Scarlett was gone.

Fynn didn't know where she'd vanished to. He didn't know where Rosa had disappeared to earlier, either. Both were simply gone, leaving no trace.

Not knowing was frustrating. Scarlett's recklessness always made his blood itch, but he forced himself to trust her judgement. She would be back.

He caught the sharp scent of worry — Allyssa and Rosa, who'd been near Scarlett, tried to hide their panic, but it seeped out anyway. Still, they trusted her too, even as their eyes flicked towards the empty space where she'd last stood.

But if this dragged on too long…Fynn wouldn't wait. He'd find Scarlett, even if it meant taking risks.

"Fynn!"

Shin's voice snapped him back. Fynn surged forward, calling on the power of his blood, letting the wind wrap around him and hurl him into the fight. His claws shredded the golden reflection of a hulking man with a scythe rushing at Shin. He drove a foot through another enemy—the woman who reeked of blood and strange magic—then spun, sending a sharp gust that blasted two more illusions away.

Pain lanced down his back. He whipped around, teeth bared, and saw the knight-woman's reflection — armour gleaming, sword crackling with cold blue light. Fynn snarled, ignoring the wound as Rosa's charms began to knit it closed. In a blink, he was on her, ducking beneath her swing and slipping behind her guard. His claws flashed, separating her head from her shoulders. She dissolved into glittering dust.

He barely paused, gaze flickering across the chamber, hunting for the next threat. Then he moved.

His muscles burned, but that didn't matter. His torn clothes flapped in the wind, cuts multiplying across his skin, but his focus only sharpened. The ancestors' voices urged him onward, fierce and insistent.

He leapt from target to target, tearing through their forms and dismissing wounds that would heal in moments. The only constant was the whisper of his ancestors, pushing him, demanding more.

Then the chamber shifted. A pressure filled the air. A familiar scent froze Fynn mid-strike.

He turned — and saw a new reflection step from the haze.

It was himself. Older. Broader. Radiating power, wind swirling at his command, eyes cold and ferocious. This chamber was his hunting ground.

A flicker of fear told Fynn to retreat. Another instinct whispered that Arnaud should handle monsters like this. But the ancestors howled louder than ever. They said he'd been stagnant. That this pretender carried the strength that was his right. That it must be put down.

Fynn didn't like listening to them. But this time, he did.

Wind thickened around him, wild and heavy. The Mark on his finger shone with sharp, hungry light. Every nerve tensed.

His counterpart launched forward, crossing half the chamber in a single leap. A whirlwind of blades shredded a dozen lesser reflections in his wake, scattering them with a thunderclap. Without pause, the other Fynn leapt again.

Fynn's jaw set. He answered with his own leap.

The winds struck him first, cutting and relentless. Blood sprayed from dozens of wounds before he could defend himself. The pressure slammed into him, heavier than anything he'd felt even from his mother. His vision wavered. But he didn't care.

They collided midair, both striking at once. Fynn raked at his double's throat as they tumbled downwards, but his claws met iron-hard flesh. The other Fynn didn't flinch.

Snarling, Fynn bit into the impostor's shoulder. He tasted real, hot blood — before it faded into nothing with the echo of chimes. Winds sliced at him again, merciless, and then he crashed to the ground.

The fight dissolved into a blur of fury and pain. Fynn threw himself at his reflection, claws and teeth flashing, but most blows slid off nearly unbreakable skin. His double barely dodged, only unleashing gales that carved through Fynn's body, shredding muscle faster than Rosa's charms could heal it.

Fynn's own blood flooded his mouth and nose. His vision narrowed to a tunnel, the world flickering virescent green and gold. The chamber rang with storm-winds and thunder. Someone called his name, distant and fading. Fynn only grinned, lips peeled back, and attacked again and again. Even as the wind battered his bones. The ancestors roared in his skull.

More. Become more. This power is your right.

He dragged the gales around himself, pulling them tighter, reaching for every shred of strength left in his blood. His body screamed. The voices pressed harder, promising, coaxing.

If you had finished the trial, if you had let us guide you, you would not struggle now.

But Fynn shut them out. Or tried to. He didn't care about the trial anymore. Didn't care about some future power. All that mattered was this fight, this moment, and winning. He clawed at his other self again and again, knuckles splitting, finally feeling bone crack beneath his grip. Tasting that fleeting, metallic blood before it vanished, replaced by motes of gold.

Everything else faded—the room, the chaos, the pain—until nothing existed except the feral rhythm of strike and answer, the primal urge to tear his enemy apart. An enemy that only partially acknowledged his presence, fighting back in fits and starts, wind shrieking to carve new wounds and reopen old ones, but it didn't matter. Fynn was laughing, or screaming, maybe both. The ancestors' chorus drowned out everything else.

Then, suddenly, it was over. He couldn't even remember the final blow, just the taste in his mouth and the sensation of standing, swaying, above the dissipating light of his counterpart. Blood coated everything, hot and thick. His wounds weren't sealing as quickly now. Were they even still healing?

He threw his head back and howled. It was a wild, exultant sound. Wind snapped and twisted from him in a storm that ripped through the nearest reflections, shattering them into whirling gold and music.

He would keep growing stronger. He'd do it his way. Whatever way he wanted. Whatever way he felt like.

That's when something shifted at the edge of his senses. The world rushed back. His surroundings snapped into sudden clarity.

He blinked, wiping blood from his eyes. The intoxicating rush of power inside him began to ebb.

Right. The others. He'd forgotten them, but they were his responsibility.

He readied himself to leap back into the fray — only to stop short, confused.

A tide of shadows swept through the battlefield. Living darkness, moving with purpose, coiling and twisting like beasts. They pierced through golden reflections with lethal precision, crushing them faster than they could reform, clearing nearly a quarter of the chamber as they converged on the centre.

Fynn's gaze followed the trail to the figure leading them. Across the distance, his yellow eyes met a trio of violet ones, all blinking at once.

They measured each other in silence.

The winds stirred around Fynn once more.

The shadows danced around the masked girl, as if in response.

He recognised her. One of the Cabal. A hunter. Like him.

Before either moved, the chamber froze. Both paused as a single final crystalline chime rang out, echoing through the air. The reflections stopped — and then…exploded in a wave of gold, filling the chamber with dazzling light.

Fynn stared.

A small, almost invisible smile tugged at his mouth.

Scarlett had done something.

Good. Then he might not have to find her.

His attention snapped back to the Cabal girl.

Now, he just had her to deal with.

Raimond moved quickly now, his robes snapping at his heels as he wound through yet another narrow passage. Each footfall seemed to echo with the fading presence of his erstwhile companion, and he admitted—rather spectacularly—that he had underestimated the Nol'viz speed.

A minor miscalculation.

He was disinclined to question the divine guidance that had carried him through Beld Thylelion thus far. On this particular point, however, he was beginning to question the wisdom of bringing a Cabal member this deep into the ruins. There had been a purpose in his choice, yes — he'd seen it clinging to her like a shining aura. Still, after the briefest moment of self-reflection, he realised that perhaps he preferred his purposes to involve slightly less mortal risk.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

No, that wasn't quite true. Raimond was, in fact, rather fond of risk. The difference was that he preferred risks of his own design. There was a certain…comfort in orchestrating one's own chaos, and he appreciated that extra touch of control.

With that said, he was confident everything would resolve itself splendidly despite it all, as it always did.

Surely.

He pressed onward, one hand absently tracing sigils in the divine residue thickening the air, feeling for the pulse of something shifting deep within the ruin.

Then he stopped short.

His eyes narrowed, catching movement—or something—lurking in the shadows ahead. A presence that scraped at his senses, cold against his spine. Something profoundly…profane.

With a flourish, Raimond summoned several Whisperlights, flooding the corridor with their soft, natural glow. His gaze settled on a collapsed heap of dark robes slumped against the wall.

There was no body within. Just empty cloth. Yet a palpable, rotting power clung to them, stronger than any remnant he'd sensed before. It was unmistakably the mark of the Undead Council's handiwork, but far worse than the members he'd outwitted prior to entering Beld Thylelion.

He had noted evidence of necromancy further back, but this simple pile of robes unsettled him more than any other casting. They must have belonged to a mage of considerable power. The question, then, was what had happened to them? And—perhaps more pressingly—were there others?

He was, technically, not allied with Nol'viz, but he couldn't entirely help but worry about what the girl might have encountered deeper in the ruins.

Though this was not the time for idle speculation.

Suppressing his unease, Raimond moved on, passing the sinister heap with deliberate haste.

And then he stopped again. This time for a far different reason.

His heart skipped a beat.

For a single instant, all sense of distance collapsed. Awareness flared through him as something wild and titanic reverberated through the stone around him. As something unimaginably vast shifted throughout Beld Thylelion, like a storm breaking far overhead.

Something fundamental had just changed.

The inexplicable phenomenon was followed almost immediately by a surge of annoyance — not his own, he realised, but radiating along the connection that had guided him. His patron's displeasure prickled at the edge of his thoughts.

Raimond had never imagined he would experience the irritation of a god firsthand. Such beings usually operated on a level far, far removed from mortal pettiness. And yet here he was, standing witness to divine exasperation. It was…overwhelming, in a way. Like the static before lightning. All the more surprising, given that Ittar was renowned for his composure and seldom prone to anger.

But beneath the prickling disapproval, Raimond sensed something else. A reluctant satisfaction — almost pride. As if, just this once, Ittar had been both outmanoeuvred and quietly amused by the outcome.

Raimond couldn't claim to understand what had transpired, or how. But he suspected he might have to improvise, and quickly.

"You do realise," he murmured, rolling his eyes skyward, "that if you'd simply given me clearer instructions, this sort of improvisation would be unnecessary."

There was no answer, of course. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure anyone was still listening. Given whatever monumental event he'd just missed, he supposed he could hardly blame them.

He straightened, smoothed his collar, and started forward again — towards whatever trouble Nol'viz, the gods, or fate itself might manage to stir up next.

It seemed he'd missed quite a lot. But if he'd managed to miss the climax, then Raimond would at least ensure he arrived in time to make his presence unforgettably felt at the denouement.

Leon had lost track of time.

Their journey had carried them across terrace after terrace, weaving along bridges and winding passageways suspended high in the enormous chamber, all beneath an incandescent array of runes and strange lights. At times, the layout seemed almost nonsensical — like the moment they passed part of a literal mountainside that concealed a valley with a Kilnstone inside.

It became clear, early on, that they weren't the only group moving through this strange place. Almost everywhere they went, Leon spotted the aftermath of battles, with shattered metallic constructs strewn across the terraces.

He examined the wreckage whenever he could, searching for clues about those who'd come before them. The variety was surprising. Some constructs had been sliced apart perfectly, edges so clean Leon doubted even his own sword could match them. Others had been pummelled into warped, broken shapes by sheer brute force — or torn apart by something with claws, not steel. Still others were scorched black, their surfaces warped by fire or some other elemental magic. Here and there, he saw traces of what he suspected was alchemical residue, though that was outside his expertise.

Whoever had passed through here, they were dangerous. The strength and diversity in their attacks spoke of highly capable fighters, possibly from more than one faction. For a moment, Leon considered whether they might be Shielders—they had more varied skillsets than the knight orders or imperial forces—but none of the signs matched the Shielders he knew were present on Beld Thylelion with him. More likely, it was some unknown group.

That was unsettling. Someone else—someone unaccounted for—was ahead of them.

He'd shared his concerns with the others, and they all agreed. Whether hostile or not, whoever these people were, they were making rapid progress. Which meant their own group had to move faster. The empire's safety could be at stake.

It wasn't long after they came to that conclusion that the ambush struck.

Dame Smythe barely managed to call out before a squad of black-robed figures swept onto their platform — members of the Hallowed Cabal, led by a large hammer-wielding woman whose presence radiated power.

She had been strong.

Even so, the fight itself was surprisingly short.

Leon intercepted the Cabal leader, holding her at bay for the others. For all his worry about their safety, his fears proved unfounded. He caught flashes of Skye darting in and out of the melee, movements deceptively agile and almost inhuman, striking at impossible angles. Dame Smythe moved in perfect tandem with her, blade swinging through the air. Mel fought surrounded, only for six foes to collapse at once as silvery limbs perforated their hearts in a blink. And Princess Regina, calm and focused, supported them all with various umbramancy spells — destabilising enemies and keeping their formations steady.

With their help, Leon eventually subdued the leader. In the end, he had to admit they might have won even without him.

Afterwards, he found himself studying a strange altar the Cabal had left on a nearby platform. He hesitated to touch it. The stone hummed with a wrongness that seeped into his bones, and something deep in his mind warned him away. Whatever this was, it was best left undisturbed.

Once they had tended their injuries, the group pressed on, reaching the centre of the vast chamber where another lift awaited: a platform ringed with glowing lines and glyphs. At its core, a pedestal responded to the princess' touch, and the platform began to descend, carrying them deeper into Beld Thylelion.

The descent felt different this time. Faster, more deliberate, as though the air itself was becoming thicker. Leon tensed as he watched the golden filaments above fade away, the walls growing darker.

He noticed Mel glancing at him more than once, her eyes shadowed with some hidden worry. Eventually, though, she made herself busy with her…embroidery, at Skye's gentle nudge.

Leon forced himself not to watch her too closely, not wanting to add to her discomfort. Still, he suspected he knew what those glances were about. It wasn't solely the shadow of their earlier encounters, even if that might linger at the edges. It was something else as well.

He felt it too. This place resonated with his very being, as if harmonising with his aura. And that resonance was growing stronger. Were he a priest, he might've said Ittar was calling to him, though he doubted that. Still, the sensation amplified the impressions he already felt from Mel. The ones that made his aura stand on edge. He would be surprised if she didn't feel the same, if her power wasn't stirring in response to this place.

As the platform continued downward, the princess and Skye engaged in light conversation, but Leon barely listened. The pressure kept building, filling him with a creeping sense of foreboding.

A sharp jolt shuddered through the lift. No — through Beld Thylelion itself. He felt it in his chest, like a weight he hadn't realised was there suddenly lifted, leaving him strangely hollow. The others must have felt it too. Mel staggered, clutching the ground. Skye fell silent, eyes wide, mouth half-open in shock. Both Briana and Leon gripped their weapons.

"…What was that?" Skye breathed.

No one answered. Mel started muttering to herself, staring at their surroundings with anxious eyes. Skye glanced at her, then moved to calm her.

The rest exchanged looks. They waited, braced for danger, until the platform finally slowed and came to a stop. They stepped off into a circular chamber, featureless except for a few branching corridors leading away into shadow.

For a while, they lingered, searching for any sign of threat or explanation. But nothing revealed itself, and after a brief, quiet debate, they decided to press on.

Skye led the way, choosing the centre path. Together, they moved with caution through a series of echoing halls and the occasional chamber reminiscent of the upper levels. But something was different. This stretch was eerily clear, as if the path had been cleared for them. They didn't encounter a single foe, which allowed swift progress, but the further they reached, the heavier the air became. Leon felt his unease deepening. A silent pull dragged them forward, accompanied by the sense of a snare tightening around their throats.

He hoped it was only in his head.

Eventually, they entered a larger, dim chamber. It resembled the arenas above where they'd fought the white stone constructs, but this place lacked shifting glyphs or natural light, and the far edges vanished into shadow.

Leon's instincts warned him. Something was deeply wrong here. Dame Smythe seemed to sense it too, for she raised her azure blade just as Leon lifted his sword.

Then he saw the body.

A collapsed figure lay ahead, swathed in heavy robes, a staff fallen at their side. The form was thin, almost gangly, and just slightly off.

"Oveth!" Skye cried, breaking into a run before anyone could stop her.

Briana hurried after.

Leon narrowed his eyes, studying the figure. The staff, the robes, the shape. Princess Regina had spoken of a mage companion.

Skye dropped to her knees beside him as the others closed in. She fished a small vial of dark, viscous liquid from a pouch at her hip and uncorked it. Leon frowned. That wasn't a healing potion. Something about it made his skin crawl.

He glanced at Princess Regina. She met his eyes and shook her head slightly.

…He would have to ask about that later.

Skye carefully tilted the vial beneath Oveth's hood. An enchantment on the fabric obscured his face, revealing only shifting shadows and the faintest glimmer of eyes. She held the vial steady. At last, the figure stirred.

"Oveth," Skye said with just a trace of exasperated suspicion, her arm supporting him. "What happened? Where were you? What have you gotten yourself into this time? How'd you even get this deep?"

Oveth didn't answer at first. His head lolled weakly, eyes sweeping over them. Then his hand shot up, seizing Skye's shoulder.

Dame Smythe stepped forward.

As did Leon. Because that hand was twisted, dry, and emaciated — just like members of the Undead Council.

"Back," Oveth rasped. "Flee. She's waiting. She—"

"Ah—ah—ah—" Mel's voice fractured, skipping like a needle over broken glass. She stumbled back, hands trembling, words spilling in a breathless torrent. "W-what? Why—no, not—she—she—who—?"

Her sentences collapsed into choked sounds, her gaze locked on the far end of the chamber. Leon and the others turned to follow her stare, tension crackling through the group as a new figure emerged from the darkness.

Three points of crimson fire flared to life, and a silhouette slipped into view, framed by that unnatural glow. The edges of a dress whispered over the ground, the hem flickering as if embers clung to the fabric. With each step, the air condensed, the chamber's temperature rising.

Leon's instincts screamed.

He and Dame Smythe moved forward as one, auras flashing. Sweat traced down Leon's neck as he tightened his grip on his sword.

No one else spoke.

As the figure drew closer, the details sharpened.

Dark red hair catching the restless light. A crown—or something like it—igniting above a brow. Amber eyes, cold and bright. An impassive, almost imperious expression. A dagger in hand, surface shifting like live coals.

She stopped just at the edge of their group's light, gaze moving over each of them.

Behind Leon, the princess gasped. Mel's voice unravelled into senseless whispers.

Leon stared, the world narrowing to this woman barring their path. Only one thought broke through the shock.

What was Scarlett doing here?

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