Under a sky shattered by blood-red light and swirling black clouds, Lynzelle exploded into motion, her scythe a screaming, incandescent arc of destruction. Nezreth thundered forward first, his titanic blade cleaving down like a wrathful god's hammer, but Lynzelle twisted sharply, vaulting high with a savage, feral grace. Her scythe spun through the air with a crack of molten fury, igniting a flickering glyph of suffering mid-swing.
As she descended in a spiraling somersault, she carved the glyph into Nezreth's chestplate, the infernal mark burning through the ancient armor and searing into his very essence. Nezreth staggered back, a ferocious snarl tearing from his throat.
Before he could recover, Lynzelle landed in a crouch, kicked off with a brutal snap of her wings, and launched herself forward again in an explosive lunge. Her scythe spun like a bloodred cyclone, the Flesh Ripper glyph flashing in the air as she struck his side — flesh, armor, and muscle ripping open in an unnatural, inward spiral as the glyph forced Nezreth's massive body to betray itself, convulsing violently under the tearing curse.
"Help me!" Nezreth bellowed, voice a titanic roar cracking the heavens. "Witch Queen! Save me!"
His voice was a brutal, desperate wail — not the commanding growl of a conqueror, but the terrified scream of something ancient that knew death was near.
Lynzelle only laughed — a high, maniacal cackle, sharp and cruel — and dashed in again. Her movements were seamless, flowing like deadly water.
She spun beneath a desperate horizontal swipe of Nezreth's sword, twisted into a corkscrewing vault, and crashed her scythe's flat end against his elbow joint. Bone and black flame shattered on impact, sending Nezreth's colossal arm lurching violently aside. Before he could even reel back, Lynzelle planted her foot against his twisted knee and launched herself upward again, carving the Soulrend Glyph into the air mid-leap.
The glyph detonated against Nezreth's chest like a devouring black sun, rupturing his spiritual defenses and leaving his soul gaping and vulnerable.
Roaring, Nezreth hurled one of his colossal blades toward her, but Lynzelle vaulted off the falling weapon as if stepping from a crumbling ledge, landing behind him with feline ferocity. She drove her scythe into the ground, summoning the Gravebind Glyph — iron chains of shadow erupting around Nezreth's legs, dragging him down, crushing his strength and leaving him open for the finishing blow.
"You dare bind me?!" Nezreth roared, spitting blackened blood as he strained against the shadows, but every movement tightened the glyph's stranglehold on his soul.
Lynzelle merely tilted her head and grinned, a demon incarnate.
With an earth-splitting screech, Lynzelle slashed upward with the Wail of the Abyss Glyph pulsing over her scythe, the twisted face screaming aloud. The psychic scream blasted through Nezreth's mind like a tidal wave, his colossal body seizing as visions of endless torment devoured him from within. Disoriented and soul-wracked,
Nezreth stumbled backward — his legs buckling, then snapping grotesquely at the knees. The titan crashed to the ruined ground, crawling now, a mountain of blackened flesh and shattered pride, desperately reaching one massive hand toward the burning sky.
"Mother…!" he choked out, dragging himself pitifully forward. "My goddess! Please…!"
But no help came.
"Hohohoho…we have another one begging for that woman…"
Lynzelle staggered back suddenly, clutching her head, her body fighting itself. Her devil wings spasmed, her black halo flickered, her once-red hair bleeding slowly back into its obsidian blackness. She collapsed to her knees, gasping in sharp, pained breaths, fighting desperately to suppress the hellish transformation. Her grey skin began returning to normal as she trembled violently.
"Lynzelle…" Cainan coughed.
'Was she..fighting that shit the entire time…?'
Nezreth, broken and maimed, clawed across the ash and rubble, inching toward his salvation.
Behind him, a raw scream split the air.
Nezreth slowly turned his head — just in time to see Cainan, blood dripping from his face, one eye closed, limping toward him with grim, murderous purpose. In Cainan's hands was Lynzelle's fallen scythe, crackling faintly with leftover infernal energy.
Cainan roared, a sound torn from the depths of his soul, and surged forward.
With an earth-shaking leap, Cainan drove the scythe straight into Nezreth's head, the blade punching clean through the ancient helm. Twisting savagely, Cainan used the embedded scythe as a lever, flinging around with the momentum and ripping Nezreth's head clean from his shoulders in a brutal, sickening tear of black fire, blood, and crumbling bone.
Nezreth's massive body convulsed — then collapsed.
Lynzelle, weak and wide-eyed, whispered hoarsely through bloodied lips.
"Cainan…?"
But Cainan did not answer. He stood over Nezreth's corpse, panting like a feral beast, then began stabbing again and again, plunging the scythe into the blackened remains, each strike fueled by pure, undiluted rage.
"I won't lose..!" he snarled through gritted teeth. "I've made it this far…I'm not losing to the witches…"
He stabbed and tore, again and again, until the body was unrecognizable — until he couldn't lift the scythe anymore from exhaustion. He fell to his knees in the ruin of his enemy, breathing heavily, shoulders heaving.
Then — from above — a soft, luminous shimmer descended.
Cainan lifted his bloodied face and saw Espen — Idrathar's daughter — floating gently in the air, her young face streaked with tears. Her body was dissolving into glimmering black rose petals, rising toward the broken sky.
"You…" Espen said, her voice trembling with fading strength. "You're… just like the knight from mother and fathers stories…"
Cainan's throat clenched painfully. His hands shook as he pressed them to the ground, forcing himself upright.
"I'll save you," he growled, voice raw, hoarse. "I swear to you…"
Espen's form shimmered weaker, the petals swirling away. "Am I going to die…? Father told me the stories…the princess never dies as she's always saved by the hero. I know I wasn't feeling well, but the stories kept me feeling like I was better. When father told me them, and I imagined you as the knight and hero, I forgot I was ever sick."
"No…you're not dying. I'll tear the witches apart. I'll make them summon you back," Cainan snarled, clutching the scythe's handle so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "Even if they summon you corrupted — I don't care. I'll fix it. I'll save you. I swear it. And I'll find the root of everything, kill who I need to kill, and put an end to all of it. And the Witch Queen."
Espen smiled, just once, soft and faint, with a tear dropping from her eye.
And then she was gone, her spirit dissolving into the sky like a dream never meant to be caught.
Cainan stood in the silence, broken, bloodstained, and alone — but burning with an unbreakable, furious resolve.
'Damn….I wanna cry. But I'd be betraying myself, wouldn't I? It's what the world wants. To see me break down like earlier in the fight. Fuck that…I ain't dead, so I haven't lost…or did I really lose again?'
…
The sky brightened, the chaos clearing as the first light of morning spilled over the battlefield. Cainan stood wobbly, bloodied, struggling to breathe, surrounded by endless piles of broken bodies and the ruin of the land. Blood stained the earth, a silent testament to the massacre.
Lady Selvaria, Zaara, Aris, Tojin, Raijin, Foxxen, and Camelot lay strewn across the ground as well, their bodies marked with black roses blooming from their wounds. Clerics rushed to them, frantically weaving healing magic, but their comrades' ragged, struggling breaths filled the air with grim desperation.
Cainan's ears rang violently, his vision blurred into a smeared canvas of blood and wreckage.
'I failed to save Espen… but would I have ever been able to? If she was meant to be a sacrifice for the witch queen…?'
The thought gnawed at him as he staggered. Slowly, he turned to the right—and froze. A small child, formed entirely of shifting shadows, stood at a distance, watching him. Rage flared inside him. With a hoarse roar, Cainan lunged forward, but his battered body betrayed him. He fell hard, coughing blood, and when he forced his head up again, the child was gone.
Still, his mind circled back to one thing—where was Lynzelle? She had vanished.
Cainan laid back against the blood-soaked ground, staring at the empty sky above.
'Fate struck again.'
Grinding his teeth, he shoved the thought away.
The distant sound of footsteps reached him as clerics rushed over, relief breaking through their horror when they found him still alive.
"Another one alive! It's Cainan!"
They tried to tend to his wounds, but Cainan, delirious and stubborn, kept demanding one thing.
"Where's Lynzelle?"
No one had an answer. Again and again, he asked, voice cracking each time. And again—only silence.
He tried once more, but darkness pulled him under.
'Every good thing in my life leaves when fate strikes. Will I ever see her again?'
He looked over at his wounded squad, thinking, 'You guys…what the hell happened when I was away…? Soldiers dead on the ground..Sorneth soldiers…?'
…
…
…
Far from the battlefield, beneath a roaring waterfall, Lynzelle stood naked under the torrent. The blood of her rage and the agony of battle was washed from her skin, but not from her mind. Her fists clenched tightly at her sides.
'I didn't want him to see me like that. When I saw him, when I saw him dying to that summon… I couldn't contain it. I let it in. I let the hellfire take over.'
The memories burned hotter than the battle itself.
'When I'm like that, I only feel rage. I become the thing I despise. But I had to save him. I had to.'
She squeezed her eyes shut against the onslaught of guilt.
'He finished off that witch's summon… I knew he would. Even wounded, he kept fighting. That's who he is.'
The cool water against her skin was a poor comfort against the shame crawling beneath it.
'He showed me the beauty of this world… took me on hunts, let me see sunlight, flowers… things Hell never gave me. But now he's seen the monster I am. How could he not hate me?'
Her heart throbbed painfully.
'I should stay away… I can't be another burden on him.'
She hated every thought, but she couldn't smother the fear that she was only making everything worse.
'He's my best friend. The only real friend I've ever had.'
'And Espen…'
The weight of failure crushed her chest.
'We failed to save her. Idrathar's daughter… we failed. How could I ever face him again? This is Hell all over again.'
Silently, she cried out in her mind.
'Mother…. How can I be brave like you?'
Her hands trembled as she pulled her black dress back over her battered form.
….
The sky shimmered in soft hues of gold and blue as the griffons descended through the mist. Their massive wings beat the air in slow, steady rhythms, scattering light like falling stars. Dozens of the majestic creatures touched down among the wounded, each one carrying a rider on its broad, feathered back.
Clerics hoisted the battered warriors onto the beasts—Cainan, Zaara, Camelot, Foxxen, Raijin, Tojin, Aris, and Selvaria—strapping them carefully in place. The griffons' warm breaths misted the air, their bodies radiating a calm strength that comforted the broken fighters more than words ever could.
As the griffons lifted into the air once more, the ground fell away in slow retreat, the ruined battlefield growing distant beneath a veil of mist and bloodied grass.
Cainan, barely clinging to consciousness, leaned against the griffon's thick mane, his chains rattling loosely around his arms.
They flew high—higher than the clouds at times—and the world unfurled beneath them like a living tapestry. Immense rivers coiled through vast forests painted in emerald and gold. Great mountains, some crowned with eternal snow, pierced the heavens like the jagged teeth of sleeping gods. Herds of horned beasts galloped across open plains, their wild calls echoing faintly upward.
They passed over broken ruins swallowed by vines, half-sunken citadels forgotten by time. Strange lights flickered deep within enchanted woods where the old myths said fae courts still held sway. Lakes glittered like scattered shards of glass, each surface reflecting the brilliant dome of the sky.
The griffons glided silently between massive stone arches that rose naturally from the earth, draped in silver mist, bearing ancient glyphs no scholar dared to interpret anymore.
Cainan closed his eyes and let the wind wash over him, breathing in the beauty of the world he often forgot existed. For a time, the war and the pain fell away, carried off by the winds.
The sun climbed higher. The clouds became ribbons of fire. The griffons flew on, tireless, until the distant silhouette of Kalazeth rose over the horizon—the proud capital of Kalastith. Its towering blackstone spires pierced the sky, shimmering with enchantments, the banners of the empire unfurling in the warm wind.
Finally, much later in the afternoon, the griffons descended over the white marble gardens of the palace. Soldiers and healers rushed forward to take the wounded.
—
In the quiet gloom of Espen's room, Idrathar sat slumped on the floor against her bed. He said nothing. He simply sat, staring blankly at the unmade bed, the smell of her lingering in the covers like a cruel memory.
Outside the door, the council waited.
Lord Garron Volkrath stood tall, arms crossed against his massive chest, the mechanical gauntlet on his arm humming faintly with inner gears. His jaw was clenched, his dark eyes grim.
Lord Dravok Maernis leaned against the wall lazily, exhaustion hanging off him like a second skin. His chains rattled softly as he shifted, sighing deeply, as if even standing there was too much trouble.
Archsage Vharyn Soldeis floated slightly above the floor, their violet and blue silks rippling in an unseen breeze, their silver mask betraying no emotion. Silver trinkets hovered around them like miniature moons in orbit.
Master Forgewright Brax Trenhald stood firm and silent, arms folded behind his back, the hammer across his shoulders gleaming with faint residual heat. His molten-bronze armor reflected the candlelight faintly, like a dying fire.
They exchanged glances but said nothing at first. The silence stretched.
Finally, Dravok exhaled sharply through his nose. "Two hundred and eighty-seven dead," he muttered. "Forty-three critical. Seventy-five… missing."
Lord Garron's face twisted with barely restrained anger. "Selvaria's out cold. Stable, but…" He hesitated, gritting his teeth. "She knew this was coming. After losing her last squad… she expected it."
Brax Trenhald rumbled lowly, voice like stone grinding on stone. "She didn't want to lose herself again. Didn't want to drink herself to death like last time. She stayed strong for her soldiers."
Vharyn's voice was soft, mournful. "She fought with everything she had. They all did. Even now, she's fighting not to lose herself to grief. She'll pull through. Like the other wounded."
The weight of their words pressed down, dragging silence around them once more. No one moved.
At last, from within the room, Idrathar's voice, low and hoarse, broke the stillness.
"Enter."
They filed in, their armor creaking softly, the smell of soot, sweat, and blood following them. They found Idrathar still slumped against the bed, but his eyes—bloodshot and weary—were clear, burning with a terrible, focused grief.
"I've been thinking," Idrathar said, voice heavy but steady. "About the descent into madness."
He paused, breathing in deep before speaking slowly, like reciting something sacred:
"It begins small—a crack, barely noticed. A thought, a whisper, the first betrayal by your own mind. Then comes the hunger. Not for food, but for vengeance. For meaning. For some justice the world will never grant. You start to justify the unjustifiable. Every cruelty becomes necessary. Every loss becomes fuel. You convince yourself you are right, even when you know you are wrong. You smile while your soul rots. And you tell yourself—this is the cost of surviving. This is the cost of love. Until one day… you look into a mirror and see a stranger. And worse… you agree with them."
Idrathar looked at them all, his voice low and deadly calm.
"I am not immune," he admitted. "When I heard the news of my daughter vanishing…part of me was relieved she was not dead. A disgusting, selfish part. And I cursed myself for it. I hate it. I hate every second of this."
His fingers curled into fists.
"But she is mine," he growled. "And I will see her returned. Whatever it costs. Whatever it takes. I will not let madness claim me until she is home."
The council said nothing, standing at attention, letting the weight of his words settle into their bones.
After a long, suffocating silence, Idrathar finally asked, "…Is Cainan awake?"
Garron gave a slow nod. "He just woke, my lord."
"And Lynzelle?" Idrathar's gaze sharpened.
"Not with him," Dravok said, shrugging slightly.
Idrathar nodded slowly, as if expecting this. "I was hoping to see her, too." He exhaled. "Bring Cainan to me."
The council bowed and turned to leave.
As they walked down the marble hall, their steps echoing in the cavernous palace, they spoke quietly among themselves.
"He's calm," Garron said, voice low. "Calmer than I expected."
"Too calm," Brax muttered. "Like a forge that's about to blow its top and take half the mountain with it."
Vharyn floated serenely beside them. "When he first learned she was gone… he didn't scream. Didn't rage. Just stayed in her room and… never left."
Dravok rubbed his tired eyes. "Man's been sitting in there ever since. Like he's holding his breath."
None of them said it aloud, but they all knew: Idrathar's calm was a mask stretched thin, a dam waiting to break.
The council's footsteps echoed through the vast halls of Kalazeth's palace, a cathedral of flame and stone carved from the bedrock of the Firemaw cliffs. It was a marvel of art and power—arched ceilings stretched skyward, their ribs veined with glowing crimson crystal that pulsed like living embers. Bronze sconces lined the walls, shaped like phoenix talons, each holding enchanted flame that never flickered.
Tapestries embroidered with the rise of Kalastith's empire hung proudly—scenes of blood and steel, flame and triumph—woven in shades of gold, coal, and deep ruby. The scent of burning incense and smelted metal drifted faintly in the air, grounding the palace with a permanent warmth.
Molten rivers flowed in channels across the floor beneath glass pathways, humming with arcane heat. Each step through the palace reminded them: Kalazeth was forged, not built. A testament of will, not chance.
As they walked, the council spoke in low tones.
"I come to realize it all points back to that dream. It was SOMETHING in there we missed. I'll be convening with the dream scholars tonight," said Vharyn, silver charms orbiting slowly around their masked head. "The dream seen last night… it's not just a vision. Too many felt it. Too many threads pointing toward the same fracture."
Dravok grumbled, eyes half-lidded. "Damn that dream. Another riddle wrapped in madness."
Lord Garron ignored him. "The archaists are already working on spatial traces. If Espen was taken through ritual magic, something was left behind. They'll find it. But we need time."
"We don't have time," Brax said flatly. "The city's stirred. Whispers are spreading. We're not just some petty kingdom. Kalastith is the empire. We fall, the continent follows."
They all paused near a balcony, gazing out over the towering cityscape—steam chimneys, flame-wreathed watchtowers, and sprawling bridges stretching over deep chasms.
"Cainan was at the heart of it all," Garron muttered. "That kid knows more than he's said. Him and Lynzelle. If they hadn't been there…We would have no information."
They turned and continued walking until they reached the doors to the Hall of Red Mercy—Kalazeth's grand medical chamber.
The hall opened like a cathedral. Pillars of whitestone held up a dome enchanted with soft, floating light. Stained-glass windows shimmered with scenes of ancient saints and god-beasts offering healing. Long rows of cots filled the chamber, clerics weaving between them with trays of salves, spell scrolls, and glowing herbs. The air was thick with incense, ozone, and blood.
And at the far end, Lady Selvaria Vance was fending off two clerics with a half-empty cup of steaming green brew.
"I swear to everything in this ruined world," she snapped, holding it away from her face, "if you put this swamp-water near my mouth one more time, I will drag you to a bog and drown you in it!"
"It helps you heal—" one of the clerics pleaded.
"It helps me gag!" she snapped back.
The council halted nearby, unsurprised.
"She's alive," Garron muttered, folding his arms with the ghost of a smile.
"You're welcome," Selvaria said dryly as she noticed them. "Took a few hundred scars to get here." She finally downed the herbal concoction in one go and nearly retched on the spot. "Agh—ancestors burn me, that tastes like toad's piss and Viking dung! Shit!" She tossed the cup aside and wiped her mouth, eyes sharp again. "Don't ever feed me that crap again…"
The clerics wisely retreated while squealing.
The council stepped in closer. Vharyn's voice was soft. "We're glad you're safe."
"Don't worry about me," Selvaria said, suddenly somber. Her gaze drifted to the beds beside her—Aris, Foxxen, Tojin, Zaara, all unconscious, breathing fast beneath layers of glowing runes. Even Knight Captain Camelot lay still, arms folded over his chest like a buried knight.
"Worry about them."
She stood slowly, her twin blades clinking lightly at her hips. "I've lost too many fucking hunters. And now—again. I took command again because I thought I was ready. Thought I could make up for losing my old squad. Thought I could protect them this time. But here I am…almost the same ending. One thing you lot should know about me, is that I hate close calls. And there were also those I failed to protect. They weren't close calls." Her eyes shimmered faintly. "I feel like I'm letting them down… letting me down. Letting the dead down."
Then she shook her head, growled lowly, and downed the rest of the bitter juice the clerics had left. She nearly vomited.
"By the flames—I hate you bastards," she wheezed, eyes watering. "It tastes worse going down."
The council chuckled softly, then grew serious again.
"Where's Cainan?" asked Garron.
Selvaria sighed. "Went after Lynzelle. Still half-bleeding, ribs busted—but he's tougher than he looks. Stubborn little bastard. Told me what he saw, if that's what Idrathar wants."
"What did he see?"
Selvaria leaned against a pillar. Her voice lowered.
"Espen's mother. Yuniper. Remember her? The super smart and loving woman who spoiled us with treats she baked everyday and was nothing but smiles? She sacrificed Espen to the witch queen. That's why she was taken."
The silence was instant. Even Dravok stopped yawning.
"…Yuniper?!" Vharyn gasped. "What mother sacrifices their own child?!"
Some of the wounded warriors and even clerics turned to look at them.
Brax frowned. "She vanished awhile ago when Espen first fell ill…"
"Idrathar thought she was out looking for a cure. Since Yuniper was dedicated to studying the witches' dark power, it made sense. Selvaria said bitterly. "Turns out, the way it looks, she was trying to become a witch. A witch of Tharnum. Gave up her daughter like a burnt offering. She's a traitor," she spat. "Cainan said he'll find Espen. No matter how twisted or transformed she's become. If she's in that darkness, he'll drag her out of it, piece by piece. He said even if the witches use her as a vessel, even if she's reborn into some nightmarish form… he'll bring her back. Alive."
Silence wrapped around the group again like ash on wind.
Then Selvaria's tone changed. Her eyes turned flinty.
Brax asked, "You let Cainan leave? After knowing how you are with them? His squad? The witch hunters?"
"Eh. I don't like it, but..I feel the more I worry about something, the more I destroy myself. I'm trying my hardest to not be a worry-rat. It won't be easy but, Cainan can be trusted that he'll survive one way or another." Selvaria then cleared her throat. "Now then…" she said darkly. "The Kingdom of Sorneth…"
Lady Selvaria stood amidst the incense-heavy air of the Hall of Red Mercy, eyes sharp beneath tired lids, the flickering torchlight dancing across her face. Her gaze hadn't left the far cots where the wounded lay, but her voice turned cold as iron.
"They were soldiers from Sorneth," she said suddenly. "Some of the ones summoned in that battlefield. I saw their banners beneath the rot. I recognized their fighting forms, their armor patterns. Even their tongues. They were themselves… but something else was in them."
The council shifted.
"They weren't twisted or mindless," she continued. "They were fighting like trained warriors—wielding blood-magic laced with dark glyphs. And yet, they looked aware. Not corrupted. Not possessed. So I ask—" she turned now, her eyes burning, "—did the witches conquer Sorneth?"
Lord Garron was the first to answer, voice low and hard. "If the witches took Sorneth, they'd have used the whole damn army. Sorneth's military ranks in the hundreds of thousands. That battle would've turned into a culling."
"Agreed," Brax rumbled. "We saw just a fraction. If Sorneth had fallen completely, we'd be ash."
Dravok let out a slow breath, rubbing his temples. "Or maybe they didn't fall. Maybe they offered their swords willingly. Wouldn't be the first time Sorneth made a pact with things they can't control."
Vharyn nodded. "It fits their history. The Kingdom of Sorneth has always walked a dark line… embracing blood rituals passed down from monarchs who claimed descent from a blood god. They command magic by binding nature itself, not just through glyphs or incantation but through… sacrifice."
The group fell quiet.
Kalazeth and Sorneth had always been opposites—Kalazeth forged in steel and flame, the sworn foe of all witchery; Sorneth, a kingdom that bathed itself in the sacred taint of magic, where blood rites were law and belief.
The conversation turned, and the war-table was set in memory.
They spoke of the possible reasons:
"Maybe Sorneth didn't fall," said Garron. "Maybe they saw the storm coming and chose a side. Made a pact. A deal with the witches for power, protection, or worse."
"Or maybe it wasn't a full betrayal," Brax added. "They might be divided internally. A cult hidden within the court, working beneath the monarch."
"Still," Selvaria said, "I don't like it. That kind of magic doesn't just appear in the ranks of an empire like that. It's learned. Taught. Approved."
They began mapping the political echoes—Sorneth's long, blood-soaked history:
—Vaerngard: a frozen wasteland ruled by nobles cloaked in wolf pelts and iron-chained furs. Their people believed in silence, strength, and the sacredness of the hunt.
—Drottenvall: fierce mountain tribes, who carved their homes into cliffs and stitched red sashes into their mourning garb. Their warriors chanted before battle, claiming death was merely a passage.
—Syfrholt: an oceanic kingdom whose ships were carved with bone and scale, whose nobles wore sea-glass jewelry and armor that shimmered like wet stone. Their magic flowed with the tide, their swords struck like the sea.
—Yngvar's Reach: a desert realm of gold and ivory, where spice-perfumed air clung to every breath. Their warriors wore long robes and etched armor into stories. Their sorcery danced with heat and mirage.
—Askrheim: home to brutal war-clans, bronze-skinned and tattooed in runes. Their rituals were violent, tribal, and steeped in belief that pain awakened the soul.
These were the kingdoms Sorneth had defeated before, many years ago.
Selvaria narrowed her eyes. "I remember…"
"Now Sorneth stands above them all," Dravok muttered. "A continent-wide empire of blood magic, strange pacts, and ambition unchecked."
They were silent as firelight flickered across the silver-threaded banners.
Then—
The doors to the Hall creaked.
Idrathar stepped inside.
The knights immediately struck their fists to their chests in salute. The council followed, wordless and precise. Even Selvaria stiffened, her blades humming faintly.
Idrathar said nothing at first. His movements were fluid, but sharp. Like a sword mid-swing. His eyes, dark and cold, scanned them all.
Then he reached into his cloak and slowly unsheathed a golden blade—its edge glowing with a flickering flame that cast no shadow. The heat in the room changed.
"Pay a visit," Idrathar said calmly, "to one of Sorneth's monasteries."
He held the blade out, not for battle, but as a symbol. A command.
"Ask what really happened."
The council tensed. They all knew that look. Idrathar was still. Too still.
He didn't need to shout. They could feel the fire burning inside him.
He wanted blood.
And the council knew that this mission would be no diplomatic venture.
The thunder of hooves cracked like the sky's heartbeat as Stormsteed tore across the windswept highlands—its hooves splitting stone, lightning lashing from each step like divine punctuation. The beast, a deep charcoal mythic charger, was streaked with silver-blue veins of raw energy. Its mane flickered with streaks of stormlight, and behind it, the land trembled with each gallop.
Cainan sat high in the saddle, his chains wrapped loosely around his arms, the long coat of his Bloodhunter uniform torn and darkened with dried blood. The wind howled across his face, but his eyes stayed sharp.
'Somewhere beautiful or with a good looking view, that's where she'll be. Or out there causing havoc like a maniac. Did she run because I saw her devil form?'
He passed open fields, scorched hills still steaming from the battle, and overgrown ruins where nature tried to forget what man and monster had once done. Along the paths he crossed, scattered groups of Hunters from other kingdoms watched in awe.
"That him?" one of them muttered, eyes narrowing.
"The top Bloodhunter from Kalazeth," another whispered, hood lowered over beastkin ears. "Heard of him."
"Cainan… right? Wonder if he had that dream too. The one we all had last night…"
"—with the giant shadow-woman, the black rose blooming over the stars, and those children of shadow whispering in our skulls…of course he did. Probably smells the bitch right now, haha."
They tried to wave him down, shout a greeting. But he didn't look back.
'—So it's true, It wasn't just me… Everyone saw her. The Witch Queen, or so everyone thinks. That wasn't a dream—it was a calling. A warning maybe..?'
His jaw clenched.
'Yuniper… Espen's mother… You sick, twisted fucking coward. How the hell do you give your child to the enemy? What even drove you there? Where are you hiding now? Watching from the dark? Or already one of them?'
He exhaled through his nose, a sigh thick with pain and regret.
'Zaara, Aris, Raijin, Tojin, Foxxen… you're all alive. Even Selvaria made it. That old warhawk's too damn stubborn to die. I'm glad.'
'And Camelot—' he snorted —even that bastard. 'Surprised he made it through without a single drop of magic. What's his issue with me anyway? I've always wondered..'
But then his eyes dropped for a moment.
'I should've talked to Idrathar first… When I was 14, he said: "No secrets, no shame. If you ever need me—come to me." But I didn't. I left. Looking for a psychotic devil human. Very fucking Cainan of me.'
The wind rushed louder now. Trees parted as Stormsteed galloped down a path lined with glowing flowers and jagged obsidian ridges.
'…Because I need to find her. Lynzelle. I hate to say it—but I missed her. I didn't want to. But lying to myself? Pointless. Why did she run? Why didn't she stay? Was it the devil form? The power? Did it change her? Is she going on a rampage right now?'
He tightened his grip on Stormsteed's reins.
He looked over his shoulder once, the massive spires of Kalazeth far behind.
"I'll be back," he whispered, "and I'll bring her home."
The thought sharpened.
'If I'm going to be that knight—the one from Espen's bedtime stories—then I have to make fate itself bend. Heroes don't fail…but I'm not a hero. I never wanted to be. I don't like heroes anyway. Or those who try and act like one. All goody goody, when in reality They're all the same if pushed to that limit, or cornered. But Espen thinks I'm a hero because Idrathar drew me in his bedtime stories to her. Damn that geezer. I don't hate it though…why don't I?'
As he pushed on, landscapes shifted like a living painting: wide lakes filled with glowing reeds, forests of red-leafed trees, and narrow roads lined with prayer bells swaying in silence. Villages of beast-kin worked in the fields. He caught pieces of their gossip as he rode by:
"—Dreamt of her too, I swear it—"
"—The Witch Queen's waking up, they say—"
"—And Idrathar's own daughter—taken by the witches—"
"How do we even know that was the witch queen?"
Farther along, his path narrowed as he reached the crags of the mountain. Up ahead, a crowd surrounded a high boulder, where three ragged men stood on shaking legs, eyes wide and white with madness. Their clothes hung off their bodies like forgotten skins. They screamed into the sky:
"The end is HERE! The dawn of witches is UPON US!"
"The shadows walk again! The stars will bleed BLACK!"
They gestured wildly, spasming with unnatural energy, each motion sending shivers into the crowd. Some people backed away. Others nodded with grim understanding.
Cainan rode past them without slowing. The noise faded as he climbed higher.
He finally reached the Skyrestt Point—a high cliff surrounded by pale trees and bioluminescent mushrooms that pulsed gently in the twilight. Strange, small creatures blinked at him from the foliage, like curious spirits.
Cainan dismounted, landing with a wince. His body ached. The wounds from the last battle hadn't closed properly, though the destruction magic in his blood tried.
He looked around.
"She liked beautiful shit," he muttered, brushing his knuckles against a moss-covered stone. "So… if I were her, I'd be here. Somewhere quiet. Peaceful. Or maybe somewhere else. Crap. The more I stop the more she's probably running around."
He was about to call her name out loud, but—
—Rustling.
He froze.
Then—
CRACK!
He vanished. A small crater exploded where he once stood. The ground split, and in a flash of destruction-ridden speed, he reappeared mid-punch—his fist screaming toward the source of the sound.
It collided with a staff—thick, gnarled wood etched with hundreds of runes. Sparks exploded at the point of impact.
And there stood the wielder.
A tall, six-foot-tall white-furred simian, humanoid but beast-like, with four muscled arms and a long tail wrapped in gold chains. Its eyes glowed behind a carved obsidian face mask, stylized with jagged smiles and fangs. It blocked Cainan's punch with one hand holding the staff. The other arms remained still.
Cainan grimaced, stumbling slightly as pain shot through his side.
"Tch—damn—"
'What is he?!'
"You alright, kid?" the creature said in a deep, scratchy voice. Sarcastic, but smooth. "You punch like someone stitched together with paper and ego."
Cainan narrowed his eyes. "What the hell are you?"
The beast tilted its head, unimpressed.
"Name's Qorrak," it said with a grin Cainan couldn't see but could feel. "And you're about to learn that attacking strangers on mountaintops is usually a bad idea."
"Then don't sneak up on me…you don't know what I'm capable of."
"Actually I think I do, who hasn't heard of you on this side of the continent?"
Cainan gritted his teeth. "You a summon of the witches? Come to finish me off?"
Qorrak's arms spun his staff once, and he leaned lazily against a tree as if nothing had just happened.
"Ohhh? Seems like the brat wants to fight."
High above the cloud-snagged ridges, two forces stood poised to clash—Cainan, wreathed in destruction-wrought chain sigils, and Qorrak, the four-armed simian warrior cloaked in the calm before a storm. But just as tension snapped taut between them—
A streak of iridescent light shot between their faces, trailing glassy shimmer and the scent of wildflowers.
"STOPSTOPSTOPSTOP—Qorrak what are you doing?!" came a tiny, high-pitched voice like silver bells slammed into a goblet of wine.
A fluttering form zipped between them and hovered before Qorrak's face: Astrid.
The fairy.
The very same that had danced between blades and magic during the fight against Nezreth.
Her wings shimmered like spun northern light, hair flowing in cascading rivers of silver and aquamarine. Gold rings jingled on her ankles and wrists as she jabbed a finger in Qorrak's face.
"He's mine!" she snapped.
Cainan narrowed his eyes. "I'm not yours."
'It's that damn fairy again! She's definitely following me!'
Qorrak arched a brow beneath his mask. "Yours? Is he your pet? Your little pocket Bloodhunter?" He laughed, folding his lower arms. "I'd heard the great Cainan was unstoppable. Figured I'd test him myself before wasting words."
Cainan's voice hardened. "I don't have time for games. This weird fairy has been following me since I fought Nezreth. I want answers. Now. I need to find Lynzelle."
Astrid puffed up her cheeks, ready to speak, but—
Qorrak stepped forward, staff lightly spinning.
"Before that—allow me some courtesy." He gestured with one hand to his chest. "I'm Qorrak, of the Aphurii—Windborne Monks of the wild."
He tapped his mask.
"We are not witches. We're an ancient beastkin race who walked this land before kings carved names into stone. We read the winds—the soulwinds, not air. Our kind hears what the world weeps and whispers."
His staff hummed with soft green light.
"But in our culture… to speak without proving one's soul is blasphemy. You want answers? Then earn them." His grin widened. "Fight me."
Cainan's face twisted, lips curled. "Who the hell do you think you are? Did you not hear me earlier?"
Astrid smiled, "Hmmm what if we said we saw that woman with the horns that's always with you?!"
Cainan slightly gasped, "Lynzelle.." The ground
cracked—Cainan was gone in a flash.
A streak of red chains surged forward.
Chains wrapped his fist, glowing, burning, screaming. Destruction crackled like lightning as he reappeared inches from Qorrak.
But Qorrak didn't move. Didn't flinch.
WHUMP.
Cainan doubled over.
Qorrak's staff jabbed him clean in the gut. A cannon-blast of wind erupted outward.
BOOOOOM.
The entire cliffside ruptured.
Cainan was blasted off the mountain, body spiraling through air and mist as rock splintered behind him.
Astrid screamed, "YOU DUMB BABOON! YOU KILLED HIM!" She began smacking Qorrak's shoulders with both fists. "WE NEEDED HIM!"
Qorrak snorted. "Ticklish. Little fairy fists."
"Ticklish?!" she raged, circling him. "You big hairy gasbag! You throw him off a mountain and LAUGH? WE NEED HIM."
"He didn't seem that strong. Honestly, I'm disappointed. All bark, no bite."
But then—
click… shhkkk…
A sound. Like iron snakes whispering.
Qorrak's staff… tugged.
He blinked down. Chains wrapped around it. "Heh. I should've known."
Chains ripped Qorrak from the cliff, yanking him down like a comet.
"WOOO!" Astrid whooped. "GET HIM, CAINAN! RIP HIS STUPID MONKEY FACE OFF! SHOVE HIS MASK DOWN HIS OWN THROAT AND MAKE HIM EAT IT!"
"DAMN FAIRY!" Qorrak shouted as he plummeted. "WHOSE SIDE ARE YOU ON?!"
"Violence!" she cackled in reply. "I'm on the side of EXCITEMENT AND VIOLENCE!"
Down below, trees exploded outward as Cainan reeled in the chain. He shot forward, blood on his lip, but fire in his eyes—red light bleeding from his irises.
Qorrak's eyes widened behind the mask. "OH!"
Then—
CRACK—BOOOOOOM.
Cainan's fist slammed into Qorrak's gut with seismic force.
The earth below ruptured.
Trees splintered like kindling. Boulders shattered. Wind screamed through the valley as a shockwave flattened the landscape.
Smoke and dust surged like an avalanche.
When it cleared—
Cainan stood in the middle of a crater. Chains coiled around his arms like living serpents. His fist was red and steaming, blood dripping down from reopened wounds. The glyphs of destruction shimmered faintly around him.
Across from him, floating cross-legged mid-air, was Qorrak. Still holding his staff. Mask cracked at the chin.
He gave a low, impressed whistle.
"Now that… was better."
He spun the staff once, planting it into the air like it was solid ground.
"I suppose it's time to talk Soulbrands."
"Yeah, I don't care. Fight me."
His voice softened.
"Every soul is born with a mark. You don't see it with eyes. You feel it—in pain, in fury, in grief. It awakens when your life cleaves in half. That mark is your Soulbrand. Not magic. Not a tool. You."
He twirled a finger.
"Chains. That's your Affinity, isn't it? Destruction—through restraint. You don't just break things. You bind them. You bring ruin to anything that tries to move forward."
Cainan said nothing.
Qorrak smiled. "As for me?"
He spread two arms wide.
"My Soulbrand is Vastness. I command wind—not air, but space. Momentum. Reach. Pressure. You ever feel like the world's just too big? That's me."
Astrid floated between them again. "AND IN THIS CORNER, the Chain-Boy of Carnage! The Breaker of Beasts! The One Who Didn't Die—CAINAN THE CHAINSAW-FIST!"
Cainan's eye twitched. "Please shut her up."
"YOU'RE WELCOME!" she shouted. "Now KICK HIS ASS, CAINAN! Go for the lungs! Twist his spine into balloon animals!"
"DAMN FAIRY!" Qorrak shouted again. "Stop narrating my death!"
Astrid just smiled wickedly. "Too late, fluff-butt. Blood's been called for."