Thane's POV

Dawn broke like a wound across Malethar's corrupted sky, and with it came the sound Thane had been dreading — shattering crystal as the laboratory's wards finally died.

The fusion-thing's triumphant roar shook dust from the tea shop's rafters. Through his window, Thane watched the creature tear through the main entrance like wet paper, its absorbed mass barely fitting through the frame. Behind it, a tide of corruption poured into the building.

Now or never, Whisper urged. While they're focused on the main entrance.

Thane was already moving, sliding down a drainage pipe to street level. The maintenance access he'd spotted yesterday remained clear — for now. Or was it? Had something moved in those shadows? He slipped inside, every nerve screaming warnings he couldn't verify.

The laboratory's interior was a study in abandoned ambition. Equipment lay scattered like broken dreams, experiments half-finished, notes abandoned mid-sentence as if their writers had simply vanished. Emergency lighting stuttered in rhythms that made his eyes water, casting shadows that moved — or did they? Was that corruption, or just his paranoia?

Your brother's already inside, Whisper noted. I can taste his shadow. He entered through the loading dock.

"Then we'd better move fast." But which route? The direct path might be trapped. The long way might take too long. Every choice felt wrong.

Thane navigated by memory and instinct, following signs that pointed to "Historical Archive - Level 3." If the Seal's creation had been documented anywhere, it would be there. Probably. Unless they'd hidden it elsewhere. Unless this was all misdirection.

Level Three's archive had been sealed, but time had weakened the locks. Thane forced the door, wincing at the screech of protesting metal. Inside, preservation spells had kept the worst of the decay at bay. Shelves still stood in neat rows, though their contents had shifted with the building's slow collapse.

And on the far wall — murals. Vast paintings that told the story of Malethar's final days in vivid, damning detail.

"No," Thane breathed, moving closer despite himself. This couldn't be right. Could it?

The first panel showed the Demon King — not as the monster from propaganda, but as a man. Young, desperate, standing before a council of Empire mages. His posture spoke of pleading, hands raised in supplication. The title beneath read: "Commander Dex Petitions Against Corruption Protocol."

Propaganda, Whisper hissed immediately. They're rewriting history to make him sympathetic.

But the detail was too precise, the emotions too raw. Or was that just skillful artistry? How could he tell truth from talented lies?

The next panel showed the council's response — dismissal, contempt, one mage literally turning his back on the Commander's warnings. "The Empire Chooses Necessity Over Mercy."

Panel after panel told the story. Dex trying to evacuate civilians before the experiments began. Dex destroying early prototypes that had gone wrong. Dex standing between transformed soldiers and the researchers who'd made them, sword drawn not against the monsters but to protect them.

"The Victor's Mercy," read one title, showing him granting quick deaths to soldiers too far gone to save.

"The Commander's Tears," read another, depicting him weeping over a field of failed experiments.

Lies, Whisper insisted, but its voice wavered. Pretty lies to excuse a tyrant.

"Or ugly truths we weren't meant to see," Thane murmured. But how could he know? How could anyone know what really happened five centuries ago?

The final panel made his breath catch. Dex stood alone atop a mountain of corpses — not demon corpses, but Empire soldiers. Transformed soldiers. His own men, corrupted by their own side's desperation. The title was damning in its simplicity: "The Price of Refusing to Become What We Fight."

Beneath the murals, a small plaque bore a message:

"These images were painted by Survivor-Scribe Marcus Tren, who witnessed the events depicted. He insisted they be preserved here, away from the capital's revision, so that someone might know the truth. The Demon King was many things, but he was not what we made him in death. We became our own demons. He simply refused to join us."

Thane's hands shook. Everything he'd believed, everything Father had taught — but wait. Could this Marcus Tren be trusted? What if this was the lie, and the histories were true? How did one determine truth from ancient bias?

It doesn't matter! Whisper's voice turned sharp, desperate. Even if it's true, it changes nothing. He's still your rival. Still the obstacle to your power.

"But what if—" What if what? Thane didn't even know how to finish the question.

A crash from above cut off his spiraling doubts. The building shuddered, and Thane heard the fusion-thing's multi-voiced scream of frustration. It was searching systematically, level by level.

He needed to move. But should he document this? Leave it? Destroy it?

Hands moving before his mind could decide, he pulled out paper and charcoal, making quick rubbings of the most damning panels. Evidence. For what purpose, he wasn't sure. But evidence nonetheless.

Avian's POV

Level Four's secured archive held confiscated documents — personal correspondence, journals, anything deemed "sensitive" during the war's final days.

They hoarded secrets like dragons hoard gold. Never know what might be useful for blackmail or propaganda. Fucking vultures, picking at the bones of better men.

The preservation spells here were military-grade, keeping even paper from the war crisp as the day it was seized. Some competent mage's work, wasted on preserving lies. Avian found what he was looking for in a section marked "Post-War Anomalies" — a collection of reports about the legendary hero Vaerin's mysterious decline.

The first document was an official report from a concerned general:

"Lord Vaerin's condition continues to deteriorate. The man who slew the Demon King can barely lift a training sword. Healers find nothing wrong physically. Whatever ails him seems to be deeper than flesh."

But tucked behind the official reports were personal items — letters intercepted but never delivered, journal pages found in Vaerin's abandoned quarters. Avian recognized the handwriting immediately. Vaerin had always pressed too hard with the quill when emotional.

Still remember that about him. Five hundred years and I remember how he held a fucking pen. Pathetic.

"The corruption spreads. Not in my body — that remains frustratingly mortal — but in my essence. Ever since I... did what was necessary... my strength fades daily. Divine punishment, perhaps. Or just the universe's sense of irony."

Good. You deserved worse for what you did.

But even as the thought formed, Avian felt it ring hollow. The words spoke of genuine suffering, not the glory history painted. His best friend — no, his killer — had been destroyed by that final arrow.

More pages, apparently torn from a private journal:

"Tried channeling today. Nearly tore myself apart. Whatever that blessed arrow did, it's eating at my core like acid. Traditional healing does nothing. Prayer does nothing. I'm being hollowed out from the inside, and I can't tell anyone why."

"The dreams are getting worse. I see him every night. Not angry. That would be easier. He just looks disappointed. 'Why?' he asks. I can never answer."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Disappointed? I was fucking dead, you bastard. Hard to be disappointed with an arrow through your heart.

"Strength down to baseline human. Can barely lift a sword anymore. Some cosmic joke — the hero who slew the Demon King can't even lift the sword that did it."

The final document was a letter, never sent, addressed simply to "Father":

"I've made my decision. The Mountains of Calfont call to me. Where heroes speak with gods, where the divine touches mortal earth. If answers exist, they'll be there. Tell no one where I've gone. Let them think I died a hero's death somewhere noble. The truth is too heavy for history to bear."

"I go to wait. He'll come eventually. He always does. And when he forgives me, perhaps the corruption will finally let me die."

"Your son (though I wonder if I still have the right to claim that), Vaerin"

Below the letter, a note in different handwriting:

"Letter found in Lord Vaerin's quarters after his disappearance. Deemed too sensitive for public knowledge. The hero who slew the Demon King must remain a symbol of strength, not... this. - Archivist General Thorne"

Avian's hands clenched hard enough to crumple the paper's edges.

Fucking bastards. Vaerin SUFFERED after killing me. Broke himself putting that arrow through my heart. And these shit-eating bureaucrats buried it because it didn't fit their pretty story.

'Symbol of strength.' He WAS strong, you worthless fucks. Strong enough to kill his best friend on a battlefield. Strong enough to carry that guilt. Strong enough to watch his own strength drain away as punishment.

And you made him into a statue. A lie. Just like you made me into a monster.

The temperature in the room dropped as his fury leaked through his control. Frost spread across the floor, and the archived papers began to flutter as gravity went unstable.

Why did you do it, Vaerin? What made you put that arrow through my heart? What did you know that I didn't?

And why does reading about your suffering make me want to forgive you?

Fuck that. Forgiveness is for people who deserve it. Not for betrayers who shoot you in the back. Or... the front. With tears in their eyes. Begging you to understand.

Shit.

He forced himself to breathe, to pull the power back. Getting angry wouldn't change the past. But the questions remained — why had Vaerin killed him? Why had he suffered such a specific punishment? Why did it feel like there was more to that final battle than just betrayal?

Every last one of them. Every historian who rewrote us. Every politician who profited from the lies. Every fucking soul who knew the truth and chose the story instead.

Later. Deal with it later. For now—

The building shook. The fusion-thing had found something worth destroying several floors up. Time was running short. Always running out of time. Story of his fucking lives.

But as Avian turned to leave, he spotted one more journal. This one bound in red leather, marked with symbols that made reality hiccup. He opened it carefully.

It wasn't Vaerin's.

"Personal notes of Archmage Lysander Corwin, Creator of the Covenant Seal."

Fucking jackpot. Or another gods-damned complication. Probably both.

The notes were dense, technical, discussing the theory behind forcing absolute truth. But one passage stood out:

"The Seal's deepest function remains hidden from my colleagues. Yes, it compels honesty from all parties. But more than that — it can bind souls together. Force understanding between enemies. Make two people see through each other's eyes, feel each other's pain. I've told no one of this function. The military would use it for torture. But perhaps... perhaps someday it could force empathy where none exists. Perhaps it could end wars by making generals feel their soldiers' deaths. Perhaps—"

The entry cut off. Below it, in different ink:

"Corwin died before revealing the activation sequence for soul-binding. The knowledge dies with him. May it stay buried. Some powers shouldn't exist." - Assistant Researcher Vale

Avian memorized every word, mind already racing with implications. A tool that could force empathy. Force understanding. In the wrong hands, it would be a weapon of unimaginable cruelty. In the right hands...

There are no right hands. Power corrupts. Always. Even mine. Especially mine.

Another crash, closer now. The fusion-thing was descending faster than expected. Probably absorbed something with better legs. Avian pocketed both journals and made for the stairs. Level Seven waited below, and with it, answers to questions he wasn't sure he wanted asked.

But I'll ask them anyway. Because I'm a fucking idiot who never learns.

Behind him, something roared with three voices. The hunt was getting closer.

Good. Let them come. I'm tired of running from monsters. Tired of running from truth. Tired of running, period.

Five hundred years is a long time to be tired.

Thane's POV

They met at the entrance to Level Seven.

Thane emerged from the eastern stairwell just as Avian appeared from the west. They froze, hands on weapons, neither willing to be the first to show weakness. Or was Avian's hand placement a feint? Was his stance indicating attack or defense? How could Thane tell?

"Brother," Avian said mildly. "Find anything interesting?"

"History lessons." Thane kept his voice neutral. Should he mention the murals? Test what Avian knew? "You?"

"Family correspondence."

They stood there, suspicious and wary, while above them the building shook with the fusion-thing's rampage. Finally, Whisper broke the silence in Thane's mind:

We need him. For now. The creature is almost here.

But could Whisper be trusted? It had its own agenda, its own survival instincts. Was this advice or manipulation?

"The Seal's through there," Thane said, nodding at the massive door marked with warnings in twelve languages. "Trapped, according to my research."

"Puzzle locks, according to mine." Avian studied the door with those too-knowing eyes. "Requiring two operators."

How convenient.

They approached together, still watching for betrayal. The door was a masterwork of paranoid engineering — locks within locks, each more complex than the last. But the centuries had left clues. Wear patterns where desperate fingers had tried combinations. Scorch marks from failed attempts.

"Here," Avian said, pointing to a series of circles. "These need to activate simultaneously. You take the left pattern."

Why the left? Was there an advantage to the right Avian wanted? Or was Thane overthinking everything?

It should have been harder. Should have taken hours of careful work. But together, they fell into an unexpected rhythm. Where Thane's training failed, Avian's experience filled the gap. Where Avian's brute force approach would trigger failsafes, Thane's shadow-sight revealed the subtle paths.

Mana flows differently than aura, Thane realized as they worked. His magic pushed outward from his Aether Core, raw force channeled through will. But Avian's aura condensed inward, wrapping around him like armor before extending in precise strikes. Two systems, two philosophies, somehow complementing each other.

"Third circle's a decoy," Thane noted, Whisper highlighting the trap in his peripheral vision.

"Fourth's the real path," Avian agreed, Fargrim's hum changing pitch near false passages. "Your shadow magic shows what my gravity sense misses."

They worked in tense synchronization while the sounds of destruction grew closer. The fusion-thing had reached Level Five. Then Four. Its voices echoed down the stairwells:

"Visitors... we smell visitors... fresh minds to add... fresh thoughts to share..."

"Almost," Avian muttered, sweat beading despite the cold. "Last sequence—"

The door to the stairwell exploded. Not opened — exploded, metal and stone spraying like shrapnel. The fusion-thing squeezed through, and up close it was so much worse than Thane had imagined.

Three heads that had once been human now shared thoughts through flesh-bridges of pulsing meat. Six arms moved independently but with shared purpose, muscles sliding under skin that couldn't decide what color it wanted to be. The torso opened and closed like a sideways mouth, revealing glimpses of organs that pulsed with their own heartbeats, intestines that had grown teeth, things that might have been lungs breathing in impossible directions.

But worst were the eyes. Still human enough to show intelligence. Still aware enough to know what they'd become.

"Visitors!" all three heads spoke in harmony. "Come! Join! We're so much more together than alone!"

"The lock!" Avian snapped, hands flying over the final sequence.

Thane mirrored him, Whisper guiding his movements while his mind screamed questions. Would this work? What if they triggered a failsafe? What if the creature reached them first?

The fusion-thing lurched forward, reaching with too many hands. Twenty feet. Ten. Five.

The door clicked open.

They dove through together as arms swept through the space they'd occupied. The creature's bulk slammed into the doorframe, too large to fit without effort. It began tearing at the stone, widening the entrance with patient destruction.

"Seal first," Avian said. "Then we deal with that."

But how? How did they deal with something like that? Thane's training had never covered fusion-monsters that leaked consciousness.

The chamber beyond was vast, carved from bedrock and reinforced with metals that still gleamed despite centuries. But Thane's attention fixed on the center, where the Covenant Seal floated in a sphere of soft light.

It was beautiful. Terrible. A compass made of crystallized starlight that shifted between states — solid, liquid, light, shadow, and things that made his eyes hurt to perceive. Power radiated from it in waves that made his teeth ache and his shadow writhe.

"The final lock," Avian breathed, studying the ritual circles that covered the floor. "Touch it wrong and—"

He gestured at scorch marks on the walls. Human shadows burned into stone, their final moments preserved in ash. Some reached toward the Seal. Others seemed to be running away.

Behind them, stone cracked. The fusion-thing was making the door bigger, more accommodating to its bulk. They had minutes at most. Maybe less. Time always ran out too fast.

"Together?" Thane asked, hating the necessity. Hating more that he didn't see another option.

"Together," Avian agreed. "For now."

They began to work, racing against time. But as they moved around the circles, Thane couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something. That the real trap wasn't in the locks or the patterns.

It was in what the Seal would reveal when they finally claimed it.

Truth cuts both ways, Whisper reminded him. Are you ready for what it might show?

Was he? How could anyone be ready for their deepest truths dragged into light?

Behind them, the fusion-thing broke through. Its voices rose in triumph:

"Found you! Time to become more! Time to become us!"

Time had run out.

And beneath their feet, something stirred. The creature's impact had cracked more than stone. Deep below, Level Ten's containment began to fail. Ancient seals crumbled. Warnings that had screamed for centuries finally went silent.

Something that had been sleeping for five hundred years opened its eyes.

And it was hungry.

So very, very hungry.

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