faded revealing a bare bone structure of the rib cage with dark blue tendrils of void steaming out of its internal organs.

If I held any doubts in my mind, none remained. This is, undoubtedly, the scourge warren.

Standing alone and unperturbed by the worst of all fates that had befallen us, the cool gaze of Lyria regarded the creature.

“So, here you are,” she said.

“You,” addressed the creature in a low rumbling voice -- like gravel crushed in a dwarven quarry -- as it cast its glance down on the Tenebrous Weaver, “dragged us into this.”

“Lord Zor’amoth,” stammered the Tenebrous Weaver only to have her words cut short by the fiendish glare from the demon.

Assured of her silence, the demon continued, “No excuses, no explanations. You were loaned power but you were foolish in who you challenged.”

“I would advise caution with what you utter demon,” said Lyria.

“To you, it is prime demon Zor’amoth, Stained one. How did it feel to consume your own children? Did it make ascending lighter?” asked the prime demon. For a brief moment, I caught a glimpse of malice mixed with an ill-humour flash across the faceless visage.

The demon’s taunt made me realise, how little I knew about Lyria’s past.

Does Lyria have some unsurmountable urge? an unholy effect of her demon blood?

Was it all connected to her mysterious disappearance? connected to abandoning Delyn?

Is there another tale to the story, that she did not share?

Only a bitter laugh came from Lyria.

“Brave words from someone who dared not to step in,” she answered.

“The Sovereign decided, I only oblige,” replied Zor’amoth.

“Vanaroth has a thousand limbs and no spine, but she is wise to stay away,” spat Lyria.

“Demon Monarch Vanaroth,” hissed the prime demon at the indignant reference to his liege, “would have you torn from limb to limb, a thousand times over, if it were up to her. “

“She would have failed a thousand times, had she tried,” responded Lyria with a wink in my direction.

“Be careful with what you say,” warned the demon, “I am prime and you are not even a full demon.”

From Lyria, only a scoff came as an answer.

“You tasted my power. You tasted the defeat. Take your thralls and leave,” said Lyria with an imperious tone, “You will face no opposition.”

“A chilling gleam appeared in the demon’s eyes. It inhaled deeply, trying to fill the space between its lips with every ounce of dark fog. Demonic centipedes slowly crawled out of his internal organs, leaving him even more of a hollow husk. A growl emitted from the demon, eliciting another wave of exodus from the anthropods infesting him.

“A prime is not to be commanded by the likes of you.”

With those words, the prime demon aimed the tip of his finger at Lyria. Dark veins surged through the skin and throbbed in resonance with the prime demon’s outrage.

“Leave, or be enslaved for eternity billowing flames in the undying forge,” sneered Lyria while twitching her wrist.

In a timespan of a narrow blink, the prime demon roared so loud that it shook the ground around the portal. The Tenebrous Weaver collapsed on herself and vomited dark bile. Chunks of solid forms in the vomit slowly writhed as the roar of the prime demon echoed through the hidden realm beyond the plane of existence, scattering shreds of dust void and killing the insects. The Tenebrous Weaver undulated and spew more blood mixed with crawling insects. As she lay on the floor convulsing and foaming with blood, her mouth opened as if begging for death. When death finally found her, she was reduced to a hollow husk on which a multitude of vermins gorged themselves.

Lyria gave me a knowing look, yet her eyes refused to linger no longer than necessary.

“Take the Hydra and the Archnoloth or I will bring them to you,” she shouted

For the next few moments, I witnessed the most bizarre event of my life.

With utmost grace, the prime demon stretched its leg. At its beckoning, a cluster of spiders spilled from the portal and carried the fatally wounded Arachnoloth and a struggling hydra, held tightly by spider silk, through the portal.

While watching the prime demon depart, I could not help but ruminate more on their cryptic conversation.

Lyria scooped me in her arms as soon as the breach closed.

“Come on,” she whispered in my ears, “Let’s go. They are waiting for us.”

I could not blush, nor did my heart flutter at her closeness. Instead only a cold and hard expression replaced every other emotion.

Steeling my resolve, I licked my dry lips and finally said, “We need to talk.”

Lyria’s expression darkened; twisted ever slightly like she had swallowed a bitter medicine; almost as if she knew that this day would come.