Genethia Roth and Kasien Ash-Fall God Hand Trials

Kasien Ash-Fall and Genethia Roth (Neth) are pulled into a desperate, world-breaking turn when Zlaniz’s Giant Demon Seducer escapes through a portal, dragging Tyrion Grimbeard into the God Hands Realms. In panic, Neth mirrors the demon’s method and rips open her own gateway—something she never meant to do.

The cavern trembled with the aftershock of the torn veil. The portal still gaped like a wound in the world, its edges shimmering with fractured starlight and bleeding shadows.

The cavern shook as the unnatural portal widened, its edges hissing like torn flesh. The stench of brimstone and void rolled outward in waves, burning in their lungs.

Kasien stood before it, jaw clenched, eyes burning with purpose, his blade lowered at his side, his eyes fixed on something beyond the veil that only he could feel. He turned, meeting the faces of his companions—Reyn, Rheana, Neth, Lila, and Nórue—and turned to the portal glaring in to it.

He turned one last time to his companions—Reyn, Rheana, Neth, Lila, and Nórue. His words were steady, carved with finality:

“I need to find my family.”

And then, without waiting for an answer, he stepped into the abyss.

Reyn reached out, half a cry leaving his lips, Reyn staggered forward, hand outstretched. “Kasien!” His voice cracked, breaking against the cavern walls. but Kasien was gone.

Neth’s hands shook as she pressed them to her chest, guilt twisting her face. “That portal… it leads to the God Hands Realms. I should never have opened it.”

Her words cut through the silence, drawing the Cinders into a storm of voices.

“What do you mean?” Reyn demanded, his voice rising with desperation. “If Kasien’s in there, then we go after him. He won’t fight alone!”

Neth shook her head violently, her voice trembling but firm. “You don’t understand. The Realms are split into five endless planes, each more dangerous than the last. Zlaniz’s domain is Lust and Despair—corruption that devours the soul. Urmbrik rules over Rage, Flesh, and Bone, where even the ground screams. Geardaz twists magic into trickery and aberration, warping the mind itself. Zarlnis is War and Corruption made flesh, a battlefield without end. And Zonid—their leader—his realm is Time, Space, the Void… distortion itself. To step through is to lose everything.”

She lowered her eyes. She shook her head, tears welling. “An hour here is a day there. There is no rest. No sanctuary. The God Hands’ legions will hunt us every moment.”

Her words brought silence for only a heartbeat before Reyn’s rage boiled over. “Then we follow him! I won’t let him fight that place alone!”

Reyn’s jaw clenched. “Then that’s where I belong. I won’t leave him. I won’t leave Kasien.”

He took a step toward the rift. But before he could cross its threshold, a flash of crimson flame erupted in the cavern, and a figure appeared—horns curling like fire, a wicked smile dancing across her lips. Ashri Pyrrin.

“I can’t let you do this, Reyn,” she purred, her eyes burning with the command of her mother’s will. And with a snap of her fingers, the cavern warped, and Reyn vanished—spirited away to his estate in Whitestone before anyone could stop her.

“Reyn!” Rheana cried out, fury in her voice, but her brother was gone. She pressed her hand to her dagger, forcing the others to move. “Back to the estate. Now. We regroup before we lose more, Back to the estate. Now.”

But Neth did not move.

Her small frame trembled as she stared at the portal, her eyes wide with both terror and resolve. “This is my fault. I opened it. I won’t let Kasien carry this alone.”

She stood frozen, her small frame bathed in the glow of the portal. Her guilt weighed heavier than steel. Slowly, she turned her head toward Rheana, voice breaking.

“Neth, don’t!” Rheana barked, reaching for her—but the goblin cleric had already stepped forward, her face lit by the portal’s glow.

“Tell Reyn… tell him I’m sorry.”

And with that, she walked through the veil.

The portal shrieked as if it felt her passing, and then—just as suddenly as it had been torn open—it sealed shut. The cavern fell silent, empty save for the dim echoes of what had been lost.

Rheana, Lila, and Nórue stood together, their eyes fixed on the stone wall where the wound had been. None spoke, because there was nothing left to say.

Two of their companions—Kasien and Neth—were gone, swallowed into the endless battlefields of the God Hands. And no one could say if they would ever return?

The God Hands Realms

The portal did not feel like falling. It felt like being unmade. Kasien and Neth were torn from one another mid-stride, flung into different realities that pulsed like veins of some titanic, dying beast.

Kasien — The Realm of Geardaz

When Kasien’s eyes opened, he stood beneath a sky that rippled like shattered glass. The constellations shifted every heartbeat, fractals of colour folding in and out of themselves. The ground was no ground at all—stone platforms suspended in the void, twisting and bending with impossible geometry. Gravity felt uncertain; every step threatened to throw him sideways into infinity.

Before him, Geardaz’s host stirred. Arcane warriors in jagged robes, their faces hidden by masks of writhing sigils, raised spears of living crystal. Mind Flayers, their tentacles slick with blood, drifted between them like generals. Behind them loomed greater terrors—Beholders, their eyes weeping radiant corruption, beams cutting scars of raw magic through the air.

Kasien gripped his blade tighter, feeling the weight of the challenge. He could see it in the far distance: the land-mass shaped like a giant hand jutting up from the void, each finger a mountain, each knuckle a fortress. His instincts screamed that was where he had to go. Where answers waited. Where perhaps his family could be found.

But the path was swarming with Geardaz’s spawn, and every spell that lashed the void felt aimed to break his very mind.

Kasien muttered under his breath, “I don’t care if it takes a lifetime. I will get there.”

Neth — The Realm of Urmbrik

Neth landed hard, knees buckling on soil that bled beneath her palms. The air was heavy with the stench of gore and smoke, the ground piled with bones that writhed as though still alive. Above, a red sky boiled with storms of flesh and lightning, and the horizon burned with endless pyres.

The roar came first, then the footsteps. Urmbrik’s armies.

Barbarian warriors clad in spiked armour of bone and sinew marched around her, their chants echoing like thunder. Hulking spawns of Urmbrik—twisted giants of flesh stitched from dozens of corpses—shambled at their flanks. And then the demons appeared: Balors, their whips crackling with lightning and flame, wings blackening the sky as they descended.

Neth’s heart pounded as she raised her holy symbol, trembling. She saw it too, far in the distance, through the smoke and blood-red horizon—the giant hand of land, pointing upward like a god’s mockery of salvation.

Her voice cracked, but it held conviction: “Kasien… wherever you are… I will find you.”

The barbarian horde screamed their war cries and charged. The Balors’ laughter shook the bones beneath her feet.

The Long Road Ahead

Though separated by planes, Kasien and Neth were drawn to the same impossible destination—the land shaped as a colossal hand, looming far off, its fingers stretching to the heavens. Days, perhaps weeks, of slaughter lay between them and that goal. Enemies without number surrounded them, relentless and unending.

And yet, both felt it: a strange closeness. As though somewhere beyond the veil of pain and distance, the other was there. Fighting. Surviving. Striving toward the same impossible path.

The Realms of the God Hands had claimed them. Now they had to endure them.

The Teal Wastelands of Geardaz

Kasien’s boots crunched against ground that pulsed like living crystal. The earth itself beat faintly, as if it had veins carrying arcane lifeblood beneath its jagged surface. The air shimmered with teal and violet hues, rippling in broken patterns that made it hard to tell sky from land. Floating eyes drifted overhead, blinking in silent judgment, each one a sentinel of Geardaz’s twisted realm.

He scanned the horizon and froze.

Warriors.

At first, he thought them Northmen—broad of shoulder, iron will written in every stance. But these were no longer men. Their flesh was etched with runes, their veins glowing like conduits of living magic.

The Light Spearmen stood in tight ranks, their spears of crystalline energy pulsing with unstable power.

The Axemen, heavier and brutal, bore cleaving weapons infused with aetherfire, their strikes splitting the air itself.

The Heavy Pikemen formed the wall, towering figures encased in arcane-forged armour, their helms crowned with curling horns of crystal.

Beyond them stood archers, spectral bows humming with unnatural light, and at the edges lurked horrors more alien still.

Kasien’s breath hitched as his eyes met theirs:

A warped Mind Flayer, its robes dragging like shadows, tentacles dripping with psionic ichor, eyes lit with unnatural flame. Its very presence pressed against Kasien’s mind, whispering falsehoods.

A Beholder, but not as he had ever read of. Its skin was swollen with crystalline growths, its eyestalks split into jagged shards, each one weeping raw magic. The great central eye glared down upon him like a god judging prey.

Behind them, the teal-blue wasteland stretched on and on. And at its horizon, impossibly far yet unmistakable, the landmass shaped like a colossal hand clawed upward into the void, each finger a towering spire.

Kasien steadied himself. His heart pounded. He whispered, more to himself than to the monsters that now encircled him:

“If this is the trial of Geardaz, then so be it. My family waits… and nothing will stop me.”

The crystal ground shuddered as the warped armies of Geardaz advanced.

Neth — The Realm of Urmbrik

The portal spat her out with a violent lurch, and Neth fell hard against the ground. Except it was not ground.

It was flesh.

The land pulsed beneath her like a beating heart, bleeding wherever her hands pressed. Each step sent rivulets of dark blood trickling across ridges of bone and sinew. Piles of skulls and shattered spines stretched out like mountains, and in the distance towers of impaled corpses formed crude crosses, monuments to suffering.

Jagged red crystals jutted from the earth, each one bleeding as though alive, their glow casting the realm in hellish light. And around her, countless eyes and snarls. She was not alone.

The warriors of Urmbrik closed in.

Spawn of Urmbrik shambled forward, grotesque parodies of flesh, their claws slick with ichor.

Pit Fiends with wings of burning leather circled overhead, their chains dragging sparks across the sky.

Light Swordsmen and Spearmen, once human perhaps, but now nothing more than shells clad in bone-forged armour, raised weapons dripping with gore.

Minotaur Greataxemen thundered at the flanks, each step shaking the piles of skulls.

Bloodshedders, armored brutes with axes scarred by a thousand killings, bellowed her name like a curse.

And above them, massive Balors, their whips crackling lightning, hovered like kings of carnage.

The horde knew her. They could feel it—the amulet’s pull, its aura screaming across the battlefield. She was a bearer, chosen by the God Hands, and in Urmbrik’s realm that meant only one thing: trial by endless war.

Neth’s breath trembled, but her hands clasped tight around her holy symbol. She whispered, then shouted her prayer into the storm of flesh and steel:

“I will burn with no shame, the fire will last—the rose that grows in her gardens.

I was blessed by the trust.

In Dykenta, I must!”

The ground quaked. Urmbrik’s warriors answered her prayer with a roar that shook the skies. The Pit Fiends descended, the Balors raised their whips, and the barbarian hordes surged forward, eager to test if the amulet-bearer could survive the first steps into their master’s domain.

And Neth, though trembling, raised her rapier The Black Dragon of Asher, her single eye blazing. She was small, fragile, broken by past scars—yet in this moment she stood unbowed, a lone flame in Urmbrik’s endless storm of rage.

Kasien — The Realm of Geardaz

Kasien stood still, breathing slow as his eyes scanned the horizon. The teal-blue wastelands of Geardaz pulsed like a living wound, veins of crystalline energy running through the earth, bursting in fractured arcs of light.

The armies were there—he could feel them. Not rushing. Not yet. Watching. Warped Northmen clad in rune-etched armor, Mind Flayers and Beholders looming like generals, countless aberrations behind them. They marched slowly, but most lingered at a distance, their many eyes trained upon him. Waiting. Testing.

Kasien tightened his grip on his sword. His instincts screamed danger, but another feeling gnawed at him. Magic.

It flowed through him with unnatural ease, stronger than it had ever felt before. His spells hummed in his veins, each one ready to burst forth like fire through dry tinder. His senses whispered that even when he spent his energy, it would return quickly, his power refilling in ways impossible in Platera. There were no laws here—no restraints from the gods of the arcane, no Weave to balance or bind it. This place wanted him to use magic, to rely on it.

And yet, there was something wrong. It was too wild, too eager. Like it wasn’t his alone.

Kasien frowned, keeping his blade drawn, whispering to himself: “Understand it first. Test it before I trust it.”

He looked for cover. Jagged crystal spires surrounded him, but none wide enough to shield him from the watchers above. He cursed under his breath, his options stripped away. If stealth was denied him, then only the blade remained.

The first test came swiftly.

Three Light Spearmen of Geardaz stepped forward, their glowing spears buzzing with unstable energy. Their movements were stiff, ritualistic, as if each thrust was a word in some arcane prayer.

Kasien inhaled sharply—and then let the rhythm of battle take him. Bladesong.

The hum of arcane song filled his blood, his body moving with impossible speed. The first spear came fast, but his sword was faster—Kasien sidestepped, turned the shaft away, and with a swift slash opened the warrior’s throat. The spearman collapsed with no cry, his body cracking into shards of crystal and flesh.

The second struck, his spear aimed straight for Kasien’s chest. Kasien twisted, the weapon grazing past him, and in the same motion he thrust his blade through the warrior’s ribs. A sharp pull, and the body crumbled at his feet.

The third lunged low, spear-tip aiming for the back of Kasien’s leg. Kasien shifted just in time, his heel sliding across the pulsing earth. With a swift counter, he spun and brought his sword down hard across the spearman’s neck. The head fell, rolling across the crystal floor before dissolving into a cloud of light.

Kasien stood over their fading remains, chest heaving, the Bladesong still whispering around him.

He wiped his blade clean and lifted his eyes to the watching armies in the distance.

“Three down,” he muttered, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest. “And a thousand more to go.”

The watchers did not move. They only stared, silent, unblinking. Testing. Waiting for him to take his next step.

Neth — The Light Against Rage

The ground bled beneath her boots, every step sinking into Urmbrik’s screaming flesh-land. Around her, the warriors pressed closer: Spawn stitched from bone and sinew, Swordsmen in blood-forged mail, and the shadows of greater fiends looming above.

Neth’s single eye burned with resolve as she drew The Black Dragon of Asher, its blackened steel gleaming faintly red in the bleeding light. Once a weapon of shadow, now carried by a servant of the Light.

The first Spawn of Urmbrik roared and lunged. Neth’s hand flashed with radiant brilliance, a burst of Sacred Flame igniting from her palm. Fire from heaven seared the beast’s flesh, slowing its charge long enough for her to strike. The rapier darted true, piercing its chest, and with a twist she sent it collapsing into the crimson mud.

The horde roared in answer. Three Light Swordsmen advanced, their blades already wet with ichor. One swung down at her. Neth raised her holy symbol with her off-hand, light flaring out into a shield. The blade clanged against it, sparks bursting into the dark. With a cry, she thrust the Black Dragon forward, piercing the warrior’s throat. He dropped to the ground, choking on his own screams.

The others pressed in — one shield-bashing her hard to the ground. Neth gasped, rolling in the muck of blood and bone, but her prayer was already on her lips.

“Dykenta! Guide my hand!”

Her body flared with divine radiance, the Channel Divinity: Radiance of the Dawn blasting outward. The air itself burned with holy fire. The two remaining Swordsmen shrieked as the light consumed them, their corrupted flesh boiling until nothing but bone and ash remained.

Silence fell for a moment. Neth panted, one knee in the bleeding soil, the Black Dragon of Asher humming faintly as if hungering for more.

Then the ground shook.

From the skies above, wings like burning sails blotted out the light. A Balor descended, whip blazing, chains dragging sparks across the tortured land. Its eyes glowed with recognition — it could sense the God Hand amulet at her chest.

Its voice was a growl that shook the marrow of the bones piled around them.

“Bearer of the Hand… you will burn in Urmbrik’s Rage.”

Neth forced herself to her feet, light blazing around her small form. She gripped her rapier tight, holy symbol still glowing in her other hand.

Her voice cut back like steel through fire:

“I will burn, but not with shame. In Dykenta I must.”

The Balor cracked its whip — and the second trial began.

Kasien — The Gamble of Geardaz’s Magic

Hours had passed. Or so it felt. In Platera, perhaps only minutes. Neth’s warning whispered in the back of his mind: time here runs differently.

Kasien stood on the bleeding teal wastelands, eyes fixed on the horizon. There it was—the giant land-mass shaped like a hand, its fingers clawing at the sky, its arm fusing with the earth far ahead. It could take days. Weeks. Maybe longer. And every step closer drew more eyes upon him.

His Bladesong pulsed through him, carrying him faster than should have been possible, but no matter where he turned, the watchers were there—marching in slow, deliberate patterns. Geardaz’s legions wanted to see how long he could endure.

And endure he must.

The first strike came fast. Three Spearmen and three Light Axemen, with two Arcane Archers covering from afar. Kasien spun, blade ready, but not fast enough.

The first glowing arrow struck him square in the chest. He grunted, thrown back, rolling across the jagged earth as the second arrow split the ground inches from his head.

By the time he scrambled to his feet, the six warriors had encircled him. An Axeman lunged, swinging hard.

Kasien’s eyes flashed. Blessing of the Raven Queen.

In an instant, he vanished into shadow and reappeared behind the brute, scimitar already plunging deep into his back. The Axeman collapsed, lifeless.

Another came forward, axe raised high. Kasien parried with desperate strength, the clash ringing like thunder. He twisted, his blade cutting a bloody arc across the Axeman’s chest. The man fell, sputtering black ichor.

A Spearman closed in. Kasien drove his blade into the man’s chest and wrenched it free with a twist. Three down.

But the others advanced, and the Archers loosed again.

Both arrows struck home, slamming into Kasien’s chest. Pain exploded in his ribs, his vision swam, and he stumbled back. The last Spearmen and Axeman saw his weakness and rushed all at once.

Shadow saved him again. Kasien vanished thirty feet away, reappearing in a burst of smoke and feathers, clutching his wounds.

With no other option, he gambled. Summon Greater Demon.

The creature that appeared was no ally. It screamed in agony, flesh twisting, body collapsing into a Spawn of Geardaz—alien and warped, yet familiar. It reminded him of the filth he’d once seen beneath the bathhouse, tainted by Zlaniz. Only this one belonged to Geardaz.

The remaining enemies advanced. One archer loosed and struck a spearman by mistake, the other aimed true—an arrow screaming toward Kasien’s heart. He threw up Shield. The spell roared with unstable force, detonating like a bomb. Kasien redirected the blast toward the incoming Axeman and Spearman, and their bodies exploded into chunks, blood raining down across the wasteland.

Kasien stared, horrified. That spell was never meant to be that destructive.

The Archers took aim again. Kasien drew upon the wild arcane current and unleashed Fireball.

The explosion tore the land apart, more forceful than any fireball he’d ever conjured—even the one he’d once cast with Gojo. The Archers were incinerated, their corpses nothing but ash, their bows melted into slag.

But the Spawn remained.

Kasien wove a web of sticky arcane strands between himself and the creature, hoping to hold it back, and barked a command. “Guard!”

The beast turned its head toward him. For a heartbeat, he thought he’d succeeded. Then its eyes glowed teal. Geardaz’s will claimed it. The Spawn broke free, advancing through the web.

Kasien snarled and hurled another Fireball.

The spell warped. Not fire — lightning. The bolt tore into the Spawn, crackling through its body, staggering it but not ending it.

Kasien staggered back, desperate. He hurled another.

This time the Fireball became acid, splattering across the creature, burning through flesh and bone. The Spawn screamed and crumbled into nothing but bones that scattered across the wasteland.

Silence fell. Kasien dropped to his knees, chest heaving, blood dripping from wounds that burned like fire. His magic flared and sputtered, only to renew itself again, unnatural and wild.

He pressed a hand to his chest, muttering the words of False Life, pulling necrotic vigor into himself to stay alive. Then he fumbled through crude bandaging, patching his wounds with shaky hands.

When he lifted his eyes again, the wasteland was no less hostile. The teal-blue crystal horizon stretched endlessly, monsters and warriors watching from every ridge. Only one path remained—the path toward the colossal Hand, looming impossibly far away.

Kasien staggered to his feet, bloodied, scarred, but unbroken.

“Then forward it is,” he whispered. “One step at a time.”

And he kept walking.

Neth — The Trial of Rage

The sky tore open as the Balor came crashing down, its wings beating gales that scattered bone-piles and bleeding crystals alike. The ground convulsed, and debris struck Neth, cutting across her arms and face. She staggered, blood dripping, when the Balor’s great blade swept down. The edge ripped across her side, nearly breaking her stance, and its whip lashed out with a thunderous crack, striking her back and flaying skin.

Neth cried out, stumbling in the gore-soaked mud. The fiend’s laughter shook the sky.

“Pathetic!” the Balor boomed. “Bleed for me, little goblin! This is Urmbrik’s realm—you cannot endure his rage.”

Neth pressed her hand to her holy symbol, whispering the words of Dykenta, her voice trembling but resolute. Warmth surged into her bones, not gentle, but fierce—a fire of trust, love, and unyielding defiance.

She surged forward, rapier flashing black in the crimson light, and slid beneath the Balor’s guard. Her blade pierced his leg, and she thrust again and again, the Black Dragon of Asher biting deep into demonic flesh.

The fiend only laughed, its molten eyes gleaming.

“Yes… YES! Unleash your rage, little one! Show Urmbrik your RAGE!”

For a moment, her chest heaved, anger boiling up like molten steel—but Neth shut her eyes, forced her breath calm, and crushed the temptation. Rage was Urmbrik’s gift. Her goddess had given her purpose.

The Balor snarled and kicked her back. She tumbled across the blood-soaked ground, choking, barely pulling herself to her knees. Her hand glowed faintly as she pressed it to her wounds. Cure Wounds. Flesh knitted, pain dulled, though blood still streaked her robes.

Slowly, she stood again. Her face was smeared with blood and dirt, her eye burning with a terrible light. She glared at the towering Balor, unafraid.

It mocked her, though the edge of its voice had grown thinner.

“Your goddess cannot save you here! Do you feel it? The RAGE? Your light is nothing but a candle in a storm, little goblin!”

Neth did not answer. She simply marched forward, silent, unwavering.

The whip cracked again, lashing across her face. Blood poured down her cheek, but she did not stop.

The Balor’s laughter faltered. “Why… why do you keep coming? You’re a puny goblin! Cry! Beg! Fall before me like the weakling you are!”

Still she came. Step by step, blood streaking down her chin, robes torn, her rapier steady.

Panic flashed in the Balor’s eyes. With a roar it swung its massive sword, aiming to cleave her in two.

Neth sidestepped, moving with perfect precision, and drove the Black Dragon of Asher into its chest. She wrenched it free and struck again. And again. And again—each thrust a prayer, each strike a defiance, until the Balor collapsed to its knees.

Its laughter came ragged, broken.

“I see… why Urmbrik tests you. But it is not his claim that matters. Zonid… has already marked you.”

And with that, the demon toppled, dead upon the bleeding soil.

Neth stood over its corpse, her chest heaving, her face a mask of blood and light. She raised the rapier skyward and cried aloud, her voice fierce enough to echo across the hellish plane:

“In Dykenta, I MUST!”

The horde watching from afar hissed and murmured, but none moved. Not yet.

She turned toward the colossal Hand looming in the far-off sky. Each step was agony, her wounds poorly bandaged, but her conviction burned brighter than her pain. There was still a long march ahead, still endless foes to face, still countless trials to endure.

But Neth walked forward anyway—her light refusing to be smothered, even in the heart of Urmbrik’s rage.

Kasien leaned against a jagged blue crystal, its surface humming faintly with unstable power. The air around it vibrated, filling his bones with a strange rhythm. His wounds ached, and though the Bladesong whispered through him still, exhaustion weighed heavier than his armor.

In his hand, he turned the scimitar Reyn had given him. The blade caught the glow of the crystal, its edge gleaming with a green shimmer, as though life itself lingered in its steel. Soul of the Elderwood.

Kasien whispered the name, almost reverently. He knew its story.

It had once belonged to Ulystra Fenraith, a ranger of the swamps, loyal to the balance of nature, and a friend of Neth’s during her time with the Unchained. Reyn’s hands had been forced to take her life—Fresia Asher’s cruel ultimatum: kill Ulystra, or watch the Cinders be slaughtered. The memory haunted them all.

Kasien traced the edge of the blade with his thumb.
“You died for balance, for nature’s law. I will carry that forward. With this sword, I’ll cut down the spawn of the God Hands. I’ll protect what you once did.”

He lifted his eyes to the wasteland. The colossal Hand loomed impossibly far in the distance, its arm stretching into the earth like a chain binding the land. It seemed no closer than when he first saw it. Hours felt like days. And yet in Platera, Neth had said, it was only minutes.

Kasien’s mind wandered back, threading the stories together.

Fresia Asher. Once Neth’s closest friend, daughter of Rhegar Asher, the Black Dragon King, a man Neth had admired. Fresia had stood by her father’s execution—had even had a hand in it. Now she sought to destroy the Black Dragon Scales, the very force that could resist her and the God Hands.

Why? What did the Dark Gods offer her?

Kasien’s thoughts swirled as he whispered to himself.
“The Blood Eclipse… what promises do they make to the amulet bearers there? What curse binds them to that path?”

Neth had told him it was soon, though even she did not know how soon. Soon enough to weigh on them all.

Kasien’s grip tightened on the Soul of the Elderwood. His voice cracked softly as he whispered two names into the empty wasteland.

“Yshari. Vhalis.”

His sister. His cousin. Taken by the same darkness that plagued these realms. Were they still alive? Were they waiting for him beyond that Hand, or had the God Hands already devoured them?

He pushed himself back to his feet, the crystal’s glow washing across his pale face. He could no longer believe Neth had exaggerated. She had not come close. The horrors here were greater than words could capture.

But he still marched. Because he must.

Kasien turned his gaze toward the distant Hand and began walking, whispering to himself, almost like a prayer:

“I will live long enough to see them again. Whatever waits, I will endure.”

The wasteland trembled, as though mocking his vow.

Neth — Memories in the Realm of Rage

Neth sat slumped against a mound of skulls and corpses, their hollow eyes staring at her like silent judges. The stench of death filled her nostrils, but the heavier smell was fire—smoke and char, clinging to her skin like chains. Her body ached, her wounds throbbed, and she knew she had no choice but to rest. Yet resting here, surrounded by the dead, felt like surrender.

She closed her eye, tried to draw her thoughts away from the present horror. Instead, her mind turned back through the years—every step that had led her here.

She had left home in Dread Dragon for what she thought would be a small, happy adventure. Just her and Alpha Shield, the warforged protector. But adventure had not meant happiness.

Her father Sepher had gone missing in Dovel with a band of Dread Hunters, and she had gone searching. The trail carried her to the Stag Head Inn at Golden Gate in Albion, where she met Martamo, Shinzon, Kunath, Batu, Bub, Vor’i’s, Lydia, and Kegan. That night, the Unchained was born.

She thought of Batu, Bub, and Lydia—the lucky ones, who left before the storm. The rest… less so. Desnora, then Pyro and Hookspark, then Frigg, Tyrion and Sally, Lek and Kharkrahs. To Tudor they went, dragging more into their cursed chain—rescuing Ulystra, and even fighting alongside old enemies like Willow Bloodeyes and Inkky.

That was when they first lost Martamo. Taken by the Faceless Assassin’s game, a cruel death Neth still could not forgive herself for.

Then Paratel. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as she remembered standing in that city square, watching Rhegar Asher’s head fall. Fresia had stood on stage, face covered, pretending to weep. But Neth remembered—there were no tears. Only the flash of shock when Neth screamed Rhegar’s name. Fresia had seen the God Hand Amulet on Neth’s neck. Had known, then and there, Neth would be a problem.

Her eye stung with tears, but still the memories came. Skylar joining them. Tallow. Skitter. Chyric. Freeing Ulfred from Hemrit, who had been tied to a training dummy. She even smiled briefly, remembering how Bloodeyes clapped and Tresh egged her on as she kicked Hemrit in the balls again and again, until he squealed. For a moment, she laughed.

Then the smile vanished.

The skulls shifted as she leaned forward, their hollow mouths grinning in mockery. Neth’s single eye stared at the bleeding soil, her rapier across her knees, and she let her thoughts drown her.

Hookspark.

She could still smell the smoke, feel the mountain air biting cold on her skin. Pehliff’s men had surrounded them, a storm of steel and hate. Hookspark had stayed behind, roaring his last defiance. She had screamed for him, begged him not to—yet his laughter was the last thing she heard before the Shaun ran he through. His sacrifice had torn a path for her and the others to escape.

She had run. He had not.

Her shoulders shook as she pulled her cloak tighter.

And then came the deeper pain.

Her mother, Mukkie.

Slain by Pehliff’s hand, butchered without mercy. That day had shattered what was left of her childhood. And not long after, her father Sepher vanished into the dark. Neth didn’t even know if his bones lay somewhere rotting in these cursed lands.

It was too much. Hookspark’s grin. Her mother’s scream. Her father’s silence. The Unchained scattering like dust in a storm.

She bit her lip hard until she tasted blood, forcing herself not to sob in front of Urmbrik’s watching demons.

But the tears came anyway.

“Dykenta…” she whispered, voice ragged. “Why am I still here, when they are all gone?”

The Balor’s corpse still smouldered far behind her, but the shadows ahead shifted restlessly. Urmbrik’s soldiers and fiends watched, silent, as though they too were measuring her spirit.

The corpses pressed cold against her back, and Neth shut her eye, but shutting it only brought the memories sharper.

Pehliff.

She saw again the moment on the mountainside—the gleam of his sword, the cruel joy in his face. The blade, Fate Killer, tore into her left eye. Pain unlike anything she had ever known swallowed her, and when she tried to cry out to Tymira, to call down light, there was nothing. Her prayers died on her tongue. The sword itself had silenced her god.

She had been left broken, bleeding, faithless.

The separation in Abritus. God Hands raiders and Garturn Halftusk’s band tearing the party apart. Ulystra left alone—only to be slain later by Reyn, forced into Fresia’s ultimatum. Neth had barely had time to see her father or brother around Whitestone before they too were swallowed up by fate.

Her chest tightened. She tried to fight back tears. Around her, Urmbrik’s warriors and demons watched in silence, waiting to see if she would break. She clenched her jaw. But the more she thought, the more the dam cracked.

Joining the Cinders had been her hope—her chance to find the Unchained again. Instead she had only found Lek and Desnora. Then the words of Zarlax in the Bathhouse cellars: “Each member of the Unchained is being hunted, one by one.”

Neth pressed her hand over her face, her shoulders shaking. She was alone here. As alone as her scattered family of adventurers. And deep down, she knew—there was little chance she would ever leave Urmbrik’s realm alive.

Her tears spilled, streaking her bloodied cheek. She forced herself up on shaking legs, the pile of corpses sliding behind her. Her rapier felt heavy in her hand, but she raised it anyway.

In the far distance, the colossal Hand clawed at the sky. Still impossibly far. Still the only path forward.

Neth wiped her face, though the tears kept coming. Her will felt broken, splintered like glass underfoot. But still, she moved. One foot after the other.

Because even broken, her light refused to die.

Thoughts came back to Neth as she kneeled against a pile of skulls still tears running down her bloodied face.

She remembered kneeling there, helpless, and the rage that burned through her. Rage not at Pehliff alone, but at Tymira, who had abandoned her when she needed her most. That day she denounced the goddess she had once trusted, spitting her name into the dirt. Tymira was not her goddess. Not anymore.

But when the void threatened to claim her, when despair closed in… another voice came.

Soft. Steady. Stronger than the roar of battle.

Dykenta.

The goddess of love, lust, and pleasure had not been one Neth would ever have considered. Dykenta’s path had seemed frivolous, sinful, and strange to the goblin cleric who once clung to Tymira’s light. But in that moment, Dykenta’s words wrapped around her like fire and silk.

“You are not abandoned. You are not broken. You are mine, and I will never leave you.”

Neth had wept, not from pain, but from the strange warmth that filled her. And from that day, she followed Dykenta—not out of lust, but because this goddess had reached for her in her darkest hour.

Now, sitting in Urmbrik’s land of rage and bone, Neth pressed her fingers to the eyepatch covering the scar where Fate Killer had ended Tymira’s hold on her. She whispered into the crimson air:

“I would have never followed you, once. But times have changed. You gave me hope when no one else would. And I will not let go of that now.”

Her tears dried on her cheeks. Blood and fire still clung to her, but her conviction steadied. The colossal Hand loomed far away, but she rose to her feet once more, rapier in hand, Dykenta’s presence burning in her heart.

No matter what horrors lay ahead, she would walk toward it.

Because she was not alone anymore.

Neth — The Light That Would Not Die

When Neth pushed herself to her feet, blood streaking her cheek, rapier in hand, something shifted in the air.

The horde of Urmbrik’s warriors that ringed her—the spawns stitched of bone, the Swordsmen clad in blood-forged mail, the hulking Minotaur axemen—had been watching in silence, waiting for the goblin cleric to collapse under grief. But she did not. She rose.

Her single eye burned. Her body trembled. And still, she rose.

The fiends hissed and muttered among themselves. The Balors circling above leaned low, their wings stirring storms of ash, and even their laughter faltered. The mortal was bloodied, broken, and alone—yet her steps carried weight like thunder.

The realm itself seemed to react. The bleeding ground quaked softly under her boots, and the red crystals cracked and wept faster, as if Urmbrik’s rage surged at her defiance.

---

And far beyond the battlefield, across the black veins of the God Hands’ realms, the other dark powers stirred.

• In Zlaniz’s domain of Lust and Despair, succubi and seducer-spawn paused in their feasting, their master’s whispers slithering through them. “The goblin burns still. Her flame tempts even me.”
• In Geardaz’s realm of Trickery and Aberration, the aberrant eyes blinked in unison, and the air rippled with mocking laughter. “She resists rage, but what of madness? We shall see if her light holds when truth bends.”
• In Zarlnis’s plane of War and Corruption, legions sharpened blades and howled, their god’s voice a grinding roar. “She marches with a soldier’s step. But all soldiers break, in time.”
• And in the endless void of Zonid, where time and space folded, the leader of the Hands looked down. His presence was a silence so vast it crushed thought. “She is not his yet. But she is mine in waiting. All roads bend to me.”

---

The warriors around her felt it too. She was marked. Tested.

The spawn shifted uneasily, not daring to strike yet. The Balors grinned again, though their laughter was edged with nerves. They wanted to see how far she would walk before she fell.

Neth did not know that the God Hands themselves now watched her. She only knew her feet carried her forward, one step at a time, toward the colossal Hand in the horizon. Her lips moved in quiet defiance, repeating the words she had spoken into blood and fire:

“I would have never followed you once. But times have changed. You gave me hope when no one else would. And I will not let go of that now.”

The God Hands heard. Urmbrik roared with rage. Dykenta whispered with pride. And still, the goblin cleric walked.

Dykenta & Caladawn — Watching the Broken Flame

From a high plane beyond mortal sight, where stars bled into shadow and dreams tangled with desire, Dykenta watched her goblin cleric march through Urmbrik’s domain. The goddess leaned against a throne woven from roses and bones, her porcelain skin catching the glow of candlefire, her half-skeletal face unreadable but for the faintest smile tugging her lips.

Below, Neth stumbled, bloodied, past the stares of Urmbrik’s fiends. Her tears stained her face, but she kept walking.

Dykenta’s crimson eyes shimmered. “Look at her, Caladawn. She is broken… and yet she rises. She burns brighter for the cracks.”

Beside her, Caladawn Magus stood with staff in hand, his eyes heavy with centuries of sorrow. His gaze followed Neth, lingering on the little goblin’s small form dwarfed by Urmbrik’s endless legions. His voice was soft, heavy with awe and fear both.
“She should have fallen a hundred times. Hookspark’s death, Pehliff’s blade, Tymira’s silence… any one of them would have shattered another. But she clings to your words as though they were iron.”

Dykenta’s smile curved into something sharper, though her voice was tender.
“She clings to love, Caladawn. Even when it is gone. That is the truth of my dominion. Where Tymira abandoned her, I gave her warmth. She follows me not out of lust, not out of pleasure, but because I whispered to her that she was not alone.”

Caladawn bowed his head.
“And now she is your champion.”

The goddess tilted her head, watching as Neth pressed onward, a smear of blood across her eyepatch, her rapier heavy in her hand, yet her step unyielding.

“Not by choice. By need. The God Hands mark her as theirs, but she is mine. Not because I claimed her… but because she claimed me.”

For a moment, silence passed between goddess and seer, broken only by the distant roar of Urmbrik, his rage echoing through the realms as he felt her defiance.

Dykenta whispered, her tone almost like a lover’s vow:
“She will not break. Not while I breathe in her prayers.”

Caladawn’s hand tightened on his staff. His eyes burned as he looked at the endless horizon where Neth walked.
“Then I will record her march. So that even if she falls, her name will live. So that generations will know the goblin who defied the Hands.”

Dykenta’s rose-pale fingers traced the air as though caressing Neth’s cheek across the planes.
“No, Caladawn. She is not meant to fall. She is meant to walk. To weep. To bleed. To burn. And in that, she will teach the world that love is stronger than rage, lust, trickery, war… and even the void itself.”

Below, Neth marched on, every tear another vow, every cut another prayer. And from above, goddess and seer both bore witness—one with devotion, one with sorrow—knowing the God Hands themselves now watched too.

Urmbrik — The God of Rage

In the endless marrow of his domain, Urmbrik stirred. The land itself was his body—every bleeding crystal a vein, every pile of skulls a memory of conquest. His voice was the thunder that cracked through the crimson sky, his breath the storm of fire that swept across the fields of bone.

And he watched the goblin.

The little cleric, marked by her amulet, drenched in blood, her body cut and trembling—yet she did not kneel. She walked. Past his demons. Past his soldiers. She walked.

Fury seared his essence.

“Why does she not fall?” his voice boomed, shaking the battlefield. The Spawn shrieked and clutched their heads, their lord’s rage tearing through them like fire.

His Balors bowed low, their whips dragging sparks.
“She bleeds, my lord. She has broken. But she does not stop.”

Urmbrik’s laughter was not mirth but an avalanche of fury.
“Not stop? Not STOP? This is my realm! Here there is no rest, no healing, no comfort. She is mortal flesh—she should weep, and cry, and break, until nothing remains but rage. She should be mine!”

His gaze burned down upon her, his red eye piercing through the skies. He saw her press her hand to her eyepatch, whispering to that other goddess. To her.

Dykenta.

Urmbrik’s form twisted, black horns splitting the clouds as he roared.
“Sister! You dare plant your rose in my soil? You dare give hope in the furnace of despair? She is in my hands now!”

But Dykenta’s warmth echoed in the goblin still, a flame that resisted his storm. Urmbrik felt it, hated it.

He lashed out. The flesh ground erupted into spears of bone, crashing down around Neth as his warriors howled.
“Break her! Strip her of her light! Let her know what it means to be forgotten!”

Yet she staggered through, her single eye fixed on the distant Hand, rapier raised despite her wounds. She ignored his voice, his storm, his fury. She kept walking.

And in that moment, for the first time in countless ages, Urmbrik felt something burn within him other than rage.

Not fear. But unease.

His growl rumbled across the skies as he turned his voice to the void, to his brothers and sisters across the realms.
“This one will not last forever. But she will not yield quickly. Mark her. Test her. Break her. If she reaches Zonid, if she endures until the Blood Eclipse… she may do more than burn. She may undo us.”

The God Hand of Rage swore it. He would not let that come to pass.

The God Hands — Reactions to Urmbrik’s Outburst

Urmbrik’s roar cracked across the realms, his fury bleeding into every plane. The ground of his domain split, his rage echoing beyond his borders, carried by the tether that bound the Five.

And the others heard.

---

Zlaniz — The Seducer, Lust and Despair

In the halls of velvet flesh and shadow, Zlaniz lounged upon a throne of writhing bodies. Her lips curved in amusement as Urmbrik’s fury shook the air. Her voice, silken and venomous, slipped into the cracks between his thunder.

“Oh, Urmbrik… you always scream when they refuse you. And yet look at her. The little goblin bleeds, suffers, despairs… and still she walks. Such a sweet despair it is. Do you not see? Every step feeds me. Every tear she hides is mine.”

She leaned forward, her eyes glowing with hunger.
“But she does not surrender. That is the delight. I could peel her open with a whisper, make her weep in ecstasy and agony, make her beg to stay in despair forever. And yet she resists. How delicious.”

Her laughter coiled through the tether.
“Test her more, brother. If she survives your rage, I will see if she survives my kiss.”

---

Geardaz — Trickery, Magic, and Aberration

In the teal-blue labyrinth where eyes floated like stars and the air bent like broken glass, Geardaz listened. His laugh was a chorus of whispers, each one speaking in a different tongue.

“Urmbrik, you hammer without thought. Rage is a fire—bright, hot, but quick to burn out. This one is different. She does not shatter at your blows. She bends.”

The aberrant god’s laughter bent the very sound around it.
“I want her mind. Let me pluck her from the battlefield and drop her in my maze. I will give her truths that eat themselves, lies that birth truths, and watch her light twist until it sings in madness. What is a cleric without her mind? Nothing but a doll for me to play with.”

---

Zarlnis — Wrath, War, and Corruption

From the endless fields of war where banners of bone and rivers of blood stretched to eternity, Zarlnis answered. Her voice was iron grinding against iron, the clash of a thousand armies in one.

“Enough games. If she bleeds, she is mortal. Mortals are soldiers. Soldiers break when they are outnumbered.”

She lifted his war-spear, driving it into the ground, and the sound echoed into every realm.
“Let her face legions. Let her march against armies that will not end. She will swing until her arms fail, until her blade snaps, until her light is smothered beneath the weight of war. That is my trial for her.”

Her laughter was a battle cry.
“If she thinks she can defy us, let her drown in endless war.”

---

Zonid — Void, Time, and Space

And then silence.

The void itself shifted as Zonid, the first among the Hands, turned his gaze. His realm was not land nor sky, but distortion itself—time folding, space unraveling, reality bending to his will. When he spoke, it was not in sound, but in inevitability.

“She walks.”

The tether between them trembled.

“Every step she takes bends against us, and still she walks. Urmbrik cannot break her body. Zlaniz cannot drown her in despair. Geardaz cannot twist her mind. Zarlnis cannot bury her in war. Not yet.”

The silence deepened, crushing.

“But she is mortal. And mortals are finite. Her thread will end at the Blood Eclipse, one way or another. If she comes that far, she will walk into my realm. And there, time itself will end her.”

A pause, vast and merciless.

“Mark her. Test her. Watch her. But remember—she belongs to me.”

And with that, the void stilled, and the other Hands fell silent.

---

Neth did not hear their voices. She only felt the weight of eyes pressing down on her as she walked, every step in Urmbrik’s flesh-realm marked by the judgment of gods.

Dykenta, watching from afar, pressed a hand to her lips, whispering in defiance:

“No. She is mine.”

Zonid — The Sixth Hand

In the silence of the void, where time folds in on itself and stars die without ever being born, Zonid watched. His gaze pierced across the realms, past the blood fields of Urmbrik, past the seductions of Zlaniz, past the madness of Geardaz and the wars of Zarlnis.

The void was quiet, the silence so vast it drowned thought itself. In that silence, Zonid considered the goblin.

Neth.

He saw her stumbling through Urmbrik’s realm, drenched in blood, her eye aflame with a light that refused to die. He did not see weakness. He saw inevitability.

“The Blood Eclipse comes. When the moons bleed and the stars collapse, the gate shall open. We have waited two thousand years for this moment — and now, the vessel walks among us.”

Her steps were slow, faltering, bloodied — yet she still walked. That was what marked her. That was what set her apart.

Zonid’s thoughts stirred, colder than the void itself.

“The Blood Eclipse draws near. When the twin moons bleed and the stars scream, the gate will open. We have waited two thousand years, but patience is the marrow of eternity. And she… she is the marrow of this plan.”

He remembered every bearer of the Ten Amulets, chosen across the ages. Nine had failed. Their bodies broke, their wills shattered, their sparks too dim to endure the transformation. They were fodder, nothing more.

Only a handful had risen high enough to be useful

The ten amulet bearers scattered like sparks across Platera. Most had failed. Some had burned too quickly, their mortal shells unable to endure. Others had drowned in their own weakness. Only a few rose high enough to be named champions just as their current champions like Agadra Gora, Zarlax, Xandagor, Ivar the Undefeated. Useful, yes. Dangerous, perhaps. But not gods. Not Hands. They were champions, yes. Fierce, terrible, wielders of their fragments of power. But champions are soldiers. And soldiers die.

Neth was different. Only Neth qualified.

Her broken eye. Her faith betrayed, reforged in fire. Her endless grief that hardened rather than shattered. She carried despair, rage, and loss — and yet still walked with conviction. That was what he needed.

“The others will fall. She will break. And when she breaks, she will be ours. The Sixth Hand.”

Her faith had been betrayed. Tymira had abandoned her. She had been stabbed through the eye by Pehliff’s Fate Killer, denied her cleric’s voice. She had lost her mother, her father, her friends. And still she walked.

That was the seed Zonid required.

“When she breaks, she will not crumble into dust like the others. She will be remade. She will rise as the Sixth Hand.”

The void shuddered at the thought. With six Hands, their armies would no longer be bound to fragments of planes. With six, the barrier between the God Hands’ realms and Platera would collapse like rotted wood.

They would march into the mortal world — not in shadows, not in whispers, but in legions. Fiends, aberrations, demons, soldiers of bone and war.

Platera would not resist. Its vast kingdoms — Albion, Tudor, Abritus, Haugar, the Emerald Isles, Tibur Empire even the Abyss Empire — would burn. Its planes would be swallowed, its realms consumed. And one by one, the old gods of light, life, and law would fall screaming into nothing.

Only the Hands would remain. Six dark gods, seated upon the corpse of creation.

And when Platera was bound, when the realms beyond were harvested… there would be no gods left but them.

Zonid’s voice echoed across the void, though none but the Hands could hear:

“Urmbik, Zlaniz, Geardaz, Zarlnis — prepare your realms. Test her. Break her. Wound her. But do not kill her. For at the Blood Eclipse, she will kneel. She will rise again, not as their champion, not as Dykenta’s flame… but as ours. The Sixth Hand. The one who will unmake Platera’s gods.”

Zonid’s voice rippled through the tether, though he spoke almost to himself:

“Urmbik’s rage will soften her. Zlaniz’s despair will tempt her. Geardaz’s madness will twist her. Zarlnis’s wars will grind her. But in the end… she will be mine. At the Blood Eclipse, she will kneel. And she will rise as our sister.”

He waited two millennia for this. He would wait no longer.

And as Neth’s small form pressed on through Urmbrik’s field of bones, Zonid’s gaze never left her.

“Burn, little goblin. Bleed. Break. For when the sky opens, you will no longer be Neth. You will be the Sixth Hand — and with you, we will unmake the gods.”

The void stilled again. In that silence, Zonid smiled.

He had waited two millennia for this. And he would wait no longer.

Zonid — The Moment of Claim

In the endless fold of his void, where time spun and devoured itself, Zonid looked not forward but backward. His thoughts unraveled into memory, a memory of Albion, of Dragon Rest, where the bones of wyrms lay like a graveyard of gods.

He remembered the mortal, Garnaith Lutrin, one of the Ten bearers. A weak man, chosen, tested, but doomed. When his champion fell to Vor’i’s Aah’zul in that duel among dragon bones, he saw his destiny broken. Rather than face the shame of failure, he ended his life, his blood seeping into the dust of Albion’s dead kings.

It was there that the goblin came.

Genethia Roth.

She was nothing then. A stray cleric, trembling, her hands still too small for the burdens she would carry. And yet she reached. Her fingers closed around the Amulet, slick with Garnaith’s death.

Zonid had spoken through it. Not alone. All the Hands had whispered to her at once, testing her spirit, their voices filling her veins with shadows.

And she did not throw it down. She did not collapse screaming, as so many had. She held it.

Zonid remembered the way her eyes burned then, filled with both fear and defiance. In that instant, he knew.

“This one will not shatter like the others. This one will walk.”

The moment of fate was sealed. From Garnaith’s corpse, from Albion’s dragon grave, a new path had been forged.

He had watched her ever since, through trials, betrayals, and loss. Through Tymira’s silence, Pehliff’s blade, Hookspark’s death, Fresia’s betrayal. Each loss only hollowed her further, making space for the fire he knew would burn when the Eclipse came.

Zonid’s voice rippled across the void, though none could hear but the Hands themselves:

“From the moment she claimed that Amulet, I knew. Genethia Roth is the Sixth. Her march is not hers — it is mine. Every tear is a step toward my throne. Every wound is a binding chain. She does not yet see it… but her fate was written the day she took Garnaith’s burden.”

The void trembled with certainty. Zonid had waited two thousand years, but in that one moment, when Neth held the Amulet of the God Hands in her bloodied fingers, his waiting ended.

“She will walk into the Blood Eclipse. She will kneel. And she will rise not as cleric, not as champion, but as goddess. Our goddess. The Sixth Hand.”

And for the first time in an age, Zonid’s voice carried the faintest trace of hunger.

Geardaz — The Aberrant Gaze

In the teal-blue void of his realm, where eyes floated like drifting stars and the ground pulsed with unstable glyph-light, Geardaz leaned into Kasien’s presence. The boy walked with blood still fresh on his armor, the rhythm of the Bladesong carrying him across a land that was alive, watching, shifting.

Geardaz’s laughter rippled across the crystals. A chorus of voices, all his, none his.

“How curious. A child of Kanbajan’s monsoon temples, crawling from jungle roots soaked in lotus-blood… and now here. In my hands. Only a day with the Cinders, and already he marches in my labyrinth. Such symmetry. Such chaos.”

The god let his many eyes blink, each one seeing Kasien’s past as clearly as his present. He saw the Night of the Crimson Bloom, when Vhalis was torn away, her echo burned into Kasien’s soul. He saw Yshari ripped from the world by a spiral rift, leaving only violet scars in her brother’s dreams. He saw a boy who refused to forget. Refused to bury grief.

“He followed the marks across empires. Desert cults. Jungle echoes. Dead groves where no magic breathes. He gathered fragments of us like a scavenger mapping carrion. Oh, Kasien Ash-Fall… you think yourself scholar, but you are prey that knows the scent of its hunter.”

The laughter deepened, a coil of whispers worming into the boy’s ears.

“He trains his blade with the Black Dragon Scales. He builds spells from broken hourglasses and dream-maps. He does not yet know it, but he has already written my scripture. His obsession draws him here, always here. Into the spiral.”

Geardaz’s eyes flared as Kasien paused, resting against a crystal, clutching the scimitar Reyn had given him.

“And still he resists. He will not wield the Amulet. He seeks to understand it. Fool boy. Does he not see? Knowledge does not save. Knowledge corrodes. He names himself student of Grilik, the Wandering Star — but Grilik only watches. I act.”

For a moment, the god’s tone softened, mockery turning to hunger.

“Oh, Kasien. You could have been mine. A son of sigils. A cartographer of madness. Your mind is already breaking into shapes you do not understand. And still, you march toward the Hand, thinking you will find family, or truth, or closure.”

The realm trembled with amusement.

“There is no closure. Only consumption. And when the Blood Eclipse comes, you will see the truth of your work: you are not a witness, not a scholar. You are a thread in the tapestry. And I will pluck you when it pleases me.”

Geardaz’s laughter folded back into silence, leaving Kasien alone among the crystals — or so it seemed.

Geardaz — Lord of Magic, Trickery, and Aberration

Kasien has landed in his domain first, and Geardaz feels the pull of kinship and mockery all at once. He delights in Kasien’s obsession with forbidden glyphs, his defiance of traditional magic, and the way he toys with unstable forces. To Geardaz, Kasien is already halfway his.

• “The boy sings blades into spells and carves truth from lies. He has chased our echoes across deserts and temples, and still he kneels to Grilik? Foolish. The patterns he follows are mine. And soon, so shall he be.”
  Geardaz sees Kasien’s brilliance as both fragile and fertile—something he can warp. Every failed spell, every wild surge in his realm, is a test: will Kasien adapt or break?

---

Zlaniz — Mistress of Lust and Despair

She does not care for his studies, only his spirit. Zlaniz sees Kasien’s loneliness, his obsessive grief for Yshari and Vhalis, and she smiles.

• “Loss makes mortals pliable. He will bleed himself dry for phantoms, and when his hope dies, he will crawl to me. I will clothe him in pleasure until he cannot remember what he sought.”
  She waits for the cracks in his heart to widen. For her, Kasien is a toy—one to tempt when exhaustion strips away his discipline.

---

Urmbrik — Lord of Rage, Flesh, and Bone

Urmbrik snarls at Kasien’s restraint. He sees a boy who has buried his grief in study instead of unleashing it as rage. That offends him.

• “He watched his kin torn from him, and still he clings to calm? No. He will know fury. My spawn will break his body until only wrath remains. Then he will fight as he was meant to—screaming.”
  Urmbrik sees Kasien not as a scholar, but as an unlit torch of violence. If the elf survives long enough, Urmbrik intends to drag that rage out of him.

---

Zarlnis — Warlord of Wrath, War, and Corruption

Zarlnis respects Kasien more than the others do. She sees a warrior-scholar who has walked half the world alone, fighting monsters in deserts, jungles, and empires. A swordsman who studies between battles—that, to Zarlnis, is a soldier worth noticing.

• “He marches with purpose. He bleeds, but he endures. Alone, he has carved more than most armies. There is steel in him. I would see it sharpened into conquest.”
  To Zarlnis, Kasien could be shaped into a commander—if he abandons truth and embraces corruption as the only order.

---

Zonid — Lord of Time, Space, Void, and Distortion

Zonid, oldest and most patient, watches Kasien with the most interest. Kasien’s entire journey—the spiral glyphs, the inverted visions, the dead zones of magic—has been circling him all along.

• “The boy thinks himself a seeker. He is already chosen. Two thousand years I have waited for such threads to knot, and still he believes he hunts us. Fool. He has walked the map I drew.”
  Zonid sees Kasien as more than prey or champion: he sees him as a key. Not to be destroyed quickly, but watched—tested—until the Blood Eclipse, where all threads converge. If Neth is meant to be their sixth Hand, then Kasien may become her chain… or her knife.

---

In sum:
The God Hands are fascinated that Kasien joined the Cinders only a day before being dragged into their realm—proof, to them, that fate is not random. Geardaz revels in testing his magic, Zlaniz in breaking his heart, Urmbrik in unleashing his rage, Zarlnis in forging his endurance into conquest, and Zonid in waiting for him to ripen into something greater.

They do not yet agree on whether he will be broken or exalted. But they all know this: Kasien Ash-Fall has stepped into their game, and he will not leave unchanged.

Kasien — Two Days in Geardaz’s Wastes

Two days in this place. Two days beneath a teal-blue sky filled with drifting eyes that never blinked. Two days of marching across crystal plains that pulsed like living flesh. And in Platera? Only two hours had passed.

Kasien’s body screamed at him. His cuts burned, his ribs ached where arcane arrows had struck, and his Bladesong felt like it was dragging him through glass. But still he moved. Step after step, scimitar in hand, violet eyes fixed on the colossal Hand clawing at the heavens in the distance. It looked no closer than when he had first seen it.

And now—he was no longer alone.

All around him, Geardaz’s creatures gathered. Not charging, not yet. Watching. Testing.

• Arcane Archers stood on jagged ridges, bows drawn with strings of light, their arrows humming with unstable energy.
• A Beholder, its flesh swollen with crystalline tumors, floated lazily in the haze, its many eyes following his every step.
• Mind Flayers cloaked in shadow whispered from afar, their psionic hum pressing against Kasien’s skull like nails.
• A Cockatrice slithered over rocks, its wings twitching, its serpent-tail rattling with malice.
• Axemen and Spearmen, twisted Northmen with rune-lit veins, marched in loose formation, their weapons glowing with Geardaz’s corruption.
• Spawns of raw aberrant flesh dragged themselves across the ground, muttering in voices that weren’t words but echoes.
• Horseman Skirmishers circled at a distance, their mounts foaming at the mouth, their spears glowing faintly purple.

Everywhere he looked—eyes. Teeth. Blades. Spells. The very air seemed to vibrate with Geardaz’s laughter.

Kasien stopped for a moment, his breath ragged. He whispered to himself, voice hoarse:
“Two days… and I’ve barely begun. But I’ll make it. Yshari. Vhalis. I’ll see you again. I swear it.”

The creatures stirred. The Beholder’s central eye snapped open, its gaze heavy and cold, and the horde around him began to shift closer. Not a charge—an enclosure.

Geardaz’s Realm was tightening around him.

And Kasien realized the truth: this wasn’t just survival anymore. It was a game. Every step he took, every spell he cast, every time he fought through the pain, Geardaz was watching. Testing his resolve. Testing how long it would take before he snapped.

Kasien lifted the Soul of the Elderwood and let the Bladesong hum to life again, fragile but unbroken. His voice cracked as he muttered under his breath:

“Test me, then. I won’t stop. Not here. Not ever.”

The ground pulsed in answer. The watchers closed in.

Kasien — The Dance of Blades and Fire

Kasien’s violet eyes darted across the field, measuring every threat. The Beholder and Mind Flayers—they were predators he’d only heard of in dark tales. He knew enough to fear them, enough to know that if they moved, he’d have seconds to live. The Arcane Archers, though—distant, fast, raining death from the high ground. They had to fall first.

His lips moved, whispering the syllables of survival. Mirror Image. But the spell warped here, twisting in Geardaz’s realm. Fifteen copies of himself scattered across the ridge, dancing shadows of Kasien, each as sharp-eyed and ready as he. A small victory.

Then the warriors came—Axemen and Spearmen, ten and ten, charging like a wall of glowing runes and flesh.

Kasien gritted his teeth and vanished in a crack of Thunderstep, appearing in a bloom of lightning among the Arcane Archers. Their faces barely had time to twist before his blade sang. Soul of the Elderwood struck in a blur, fire and acid clinging to the blade as he moved like a storm.

Five archers fell instantly, their bodies scattering into shards of crystal and flesh. Three more stood within his reach. Kasien danced—one cut, another, a third. Two crumpled with smoking wounds; the third staggered, bleeding but alive.

The last two had managed to backpedal, loosing glowing arrows. Kasien deflected one with his blade, twisting his body to avoid the other. His blade snapped out, finishing the wounded archer, then his hand flared with Firebolt.

One arrow of flame struck true, burning through a retreating archer. The recoil ricocheted into another, blasting his side open—yet when Kasien raised his hand for a second shot, the spell burst apart in his palm.

The explosion hurled him backward. Pain scorched his arm, blood and smoke rising from his own hand. He hit the ground hard, coughing. The last archer loomed above, arrow aimed at his heart.

Kasien snarled through clenched teeth. Shield.

The arrow rebounded in a flash of violet light, piercing the archer’s own throat. He dropped lifeless, rolling down the ridge.

Kasien lay there, panting, his body trembling with pain. His eyes flicked to his surroundings—only nine mirror images left standing.

A shadow passed. Javelins rained down, shattering stone, but none struck true. Horseman Skirmishers thundered closer, hooves shaking the ridge as they charged with cruel precision.

Kasien forced himself up. He scanned the battlefield—ten warriors, clustered tight at the bottom of the ridge, rushing up toward him. He raised his hand. The crystal ground pulsed with power beneath him. He pulled it into his lungs, into his veins, into his very bones.

Fireball.

But it was no normal flame. A wave of green fire erupted, acid and force tearing through the ridge path. The warriors screamed as their bodies dissolved, blasted backward, tumbling down into the abyss below. Smoke and blood filled the air.

Kasien staggered, clutching his burned hand, blood dripping from his lips. His body shook. His magic stuttered. Only seven images still flickered around him.

But for now—the field was quiet.

Kasien dragged himself against the side of a crystal spire, sliding down its smooth surface until he sat on the pulsing ground. His chest rose and fell rapidly, every breath sharp as glass. His eyes half-closed.

For the first time in two days, there was a moment of stillness. A cursed stillness, but a stillness all the same.

Kasien whispered to the crystal, to himself, to anyone listening in this damned place:
“I’ll keep walking. No matter what. I’ll keep walking.”

And in the shadows beyond, the Beholder’s eyes blinked, and the Mind Flayers whispered, patient, waiting for their turn.

Neth — The Furnace of Rage

The air burned with heat though no flame touched her. Every breath was ash. Every step squelched upon ground that bled like torn flesh. The red crystals that jutted from the soil wept ichor, their jagged forms catching the glow of the storm above.

Neth pressed forward, rapier clutched tight, her hand trembling not with fear but exhaustion. Her eyepatch itched beneath sweat and blood, a constant reminder of Fate Killer and Tymira’s silence. But her prayers did not reach Tymira anymore. They reached Dykenta, who had whispered to her in the dark, who had not abandoned her when her body broke.

“I will not stop,” she breathed, each word more vow than sound. “In Dykenta, I must.”

Around her, Urmbrik’s creatures closed in.

• Spawns of Rage, hulking beasts with clawed fists dripping molten ichor, lumbered toward her.
• Bloodshedders, armored giants wielding axes made of fused skulls, laughed as they marched.
• Light Spearmen and Axemen, twisted mortal warriors bound by chains of rage, pointed their weapons in unison.
• And high above, another Balor circled, its wings spreading storms of fire with every beat.

The fiends jeered and roared, their voices a cacophony:
“Break her!”
“Bleed her!”
“Kneel to Urmbrik!”

Neth’s single eye narrowed. Her heart ached with memory—Hookspark’s laugh as he died, her mother’s scream, her father’s silence—but she forced the pain down into a steady ember.

She raised the Black Dragon of Asher, the rapier trembling in her small hands.

“You will not have me.”

The first Spawn lunged. Neth stepped aside, thrust, and the blade pierced its chest. Acid hissed as divine light flickered along the steel, burning the beast from within. It collapsed screaming.

The Bloodshedder bellowed and swung his axe. Neth ducked low, the blade whistling past her head, and drove her rapier upward through his chin, the point erupting from the back of his skull. She twisted hard, tearing it free as the giant toppled.

Spears closed in, jabbing. Neth’s lips moved quickly—Word of Radiance. A burst of light erupted from her, searing the corrupted warriors, blinding them as she darted forward. Her rapier found another throat. Then another.

But the Balor’s whip lashed down, catching her shoulder, ripping skin. Pain flared white-hot. She stumbled, teeth gritted. The fiend’s laughter thundered above.

Still she did not cry out.

Instead she lifted her head, blood streaming down her cheek, and glared up at the monster with all the fury she could muster.

“You think I fear you?” she shouted, voice raw. “I have lost everything already. You cannot take what I no longer have. You cannot kill what refuses to die.”

The Balor paused, uncertain, then roared in defiance.

But the other fiends—spawn, warriors, beasts—hesitated. The little goblin’s words had stilled them. Not with fear. But with recognition. They saw a spark in her that was not rage, not despair, but something they could not comprehend.

Light.

Neth pressed forward again, wounded and weary, but unbroken. The colossal Hand loomed far away on the horizon, and her steps carried her closer still.

Kasien — Hunger in the Wastes

Kasien woke with a start. His head had slumped against the crystal spire, his body aching in ways he hadn’t felt since his earliest Bladesinger training. His throat was dry, lips cracked. The taste of blood and ash lingered on his tongue.

That was when it hit him.

Two days. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t drunk. Not a drop of water, not a crumb of bread.

His hand reached instinctively for his pack—empty. He hadn’t brought provisions. What good were rations against endless battle in the God Hands’ realm? He cursed under his breath.

The air itself seemed to mock him. The teal-blue crystals around him pulsed with unnatural life, throbbing like veins. Some bled liquid—thick, glowing, iridescent—but he dared not drink it. The ground whispered with faint psionic hums, voices layered upon voices. His stomach growled. His chest ached with thirst.

Kasien pressed his palm to the dirt. It pulsed beneath his touch, like a heartbeat. He felt it seeping into him—not food, not water, but something. It was the same energy that warped his spells, that twisted fire into acid, that made Mirror Image multiply beyond reason.

“If I drink of this place, I won’t starve,” he thought grimly, “but what will it make of me?”

The whispers grew louder. From the ridge below, the Mind Flayers watched. He could feel their hunger pressing against his skull. The Beholder floated lazily in the distance, its eyes unblinking. Even the Spawns shambled nearer, dragging their bodies like carrion beetles waiting for him to fall.

Kasien clenched his jaw. His body screamed for sustenance. His mind screamed against temptation.

He reached into his satchel instead and pulled out the one thing he still carried—Vhalis’s Moon-Blade Pommel. He gripped it tight, closing his eyes, trying to let the hunger fade.

“I’ve starved before,” he whispered. “I’ve endured worse.”

But he knew it wasn’t true. He had never endured this kind of hunger. Not hunger of the body—hunger of the soul. This place fed on both.

And in the back of his mind, he wondered how long he could resist before he, too, would drink from the crystals and become one more twisted thing in Geardaz’s collection.

Kasien — Hunger and the Cockatrice

Kasien’s stomach growled as he rifled through the wreckage of shattered Arcane Archers. Most of their gear was useless—splintered by Fireball, warped by thunder. But he remembered Neth’s warning from Platera: “When they die in their realm, they return here.” That meant their bodies carried things they once owned.

He found it—rations. Molded bread and dried meat stuffed into a charred satchel. Rough, but edible. He chewed slowly, his throat raw, the taste bitter as ash. But it dulled the gnawing hunger enough to let him think clearly.

Water was another matter. He stared at the two sleep barrels he’d dragged from the Bathhouse cellars before this nightmare began. Their liquid shimmered faintly, tainted with the narcotic essence. No cleric’s spell could cleanse it—he had none to spare, and the realm fought every purification. But Kasien had fire, wit, and stubbornness.

He stripped armor from the least ruined corpses, bending and hammering breastplates until one could hold liquid like a crude cauldron. A fire sparked from his tinderbox, fed with oil-soaked cloth. Soon the breastplate boiled with tainted water. The fumes rose thick, acrid, and he covered his face as best he could.

Patience won. He cooled a small scoop of the boiled water, drinking slowly. It was sharp on the tongue but clear of the sleep-essence haze. Relief washed through him. He boiled more until two barrels brimmed with usable water—one now purified, the other still filled with sleep-poison for later.

He sat back, his body trembling with exhaustion but his will steady. Then he heard it—the flap of wings.

The Geardaz Cockatrice swooped down behind him, slamming into the ridge with a screech. Its eyes burned teal, its tail whipping, its feathers pulsing with warped glyphs. It struck at his images, tearing them apart, then turned on him.

Its beak pierced his shoulder, ripping flesh. Blood spilled hot down his arm. Kasien staggered, muttering the incantation—Protection from Evil and Good. The ward flared, repelling the creature’s corruption. He raised a hand and loosed a Firebolt.

The spell warped instantly. Fire, acid, and lightning screamed together, hammering into the Cockatrice’s chest. It shrieked, thrashing, but lunged again. Its tail slammed down. Kasien snapped a Shield, deflecting the blow. Claws raked, a beak snapped, and Kasien rolled free, coming to one knee.

He pressed his hand to his chest—False Life, second circle. Necrotic vigor surged through him. His veins burned, but strength returned. Another Firebolt—this one splitting into fire, lightning, and ice. The Cockatrice convulsed, its feathers crackling, its wings faltering.

Kasien surged forward, scimitar flashing. He sidestepped its claw, rolled beneath its peck, and with one upward sweep of Soul of the Elderwood, he severed its head clean. The body staggered, collapsed, and the unnatural glow drained from its feathers.

Kasien wasted no time. He worked quickly, hands steady despite exhaustion. Feathers. Hide. Meat. Bones. Talons. Tools for later, food for survival, essence for crafting. By the time he finished, his satchel carried the spoils of his kill.

The land was quiet again. No archers. No warriors. No more eyes pressing close. The Beholder in the distance had drifted further into the haze, the Mind Flayers’ whispers dimmed. For now, at least, he was safe.

Kasien patched his wounds with cloth strips, binding shoulder and arm until the bleeding slowed. His breath steadied. His body, still battered, leaned against a crystal spire.

He looked once more at the horizon. The colossal Hand still loomed, impossibly far, its fingers stabbing the heavens. No closer than before.

Kasien whispered, his throat raw but his will burning:
“I’ll rest. I’ll mend. And then I’ll walk. No matter how far. No matter what waits. I’ll walk.”

The teal sky flickered with watching eyes. The realm whispered back.

Neth — The Trial of Fiends

The ground of Urmbrik’s realm quaked beneath her boots, bleeding with every step she took. The air burned with smoke and rage. From the skies, wings beat like thunder, and the laughter of fiends rolled across the field.

A Balor descended in fire and chains, its whip sparking with infernal flame. From either side, two Pit Fiends lumbered forth, armored in scales blackened by ages of torment. Together they roared—a sound that shook the very marrow of her bones.

Neth’s hand tightened around the Black Dragon of Asher. Her single eye blazed, though her body already sagged with exhaustion and blood loss.

The Balor struck first—its whip cracked across her back, tearing flesh. She fell forward, barely rolling aside as its massive blade split the ground. A Pit Fiend lunged, claws raking her shoulder. Pain burst white-hot, and her vision blurred.

They laughed at her.
“Break, little goblin.”
“Bleed for Urmbrik.”
“You are nothing but rage waiting to be fed.”

Neth spat blood into the dust. “In Dykenta, I must.”

She lunged, rapier flashing, thrusting into the ribs of the first Pit Fiend. The blade pierced deep, glowing with searing light as she poured her will into it. The fiend roared, stumbling back, black ichor spilling from its chest.

The second Pit Fiend charged, whip lashing, claws slashing. Neth ducked beneath its swing, and with a burst of goblin fury—her Fury of the Small—she drove her boot between its legs with all the strength she had. The creature howled, doubling over, its tail thrashing in agony.

Neth did not stop. She climbed the Pit Fiend’s body like a ladder, leaping from its shoulder with a cry that echoed across the battlefield. She landed on the Balor’s chest, her rapier plunging into its burning eye.

The fiend shrieked, staggering, thrashing its whip wildly. But Neth held fast, driving the blade deeper until the eye burst, smoke and fire pouring from the wound. The Balor collapsed, shaking the ground as it died with a final roar.

Breath ragged, body trembling, she turned back to the Pit Fiend still clutching its groin. Its eyes widened in horror as the goblin marched forward, bloodied but unbroken.

She kicked it again. Once. Twice. Each blow a memory of survival. Each strike a lesson remembered.

Tresh Fangmaw’s voice echoed in her mind:
“When your enemy would take all from you, leave them with nothing.”

With grim resolve, Neth struck once more, her blade and will ending the creature’s torment. She took its broken manhood as a trophy—not for pride, but as proof of her defiance in a land that sought to strip her of all dignity.

The field fell silent.

Her body was a map of wounds, her blood soaking the cursed soil. Yet she still stood, clutching her rapier, her trophy, and her faith. She turned her gaze to the horizon, where the colossal Hand loomed still, impossibly far away.

Every step burned. Every breath was agony. But she walked on.

Because even here, in Urmbrik’s furnace of rage, Neth’s light would not die.

Urmbrik — The Roar of Rage

The realm itself shook. The bleeding soil cracked, spewing rivers of fire and gore. The red crystals screamed as fractures split them, their ichor spraying into the air.

In the heart of it all, Urmbrik roared.

His voice was thunder and grinding stone, echoing across every pit and battlefield of his domain. His pit fiends lay ruined. His Balor, one of his chosen generals, dead with a goblin’s blade through its eye. And worst of all—the goblin still walked. Bloodied, broken, but walking.

“A goblin!” his bellow shattered the sky. “A crawling insect dares to humiliate my chosen?! She dares to drag my soldiers into the mud, to strike them where their strength is sacred?!”

The hordes of Urmbrik cowered. Spawns whimpered, Balors hissed, warriors drove their spears into the soil as if begging forgiveness. But his fury did not cool.

He rose in the form of a storm—horns vast as mountains, his body stitched from the bones of a thousand battlefields. His shadow covered leagues of his realm. His eyes, molten and red, burned down on Neth’s tiny form.

“Do you think you have won, goblin?!” His words split the air, making the ground quake beneath her feet. “Every drop of your blood belongs to me! Every scar you bear is my gift! You walk, but each step feeds my rage!”

Yet as he stared at her—limping, bleeding, clutching her rapier and her obscene trophy—he felt it again. That ember. That spark. That light he could not quench.

And Urmbrik hated it.

“You defy me… not with rage, but with something else. Something I cannot break.” His teeth ground like boulders. “But you will break. You must. When the Blood Eclipse comes, Zonid will claim you, and then you will know what it means to belong to the Hands.”

His storm lashed out, shattering whole mountains of bone and rivers of blood. His demons wailed. His generals wept.

But still, the goblin walked.

And Urmbrik’s rage burned hotter than it had in a thousand years.

Dykenta & Caladawn — A Triumph in Defiance

The storm of Urmbrik’s fury shook the planes, but in another place—a garden of shadow and roses—Dykenta reclined upon her throne of bone and bloom. She watched the goblin’s march through the furnace of rage, her porcelain features painted with a smile faint as candlelight.

At her side stood Caladawn Magus, staff grounded, his eyes heavy with sorrow yet drawn to the tiny figure trudging on below.

The goddess whispered, soft and intimate, as though sharing a secret between lovers:
“Do you see her, Caladawn? My flame. My rose in the ash. Even Urmbrik cannot quench her.”

Caladawn’s jaw tightened. His voice was grave, wary.
“He shattered mountains in his anger. He sent generals older than Albion’s crowns to break her. And still… she walks. Bloodied, but walking.”

Dykenta’s half-skeletal smile deepened. She touched her lips with one pale finger as though savouring the taste of victory.
“That is what he cannot abide. Rage devours, rage consumes—but she carries something he cannot touch. I gave her warmth when Tymira abandoned her. I whispered when Fate Killer silenced her prayers. I lifted her when all others fell away. And now she walks not with rage… but with me.”

The goddess leaned close to Caladawn, her voice low, her eyes glowing crimson.
“Let Urmbrik scream. Let Zonid whisper. Let Zlaniz hunger and Geardaz weave lies. None of them can reach her as I can. She is mine, Caladawn. Mine, not because I chose her, but because she chose me.”

Caladawn bowed his head, his heart heavy with awe.
“Then her light is not hers alone. It is yours, burning through her. A mortal cleric made more than mortal.”

Dykenta exhaled, a sound like a lover’s sigh.
“Yes. And that is why she terrifies them.”

Her gaze returned to Neth, trudging forward with rapier in hand, her wounds a map of survival, her single eye alight with faith. The colossal Hand loomed far ahead, but still she walked.

And Dykenta whispered, her voice a vow carried across planes:
“Keep walking, little one. For every step you take is a thorn in their flesh. And every thorn is my triumph.”

Kasien — Day Three in the Realm of Eyes

The third day came with no ambush. No Beholder’s gaze. No Mind Flayer’s whispers crawling through his skull. Only the silence of endless teal-blue wastes.

Kasien moved like a shadow between crystal ridges, his boots crunching across ground that pulsed faintly with magic. He had not stopped to rest. Not once. He feared that if he sat, if he allowed his eyes to close, the realm itself would seep deeper into him.

His lips were dry, his muscles ached, and the bandages across his wounds clung damp with sweat and blood. But still he walked.

Above him, the sky flickered with teal lightning—not natural, but arcs of unstable energy that leapt between floating eyes the size of moons. They never blinked. They never looked away.

He whispered once, quietly, to himself:
“I see you watching. I won’t give you the pleasure.”

On the horizon, the colossal Hand still clawed at the heavens. It looked no closer than before, its shadow cast over the realm like a mountain that could never be reached. Kasien’s mind fought against the despair—three days and it is still far, impossibly far.

He gripped the Soul of the Elderwood, letting its weight ground him. He thought of Vhalis. Yshari. Even Reyn and Neth, who had pulled him into the Cinders. Their faces burned in his thoughts, giving him a reason to take the next step, then the next.

The crystals hummed faintly around him. Sometimes the hum grew words, whispers in tongues he could almost understand. Promises. Temptations. He ignored them.

But his exhaustion grew sharp, biting. Three days with no rest, no sleep—just walking. His vision blurred, and the edges of the world rippled like broken glass.

The Hand waited. Still far, but waiting.

Kasien clenched his jaw, whispered again through cracked lips:
“I’ll keep walking. No matter how many days. No matter how far. I’ll keep walking.”

The realm did not answer. Only the eyes above blinked once, in unison, as if amused.

Neth — Day Three in the Furnace of Rage

The sky never changed in Urmbrik’s realm. Red storms boiled above without pause, fire and ash falling like snow. The ground bled with each step she took, and the smell of iron and char clung to her lungs until every breath felt like swallowing blades.

It had been three days since she first stepped into this nightmare. Three days of endless marching, broken only by battles she should not have survived.

Her body was a map of wounds—cuts, bruises, burns, and the long scar of the Balor’s whip across her back. Her blood had soaked into the soil so many times she thought the land itself was drinking her.

Yet still she walked.

The Pit Fiends she had humiliated no longer followed. Their corpses lay behind her, reminders that Urmbrik’s generals could fall. But his spawn and soldiers never stopped. By the third day, they no longer attacked in waves—they stalked her, circling like wolves, testing, waiting for her to collapse.

Every so often a spear darted from the shadows. Every so often claws scraped across her armour. But she never stopped. She answered with her rapier or with light from her prayers, each strike a defiance.

Her lips cracked. Her eye burned with fatigue. Still, she whispered the same words like a mantra with every step:
“In Dykenta, I must.”

At times she almost swore she heard an answer—soft, like a hand upon her cheek. The goddess’s whisper threading through the storm:
“You are not alone.”

On the horizon, the colossal Hand loomed still, impossibly far. The scale of it mocked her—each day she walked, and yet it never seemed nearer. It clawed at the sky like a god’s grave marker, a reminder of how small she truly was.

Her knees trembled, her blood still dripping down her leg from yesterday’s wounds. Yet she tightened her grip on the Black Dragon of Asher and raised her head.

She was a goblin. Small. Wounded. Alone.

But on her third day in Urmbrik’s realm, she was still alive. And that was enough to make the realm tremble.

Kasien — Day Four in the Realm of Eyes

The fourth day in Geardaz’s wastes brought no rest, only new sights that twisted his stomach.

Kasien moved carefully between ridges of jagged blue crystal, his hand resting on Soul of the Elderwood, violet eyes scanning the horizon. His wounds itched beneath the bandages, sweat stung his skin, but his stride never faltered.

That was when he saw it.

Towns. Small settlements scattered across the wasteland. Not ruins, but living places—clusters of tents and jagged stone dwellings built into the bleeding soil. Yet these towns were not free. Geardaz’s banners fluttered above them, sigils stitched in cursed thread.

The inhabitants were not Northmen as he had seen earlier. They were desert folk of Platera—faces like those from Jazayrah and Urlalamai, their dark eyes hollow, their bodies draped in teal-blue cloth twisted by alien patterns. Some marched as Saracens, armoured and shielded, curved blades in hand. Others rode strange beasts—Camel Riders and Lancers, their mounts’ eyes glowing with unnatural teal fire.

And beyond them—more. Minotaurs clad in heavy iron, axes as long as Kasien’s height. Giants draped in runes. Furred beastmen armed with glaives. All marching beneath Geardaz’s unseen gaze.

Kasien froze in the shadow of a crystal spire, heart pounding. He could see them clearly now:

• Arcane Archers upon the ridge, bows shimmering with corrupted energy.
• Light Spearmen and Axemen, patrolling the outskirts of the towns.
• A massive Spawn, pulsing with twisted magic, dragging itself through the streets like a living siege weapon.
• And further back, drifting lazily, a terrible shape—an Eye Tyrant, its countless eyes roving, each gaze making the crystals tremble.

And there—hovering near it—a Mind Flayer, its mouth-tentacles writhing as if savouring thoughts.

Kasien’s stomach turned cold. He had avoided fights for most of this day, slipping past patrols, hiding behind spires. But this was different. This was no patrol. This was an army.

He whispered under his breath:
“How many worlds has Geardaz stolen to build this?”

The colossal Hand loomed still in the distance, a dark anchor that mocked his progress. But Kasien knew—if he was seen here, he would not survive.

So he crouched lower, gripping his scimitar, and began to move with silent precision along the ridge. Every muscle ached, but he forced them steady. For if the Eye Tyrant turned its gaze on him now, the journey would end here.

Neth — Day Four in the Furnace of Rage

The fourth day bled into her bones. Her legs trembled, her shoulders ached, and the whip-scars across her back burned with every breath. She had not rested—not truly. A stolen hour here, another there, always with a blade in her hand, always with the certainty that if she closed her eye too long, she would never open it again.

Her spells were fading. Light flickered at her call but burned weaker, slower, and her prayers felt heavy in her mouth. She ate from her dwindling rations without taste, drank from her waterskin without satisfaction, and marched onward through the endless storm.

The colossal Hand still loomed far away, so far it seemed almost a mirage. She fixed her gaze on it as she walked, as though staring at it alone might keep her standing.

But then the visions came.

Not dreams—not with her eye open, not with her body moving. They slid into her skull like knives, sharp and unwelcome.

She saw Garnaith Lutrin, the Piccer Moggite in Albion’s Dragon Rest—the first corpse, cold and broken, from which she pulled the God Hand Amulet. His face swam in her mind, empty, accusing.

She saw Valgard Bjorn, king of Jarlinton, laughing his final words until Kegan silenced him with steel—and the smile on Kegan’s face. That smile still made her stomach turn.

She saw Desnora, crimson-haired sorceress, dying beneath the hand of Valgard’s widow in Tudor. Neth had not been there when it happened, but the vision showed her as though she had watched it herself.

She saw Pyro, falling from the cliffs by the Dykenta Temple, his scream cut short by stone and distance. She saw herself and the others dragging his broken body to the altar, tears staining her face, praying desperately—then saw the miracle of Dykenta’s hands, bringing him and Desnora back to life.

But the visions did not let her rest in that hope.

They showed Martamo, standing proud in the Faceless Assassins’ game, cut down as the laughter of those masked killers echoed like bells.

And then they showed Rhegar.

Rhegar Asher, head of the Black Dragon Scales. The man she had idolized, who had given her strength simply by existing. She saw again the platform at Paratel, the blade rising, Fresia hiding her face in feigned grief, and his head tumbling down into the dust as Neth screamed. The memory tore fresh as if she were there now, helpless again.

The visions ended there. Cruelly. Leaving her with Rhegar’s death hanging heavy in her chest. They did not show Hookspark, or her mother, or the others she had lost after.

Neth fell to her knees, tears burning her cheeks as the storm winds tore at her hair. Her rapier slipped from her grasp and clattered against the bleeding soil.

Neth’s knees buckled, and for a moment she thought the soil itself would swallow her. The world swayed, the colossal Hand blurred, and the storm winds screamed louder than her prayers. Her rapier lay in the blood-soaked dirt, her hand trembling too much to lift it.

Alone.
Lost.
Breaking.

And then—warmth.

It was not the fire of Urmbrik’s rage, nor the choking heat of the storms. It was something softer, subtler, sliding over her skin like silk, wrapping around her shoulders like a cloak. A touch. A whisper.

“Rise, little one.”

Neth’s single eye widened. Her lips parted, tears still falling, but she knew the voice. Dykenta.

The goddess did not appear in flesh or bone, nor as a vision of rose and shadow. She came in fragments—the faint smell of blooming roses, impossibly alive in this place of ash. The warmth of lips brushing her brow. The feeling of hands lifting her chin.

Neth reached out blindly, fingers trembling, but found nothing. Nothing but the air. And yet, she felt her weight lighten. Her lungs drew a deeper breath.

“You are not alone. Not here. Not ever. The rage of Urmbrik would see you collapse, but you are mine, and I will not let you fall.”

The goblin cleric’s chest heaved with sobs. She whispered, voice hoarse:
“I don’t know if I can keep walking. I don’t know if I can make it.”

The warmth pressed closer, unseen but undeniable.
“You already have. You have walked farther than most would dare. Every step you take bleeds light into their darkness. Every tear you shed burns their pride. That is why they hate you. That is why they fear you.”

Neth wiped her face with a bloodied hand. Slowly, she picked up her rapier, its hilt slick in her grasp. She looked again to the horizon where the colossal Hand loomed, and though it was still impossibly far, the weight of it felt less crushing.

The colossal Hand still waited, far, far away, an endless climb with no end in sight.

She pressed a hand to her eyepatch, feeling the scar beneath burn like fire. Her voice cracked, whispering to herself as her body swayed from exhaustion:

“I can’t stop. Not here. Not now. In Dykenta… I must.”

Her body begged her to collapse. Her vision blurred. But still she clung to the words, even as her tears fell freely, mixing with the cursed blood of Urmbrik’s realm.

And then she stood again, Her knees steadied. Her breathing slowed. She pressed her palm against her chest and whispered:
“In Dykenta, I must.”

And though the goddess did not answer aloud, the warmth lingered. The unseen hand still rested on her back, steadying her.

Neth staggered forward, wounded, weeping, unbroken.

And high above, unseen by her, the eyes of Urmbrik flared in fury—because no matter how much rage he poured into her path, she still walked with roses at her side.

Kasien — Day Five in the Realm of Giants

By the fifth day, Kasien’s body was no longer his own. His arms trembled with every movement, his knees buckled beneath him, and his mind swam in a haze of hunger. Water he had, plenty enough, boiled free of its sleep-poison. But food was almost gone, the last hard piece of ration sticking to his teeth like ash.

He climbed a jagged ridge of teal-blue crystal, dragging his tired body upward until he stood atop it, gazing down into the wastes.

Below, camps and towns dotted the land like scars. The banners of Geardaz fluttered in every one, teal eyes painted on cloth, carved into stones, burned into wood. The people—Saracens, Minotaurs, Furred Beastmen—moved in ceaseless patrols. Always shifting. Always watching.

Kasien thought, for a moment, that he might try. A camp raid. A stolen meal. Desperation gnawed at him hard enough that the thought almost outweighed the risk.

Then the ground shook.

At first, he thought it was his own weakness. Then came another tremor, heavier, closer.

Kasien turned—and his breath caught.

A Geardaz Giant stood behind him, emerging from the haze like a moving cliff. Its skin glowed faintly with runes carved deep into its flesh, its eyes bright teal, its hand gripping a club that could smash a house flat. Bones hung from its belt. A necklace of skulls clattered as it moved, each one grinning in twisted mockery.

The giant raised its head, nostrils flaring. It saw him.

Kasien’s thoughts raced, faster than his heartbeat:

• Fight? His magic surged stronger here, but one miscast Fireball could kill him before it killed the giant.
• Flee? But the land was open, the giant’s stride longer than a horse’s gallop.
• Hide? But the eyes of Geardaz watched even the shadows.

His grip tightened on the Soul of the Elderwood. His Bladesong itched in his veins, begging release. His body screamed for rest, for food, for escape—but his mind sharpened on one truth.

The colossal Hand still loomed in the distance. To reach it, he would have to survive this.

The giant shifted, its massive club lifting. The air trembled with its weight.

Kasien exhaled, violet eyes burning.
“So be it.”

The runes on Kasien’s skin glowed faintly as he whispered the old words. Protection from Evil and Good flared over him like a thin second skin. His hand tightened on Soul of the Elderwood as he layered Booming Blade and Green Flame Blade into its edge. The magic surged too strong in this realm—wild, overcharged, spilling lightning and fire along the steel until it sang with unstable power.

The giant raised its club. Kasien rushed forward.

Bladesong carried him like a storm wind. In a blink he was at the creature’s ankle, his scimitar flashing. The blade cleaved deep—too deep—slicing clean through tendon and bone. The giant bellowed, crashing to its knee as its foot tumbled into the dust.

It swung wildly, club crashing down. Kasien darted aside, rolling clear, but each impact shook the crystal ground like thunder. Another swing came—he backflipped, boots skidding across the blood-slick soil.

Then he struck back. Soul of the Elderwood whirled in his hands, a flurry of cuts guided by True Strike’s insight. The first missed, sparking against armor-like hide. The second cut deep into its thigh, spraying ichor.

The giant stumbled forward on its stump, too stubborn—or too mindless—to realize it had lost a foot. Its club came down like a tree falling, smashing Kasien’s ribs and hurling him fifteen feet away. He landed hard, coughing blood.

The giant’s shadow loomed. Its massive hand closed around him, squeezing until his bones groaned, before it slammed him into the dirt. Pain screamed across his body. Kasien could barely breathe.

But he forced the words out—False Life, third circle. Necrotic vigor filled him, a shield of stolen vitality. He whispered another word, blood on his lips—Blessing of the Raven Queen—and vanished in a storm of shadow.

He reappeared behind the giant, scimitar already driving forward. The spell twisted in this cursed place, draining his life as much as it gave him power, but his blade found the giant’s spine. Bone cracked. The creature roared and collapsed, its legs twitching uselessly.

It clawed for him even crippled, its massive hand slamming down, missing by inches as Kasien rolled clear. He stabbed again, and again, each strike tearing new wounds across its back. The realm warped his True Strike further, lacing his blade with acid.

One final slash. His blade seared through the giant’s face, then its neck. The colossus toppled with a scream that echoed across the wastes, shaking the sky itself.

Kasien staggered backward, chest heaving, blood dripping from his mouth. His arms trembled as he swung again, cutting a shallow line across its dead cheek as though he couldn’t stop himself.

Then silence.

He collapsed to his knees, drinking deep from his barrel of water, forcing down the agony in his ribs. He pressed cloth to his wounds, binding them as best as his shaking hands could manage. Another False Life—weaker, hollow this time, but enough to keep him standing.

The giant’s corpse yielded little. A cracked necklace with a blue sapphire, slick with ichor. A half-chewed strip of meat that might have once been pork. Kasien grimaced, pocketing both.

He looked up at the horizon. The colossal Hand was no closer. Still days away. Still mocking him.

With a grunt, Kasien turned from the camps below, choosing a path through jagged spires where the soldiers did not march. His violet eyes burned with pain, but his will held steady.

“One step. Then another. Until I stand at that Hand.”

The eyes of Geardaz watched from the storm above, unblinking.

Geardaz — The Trickster’s Amusement

From the high towers of his fractured realm, Geardaz watched. His laughter rippled through the teal-blue storm, a sound like shattering glass and whispers in dead tongues.

The giant’s corpse still smoked, ichor seeping into the crystal ground, and yet Kasien Ash-Fall still lived. Broken ribs, blood-soaked bandages, spells cast through pain—but alive.

The god of trickery leaned forward in his seat of writhing crystal, his eyes multiplying and vanishing in the storm above. Each gaze fell on the Shadar-kai elf, tracing his trembling steps.

“Little scholar,” Geardaz whispered, his voice carried on every arcane surge that licked the land. “Little thief of glyphs. You were meant to wither beneath the weight of riddles. Not carve giants like rotten fruit.”

He twirled a shard of broken spell-glass in his fingers, grinning sharp as a knife. The realm itself echoed his delight, crystals humming, runes shifting, as though mocking Kasien’s every breath.

Geardaz adored him—not as a worshipper, not as a champion, but as a gamble. Kasien was chaos cloaked in good intentions. Every spell he cast in Geardaz’s realm rewrote itself, bursting into something wild, something unintended. He bled for every miracle, and yet he still reached for more.

“You are not unlike me,” Geardaz mused, one of his phantom eyes blinking open above Kasien. “Hungry for truths that burn the tongue, willing to die to hold them, too clever to stop when wisdom says ‘enough.’”

He leaned back, tilting his many-eyed crown toward the colossal Hand in the distance.

“But cleverness is not enough. You have seen one of my toys fall, Kasien, but you have not yet seen the shape of the game. You will starve. You will bleed. And still, you will crawl to that Hand… because you think your family waits beyond it.”

Geardaz’s grin widened, splitting into too many teeth.

“Perhaps they do. Perhaps they don’t. Perhaps they are already mine.”

The storm above flared with teal lightning, the eyes blinking closed one by one, leaving only whispers in the air:

“Dance, little bladesinger. Dance until you break. Every step you take is mine, whether you know it or not.”

And the god of trickery laughed, his joy echoing across the wastes, as Kasien dragged his battered body onward.

Neth — Day Five in the Realm of Rage

The crimson horizon shimmered with heat and blood-mist as Neth dragged her feet forward, armour clattering like dead weight, her rapier heavier than stone. Her body screamed for rest—her eye stung, her breath rasped—but there was no rest here. Not while Urmbrik’s horde stalked her steps.

The ground cracked, and from the haze they emerged:

• Ten swordsmen, their jagged blades catching the glow of bleeding crystals.
• Two spawns, grotesque, pulsing flesh-beasts with grasping claws.
• Five minotaurs, horned brutes wielding axes that dripped molten iron.

Her hand trembled on the hilt of the Black Dragon of Asher. “In Dykenta, I must,” she whispered, forcing her weary legs to move.

The swordsmen struck first, a line of steel flashing down at her. Neth ducked, sidestepped, her rapier thrusting upward. One fell instantly, gurgling as blood sprayed. Another dodged—but she pressed on, skewering a third with clean precision. A shield caught her next thrust, knocking her back, but she pivoted, cutting down three more with grim efficiency.

Blades bit her in return—three strikes across her shoulder, thigh, and side. Blood oozed, staining her armour darker. She gritted her teeth, refusing to collapse.

Then the spawn lunged. Its massive claw raked the air, missing by inches as Neth rolled beneath it. She scrambled up its body, stabbing wildly, each thrust sinking deep. The creature screamed and toppled, collapsing into the crimson dust.

The earth trembled as a minotaur charged. Its axe swung wide, but Neth dropped low—then drove her boot forward with every ounce of her goblin fury. Fury of the Small. Her heel connected squarely with its groin.

The beast’s roar turned into a broken shriek as its manhood shattered under her strike. It collapsed, clutching itself, rolling in agony.

“Don’t cry,” Neth spat, breathless, blood dripping from her lips. “They’re only balls. You won’t miss them.”

She turned, wiping her eye with the back of her bloodied glove. Only four swordsmen stood now, one spawn, and four minotaurs—plus the one still writhing in the dirt, broken by her fury.

Her knees shook. Her armour groaned. But her rapier still glowed faintly in her grasp. And she walked forward, ready to kill again.

The clash of steel and roars of beasts filled the burning air. Neth’s legs shook as she surged forward, rapier flashing. Two swordsmen cut her as she rushed in—shallow but burning wounds across her side and arm—while the other two swung wide, missing her completely.

She answered in kind. Her blade pierced one throat, tore open another’s chest, and slipped between the ribs of a third. They fell, choking, their cries muffled in the red dust.

The last swordsman stood pale and trembling. Behind him, the spawn thundered forward. Its claw swept the air, missing her by inches. Neth countered with four desperate thrusts—each missing, her blade sparking off hardened flesh and shifting carapace.

The minotaurs closed. Four titans of horn and muscle. One after another they charged, their axes falling like hammers. Neth danced between them, the memory of Tresh Fangmaw’s lessons moving her weary limbs. She dodged three, but the fourth axe struck true, crashing against her side, sending her staggering. Blood spilled hot down her armour.

Through clenched teeth she countered—stabbing, slashing, spinning. Her rapier burned with light. One minotaur fell. Then another. Then a third. The fourth collapsed last, gutted by a final, precise thrust.

Only three foes remained: a lone swordsman, the looming spawn, and the broken minotaur still rolling in the dirt, clutching the ruins of his manhood.

The swordsman charged. His blade rang against her shield, sparks bursting in the crimson dark. Neth pushed him back and rammed her rapier straight through his neck. He gargled once and went still.

The spawn shrieked, claws flashing. Twice it slashed, both strikes whistling past her head. Then its maw opened, jagged teeth snapping inches from her throat. Neth ducked, heart pounding, but her return thrusts went wide—three desperate stabs striking nothing.

Her legs gave out.

She hit the dirt, gasping, her rapier falling from her hand. The spawn loomed above, claws reaching. She stared up at it through her blood-matted hair, her eye burning with fury.

“No…” she whispered.

At the last moment she rolled, dirt and bone scattering, the spawn’s claws slamming into the earth where she had lain. She forced herself upright, limbs trembling, vision swimming.

Three more attacks rained down from the spawn, each missing as though Dykenta’s unseen hand guided her steps. Neth’s grip tightened on her rapier.

She stabbed. Once—miss. Twice—miss. But the third thrust struck true. Her blade sank deep into the creature’s chest, light burning through its corrupted flesh. The spawn wailed once, then collapsed into silence.

The battlefield was still. Corpses littered the soil, crimson crystals glowed faintly, and the air stank of rage and ash.

Neth stood, swaying, her bloodied rapier trembling in her hand. She looked at the last survivor—the minotaur still curled on the ground, sobbing over his shattered manhood. She gave him no word, no strike, no mercy. Only a silent stare.

Then she turned. Her steps dragged, her armour heavy, but she walked on.

The colossal Hand loomed far ahead, still impossibly distant, still calling.

And though every part of her begged to collapse, she kept walking.

Ivar the Undefeated — Watching the Goblin

From the ridge of skulls, Ivar stood silent, his axe resting across his shoulders. The wind of Urmbrik’s realm carried the stink of blood and fire, and below, the goblin girl fought like a cornered wolf.

He chuckled, low and harsh.
“Small thing. Broken thing. Yet still you march.”

Her rapier burned with defiance, her body a map of wounds, yet she refused to bow. He had seen legions crumble for less, kings grovel at his feet, Silverbrand knights beg for mercy as his blade split them. But this goblin? She spat blood in the faces of fiends and dared to keep walking.

He tightened his grip on his axe.
“I have split empires, shattered lines of Albion men, painted the marshes red with Thornes. Yet you… you crawl through Urmbrik’s furnace and do not break.”

His red eyes narrowed, the ghost of a grin cutting his pale face.
“Zonid was right to watch you. The others will bellow and rage, but I know the mark when I see it. You are not prey. Not yet. You are the ember that refuses the flood.”

He turned his gaze toward the colossal Hand clawing at the storm sky.
“You walk toward the same place I walked centuries past. Toward the palm of Zonid’s judgment. I wonder, goblin… will you rise as I did, immortal in rage and iron? Or will you fall, and I carve your name into the long ledger of the Undefeated?”

A harsh laugh tore from his chest, echoing across the crimson wastes.
“Fight on, little flame. Fight until you’re ash. And when you are ready—when you’ve bled enough—I will be waiting. To test you. To break you. Or to welcome you.”

He rested the axe against the ground, watching her stagger onward, and whispered like a vow:
“One day, goblin, it will be your light against my shadow. And then we will see if even Dykenta’s fire can stand against Zonid’s chosen.”

Kasien’s sixth day wandering

Kasien’s sixth day wandering Geardaz’s wastelands is a test of endurance more than combat. His ribs still ache from the giant’s club, and though he’s bound the wounds, every step sends pain through his frame. He presses onward, because the colossal Hand is still impossibly far away, its fingers like mountains clawing the horizon.

The wasteland around him hums with unstable life—blue crystals rising like jagged teeth, their glow pulsing in rhythm with unseen magic. The air itself ripples, bending light and sound, whispering in voices that sound like Yshari and Vhalis. Kasien clenches his jaw and forces himself to ignore them.

No fight comes that day, but the strain of constant vigilance wears him down. He sees Geardaz’s armies from afar: saracen riders on camels patrolling the ridges, Minotaur axemen sharpening their cleavers around smoky fires, warped Mind Flayers and Beholders drifting like carrion birds. And everywhere, spawns—those warped aberrations—skulking across the landscape. He knows he cannot rest. He has to keep moving, always moving.

Every hour feels like an eternity. He drinks sparingly from his boiled water and eats what little rations remain, already calculating how long before he has to risk stealing food from the cursed camps he’s glimpsed. His body is battered, but his spirit sharpens into something harder: not hope, not faith, but sheer will.

And always, the colossal Hand remains. Far. Untouchable. Yet calling.

Kasien whispers under his breath, his voice rough from thirst and exhaustion:
“One more day. Just one more step. That’s all I need. One more.”

Unseen, in the storm of eyes above, Geardaz watches with amusement, waiting to see if the bladesinger will finally collapse—or if his stubborn will can carry him further still.

Neth — Day Six in the Furnace of Rage

The sixth day dawned with no dawn—only the same red storm boiling endlessly above. Fire and ash drifted through the air like snowflakes, stinging her skin. Every step dragged as though chains were locked around her ankles.

Her armor felt like stone strapped to her shoulders, her rapier like an anvil in her hand. The whip-scars on her back split open anew with every movement, her eye stung from lack of sleep, and her voice had grown hoarse from whispering the same words over and over.

“In Dykenta, I must.”

The blood-soaked soil pulled at her boots, sucking like a hungry mouth. The cursed land wanted her on her knees. The shadows around her laughed, mocking in a hundred voices:
“Little goblin, your light wanes.”
“Your goddess cannot save you here.”
“Fall, and rage will claim you.”

But she did not fall.

She ate from what little rations remained, chewing without taste. She drank sparingly from her waterskin, her lips cracked and bleeding. The food sat like ash in her mouth, but it was enough to take one more step, then another.

Urmbrik’s warriors circled but did not strike. She saw their eyes glinting in the haze: swordsmen sharpening blades, minotaurs hefting axes, spawns shuffling, balors circling overhead. They watched, waiting for her to collapse. For her to finally give in.

And when she thought of stopping—of dropping her weapon and letting the earth claim her—visions stirred again.

Hookspark’s last stand. Her mother’s scream. Her father’s silence. Martamo’s fall. Rhegar’s head rolling in the dust. Each memory burned across her mind like Urmbrik’s whip, but with each lash, she only gripped her rapier tighter.

Tears blurred her vision. She whispered again, voice cracking:
“In Dykenta… I must.”

The colossal Hand loomed ahead, still impossibly far, still unreachable. But it was all she had to aim for. All she could cling to.

She staggered, fell to one knee, her hands trembling. The ground beneath her bled and laughed. But then warmth brushed against her cheek—so faint she thought she imagined it. Roses in the air where no roses could grow.

“Rise, little one.”

Neth closed her eye, sobbing once, and forced herself upright. Every part of her begged to stop. But she walked.

Six days without rest. Six days of blood and fury. Six days still alive.

And that was enough to make Urmbrik roar.

Kasien — Day Seven: The Crystal Harrower

The wastes shimmered in teal haze, the air buzzing with the hum of unstable magic. Kasien’s boots dragged across fractured stone, every step a war against his own exhaustion. His ribs ached, his vision swam—but he would not stop.

That was when he saw him.

Zorath Kael.
The Crystal Harrower.

The figure stood tall, his body half-shrouded in jagged crystalline growths that pulsed faintly with runes of Geardaz’s script. His armour seemed alive, shards grinding softly as though the realm itself whispered through him. His staff was speared into the ground, and around him the crystal plains trembled as though waiting for his command.

But he did not raise it. Instead, he watched Kasien approach, his voice echoing in fractured tones—one voice becoming many, each syllable cracking like glass:

Zorath: “Seven days. And you still walk. Strange… armies of Albion broke in three. Sorcerers of Jazayrah begged for mercy in two. And yet you—bleeding, broken, alone—still march. Tell me, Shadar-kai… why?”

Kasien tightened his grip on Soul of the Elderwood, though he did not lift it. His violet eyes burned with defiance despite the exhaustion hollowing his frame.

Kasien: “Because I must. Because my family waits. Because I have chased the Hands across deserts, jungles, and empires. I will not stop here. Not in your master’s realm. Not until I find them.”

Zorath tilted his head, crystalline shards along his jaw grinding against one another as if in thought. A faint smile cut across his face—half-cruel, half-amused.

Zorath: “Family. Ah… grief, hunger, love. The sweetest chains. You are already bound, bladesinger. You walk as though free, but every step is pulled by what you cannot let go. Geardaz delights in souls such as yours. Seekers who bleed themselves dry for questions that cannot be answered.”

Kasien’s jaw clenched, his free hand trembling with rage and pain.

Kasien: “I don’t care what delights Geardaz. I don’t walk for him. I don’t bleed for him. I’ll carve my own path, find my own truth. Not the one your god offers in riddles and lies.”

Zorath’s laughter cracked through the wasteland, thin and sharp like crystal shattering. The sound echoed in Kasien’s bones.

Zorath: “Truth? There is no truth, only fragments. Shards. And Geardaz holds them all. You think you wield power here, but every spell you cast is not yours—it is his gift. Did you not feel it? Fire turned to acid, lightning born from nowhere, your strength multiplied and twisted? You fight with borrowed chaos, Ash-Fall. Every strike of your blade is proof you are already his.”

Kasien’s grip on his blade whitened, fury burning through his exhaustion.

Kasien: “If this realm warps my spells, I’ll use them anyway. If it drains my life, I’ll bleed until I stand at that Hand. Every step may be written in Geardaz’s ink, but the hand that turns the page is mine. My will is mine.”

For a long moment, silence hung between them, the storm above churning. Zorath’s crystalline eyes flickered, reflecting Kasien’s battered but unbroken form.

Finally, the Harrower lifted his staff from the ground. He stepped aside, shards grinding, his grin widening into something almost reverent.

Zorath: “Go then, bladesinger. Crawl. Burn. Break. The Hand is still far, and your shadow is heavier than your bones. But remember this—when you reach its palm, and you kneel at its edge, you will see what you truly are. And perhaps then, you will thank my master for teaching you what truth tastes like.”

Kasien’s chest heaved, his breaths ragged. He did not answer. He simply walked past, each step defiance made flesh.

Zorath’s laughter followed him, echoing across the wastes:

Zorath: “Dance, little Ash-Fall. Dance until you shatter.”

Kasien walked on, the crunch of crystal shards beneath his boots drowned by the echo of Zorath’s laughter. It lingered in his skull, thin and jagged, like glass splinters.

“Every spell you cast is not yours—it is his gift.”

The words gnawed at him. He tried to shake them away, tried to focus on the colossal Hand still looming on the horizon, but the thought had already seeded itself.

He remembered the way his fireball had twisted—erupting not in flame, but in acid, in lightning, in ice. The way False Life had filled him with vitality one moment, only to strip him hollow the next. The way his Blessing of the Raven Queen had cost him blood to use, draining him as much as it saved him.

Zorath was right about one thing. His magic was no longer his own. It danced to another’s tune.

Kasien gritted his teeth, fury flaring hot in his chest.
“No. My will is mine. My blade is mine. Whatever this realm does to me, it doesn’t own me.”

But even as he said it, doubt clung like a shadow. What if every step he had taken since Kanbajan had been marked? What if every spell he had ever cast was only a reflection of Geardaz’s trickery, a string tugged from afar?

And worse—what if finding Yshari and Vhalis wasn’t his path at all, but theirs?

Kasien stopped, breath heaving, staring down at his own hands. The violet runes that shimmered faintly on his skin pulsed, as though mocking him.

He thought of Reyn, Rheana, Lila, Neth—the Cinders who had pulled him into their circle only days before this nightmare. What would they say if they knew he doubted his own will? That part of him feared he was already owned by the very god he despised?

A bitter laugh escaped his throat.
“I’ve studied the Hands my whole life, and still I can’t tell if I’ve been chasing them… or if they’ve been leading me.”

His grip tightened on Soul of the Elderwood, grounding him. Ulystra’s blade, Reyn’s gift. That much was real. That much was his.

He forced his body forward again, each step an act of rebellion against the whispers in his mind. Against Zorath’s echo. Against Geardaz himself.

“I’ll see this through. I’ll reach that Hand. And when I do, I’ll know if my will is mine—or if I’ve been their pawn all along.”

But still, the words haunted him, carried by the storm above:

“Dance, little Ash-Fall. Dance until you shatter.”

Kasien’s words had barely left his lips—“I’ll see this through. I’ll reach that Hand.”—when the wasteland stirred.

The crystals around him began to hum, low at first, then louder, resonating like a thousand chimes struck in unison. The sound wasn’t just in his ears—it was in his bones, in his teeth, rattling in the marrow of his ribs.

He froze. His violet eyes swept the ridges. Nothing moved. And yet everything was moving.

The teal-blue spires shifted, their surfaces bending into shapes, almost like reflections. For an instant, he thought he saw his own face mirrored back at him—but twisted. In one shard, he was a corpse, his ribs shattered by the giant’s club. In another, he wore robes of crystal, his skin marked with Geardaz’s runes. In a third, his eyes were gone, hollow sockets staring back.

Kasien staggered back, his hand gripping Soul of the Elderwood.

The hum deepened, and the ground beneath him pulsed like a heartbeat. From that pulse came whispers.

“Mine…”
“…always mine…”
“…your blood sings with my rune…”

He shut his eyes tight. His heart hammered. His breath came ragged.

“No. My will is my own.”

The crystals answered with a ripple of laughter, sharp and cruel. Lightning split the storm sky, and for a moment, every eye above blinked open—dozens of colossal teal eyes, unblinking, all fixed on him.

Kasien’s knees nearly buckled under the weight of their gaze. His chest burned, his ribs flaring with agony, as if the eyes themselves pressed down on him.

Then came the visions. Not his own this time, but forced into his mind.

Yshari, his sister, chained in crystal, her lips moving but no sound reaching him.
Vhalis, his cousin, her body dissolving into glyphs that swirled into Geardaz’s sigil.
Reyn, Neth, the Cinders—standing before him, but their eyes glowing teal, their voices speaking not as friends but as vessels:
“You walk because we allow it. You breathe because we permit it. Every step is already ours.”

Kasien roared, slashing his blade through the air. The visions shattered like glass, leaving him alone again. The crystals hummed softer now, mocking, as though amused by his defiance.

The storm above calmed, the eyes closing one by one. But the message was clear.

The realm had heard his doubts. And it would not let him forget them.

Kasien stood trembling, sweat dripping down his face. He forced his breathing steady, his grip tight on the scimitar.

“Then watch me,” he spat at the storm. “Watch me bleed, crawl, and starve. I’ll reach that Hand—and when I do, we’ll see whose will endures.”

The wasteland fell silent, as if holding its breath.

And Kasien walked on.

Geardaz — The Trickster Amused

High in the fractured citadel of glass and shadow, Geardaz leaned back upon his throne of shifting runes. His body was more suggestion than form—crystalline veins flowing like rivers through a man-shaped silhouette, crowned with too many eyes that blinked out of sequence.

He had not needed to move. His realm had answered for him.

The Shadar-kai had spoken his doubts aloud, and the land itself had seized upon them—mirroring, mocking, pressing visions into his mind until he roared against shadows. The god chuckled, a sound like glass breaking and reforming, sharp and hollow.

“There it is. The crack.”

He tapped one crystalline finger against the arm of his throne, and the gesture sent ripples through the storm sky. Each ripple birthed an eye that opened and shut in rhythm, like applause.

“He bleeds, he crawls, and yet he still insists on will. Still insists his path is his own. Delicious. A gambler who cannot see the table has already been rigged.”

Geardaz’s laughter rang across the wastes, unheard by mortal ears, but felt in the hum of every crystal. He rose, shards grinding, his voice rolling in a dozen tones at once.

“Kasien Ash-Fall… you are a scholar who would map the stars by cutting them from the sky. You are chaos dressed in resolve. Every step you take defies me—and yet every spell you cast proves me. Oh, what a joy you are.”

His crown of eyes turned toward the colossal Hand in the distance, its shadow sprawling across the realm.

“Crawl to it, little bladesinger. Crawl until your ribs break and your doubts drown you. When you kneel at its palm, you will understand—Geardaz does not take souls. He lets them prove themselves mine.”

He leaned forward, whispering as if Kasien could hear across the miles of crystal and storm.

“Dance, little Ash-Fall. Dance until you shatter. When you do, I will be there to pick up the pieces.”

And with that, Geardaz reclined once more, his throne shifting into new forms around him. His laughter echoed, long and jagged, until it faded into the endless hum of his cursed realm.

Neth — Seventh Day of Rage

Her seventh sunrise in Urmbrik’s realm was no sunrise at all. The sky was still a storm of blood and smoke, pierced by jagged lightning that roared like the voice of the god himself.

Neth’s feet dragged through rivers of gore that never dried, her armour hanging loose where straps had snapped under constant battle. The Black Dragon of Asher felt heavier than iron in her hand, but she would not release it.

Every step sank into the flesh-land, and every step bled. The ground itself seemed to cry out for her death. The red crystals pulsed angrily, shedding tears of blood, as though Urmbrik’s rage swelled against her stubborn will.

The warriors came again. They always did. Light Swordsmen and Spearmen, Spawn stitched from bone, and hulking Minotaurs whose axes still dripped with the gore of a thousand victims. Each time, they thought she would break. Each time, she rose.

But now her spells were fewer. Her prayers came strained, her throat raw. Her eye stung with exhaustion. She had not slept in days—dared not, for even the hint of rest brought blades or claws upon her.

She pressed her palm to her eyepatch, whispering into the crimson air.
“Dykenta… please. I’m not strong enough.”

A warmth answered—not gentle, but steady, like a hand against her back. She could not see her goddess, but she felt her.
“You are not abandoned. You are mine. Walk, little flame.”

Tears ran hot down her cheek, but she forced her boots forward.

From afar, the fiends hissed and muttered. Even the circling Balors paused in their laughter, unsettled by her defiance. They wanted to see her fall. They wanted to see the light die. But still she moved.

And beyond them, unseen, the God Hands themselves stirred.

Zlaniz whispered lustfully of breaking her spirit. Geardaz laughed at the thought of bending her mind. Zarlnis demanded her to drown in endless war. And Zonid, cold as the void, marked her again: “She is not his yet. But she is mine in waiting. All roads bend to me.”

But Neth did not hear them. She only saw the colossal Hand in the distance, clawing at the sky, impossibly far. Her legs trembled. Her body screamed to fall. Yet she whispered to herself, through blood and tears:

“In Dykenta, I must.”

And she walked on.

The storm above howled with Urmbrik’s fury, but Neth barely heard it. Her ears rang, her single eye blurred, her body trembled under the weight of her own armour. The Black Dragon of Asher dragged behind her, its tip carving a shallow line in the bleeding earth.

Her spells were gone. The words of prayer rasped dry in her throat. She had healed herself so many times she could feel the light thinning, like a candle about to gutter. She knew the truth: even if she reached the colossal Hand, she would do so too broken to fight.

Her legs gave out, and she crashed to her knees. Blood from half-healed wounds seeped into her torn leathers. She tried to rise—once, twice—but her body screamed against her, locking her in place.

The fiends circling her laughed. Minotaurs hefted their axes, Spawn hissed from the shadows, swordsmen beat their shields. They knew. They saw her falter. Even the crimson crystals seemed to pulse in rhythm with her laboured breaths, mocking the slowing of her steps.

Tears cut through the grime on her cheek. For the first time, she let herself whisper it:
“I can’t… I can’t do this anymore.”

She clutched her rapier like a lifeline, staring at the horizon. The colossal Hand loomed there, vast and immovable, yet no closer than it had been on the first day. It mocked her with its distance, promising only more death, more rage.

Her wounds burned. Her arms shook. Her eye stung with tears. She pressed her forehead to the dirt, choking on the taste of iron and ash.

“Dykenta… please. If I fall here… let them not take me. Let me die as yours, not his.”

The storm rumbled, as if Urmbrik himself laughed at her weakness. Yet beneath it, faint and fragile, there was warmth. A hand unseen, steadying her back, as it had before. But this time it was not enough to lift her.

She sobbed, forcing her arms to move, pushing against the earth. Her legs gave out again, and again, until she was crawling.

Crawling toward the colossal Hand.

Her body was breaking. Her will splintering. And still, through cracked lips, she whispered the only words she had left:
“In Dykenta… I must.”

The wasteland groaned beneath her palms as she crawled. Every muscle screamed, every wound burned. The colossal Hand still loomed impossibly far, a mountain on the horizon she would never reach. Her lips moved, cracked and bloodied, whispering the words over and over—
“In Dykenta… I must.”

The storm above shifted. Not with Urmbrik’s roar, but with the pounding rhythm of hooves.

Neth lifted her head, her vision swimming. Through the haze of crimson dust she saw him—a rider clad in steel blackened by centuries of war, his eyes burning red as molten iron. His mount was no beast of flesh, but a steed of bone and shadow, its hooves cracking the earth with every stride.

He did not stop for her. He did not need to. Yet as he passed, he turned his gaze upon her—a gaze like a storm held in human form. His voice cut through the wasteland, deep and terrible, but not cruel:

“You still crawl. Good. The weak are ash by now. But you… you burn still. Do not stop, little goblin. If you fall, let it be at the Hand itself, not before.”

His words struck her like steel across her spine. Strength and terror mingled in her chest, her heart hammering. She wanted to cry out, to ask his name, but the rider was already passing, already fading into the distance.

The fiends that circled her shrank from him, their jeers falling silent as his shadow swept past. When he was gone, they crept back, but more cautiously, as if reminded that there were terrors greater even than Urmbrik’s spawn.

Neth pressed her forehead to the earth, trembling, her tears soaking into the blood-soaked ground. She did not know who he was. She did not know why his words cut so deep. But they did.

With a broken sob, she forced her arms beneath her again. Her legs trembled, nearly buckling, but she pushed—up to her knees, then to her feet.

The Hand still seemed as far away as it had on the first day. But now, even crawling, even staggering, she moved toward it.

“In Dykenta… I must.”

And far in the distance, the Stranger rode on, his laughter lost in the storm, carrying both menace and strange encouragement in its wake.

Ivar the Undefeated — After the Goblin

The storm swallowed his laughter as he rode, but in the silence that followed, Ivar found himself thinking of the small figure he had left behind.

A goblin.
Bleeding, crawling, dragging herself forward with the stubbornness of the damned.

He tightened his grip on the reins of his bone-steed, his red eyes narrowing against the crimson haze.

“Seven days,” he muttered to himself. “Seven days in Urmbrik’s furnace, and still she breathes.”

He thought of Albion, of the Silverbrand, of the warriors he had crushed and the kings he had humbled. Men taller than towers had fallen in less time, their names carved into his ledger before their blood had dried. But her?

“Small. Frail. Yet fire clings to her bones. What god feeds her?”

His jaw clenched, a grin tugging at his scarred lips. He had seen the light burning in her—the stubborn faith that would not bow, not to Urmbrik, not even to despair. It reminded him of something long buried, something he had crushed out of himself ages ago.

He leaned forward in his saddle, whispering low as if confessing to the storm.
“She should be dead. By rights, she should be ash. Yet she walks still. Zonid was right—there is iron in that one. She will reach the Hand. And when she does… perhaps she will be more than prey.”

His laughter returned, quieter this time, sharp and hungry.

“Burn, little goblin. Burn until only steel remains. And then… I will test you myself. If you endure, you will stand beside me. If you falter, your name will lie in my ledger, one more line among the countless slain.”

He spurred his steed onward, vanishing deeper into the wastes. But even as he rode, her image lingered. A broken goblin, crawling toward the impossible.

And for the first time in centuries, Ivar felt the old spark of anticipation.

Kasien — The Bridge of the Void

Kasien’s steps faltered as the ground changed. No more jagged wasteland. No more camps or crystals. Instead, before him stretched a narrow bridge of stone and rune, arching across an abyss that seemed to have no bottom. The void churned below like a living thing—hungry, whispering, endless.

At the far side, the bridge vanished into a labyrinth of walls that shifted and pulsed with teal fire, a maze carved of Geardaz’s cruelty.

And standing before the entrance was a knight of impossible presence.

Armoured from helm to greaves, every plate cracked and burning with faint blue light, the figure held a longsword planted in the stone. A shield rested on his arm, its surface scored with old scars that had never healed. The helm bore horns like broken spires, and from the eye-slits burned a light not wholly alive, not wholly dead.

Kasien froze, his throat dry despite the water sloshing in his skin. His body begged for rest, for food, for anything but another test. Yet here was one waiting for him all the same.

The armoured man raised his head slowly, as though acknowledging Kasien’s very existence cost him something. When he spoke, his voice was layered—metal grinding, whispers echoing, and a hollow sorrow beneath it all.

Stranger:
“Another wanderer dares the Hand’s path. Another soul too stubborn to fall. Tell me, Shadar-kai—what is it you seek beyond the abyss?”

Kasien’s hand tightened on Soul of the Elderwood. He didn’t know this man, didn’t know if he was champion, guardian, or executioner. Only that the bridge was the only way forward.

His thoughts screamed: If I stop, I die. If I sleep, I vanish. If I falter, this place will consume me whole.

He swallowed, forcing words past his cracked lips.

Kasien:
“I seek what was stolen. My sister. My cousin. The truth. Nothing more.”

The knight tilted his head. The light in his eyes flickered like dying stars.

Stranger:
“Truth is a blade sharper than mine, and it will cut deeper than your flesh. Many have walked here with noble causes. All of them bled into the void. Why should you be different?”

Kasien stepped forward, every bone in his body screaming at the weight. He knew he was shaking. He knew he could not win if this became a battle. Yet he couldn’t back down.

Kasien (defiant):
“Because I don’t care if it cuts me. I’ll bleed, I’ll break, I’ll crawl across this bridge if I have to. I won’t stop—not until I have answers.”

The knight’s silence stretched. Then—slowly—the Stranger raised his sword, not in challenge, but in salute.

Stranger:
“Then walk, Bladesinger. Walk, and see if your will can endure where others shattered. The labyrinth will show you what steel cannot. If you reach the Hand, you may yet deserve the truth you seek.”

He stepped aside, his armored boots scraping stone, his burning eyes never leaving Kasien.

Kasien’s breath caught. His legs trembled. Yet he took the first step onto the bridge, the void roaring beneath him.

And the knight watched. Silent. Patient. As if waiting for Kasien to break.

Kasien — The First Step Into the Labyrinth

The void’s roar faded as Kasien’s boots struck the final stone of the bridge. His lungs burned, each breath shallow, but he forced the incantation through clenched teeth.

False Life.

The spell struck deeper than it ever had before. His veins glowed faintly violet as necrotic vigour coursed through him. But here, in Geardaz’s realm, the magic twisted, multiplying itself—layer upon layer of false strength wrapping around his battered body. Not one boost of vitality, but fourfold, as though the realm itself was daring him to overreach.

Kasien staggered, gripping Soul of the Elderwood like an anchor as the rush nearly toppled him. His skin prickled, his pulse hammered, and for a heartbeat he feared the spell would burn him from the inside. But when the haze cleared, he was still standing. Alive. Stronger.

Ahead, the labyrinth waited. Walls of shifting teal stone and crystal rose higher than towers, etched with runes that shifted whenever he tried to read them. Each corridor breathed faintly, as though the maze itself was alive.

He turned once, looking back across the bridge.

The knight stood where he had left him, sword planted in the ground, shield at his side. The helm tilted, and for a moment Kasien swore he saw the faintest nod, a gesture neither mocking nor kind, but simply… acknowledgment.

Kasien returned the nod, though his body ached with the effort. Then he faced forward, pulling his cloak tighter, the air cold and sharp as broken glass.

The labyrinth loomed, silent and waiting. Every instinct told him this was no mere passage of stone—it was a test of mind, will, and the very truths he carried.

Kasien whispered under his breath, his voice raw, a prayer not to the Trickster Lord whose realm this was, but to his own god.

“Grilik… Wandering Star… if you still walk with me, then guide my steps.”

And with that, Kasien stepped into the shifting maze, the shadows swallowing him whole.

The labyrinth shuddered again, teal runes crawling across the crystal walls like insects scattering from fire. Kasien’s book was filled with maps already—inked lines, dead ends, shifting routes, half-scribbled corridors crossed out when they collapsed into void. His hand trembled as he drew the latest turn, and he realized with a sick twist in his gut: the labyrinth wanted him mad.

The whispers of Yshari and Vhalis had nearly broken him—voices almost too perfect, but wrong. He had nearly called their names, nearly surrendered to illusion. Only Grilik’s lessons kept him steady: truth hides inside lies, but never in comfort.

He pressed forward, crossing the pit with a desperate leap, only for another chasm to tear open ahead. Impossible. No mortal could jump that far. The labyrinth was mocking him. He turned sharply left, hugging the wall, blood still dripping under his armour. He tried to patch the wounds, binding cloth against cracked ribs, but the pain flared, mocking him too. His hands shook. His breath rasped.

That was when he saw it.

A chamber yawned open at the end of the hall, walls alive with runes. Kasien crouched low, moving silently, every step measured. His shadow copies—only three left—mimicked his movement, flickering like dying stars. He pressed against the doorframe and peered inside.

And froze.

It was already staring at him.

A monstrous orb of flesh floated in the chamber, its many eyes twitching, each dripping teal fire. The Eye Tyrant of Geardaz—a Beholder, but warped by the Trickster’s hand. Its central eye glowed with impossible light, and its teeth clattered as if laughing without sound.

Dozens of eye-beams flared in sequence, tracing over Kasien, through him, beyond him. The walls around it shifted with every blink, paths collapsing and reforming. The labyrinth was its body, its playground.

Kasien’s throat dried. His fingers tightened on Soul of the Elderwood. He could feel its hunger—not for his flesh, but for his mind. For his doubts.

The Beholder’s voice pressed against his skull, thick and crawling like wet silk:

"Cartographer of shadows… you map my master’s joke as though lines and ink will save you. What will you trade, little elf? Your eyes? Your name? Or shall I peel away your memories, one page at a time?"

The air in the chamber rippled. Behind him, the corridor shifted, sealing. No retreat.

The labyrinth had cornered him. The Eye Tyrant waited.

Kasien — Against the Eye Tyrant

The Bladesong surged through his limbs, but the magic sputtered like a candle in the storm. Protection from Evil and Good—fail. Counterspell—fail. The anti-magic gaze from the Beholder’s central eye wrapped around him like a vice, suffocating the Weave itself. Kasien could feel the void press against his very soul.

But his body still knew the dance.

He darted forward, scimitar in hand, and Soul of the Elderwood sang in a flurry of green-lit arcs. Steel bit flesh, carving deep lines into the Beholder’s hide, though just shy of its glaring eyes. The aberration laughed—a wet, gurgling sound that dripped venom into his ears.

"Little bladesinger. Even your best cuts are blind."

The chamber shook as one of its eyestalks blazed. A disintegration ray erupted. Kasien flung his hand out, the words of Counterspell burning his tongue, but the magic fizzled to nothing in the creature’s oppressive aura. The ray struck him full in the chest. Pain unlike any blade carved through him, bone cracking, flesh searing. He staggered, coughing blood, vision tunnelling.

Still, he pushed on.

Kasien roared, forcing his trembling legs into a sprint. Four consecutive slashes—each one fuelled by desperation, memory, rage. The first missed, the second scored a gouge beneath an eye, ichor spraying across his face. The third faltered—his grip slipping, exhaustion dragging his body down. He fell into a skid just as the Beholder lunged, jaws closing around his arm.

The bite tore through armour like parchment. Flesh ripped, blood sprayed, nerves screamed. Kasien’s cry echoed in the labyrinth. His knees buckled—but his hand, his other hand, still held the scimitar. He drove it up again, the blade burying into the monster’s side, just missing another eye.

The Beholder reeled back, shaking its bulk, ichor dripping onto the crystalline floor.

Kasien’s vision blurred. Through the haze of blood loss, a memory surfaced—the Black Dragon Scales.
Training under Eiran Blighttongue. The weave-breaker crystals—fist-sized shards that could kill spells in a mile radius. And how they were made. Beholder eyes, intact, set in crystal frames.

That was why his mind had dragged him here. A reminder: this thing was not invincible. Its eyes were not just weapons—they were its weakness.

Kasien spat blood onto the crystal floor, his voice ragged but steady.

“Then I’ll take your eyes, beast. One by one.”

The Beholder’s maw twisted into a grin, teeth dripping with his blood. More eyestalks crackled, beams charging in colours too wild for mortal sight.

The labyrinth shuddered with every heartbeat. The chamber narrowed. The void itself leaned closer, eager for the outcome.

The ray struck him square in the chest. His skin stiffened, stone veins cracking across his arm, crawling up toward his throat. Kasien gasped—his body heavy, his movements slow. The Beholder’s eye glowed with cruel delight.

"Yes… turn to stone, little bladesinger. Be a statue in my master’s maze."

The monster lunged to bite, but Kasien staggered aside, dragging his stiffening arm with him. He knew he had no time. Either he killed it now—or it would freeze him where he stood.

He roared and surged forward, forcing his legs into motion, adrenaline burning through the creeping petrification. Four slashes. The first missed, the second carved a shallow line in its hide, the third struck deep into its flank, and the fourth—blessed by fury—pierced one of its great central eyes.

The orb burst in a spray of ichor. The Beholder’s scream shook the walls, echoing curses in every tongue Kasien had ever studied. His heart surged. The stone cracking across his arm shattered and fell away—his will had broken the ray’s hold.

The Beholder flailed, eyestalks firing wildly. A slowing ray swept past him; he dodged. Its teeth snapped inches from his face; he spun aside. Kasien’s world narrowed to one point: the monster’s last eye.

Adrenaline drowned his exhaustion. He danced in, Soul of the Elderwood flashing in green arcs. Four strikes: one biting deep into its hide, one scoring its face, two cutting only air. The Beholder reeled, wounded, ichor pouring onto the labyrinth floor.

It grinned. Even in pain, it mocked him.
"Dance, elf. Dance until you break."

Then its central stalk burned black, and a Death Ray erupted. The beam hissed past his cheek, close enough to sear his skin. Kasien twisted away—alive by inches. The Beholder’s mocking grin faltered. For the first time, its many eyes blinked with disbelief.

Kasien gave it no chance to recover.

He charged, weaving, slashing in a blur. His scimitar sang. First cut—flesh. Second cut—blood. Third cut—closer, closer. Fourth cut—through its last great eye.

The Beholder shrieked. Its eyestalks thrashed, rays firing aimlessly into walls and void. It begged—its voice cracking, desperate:
"Mercy! Mercy, bladesinger! Spare me and—"

Kasien silenced it. He thrust Soul of the Elderwood deep into the ruined eye, twisting until the blade sank to the hilt. The Beholder convulsed, ichor gushing, then sagged into stillness.

Kasien stood over its corpse, chest heaving, blood pouring from his own wounds. His vision blurred, his head spun. Triumph swelled in his chest—victory, impossible victory—but it was drowned by exhaustion.

He staggered back, lifted his blade in trembling salute to no one, and whispered:
“Still walking…”

Then his knees buckled. He hit the crystal floor hard. For the first time in years, sleep—not elven trance, but true, dreamless sleep—claimed him.

The labyrinth walls shifted around his unconscious form, teal runes flickering as if amused by his collapse. Somewhere, in the storm above, Geardaz laughed, glass-sharp and knowing.

Kasien had slain the Eye Tyrant. But the labyrinth was far from finished with him.

Geardaz — The Trickster’s Delight

From his fractured throne of rune and crystal, Geardaz watched. The storm above the labyrinth flickered with his laughter, each bolt of teal lightning a shard of amusement hurled into the void.

Kasien Ash-Fall, bleeding, staggering, half-turned to stone—and still, still he danced. His blade carved into the Beholder’s flesh, his will shattered petrification, his fury silenced its begging. And then, broken and exhausted, he fell not in death, but in sleep.

The Trickster God’s teeth gleamed in a grin too wide for a mortal face. His crown of eyes blinked out of sequence, each one replaying the fight in different rhythms, savoring every slash, every wound.

“The elf fights my children as if they were mere gnats. He bleeds, he breaks, yet he will not stop.”

He leaned forward, voice breaking into twelve echoes at once, each dripping with mockery and delight.

“What are you, Kasien Ash-Fall? Scholar? Fool? Or gambler who does not realize the dice are loaded?”

Geardaz twirled a shard of broken rune in his clawed fingers. His laughter cut like glass.

“You think you fight against me. But every beam, every miss, every lucky dodge—it was all mine. I lent you the chaos to cut the Tyrant’s eye. I let the Death Ray burn empty air. You believe it was your will. It was my whim.”

He reclined, his form shattering and reforming like crystal under heat.

“But oh, how you amuse me. You bleed for family, you dance for truth, you claw toward a Hand that will crush you. And in doing so, you make even my Beholder beg for mercy. Delightful. Delicious. Worth watching.”

The god’s eyes turned toward the colossal Hand in the distance, its fingers clawing at the sky.

“Walk on, little bladesinger. Crawl if you must. Every step you take is mine. And when you reach the Hand, when you kneel at its palm… you will see that every triumph, every survival, was just another of my tricks.”

His grin split wider, teeth shining like broken mirrors.

“Dance until you shatter. And then… I will pick up the pieces.”

The labyrinth shuddered with his laughter, carrying it down to where Kasien lay unconscious at the Beholder’s corpse, unaware that even in victory, he had been playing Geardaz’s game all along.

Neth — Against the Tide Surrounded by Steel and Rage

On Neth’s 8th day in Urmbrik’s realm, the furnace of rage pressed harder against her spirit than ever before. Her legs buckled often, forcing her to crawl across the scorched earth before dragging herself back upright. Every step bled her strength, every breath cut her chest, yet she forced herself to eat dried rations and drink from her waterskin while on the move. There was no luxury of rest—only survival.

And then, in the smoky red horizon, the gathering of Urmbrik’s host came into view.

• Light Axemen in ragged lines, their crude blades dripping with old blood.
• Minotaur Greataxemen, hulking and armoured, each swing capable of cleaving stone.
• A Ghorgon, four-armed and horned, its bellow shaking the wasteland.
• Two colossal Giants, dragging a spiked clubs across the crimson dirt, eyes glowing with Urmbrik’s hate.
• Packs of War Lions, their maws glowing like furnaces, pacing impatiently for the kill.
• Squadrons of Knights, black-helmed and bearing Urmbrik’s sigils, their lances gleaming with firelight.
• And at their centre—commanding, laughing, the shadow of power itself—stood a Balor Lord, his chains dragging like rivers of molten iron.

They weren’t attacking yet. They watched. They gathered. The ground quaked beneath the weight of their presence, the storm boiling above them, eyes flickering in the clouds.

Neth’s body trembled, her wounds unhealed, her spells nearly drained. Her single burning eye looked from one monstrosity to the next, and she whispered through bloodied lips:

“Still… I walk.”

The horde roared back, as if mocking her resolve, the Balor Lord’s laughter splitting the sky. Yet still, she placed one foot forward, rapier in hand, dragging her battered frame toward the colossal Hand looming faintly in the far, far distance.

Neth, broken but unbent, now stands at the edge of annihilation. The Balor Lord’s host does not rush her, for Urmbrik’s realm delights in the cruelty of delay. The monsters stare, savoring her exhaustion, their howls and roars like a tide waiting to break. Above, the crimson clouds churn, Urmbrik’s many eyes burning down on her every move.

It is not yet the battle — it is the moment where even gods lean closer, waiting to see if the goblin’s light will flicker out at last.

Her hand tightens on the Black Dragon of Asher. Her eye narrows. And still, she whispers into the rage-filled wind:

“I am not done.”

The ground shook as eight War Lions prowled into the blood-red dust, their manes dripping molten fire, eyes like burning coals. Their roars rolled across the cursed battlefield like thunder, each one rattling the bones of the fallen.

Neth’s vision swam—her body was failing, her wounds too many, her spells too few. But she raised the Black Dragon of Asher all the same. One goblin against eight of Urmbrik’s beasts.

The first lion lunged. She sidestepped, thrusting her rapier into its flank. The blade burned with light, acid sizzling across its hide. The beast collapsed in a shriek. But another was already on her, claws raking her arm, blood spraying.

She screamed—not in fear, but in fury. Her eye burned with Dykenta’s fire as she stabbed upward, piercing its throat. The lion fell, choking on its own rage.

Six remained.

They circled her, cutting off retreat. Their roars mocked her weakness. The ground beneath her knees trembled as her legs threatened to give out.

But Neth spat into the cursed soil, her voice hoarse but steady.
“I’ve fought worse than you.”

The third lion pounced—she rolled beneath its claws, driving her blade into its belly. A spray of burning ichor splashed across her face. She tore the weapon free and stumbled back, her chest heaving.

Five remained.

The fourth slashed her shoulder, nearly tearing her down. She staggered, almost fell—but with a snarl, she drove Fury of the Small into her strike, plunging her rapier through its eye. It collapsed, twitching.

Four remained.

But now her arms shook. Her breaths came ragged. The lions circled tighter, snarling, waiting for the moment she would finally break.

And yet—her rapier still glowed faintly. Her single eye still burned with defiance.

Because even here, surrounded, wounded, bleeding out—
Neth’s light would not die.

The four remaining lions stalked around her in a circle, their manes blazing with Urmbrik’s fury. Each step they took pressed her further into the furnace of their hatred. Their growls blended with the storm above, thunder and hunger becoming one.

Her arms trembled. Her legs screamed. Her blood stained the cursed soil. But Neth clenched the Black Dragon of Asher, and her teeth, refusing to fall.

The fifth lion lunged. She pivoted on unsteady feet, letting its claws tear across her armour while she drove her rapier into its chest. The blade caught flame, acid, and light all at once, bursting through the beast as it roared in agony and collapsed.

Three remained.

The sixth lion came from her blind side. She twisted too slow—it slammed into her, jaws snapping inches from her throat. Its weight crushed her chest, and for a heartbeat she thought it was over. But she remembered Tresh Fangmaw’s lessons: when pinned, strike where no foe expects. With a scream, she drove her knee upward into its gut, forcing its head up. Then her rapier punched through the underside of its jaw, out the top of its skull. She shoved the carcass aside.

Two remained.

Her body shook violently now. Her vision blurred with blood and exhaustion. The lions saw her weakness. They roared together and pounced at once.

The seventh hit her shoulder, tearing her down to her knees. The eighth leapt for her head.

Neth didn’t think. She acted. With her last strength, she rolled beneath the seventh’s body, thrusting upward. Her rapier speared its heart as it landed, pinning it to the ground. The eighth slammed into her back, claws raking deep. She screamed in pain but refused to let go.

Her face pressed into the dirt. The beast above her bit into her armour, tearing steel like parchment. Neth could barely breathe. Her hand slipped on the rapier hilt slick with blood—her blood.

But she pushed. She twisted. And she turned.

With a cry that tore from the bottom of her soul, Neth ripped her rapier free, spun, and plunged it into the last lion’s throat. It convulsed, thrashed, and then fell still beside its brothers.

The battlefield was silent but for her ragged breathing. Eight beasts of rage lay slain at her feet.

Neth dropped to one knee, the rapier still glowing faintly in her hand. She was shaking uncontrollably, her wounds screaming, her eye heavy with exhaustion. She pressed her forehead to the blade and whispered, voice hoarse and broken:

“In Dykenta… I must.”

And then she rose again, staggering.

The dust of Urmbrik’s realm swirled in choking clouds, ash settling across her shoulders like a funeral shroud. Her arms trembled, her legs near to buckling, and every breath dragged knives through her lungs. Still, she clutched the Black Dragon of Asher, its weight both anchor and burden.

Around her, the circle closed.

Ten Light Axemen, shields raised, eyes burning with malice. Their axes glinted in the blood-red haze, each step bringing them closer, pressing the ring tighter.

Behind them, towering shadows blotted out what little light bled through the storm sky—ten Minotaur Greataxemen, their massive weapons scraping the scorched earth as they marched. Each one could cleave her in two with a single blow. Together, they were an avalanche of muscle and hate.

Neth’s single eye darted from side to side. No gaps. No escape. The colossal Hand still loomed in the far distance, but it was a dream, a mirage. Here, now, death stood all around her.

Her thoughts whispered: This is it. This is where I die.

But her grip tightened on the rapier. Her teeth ground together, blood dripping from the corner of her lips as she forced herself upright. She was staggering, battered, bleeding—but unbroken.

If Urmbrik wanted her life, he would not take it cheaply.

She muttered a prayer—not for salvation, but for strength. Dykenta’s name burned in her chest like a coal. The enemy ring halted for a heartbeat, measuring her, amused at the defiance of a half-dead goblin. Then the ground quaked with the bellow of the Minotaurs, and the first Axeman stepped forward, shield raised.

Neth raised her blade.

If this was the end, she would carve her name into the bones of Urmbrik’s realm before it swallowed her.

The first Axeman lunged, shield forward, axe raised for the killing stroke. Neth ducked low, her body screaming in protest, and thrust the Black Dragon of Asher up beneath his guard. The blade pierced his throat clean, his gurgling cry muffled by his own blood.

But there was no time to breathe. Another axe smashed across her shoulder, spinning her sideways. Pain erupted white-hot; her shield arm nearly went numb. She snarled through the agony and lashed out, her rapier flashing across the attacker’s wrist. The man howled, dropping his weapon, and Neth drove her boot into his gut, sending him reeling back into his comrades.

The circle surged in. Three axes fell at once. She blocked one with her shield, twisted under the second, but the third carved into her thigh. She screamed, the sound raw and furious, and answered with a furious counter-thrust, skewering the attacker through the ribs.

One down. Two more closing.

Then the ground shook.

A Minotaur Greataxeman bellowed and brought his weapon down like a falling tree. Neth barely rolled aside as the blade split the soil where she’d stood. Dust and shards of bone flew into the air. She scrambled to her feet, her body trembling, and leapt forward. With goblin fury boiling in her blood, she drove her rapier straight into the Minotaur’s knee.

The beast roared, staggering. Neth tore the blade free and, with all the hatred left in her small body, kicked the giant’s other leg out from under it. The monster fell with a crash that shook the field. Before it could rise, she drove the Black Dragon of Asher into its throat, twisting until the bellow choked into silence.

But there were nine more.

The Axemen pressed again, hacking, driving her back into the tightening circle. One axe clipped her arm, another her side. She could feel herself slowing, her vision blurring.

Still—she refused to fall.

She lashed out with every ounce of will left, each strike faster, harder, guided by something beyond herself. An axeman’s chest split open. Another lost his leg. Her rapier darted like lightning, killing, wounding, pushing them back for heartbeats at a time.

But the Minotaurs advanced, their great axes raised, their shadows falling across her broken body.

Neth staggered, blood running down her face, her single eye burning like fire. She raised her blade once more, her voice hoarse but unyielding:

“In Dykenta—I MUST!”

The monsters roared, closing in.

The circle of death closed in. Ten Minotaurs, their axes raised high, their massive shadows blotting out the crimson storm sky. Around them, the Light Axemen pressed tighter, shield to shield, hungry to end the lone goblin who dared defy Urmbrik’s realm.

Neth’s chest heaved. Every cut on her body screamed. Her legs were lead, her sword-arm trembling. She could feel her blood soaking the cursed soil, dripping from her fingertips.

And yet—her grip did not falter.

She screamed and lunged forward, her rapier piercing through an axeman’s eye. Before the others could react, she twisted, dragging the corpse into the path of two oncoming blades. The shield splintered, but the bodies tangled. Neth rolled free, thrusting again, her blade sinking into another’s gut.

Seven axemen left. Ten Minotaurs looming.

The first Minotaur charged, its great axe cleaving the ground with enough force to split stone. Neth darted to the side, barely escaping the shockwave, and with goblin ferocity leapt at its side. Her small frame climbed the beast, her rapier stabbing again and again into its thick hide. The Minotaur howled, spinning, slamming itself against stone to crush her.

She let go, dropping low, and with all her fury drove her rapier up into its groin. The monster’s roar turned into a pitiful wail. She ripped the blade free and finished it with a strike across the throat.

Nine Minotaurs. Seven axemen.

Her vision blurred. Her breaths came ragged.

Another axeman’s blade struck her side, nearly dropping her. She snarled through the pain, ducked low, and drove her blade between his ribs. His scream became fuel. She turned and stabbed again, throat, heart, eye—killing three more in a whirl of desperation.

Four axemen left. Nine Minotaurs.

The Minotaurs surged now, tired of waiting. Their great axes swung like storms. Neth blocked one with her shield, the force sending her stumbling, ribs cracking. Another struck her back, pain tearing through her. She staggered, barely upright.

She spat blood, raised her blade, and charged.

She dodged between their legs, her blade flashing, cutting tendons, slicing knees. One Minotaur fell, bellowing, its axe dropping from its grip. Neth seized the weapon—far too heavy for her, but rage lent her strength. With a scream, she swung the great axe once, twice, carving into another Minotaur’s chest until it toppled, dead.

Seven Minotaurs. Four axemen.

Her body screamed to stop, but she did not. She cut down another axeman with a swift thrust. The others faltered, fear creeping into their eyes. But the Minotaurs pressed harder, their size and strength relentless.

One swung wide, catching her shield and shattering it. She spun, rapier in hand, and stabbed the beast through the mouth, driving steel into its brain. The monster collapsed with a shudder.

Six Minotaurs. Three axemen.

Her eye blazed like fire. Her body was broken, but her will burned brighter.

The axemen rushed as one. She sidestepped, thrust, dodged, parried—one fell, another staggered, the last lost his head to a clean cut. She collapsed to one knee, gasping, surrounded by Minotaur corpses and blood.

Six Minotaurs left. No axemen.

The beasts circled, snarling.

Neth gritted her teeth. With her last ounce of strength, she raised her rapier, whispering Dykenta’s name. Power flickered—weak, failing, but enough. Her blade glowed faintly.

They came. She dodged, stabbed, slashed, ducked. Each strike took her closer to death—but closer to victory. One Minotaur fell with a cut throat. Another with its heart pierced.

She lost count of the blows she took—her arms cut, her face bleeding, her body screaming. But she did not stop.

When at last she stood, swaying, only one Minotaur remained—massive, scarred, its greataxe dripping. It roared and charged.

Neth screamed back, all her fury pouring into one final act. She ducked low, slid beneath its swing, and with every ounce of her soul, drove the Black Dragon of Asher straight up into its chest, through rib and bone, piercing its heart.

The monster froze. Its axe dropped. And with a thunderous crash, it fell dead.

Neth collapsed beside it, her body a ruin of cuts and blood, her rapier trembling in her hand. She raised her head, her single eye locking on the colossal Hand far away in the storm.

Still impossibly far. yet still waiting for her were more of Urmbrik's men and monsters, the Squadrons of Knights, two colossal Giants, a Ghorgon and the Balor Lord.

She coughed blood, whispered through cracked lips:
“In Dykenta… I must.”

And with shaking legs, she forced herself to stand.

The battlefield stank of blood and ash. The corpses of axemen and Minotaurs lay strewn behind her, their black ichor soaking the cursed soil. Neth swayed where she stood, her rapier still slick with gore, her body trembling from wounds that screamed with every heartbeat.

She knew she could not fight again in this state. Not against what waited in the storm.

So, with shaking hands, she called on the only thing left to her—Dykenta’s light. Her lips formed cracked prayers, whispers lost in the roaring winds of Urmbrik’s realm. She pressed bloodied fingers to her chest, her breath rasping.

Heal.
Heal.
Heal.

Three prayers, three bursts of pale warmth that mended torn flesh and dulled her agony. Not enough to make her whole. Not enough to erase the exhaustion that bent her back and made her limbs heavy. But enough to stand. Enough to face what came.

The ground shook.

From the crimson haze ahead, they emerged—five Knights of Urmbrik, mounted on steeds of iron and bone, their lances leveled, their shields bearing the blackened sigil of the God Hand of Rage. Their armour glowed faintly, runes burning with infernal fire, their eyes hidden but their hatred fixed on her.

Behind them loomed worse—two colossal Giants, their massive clubs resting on shoulders that scraped the storm clouds. A hulking Ghorgon, half-beast, half-abomination, its four arms flexing with cruel blades at the ready. And farther still, watching with smouldering eyes, the Balor Lord, its whip and blade crackling with fire enough to split the ground.

Neth’s eye burned. Her heart hammered. Every instinct screamed at her to fall, to flee, to surrender to the hopelessness of it.

But she would not.

She tightened her grip on her rapier. Her knees bent, her stance low, her body ready for the charge. Her teeth clenched as she stared at the Knights galloping toward her, the earth trembling with every pounding hoof.

Alone, broken, and yet unyielding—
Neth whispered, steady this time:

“Come, then. If this is the end, I’ll make it one you’ll remember.”

The Knights lowered their lances, the thunder of their charge filling the storm.
And Neth raised her blade to meet them.

The thunder of hooves swallowed the world. Five black-armoured Knights bore down on her, their lances tipped with fire, their steeds breathing smoke. The ground itself seemed to flinch beneath their charge.

Neth’s body screamed at her to collapse. Every spell she had cast burned her veins hollow, every breath was a battle. Her wounds throbbed under the armor she barely had strength to carry. But she thought of Reyn’s steady heart, Rheana’s sharp eyes, Lila’s laughter, August’s fire, Gojo’s ferocity, Francesca’s calm, Scyana’s grace, Norue’s wisdom. She thought of Lek, her stubborn comrade, and Desnora, who had fought and bled beside her when others had fled. She thought even of the new ones—Jojo, fresh to their struggle, untested yet willing.

And she thought of Kasien. The one she had come here for. The one who still walked somewhere in these cursed realms. If she fell, she would never see him free.

Her eye burned, and she whispered through cracked lips:
“For them. For him.”

The Knights struck.

The first lance drove straight for her chest. Neth twisted, dragging her weary body aside, and the tip only tore her shoulder. Pain exploded, but she bit it down and slashed upward, the Black Dragon of Asher catching the Knight under his arm. His scream echoed as he toppled from his saddle, trampled beneath his own mount’s hooves.

The second and third came together, their lances crossing like fangs. Neth ducked low, the shafts scraping sparks from her armour, and with a roar she drove forward, her rapier plunging into the throat of the nearer Knight. Black ichor sprayed her face as he fell.

But the third lance caught her in the side, ripping through mail. She gasped, staggering, blood spilling freely. The horse thundered past, the rider wheeling for another strike.

The fourth came in hard, shield raised, lance angled down. Neth raised her own battered shield and met the blow. The impact rattled her bones, sent her stumbling back, but she held. She shoved the lance aside, spun, and drove her rapier deep into the horse’s flank. The beast screamed, collapsing, throwing its rider sprawling. Neth was on him in a heartbeat, plunging her blade through his visor.

The fifth struck her. The lance slammed into her shoulder, hurling her to the ground. Her shield skittered away, her breath knocked from her chest. She lay there, vision swimming, her strength nearly gone.

The Knight wheeled back, lowering his lance for the killing blow.

Neth forced her body up. Her legs shook, her blood ran, her eye blurred with tears. She thought of Kasien—alone, walking his own death road. She thought of the Cinders. And she screamed, raising her rapier one last time.

The Knight thundered forward, lance aimed at her heart.

At the last instant, Neth rolled aside, agony tearing her body, and drove her blade up into the horse’s chest. Both beast and rider went down in a crash of iron and flesh.

She staggered, swaying, bloodied but alive, as the battlefield fell silent again.

Only four corpses lay around her. The fifth horse kicked and shrieked, crushing its rider beneath it until both were still.

Neth stood over them, one eye burning with fire, her rapier trembling in her hand.

Her breaths came ragged. Her body begged for rest. But the colossal Hand still loomed impossibly far away. And worse things still waited in the storm.

She whispered, almost to herself, almost to her goddess:
“Not yet. I can’t fall. Not yet.”

The second Giant’s corpse still steamed, its black blood soaking into the cursed soil, when the air shifted.

A foul wind rose, thick with the stench of rot and sulfur. The ground trembled again—not in rhythm, but in a slow, pounding cadence that grew louder with every heartbeat.

Neth’s single eye lifted, her lungs struggling for breath, her body trembling.

From the smoke and ruin ahead, it emerged.

A Ghorgon.

Four legs, each like a tree trunk, hammered the ground as it advanced. Its massive bull’s body was scarred and plated with unnatural bone, its chest heaving with every snort. Horns curved wickedly from its head, each tipped with jagged iron, and from its maw dripped strings of black saliva that hissed and burned the soil.

Its eyes glowed with Urmbrik’s fury—twin furnaces of rage and hunger.

The beast bellowed, a sound that cracked the air and shook her very bones. Around it, the realm itself seemed to recoil, crystals dimming, skulls rattling, as though even the land feared its master’s creation.

Neth staggered back a step. Her legs threatened to fold. Her wounds screamed. Her mind whispered: You can’t.

But her hand tightened on the Black Dragon of Asher.

She drew herself upright, though every inch of her body burned with pain. She wiped the blood from her face with a trembling hand, leaving a smear across her green skin.

The Ghorgon lowered its head, its horns gleaming with death.

Neth whispered through cracked lips, more to herself than to anyone else:
“I have walked this far. I will not kneel now.”

The beast pawed the earth, preparing to charge.

The ground split. Dust and bone rose in a storm. The colossal Hand in the distance loomed larger than ever, though still impossibly far away.

And then the Ghorgon thundered forward.

Neth braced her weapon, her one eye blazing with Dykenta’s light.

The clash was inevitable.

Neth’s knees buckled as she muttered the words, burning through the last of her cleric reserves. Two Mass Healing Words, every charge spent. A wave of warmth surged through her broken body, knitting flesh and sealing gashes, but at a cost—her limbs sagged with exhaustion, her chest heaving like she’d run for days. Her eye burned with both life and pain.

The ground shook.

The Ghorgon thundered toward her, its four legs kicking up storms of ash and bone. Its horns glistened with gore from battles untold, its breath a furnace of decay.

Neth planted her boots, tightening her grip on the Black Dragon of Asher.

The beast lunged, horns first. Neth dove aside, her rapier grazing across its shoulder. Black ichor sprayed, sizzling on the ground. The Ghorgon roared and swung its head, the horn narrowly missing her as she rolled beneath it and stabbed again, this time into the muscle of its leg.

The wound slowed its charge but not its fury. The beast bellowed and kicked, its hoof slamming into her ribs. She coughed blood, forced back several feet, but didn’t fall.

The Ghorgon spun with surprising speed, its horns sweeping like scythes. Neth ducked low, her braid catching on one jagged tip, and countered with a furious thrust into its throat. The blade slipped past hide but not deep enough—the monster gurgled in pain, but lived.

It reared and came down with both forelegs. The earth cracked. Neth leapt aside, the shockwave staggering her. She barely caught herself before the horns came again. She blocked with her shield arm—bone and steel both cracked under the force.

She screamed, but fury kept her upright.

Snarling through bloodied teeth, Neth darted under the Ghorgon’s chest. With all the strength of her goblin heart, she drove her rapier upward into the soft gut. She twisted, yanked, and kicked off its hide, tearing herself free as blood rained down.

The Ghorgon howled, thrashing, slamming its head into the walls of rocks and red crystals. Shards of cursed crystal rained like glass.

It caught her with a back-kick, sending her skidding across the floor. Her armour split, her side bled freely. She gasped for air, her vision doubling. She wanted to collapse, but the thought of Kasien, of Reyn, Rheana, Lila, Lek, Desnora, burned like fire in her chest.

She rose.

The Ghorgon lowered its head for a final charge, blood pouring from its gut. Its eyes blazed red as it thundered forward.

Neth closed her eye, whispered to Dykenta, and ran straight at it.

At the last heartbeat, she dropped low, sliding beneath its bulk, her rapier blazing with divine light. With one desperate, upward slash, she carved through its throat.

The beast choked, stumbled, crashed into the wall, and collapsed in a storm of dust and bone.

Neth stood, drenched in its blood, her chest heaving. Her body was a battlefield of wounds, her magic nearly gone.

But she lived.

And beyond the haze, she could feel it—the Balor Lord was coming.

The Ghorgon’s corpse still twitched as it bled out, its death scream echoing off the crimson sky. Neth staggered forward, her one good eye fixed on the ground. Her boots dragged through the dust until she nearly tripped over a shard of her shattered breastplate.

Her hand reached down, trembling, to lift the broken armour.

There it was—the Black Dragon Scales sigil, cracked but still visible, glinting faintly in the stormlight. The crest of her mother’s order. The crest of home.

For the first time since she had entered Urmbrik’s realm, she let her knees buckled.

Images struck her like blades:
— Rawgold’s towers, glistening in the rain.
— Her mother, Lady Mukkie, standing tall in her studded leather, a blade in hand and fire in her heart.
— And then that memory burned over all others: Pehliif’s sword, Fate Killer, sweeping through the mountain storm in Tudor. The arc of steel. The scream. The head falling.

Her breath shattered. Her wounds wept freely. Blood smeared her lips as she bit down on the grief.

She raised her face to the blood-red storm, her scream tearing through the realm.
A howl of rage.
A cry of despair.
A goblin girl, broken and alone, mourning all she had lost.

Tears blurred her vision. They ran hot, mixing with the blood on her cheek, staining her broken armour red.

Neth looked down at herself—her body a ruin of scars and gashes, her armour splintered, her shield dented and cracked beyond saving. She had only one weapon left, the Black Dragon of Asher, a rapier once wielded by Rhegar himself. She held it tight in her hands, the steel glowing faintly with a light that was not her own.

Her eye burned, her chest heaved, her limbs quivered.

“Is this… how it ends?” she whispered to the storm.

No answer came. Only the distant rumble of thunder, the ground splitting beneath her boots as the next shadow approached.

Through the haze of her tears, Neth saw it.

A shape of fire and chains. A towering silhouette of rage incarnate.

The Balor Lord.

The wasteland itself seemed to retreat before its steps, flame dripping from its whip, smoke curling from its blade.

And Neth stood, bloodied and broken, weapon trembling in her hands.

But she stood.

The earth split where he walked.
The Balor Lord rose from the storm like a mountain of fire and chains, each step a furnace roar. His whip writhed like a living serpent of flame, his sword wide enough to cleave cities.

Neth stood alone before him, no more than a scarred shadow in broken armour, blood-soaked and trembling. Her one eye locked onto him. Her rapier—the Black Dragon of Asher—was the only thing she had left.

The Balor laughed. It was not sound but an earthquake, a splitting of the world.

“You crawl here, little insect. Your light will be the candle I snuff with my breath.”

The storm split as the Balor Lord came forth, a mountain of fire and rage. His whip cracked, his sword carved fire into the cursed soil. The red sky howled his name.

Neth stood before him—bleeding, trembling, armour shattered to useless plates, her shield nothing but twisted metal. Her single eye glowed with the last embers of defiance.

The storm turned redder still, the clouds cracking open like wounds. For a heartbeat, Neth felt the weight of her despair pulling her to the dirt. She thought of her mother’s death, of Hookspark’s sacrifice, of Martamo’s absence, of all the friends who had scattered and fallen. She thought of Kasien, walking the same cursed wastelands, perhaps already lost.

Her knees buckled.

But then—
The sigil on her ruined chestplate glimmered, faint but unbroken. The memory of Rhegar’s blade in her hand flared.
And from somewhere beyond the veil, she felt Dykenta’s whisper, silk and steel in her heart:

“Rise, my chosen. Let love burn brighter than rage.”

Neth screamed. A cry that split her throat raw. Her rapier ignited, not with fire, but with the light of everything she had lost, everything she still fought for.

The Balor Lord struck. His whip cracked, tearing mountains of skulls apart. His sword fell like a comet. But the goblin girl moved—not with strength, not with speed, but with sheer will. Each dodge was a prayer. Each parry was defiance.

They clashed.

Their clash shook Urmbrik’s realm.
Whip against steel. Sword against rapier.
Each strike tore her open, but still she rose.
Each roar broke the ground, but still she stood.

The Balor’s flames seared her flesh, but she endured. His whip tore her shield in two, but she endured. His laughter echoed in her skull, but she endured.

And when her body threatened to give way, when her blood painted the dust, she found her fury of the small—that endless goblin stubbornness, magnified by love and rage. She hurled herself upward, scaling the giant fiend’s arm, every movement leaving a smear of blood behind.

The Balor tried to shake her free, his voice booming curses older than Platera itself. But Neth climbed, higher and higher, until she reached his face.

Her one eye met his burning orbs.

“You will not break me,” she whispered.

And with a final cry, she plunged the Black Dragon of Asher into the Balor Lord’s eye.

The Balor Lord writhed, shrieked, clawed at the ruin of his face. He fell to one knee, chains dragging, flames guttering like a dying forge.

And then, impossibly—he begged.
Voice raw, echoing like a collapsing mountain:

“Mercy… goblin… warrior… I yield. Spare me. Spare me…”

Neth staggered, chest heaving, tears and blood mingling on her face. She could end him. She should end him. Yet in that moment, she remembered all the death already behind her—the friends she had buried, the family she had lost. Another corpse, another victory, meant nothing.

She narrowed her eye, her grip tightening on the Black Dragon of Asher.

“…Mercy you’ll have. But you’ll pay for it.”

The Balor Lord, shaking, bowed his horned head, thinking the goblin would leave him his life as her “gift.” He did not know what she meant. Not yet.

Neth’s lips curled into a smirk.

And with one brutal, unflinching stroke, she took from him what he prized most.

The Balor Lord’s scream ripped through the storm as his manhood was severed, his pride reduced to blood and dust. He fell howling, clutching himself, broken not by death, but by humiliation.

Neth wiped her blade, breathing like a dying fire, and shoved the grisly trophy into her pack.

She looked once at the writhing demon lord, her voice hoarse but cutting:
“You’ll remember me every time you feel that absence. And you’ll never forget who took it from you.”

Then she turned.
Barely able to stand, her body broken and failing her, she still walked.
One step. Then another.
Toward the colossal Hand that still loomed, endless and far away.

A bloodied goblin girl, scarred but unbowed, leaving a Lord of Balors to scream her name into the storm.

Her legs were no longer hers.
Every step was a gamble, every breath a war. Her body was a battlefield of wounds she could not count, bones she did not know were broken. The roar of the Balor Lord still thundered behind her—howling curses, howling grief for what she had taken from him.

Neth staggered forward. One tiny step. Then another. Her rapier dragged like dead weight in her hand. She swayed left, then right, her balance failing with each heartbeat. The red storm churned above her, mocking, watching.

And then the storm parted.

From the bleeding sky descended Urmbrik himself—the God Hand of Rage, his form vast and armored in fire, eyes molten pits of fury. His presence cracked the earth and set her wounds alight.

Neth froze, too broken to fight, too stubborn to kneel. She lifted her head, single eye glaring at him through blood and tears.

Urmbrik’s voice shook the wastes, thunder woven with contempt and—strangely—respect.

“Goblin. You have carved through my legions. You have slain what should never fall. You have humbled even my Balor Lord. For this… I acknowledge you.”

He leaned close, his breath like a furnace, his rage like a tide.

“But know this: every step you take burns my realm into you. You are breaking, piece by piece. And when you reach the Hand, it will not be as you are now. You will not walk away whole. None of you ever do.”

His gaze narrowed, as if studying her beyond flesh, into the marrow of her will. Then, in a voice almost solemn, almost mocking, he added:

“But for now… you endure. And for that, I give you this wisdom: rage is not your enemy. It is your fire. Let it keep you standing when nothing else will.”

And with that, great black wings tore from his back. He rose, the storm wrapping around him, and vanished toward the colossal Hand far in the distance.

Silence.

Neth’s legs gave way. She stumbled back, then collapsed, staring at the sky. Her one eye burned, glassy, unfocused. Blood ran down her cheek like crimson tears.

She whispered hoarsely, voice breaking, words half to herself, half to Dykenta, half to the void:

“I’ve come too far… too far to end here… I’ll walk again… I’ll… I’ll keep walking…”

Her eye fluttered. Her chest heaved.

Then darkness claimed her.
Not meditation. Not rest. But collapse. Her body, against her will, had decided enough was enough.

And the storm raged on, as the colossal Hand loomed ever farther away.

The Stranger in Violet

The storm did not fall silent, but it shifted.
From the west came the sound of hooves—steady, regal, unhurried. A silhouette took form against the crimson haze, tall in the saddle, armoured in plates that glimmered faintly violet beneath the storm-light. His steed was no ordinary beast: black as night, its mane a pale ghost-fire, its eyes burning with discipline rather than rage.

The rider dismounted with deliberate grace, the ground crunching under his greaves. He stood tall, his helm wrought in cruel beauty, every line of his armour echoing command and conquest.

At his feet lay Neth—broken, bloodied, her one eye shut, her breath shallow. She did not stir when he loomed over her.

For a time, the stranger simply watched her. Silent. Measuring.

Then, his voice came—low, steady, and heavy with a weight that seemed both admiration and judgment.

“So this is the one who has walked through Urmbrik’s realm. A goblin… broken, yet unbowed. You bleed more than any warrior I have seen, yet still you take steps toward the Hand.”

He crouched, the violet sheen of his armour close to her battered armour marked with the Black Dragon Scales. His gloved hand brushed the air above her as though measuring her spirit rather than her body.

His gloved fingers brushing her broken armour, his helm tilting as if studying every scar.

“The world has abandoned you, yet you endure. Gods have cursed you, yet you defy them. Even Urmbrik himself gave you his words. Humbled a Balor Lord, and you still walk.”

“The others will not understand you. They will call you fragile. They will not see that fragility hides iron. But I see it.”

His tone darkened, softened, as if confiding a truth she could not hear:

“Perhaps you are what they say. Perhaps you are what even they fear.”

With surprising care, he gathered her in his arms, lifting her battered body as though she were a child. Her head lolled against his chest, unconscious, lips still murmuring fragments of prayers she no longer knew she spoke.

Her one eye cracked open. Through haze, she saw the glimmer of violet steel, the proud bearing, the aura of command. For one heartbeat, she smiled.

“…Rhegar…” she whispered, before slipping back into the dark.

A warmth spread across her face, though it was not her Rhegar’s arms that held her.

He carried her to his steed and placed her gently in the saddle, securing her so she would not fall. Then he mounted behind her, taking the reins.

He spoke again, words falling into the storm like vows meant only for her unconscious ear:

“Rest, little warrior. Rest while I bear you westward. There will be time enough for battles yet to come. And when you wake, you will know… that you are not abandoned.”

The horse turned westward, hooves steady and sure as they carried them away from the path of the colossal Hand.

The stranger spoke again, his words falling like oaths into the storm, though Neth’s unconscious mind could not hear them:

“You are more than they know. More than you know. And whether you rise as their saviour or their doom… I will see it. I will shape it. I will claim it.”

He spurred the horse onward, the storm parting before them, his voice still speaking to her sleeping form, words like iron in velvet:

“Rest now, little warrior. Your march is not yet done. But it will not be yours alone.”

Behind them, the roar of the Balor Lord, robbed of its pride, still echoed across the bloody wastes. Ahead, only shadow and mystery.

The storm swallowed them, rider and goblin alike, their path veering west while the colossal Hand still loomed in the distance, untouched, waiting.

The violet steed’s hooves struck the cursed earth with measured rhythm, carrying horse and riders steadily westward into the crimson haze. The storm bent around them, its fury dimming in deference to the armoured figure astride it.

Neth slumped in the saddle, head against his chest, her one eye closed, her face pale with blood and exhaustion. And yet—a faint smile curved her lips, as though in her dreams she rested somewhere safe.

The knight’s voice broke the silence. Deep. Calm. Like iron striking velvet.

“You have walked further than most kings dare. You have bled more than armies. Yet you did not bow. Not to the fiends, not even to the god of rage himself.”

He adjusted the reins with one hand, his other arm steadying her slight frame.

“You believe yourself broken, little one. Fragile. But I see you. You are not broken—you are tempered. The storm has not shattered you. It has forged you.”

The horse carried them into the dark, violet light glinting across the knight’s armour. His words came quieter, as though meant for her alone, though she lay unconscious.

“They will write of your steps as if they were miracles. But I know the truth. You did not walk for glory. You walked because you could not stop. That is what makes you dangerous. That is what makes you… worthy.”

Neth murmured softly in her sleep, her smile faint but real. The knight glanced down at her, helm tilting ever so slightly, as if something human flickered behind the faceless steel.

“Rest now. You have earned that much. The path ahead is long, and when you rise again, you will need your fire. I will see you there. I will see what you become.”

The storm swallowed their silhouettes, the colossal Hand still clawing at the horizon behind them. The steed’s hoofbeats faded into distance, carrying them westward—away from Urmbrik’s fury, and deeper into the unknown.

The Council of the God Hands

The colossal Hand loomed above the void, each finger crowned with a god. Their voices rippled across planes, blending thunder, silk, and madness.

Urmbrik, God of Rage, Flesh, and Bone, his voice a roar of grinding stone:

“The goblin should be dust beneath my giants. Yet she stands. She fights. She mocks my realm with her endurance. I would see her broken in my hands, her bones split and her rage twisted into mine.”
He snarled, sparks of molten bone scattering from his teeth.
“The elf? Bah. He is nothing. A child, playing at war. Cleverness is ash without fury.”

Zlaniz, God of Lust and Despair, her voice a whisper that caressed and poisoned at once:

“And yet… what despair shines more brightly than hers? She clings to love and light, knowing they will betray her. Every tear, every scream, every refusal only feeds me. One day she will cry for comfort, and only I will answer. Then she will be mine.”
Her smile slithered across the void.
“As for the boy… he walks with hollow eyes, chasing ghosts he cannot catch. How delicious his longing. Despair ripens sweetest when it festers for years.”

Geardaz, God of Magic, Trickery, and Aberration, his voice shattering into laughter, shards of glass and runes falling with it:

“You call the boy nothing, Urmbrik? He is everything! A gambler who bleeds with every spell. I twist his magic and he still plays the game, thinking he can win. He is mine. A dancer in my labyrinth. He cannot escape.”
The storm above him fractured into eyes, all winking at once.
“The goblin? Pah. She is dull to me. Too grounded, too faithful. I will let her frustrate you all while I play with the elf.”

Zarlnis, God of Wrath, War, and Corruption, her voice a grinding of iron and marching boots:

“Neither matter… yet. A goblin who kills demons does not raise banners. An elf who fights beholders does not command legions. They are sparks, nothing more. But sparks can light wars. If either learns to lead, I will claim them for my armies.”
She spat into the void, the sound like a war drum.
“Until then, they are scraps.”

Zonid, God of Time, Space, and the Void, his voice deeper, slower, a tide pulling eternity itself:

“You are blind, as always.”
The void rippled with his words, every star trembling in silence.
“The goblin is not a pawn. She is the piece I have waited two thousand years to see placed. She alone bears what is required to ascend. She will not die. She will become. And when she becomes, we will be six.”
His eyes—galaxies in themselves—turned, heavy and absolute.
“The boy is thread. A fragment. He is not the prize, but the tether. He will drive her. He will break her. He will bind her to the path I have already woven.”

The council fell to silence.

Urmbrik’s fury smoldered.
Zlaniz’s whisper curled with hunger.
Geardaz’s laughter echoed, endless.
Zarlnis’s disdain sharpened like a blade.
And Zonid’s patience spread like a shadow across eternity.

Together, their voices rose, a storm that split the realms:

“Genethia. Kasien. Walk. Bleed. Break. You are ours.”

Kasien — The Dream

Kasien drifted, not in trance as elves should, but in the heavy, unnatural sleep of exhaustion. His body lay broken and bruised on the cold crystal floor of Geardaz’s labyrinth, but his mind wandered elsewhere.

He stood beneath the moss-hung trees of Kanbajan. The air was warm, thick with lotus perfume. A river shimmered in moonlight, and across it he saw them— Yshari, laughing as she wove rain into arcs of silver; Vhalis, standing barefoot on temple stones, waving for him to come; even his older brother Vaelith, arms crossed but smiling the way he had not since they were children.

Kasien’s chest ached. He stepped forward, his hand rising, desperate to reach them.

That was when he heard it.

A voice.

Soft. Beautiful. A song like velvet on water, woven with care. It was not Yshari, nor Vhalis, nor Vaelith. It was something else. Something… closer.

“Rest, little wanderer. Rest, little flame. The world has stolen from you, but I will not.”

The words curled around him like a lullaby. The dream brightened, the river glowing with impossible light. His family smiled wider, their shapes almost too perfect.

Kasien frowned, torn. His rational mind clawed at him. Dreams could lie. He had studied too much, seen too many illusions, to trust what he saw. But the song… the song sank into his bones, into the wounds that still bled in waking.

“Sleep, Ash-Fall. Sleep, and heal. I will keep you safe. Just a little longer. Just a little closer.”

His violet eyes flickered. Was it Dykenta, reaching through the veil out of love for Neth’s companion? Was it Geardaz, mocking him, weaving false comfort into his tired heart? Or perhaps another—an enemy who wore kindness like a mask?

Kasien could not tell. He only knew the song warmed him, made the ache of his ribs fade, made him believe, for a fragile instant, that Yshari and Vhalis were still alive and waiting.

He smiled in his sleep. His lips whispered their names.

And deeper in the labyrinth, the crystals pulsed to the rhythm of that haunting lullaby.

The song followed him deeper into sleep, carrying him from the riverbanks of Kanbajan into the paths of his wandering life.

He dreamed of the ruins.

Red sand scouring his face in Urlalamai. Black vines curling around broken idols in Aswarbin. Temples where screams were trapped in crystals, jungles where the stars could not pierce the canopy. Each memory unfolded before him like pages he had already written, but in the dream they were sharper—clearer—tinged with the glow of something watching.

The song wove softly.
“You have walked where others fled. You have listened when others turned away. You were always mine, though you did not know it.”

Kasien clenched his hands, even in dream. Mine? Whose claim was that?

The dream shifted again.

He was on the cobblestones of Whitestone, mist curling in the valley, lantern-light spilling from tavern windows. He remembered the smoke of the hearth, the warmth of mead on his tongue, and the laughter of strangers.

Reyn, bright-eyed, speaking to him with a kindness that was rare in his journey.
Ashri, sly and grinning, already tugging him into mischief.
Jojo, curious, tilting their head at him as if to weigh his heart.

Kasien remembered it. The moment Reyn offered him not just a seat, but a place.

The dream warmed.

“Yes… you needed them. And they needed you. Do you see, little flame? Even gods cannot weave alone. All threads bind together.”

Kasien turned in dream, and there they were—the Cinders.

Rheana, sharp as steel, her eyes measuring him.
Lila, her smile hiding deeper storms.
Francesca, her presence radiant, a contrast to the shadows in him.
Gojo, always with a scarred grin, unflinching before danger.
August, solemn but steady, as though rooted in unseen soil.
Nórue, fragile and fierce both, still finding his path.
Desnora, heavy with a past like his, yet unyielding.
Lek, scarred, gruff, yet fighting beside them without hesitation.

And then Neth.

Kasien saw her standing as she always did, one eye burning, the Amulet on her chest faintly glowing in the dreamlight. The song grew louder as he looked at her.

“The bearer. The chosen. She walks paths no mortal should endure. Do you think her path is not also yours? Do you not feel it in your blood, bladesinger? You chase her, and she chases fate. One day, you will not know where you end and she begins.”

The words pulled at him, threading into the marrow of his doubt and loyalty alike.

Kasien wanted to scream at the voice, to demand who it was, what it wanted. But in the dream, he only watched his companions laugh, talk, live—while the colossal Hand loomed far above the horizon, a shadow creeping into every memory.

The voice sang one last refrain, so tender it ached:
“Rest. For soon, the walking begins again. And when you wake, you will not know if it was love that sang to you… or a snare.”

Kasien stirred, a faint smile on his lips, whispering the names of his family and the Cinders alike.

The crystals around him pulsed in silence, as though listening.

Sleep claimed him like drowning.

Kasien opened his eyes to a battlefield.

The sky was teal, black, and bleeding red all at once, storms tearing in circles overhead. Crystals jutted from the ground, humming with unstable power, and across the broken plain stood monuments of flesh, bone, and magic—statues too vast to be real, yet shifting as though alive. Each bore the mark of a God Hand.

From the first monument, a shadow descended:

Velmyra Duskthor, her form towering, plated in violet scales. Her eyes glowed like coals buried in ash. Chains dangled from her hands, binding writhing captives that vanished whenever Kasien tried to focus on them. Her voice was the silk of Zlaniz, dripping with cruel amusement:

“Loss makes you pliable, little one. All that is stolen from you… could be returned. Do you not ache for your sister? For your cousin? I could give them back, if only you yield.”

Kasien backed away, but another shadow rose behind him.

Hrothgar Skuldson, clad in jagged armor that pulsed with veins of lightless void. His steps cracked the ground like glass, and when he spoke, it was with Urmbrik’s rage behind him:

“Calm and restraint? Lies you tell yourself. Your blood remembers. Rage is truth. Let it spill, and you will stand unbroken, as I do.”

The stench of smoke and gore filled Kasien’s lungs. He staggered—only to see another form emerge from the storm.

Maelgor Veyrnos, warped by impossible geometries, his body a knot of angles and shifting illusions, each movement rewriting itself. One moment he was an armored knight, the next a serpent, the next a thing with too many mouths. His laughter was Geardaz’s, sharp and shattering:

“Clever boy. So careful with your maps, your runes, your rules. And yet here you stand, in my riddle made flesh. Every spell you cast belongs to me. Every gamble you take is a prayer in my tongue. You are mine, even in defiance.”

Kasien’s breath shook. He clutched Soul of the Elderwood, but the dream warped around it, the blade glowing green, then red, then breaking into a dozen shards before reforming.

And then the last shadow came.

A man.

Steedgar Eldimar, astride a beast that was half horse, half nightmare. His body bore a thousand scars but not a single wound that slowed him. He rode with his axe across his back, his grin feral, his eyes endless. When he spoke, it was not rage or trickery—it was the voice of Zarlnis, the war-goddess, resonant with respect:

“You march still, boy. Alone, you carve more than most armies. You have steel in you. Join us, and I will see you sharpened into command. A champion who does not crawl, but conquers.”

Kasien stood in the middle of them all—the four champions circling, their gods’ voices wrapping around him, promising, mocking, demanding.

And above them, the storm parted.

Zonid’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere, vast and patient:

“The boy thinks himself a seeker. He is already chosen. Two thousand years I have waited for such threads to knot. Every ruin he traced, every rune he touched—it was my map he followed. He has walked the path I drew.”

The colossal Hand loomed on the horizon, larger than the world, its fingers closing slowly as if to grasp him.

Kasien dropped to his knees, clutching his head as the voices grew louder—Zlaniz promising his family restored, Urmbrik demanding his rage, Geardaz mocking his cleverness, Zarlnis offering command, Zonid claiming destiny.

The champions closed in, their shadows falling across him. Their eyes were endless. Their smiles sharp.

Kasien screamed—
and woke, gasping, sweat freezing on his skin.

The crystals around him pulsed once, like a heartbeat.

And he could not tell if he had dreamed, or if the champions had truly stood over him, whispering into his very soul.

Neth — Dream of Jhambi Circle

The air was warm, golden, soft.

Neth blinked, and for a moment the bleeding skies of Urmbrik’s realm were gone. Instead, she stood barefoot on moss, the cool damp of the Jhambi Circle under her toes. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, dancing in ribbons across the old stones. The air smelled of cinnamon and roasted apples from the kitchens beyond.

Her heart stuttered. She knew this place. She had not walked here in years.

A faint smile broke through the blood and exhaustion on her face.

And then she heard it—laughter.

She turned, and there she was: Genethia Roth, ten years old again, sitting cross-legged on a smooth stone, crumbs smeared across her tunic, a half-eaten hand-pie clutched tight. Her cheeks were rounder, her eye bright with mischief.

Beside her, Caladawn leaned against a carved stone, pretending to read a scroll, though his eyes kept flicking to the girl with quiet amusement.

“I don’t care what Mom says,” little Genethia declared proudly between sticky bites. “Apple pie is a proper breakfast.”

Caladawn lowered the scroll, arching a brow in mock severity.
“A bold proclamation, child. One that flies in the face of culinary tradition.”

The younger Neth grinned up at him, cheeks full.
“Cinnamon counts as a spice! Spices are used in magic, right?”

“Some,” he admitted, eyes glinting, “but I wouldn’t recommend enchanting a spell circle with pie filling.”

She snickered, almost spilling her pie.
“What would happen?”

Caladawn leaned in close, voice low and dramatic:
“Well… legend tells of a halfling who once attempted such a thing. Instead of a pie elemental, they summoned a jelly ooze that devoured three cookbooks, a pair of boots, and half the city’s goose population.”

The child gasped, horrified.
“That’s a crime! Geese are mean, but still!”

“Indeed,” Caladawn said gravely. “To this day, the Mage’s Guild of Silverhollow enforces a strict ‘no pastries in the summoning chamber’ rule.”

The girl’s laughter rang out, echoing through the Circle like bells.

And the older Neth—the warrior, the cleric, the scarred survivor—stood watching, tears pricking her eye. For just a heartbeat, she was not bleeding in the red wastes, not broken or hunted. She was a child again, with pie on her fingers and sunlight on her face.

Her lips moved before she realized it, whispering to herself:

“I remember.”

The Jhambi Circle shimmered like gold leaf in sunlight. Moss drank in the warmth, and the stones glowed faintly with the memory of old magic. Genethia Roth—just ten years old again—sat cross-legged, laughing through crumbs of apple pie. Caladawn leaned close with his scroll, weaving stories of halfling pie elementals and rules about “no pastries in summoning chambers.”

The laughter was real. The air smelled of cinnamon and firewood. Neth’s heart swelled at the memory, and for a fleeting moment, she forgot she was bloodied, broken, and wandering Urmbrik’s realm.

But then the sky split.

From the treeline stalked Agadra Gora, her form like a shadow twisted into scales, chains dragging behind her. The golden light dimmed. The warmth curdled.

Her voice was velvet stretched over fangs:
“Sweet dream, child. But dreams end. When the Blood Eclipse rises, you will accept the gift we bestow upon you. You will not be Roth. You will not be Dykenta’s plaything. You will be ours. The Sixth Hand.”

The child-Neth on the stone trembled, clutching her pie tighter. The older Neth—watching, half ghost, half participant—felt her throat tighten.

Caladawn lowered his scroll. For once, his tone was not whimsical but sharp, like the first crack of thunder:
“Leave her.”

Agadra’s chains scraped the stones. She leaned closer, her smile cruel.
“You think your stories will shield her? You think your affection outweighs destiny? I will show her what you hide, Magus. The rot of your age, the lies you keep even from yourself.”

The Circle shuddered. The moss blackened. The pie in little Genethia’s hand crumbled into ash.

But then—the child lifted her sticky, trembling hand.

“Deal,” she whispered. “If I master Mage Hand… I get to steal pies.”

The echo of laughter returned, faint but defiant. The stones glowed brighter. Cinnamon filled the air again. Caladawn’s eyes softened, and the older Neth felt tears burn her one eye as she realized—her own subconscious was fighting back. The memory itself resisted corruption.

Agadra hissed, chains striking the earth.
“You cannot hold this forever. The Eclipse comes. And when it does, we will not need to taint your dreams. You will choose us. And I will show you Caladawn’s truths—the kind that will break what little light you carry.”

The warmth and shadow clashed—the Circle flickering between golden afternoon and blood-red eclipse. Child and Champion, laughter and prophecy, innocence and doom.

Neth staggered, clutching her chest as the dream collapsed around her. She heard her younger self laugh one last time, sticky hand clasping Caladawn’s.

She whispered to herself through cracked lips:
“I will not be theirs.”

The laughter in the Circle faded. The golden sun fractured into shards, bleeding red.

Snow fell where there had been moss. Wind screamed where there had been birdsong.

Genethia stood amidst a blizzard of ruin, her small hands trembling. The warmth of pie and spice was gone, replaced by iron and ash.

Her breath came shallow. Her heart froze in her chest.

Before her—

Rhegar Asher.
Hero of flame and scale, the man her young heart had believed unbreakable. He knelt in chains, head bowed, blood trailing down his jaw. She cried out, but her voice was a ghost in the storm. The executioner’s blade fell. His head rolled. And the world screamed with her voice—yet no one heard.

To her side—

Her father. Sepher Roth.
Snow crusted his lashes, his mighty blade buried in the chest of a horned demon. Victory’s pose, but his chest no longer rose. His bright blue eyes stared at nothing, frozen wide, unseeing.

She turned—

Her mother. Mukkie Roth.
Still defiant, limbs trembling, radiant even in despair. But the battle was already lost.

And then he approached.

Pehliff.
The elf with golden burning eyes. The one Caladawn had whispered of long before the world ever knew his name.

He did not speak. He only smiled—mocking, inevitable—as if the tale had already been written, and he merely played his part.

The smile widened as his blade flashed.

Mukkie’s body fell. Her head rolled across the ice and landed at Genethia’s feet.

Neth staggered back, screaming, clutching the little girl-self that could only cry. But Pehliff turned his gaze upon her, the grin slipping into a snarl—a flicker of irritation, as if this resistance was not how the story was meant to go.

She raised her blade. Gods, she tried.

But his sword moved faster.

Straight through her left eye—piercing not just flesh but the very core of her vision, her dreams, her future.

The pain was fire, lightning, eternity. And as she fell to her knees, blood hot across her face, she felt not only her body break—

She felt her god abandon her.

The light of Tymira flickered. Went cold.

She was alone.

And in that instant—Caladawn’s memory stirred, watching from afar, his heart breaking as though this vision clawed across his own soul. For he saw it too: not just Neth’s eye being taken, not just her life being cut—

But her faith extinguished.

Genethia Roth stood cloaked in ash and blood. She was still young, her body small and thin, but her soul was ragged, her single eye hollow. Her hands shook not from weakness but from what they had carried—every death, every betrayal, every loss.

And around her, the ghosts began to fall.

Martamo, the Tiefling she had loved, flames guttering out as he collapsed into her arms. His lips shaped her name in a whisper too faint for the wind to carry.

Alpha, the ancient Warforged, shattered into rusted silence, gears unmoving, his watch ended.

Frigg, wild-hearted druid, crushed beneath roots that once obeyed her every call.

Desnora, fierce Red Wizard, screaming as her own spell collapsed and unmade her.

Shinzon, silent Owlin, slain in shadow by a blade he never saw.

Tyrion Grimbeard, blind monk, smiling as he fell. “It’s time, little one.”

Hookspark, Skaven ogre, body torn apart as he held the line so she could flee.

Willow Bloodeyes, dagger red, loyalty burning her life away.

Lek, rogue in the dark, gone with a whisper and a flicker of a blade.

Pyro, mad laughter on his lips even as his final explosion swallowed him, leaving only silence.

One by one, every face dimmed. Every flame guttered out. Until she stood alone, with nothing.

The ground cracked beneath her boots, and she lifted her head to see it.

The Field of Fate.

Above her, the sky blazed crimson—a blood moon devouring every star. The earth was black, barren, and in its center rose a colossal stone hand, its fingers stretched like towers, its palm a dais of judgment.

And upon each finger stood a god of the Hand.

Zonid. Geardaz. Zarlnis. Urmbrik. Zlaniz.

They did not speak, yet their presence pressed down on her soul. Their shadows smothered everything, filling her chest with dread, fury, and something else she dared not name.

The amulet in her hand pulsed with heat.

Her voice cracked, broken but steady:
“I have lost all I was meant to love.”

The shadows deepened.

“You offer power…” she cried, her voice ragged. “…not to destroy the world… but to remake it, so that no one else suffers as we did.”

The amulet glowed blood-red, bathing her face in fire.

She lifted it high.

“I accept!” she screamed, her voice breaking with fury and grief.

A single blood tear ran from her ruined eye, falling like a brand upon the black earth.

And as the words left her lips, the world itself turned red.

The stone hand closed its fist.

The gods of the Hand vanished into blinding light.

And the vision shattered like glass.

The blood-red field cracked, dissolving into shadow. The colossal Hand and the gods upon it blurred into smoke, their whispers fading into silence.

Neth trembled, still clutching her rapier even in dream, her chest heaving with sobs. She had watched herself give in. She had seen her friends die. She had felt despair crush her like a tomb.

But then—footsteps.

Chains scraping.

A shape unfurled from the dark like a serpent uncoiling. Agadra Gora. Her scales shimmered like molten glass, her smile sharp as the edge of a fang.

She circled Neth, voice velvet over steel:

“Such passion. Such tears. But child… this was not your vision.”

Neth looked up, her one eye burning. “What?”

Agadra leaned closer, her breath like smoke, her chains rattling.

“It was his.”

And with a gesture, the dream spun.

The sky opened. Neth was turned by unseen force, her body locked. Behind her, she saw him—Caladawn Magus. Not the warm figure of the Jhambi Circle, but older, wearier, his eyes shadowed by centuries. He stood as if he bore the weight of all the worlds, and his gaze fixed upon the same vision she had just endured: her companions falling one by one, herself raising the amulet, her blood tear sealing the pact.

Her heart seized.

Agadra’s whisper coiled around her like a dagger pressed to her throat:

“He saw this long before you did. He watched your fall in the shadow of the Blood Eclipse. He carries this burden still.”

Neth shook her head violently, tears streaking her cheeks. “No. He—he would have told me!”

Gora laughed, the sound low, mocking.
“Would he? Or did he spare you? Protect your fragile hope with silence? You saved some, yes. Desnora. Lek. But not all. Not yet. Perhaps never. Even now, you wonder what became of Vor’i’s, Kegan, Kunath. He knows what you cannot bear to ask.”

The dream darkened further. The Field of Fate collapsed into a storm of chains and fire. The gods were gone. Only Agadra remained, towering, her smile cruel.

She leaned in, her eyes glowing like coals.

“Do you want to see, Genethia Roth?”

Her words cut deeper than any blade.
“Do you want to see what he did?”

The storm rattled around her, chains thrashing like serpents, fire bleeding through the sky. Agadra’s voice pressed closer, heavier, until it seemed to crawl under her skin.

“Do you want to see, Genethia Roth? Do you want to see what he did?”

Neth’s throat tightened. Her fists clenched around her rapier, though even here, in the dream, it felt heavier than steel.

Caladawn’s face—aged, solemn, burdened—hung in her mind. She remembered his kindness, his patience, the warmth of Jhambi Circle. The way he called her little light.

But she also remembered how he avoided certain questions. How his gaze sometimes lingered too long when her amulet burned. How his words would fall silent whenever she asked of her future.

He had known.

He had seen this.

Neth’s heart pounded.

“If I see it…” she whispered through clenched teeth, “I may not come back. I may hate him for it. I may…” Her breath caught. “…break.”

Agadra’s smile widened, chains tightening around her like a noose.
“Yes. That is the point. To break. To know what truth costs.”

Neth closed her eye. The memory of her friends burned in her mind—Desnora laughing after they had thought her lost, Lek smirking after yet another narrow escape. Those she had saved. Proof that destiny could be bent.

Her voice trembled, but grew stronger with each word:
“No. I will not see it. Not on your terms.”

The storm froze. Agadra’s eyes narrowed.

Neth’s eye opened again, blood and tears streaking her face, and she spat her defiance into the dark:
“I’ll learn the truth from him. My truth, not your poisoned version.”

For the first time, Agadra’s smile faltered. A hiss escaped her throat, chains snapping in agitation.

“You think he will tell you? You think he will bare his soul? Foolish child… your trust will be the blade that cuts you deepest.”

The dream shuddered, fragments of the Field of Fate and Jhambi Circle colliding, breaking apart. Agadra’s form unraveled into smoke, her laughter echoing even as she dissolved.

Neth staggered, breath ragged, clutching her rapier to her chest.

“I’d rather break in Caladawn’s truth,” she whispered to herself, “than drown in yours.”

The storm shattered. She woke.

Kasien — The Lament of Discord

Kasien woke with a start.

His head ached, his ribs burned, and his body screamed with every attempt to move. But it wasn’t the pain that startled him—it was the sound.

A voice. Low, melodic, carrying both sorrow and warmth, like a song sung over graves and yet meant to comfort the living.

His eyes snapped open.

He was still in the labyrinth—its walls of stone and crystal shifting faintly in the distance. But he wasn’t lying on the cold floor. He was lying across someone’s lap.

The singer.

A woman, pale as moonlight, with hair spilling like ink across her shoulders. Her eyes shimmered in fractured hues—teal, violet, silver—as if they couldn’t decide what truth they belonged to. Her lips curved faintly as the song faded, and for a heartbeat Kasien thought she might weep.

He jolted upright, stumbling backward, one hand instinctively clutching Soul of the Elderwood.

“Who are you?” His voice was hoarse. “What do you want?”

The woman did not rise. She sat with her hands folded, gaze steady but gentle.

“I am Elyndra Veylith,” she said softly. “They call me the Lament of Discord. And I want nothing from you but to see you live, bladesinger.”

Kasien’s eyes narrowed. “No one in this place wants me to live.”

A smile touched her lips, sad and knowing. “Then perhaps I am no one.”

Silence hung between them. The labyrinth groaned, shifting faintly, as if listening.

Kasien kept his blade ready. “How long was I asleep?”

Her head tilted. “Five days here. Five hours in your Platera.”

His stomach sank. He had lost time—time he couldn’t afford.

Cursing under his breath, he turned toward the endless corridors. “I have to move. I have to find the way out before this place kills me.”

Elyndra rose now, graceful, her steps as quiet as the shifting stone. “Alone, you will wander until despair takes you. The labyrinth has no mercy, and no pattern to follow. It was made to break minds.”

He glanced back, still wary. “And you would guide me? Why? What do you gain?”

Her eyes glimmered again—sorrow and something unreadable, as though she were more prisoner than master here.

“I am the discord in Geardaz’s song,” she said simply. “I do not wish to see another thread cut before its time. If you will let me, I can help you walk where the walls intend to trap you.”

Kasien hesitated, every instinct screaming caution. Yet the thought of wandering blind until death clawed him down burned colder still.

He lowered his blade—not fully, but enough. “Fine. Help me. But if you betray me…”

Her smile flickered, tired but unafraid. “I would expect nothing less, bladesinger.”

The labyrinth shifted again, corridors rearranging like teeth in a jaw. Elyndra lifted a hand, and the walls stilled, as though listening to her.

Kasien swallowed hard. Whatever she was, she was no ordinary creature of this place.

And so, with aching limbs and battered resolve, he walked at her side.

The labyrinth groaned as though alive. Walls of teal stone shifted with a sound like cracking ice, corridors sliding out of alignment only to lock into new, stranger geometries. Kasien walked a few steps behind Elyndra, his hand brushing the hilt of Soul of the Elderwood, eyes never fully leaving her.

Her staff hummed faintly, the crystal at its tip releasing soft harmonics that seemed to still the labyrinth’s hunger. With each note, the shifting walls froze, granting them passage where moments before there had been none.

“You play this maze like an instrument,” Kasien muttered, half to himself. “Why help me at all? You serve Geardaz.”

Elyndra glanced back, her hood shadowing her face, though her lips carried the faintest smile. “Not serve. Sing. There is a difference.”

Kasien frowned. “To me, it looks the same.”

“Of course it does,” she said softly. “You still believe service is chains and song is freedom. You have not yet learned how easily the two can become one.”

They walked in silence a while. The labyrinth whispered with false echoes—Kasien thought he heard Neth calling his name once, then his sister’s voice. He clenched his jaw and ignored them.

Finally, he asked: “And before this? Before discord?”

Her staff’s crystal dimmed. “The Emerald Isles. My home was green cliffs and golden shores, where song decided wars as often as steel. I was loved there, once. Loved… and lost.”

Kasien studied her profile, catching the shadow of pain behind her words. “Who?”

“A knight. Aelthar Caedwyn. He fought with fire in his veins. I sang for him, for our people. I believed we could unite the Isles through honour and song.” Her voice faltered. “A Balor cut him down. I sang his name as he fell. And when he was dragged into the abyss, my song broke.”

The labyrinth stilled at her words, as if listening. Even Geardaz’s walls seemed unwilling to mock that sorrow.

Kasien exhaled slowly. “I lost people too. My cousin Vhalis. My sister Yshari. Taken by the amulets. I’ve hunted across half the world to understand what stole them from me.”

She tilted her head, the faintest glimmer in her eyes. “And what have you learned?”

“That I don’t know enough. That the more I find, the more the ground shifts beneath me. Like this place.” He kicked at the stones. “Like Geardaz made the whole world into a labyrinth just to laugh at us.”

Elyndra’s lips curved faintly. “He does laugh. He laughs at me, too. Every dirge I sing is his joy. Every discord I summon is his delight. And yet…” Her voice softened, fragile for the first time. “…when I look at you, I wonder if even discord can grow tired of itself.”

Kasien stiffened. “Don’t make me your ghost. I’m not Aelthar.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But you are young. You burn. And Geardaz sent me to break that fire. Instead, I find myself wanting to shield it.”

Her words hung between them.

The labyrinth groaned again, but this time it parted cleanly, opening a straight path ahead, its end unseen. Elyndra placed a hand on the wall as though steadying herself.

“You carry the weight of family,” she said at last. “And I carry a grave. Perhaps together, for a time, we can bear each other’s silence.”

Kasien said nothing. He only nodded once, sharply.

And so they walked deeper into the shifting maze, two broken melodies moving toward a hand-shaped horizon neither could yet see.

The shifting walls moaned, then shuddered into stillness. Elyndra’s harp-string voice hung in the air, a single sustained note that seemed to hold the whole maze in place. The corridors folded back upon themselves, opening a long stair carved of teal crystal.

At its top, light — not the sickly teal of Geardaz’s realm, but a sharper, harsher glow that burned against Kasien’s tired eyes.

“The way out,” Elyndra said quietly, lowering her staff. “The labyrinth allows you passage. You should thank me.”

Kasien’s grip on his scimitar tightened. “Or curse you. For all I know, you’ve been leading me into a trap.”

Her head tilted, hood shadowing her face, though the faintest curve of a smile lingered. “You think I would waste five days nursing your broken body just to hand you to a monster? How quaint.”

He stepped closer, glaring up at her. “You serve one already.”

“Ah.” She laughed once, a hollow sound. “Yes. And so do you. Every breath in this realm feeds Geardaz. Every wound you take makes him grin. Do not flatter yourself that you resist him.”

The words stung — because he could not tell if they were true. Kasien’s silence only made her smile deepen.

“Why?” he asked at last, voice sharp. “Why help me at all?”

Elyndra walked past him, her cloak brushing against his arm. She paused at the stair’s first step, looking back with eyes that flickered like dying embers.

“Because I cannot decide,” she said, “if you are Aelthar reborn… or his punishment for me.”

Kasien’s jaw tightened. “I’m neither. I’m Kasien Ash-Fall. And I don’t need your pity.”

“Good.” Her voice was soft, almost tender. “Then climb. See if your fire can last against the storm waiting above.”

Kasien turned from her, heart hammering, and ascended the crystal stair.

At the top, the maze fell away behind him. The wastes stretched out, jagged and endless — but there, beyond the shattered ridges and rivers of glass, loomed the Colossal Hand. Closer now. Vast. Its fingers clawed at the sky like towers of stone, each etched with shifting runes. Lightning stormed around it, teal and violet striking like veins of raw fury.

He froze, breath catching in his chest. It was no longer impossibly distant — it was real, tangible, waiting.

Behind him, Elyndra’s voice drifted up the stair.

“Go on, little bladesinger. Every step you take feeds a god. The only question is… which one?”

Kasien didn’t answer. He only adjusted his grip on his scimitar, eyes fixed on the monstrous Hand, and forced his battered body forward, suspicion gnawing at every breath.

Kasien Mind losing it self just seeing the colossal hand so close, was it the land that makes him think in this way or all he has been through?

The Hand.

Closer. Too close. No—still far, but closer. Closer than it should be.

My chest hurts. Ribs still cracked. Breathing knives. Don’t stop. Don’t stop looking.

It’s watching me. No—it’s just stone. No, not stone. Fingers like towers. Eyes between them. I can feel them blink.

Family. Yshari. Vhalis. Names like anchors, like chains. I need them. I need to find them. That’s why I walk. That’s why I bleed. That’s why I don’t fall.

The Cinders—Reyn’s stubborn kindness, Rheana’s suspicion, Lila’s laugh, Neth’s one-eyed fury. They trusted me. Gods, why did they trust me?

I can’t falter. I can’t—

Elyndra. Her song still in my ears. Sweet. Too sweet. Was it hers or mine? Was it Aelthar’s ghost in her voice or my own longing? She said help. Geardaz’s tongue says help, too, before it bites. Why lead me out? Why not finish me in the maze? Trap inside a trap. I should have cut her down. Should I have?

She looks at me like she knows me. Like she’s mourning me before I’m gone. That’s worse than hate. Worse than claws.

Hand. Hand. Hand.

Every step closer feels like a bargain signed in blood.

Fear. Yes. Rage too. Don’t know which is heavier.

It’s there. Waiting. Like it’s always been there.

What if I touch it? What if I kneel? What if I’m already kneeling and I just haven’t noticed?

No. No. No.

I’ll stand. I’ll walk. I’ll burn my bones hollow if I must.
The Hand will not own me.

Not yet.

Elyndra watched him in silence, her hood shadowing the lines of her face, the faint glow of her staff casting fractured light against the labyrinth stones. The song in her throat did not rise, though it pressed hard against her lips. She did not speak. She did not comfort.

She only looked at him—Kasien bent, trembling, eyes burning red with exhaustion and dread—as though she were seeing both her lost Aelthar and the doomed youth before her.

Silent. Patient.
And unreadable.

Elyndra’s Thoughts

How he staggers. How he bleeds. How he refuses.

The sound of his breath is jagged, cracked glass scraping through the throat. And still he looks at that Hand like he could cut it down if only he swung hard enough.

Aelthar looked at the abyss that way, too. At the Balor’s whip, at the tide of monsters, as though his sheer will might tilt the world. He died for that look. He died in fire, and I sang his death into the sea.

And now this boy wears it. This Kasien. His youth, his fire, his hunger for truths that will only poison him. Every step he takes is a dirge waiting to be sung.

Geardaz whispers in the marrow of my bones: Break him. Make him yours. Bend his will to discord and let him sing the world to ruin.
And part of me wants to obey. Part of me always obeys.

But watching him there, teeth clenched, shoulders broken, eyes alight with grief too old for his years… I wonder.

Would shattering him be victory? Or cruelty even I cannot sing into tune?

His hand trembled on his blade when my shadow touched him. He thought of striking me. He doubts every word I breathe. Yet he does not banish me. He does not turn away. He walks. Always forward. Always bleeding.

Aelthar would have loved him. That thought is the most dangerous of all.

I cannot tell if I want him destroyed—or saved.

And perhaps… that is the song Geardaz meant me to sing all along.

Neth — Alone in Violet Silence

She woke like a blade unsheathed—gasping, heart pounding, hand reaching for the rapier that was not there.

Her fingers closed on nothing but air.

Instead of blood and scorched soil, she felt cool silk beneath her palms. Violet. Endless folds of it, softer than any bedding she had known, carrying a faint scent of lilies and iron. The chamber around her gleamed in candlelight, the walls carved marble, veined in violet hues, columns rising like trees into a ceiling lost in shadow. A palace, regal and alien, far from the red wastelands she had bled across.

Neth sat upright, clutching the sheets against her body—only then realizing she was bare. Her skin no longer crusted with dried blood, no grime in her hair, no mud on her feet. She had been washed, tended, wrapped in ointments she did not recognize.

And her wounds—those dozens, those hundreds of gashes and burns that should have torn her to pieces—were healed. Not all. A cut traced across her collarbone remained. The ache in her ribs was still sharp. But others, wounds that should have left her scarred for life, were gone, erased as though they had never been.

Her breath caught.

Slowly, she stood, wrapping the violet silk around her like a cloak, and crossed the room. A tall mirror, framed in dark wood, waited in the corner, its surface glowing faintly as though it knew it was meant to hold her reflection.

Neth stopped before it. Her single eye widened.

For the first time in longer than she could remember, she looked.

Her skin gleamed pale in the candlelight, her hair dark as midnight, the faint curve of muscle in her arms, her shoulders, her belly. The scars that remained—jagged reminders of mountains, demons, blades—wove across her like sigils of survival. Yet others were gone, vanished, leaving her whole in ways she had thought impossible.

She let the silk slip from her shoulders. It fell to the floor without a sound.

There she stood—naked, scarred, beautiful.

Neth had never allowed herself this gaze. She had never lingered long enough to see more than wounds, dirt, exhaustion. Now, in the stillness of violet light, she traced her form with her eye: the strength in her legs, the curve of her hip, the rise of her breast marked with one pale line where a blade once struck.

Her throat tightened. Not with shame. Not even with pride. But with a strange, dangerous recognition.

She was alive.

Alive, and still herself.

Her reflection met her gaze. For the first time, she did not look away.

The mirror breathed her image back to her, but it was not the girl she remembered.

It was not the child of Dread Dragon, who once laughed with crumbs on her tunic in the Jhambi Circle.
It was not the cleric who had clutched Tymira’s light, only to feel it torn from her when Pehliff’s blade stole her eye.
It was not even the shattered fighter who had crawled through Urmbrik’s wasteland, breaking herself against lions, giants, and firelords.

And yet—all of them lived in the woman who stared back.

Neth lifted a hand to her face, brushing fingertips across her cheek, her lips, the patch over the scar where her eye had been. She let her palm rest there, trembling.

“I should be dead,” she whispered.

The mirror said nothing. Only the silent, steady reflection of a survivor.

Her gaze traced lower. The scars that remained, like constellations carved in flesh, each one a memory. Hookspark’s roar echoing in her ear as he fell. Rhegar’s last look, chains and blood. Mukkie’s head rolling at her feet. Martamo’s name, whispered in flame.

All of them written on her skin. All of them living in her bones.

Her throat burned, but no tears came. She had shed too many.

Instead, she tilted her head, studying herself as though for the first time. Not as a soldier. Not as a weapon. Not even as Dykenta’s chosen.

But as Genethia Roth.

Scarred. Wounded. Whole.

Her hand dropped, fingers brushing the violet silk pooled at her feet. She should have covered herself, should have looked away. But instead, she held her own gaze in the glass, daring herself not to flinch.

“Is this who I am now?” she asked quietly.

A broken thing? A vessel for rage? A pawn in gods’ hands?

Or something more?

For a heartbeat, she saw herself not as ruined—but as radiant. Strength and fragility entwined. Not the absence of beauty, but a fiercer kind of beauty born from pain endured and still endured.

Her lips curved, not into a smile, but into something steadier. A vow.

She pressed her palm against the glass. Her reflection pressed back.

“I will not look away anymore.”

And in that violet-lit silence, the goblin who had crawled, bled, and nearly died countless times stood naked before herself—not ashamed, not afraid, but alive.

And still walking toward the Hand.

Her palm stayed on the glass.

And then… the reflection shifted.

The woman of scars and storms blurred, shimmered, and in her place sat a girl. Ten years old, tunic stained with crumbs, one hand clutching a half-eaten pie. Her red eyes sparkled with mischief, her cheeks sticky.

Young Genethia grinned.
“Apple pie is a proper breakfast.”

Neth staggered back, clutching the sheet to her chest. “No… you’re not—”

But the child only swung her legs as if perched on some stone back in Jhambi Circle, calm as sunlight.

“You don’t remember laughing, do you?” the girl asked, head tilted. “Not really. Not since Hookspark. Not since Mom.”

Neth’s throat tightened. She pressed her hand to the mirror again, almost desperate. “I don’t have time to laugh anymore.”

“You don’t make time,” the girl countered. “You only bleed. You only march. You only keep walking, even when you’re already broken.”

Neth’s jaw clenched. “Because if I stop, everyone dies.”

The girl frowned, crumbs falling from her lap. “But you’re everyone, too. You forget that.”

Silence stretched between them. The older Neth, trembling, broken, naked but unflinching. The younger Neth, sticky and bright, eyes full of the world she once believed was hers to explore.

“You’re afraid,” the child whispered finally.

Neth’s lips parted, then closed. A tear slipped free. “…Yes.”

“Of dying?”

“Of failing them.” Her voice cracked. “Of failing all of them.”

The girl leaned forward, tiny hand pressed to the mirror’s inside, palm to palm with her older self. “Then stop trying to be only a shield. You were meant to be a light. Even if it’s small. Even if it’s just one laugh left in you.”

Neth sobbed once, a ragged sound.

Young Genethia smiled, mischievous and certain. “I’ll still be here. The girl who wanted pie for breakfast. The girl who loved her friends. Don’t throw me away.”

The image flickered. The crumbs fell into shadow. And the child was gone—leaving only Neth’s scarred face staring back, palm pressed to violet glass.

Her whisper cracked the silence:
“I won’t forget you.”

And the mirror, though wordless, seemed to hold her promise.

Her heart hammered as she whirled from the mirror.

Two figures stood in the chamber—tall, lithe, beautiful in a way that curdled the stomach. Violet-skinned, their eyes like molten wine, their lips curled in smiles too sharp. The demonettes wore little more than chains and veils, their bodies an unsettling mix of grace and menace.

In their hands: trays of food, goblets of deep red wine, and folded garments of violet silk.

Neth’s rapier was not here. Her shield was gone. Still naked, she staggered back, her pulse like fire in her ears.

The demonettes only giggled—soft, girlish sounds that carried something ancient and cruel beneath them. They set their offerings on a low obsidian table and inclined their heads, almost mockingly deferential.

“Wait!” Neth barked, voice cracking. “How—how did I get here?!”

But they only laughed again, twin voices weaving like a cruel melody, and turned to leave. The doors whispered shut behind them, leaving only the scent of roses and incense.

Breathing fast, cheeks hot with embarrassment, Neth bolted to the tall window draped in violet silk. Her breath caught in her throat.

This was no longer Urmbrik’s furnace of rage.

No fields of bones. No rivers of blood.

Outside stretched a different wasteland—beautiful, and wrong. The earth was ash-grey, but pierced everywhere with jagged pink and violet crystals that bled faint light into the gloom. Black roses, their petals glistening like obsidian glass, grew in impossible tangles across cracked hills. Above, the sky rippled with hues of magenta and lavender, streaked with lightning that carried no sound.

Her stomach lurched. Zlaniz. The realm of lust and corruption.

She stumbled back from the window, blood rushing to her face as she realized she was still unclothed. A nervous, almost childish blush spread across her cheeks. She snatched up the garments left for her—a toga dress of deep violet, styled like the ancient courts of Tibur and Bhrytyros. The fabric shimmered faintly, clinging to her as she pulled it over her battered body.

Her fingers trembled. Why here? Why this?

She tightened the sash across her waist, staring down at herself. The toga’s elegance contrasted with her scars, her weariness. It was regal, ceremonial, seductive—utterly unlike her usual armor and leathers.

Neth’s single eye narrowed.

“Why…” she whispered to the empty chamber, “…would Zlaniz dress me as an empress?”

The silence did not answer—only the soft hum of the violet realm, as if the land itself waited for her next step.

The toga hung heavy on her shoulders, soft as velvet, but it did nothing to ease the cold sweat on her skin.

She stood in the middle of the chamber, her bare feet sinking into rugs woven from violet silk, the scent of black roses drifting through the window. The food and wine waited untouched on the obsidian table, rich and tempting—too tempting.

Her one eye flicked from mirror to door, from door to window, searching for some trace of the demonettes’ return. None came.

It was too quiet.

Her hand itched for the rapier that wasn’t there. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as if she could summon its hilt back into her grasp.

“This isn’t Urmbrik’s fury anymore,” she whispered, almost to herself. “This isn’t rage. It’s something worse.”

The silence pressed closer, as if the palace itself was listening.

She turned to the mirror again. The woman staring back was regal, wrapped in imperial violet, her scars softened, her face cleaned of grime and blood. She looked like a stranger—someone from the Tibur courts, or the temples of Bhrytyros, not the blood-soaked battlefields she had crawled through.

Neth swallowed hard.

“Why am I here?” she asked her reflection. “What game is this?”

The mirror gave no answer, but she thought she saw her younger self again—Genethia, ten years old, with crumbs on her tunic and laughter in her eyes. The image was gone as quick as a blink, leaving only her scarred face and weary gaze.

Her stomach growled at the sight of the food. Her throat ached for the wine.

But she didn’t move. She couldn’t bring herself to taste anything in this place.

Instead, she went to the window again, clutching the violet fabric of her dress close to her chest, and stared out at the strange beauty of Zlaniz’s wasteland—crystals bleeding light, roses sharp as blades, a sky that promised both wonder and ruin.

A shiver ran through her, though the air was warm.

Alone, uncertain, she could only sit on the edge of the bed, her body trembling with exhaustion, her mind circling the same question:

Am I a prisoner, or a guest?

The silence did not tell her.

And so Neth sat in the violet hush, staring at the floor, waiting—wondering if she had escaped Urmbrik’s rage only to fall into something far more dangerous.

Her stomach growled again, loud enough to echo off the silk-draped walls.

She tried to resist. Gods, she tried. But the smell was too much—the roast meat glistening with spice, the fruits glimmering like jewels under the violet light, the wine shimmering like liquid silk in its glass.

Her hands shook as she reached out.

The first bite was cautious. Dried meat and flat bread had kept her alive for days in Urmbrik’s realm, but this… this was different. Sweet juices burst across her tongue. Salt and spice melted into tenderness. Her one eye fluttered shut as she took another, then another.

By the time she realized what she was doing, the plate was empty.

She lifted the wine, just to taste.

The first sip was warmth. The second was fire. The third was something deeper, softer, richer than anything she had ever allowed herself to drink. She thought of Desnora—how her friend would smile with half-lidded eyes after a long day, swirling her glass, murmuring that wine was “as good as prayer when the gods stay silent.”

Neth chuckled under her breath. For a moment, she almost felt at home.

But the laughter died quickly.

A heat stirred low in her body, crawling up her skin like embers waking in the dark. She pressed her thighs together, her breath uneven. It was sudden, insistent, out of place.

Her hand trembled as she set the cup down, her heart hammering in her chest.

“Shit,” she whispered, the word slipping out like a confession.

Silence answered her.

Only the rustle of silk sheets, only the pulse of violet light through the crystals outside.

She sat there, flushed and uneasy, her hunger sated but a different hunger now curling in its place—one she hadn’t chosen, one she hadn’t asked for.

The palace itself seemed to hum, faintly, like it had been waiting for this.

The palace was too quiet.

Too soft. Too safe.

That was the danger.

She sat on the edge of the bed, her toga loose around her shoulders, the taste of rich wine still on her lips. Her chest rose and fell fast, her cheeks flushed with warmth that wasn’t just the alcohol.

Then she heard it.

Not a voice. Not really. More like a hum, a suggestion, threaded through the violet glow of the crystals outside. A rhythm that matched her heartbeat. A pulse that seemed to answer the heat in her veins.

You are alive.

She squeezed her eye shut, clutching the sheet around herself tighter.

“No,” she muttered. “This is Zlaniz. Tricks. Temptation.”

You are alive. The hum grew stronger, thrumming through the floor, the walls, the silk around her. And you are tired of denying it.

Her body betrayed her. Her breath hitched. Her hand trembled against her thigh.

She thought of all the times she had pushed it down—the long marches with the Unchained, the endless battles with the Cinders, the weight of her amulet, her gods, her people. She had told herself there was no room for want. No time. No right.

But here, now, in this violet realm… the walls themselves whispered the truth.

It is not a curse. It is you. Always you.

Neth’s single eye opened, and for the first time in years, she did not look like a warrior. She looked like a woman, aching from wounds both old and new, trembling under the weight of a hunger she had buried too deep.

Her lips parted.

“…It’s me,” she whispered, the words breaking from her like confession.

No voice answered this time. Only the silence of the palace.

But the silence was enough.

Because she knew now: this was not Zlaniz’s trick. Not entirely. This was her. Her body, her needs, her life clawing back from the grave she had forced it into.

And for the first time since entering the God Hands’ realm, Neth was afraid—not of death, but of herself.

Her breath came unsteady, lips damp with wine, skin hot beneath the violet toga. The whispers were gone now, but they had already done their work.

And so she wrestled with herself.

Her eye turned upward toward the ceiling, past the silks and gilded beams, as though she could pierce through the layers of this realm to where Dykenta watched.

“Is this wrong?” she whispered, clutching her stomach as though she might hold the hunger inside. “I’ve sworn to you. I’ve bled for you. I’ve burned for you. If I give in to this—”

Her voice broke. Tears stung her eye. “Will you leave me, too?”

A silence followed. Heavy, aching, filled only with the steady thrum of her heart.

Then—warmth.

Not the taunting pulse of Zlaniz’s realm. No. Something else. A gentleness. A tide rising within her chest.

She remembered the first time she had heard Dykenta’s voice, broken on that mountain, her eye stolen by Pehliff, Tymira’s light ripped away. The words had not been cruel then. They had not been a chain. They had been a hand, lifting her.

“You are mine, little one. And I will never deny you the flesh that makes you whole.”

Neth swallowed hard, shoulders shaking.

Dykenta had never asked her to starve. Never demanded denial. The goddess of love, of lust, of pleasure—her embrace had always been freedom, not shame. It was Neth who had bound herself, who had carried guilt like a shield.

She pressed her hand to the scar over her empty eye, whispering:

“…But if I give in, will I still be yours?”

The warmth deepened, rolling through her veins like a lover’s caress. And in that moment, she knew the truth.

Dykenta would never turn her away. Not for this. Never for this.

Her goddess did not withhold. Her goddess did not deny. Her goddess would want her to taste, to touch, to feel—to live.

The shame did not vanish. But it cracked. And through the crack, the hunger stirred again, sharper, truer.

Neth pressed her face into her hands and sobbed, not from despair but from the unbearable mix of relief and desire.

She was not abandoned.

But she was not safe, either.

Because the needs she had buried for so long were awake now—and they would not sleep again.

Kasien — The Fifteenth Day

The teal-blue wasteland quaked with every step of the Minotaur Axemen. Fifteen of them, their horns bound with runes, their axes jagged and dripping with illusory flame. Their eyes glowed with the same cold light as the crystals jutting from the ground.

Kasien’s lungs burned. His body still hadn’t fully healed from the Beholder’s bite; his ribs screamed with each breath. Yet his grip on Soul of the Elderwood only tightened.

He whispered the words—booming blade, green-flame blade—and felt the realm warp them. Force became thunder, fire became acid and ice, power stacked until his veins burned. His muscles ached just holding the magic in.

The Minotaurs roared as one, their hooves pounding like war drums.

Kasien surged forward. The first swing of his scimitar met an axe mid-air, the clash sending a shockwave that lit the sky with teal lightning. He slid past, cutting deep into a thigh, then spun to catch another across the chest. The magic burst outward—acid spraying, fire snapping, frost crawling over flesh.

But the cost was high. His vision blurred. The realm took his strength as payment.

The Minotaurs struck back in a storm of blades. One axe scraped his shoulder, tearing blood and leather. Another smashed against his shield spell, shattering it like glass. Kasien staggered, almost falling—then used the momentum to roll beneath a third’s swing, slashing its stomach open as he rose.

Three down. Twelve left.

He could feel Geardaz’s eyes everywhere. In the crystals. In the storm. In the rhythm of the Minotaurs’ advance.

Dance, little bladesinger… the god whispered through the wind. Dance until you break.

Kasien roared in defiance, his voice raw. He unleashed a Fireball into the tightest knot of them. But in this realm, fire twisted—splitting into lightning and shards of force. The explosion tore five Minotaurs apart, their bodies hurled screaming into the void.

Seven left.

They charged as one, enraged. Kasien’s breath was ragged, his arm shaking from blood loss. But his scimitar still sang. He cut through a horn, then an arm, then an artery, each blow dragging a trail of violet sparks across the battlefield.

He paid in kind. One axe grazed his ribs—white-hot pain, breath gone. Another slammed into his thigh, nearly dropping him. But he moved anyway. He moved because stopping meant death.

Four left.

He staggered, his scimitar heavy as stone. His reflection—one of the fading mirror images still clinging to him—shouted encouragement in his own voice. He didn’t know if it was real or just madness.

Three. Two. One.

The last Minotaur fell with Kasien’s blade buried in its chest. He collapsed beside it, coughing blood, his body shaking uncontrollably.

The realm was silent again.

Kasien spat red into the dirt, muttering through cracked lips:

“I’m… not yours yet.”

But as the crystals hummed with Geardaz’s laughter, Kasien wasn’t sure if he believed it himself.

Silence pressed down like a weight. The only sound was the slow drip of his own blood onto crystal stone.

Kasien dropped to his knees beside the last Minotaur corpse. His chest heaved; every breath came like broken glass. He pulled free his scimitar, Soul of the Elderwood, its blade flickering with dying magic. For a moment, he almost let it fall from his hand.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

He tore a strip of cloth from one of the fallen Minotaurs and bound his thigh, tightening until the pain blurred his vision. His ribs screamed when he tried to wrap them—he hissed between his teeth, half-laughing, half-snarling.

“Gods damn you, Geardaz,” he muttered. “You’ll… not have me.”

He drank from his water skin, the taste metallic but clean enough. It steadied him.

Then he sat back against a jagged crystal spire, closing his eyes.

The quiet after battle was the most dangerous. That was when the realm whispered the loudest.

Kasien heard their voices in the storm above: his sister Yshari, his cousin Vhalis, calling his name in tones so real it made his throat tighten. His companions, too—Reyn, Rheana, Neth—flickering through his mind like shadows.

For a heartbeat, he wanted to believe they were here. That he wasn’t alone.

But the crystals hummed. The voices bent. They became laughter.

Geardaz’s laughter.

Kasien pressed his palms to his ears, eyes squeezed shut. “No. Not yours. Not now. Not ever.”

His hand went to his satchel, brushing against the preserved cockatrice meat, the scraps he’d scavenged. He chewed some without tasting, forcing it down, knowing he’d collapse if he didn’t.

After a long moment, he drew his book of notes—the maps of the labyrinth, the half-mad scrawls, the records of every shift and twist. His ink smeared with blood, but his hand kept moving.

He wrote one line, jagged and uneven:

“Still alive.”

He let the quill fall, staring at the words until his vision blurred again.

The colossal Hand loomed in the far distance, closer now, but still impossibly far.

Kasien whispered to himself, a promise more than a prayer:

“I will reach it. Even if I have to crawl.”

And in the storm above, the eyes blinked, watching.

Kasien lowered himself onto the stone, jaw clenched tight as his body finally caught up to the fight. Every strike, every dodge, every desperate swing of his blade came back now as fire in his muscles and cracks in his bones.

He forced himself not to sit too long. Stopping meant stiffening. Stiffening meant not moving again.

He set his pack in front of him, hands moving through its contents with practiced urgency. Torn cloth from fallen foes. A dull needle. A length of cord that could serve as suture if pressed.

He cut away the ragged leather over his ribs, hissing as he revealed the ugly bruise spreading like spilled ink across his chest. “Cracked,” he muttered, running a hand over it. “Not broken.” That was good. If it was broken, he wouldn’t be breathing at all.

He pressed a cloth tight against the wound on his thigh, tying it off with strips of leather until the flow slowed to a seep. His hands shook, not from fear but from exhaustion. Each knot came slower than the last.

He took a breath. Drank. Forced himself to chew dried cockatrice meat, nearly gagging on the toughness. Swallowed. Then drank again.

Step by step. Bite by bite. Bandage by bandage.

He looked down at his bloodied hands, flexed them, then reached for Soul of the Elderwood. He wiped the blade clean on his already ruined tunic, the dark ichor smearing. A scimitar wasn’t just a weapon here—it was his anchor. Without it, he had nothing.

His book lay beside him, half-soaked in sweat and blood. He opened it just enough to mark the day:

“Day 15 — Still moving.”

That was all the words he could muster.

Kasien leaned back against the jagged crystal wall. He forced his breathing into rhythm, in through the nose, out through the mouth, each breath sharp with pain but steady enough to keep him present.

Ahead, the colossal Hand loomed faintly in the storm. Not close enough to matter. Not far enough to abandon.

He whispered to the empty air:

“On your feet. Always on your feet.”

And with effort that burned deeper than the wounds, Kasien pushed himself upright, tested his weight, and limped forward.

The Champions of Urmbrik

The fire crackled low, spitting sparks into the blood-red sky above. Around it sat four titans of slaughter — the champions of Urmbrik, whose names were whispered like curses across Platera. Their armor glowed faint with the heat of the flames, their shadows long and jagged in the wasteland night.

Draegor Thalyx, the Bloodhorn of Argossear, leaned forward, his horns catching the firelight. His deep voice rumbled like rolling stone.
“Tell me, brothers, sister — why does Urmbrik let a goblin child fight alone through his wastelands? Why has he not sent us? Does he think us… unnecessary?”

Dravanya Khorne, the Flesh-Tempered, smirked, red scars gleaming across her plated arms. Her tone was sharp, edged with amusement.
“Unnecessary? No. Reserved. Urmbrik tests her with lesser beasts, lesser fiends. He saves us for wars worthy of our blades. Still—” her mouth twisted into a grin, “—I admit I’d enjoy seeing if she bleeds like all the rest.”

Hrothgar Skuldson, the Crimson Juggernaut, sat with his bulk like a mountain, hammer laid across his knees. He stared into the fire, his voice slow, deliberate.
“She has bled. More than any mortal should. Yet she walks still. That is what unsettles me. Not her strength… but her refusal to die. Even our lord seems… entertained.”

The fire popped, sending ash spiraling upward like sparks of blood.

Kaelira Veythar, the Bloodbound, leaned back, resting her sword point-down in the dirt. Her lips curled into a wicked laugh.
“Entertained, yes! Did you hear? She shamed Thanax the Balor Lord. Cut him, broke him—took his… lineage.” Her laughter pealed across the camp, cruel and ringing. “Lord Thanax the Ball-less Balor! His line will never spread. No little Balors at his knee, no spawn to carry his name. Our fiery ‘lord’ reduced to nothing but a scream in the storm.”

The others chuckled low, even Hrothgar’s stone face twitching into a smirk.

But Draegor shook his head, voice dark.
“Mock him if you will. Yet she has done what few have dared. And still—our lord has not unleashed us upon her. That should give us pause. What is Urmbrik waiting for?”

Dravanya’s eyes narrowed, glinting in the firelight.
“Perhaps he waits for her to break herself. To prove if she is worth our steel. If she survives long enough to face us… then maybe she deserves it.”

Kaelira’s grin widened, flashing teeth like a wolf.
“Oh, I hope so. I want her to crawl to me, broken but unbent. I want to hear what she says when she realizes she has to fight me.”

The campfire flared, painting their faces in shades of blood and shadow.

And though they laughed, though they jested, one truth hung unspoken between them:
Urmbrik was watching the goblin closely.

And if he had not yet unleashed his champions… it was because her trial was not yet done.

The fire roared higher without warning — flames stretching into a pillar, bending, twisting, until they shaped themselves into a figure of shadow and blood. The champions stilled. Even Draegor, horned head bowed slightly.

Urmbrik had come.

The war-god stepped from the blaze, his vast frame clad in storming ash and iron, his eyes two coals burning against the dark. His voice rolled like an army’s march over bone.

“You wonder why your blades remain clean of her blood.”

The words struck the night heavier than the fire itself. None answered. Even Kaelira’s grin faltered, her tongue caught beneath the weight of her god’s gaze.

Urmbrik strode closer, his shadow swallowing theirs, sparks hissing around his boots. He looked not at them, but at the horizon — to where the colossal Hand loomed in the distance, faint through storm and ash.

“She is not yours to kill. Not yet.”

The silence grew. Draegor broke it, voice careful, respectful.
“Then she is… yours, my lord?”

Urmbrik’s head turned, slow, deliberate, until his burning eyes cut into each of them in turn.
“She is mine,” he rumbled, “but not to claim. Not to end. The Hand tests her. Every wound, every scar, every tear of muscle — it is the hammer on the forge. She walks where armies break. She stands where champions have fallen. She endures.”

Dravanya frowned, embers flashing off her armoured cheek.
“And if she reaches the Hand, what then?”

Urmbrik’s lips pulled back — not a smile, not quite. A baring of teeth.
“Then she will know what war truly is.”

The fire cracked, and for a moment the flames behind him flared into visions: Neth dragging herself through battlefields of bone, standing before the Hand with her one burning eye.

Kaelira could not help herself. Her laughter rang sharp, defiant.
“And what of us, Lord Urmbrik? Do we wait forever? I would taste her spirit in steel!”

The god’s gaze fell on her, and the fire itself seemed to recoil.
“You will have your turn,” he said, voice low, deadly. “But not before she has proven herself worthy of your deaths.”

Worthy… of their deaths.

The champions sat in silence, the meaning burning into them heavier than armour.

Urmbrik turned back toward the storm, his voice softer now, but still a blade drawn in the dark.
“She is not prey. She is trial. She is the ember the Hand seeks to fan into flame—or crush into ash. Until the Hand decides…”

He stepped back into the fire, his massive form dissolving into smoke and sparks.

“…you will wait.”

And then he was gone, leaving only the campfire, burning lower now, as if humbled by its master’s passing.

The Violet Palace day 16

The violet palace was silent, save for the faint rustle of silk curtains swaying in air that smelled of roses and crushed wine. Genethia Roth lay in the great bed, its sheets softer than anything she had ever felt, but her body refused to rest.

The Demonettes had come again, giggling as always, laying down trays of fruit dripping with honey, meat roasted until it glistened, and wine dark as blood. Then they had left without a word, their violet skin and half-hidden smiles lingering in her mind.

Neth sat up, the sheet falling away from her bare shoulder, her one eye fixed on the feast, though she barely tasted it anymore. The hunger gnawing at her was not for food.

Her thoughts broke into a dialogue with herself.

Neth: “Gods, what’s wrong with me? I’ve gone through war, through Urmbrik’s blood pits, through giants and beasts, and it’s this place that makes me weak?”

Her own whispering voice: “Weak? Or honest? You’ve shoved this down for years. All those nights you should have let yourself feel, and instead you reached for steel and prayer.”

Neth: “Dykenta… she wouldn’t…”

Whisper: “Wouldn’t what? Forbid you? She would never deny you flesh or pleasure. You know that. She’s the goddess of love as much as passion. This isn’t her voice holding you back—it’s yours.”

Neth pressed a hand to her stomach, feeling the tension coil tighter, as though the very air was alive, whispering to her skin.

Neth: “It’s the realm. Zlaniz. It’s her trick. Her poison. That’s all this is.”

Whisper: “Is it? Or is she only peeling back what you buried? When did you last let yourself want something just for you? Not for Albion, not for the Unchained, not for Kasien, not even for Dykenta—for you.”

Her breath caught. She clenched the silk in her fists.

Neth: “If I give in… what happens to me?”

The whisper didn’t answer. It only laughed—soft, cruel, familiar.

And in that silence, Neth realized with horror and longing both, that the laughter was hers.

Neth lay in the violet chamber, staring at the ceiling carved with black roses and crystal veins that shimmered faintly pink. Her body still ached from battles past, but it was no longer wounds that tormented her — it was the gnawing fire in her chest, in her stomach, lower still.

The Demonettes came and went, leaving more fruit and wine, more silk and comfort than she could stand. Each time they bowed with sly smiles, their laughter ringing in her ears long after the door closed.

She pushed the plates away. She wanted the taste of none of it.

Her own voice whispered back in her skull.

Neth: “Stop. This isn’t me. I’m a fighter. A cleric. I’ve survived worse than this.”

Her whisper: “Worse than hunger? Worse than wanting? You’ve bled yourself empty for everyone else. Why not bleed for yourself, just once?”

She turned from the mirror, from her own reflection that looked too alive, too flushed, the silk toga clinging to her body as if it were mocking her restraint.

Neth: “Dykenta, please…” her voice cracked, half a prayer, half a plea. “Tell me I’m not damned for this.”

Only silence answered.

Or was it silence? The wind outside the window carried something — faint, like a sigh, like the brush of a hand on her cheek.

Whisper: “She doesn’t forbid you. You know that. It’s only you. Only you holding back.”

Neth’s eye burned with unshed tears. She sat at the bed’s edge, gripping the sheets so tightly the fabric threatened to tear.

Her heart raced. Her breaths came short. She could feel herself teetering.

And then—she forced herself down, flat against the silk, closing her eye tight.

Neth (to herself): “Not tonight. Gods, not tonight… I won’t break. Not yet.”

But even as sleep clawed at her, her body trembled with every beat of her pulse, every reminder that the breaking point was coming.

Neth drifted at last into sleep.
But the bed was no longer silk, the chamber no longer hers.

She stood in a violet desert where black roses grew taller than men, their thorns dripping wine instead of blood. Crystals jutted like teeth from the earth, humming faintly with a pulse that matched her own racing heart.

Above, the sky was a whirl of pink and indigo storms, swirling like the folds of a curtain drawn open by unseen hands.

From the storm stepped shapes.

Two Demonettes, but more beautiful, more terrifying than the ones that served her by day. Their eyes shone like twin moons, their lips parted in knowing smiles. They spoke together, voices braided like silk cords.

“You hunger.”

Neth staggered back, clutching her arms across her chest. “No… I—”

The roses bent toward her, petals peeling open like mouths, their breath hot and sweet as cinnamon wine. From their center poured whispers, each one a lover’s voice she had never known but always longed for.

“You fight. You bleed. You deny.”
“But denial is not strength. Denial is starvation.”

The Demonettes reached toward her. Their fingers were long, taloned, yet delicate as harp strings. One touched her cheek, and the touch was fire.

Her body betrayed her — a shudder, a rush of heat.

Neth (hoarse): “Dykenta… tell me I’m strong enough.”

The sky itself answered. Clouds split, and from above fell a rain of violet light, warm against her skin. For a heartbeat, she thought it was her goddess’s blessing.

But then the light twisted — coiling around her like chains of silk.

A voice deeper, velvet and cruel, rolled through the storm:

“Your goddess knows. She would not stop you. Why should you stop yourself?”

It was not Dykenta. It was Zlaniz. The Dark Hand’s voice purred in her marrow.

The Demonettes leaned close, mouths almost at her ear, almost at her throat.

“Every scar is healed. Every hunger can be answered. All you must do… is let go.”

Neth’s knees buckled. She fell among the roses, their petals clinging, their thorns drawing faint trails across her legs and arms. She cried out — in pain, in fear, in want.

Her own younger self appeared then — Genethia at ten, sticky with hand-pie crumbs, looking at her with wide, accusing eyes.

Young Genethia: “If you give in now… what will be left of me?”

The storm froze. The roses stilled. Even Zlaniz’s voice paused.

Neth gasped awake, heart hammering, body damp with sweat, the violet sheets twisted around her like coils of a serpent.

Still in the palace. Still alone.

But the taste of that dream lingered like wine on her tongue, and she could not say if she was more terrified of Zlaniz’s voice—
or of how much she wanted it to be true.

Neth sat upright in the bed, breath coming fast, skin slick as though the dream had followed her into waking. Her fingers dug into the violet sheets until they tore beneath her nails.

The room was silent. Too silent. No Demonettes, no footsteps, only the echo of her own pounding heart.

She pressed her hand against her chest, trying to will it still. The taste of fruit and wine still clung to her tongue, but now it mingled with something darker — the phantom sweetness of whispered promises she dared not admit she wanted.

Her single eye stared at the mirror across the chamber. She could not bring herself to rise, to look. She already knew what she’d see: herself flushed, trembling, caught between shame and need.

Her lips moved, forming words, but no sound came.
A prayer? A curse? A plea? She didn’t know.

The storm outside the window rumbled low, a reminder that this realm was listening. That she was listening.

She swallowed hard, pulled the sheet tighter around herself, and forced her body back against the pillows.

But her eye did not close.

Because she knew if she dreamed again, she would hear that voice.
And she was no longer certain if she wanted to resist it.

Kasien’s Inner Spiral (Day 17)

The wastes of Geardaz stretched endless before Kasien—crystal shards jutting like broken teeth, teal lightning clawing at the storm-wracked skies. His steps were uneven now, hunger gnawing, the raw meat sour in his gut, but he pushed on. Always on. The colossal Hand was nearer than before, but still impossibly far.

The ground trembled.

Wings cut the storm.

A shadow descended before him—armour glinting like shattered sapphire, wings folding with a whisper of scale and iron. The Champion landed in silence, sword lowered but ready, helm shaped like a predator’s snarl.

Kasien froze. His grip tightened on his weapon, though his arms ached from overuse. Something about the way she stood, the tilt of her head, the rhythm of her breath through the helm—it scraped against memory, maddeningly familiar.

She spoke first.
Her voice was sharp, clear, and cold as crystal:

“Why do you chase the Pale Fencer?”

Kasien’s jaw clenched. “Because he carries the amulet. Because he may hold the key to undoing what the Hands have done. Because my family’s blood—” He cut himself short, unwilling to give her more.

The Champion tilted her head, almost amused. “Your reason is noble. Noble, but brittle. You pursue a shadow you do not understand. What if the truth shatters you?”

Kasien spat to the ground. “Then I’ll be the one to bleed. Not the world. Not again.”

She took a step closer, armour humming with faint teal energy, eyes burning through the slits of her helm. “You cling to your defiance like it’s enough. But when you reach the heart of the Hand, when you see what waits, you will understand. There is no undoing. Only becoming.”

Kasien’s breath hitched, but he forced a scowl. “If you think I’ll give in, you don’t know me.”

“Don’t I?” she said softly.

The words lingered like a blade pressed to his throat. He stared at her, at the glowing eyes within the helm—something about them striking too close, scratching a memory he couldn’t place.

But she offered no name. No truth. Only a lingering silence, and that burning gaze.

Kasien’s knuckles whitened around his scimitar. He wanted to strike. To demand answers. But he didn’t.

Instead, he met her stare with all the fire left in him.

“I’ll find the Pale Fencer. I’ll find the truth. And if it breaks me—so be it.”

For a long heartbeat, she stood unmoving. Then her wings unfurled, a storm of teal crystal dust swirling around her.

“Then walk on, bladesinger,” she said at last. “But remember—sometimes the truth is worse than the lie.”

And with that, she leapt into the storm, vanishing in a rush of wind.

Kasien stood there, chest heaving, eyes locked on the storm where she had gone. His heart beat too fast, not just from dread—but from the gnawing, unbearable sense that he knew her.

And yet, he could not say how.

The wastes were silent again. Too silent.

Kasien’s legs moved, but he wasn’t sure if he was walking or just falling forward in slow motion. His scimitar dragged at his side, leaving faint scratches in the crystal ground. His breath rasped.

Her eyes.
The way they burned through the helm.
Too close. Too familiar.

No. No, it can’t be.

But the thought dug into him like a splinter.

Family. Always back to family. His cousin Vhalis, taken. His sister Yshari, gone. The trail of his life was nothing but vanished faces, doors shut in his mind he had no key for. And now this—this Champion.

That voice.
That presence.

It had tugged at something deep in him, a memory so old it felt like smoke. Laughter by a fire. A song hummed under the breath. Fingers tugging his sleeve to hurry him along.

“Don’t I?”

The words wouldn’t leave his head.

Kasien pressed his palms to his skull, teeth grit, stumbling forward. His ribs still ached from the giant. His skin still burned from the beholder’s bite. And now this. Doubt.

Geardaz is playing me. That’s all this is. Tricks. Whispers. Echoes.

But another voice whispered back: What if it isn’t?

What if it was her? What if his sister was here, not lost, but… changed? Twisted into armour and wings and godlight. Serving the very thing he had sworn to fight.

His stomach lurched. He bent, gagged, but nothing came up. Just bile. Just emptiness.

He looked at his hands—trembling, raw, knuckles split. Did he still have the strength to fight her? To strike her down if the time came?

Would he?

No. Don’t think it. Don’t go there. Just move. Keep moving.

The Hand loomed, closer now, but still impossibly far. A promise. A threat. A grave.

Kasien dragged his feet onward, muttering to himself, words breaking apart into fragments:

“Not her… can’t be her… Geardaz lies… lies… but the eyes… gods, those eyes…”

The wastes swallowed his voice.

And still, he walked.

The teal dust curled under his boots as Kasien forced himself forward, mind still a storm of champions words. Lies? Truth? Family? He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. And now there was no time.

Fifteen Saracens spilled into view, shields rimmed with glowing runes, scimitars catching the unnatural lightning overhead. Behind them, five Arcane Archers already raised their bows, their arrows shimmering with fractured light.

Kasien’s stomach knotted. His thoughts broke into fragments: Too many. No choice. Keep moving. Don’t stop.

He inhaled sharply, hand tightening on Soul of the Elderwood. The blade hummed, alive, like it understood his desperation.

The first arrows screamed through the haze. Kasien threw himself sideways, the impact of one grazing his arm, burning his flesh. He rolled, came up into a stance, and whispered the Bladesong into being—his voice hoarse but resolute.

The Saracens charged, shields banging, their voices like thunder in the void.

Kasien met them. His first strike tore past a shield, scimitar biting into flesh, green flame bursting from the wound in a violent surge. A second swing carried by booming force cracked against another’s helm, sending the man reeling. But the third Saracen caught him with a shield-bash, slamming him into the crystal wall. His ribs screamed. His vision darkened.

The Archers loosed again. Arrows like streaks of pure discord. Kasien barely ducked one, another slicing past his cheek, a third embedding in his shoulder. He hissed, yanked it free with a burst of adrenaline.

He answered with a Fire Bolt — the spell twisting in Geardaz’s realm, exploding outward in a tri-elemental scream of fire, ice, and lightning. It smashed into an Archer, ripping the man apart, leaving nothing but a charred husk glowing in teal light.

Kasien stumbled forward, gasping, his heart pounding in his ears. He cut down another Saracen with desperate precision, then used a fallen shield to deflect an incoming arrow.

Still, more pressed in. Too many. Always too many.

Kasien’s breath tore out of him, words jagged and raw as he spat to himself:
“Family… lies… doesn’t matter. I live. I walk. I fight.”

With that, he spun into the fray, scimitar flashing, every strike less technique and more survival — a dance on the knife’s edge between life and death.

The Saracens surged, a wall of steel and snarling voices. Kasien’s ribs burned with every breath, his shoulder slick with blood. He couldn’t think anymore — only move.

One scimitar came down hard. He twisted aside, letting it graze his armor, and countered with a slash across the man’s thigh. The Saracen fell screaming, Kasien finishing him with a thrust to the throat.

An arrow whistled past. Another thudded into his leg, grazing the flesh. Kasien staggered, almost collapsing, but forced himself forward.

“Move, damn you… move!” he rasped.

Two more Saracens cornered him, one with shield high, the other thrusting low. Kasien stepped into the thrust, letting it cut shallow across his hip, and spun his scimitar upward — slicing clean through the exposed jaw of the attacker. Blood sprayed, hot and metallic.

The shield-bearer slammed him back against the crystal wall. His vision sparked white. He pushed through, raised his hand, and fired a desperate Fire Bolt. The spell fractured, bursting in chaotic streaks of lightning and flame that incinerated the man’s face behind the shield.

Another arrow struck his side. He gasped, teeth clenched, ripping it free before it could pin him.

“Five left,” he muttered, staggering into the open. His eyes locked on the archers.

But the Saracens blocked his path. Four of them still stood, weaving their scimitars in practiced rhythm.

Kasien whispered the words to True Strike — the spell twisting in his throat — and lunged. His first slash broke one’s guard, cleaving into the man’s chest. He spun with the follow-through, dragging the blade into another’s exposed neck.

A third Saracen came from the side. Kasien pivoted, barely deflecting the blow with the flat of his scimitar. Their blades locked. Muscles screamed. With a roar, Kasien twisted his wrist and rammed his forehead into the man’s helm. Dazed, the Saracen stumbled — and Kasien stabbed him straight through the gut.

The fourth slashed at his back. Kasien turned, too slow. The blade ripped through his side, shallow but bloody. Pain exploded through him. He grit his teeth and answered with a reckless overhead slash that split the man’s collarbone. The Saracen fell, gurgling.

Kasien stood swaying, gasping, surrounded by corpses. His blood dripped into the teal dust.

But the Archers were still there. Three left.

They loosed all at once. Arrows screamed. Kasien dropped into a roll, one arrow skimming his ear, another slamming into his arm. He cried out but didn’t stop. He charged.

The first Archer tried to retreat. Kasien leapt, his scimitar cutting the man down in a single upward arc. The second notched another arrow — too slow. Kasien’s blade sliced across his chest, tearing him apart.

The last archer stood his ground, arrow already drawn. Kasien saw the shimmer of magic — a final, perfect shot.

The arrow flew.

Kasien twisted sideways, feeling it rip across his ribs, fire in his lungs. He closed the gap in one desperate surge, raising Soul of the Elderwood high, and drove it down through the man’s skull.

Silence.

Kasien staggered, trembling, his blade dripping ichor and blood. He dropped to one knee among the dead, pressing his hand against his ribs. His breaths came shallow, ragged, but still alive.

He sat there for a long while, surrounded by bodies, until he finally whispered, almost to himself:

“Still walking… still breathing… still mine.”

With shaking hands, he tore strips of cloth from the fallen to bind his wounds. Crude, bloody work. But enough to keep him moving. Enough to keep him alive.

He stood, every step agony, and looked to the horizon.

The Hand loomed closer. Still impossibly far, but closer. Always closer.

Kasien dragged his bloodied body past the corpses, every step leaving a dark trail in the dust. His bandages were crude, his wounds many, but he would not fall here.

The labyrinth of Geardaz had taken days, the Beholder nearly stole his flesh, and now these warriors bled out at his feet. Yet still — he walked.

The crystals hummed with that mocking teal light. The skies blinked with a thousand eyes. The Hand loomed, jagged against the storm, closer now than ever before.

Kasien’s jaw tightened.

“Not yours,” he whispered to the realm itself, to Geardaz, to the voices gnawing at his will. “Never yours.”

And with that vow bleeding from his lips, he kept moving — bloody, broken, but unbowed.

Neth's Inner Trials (Day 17)

Neth stirred beneath the violet silk, her body still humming with the quiet torment that had haunted her since she first woke in Zlaniz’s palace. The ache had not left — it gnawed at her bones, whispered through her veins. Desire, raw and unrelenting, like something she had caged for too long now clawing free. She cursed herself under her breath, biting her lip as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.

The tray the demonettes had left still sat near, glistening fruits, smoked meats, bread so soft it nearly melted on her tongue. She tore into it out of necessity, not grace, drinking the sweet violet wine too quickly, hoping it would dull what stirred inside. It did not.

The chamber was beautiful, but suffocating — every inch draped in rich purples, every surface alive with carvings of roses and twisting serpents. She paced, restless, her bare feet on the cool marble. The silk clung to her shoulders, her skin still flushed.

And then—

Her eye caught the mirror.

At first it was nothing — only her reflection, tired and scarred. But the longer she stared, the more it changed. The glass shimmered like water, and a younger Genethia Roth stared back.

Sixteen years old.

Her face still round with youth, her robes the green-and-silver of Tymira. A holy symbol at her breast, trembling in her hands as she whispered vows.

Neth froze, her heart twisting in her chest. She remembered.

The day she became Tymira’s cleric. The day she swore herself to Luck. She saw the stone altar, the druid grove of her youth, the circle of priests who watched her kneel. And she saw him — Alpha, the warforged, tall and still as iron, his sapphire eyes glowing faintly.

Her voice echoed from the mirror, young and unbroken:

“I name him my guardian. My shield. Alpha will walk with me, as Tymira walks with me.”

The weight of the words crashed back into her. She remembered the pride, the trembling hope that Tymira would never abandon her. That Alpha would never fall. That she would never stand alone.

Neth’s lips parted, whispering to herself, as if to the mirror:

“I thought… I thought it would last. Tymira’s hand, Alpha’s strength… I thought that would be enough.”

The reflection shifted — the sixteen-year-old Genethia rising from her vows, her green robes glimmering like leaves in sunlight, her eyes burning with faith.

And then, as the mirror rippled again, that same young voice turned sharp — beginning the conflict, the accusation that would soon cut Neth to the bone.

The mirror shimmered in the violet light of the chamber, its surface no longer reflecting only Genethia Roth as she was now — scarred, hardened, one-eyed and weary. Instead, from the glass stepped a younger face: sixteen-year-old Genethia, her dark hair still long and unburdened, her cheeks still rounded with youth, her robes the green-and-silver of Tymira’s clerics.

The reflection solidified. Sixteen-year-old Genethia stood in the mirror, bright-eyed, robed in green and silver, Tymira’s holy sigil gleaming at her chest. She looked like hope itself, like everything Neth had once been before the blood, before the scars.

But her young mouth twisted into something hard.

Her eyes burned with accusation.

“You threw it all away.”

“You betrayed her,” the younger Neth said, voice sharp as a dagger. “Tymira gave you her hand, her luck. And you—” she spat the word like venom, “—you chose a whore goddess instead.”

Neth stiffened, the words slicing deeper than any blade. “No… Tymira threw me away. I prayed. I begged. And every time I reached for her, she was silent.”

Older Neth clenched her jaw, fists tightening at her side. “You know nothing of what came after. Tymira’s luck abandoned me. I bled, I lost, and still no hand reached for me. But Dykenta… she was there. She answered.”

“Answered?” The sixteen-year-old sneered, stepping closer to the glass. “By making you crawl into ruins. By twisting you into rituals too filthy to even name. Albion’s Dykenta temple — do you forget what you did there? You call that divinity? You call that devotion?”

The girl in the mirror shook her head, dark hair spilling around her shoulders. “You lie to yourself. You didn’t wait for Tymira. You didn’t believe in her. You ran to the ruins of Dykenta instead. Every altar you knelt at, every offering you made—it was lust, not faith.”

Neth’s throat tightened. Shame flickered across her face. But she forced her chin higher. “I did what I had to. For my companions. For survival.”

Neth’s eye burned, but she snarled back. “Dykenta was there when Tymira wasn’t! I was broken, bleeding, abandoned. She told me I wasn’t alone. Tymira never even whispered.”

“No,” the younger Neth hissed. “You did it because you wanted to. Because you longed for something Tymira never gave you. Don’t pretend it was holy.”

The room felt colder. The black roses at the window wilted and bled violet ichor.

Her younger self stepped closer to the glass, voice sharpened with fury. “Because you never listened! You let yourself be seduced by a goddess of flesh and hunger. And now you wear her name like armour. Whore goddess, that’s what she is. And you traded Tymira’s luck for her lust.”

The words struck like stones. Neth’s hands shook at her sides, her nails digging into her palms.

The sixteen-year-old pressed on, voice like steel:

“And what of Caleb Asher? What would he think, if he saw you now? The girl who once prayed for luck in his shadow, who begged Tymira to guide her path? He would see a stranger — a broken priestess, not a cleric of luck, not the Neth he believed in.” the girl spat suddenly, venom in her tone. “The girl who stood by him, who swore to Tymira beside him—what would he see now? A priestess who traded light for corruption. He’d see a stranger. He’d see a failure.”

Older Neth’s face twisted in pain, memories of Caleb’s smile — his laughter, his faith — stabbing like knives.

Neth gasped, the name ripping open old wounds. Caleb’s laughter, his smile, the way Tymira’s blessing once seemed to glow between them. And now? Only ashes.

“And tell me,” the younger one whispered, soft but cruel, “do you know why Tymira never blessed your path? Why every battle broke you, every loss cut deeper? Because you turned your back on her. Every step with the Unchained, every ruin you knelt in, every altar you stained with your body — it was Dykenta. Always Dykenta. Never Tymira.”

Her younger self pressed harder, voice like a hammer: “Do you even wonder why Tymira never gave you luck when you needed it most? When your friends died one by one? When every path turned to ruin? It’s because you betrayed her. You turned away. And she knew you were unworthy.”

The mirror’s surface shimmered again, and for a heartbeat, Neth saw flashes of every ruin she had walked, every Dykenta altar she had touched, every ritual that had bound her deeper.

“You always chose Dykenta,” the younger Neth whispered, softer now but more cutting. “Always her. Never Tymira. That’s why Tymira left you to suffer. You weren’t hers anymore.”

Her younger self’s eyes, once warm with faith, now glared like judgment incarnate.

“So maybe Tymira never gave you luck because you no longer deserved it.”

Neth staggered back from the mirror, her breathing ragged, her one good eye wet with tears.

Her reflection remained young, unbroken, unwavering—everything she had lost, glaring back at her like a judgment she could never escape.

The mirror went still, showing only Neth as she was now — trembling, scarred, her one good eye shining with tears.

Neth pressed her back to the cold stone wall, sliding down until her knees hugged to her chest. The violet silk clung to her skin, but she hardly noticed. Her eye fixed on the mirror, on the younger girl who stared back with that same unflinching certainty she once carried.

The room was silent—save for the faint hum of the crystals outside, the occasional rustle of black rose petals carried on the wind.

Her thoughts churned.

Was she right?
Every ruin she touched, every prayer she whispered—it had been at Dykenta’s altars. Never Tymira’s. Tymira had been the goddess of her mother’s household, of Caleb, of the hopeful girl who thought faith was as simple as luck on a coin toss.

But Dykenta—Dykenta had been there in her darkest hours. When her friends bled out, when her body broke, when her soul ached for something more than silence—Dykenta answered.

And yet…

Her younger self’s words lingered like thorns. “What would Caleb Asher think of you?”

Neth’s throat tightened. She could almost hear his laugh again, feel the warmth of his hand on her shoulder, the way Tymira’s name had felt safe on his lips. If he looked at her now—scarred, desperate, clutching rituals of flesh instead of luck—would he even recognize her?

A tear slipped down her cheek. She let it fall.

She thought of Tymira’s silence.
She thought of Dykenta’s embrace.
She thought of Caleb’s memory, and Mukkie’s death, and the endless battles that had torn her life apart.

Maybe Tymira had abandoned her. Maybe she had abandoned Tymira first. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.

Her chest ached. She wanted to scream, but the words stuck. Instead, she whispered to herself, so soft only the walls heard:

“I don’t know who I am anymore… Tymira’s? Dykenta’s? Or just… broken.”

Her reflection in the mirror was still young, still unscarred. But Neth looked away, unable to meet her own past gaze any longer.

The mirror’s surface rippled faintly, violet candlelight bending across it as though it were a pool of water.

And staring back—her.

Not the scarred, one-eyed, battered survivor she had become, but the girl from just a few months ago. The one who’d first stepped out from the Stag’s Head Inn at Golden Gate, cloak too big, mace too clean, eyes bright with the fever dream of being a hero. Both eyes wide and red, full of naïve courage. A girl who still believed the world might meet her halfway.

Neth stood transfixed, her breath caught.

That younger self leaned forward in the glass, smiling with unearned confidence. She had no idea. No idea of Urmbrik’s fury. No idea of bloodied fields, of Hookspark’s sacrifice, of Pehliff’s sword. No idea of what it meant to wake up every day with her body broken but still walking.

She thought of Albion, how even there, among its banners and old dragon-blooded lords, she had been welcomed. A goblin—but their goblin. A friend, a comrade. She thought of the warmth in their eyes, the way they looked past her small frame and saw instead her fire. Neth was a person to the Albion people another warrior ready to fight, they cared little about her being a goblin or a woman, she was one of them.

Then her mind turned, unbidden, to Tudor.

To the temple, the ogres, the women she freed from their torment from being forced upon used to breed with Ogres. She remembered their chains breaking, the blood drying on her morningstar—and then their faces. Not gratitude. Not relief. But fear. As if she were just another monster in the room. As if the women believed she might take their freedom and twist it into something else.

Her throat tightened. She could almost hear the whispers again.

And Abritus, no better—where the nobles saw her not as saviour nor hero, but a novelty. A pretty little goblin, small enough to be bought, used, bred. Their offers dripped with honeyed filth. She had smiled through it, teeth grinding, but the words had lodged like glass inside her.

She looked at the girl in the mirror again—bright-eyed, brave, foolish.

If only that Neth had known. If only she had seen what the world truly was, how it would treat her—how much of it would break her down to blood and tears, and how much of it would try to own her.

The mirror girl blinked back at her, eyes clear, unscarred. She could never know.

And Neth—Genethia Roth, the Goblin who had lived through Urmbrik’s trial—stood staring, trembling, wishing she could take that innocence and shield it, even now, from the truths she carried like chains.

The candlelight flickered across the glass, and for a heartbeat, Neth thought it was just her own trembling reflection staring back. But then the younger Genethia moved, lips parting, speaking with a voice full of brightness she hadn’t heard in so long.

“You look so tired.”

Neth’s stomach twisted. “I am tired.”

The mirror-girl tilted her head, smiling faintly. “That’s not what I meant. You look… worn. Like the world’s been gnawing on you.”

“It has,” Neth snapped, the words spilling raw. “You don’t know what it’s like out there. You don’t know what it’s like to watch them die, one by one. To be looked at like you’re filth. To fight until your body won’t move anymore, and still—still—it’s not enough.”

The younger self blinked, her bright red eyes shining. “But… isn’t that what we wanted? To fight for something bigger than us? To be something more?”

Neth laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “You think Albion’s smiles are the whole world? You think they’ll all treat you like family just because you fight beside them? In Tudor, they looked at me like I was no better than the ogres I killed. In Abritus, they wanted to buy me, breed me.” Her fists clenched. “That’s what the world thinks of goblins. That’s what they think of me.”

The mirror-girl didn’t flinch. Her little hands folded in her lap, calm as ever. “Maybe that’s what they see. But what do you see?”

Neth froze.

“You kept walking,” the girl pressed, voice softer now. “You didn’t stop. Even when you wanted to. Even when they spat, or feared you, or tried to own you. You kept walking.”

Neth’s throat ached, tears pricking at the corners of her one good eye.

“That’s what makes you a hero,” the mirror-self whispered. “Not because they believe in you. Because you believe in them, even when they don’t deserve it. Because you keep walking.”

For a long moment, Neth said nothing, just staring at the girl she once was—two bright eyes, unscarred, smiling with a kind of stubborn faith she thought she’d lost.

Finally, Neth muttered, “I don’t know if I can keep doing it.”

The younger Genethia leaned forward, pressing her tiny hand against the glass, as if reaching for her older self.

“Yes, you can. Because if you stop—then I die too.”

The room fell silent again. Just the flicker of violet candles, the weight of her breath, and the mirrored girl who faded slowly back into her reflection.

Neth stood frozen before the mirror, her hand trembling inches above the fading image of her younger self. The child’s words lingered, not as whispers but as weights pressed deep into her chest.

Her one eye was wide, bloodshot from exhaustion, fixed on the glass as if the ghost of that bright girl might still be there if she just stared long enough. But the mirror gave her nothing now—just her scarred, weary face, framed in violet silk and dim light.

Her lips parted. “If I stop… then she dies too…”

She let the words hang, and they cut.

For so long she had measured herself in blood and scars—in what she had lost, in what the world had taken. But the girl in the glass hadn’t looked at her wounds or her broken shield or the fear in her eye. The girl had looked through them, to something Neth had buried under the mud and screams: her own stubborn will to keep walking.

A sob clawed its way up, but she bit it down, fists clenching at her sides.

“I am still her,” she whispered, half in defiance, half in prayer. “Even if the world calls me monster. Even if they spit, or turn away. I’m still her. And if I stop, if I give in… then they win.”

Her breath shuddered, her chest tight.

She touched the glass at last, fingertips brushing the cold surface where her younger self had pressed her hand.

“I’ll keep walking,” she murmured, voice raw. “Not for them. Not even for Dykenta. For her. For me.”

She stepped back, wrapping the violet toga tighter around her battered body, her tears finally spilling silent and hot.

But when she sat on the edge of the silk bed, staring into the endless violet horizon beyond the palace window, her heart felt heavier than ever—not because of despair this time, but because of the unbearable weight of hope.

It was the most dangerous burden of all.

Neth sank into the violet silks, the fabric too soft, too decadent, like it belonged to someone else’s story. Her limbs felt heavy, still bruised and aching, but her mind would not still.

Every breath was tight with the same gnawing pressure she had carried since she woke here—not hunger, not thirst, but that sharpened ache Zlaniz’s realm seemed to tease from the marrow of her bones. She hated it, hated herself for it, hated the way it coiled in her belly no matter how many times she pushed it down.

She stared at the ceiling, the glimmer of crystals faintly pulsing like slow heartbeats.

Her lips parted, the whisper tearing free before she could stop it:
“I wish… I could be fucked hard right now.”

The words hung above her like a confession, raw and shameful, yet oddly freeing. Her chest heaved once, twice. She turned her face away, ashamed of how true it was, how much she wanted.

For a long time she lay there, trembling, her body at war with her mind, the silence of the palace pressing down on her like a lover waiting for her surrender.

And finally, exhaustion dragged her under.

Her one eye slipped closed, her breath evening out, though the heat in her veins refused to fade. She drifted into uneasy sleep—still aching, still wanting, still caught in the grip of the violet realm that refused to let her rest in peace.

Kasien Eye of the Storm (Day 18)

Day 18 in Geardaz’s wastes was nothing but storm.

Kasien pulled his cloak tight, though it did little. The teal-blue sky had broken open into a churning tempest, shards of crystal-lightning tearing down into the ground and sending arcs racing across the veins of gemstone buried beneath the soil. Every strike split the horizon with blinding flashes, the air alive with static that made his hair stand on end.

His boots sank into shifting gravel, every step weighed with exhaustion. His ribs still ached where the giant had struck him, his arm throbbed with the scars of the beholder’s bite, and his hand still burned from the firebolt that had exploded days before. The storm made the pain worse—each clap of thunder seemed to rattle through his bones.

He kept walking anyway. One foot, then the other.

The storm whispered. He couldn’t tell if it was real wind or something else—the teal-blue energy often bent sound, carrying voices that weren’t there. Sometimes he swore he heard Vhalis. Other times, Yshari. Once, faint as a sigh, he thought he heard Neth.

He didn’t dare answer.

The storm wasn’t just weather—it was the realm itself. Lightning crashed near him, exploding a crystalline spire into shards that rained like glass. He shielded his face, staggered forward, and pressed on into the chaos.

His thoughts circled like vultures as the storm pressed harder.

• How many more days to the Hand?
• Will I survive enough battles to even see it?
• How long can I walk without food before the realm itself devours me?

Kasien’s eyes burned, his lips cracked. The teal storm clawed at him, but his grip stayed firm on Soul of the Elderwood. The scimitar’s edge glowed faintly, reflecting each bolt that split the sky.

He whispered, half to himself, half to the storm:
“Break me if you must. I’ll walk until there’s nothing left to walk on.”

And the storm answered—not in words, but in the earth shuddering beneath his feet, as if Geardaz himself was listening, amused, waiting.

The winds flayed him raw. Each gust drove needles of sand and crystal dust into his skin until his cheeks and arms bled in thin lines. Lightning struck near enough that the air burned in his lungs, every breath tasting of ozone. His cloak was in tatters before the day was half gone, shredded by the storm’s claws.

The wastes offered no shelter, no caves, no shadows to huddle in. Only the endless storm, teal and violet tearing across the horizon. Each step forward was a defiance against Geardaz’s will. Each heartbeat another small rebellion.

Kasien’s mind wandered—had to wander—or else it would collapse inward. He thought of Kanbajan, of the jungle rains beating on the temple roofs. He thought of his sister’s laughter echoing through the garden, his cousin’s hand ruffling his hair. He thought of Whitestone’s mist, the way Reyn had welcomed him without hesitation, how Neth’s single eye had burned with light even in despair.

These thoughts weren’t comfort. They were anchors.

Because the storm screamed to strip him of everything else—his sense of direction, his sense of time, his sense of self. Hours bled into hours until he could no longer tell if he had walked a day or a week. His feet blistered inside his boots. His lips split until each sip of water stung. The raw meat he forced down tasted like ash.

But he walked.

When the lightning struck too close, he staggered, but he didn’t stop.
When the wind knocked him to his knees, he rose again.
When the storm whispered with his sister’s voice, he pressed his hands over his ears and kept moving.

By the time the storm broke, his body was a map of cuts, his cloak gone entirely, his hair tangled and stiff with dried blood. His vision blurred, and his breath rattled, but the sky above cleared enough to show him the colossal Hand again, faint in the distance—closer now than it had ever been.

Kasien didn’t smile. He had no strength for that. He only whispered through cracked lips:

“One more day. I’ll give it one more day.”

And he pressed on, bloody but unbroken.

From his fractured throne of shifting runes, Geardaz leaned forward.

The storm he had loosed across the wastes was no ordinary tempest—it had been tuned, crafted, sung in the discordant harmonics of his power. The lightning had been meant to flay, the winds to break, the whispers to hollow. Mortals were not meant to walk through it. Mortals were meant to crawl, beg, drown in the noise.

And yet Kasien Ash-Fall had walked.

The Trickster God’s many eyes blinked open across the storm-sky, teal irises shimmering, each one fixed on the staggering elf. A crooked grin split his features, too wide, too knowing.

“Look at you,” Geardaz murmured, his voice echoing in the cracks between thunder. “Your skin is split, your ribs sing, your mind is frayed to strands—and still you walk. Not because you trust me. Not because you serve me. But because you are too stubborn to fall.”

The storm crackled in response, lightning carving glyphs across the heavens before fading.

Geardaz toyed with a shard of crystal, spinning it between his fingers like a dice. “Others of my realm drown in the maze of their own making. They drink the lies, choke on the riddles, shatter on the symphony of madness. But you, little bladesinger…” His voice tilted, amused and sharp. “…you endure.”

He leaned back in his throne, laughter rattling the sky like broken bells.

“Oh, Kasien Ash-Fall, you are precisely what I hunger for. A mind that doubts, a heart that burns, a body that refuses the song yet dances to it all the same. Every step you take toward that Hand is mine, whether you admit it or not.”

The storm finally quieted, leaving only the hum of crystalline winds. Geardaz’s eyes closed one by one until only a single slit of teal remained in the sky, watching Kasien trudge forward bloody and unbowed.

“Survive as long as you like, little scholar. Every discord needs its counterpoint. Every tragedy needs its player. And you, ah—you will be my finest verse yet.”

His laughter bled away into silence, but the crystals beneath Kasien’s boots still thrummed with his amusement.

Neth — Day 18, The Arena of Violet

Violet mist curled like smoke around her ankles, warm and alive. She took a step forward and felt the ground itself breathe beneath her bare feet—petals unfurling, black roses blooming in violent bursts wherever she walked. Their thorns glistened, wet with crimson, but their scent was sweet enough to dizzy her.

Silk drifted down from the storming sky, sheets of violet fabric coiling around her body. They tightened, then loosened, like hands tracing her skin, tugging her gently backward. She struggled against them, but every time they pulled she felt a rush of heat—pleasure, hunger, longing—building in her belly like a tide she had buried for too long.

Voices whispered in the silk. Dozens, hundreds, all layered into one:

“You’ve denied yourself too long, little goblin. You ache for touch. You ache to surrender. Give yourself to it. To us.”

She shivered. The roses bloomed higher, curling around her thighs, their petals soft and hot as breath. Shapes flickered in the mist—figures half-seen, reaching hands, mouths pressed close but never touching, always just out of reach.

Her heart thundered. I want it, she thought—and then choked on the thought. Was it hers? Or Zlaniz’s realm pushing her body to betray her?

The whispers swelled, silk winding tighter:

“You will not endure forever. Your body knows what it wants. Your goddess cannot save you from yourself.”

She dropped to her knees, gasping, the roses closing in around her like a sea of black fire. The ache inside her was unbearable, and for a moment she reached for it—for them—for release.

And then—

A warmth. A brush, feather-light, like a hand on her shoulder.

Not silk. Not roses. Not Zlaniz.

“Pleasure is not corruption, my light,” came Dykenta’s voice, quiet but certain. “It can be holy. It can be love. What they offer is hollow. You need not starve yourself… but neither must you let them chain you.”

The silk slackened. The roses wilted. For a moment, the storm was still.

Neth gasped awake within the dream, staring at her own trembling hands. She was still wrapped in desire, still aching, still unsure if she could resist forever. But Dykenta’s warmth lingered, a reminder that her needs were not shameful—only dangerous when twisted.

The voices faded into the mist, promising to return.

And Neth, still on her knees, whispered into the silence:

“I don’t know how much longer I can hold…”

Neth’s eye snapped open. Her body was damp with sweat, her heart still racing from the dream’s grip. She lay staring at the violet canopy above, silk sheets clinging to her bare skin.

How much longer can I keep this up? she thought. The hunger is not leaving. It’s growing.

The door creaked.

Four demonettes entered, their violet skin shimmering with subtle glamour. Barely clothed, they moved with practiced grace, each carrying trays of oils, brushes, and cloth. They said nothing—only smiled with sharp, knowing teeth.

Before Neth could even form a protest, gentle yet firm hands took hers, guiding her from the bed. The sheet slid from her shoulders, leaving her naked. She flinched, clutching instinctively at herself, but they were already ushering her through to a vast bathing chamber.

Marble veined in pink and violet glowed faintly beneath scented steam. A pool carved from crystal overflowed with perfumed water. The demonettes set upon her like attendants of royalty—removing what little she still clung to, washing away the sweat and grime of her restless night. Their hands lingered, almost teasing, but never fully crossing the line between ritual and temptation.

Neth bit her lip, forcing her gaze to the mirrored tiles of the ceiling. Don’t give in. Don’t.

Her hair was brushed until it gleamed, braids woven with strands of violet thread. Her scars were oiled, her wounds cleaned, her skin polished as if she were being prepared not for battle, but for display.

Then came the armour—violet-studded leather, close-fitted and sharp with silver trim. Each piece strapped across her body with intimate care. She stared at herself in the mirror as they buckled the final plate: a goblin remade, draped in Zlaniz’s colours.

The demonettes led her out, down endless violet corridors lined with black roses blooming from cracks in the marble. Their fragrance was heavy, dizzying.

The sound of a thousand whispers grew louder with each step.

They stopped at a pair of towering crystal gates. Beyond, the roar of an unseen crowd.

One demonette pressed a short sword into Neth’s hand, smiling with a predator’s charm. “Endure,” she purred.

The gates opened.

Neth stepped forward into blinding light.

The arena was vast, its floor paved in violet stone. Spectators lined the terraces above, armored figures in Zlaniz’s hues—cheering, jeering, whispering with hungry eyes.

And at the center, upon a throne of black crystal and silk, sat Zlaniz herself.

The goddess leaned lazily on one arm, her gaze fixed on Neth. Her eyes burned with seductive power, her lips curved in a smile that was both cruel and inviting.

No words were spoken. None needed.

The look said everything:

This fight is beneath you, little goblin. This trial is not about your sword. It is about whether you can endure what gnaws inside you—the need that you deny. That is the true battle.

Neth’s hand tightened on the short sword. Her body trembled—not from fear of death, but from the battle raging within her own blood.

And under the roar of the arena, she whispered to herself:

“Then let’s see if I still can.”

The crowd’s roar dimmed to a low hum, like the breath of the wasteland itself. Neth stood alone in the centre of the arena floor, the short sword heavy in her hand. Her armour glimmered with violet studs beneath the strange light, but her body swayed slightly, weary, still not fully healed.

Above her, seated on the black-crystal throne, Zlaniz did not move.

Their gazes locked.

Neth felt it in her bones—an invisible chain of desire, of temptation, of judgment. Zlaniz’s eyes gleamed like twin amethysts set aflame, burning with that knowing, unbearable smile. The goddess leaned back in her throne with a languid grace, her fingers curling against her jaw as if studying her prey.

And she was not alone.

Four figures flanked her, silent and still, like carved idols of war.

• Draelith Morvayne, the Violet Dread — towering in baroque plate that shimmered like oil over water, his helm crowned with jagged horns. He rested a massive glaive across his knees, eyes hidden but presence suffocating.
• Kaelthys Vorannar, the Violet Conqueror — his aura unmistakable, his armour flawless, his hand resting upon the hilt of a blade that seemed to drink the light. He did not look at Neth directly; his gaze lingered somewhere far beyond, though the faintest tilt of his head hinted recognition.
• Selarra Veythir, the Crimson Whisper — draped in violet silks that clung like mist, her face veiled but her smile audible in the way the crowd quieted when her fingers brushed the air. A dagger spun idly in her hand, glinting with crimson light.
• Velmyra Duskthorn, the Amethyst Widow — elegant, terrible, her hair black as a void, her armour carved with thorns of violet steel. She bore a long spear tipped with a crystal blade, its edge dripping with faint violet flame.

Together they were Zlaniz’s chosen—champions of beauty, death, and seduction. The arena was theirs as much as the goddess’s.

Neth’s chest rose and fell. Her knuckles whitened on her sword hilt.

She half-expected Zlaniz to speak, to command, to unleash them.

But no words came.

Only silence.

The goddess smiled wider, tilting her head. The champions did not move, statues awaiting their mistress’s whim. The crowd shifted uneasily, their whispers a thousand insect wings.

Neth realized the truth of this moment: this was not yet about the clash of steel.

It was about the gaze.

Her one eye burned against Zlaniz’s two.

Her breath trembled, but she refused to look away.

The silence stretched, heavy as a blade over her neck, until it felt like the entire violet realm was holding its breath.

And then Neth whispered, more to herself than to them all:

“I will not bow.”

The words vanished into the charged stillness.

The champions stirred faintly, like shadows twitching at the edge of firelight. Zlaniz’s smile deepened, her lips parting just enough to let a laugh escape—low, sultry, and cruel.

The first move had not yet been made. But the battle had already begun.

The Spawn’s tongue lashed out first, a slick whip of muscle aimed at her throat.
Neth twisted, barely dodging, the tip snapping past her ear like a serpent’s strike.
Her blade came down in return, cleaving the tongue halfway. The Spawn screamed, blood spraying, its voice like wet silk tearing.

But the urge surged again—the blood’s smell turned sweet in her nostrils, dizzying, her body misreading the violence as something else. Her grip trembled. For an instant she almost wanted to fall into it, to stop resisting.

No. Gods, no. You’re not taking this from me.

She staggered forward.

The Spawn’s claws raked across her ribs, shallow but burning. Pain cleared her head like cold water. She answered with a thrust—straight into one of its many eyes. The orb burst, black ichor running down her blade, hot against her hands.

The creature reared, flailing. Its bulk cast a suffocating shadow, but Neth pressed close, refusing to yield. She slashed again, again—her sword carving through layered muscle and oozing skin.

The Spawn bellowed and backhanded her with its massive forearm.

The blow threw her across the sand. Her vision swam. Her body screamed for rest, for release, for something—anything—other than fighting. She coughed, spat blood, and felt her knees buckle.

From the dais, Zlaniz leaned forward, her violet lips curved in a smile that said: fall, little goblin. Give in.

Neth rose. Slowly, shaking. But she rose.

The Spawn lunged, jaws wide, teeth dripping. She dove beneath, rolling past its legs. As she came up behind, she drove her sword deep into the back of its knee. Cartilage split, tendons snapped, and the Spawn collapsed sideways with a howl.

Pinned on one side, it clawed toward her.

Neth screamed—not in despair, but in defiance—and slashed again, cutting its wrist so deep the hand dangled by shreds. She was covered in its gore, slipping, panting, but still standing.

The Spawn writhed, its remaining eyes rolling wildly.

She forced herself closer. Her whole body trembled with exhaustion, with hunger. Her heart begged her to stop, to collapse, to let it end. But something deeper pushed her forward: the faces of her friends, the memory of Hookspark’s sacrifice, the voices of the Cinders waiting for her return.

With her last strength, she climbed onto the Spawn’s back, straddling its writhing mass.

“Mine,” she whispered again. “This body. This will. Mine.”

And she plunged the sword through its skull.

The Spawn convulsed once, twice, then went still. Its grotesque body collapsed into the violet dust of the arena, leaving her kneeling in blood and shadow, gasping for air, clutching the hilt with trembling hands.

The arena roared.

But Neth didn’t hear them. She was listening to her own heartbeat, to the fragile rhythm of her will—still hers, still unbroken.

The Spawn’s body crumbled into violet dust, the echoes of its death cry still ringing through the arena. The crowd roared like a storm—but above it all was silence, silence in the throne where Zlaniz sat.

The goddess did not jeer. She did not mock.
She smiled. Slow. Knowing. Seductive.

Her gaze alone felt like a hand tracing across Neth’s skin, setting every nerve alight. A wave of heat rolled through her, fierce and unrelenting. She tried to steady her breath, but her chest rose and fell too quickly, every inhale caught between exhaustion and craving.

The Demonettes were upon her then, gliding like dancers. They lifted her broken frame, their touch feather-light yet teasing, their laughter lilting in the air. They carried her through the violet halls, washing the gore from her skin, brushing out her tangled hair. She felt her strength returning in cruel waves—not the healing of flesh alone, but the awakening of what her body screamed it needed.

They dressed her in a flowing toga of violet silk, the fabric cool against her bare skin, clinging in all the places that reminded her of what she longed to forget.

And then—back in her chamber—the air shifted.

She was not alone.

Zlaniz stood before her. Not as the towering colossus of the arena, but as a woman. A woman taller, radiant, terrible in beauty. Her dark violet eyes shimmered like gems, her lips curved into that same smile.

“Genethia Roth,” she said, her voice a caress and a command.
“You endure. You bleed. You rise. And all the while, your body begs to be claimed, yet you deny it.”

Neth swallowed hard, her throat dry. She clutched the edge of her toga tighter around herself, though it did nothing to shield her.

Zlaniz stepped closer. The silk of her gown whispered with her movement, her presence filling the chamber like incense.

“Why do you resist what you crave?” the goddess asked, tilting her head, her tone approving yet predatory. “Do you not see? Flesh is not weakness. Desire is not corruption. It is truth. It is power. You fought the Spawn not with purity, but with hunger. With fire. With need.”

Her hand lifted—not touching, but hovering inches from Neth’s cheek, heat radiating from her fingers like a brand.

“I am not here to break you, little goblin,” Zlaniz whispered, eyes burning into her. “I am here to show you what you already are.”

Neth’s heart thundered. Her breath came shallow. The waves of her body’s urges clawed at her, relentless, unending, as if the goddess had only magnified what was already there.

She could not tell if this was temptation, or revelation.

Zlaniz’s hand lowered, brushing Neth’s jaw at last, a touch so soft it stole the breath from her lungs.

“You tremble not from fear,” the goddess murmured, “but from the weight of your own denial. Every beat of your heart cries for flesh. Every dream you’ve had since stepping into my realm proves it.”

Her fingers slid to Neth’s throat, resting there with the faintest pressure, a dangerous intimacy that made the goblin’s skin burn.

“Do you know what I could give you, Genethia?” Zlaniz whispered, her voice thick with promise.
“I could make every wound, every scar, every sorrow dissolve beneath pleasure so sharp you would forget pain itself. I could bind you in silk and shadow, and let you be worshipped as you deserve—your body adored, your hunger sated until your limbs shake and your voice breaks with cries you have never dared make.”

Zlaniz leaned closer, her lips grazing the edge of Neth’s ear.

“You would not need to beg. You would only need to yield. To me. Tonight.”

The goddess stepped back only a pace, letting her words coil in the silence like smoke. Her eyes glowed brighter, and her smile deepened, seductive and merciless.

“Do not lie to yourself, little one. You want it. Your body aches for it. I can see it in the way you breathe, in the way you press your thighs together as if it could smother the flame.”

Her hand fell away, leaving a ghost of heat.

“So—will you go on pretending? Or will you take what has always been yours, if only you dared reach for it?”

Neth’s throat tightened as Zlaniz’s words wrapped around her like velvet chains. Her body shivered, heat pooling where she least wanted it, the hunger she had been pushing down for days now roaring like a beast in her chest.

For a moment she could not breathe, staring up into the goddess’s violet eyes, her lips parting with nothing but silence. Then—barely audible, but steady—she forced words through her clenched teeth.

“You think… you can break me with this.”

Her hand trembled as she pulled the silk sheet tighter across her chest, as if it could shield her from the desire clawing inside. Her one eye glistened—not with tears, but with fury at herself.

“I won’t… be your toy,” she said, though the quiver in her voice betrayed her need. “I’ve bled, I’ve starved, I’ve stood against Urmbrik’s hordes. You think a warm bed and whispers will undo me?”

Her breath hitched; her thighs pressed unconsciously together.

“…Maybe I want it,” she admitted, almost choking on the words. “But I’ll want it on my terms. Not yours.”

She looked away, cheeks flushed, jaw tight, clutching the sheet like a lifeline.

Zlaniz’s smile only widened at Neth’s trembling defiance. She tilted her head, violet hair spilling like liquid shadow down her shoulders, and a low, sultry laugh slipped past her lips.

“Fiery little thing,” she purred. “You bare your teeth even when your body begs for surrender. I like that. Resistance sweetens the taste.”

She drew back, no longer pressing, her poise that of a predator satisfied with letting prey run—for now.

“Very well. Tonight, I leave you to your struggle. Tomorrow…” Her gaze lingered, warm and dangerous. “Tomorrow we will speak of alliance. Between gods.”

Neth blinked, her flushed face creasing in confusion. “Alliance… between you and—”

“Dykenta.” Zlaniz’s tone was smooth, confident, as if the matter were already decided. “Even your goddess knows the fire of flesh. Why pretend otherwise?”

Before Neth could muster a reply, Zlaniz turned, her silk gown whispering against the stone as she strode toward the door. At the threshold she paused, casting one last look over her shoulder, eyes gleaming with approval.

“Sleep, little one. Dream of the choice you think you still have.”

The door shut behind her with a whisper like silk torn in half.

Neth fell back against the pillows, her heart hammering, her body still burning. She stared at the ceiling, teeth gritted, every muscle aching from the effort of restraint. The urge clawed at her, tempting her hand, whispering that no one would know, no one would judge.

She almost gave in. Gods, she wanted to.

Instead, she pulled the violet sheets tight around her, shut her eye, and forced herself into the uneasy embrace of sleep.

And even as exhaustion claimed her, the hunger did not fade.

Zlaniz Thoughts

When the chamber doors closed behind her, Zlaniz’s smile lingered — not the mocking smirk she had given the goblin, but something quieter, sharper. She walked the violet halls of her champions palace, fingertips brushing the crystal walls, her mind not on Genethia Roth but on a memory centuries older than the goblin’s bloodline.

“Dykenta…” she whispered, savouring the name like a forbidden fruit.

Once, long ago, before she wore the title of Seductress of Despair, before her whispers corroded empires, Zlaniz had known another path. She had known love not just as hunger, but as power shared.

And at her side had walked a mortal woman — bright, fiery, reckless, and hers.

Dykenta.

Her champion, her blade, her song in mortal flesh. When there were only two dark gods — herself and Zonid — it was Zlaniz who had claimed her, who had guided her, who had taught her how desire was a weapon, how flesh and spirit intertwined.

But then came Renazar. And with him, betrayal.

Dykenta had been taken, chosen to rise as a goddess — severed from her champion’s hand, her fire bound to another master. Zlaniz had watched her ascend, watched her vanish from reach, leaving only emptiness behind.

The first true loss of her immortal life.

Zlaniz paused before a tall window overlooking the violet wastelands, her nails scraping against the glass until it screeched. Her reflection stared back at her, lips curling into a smile both hungry and nostalgic.

“To see you again, old flame… not as my mortal, but as my equal. To tempt you, test you, remind you of what we were.”

Her laugh, low and honeyed, filled the silent hall.

“This little goblin thinks the alliance is about her. No, little one. You are but the messenger, the spark. The fire is between me and the goddess who once lay at my side.”

Her eyes burned with anticipation.

“I cannot wait to taste the moment we meet again, Dykenta. To see if godhood has made you strong enough to deny me a second time.”

Kasien Restless Rest (Day 19)

Kasien’s knees buckled. His scimitar slipped from his fingers and clattered uselessly against the teal-stained stone. The wasteland storm had broken, but his body had nothing left to give. He staggered once, then crumpled to the ground, chest heaving in shallow, ragged gasps.

Above him, the sky split open with its endless lattice of teal eyes — dozens, hundreds — all blinking in eerie unison. Their gaze pressed down, vast and merciless, as though every secret he had ever tried to bury was being read aloud.

“I see you,” the storm whispered, though whether it was Geardaz or his own fevered mind, Kasien could not tell.

He wanted to curse them, to spit his defiance into the void, but no sound left his lips. His vision swam. His body burned. And then, blackness.

When next he stirred, there was song.

A low, haunting melody wove through the air, each note trembling between sorrow and beauty. Fingers like silk brushed damp hair from his brow. His head rested not on stone, but on soft cloth, his cheek cradled against warmth.

Elyndra Veylith, the Lament of Discord, sat with him in the shadow of her war banners. Her lyre rested across her lap, though she did not play it — she sang instead, voice alone bending the silence into something fragile and holy.

Her violet eyes watched him, unreadable, while her hand moved gently through his white hair. She had cleaned some of the blood from his wounds, binding what she could with torn strips of silk. Around them, her war camp stood quiet, the faceless attendants keeping their distance at her command.

Kasien drifted in and out of awareness, but he felt the weight of her presence even in half-sleep. The song curled around him, and for the first time in days, his body loosened, his breaths deepened.

Elyndra looked down at him, her lips curving not in mockery but in something far softer.

“Rest, little bladesinger,” she whispered, a line between lullaby and vow. “The storm won’t claim you tonight. Not while I sing.”

And so, under the gaze of a champion of the God Hands, Kasien slept — his head on the lap of the very enemy he had sworn to resist.

Kasien stirred with a sharp breath, his hand twitching instinctively toward where his blade should be. Instead, he found bandages — clean, silken, tied with care. His violet eyes blinked open to the dim glow of crystal lanterns, and there she was.

Elyndra Veylith.

The Lament of Discord.

She sat cross-legged, her lyre at her side, her face lit softly by the teal fires of the camp. Kasien’s head was still pillowed in her lap, though when he tried to rise she steadied him gently with a hand on his shoulder.

“You’ve been unconscious nearly a day,” she said, her voice a song even when it was only words. “You’ve burned through your body as if it were a torch. Another step, and the storm would have snuffed you out.”

Kasien swallowed hard, staring up at her. “Why help me?” His voice was ragged, suspicion laced even into his exhaustion.

Her eyes softened. “Because I could not watch another burn to nothing when I had the power to still the fire.”

Her hand hovered just above his cheek — not quite touching, but close enough that he could feel the ghost of warmth.

Kasien’s jaw tightened. “You serve Geardaz. You sing his dirges. How do I know this isn’t some trap?”

For the first time, her gaze faltered. She looked past him, to the shifting banners of her camp, as though the answer lay somewhere in the shadows.

“I sang once for a man I loved,” she said at last, her voice thin with memory. “A knight whose heart was brighter than steel, whose laugh carried across the battlefield. I sang him awake. I sang him home. I sang him to his grave.”

Kasien blinked, silent.

Her violet eyes found his again, and they glimmered with something dangerously close to grief. “When I look at you, Kasien Ash-Fall, I see him. Young. Stubborn. Chasing light even through the storm.”

She touched his hair lightly, brushing it from his face. “I did not save you for Geardaz. I saved you… because I could not bear to lose that echo again.”

The words hung heavy between them, like the space between a note and its next.

Kasien’s breath caught. He wanted to argue, to spit back suspicion, but the sincerity in her voice — in her trembling — felt too human to dismiss.

Elyndra looked away, breaking the spell she had woven. “Rest while you can, bladesinger. Tomorrow, the wasteland will not be so merciful.”

Kasien’s lips pressed into a hard line. He forced himself to sit up, ignoring the ache in his ribs, ignoring the way her hand hovered as if to steady him. He pulled free of her lap, planting his palms on the ground until he could breathe through the dizziness.

“Echoes don’t mean anything,” he said flatly, his voice still hoarse. “You see your lost knight in me? That’s not my burden to carry.”

Elyndra flinched as if struck. Her violet eyes dimmed for a moment, though her face remained composed.

Kasien’s hand shook as he reached for his satchel, for his scimitar, for anything familiar. “I’ve walked this realm long enough to know every kindness has teeth. You patch my wounds, you sing me to sleep, you speak like you care—” His voice cracked, fury and exhaustion bleeding together. “But you serve the God Hands. And if I let myself believe you for even a heartbeat, I’d be a fool.”

He looked at her then, truly looked, and the steel in his gaze wavered against the grief in hers.

“…The worst part is,” he muttered, almost to himself, “I believe you mean it. And that makes you more dangerous than any spell you sing.”

The campfire hissed, sending sparks into the teal night.

Elyndra’s lips parted, but no words came. Her hand lowered to her lap, fingers curling around her lyre like it was the only anchor she had left.

Kasien turned away, pulling his cloak tighter, blood still seeping faintly through the silk wrappings she’d given him. He closed his eyes, refusing rest, refusing her song — yet the echo of it still hummed in his bones.

The silence stretched, broken only by the crackle of the teal-blue fire. Elyndra’s knuckles whitened around the lyre, but when she spoke, her voice was hushed — not a song now, but the human tone beneath it.

“You think I don’t know what I am,” she said. “What I serve. What I’ve done.”

Kasien didn’t turn. His shoulders were stiff, his breath shallow.

Elyndra’s gaze lowered to the ground, shadows curling along her cheekbones. “But you are wrong about one thing, bladesinger. Care doesn’t always have teeth. Sometimes it just… bleeds.”

Her words lingered in the air, vulnerable, raw. She looked at him, her eyes glimmering like fractured crystal.

“I don’t ask you to trust me,” she continued, softer still. “Only to remember that not every song sung in Geardaz’s name was born in his darkness.”

Kasien’s grip tightened on his cloak. He wanted to spit back, to shut her out, but the tremor in her voice slid under his armour. He said nothing, but the silence that followed was not as sharp as before.

Elyndra turned her gaze back to the fire, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Sleep, Kasien Ash-Fall. Hate me in the morning if you must. Tonight, let me at least give you peace.”

The fire hissed again, sparks rising like fading notes into the violet storm.

Kasien kept his back turned to her, jaw set so tightly it ached. Every instinct screamed at him to resist, to hold himself upright until his bones gave out, to deny her even the smallest victory.

But his body betrayed him. His breath slowed, heavy with exhaustion. The tension in his shoulders loosened one notch, then another. His eyelids sank despite his will.

Elyndra did not move closer, did not press. She only sat beside him, her lyre untouched, her presence steady. The firelight painted her in shifting violet and teal, as though the realm itself could not decide what she was.

Kasien’s thoughts scattered in fragments: trap… liar… her voice… Aelthar… Vhalis… Yshari… Each thread unravelled before it reached its end. His head dipped forward, chin touching his chest.

And then, despite everything, he leaned slightly — just enough that his shoulder brushed hers. It was the smallest contact, almost imperceptible, but it was there.

Elyndra’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. She looked down at him, asleep now, the hard lines of suspicion eased into something fragile, something human.

She did not smile, not fully. But her fingers hovered above his hair, not daring to touch, trembling with the weight of everything she felt.

“Rest,” she whispered, voice so soft it was nearly lost to the fire. “For once, let the world take nothing from you.”

And Kasien, bloody and battered, slept against the lap of Geardaz’s champion — yielding not to her power, but to the dangerous tenderness she had shown.

Elyndra Struggles

The fire crackled low, its teal sparks drifting into the night like broken notes. Elyndra sat perfectly still, afraid that the slightest shift might wake him — or worse, remind him of who she was.

Kasien’s head rested near her hip now, his body slack with exhaustion, his breath steady against her side. The weight of him there was… unbearable and exquisite all at once.

Her fingers hovered above his hair, aching to touch, to comb through the silken white strands. She clenched her hand into a fist instead, nails biting her palm until it hurt.

“You should hate me,” she whispered to herself, eyes fixed on the sleeping elf. “You do hate me.”

And yet… when she looked at him, she didn’t see Geardaz’s prey. She didn’t see a pawn to be twisted into discord. She saw a boy with too much fire, too much stubbornness, carrying his grief the same way she had once carried hers.

Aelthar’s ghost stirred in her chest, cruel and tender all at once.

“This is his trick,” she told herself. “Geardaz wants me to feel this. To break me again.”

But the words tasted hollow.

Because in Kasien’s weary face, in the small, unconscious way he had leaned into her, she saw not a reminder of her grief — but a possibility. A different song. One she had not dared to believe could exist again.

Her throat tightened, her voice breaking into silence. She looked to the sky where Geardaz’s eyes swirled in endless patterns.

“You’ll punish me for this,” she breathed, almost daring him to hear. “But I don’t care.”

For the first time in centuries, she let herself lean forward — just slightly — and brush her lips against his hair. Not a kiss. Not quite. But enough.

Then she sat back, forcing herself into stillness again, every muscle taut with the weight of her choice.

In her lap, Kasien slept on, unaware of the dangerous battle raging not in the skies, but in the heart of the Lament of Discord.

Neth's Future (Day 19)

Neth woke with her chest heaving, her breaths sharp and uneven. The silk sheets clung to her damp skin, her body thrumming with a heat that hadn’t cooled since yesterday. Her hand drifted toward her thigh, toward the need whispering louder than reason — but she yanked it back, curling her fist against the mattress, shaking her head violently.

“Not like this,” she muttered, voice hoarse. “I won’t… I can’t.”

But the ache didn’t fade.

The door creaked open. Four demonettes slipped inside, violet-skinned and beautiful in ways that hurt to look at, their eyes glimmering with a cruel sort of amusement. They said nothing as they approached, but their smirks carried the weight of a thousand unspoken promises.

They took her by the wrists and guided her gently, almost tenderly, toward the bathing chamber. Neth’s legs trembled as much from need as from weakness, her breaths ragged.

Steam rose from marble basins lined with black roses. One by one, the demonettes stripped the violet silk from her body, their hands brushing just enough to make her shiver. She bit her lip hard, trying not to gasp as their fingertips traced along her scars, her ribs, her thighs.

They’re just washing you. Just washing you.

But the way they lingered… it wasn’t just that.

Cool water spilled across her skin as they bathed her, hands moving slowly, deliberately. One brushed her hair back, running a comb through the tangled blue strands, another drew the towel across her neck and shoulder with a motion more like a caress than a chore.

Neth clenched her fists, her nails digging crescents into her palms. Every nerve screamed for her to give in, to lean into their touches, to let her body have what it wanted.

Instead, she forced her jaw tight, her eye shut, and whispered only to herself:
“Dykenta… don’t let me break.”

When it was done, they dressed her in the richest silk yet — a toga of deep violet, studded with gems that caught the torchlight. Their teasing smirks never faded, as though they knew exactly what storm raged inside her.

By the time they guided her back into the bedchamber, her knees trembled, her pulse throbbed, and her body felt no less hungry than before.

The door closed behind them, leaving her alone again, dressed like royalty, aching like a prisoner.

Neth sat on the edge of the bed, pressing her forehead into her hands, trembling.

“Gods help me,” she whispered.

The Demonettes left Neth a tray of food and wine.

The food was sweet, the wine sweeter. Too sweet — every bite and sip made her skin prickle hotter, her pulse thrum louder in her ears. Neth sat slouched at the low table, chest rising and falling, her body demanding more than food or drink.

Then she saw it.

Nestled on the tray beside the cut fruit and empty goblet, gleaming faintly in the violet torchlight: a golden rod. Shaped not for war, not for prayer — but for pleasure. Its polished surface seemed to glow, humming faintly with enchantment, as though it could answer the ache in her body the instant she reached for it.

Neth’s throat went dry. Her hand twitched toward it.

“Just once,” she whispered to herself, trembling. “Just to quiet it. Just to—”

She froze.

Her eye caught movement in the mirror across the chamber. She lifted her head.

It wasn’t her past self this time. Not the young, bright-eyed Genethia of Jhambi Circle. Not the naive cleric in Golden Gate.

It was her. But wrong.

Her reflection smiled with sharp, cruel teeth, her violet toga darkened to black leather slick with blood. Her single eye glowed red as fire, and around her throat hung not one amulet but many — God Hand sigils, clinking like trophies. The rapier in her grip was warped, jagged, pulsing like a living thing.

“Go on,” the reflection whispered, though its lips did not move. The words sank directly into Neth’s mind, sweet and venomous. “You’ve denied yourself long enough. Why pretend at restraint? You know what you are meant to become.”

Neth stumbled back from the mirror, heart hammering, the golden rod gleaming at her side like it had been placed there by fate.

Her reflection tilted its head, mocking her.

“Why resist, little goblin, when your future already wears my smile?”

Neth’s fists clenched at her sides, nails cutting crescents into her palms. She stood before the mirror, staring into the smirk of the figure that wore her face. The air seemed to thicken, the violet light of the chamber warping as though the room itself bent around this presence.

Her reflection laughed, the sound low and cruel, echoing in Neth’s bones though the lips in the glass barely moved.

“When the time comes,” it whispered, “you need only accept. No struggle. No shame. Just… let go. And you will be what you were always meant to be.”

The reflection rippled, its form shifting, twisting. Neth’s eye widened as her own image elongated, armor hardening into plates of obsidian edged with gold, her skin turned pale as moonlight, and her eye burned with crimson flame.

The mirror no longer held Genethia Roth.

It held a goddess.

Her goddess.

The Goddess of Loss, Temptation, Fate, and Murder.

The god-hand figure leaned closer, her grin a knife’s edge.

“You ask how to avoid this?” the voice purred, mocking. “You think such a question matters? Weak little thing, begging for escape like a child clinging to scraps of light.”

Neth’s throat tightened. She forced the words out anyway. “If this is me… if this is my fate… then how do I fight it? Tell me, damn you!”

The goddess laughed, a sound like glass shattering.

“Fight it?” she hissed. “There is no fight. Every step you take, every tear you shed, every wound you survive only feeds me. You think your prayers to Dykenta matter? You think your precious ‘friends’ matter? They are fuel. You are mine.”

Neth’s single eye burned with tears. “I’ll never accept it. I’d rather die than become you.”

The goddess sneered. “Die? Oh, you will die, child. Again and again. Until death itself bends to you. Until even gods cannot look away.”

The two figures stood locked in their silent war, one trembling with fury and terror, the other radiant with cruel certainty.

Finally, the goddess whispered, softer now, almost tender:

“And when you finally collapse beneath it all, little goblin, I’ll be waiting in the mirror. And you will beg me to take the weight from you.”

The image faded, leaving only Neth’s battered reflection in the glass — eyes swollen with fear, body still trembling, the golden rod gleaming faintly at her side.

The silence was deafening.

Neth was yanked forward, the mirror swallowing her like liquid glass. Cold engulfed her, and when she staggered up, she was no longer in the violet palace but in a world of endless reflection — black floors, mirrored skies, every direction filled with her own image.

The mirror swallowed Neth whole.

She stumbled into a cold void, surrounded by infinite reflections of herself. And there—waiting—was the wrong Neth. Taller, sharper, smiling with that smug cruelty that made Neth’s stomach knot.

“You think you can fight me?” the evil Neth purred. “You can’t even fight yourself.”

“I won’t become you,” Neth growled, standing her ground.

“Oh, you will.”

Without warning, the corrupted Neth lashed out, her boot driving into Neth’s body with shocking force. Pain exploded through her, sending her sprawling. She curled on the mirrored floor, gasping, trembling, clutching herself.

The evil Neth crouched beside her, voice low and venomous. “So fragile. So weak. And yet, so hungry.”

She leaned closer, her face inches away, and pressed her lips to Neth’s. The kiss was suffocating, invasive, like drowning in her own reflection. For a heartbeat, Neth felt it—the answering pull of her own denied urges, that dangerous wave of release.

And then—shame. Fury. She shoved the mirror-self away with all her strength, tears burning in her one good eye.

“NO!” she shouted, staggering back to her feet. “You are NOT me!”

The corrupted Neth only laughed, standing tall again. “Not yet.” Her smile was all knives and certainty. “But every step you take brings you closer.”

The mirrored void fractured, her laughter echoing as the world shattered around Neth—until she fell back into her bed, drenched in sweat, her body still trembling from what she had endured.

Neth jolted awake with a ragged gasp, fists clutching at the violet silk sheets as if they might anchor her to reality. Her skin was slick with sweat, her heart hammering so hard it drowned out every other sound in the chamber.

For a moment, she didn’t dare breathe. She could still feel it—the phantom sting of the kick, the cruel heat of the kiss, the mocking laughter that wasn’t hers but had come from her own mouth.

Her single eye darted to the mirror. It was whole again, blank and silent, reflecting only a battered goblin girl wrapped in tangled sheets. No shadows, no smirking double staring back.

Her lips trembled. She whispered, hoarse:

“Not me… not me…”

Her hands shook as she pressed them to her chest, desperate to feel her own heartbeat, to prove she was still herself.

But the echo of that other voice lingered in her skull. Not yet.

Neth squeezed her eye shut, biting down hard on her lip until she tasted blood.

“Dykenta… please—” her voice cracked, and she didn’t know if she was praying or begging.

The chamber was silent. The only answer was the faint perfume of violets and the gnawing hunger still twisting in her body.

She curled in on herself, whispering one last vow into the sheets before exhaustion dragged her under again:

“I’ll never be her. Never.”

Kasien Awakes (Day 20)

Kasien’s eyes fluttered open to warmth he hadn’t felt in days—fingers tracing lightly across his cheek. For a fleeting moment, he thought of Yshari, of his mother, of safety he hadn’t known since childhood.

But when his vision cleared, it was Elyndra Veylith leaning over him, her violet gaze soft, her voice a note between a song and a sigh.

“When the moment comes,” she murmured, “and you need a way out… call for me. I will help you escape this place.”

Kasien stared at her, still caught between weariness and disbelief. For the briefest second, he almost let himself believe her. Almost.

He pushed himself upright, bones aching, every muscle screaming. “Thank you,” he said, voice hoarse but steady. “But I won’t run. Not until I know where Yshari and Vhalis are. I didn’t bleed across empires to turn back now.”

Her lips parted, as if to protest, but he was already gathering his satchel and scimitar, strapping the blade to his hip with trembling hands. He gave her one last glance—long enough to see the ache she tried to hide in her eyes—then turned toward the wastes.

The teal horizon stretched endlessly, the colossal Hand rising in the far distance, closer now than it had ever been, its fingers clawing at the storm-sky like black towers.

Kasien steadied himself, every step grinding pain deeper into his body. Still, he walked.

Behind him, Elyndra’s camp faded into silence, her song left unfinished in the wind. Ahead, the road into madness and revelation waited.

Elyndra’s Private Reflection

Elyndra stood at the edge of the camp, her hand still raised as though she could keep him there with nothing more than a gesture. But Kasien Ash-Fall was already gone, swallowed by the storm-lit wastes.

The Lyre of Shattered Echoes hung heavy against her back, its strings humming faintly with Geardaz’s will. The god’s laughter lingered in her mind like a dissonant chord:

“He walks into my snare with eyes wide open. Play him, Elyndra. Break him. Turn him into one of us.”

Her jaw tightened. She had heard those whispers for centuries, carried them like iron chains. But this boy—this stubborn, violet-eyed wanderer—unravelled her in ways no command ever had.

He was so much like Aelthar. Not in face, nor in voice, but in that impossible fire. The refusal to bend. The insistence on bearing the world’s weight alone.

Her fingers curled until her nails bit skin. “If I break him,” she whispered to the storm, “am I not only mourning Aelthar all over again? Condemned to sing dirges until my throat bleeds?”

The teal lightning lit her face, sharp with sorrow, soft with longing. For a heartbeat, she imagined walking beside Kasien instead of watching him vanish—helping him fight, helping him find his family, helping him survive.

But the song of Geardaz pressed against her heart, discordant and insistent. She was his Lament, his chosen bard. Her role was not to heal. It was to corrupt, to remind all that harmony dies.

And yet, as Kasien’s silhouette dwindled into the horizon, Elyndra whispered words she had not spoken in centuries:

“Please… don’t break.”

She clutched the Lyre tighter, turned back toward her warriors, and sang—not Geardaz’s dirges, but a soft tune of longing, one only the storm would hear.

Kasien’s boots struck the crystal ground with a rhythm that was not steady, but stubborn. Every step hurt. Every joint ached. His ribs still sang with the giant’s club, his arm burned where the Beholder’s teeth had torn flesh, and yet he walked.

The teal-blue storm above stirred as if offended by his refusal to falter. Lightning forked sideways across the horizon, not to strike him but to frame him—like the realm itself wanted to remind him of his smallness, his fragility.

The eyes in the sky blinked open one by one, vast orbs of pale teal fire that tracked him across the wastes. They did not roar, did not lash out, not yet. Instead, they watched. Judging. Waiting.

The path underfoot shifted with each mile, the crystalline surface cracking and healing in ripples like an endless heartbeat. At one point, it rose sharply into jagged spires, forcing him to climb; at another, it dipped into valleys where whispers coiled like smoke around his ears.

He ignored them all.

His satchel was light—too light. Food nearly gone, water running thin despite his clever boiling tricks. His body screamed at him to stop, to rest, to yield.

But every time his knees threatened to buckle, Kasien muttered through gritted teeth:

“Not until I see them. Not until I know.”

The realm responded with mockery. A cluster of spires rearranged into the shapes of figures—his sister, his cousin, faces carved in impossible clarity, reaching out for him. Their mouths opened to scream his name, but no sound emerged. When he blinked, they were gone.

A teal wind swept over him, tugging at his cloak, whispering discordant melodies. He knew the song. Elyndra’s song. But he pushed forward, eyes fixed on the colossal Hand in the distance. Still far. Still impossible. But closer than before.

The storm rumbled overhead, the voice of Geardaz carried in the thunder:

“Defiance is delicious, little bladesinger. But every note of your march is still part of my symphony.”

Kasien spat blood into the dust and kept walking.

And the wastes themselves shifted around him—not to stop him, but to draw him deeper. The labyrinth of Geardaz’s design unfolding, step by defiant step.

Day 20 began not with peace, but with fire in her blood.

Neth woke tangled in violet silk sheets, her body aching in a way battles never left her—an ache not of wounds, but of denial. The golden rod gleamed on the tray by her bedside, catching the first sliver of violet light spilling through the palace window. Her hand trembled as she reached for it, desperate, whispering to herself, “Just this once…”

But the door creaked open.

Four demonettes entered in a ripple of perfume and laughter, their bare feet soft on the marble floor. They glided to her bed with the elegance of dancers, violet skin shimmering faintly under the lantern light. Without a word, they slipped the silks from her body and coaxed her to her feet, their hands firm but playful as they guided her toward the washroom.

The golden rod remained untouched on the tray, gleaming accusingly behind her.

Steam billowed from the bath carved of amethyst stone, filled with perfumed water that glowed faintly violet. The demonettes stripped her fully and lowered her into the warmth. Their hands moved with deliberate care, scrubbing her arms, her back, her legs, brushing her hair with ivory combs. Each touch lingered, brushing close enough to ignite her urges but never enough to satisfy.

Neth clenched her teeth, eyes half-shut, her breath uneven. The fire inside her roared louder, her body begging for release she had denied for too long.

When one of them leaned close to rinse her hair, lips brushing just shy of her ear, Neth almost said it. Almost begged them.

Her fists clenched under the water.

Not yet. Don’t give in. Not like this.

The warm bathwater lapped gently at Neth’s shoulders, but the hands moving across her body were anything but gentle in their effect. The demonettes washed her skin slowly, fingers trailing just a heartbeat too long, brushing her hair with deliberate care that felt more like caresses than grooming. Every giggle, every glance exchanged between them was sharp as a spark against dry tinder.

Her chest rose and fell faster, her thighs tensed under the water, her one eye half-shut as she tried to focus on anything but the unbearable ache inside her.

Then it slipped out—unthinking, unguarded, pulled from the deepest pit of her want.

“Make love to me.”

The words left her lips like a gasp, sharp and naked.

The room fell silent.

Four demonettes stilled, their hands resting lightly on her arms, her hair, her shoulders. Their gazes met hers, violet eyes glowing faintly like embers in the steam.

And then—they smiled. Not cruelly, not kindly, but knowingly, as though they had been waiting for this moment all along.

Heat rushed to her face. Neth’s breath hitched, and she turned her head away, scarlet blush burning through her grime. She clenched her hands on the edge of the bath, ashamed, furious at herself, but above all—afraid of what she had just admitted out loud.

The demonettes said nothing. One continued brushing her hair, slow and methodical. Another poured warm, perfumed water over her shoulders. The silence stretched, heavy and unbearable.

Neth bit her lip, hard enough to taste blood. Her body trembled, torn between relief at their lack of answer and the screaming, gnawing need that begged them to say yes.

Instead, the demonettes only finished their work, as though nothing had been spoken.

And that silence was worse than any laughter or cruelty could have been.

They dried her slowly, almost luxuriously—warm silk towels dragged over her skin, fingers that lingered, nails tracing her arms and thighs as though memorizing her body. Neth clenched her jaw, her breath shallow, every nerve aflame.

One of the demonettes leaned close as she brushed back Neth’s damp hair, her lips grazing the edge of Neth’s pointed ear. A soft lick. A playful sigh.

Neth jolted, heat surging through her chest, but this time her temper rose alongside her desire.

Her voice snapped, low and sharp:
“Unless you’ll do more—don’t do that.”

The demonette only giggled, her tongue clicking in amusement, as though the anger itself was part of the game.

Still they dressed her—today in violet silk so fine it clung to every curve—and led her back down the long, echoing hall of crystal and rosewood. Every step was torture, her urges clawing higher, her shame wrestling with the hunger in her own body.

The heavy doors of her chamber opened.

And there, waiting at the far side of the room, draped in shadow and light, was Dykenta.

No goddess towering in battle-form, no skeletal mask of porcelain wrath. She stood in the chamber like a queen at ease, her presence filling the air with a warmth that pressed against the violet temptation of Zlaniz’s realm.

Her gaze fixed on Neth, steady, knowing, full of something far deeper than desire.

The demonettes bowed, retreating, leaving the goblin and her goddess alone.

The silence between them burned hotter than any flame.

The chamber hushed when the demonettes slipped away, the scent of their perfumes still lingering. Neth stood trembling, her body aching with need, her chest heaving as she tried to hold herself together.

Then Dykenta moved—soft, radiant, yet impossibly strong in presence. She crossed the room slowly, the click of her heels steady against the marble. When she reached Neth, she did not speak at once. She lifted a hand, cupped her champion’s cheek, and leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead.

Neth gasped, her one eye fluttering shut, tears sliding hot and sudden down her face.

When Dykenta spoke, her voice was gentle but firm, like a river guiding stone:

“My light… my stubborn, weary light. I am glad to see you standing, even here.”

Neth’s lips parted, but nothing came out—only a broken little sound, torn between joy and desperation.

Dykenta’s gaze softened. She brushed her thumb over the damp track of tears.
“I know. I know what claws at you. The violet realm stirs what your body has long been denied. You want release, and there is no shame in it. But wait, little one. Just a moment. There are truths you must hear first.”

Neth swallowed hard, still shaking, clutching at Dykenta’s arm like a drowning woman clinging to driftwood.

Dykenta guided her gently to sit on the edge of the bed, staying close, her hand never leaving Neth’s.
“Zlaniz does not seek your destruction, not yet. She seeks an alliance—between her dominion and mine. She looks upon you, my champion, as a bridge. She thinks through you she can reach me.”

Neth blinked, confusion cutting through the haze of need. “Alliance? Between you and her?”

Dykenta nodded, a shadow of old memory flickering across her porcelain-like features.
“Yes. And I will not lie to you. Long ago—many centuries past—before gods walked as we know them now, before Zonid gathered his Hands… I was hers.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Neth’s breath caught. “You… you were her champion?”

“Yes.” Dykenta’s tone carried neither shame nor pride—only truth. “When I was mortal, before Renazar raised me, before love became my domain, I fought at Zlaniz’s side. She was not as she is now. Not fully. Not yet corrupted by the endless spiral of desire into cruelty. But still… she was dangerous. Beautiful. And I was young.”

Neth shivered, her heart pounding, the tears still wet on her cheek. The goddess she loved, who had pulled her from despair, once served the very temptress now ensnaring her.

Dykenta leaned closer, her forehead resting lightly against Neth’s, her voice a whisper like silk and flame:
“So now you see, my light. This is not only your trial—it is mine as well.”

Neth’s breath trembled in her throat, her one good eye wide as the weight of Dykenta’s words settled into her chest like a stone.

Her goddess—her anchor, her flame, the one who had pulled her from despair atop that blood-soaked mountain—had once belonged to Zlaniz.

The thought twisted in her like a knife. Her stomach clenched, not just with her gnawing urges but with something deeper, something jealous and afraid. She loved Dykenta—not just with devotion, but with the wounded, desperate heart of someone who had been saved. And now to hear she had once stood in the shadow of another…

Her hands balled into fists against the violet silk sheets. Her body trembled with the dual storms within her: one of carnal need clawing at her from Zlaniz’s realm, the other of aching love for the goddess who stood so close.

“You…” Her voice cracked, the words choking in her throat. “You gave yourself to her once. And now—now she wants me. And I—”

She broke, her face burying against Dykenta’s chest as tears slipped free. Her body quivered, every nerve aflame with the hunger Zlaniz had stirred, but her heart beat only for the one holding her.

“I love you,” Neth whispered raggedly, her voice raw. “You pulled me back when Tymira abandoned me. You gave me hope when no one else did. You’ve done everything for me—and I don’t… I don’t want to betray that. Not even for the urges eating me alive.”

Her nails dug into the silk, her breath heavy, her thighs pressing together in painful denial. She lifted her tear-streaked face, trembling, her eye locking onto Dykenta’s.

“Tell me I’m still yours,” she pleaded, half-sobbing. “Even if I’m weak. Even if I’m breaking. Tell me I haven’t lost you to her.”

Dykenta’s fingers brushed Neth’s tear-streaked cheek, thumb tracing the line of her jaw with infinite tenderness. Her lips curved, soft but steady, as she bent low enough for her words to fall like breath against Neth’s trembling skin.

“You will never lose me,” she said, her voice a silken whisper that carried the weight of eternity. “Not to Zlaniz, not to Tymira, not to any god who claws at your heart. I chose you, Genethia Roth. I will keep choosing you, again and again, until the end of all things.”

She kissed Neth’s forehead once more, this time lingering, as if sealing the promise into her flesh.

Then she drew back, her eyes glinting with something deeper—truth. “But being mine does not mean chains. It does not mean purity, or denial, or walking untouched by your own hunger. I am not Tymira. I do not demand you starve yourself of the very joys your soul cries for. Being mine means freedom—freedom to love, to laugh, to weep, to rage, to take pleasure without shame. It means knowing that whatever else claims a moment of you, your heart is still mine.”

Her smile sharpened just slightly, a goddess’s smile. “Zlaniz knows your body longs. She pulls at the threads Tymira once cut from you. And yes… there is danger in her touch. But even if you give in to those urges, you will not betray me. Because I am not afraid of sharing your flesh, so long as your soul burns for me.”

Her hand pressed to Neth’s chest, just above her heart, the warmth of her touch cutting through the storm of longing raging inside. “This—this is what is mine. The rest… the rest is only passing fire. And you, my light, will learn that pleasure is not corruption. It is power, if you hold it.”

Dykenta leaned close, her lips nearly brushing Neth’s ear as she whispered, almost fiercely, “You are mine, Genethia. And nothing will take you from me—not even your own desire.”

The warmth of Dykenta’s palm felt like an anchor hammered into the center of Neth’s chest. For a heartbeat the violet storm inside her — the ache, the burn, the thudding, animal demand — rose up like a tide threatening to swallow the shore. Her breath came in hot, jagged pulls; muscles that had been clenched for days trembled as if they might give entirely.

But every tremor met the steady press of the goddess’s hand, the small, impossible steadiness of a thing that had weathered millennia. The hunger did not vanish. It did not need to. Instead it sharpened into focus: less like a blind, roaring animal and more like a living thing she could look at and name. Heat still flooded her limbs; her skin felt too tight, her pulse a drumbeat of urgent need — yet beneath it, something quieter and older began to drown that fever out: a slow, sure tide of trust.

Images flickered through her mind — Zlaniz’s laughter, the mirror-Neth’s smugness, the twisted promise of the golden rod — and they struck like splinters. Each one she tried to tear free; each one twisted back at her. But Dykenta’s voice braided itself through those images, soft and insistent, and where it touched the edges of the memory they dulled, lost their sharpness. The goddess’s words were not a command to deny, but a lantern: saying that desire could be a tool, not a trap; that pleasure could be offered or taken, shaped by will rather than dictated by hunger.

Neth felt the conflict physically — her thighs tightening as if with remembered motion, her palms damp, a hollow place low in her belly that wanted closure, relief, warmth. At the same time the lightness Dykenta gave her was like the first safe breath after a long dive: lungs unfurling, the air tasting of salt and home. The shame that usually rode the urges recoiled just enough that she could see herself without the immediate shame of surrender.

She let out a ragged laugh, half-broken, half-relief. “I don’t know how to be both,” she whispered, voice raw. “Hungry and… still yours.”

Dykenta’s smile was patient, like the slow opening of a flower. “You don’t have to learn it all at once,” she said. “You only have to learn it for yourself. Tonight, rest. Tomorrow, we speak. I will not take from you what you do not freely give. But I will not make you a stranger to your own flesh.”

The goddess’s fingers lingered a moment longer on Neth’s heart, and Neth felt, at last, the tight coil within her loosen by the width of a single breath. The dark, throbbing need remained — a living thing that would not be ignored — but it had lost some of its terror. It had a place beside her faith, not above it.

She curled back under the violet sheets, body still humming as if tuned to a new frequency. For the first time in days the hunger felt like something she might one day hold rather than be held by. Her lids fell heavy; her last thought was a prayer that sounded more like a promise.

“I’ll wait,” she breathed. “For now.”

Dykenta bent and kissed her brow once more, then drew the curtains as if shielding a small, fierce flame. The palace hummed around them — violet, terrible, alive — but inside that private shadow, Neth let sleep come, shaky but steadier than the night before.

Kasien — Day 21 The Ambush in the Wastes

The teal-blue wastes stretched on forever. No camps in sight. No voices but the low groan of the storming sky. Just him, his breath, and the colossal Hand far away — closer than it had ever been, but still impossibly distant.

Kasien’s boots were splitting at the seams. His ribs still ached from the giant’s club. The burns on his arm from the beholder’s bite throbbed with every heartbeat. His rations had long since turned into scraps, the raw meat half-rotten, but he forced himself to chew when hunger threatened to weaken his legs.

The sky’s eyes followed. Always. Sometimes one blinked. Sometimes they all turned away in unison, as if daring him to falter without their gaze.

He kept his head down. One step. Then another.

His thoughts spiraled but he forced them into rhythm with his stride.

Not Elyndra’s voice. Not Yshari’s mask. Not Geardaz’s tricks. Just the path. Just the Hand.

The ground shifted beneath him — teal crystal crunching into powder. The realm seemed to resist his passage, opening fissures just to make him stumble, whipping the wind until his cloak tore. But he pressed on, leaning into it, every step like striking against the will of the Trickster God himself.

By dusk — if such a thing could be measured in this place — the Hand loomed larger. Its fingers jagged into the storm. For the first time, Kasien let himself believe he was truly moving closer.

He sank to his knees at a crystal outcrop, his chest heaving, and forced himself to drink from his waterskin. The liquid burned down his throat, foul with boiled memory of sleep-essence, but it was life.

Kasien whispered to the horizon, to no one and everyone:

“I’m still walking.”

And with shaking legs, he pushed himself upright again.

The wastes were quiet. Too quiet.

Kasien’s stride slowed as he crested a rise of jagged crystal. The wind dropped to a whisper, the sky’s eyes narrowing. He froze. His hand instinctively found the hilt of Soul of the Elderwood.

The silence broke — not with thunder, but with the hiss of arrows.

A teal-glowing shaft streaked past his face, searing the air. Then another. Five. Ten. A volley screamed down from the ridge behind him.

Kasien spun, raising a Shield spell just in time. The first arrows shattered harmlessly against the arcane shimmer. But the force rocked him back — they were stronger than the last Arcane Archers he faced. Twisted further by the realm.

Shapes moved in the haze. Fifteen Saracens, blades curved like crescent moons, fanning out. Five Arcane Archers perched high, already nocking another volley. And between them — something worse.

A Spawn, its teal-blue hide pulsing with runes, dragged itself forward on too many limbs. Its eyes were hollow sockets that burned with inner light. It screeched, and the very crystals around Kasien trembled.

Kasien gritted his teeth. His ribs screamed with pain from the last battles. His water weighed heavy in his gut. His body begged for rest.

But his blade sang.

He whispered the words for Bladesong — and the wastes themselves seemed to resist. His magic twisted, snarling, trying to eat at him. Still, the song flared around him, pulling him into the dance.

The Saracens charged.

Kasien met them head-on. Booming Blade crackled as his scimitar slashed through the first man, sending him collapsing in a swirl of thunder and teal sparks. He pivoted — barely ducking another strike — and let Green-Flame Blade arc through two more, burning one down and wounding the other with acid fire.

An arrow struck his shoulder — pain bursting through. He stumbled, but his footwork carried him clear of a Saracen’s blade. He countered, thrusting deep, dropping another.

The Spawn screeched again — and leapt. Its bulk slammed into the earth, the shockwave throwing Kasien off his feet. He hit the ground hard, vision swimming.

Another volley of arrows rained down. He rolled, a split-second from being impaled, and hurled a Fireball.

The green flame exploded, swallowing the ridge in acid and fire. Two archers vaporized instantly, another screamed as he fell burning.

Kasien staggered up. The Spawn loomed, its claws glowing with corrupt energy. He forced himself forward, every bone shrieking.

The fight wasn’t over.

It was only just beginning.

The wastes rang with steel and screams.

Kasien pushed to his feet, teeth gritted against the arrow lodged in his shoulder. His Bladesong carried him forward, scimitar flashing in violet arcs.

Two Saracens came at once — one high, one low. Kasien twisted between them, the first blade shaving air, the second clipping his thigh. Pain flared, but his counterstroke was merciless: a diagonal slash through the second man’s throat, his body crumpling as thunder rolled from Booming Blade.

The first Saracen whirled, but Kasien was already inside his guard, scimitar thrusting up under the ribs. A burst of green flame exploded from the wound, leaping to the man beside him, searing his flesh with acid fire.

Five Saracens dead. Ten left.

Another arrow screamed down. Kasien spun his blade, deflecting it in a shower of sparks — but two more found his side, shallow but burning with teal corruption. His knees buckled for a moment.

The Spawn struck.

It lunged, claws raking. Kasien raised Shield, the arcane barrier cracking under the impact. The beast’s second claw broke through, slashing his ribs. He hissed in pain and retaliated, plunging his scimitar deep into the monster’s arm. It screeched, rearing back, ichor spilling in violet streaks.

Kasien turned the wound into momentum, ripping his blade free and spinning into the Saracens who tried to flank him. One slash — a man fell. A second — another collapsed clutching his belly.

Seven down. Eight left.

The Spawn’s tail slammed into Kasien, sending him flying. He hit the ground hard, vision darkening. For a heartbeat he nearly didn’t rise. His chest heaved, ribs grinding broken.

But he forced himself up.

He whispered False Life, his veins burning with stolen vigour. His eyes lit violet as he surged forward, ignoring the agony.

He clashed with three Saracens at once. Their blades cut shallow lines across his arms, his side. He answered with precision: a parry, a thrust through the heart; a sidestep, a slice across the throat; a backhand slash that split another’s chest.

Ten down. Five left.

The Spawn loomed again. Its mouth opened, vomiting a cone of teal flame. Kasien dove aside, rolling across the crystal ground. His hand lashed out with Firebolt — it warped instantly into fire, acid, and lightning, crashing into the monster’s chest. It howled, stumbling.

Kasien was on it in a flash. Four rapid strikes — the first glanced off bone, the second carved its side, the third bit deep into its chest, the fourth stabbed straight into its face. The beast screamed, thrashing, and collapsed, twitching as teal light bled from its sockets.

Kasien staggered back, panting, blood dripping from his chin.

Only the archers remained. Two high on the ridge, drawing again.

Kasien raised a trembling hand. Fireball.

The blast consumed one in an instant, shattering crystal and sending fragments raining down. The other survived, crawling from the rubble with half his body burned, bow still in hand.

Kasien sprinted — lungs screaming, vision blurred — and leapt up the slope. The archer loosed one last shot. The arrow grazed Kasien’s cheek, cutting deep. But his blade came down in the same breath, cleaving through the man’s chest.

Silence.

Kasien stood there, bloody, ragged, swaying on his feet. Around him, the wastes were littered with corpses — Saracens burned, Archers broken, a Spawn twitching in its death throes.

He wiped his blade clean on a corpse’s cloak. His body burned, his ribs stabbed at every breath. His water was heavy on his back. His food was running out. His steps dragged.

But he walked on.

Because the Hand still loomed ahead.

Because there was no other choice.

Geardaz’s Private Amusement

From the fissured towers of the Wastes, Geardaz watched the boy stumble onward, blood painting his steps. The teal storm swirled with laughter only he could hear — his own, refracted through a thousand mouths.

“Still walking,” he mused, voice a hiss and a chuckle all at once. “Broken ribs, poisoned wounds, marrow screaming for rest — yet still he claws at the horizon.”

He conjured the battle again in his sight, replaying every moment: the Spawn’s claws splitting Kasien’s flesh, the arrow that might have ended him, the fireball that roared too large, too wild. The elf should have collapsed. He did collapse. But then he rose, staggering like a drunk dancer refusing to leave the stage.

Geardaz’s grin split wide, teeth made of shattered crystal.

“He thinks survival is victory,” the god whispered, tone sly. “But survival is only the first trick of the maze. Every step he takes, I own. Every breath he forces through broken ribs, I count.”

The god’s eyes multiplied in the storm above Kasien’s path, blinking down like stars gone mad.

“He bleeds so beautifully,” Geardaz murmured, fingers tracing the air as if sketching Kasien’s wounds into his spellwork. “Every cut a chord, every gasp a note, every stagger a verse. He is becoming a song, my song — even if he cannot hear it yet.”

For a moment, silence. Then the god tilted his head, and his whisper grew colder.

“But let him believe it. Let him think this struggle is his own. The longer he fights, the more of himself he burns away. And when nothing remains but ash and determination…”

Geardaz’s grin fractured into laughter, a chorus of breaking glass.

“…I will pluck his soul like a harp-string, and the sound will be exquisite.”

The storm rolled on, and the god leaned back into his throne of runes, content to watch his toy march ever closer to the Hand.

Neth — The Kiss of Her Goddess (Day 21)

Neth stirred in the violet bed, silk clinging to her bare skin, every breath thick with the ache that had tormented her since Zlaniz’s realm awakened it. Her body burned with restless need, her mind clouded by exhaustion and desire. She rolled over — and froze.

Dykenta.

The goddess lay beside her in human form, soft and radiant, her presence both tender and overwhelming. One arm curled around Neth, holding her as if she were something precious, something not to be lost. Her porcelain skin glowed faintly, hair spilling like silver fire across the pillow. Their faces were so close that Neth could feel her goddess’s breath against her lips.

Her heart thundered. Her urges roared louder.

Her single eye locked on Dykenta’s closed lids, the rise and fall of her chest, the faint warmth of her body pressed to hers. So near. So impossibly near.

Neth’s lips trembled. She ached to lean in, to taste the divinity before her, to surrender every part of herself to this closeness. The thought alone made her blush hot, her body crying out for release.

But even through the haze of her longing, doubt whispered:
Could she? Should she? Would Dykenta welcome such a kiss, or was this a line no champion should cross?

Her throat tightened. She whispered in her mind:

“Please, my goddess… if you truly claim me as yours… let me not break under this.”

Her fingers curled in the silk sheets, torn between reverence and hunger, between faith and flesh.

And Dykenta slept on, serene, unaware, her lips an impossible breath away.

Neth’s body trembled. The violet silk pressed cool against her back, but every part of her burned. Her one eye lingered on Dykenta’s lips, so close, so soft, so impossibly near.

She could not resist. Not anymore.

Heart pounding, she leaned in, letting her lips brush against her goddess’s. It was hesitant, desperate, almost a plea.

And then — Dykenta kissed her back.

Her goddess had not been sleeping at all.

The kiss deepened with a gentleness that stunned Neth. It was not hungry, not mocking, not the cruelty of Zlaniz’s whispers or the temptations of the violet realm. It was steady, sure, filled with warmth that melted the storm of urges roaring inside her.

Tears pricked at Neth’s eye as she pressed closer. In that instant, she wasn’t just a broken, weary goblin crawling through god-forged realms — she was seen. Loved. Chosen.

When Dykenta finally drew back, she rested her forehead to Neth’s, her porcelain lips curved in a knowing smile.

“You are mine, Genethia,” she whispered, voice like silk and fire. “Not because you ache… but because you endure. Even in this, you endure.”

The storm inside Neth quieted. The ache did not vanish, but it no longer ruled her.

And for the first time in weeks, she felt at peace.

The kiss lingered on her lips even after it ended, like the ghost of a flame. Neth lay still, staring at her goddess’s face, her breath shallow, afraid that if she moved the moment would vanish like smoke.

Her chest heaved — not just with the ache of her urges, but with something heavier, sharper.

Did that truly happen? Did my goddess kiss me?

She touched her lips with trembling fingers. Her body screamed for more, for release, for surrender — but her heart throbbed with something different, something deeper. A strange mixture of shame, awe, and joy.

Was this love? Was this devotion? Or was it only mercy, a way for Dykenta to quiet her storm?

The thought stung. Yet, in her bones, she knew the truth: Dykenta had not toyed with her, nor mocked her weakness. That kiss had been choice. Intent. A gift that told her she was more than broken flesh staggering through gods’ battlefields.

Neth turned her face toward the canopy of violet silk above, tears slipping down her cheek.

I am still hers, she thought. Even in this. Even in the hunger. Even in the weakness. She sees me, and I am not lost.

Her hand curled tight against her chest where the amulet lay, heavy as destiny. For the first time in many nights, her trembling slowed, and she felt sleep tugging gently at her, not as a collapse, but as a blessing.

She whispered into the silence, barely a breath:
“Thank you… Dykenta.”

Neth’s lips still tingled when they parted. Her single eye searched Dykenta’s face, wide and trembling, as if afraid the goddess would vanish or mock her. But Dykenta remained there, close enough that Neth could feel her breath, close enough that the violet glow of the realm seemed dim compared to her.

For a heartbeat, Neth forgot the blood, the battles, the exhaustion. She wasn’t a cleric, or a warrior, or even the bearer of an amulet that gods fought to claim. She was just a goblin girl, broken and scarred, kissing the one being who had never abandoned her.

Her heart hammered. Heat surged through her body, tangled with the ever-present ache of her urges, but beneath it was something gentler. Something terrifying in its simplicity.

I kissed my goddess.

That thought repeated over and over, fragile and wild.

Neth drew back just enough to whisper, her voice cracking like a child’s:
“…was that… wrong?”

The violet silk bed was left behind, its warmth still clinging to Neth’s skin when the door creaked open. Four demonettes slipped in, silent but smiling, their near-naked forms draped in chains and shards of crystal. Their eyes lingered on Neth and Dykenta with an almost feline hunger, yet their bows were low, deferent.

“The Lady of Silk and Shadow summons you,” one purred.

Dykenta rose with quiet grace, every movement deliberate, like a queen acknowledging subjects. She drew Neth up with her—no longer naked and vulnerable, but still flustered in her goddess’s nearness. The demonettes brought garments, rich with violet and silver thread.

Dykenta dressed in a flowing gown threaded with black roses, her divine form veiled but radiant. For Neth, they brought a fitted ensemble of violet leather and silk, studded at the shoulders and waist, its cut not modest but regal—a champion’s attire meant to command attention.

The demonettes brushed Neth’s hair, smoothed the fabric, then led the two through endless corridors of the palace. Walls pulsed with crystalline veins, the glow shifting like a heartbeat.

Finally, tall doors of polished obsidian opened.

The meeting room was no mortal hall but a gallery of temptation: long violet drapes, a table of crystal carved in spirals, goblets filled with wine that shimmered like blood and starlight.

At the far side of the table sat Zlaniz herself, regal and terrifying, beauty sharpened to cruelty. Beside her stood a figure clad in violet armour, helm shadowed but presence undeniable—Kaelthys Vorannar, the Violet Conqueror. His gaze flicked toward Neth only once, unreadable behind the slits of his visor, then returned to Zlaniz as if nothing else deserved his attention.

Zlaniz’s lips curved into a smile, equal parts seductive and predatory.

“My sister,” she said smoothly to Dykenta, “and her chosen flame.” Her gaze lingered on Neth. “Shall we speak of the terms of unity… or of the price of betrayal first?”

The crystal table gleams. Zlaniz reclines on her throne-like chair, Dykenta stands with quiet dignity at Neth’s side. Kaelthys Vorannar remains a silent pillar of violet steel, helm down, hands on the pommel of his blade.

Zlaniz: (with a slow, teasing smile)
“Sister, you have walked long apart from me. Yet here you stand in my hall once more, with a champion at your side so… spirited. Tell me, is this truly alliance we speak of—or merely a test of will between gods who once shared one banner?”

Dykenta: (calm, unyielding)
“I come not to kneel, Zlaniz. I come to spare the world the ruin your hungers crave. If there is to be an accord, it must serve more than your pleasures.”

Zlaniz: (laughs softly, swirling her wine)
“Oh, still you clothe your words in righteousness. Yet it is you who sent her—” (gestures at Neth) “—into my realm. And look how the realm stirs her. She burns, Dykenta. She needs what I offer, whether you admit it or not.”

Neth: (tightening her grip on the table edge, voice sharp)
“I’m no pawn for either of you.”

Zlaniz: (leans forward, eyes glinting with cruel delight)
“No pawn… but perhaps a bridge. Tell me, little goblin, do you know how kings of Platera have forged alliances since the dawn of their petty empires?”

Neth: (narrowing her eye)
“…Through war. Or through marriage.”

Zlaniz: (smiling wider)
“Ah, clever girl. Then you understand. What is torn by blade may be bound by flesh. So—let us bind. Let us seal this pact as your mortal kings do. I propose a union… between your champion, and mine.”

Her hand gestures lazily toward Kaelthys, who lifts his head slightly. His helm remains closed, but his presence radiates power. The silence in the chamber deepens.

Dykenta: (icily, though her hand brushes Neth’s shoulder in quiet reassurance)
“You would play at crowns with lives not yours to give.”

Neth: (snaps, her voice shaking with both anger and unease)
“You would marry me off like I’m some treaty parchment?!”

Zlaniz: (laughs, a sound like velvet and daggers)
“Do not mistake me, child. This is no insult. This is elevation. You, Genethia Roth, joined to Kaelthys Vorannar—the Violet Conqueror. Two champions, one bond. Your Dykenta’s light, my shadow’s embrace. Together, unbreakable. What king or god could stand against such a union?”

Kaelthys: (finally speaks, voice deep, measured, and unreadable)
“I do not balk at duty. If the gods will it, I obey.”

He turns his helm fractionally toward Neth, a flicker of something—recognition, restraint, or secrecy—in his glowing violet eyes.

Neth: (stares at him, then back to Zlaniz, voice low and bitter)
“You speak of union like it’s peace. But I see chains hidden in your silks.”

Zlaniz: (leans back, utterly pleased by Neth’s defiance)
“Chains? No. Threads. And threads, woven together, make a tapestry stronger than either strand alone. Think, little goblin. You, who has lost so much—what better than a bond that could never be broken?”

Dykenta: (steps forward, voice like steel wrapped in velvet)
“Enough, Zlaniz. She is mine. Her heart, her choice, her will. Not your pawn, not your bride-price.”

Zlaniz: (amused, eyes glittering with a darker hunger)
“Then let her speak for herself. Perhaps she longs for more than your gentle chains, sister.”

The silence thickens. Neth’s chest rises and falls fast, her rapier hand twitching as if longing to draw. Kaelthys remains still, his head tilted toward her as though waiting for something unspoken.

The chamber still holds its breath. Violet fire burns in braziers along the walls. Neth stares, her one eye hard yet faltering, silence ringing louder than any protest.

Neth: (finally, voice brittle but steady)
“…What happened to Tyrion? He was taken here. By one of yours.”

Zlaniz: (arches a brow, lips curving with slow amusement)
“Ah, the blind monk. Strong in will, though broken in body. Yes… he wandered my paths. He endured. And he left. He stands again in Platera, though tell me—was he safer in his own realm, or here, beneath my watchful eye?”

Neth’s throat tightens, no answer forming. Zlaniz lets the silence hang like a knife, then turns her gaze back toward Dykenta.

Zlaniz:
“You see, sister, the child cannot yet grasp the weight of choice. But I offer her the same bargains your kings and emperors once carved into the flesh of their heirs. Marriage. Alliance. A union not of hearts but of survival.”

Dykenta: (voice taut with fire, hand tightening on Neth’s shoulder)
“And I tell you, Zlaniz, my champion is not some pawn to be bargained over a table. Her trials are her own. She will not be bound into your bed of silk and shadow.”

Zlaniz: (leans forward, eyes glowing like twin stars of violet flame)
“Then let her weigh her friends’ lives against her pride.”

The goddess’ words fall like poison into the chamber, lingering.

Zlaniz: (softer, almost coaxing, her voice velvet and venom at once)
“Genethia Roth, imagine it. The Cinders, scattered and hunted, their fates hanging by threads you cannot shield. You cannot be everywhere. You cannot save them all. But I… I can. Swear the pact, bind yourself to Kaelthys, and I will pluck them from their own destruction. One by one, they will be spared. Reyn. Rheana. Lila. Gojo. Francesca. August. Nórue. All. Even Lek, even Desnora, even that new one you hope to save. Their blood, their breath… all safe.”

Her smile sharpens.

Zlaniz:
“All you must do is say yes.”

The room falls silent again. Neth feels the eyes of Kaelthys on her through the helm, steady, unreadable. Dykenta bristles beside her, her presence like a shield of warmth holding back the violet tide. Yet the offer hangs between them, heavy, terrible, impossible to ignore.

The chamber holds still. The violet braziers crackle, their smoke curling into the vaulted ceiling like whispering phantoms. Zlaniz’s words echo long after they’re spoken, wrapping around Neth’s ribs like iron bands.

Neth: (her lips part, as if to speak—then close. She cannot. Her throat feels thick, her chest tight.)

Dykenta turns her head, watching her champion’s trembling silence. She does not push—she knows the struggle must be fought within.

Zlaniz: (smiling faintly, as if savouring Neth’s torment)
“Ah… there it is. The silence of choice. The heaviest sound of all.”

Kaelthys shifts at Zlaniz’s side. The Conqueror’s gaze, though hidden by the helm, lingers on Neth. There is no mockery, no scorn—only stillness. As if waiting.

Zlaniz: (leaning back, satisfied)
“Think well, little goblin. Every moment you hesitate, the jaws of fate close tighter on those you call family. Every heartbeat wasted may be their last. And yet—” (her eyes flick to Dykenta with a sly curl of her lips) “—you hesitate still.”

Neth grips the folds of her toga with white knuckles. Her heart screams. Her body aches with exhaustion and unspoken hunger. The names of her friends pound in her skull—Reyn, Rheana, Lila, Gojo, Francesca, August, Nórue, Lek, Desnora… Tyrion.

But she does not speak.

The silence stretches, as if it could split the room in two. Dykenta’s hand tightens over Neth’s trembling fist—not guiding, not deciding, only anchoring her to the present as the weight of Zlaniz’s deal bears down.

The chamber is thick with unspoken words. Neth’s single eye glimmers wet, but her jaw is locked. Her silence stretches, heavy enough to bend the air itself.

Zlaniz: (at last, breaking the hush, her voice smooth as velvet and cold as steel)
“Then keep your silence, Genethia Roth. I will not press your tongue today. But remember—when their screams reach your ears, when the Cinders bleed and crumble before you, and you stand powerless once more—”

Her violet gaze burns straight through Neth, like silk hiding a dagger.

Zlaniz:
“—you will remember my offer. You will remember that the only hand reaching to save them… was mine.”

Kaelthys tilts his head slightly, unreadable behind the helm. Dykenta bristles, but says nothing, only curling her fingers firmer around Neth’s hand beneath the table.

Zlaniz: (with a slow, indulgent smile)
“When the hour comes, child, you need only speak one word. And the deal will be sealed. Not now… not yet. But when you can no longer bear to watch them die.”

The words slither into the silence, leaving Neth trembling in her seat, her tongue still frozen. The deal hangs unspoken but alive, waiting, like a serpent coiled in the shadows.

Neth’s thoughts

Silence. Still silence.

Why didn’t I speak?
Why couldn’t I speak?

Her voice is still inside me, curling like smoke. “When you can no longer bear to watch them die.”

Reyn’s smile. Rheana’s guarded eyes. Lila’s quiet bravery. Gojo’s grin. Francesca, August, Nórue. Desnora. Lek. Tyrion. One by one, their faces rise in me like ghosts. And one by one, I imagine them falling. Again. Always again.

And I… powerless. Always powerless.

That’s the hook. That’s what she wants. To make me believe I can’t protect them. To make me beg.

But gods… what if she’s right?

My tongue burned to say yes. My hand almost moved on its own. If Dykenta hadn’t been beside me, warm and unyielding, I might have…

I didn’t.
I didn’t.

But the silence feels like surrender anyway.

What kind of champion am I, if all I can do is sit there trembling? What kind of cleric of light if I let darkness speak louder than me?

And yet—what if silence was the only strength I had left?

I don’t know anymore.

Dykenta, tell me I did right. Please. Tell me silence is enough. Tell me it doesn’t already mean I’m hers.

The walk back through the violet palace is quiet. Neth’s steps are heavy, her one eye downcast, her breath shallow. Dykenta keeps pace beside her, her hand lightly brushing Neth’s shoulder—not pushing, not guiding, only steadying.

Dykenta’s private thoughts

She trembles, but not from fear of the blade. She has faced giants, pit fiends, balors… and walked away bleeding but unbroken. No, this trembling is different. It is the silence she carries now—the silence Zlaniz twisted into chains.

I felt it in her pulse when my hand covered hers. I felt the war inside her. Her silence screamed louder than any vow. It was not weakness—it was her strength… and her torment.

Zlaniz knew how to cut her open. Knew exactly where to press. Her friends. Her love. Her longing to keep what little she has left.

Little light, you think silence damns you. But I see the truth: you held fast. You did not yield. You swallowed your scream and carried it instead of giving it away. That takes more courage than Zlaniz will ever understand.

And yet, how much longer can she bear it? She is bloodied, aching, her urges raw, her will strained to breaking.

I would take her pain into myself if I could. I would hold her in my arms until she forgot the taste of despair. But she must walk this path. She must wrestle the silence herself.

They arrive at the bedchamber door. Dykenta turns to her champion, laying a gentle kiss on her brow, her lips lingering just a moment longer than before. Her voice is soft, almost a whisper meant only for Neth’s soul.

“Rest, little light. You are not alone. Not here. Not ever.”

Inside, when Neth finally sinks into the silk sheets, Dykenta lingers in the doorway for a breath too long, her gaze burning with both pride and fear, before she closes the door and leaves Neth to her thoughts.

The sheets are soft. Too soft. They smother me.

I close my eye, but it won’t shut out her voice. “When you can no longer bear to watch them die.”

I see them, over and over—Reyn, Rheana, Lila, all of them—faces bright with hope, faces breaking in pain. The Cinders. The Unchained. Even the ones I’ve already lost. Hookspark. Martamo. Ulystra. Mother. Father. Their names rattle in my skull like bones in a cup.

Would Zlaniz really save them? Could she? Or would she keep them chained, twisted, corrupted like all the horrors I’ve seen here?

My heart says no. My silence says maybe.

And that terrifies me.

I’ve never felt so alone, not even in the blood of Urmbrik’s realm. At least there, my rapier could answer back. Here, in this violet cage, the enemy isn’t in front of me. It’s inside me.

Dykenta, I kissed you and felt safe. You told me I was not alone. But what if that’s not enough? What if one day I say yes, just to hear the screams stop?

The thought makes me sick. The thought makes me burn. The thought makes me want to cry until my lungs empty.

I turn on the sheets, but the silk clings, heavy, as if it knows my shame. My urges still whisper, claws raking at me. They twist with Zlaniz’s words until I don’t know which is need, which is corruption.

I want release. I want my friends safe. I want to be free.

But instead, I lie here trembling, staring at the ceiling, waiting for dawn.

Praying the silence doesn’t win again.

The council chamber is empty now, save for violet flame still guttering in its braziers. The scent of wine and silk lingers like perfume. Kaelthys Vorannar stands beside Zlaniz’s throne, helm still on, posture rigid. Zlaniz lounges, one leg crossed over the other, chin resting delicately on her fingers.

Zlaniz: (voice soft, indulgent)
“She did not say yes. But she did not say no, either. That silence… delicious. The sweetest answer of all.”

Kaelthys tilts his head slightly, the faintest rasp of metal as his gauntlets clench.

Kaelthys:
“She trembled, my lady. I saw her jaw lock. She was fighting herself.”

Zlaniz: (smiling, eyes glowing violet)
“Exactly. Each moment she fights, the deeper the hooks set. Every heartbeat she hesitates, the more she imagines what it would mean to give in. One day, her silence will break—and when it does, it will be with my name on her lips.”

She uncrosses her legs, rising from her throne with a grace that ripples like water. Her hand drifts across Kaelthys’ armoured shoulder, resting there with the intimacy of a chain.

Zlaniz:
“And you, Conqueror—did you see the way she looked at you, even through her fear? The little spark of recognition? She does not yet know what binds you to her fate. When she learns, it will break her… or bind her to us forever.”

Kaelthys lowers his head. His voice, though muffled by the helm, is edged with unease.

Kaelthys:
“And if she resists? If her silence becomes defiance?”

Zlaniz: (her lips curve into a sharp smile, almost tender in its cruelty)
“Then we simply wait. Even the fiercest heart can be worn down. Urmbrik battered her body, and still she stood. I will batter her soul, until standing becomes surrender.”

She leans closer to him, her breath a whisper at the edge of his helm.

Zlaniz:
“Until she learns that pleasure, power, and salvation… all flow through me.”

Kaelthys does not answer. He stands as still as stone while Zlaniz turns back to the violet flames, her laughter soft and triumphant, echoing through the empty chamber.

The chamber falls quiet after Zlaniz’s laughter fades into the violet fire. She no longer looks at him, her eyes turned elsewhere. Kaelthys remains, still as stone, helm angled low. Only when she finally drifts away into shadow does his gauntleted hand flex at his side.

Kaelthys’ thoughts

She believes I am hers. She believes silence is obedience, that stillness means I am unmoved. But she does not know. She cannot.

Genethia Roth. Neth.
Even through the storm of that chamber, I saw it in her—her trembling was not surrender, but defiance clinging to the edge of despair. And yet… when her eye met mine, I felt the pull. Recognition. As if she looked through the helm and saw me—not Zlaniz’s Conqueror, but something else. Someone else.

Does she remember? Or did some thread of fate betray me in that moment?

The thought gnaws at me. Because if she does—if she ever learns—Zlaniz will not forgive. She will make my silence into a noose, and I will hang.

And yet… part of me hopes she does learn. That she sees. That she knows.

Zlaniz thinks to bind her with marriage. But it is not her chains the goblin fears. It is her own heart—the heart that still believes in light. If it breaks, it will not be because of a bargain. It will be because she cannot save those she loves.

And I—Kaelthys Vorannar, the Violet Conqueror—may yet be forced to decide whether I am Zlaniz’s blade… or her undoing.

He lowers his head further, violet flame glinting against the slits of his helm. Silent. Waiting. A conqueror, but also a prisoner of his own secret.

Later that night, when the violet halls were quiet and even the demonettes had vanished into shadow, Kaelthys found himself at the edge of the corridor outside Neth’s chambers. He should not have lingered. He told himself it was duty — a warrior keeping watch. But the truth gnawed more deeply than that.

Through the half-open arch, he saw her.
Neth, curled in silk, shifting restlessly even in sleep. Her brow furrowed, her lips whispering unheard names. Shadows of battles still clung to her skin — bruises, faint scars, the exhaustion of someone carrying far more than her small body should ever endure.

And yet… even now, there was a radiance. Fragile, but unbroken.

Kaelthys’ thoughts

She does not know. She cannot know. If she did…
Would she spit on me? Or would she see what I see now—that thread binding her fate to mine, knotted in ways neither Zlaniz nor even the Hand themselves can cut?

His fingers tightened on the hilt of his blade. A silent vow, unspoken even to himself.

She stirred, turning in her bed, her single eye fluttering open for just a moment. In the shadows, her gaze drifted — and for the briefest instant, she looked toward the doorway. Toward him.

Recognition flickered. Not sharp, not certain. But something.

Her lips curved faintly, as if she had seen someone else standing there — someone long lost.

Then she closed her eye again, slipping back into uneasy dreams.

Kaelthys stood motionless, heart hammering against the weight of his armour.

She thought I was someone else. Perhaps… someone she loved. And maybe that is mercy. For if she ever knew who I truly was—what I carry—her smile would vanish, and I would lose even this fleeting ghost of warmth.

He turned away at last, vanishing into the violet corridors, his footsteps swallowed by the silence.

But the thought lingered like a brand on his soul:

One day, she will know.

Kasien — Day 22

The teal storm had eased, but the wastes never grew kinder.

Kasien’s boots crunched across a plain of fractured glass-crystals, each one humming faintly with warped arcane tones. The sky above was still riddled with unblinking eyes, watching, always watching. His hand tightened on the hilt of Soul of the Elderwood.

His ribs ached. His arm still burned from where the Beholder had torn into him days ago. He had water. Enough to last. Food, less so. He chewed the raw meat sparingly, each bite sour in his mouth, but enough to keep him moving.

Every step was deliberate. He didn’t hurry — hurrying meant mistakes. Mistakes meant death.

The colossal Hand loomed larger now, though still impossibly far. Its shadow touched the horizon like a sundial frozen in judgment.

But the wastes did not stay silent.

From the haze ahead, Kasien saw shapes moving — too organized to be spawn, too steady to be beasts. A patrol. More of Geardaz’s soldiers.

Kasien’s violet eyes narrowed. His breath came shallow, steadying.
He thought of Reyn, of Rheana, of Neth. Of the Cinders, somewhere beyond this hell. Of his sister. His cousin.

He whispered under his breath:
“Not here. Not today. I won’t fall here.”

And he lifted his blade, prepared to meet whatever came from the storm.

The wastes stretched endless, teal and silver, every ridge and dune cut with jagged crystal veins that pulsed faintly beneath the sky of eyes. The silence pressed as hard as any battle—thick, alive, waiting.

Kasien walked anyway. Step by step.

His legs felt carved from lead. His breath scraped. He rationed each swallow of water like it was the last, though the barrel sloshed faintly on his back. Food had grown thin, only scraps left—enough to chew without satisfaction, enough to keep him from collapse, but not enough to ease the hollow ache in his gut.

He didn’t dare stop. Stopping meant the eyes might blink and notice him. Stopping meant the patrols might catch him in their shifting marches.

Every few miles, he caught glimpses of them—shapes in the haze. Geardaz’s warriors, their banners warped and their movements mechanical, like puppets on strings. Too many for him alone. Too many for even the Cinders together, he thought bitterly.

He ducked low whenever their silhouettes grew close, crouching in crystal gullies, his cloak pulled tight, waiting for the echo of their steps to fade. Each time, he swore the eyes in the storm above narrowed, displeased at his caution.

The Hand loomed closer now. Still far, impossibly far, but closer than it had been. It cast its shadow even here, faint across the jagged land. Every time Kasien’s eyes found it, his heart clenched with both fear and resolve.

He muttered to himself, half mantra, half prayer:
“Keep walking. Keep walking. Don’t stop.”

But his body whispered rebellion. His burns still throbbed. His cracked ribs ached with every breath. His arm trembled whenever he tightened his grip on his blade. Sleep tugged at him constantly—he blinked hard, fighting off the blur, knowing that if he collapsed here, the realm itself would swallow him whole.

By the time the stormlight dimmed, he had walked another full day without a clash. But the tension never left. The wastes felt poised to strike, like a blade held just above his throat.

Kasien settled for a moment in the hollow of a crystal outcrop, just long enough to drink. His violet eyes lifted to the Hand, glowing faintly in the distance.

His voice was a whisper.
“Not much longer… please, not much longer.”

And then he rose, his shadow small against the endless, watching storm, and walked on.

Neth — Day 22 The Cruel Touch of Zlaniz

She woke tangled in violet silk, breath ragged, body burning. The urges hadn’t eased in the night—if anything, they had sharpened, gnawing at her until she thought she might claw herself raw just to silence them. Her mind screamed for control, but her flesh betrayed her with every pulse.

The chamber door creaked open. Four demonettes glided inside, their violet skin gleaming in the morning light. Their eyes sparkled with knowing mischief. They didn’t speak; they never needed to. Their presence was a reminder that this was Zlaniz’s realm, where pleasure was weapon, temptation a constant blade.

They took her by the hands and wrists, guiding her, laughing softly as though they could hear her heart pound. In the washroom, they stripped her bare, the silk falling away like a surrender. Warm water cascaded over her, scented with rose and crystal-dust. Their hands were everywhere—washing, brushing, lingering just long enough to stoke her need into agony.

Neth shivered. Her eye shut tight. She couldn’t take it anymore.

“Please,” she gasped before she could stop herself, her voice cracking, desperate. “Please… just fuck me.”

The demonettes only giggled, their laughter echoing off the marble walls. One brushed her hair back from her face with a slow, teasing caress, lips close to her ear, but said nothing more.

Neth’s cheeks flushed deep crimson. Shame and fury warred inside her, but the need was worse—it hollowed her out, twisted her insides until she felt she might break in two.

She bit down on the cry in her throat, forcing herself still as their giggles followed her, mocking and sweet, every note a reminder: this was the test, and the torment, of Zlaniz’s palace.

And the day had only begun.

Their hands never relented. Even as they led her back down the violet corridors, the demonettes’ fingers brushed her arms, her waist, her thighs—each touch sending sparks down her skin like fireflies burning into her flesh.

By the time they reached her bed chambers, Neth’s knees were weak, her breaths shallow. She thought they might leave her to writhe in the silks again, but instead… they turned, surrounding her.

One leaned in and pressed her lips to Neth’s, soft at first, then hungry, tasting her gasps. Another slipped behind, arms wrapping around Neth’s waist, warm hands sliding up to caress her breasts. Their teasing giggles echoed, cruel and sweet.

Neth’s eye fluttered shut. Her body arched toward them. A sharp cry nearly escaped her throat when another demonette’s hand traced lower—fingers brushing her pelvis, stroking just enough to set her nerves ablaze… but not enough to satisfy.

It was unbearable. Too much. Too little.

Her body begged for more, but the demonettes pulled away, leaving only a trembling ache behind. They kissed her cheek, her neck, leaving her burning with need, then withdrew, violet silk slipping from their hands as they disappeared back through the door.

The chamber was silent again.

Neth stood frozen, her body quaking, lips swollen from stolen kisses, skin burning where they had touched her. And yet… it was not enough. Not nearly enough.

She dropped onto the bed, clutching at the sheets, rage and need mixing until she wanted to scream.

“This isn’t fair…” she whispered, teeth gritted.

Zlaniz’s realm had given her just enough release to keep her alive—yet left her thirsting, starved, her mind reeling. It was torture dressed as pleasure.

And she knew it was only going to get worse.

The golden rod gleamed on the table, and Neth’s hand shook as she seized it. Enough was enough. Her body burned; her mind screamed. She ripped the violet toga from herself, baring her skin to the cool chamber air, desperate for even a moment of release.

But then she saw it—her reflection in the mirror.

Her body was whole. Every scar, every wound that should have marred her… gone. Her skin looked new, untouched, as though she were back at the beginning of her journey. Only her missing eye remained, the reminder of all she had endured.

A shadow moved behind her.

Zlaniz.

The violet goddess appeared as if she had always been there, her presence overwhelming, her smile sharp with promise and cruelty.

“You see,” she whispered, her breath warm at Neth’s ear, “you are mine to shape. That smooth skin, that fresh flesh—my gift. I have healed you.”

Her hands slid over Neth’s body—fingers caressing her breasts, thumbs teasing sensitive peaks, her other hand pressing lower, stroking with deliberate cruelty. Neth gasped, her body trembling, torn between need and resistance.

Zlaniz’s tongue brushed her ear, and her voice was velvet poison.

“I have wandered long across these realms, yet never… never have I seen a goblin so beautiful as you.”

Her lips pressed to Neth’s, deep and devouring, tongues entwined. For a moment Neth let herself sink, moaning into the kiss, lost in the fire.

But then Zlaniz pulled away.

That wicked smirk carved across her face, violet eyes glowing with amusement. She left Neth shaking, her body screaming for more, her need clawing at her insides.

The goddess vanished as if she had never been there.

Neth collapsed onto the floor, naked, sweating, aching beyond reason. Tears streamed down her face as she pressed her forehead to the cold stone.

“It’s not fair…” she whispered through sobs.

The torment was too much. Too cruel. She had been given just enough to burn, never enough to soothe.

And in the silence of the violet chamber, Zlaniz’s laughter echoed faintly, as if the walls themselves shared in her suffering.

The sobs were still catching in Neth’s throat when the air thickened again. The violet glow returned, curling along the walls like smoke. And then Zlaniz stood before her once more, tall, radiant, terrible in her beauty.

Neth pressed an arm across her bare chest, trying to cover herself, but Zlaniz only smirked.

“Tell me, little one,” the goddess purred, her eyes lingering on Neth’s face, “why do you still wear an empty socket where your eye should be?”

Neth froze, her breath catching.

“I have restored your flesh, erased scars, made you whole again. But not this.” Her fingertip lifted, lightly brushing beneath Neth’s ruined eye. “Why do you think that is?”

Neth trembled. “…I don’t know.”

Zlaniz tilted her head, voice soft as a knife sliding into silk.

“It is because of him… Pehliff. And his sword. You felt it, didn’t you? How it unmade you. Even gods cannot simply mend what his blade takes. Tell me, Neth—what do you know of it? What was that steel forged from? Why does it cut deeper than even divinity?”

Neth’s throat closed. She thought of the mountains, of the moment Pehliff struck her down—how his golden eyes burned with something beyond mortal hatred. She remembered Dykenta’s pain too, how even the goddess bled from his daggers.

Her lips trembled. “…I don’t know what his weapon is made of. I only know him.”

She swallowed, staring into Zlaniz’s glowing gaze. “He… he smiled when he cut me down. Like it was nothing. Like I was already dead before he swung. He killed my mother. He nearly killed me. His eyes…” She shuddered. “…they burn like suns. But he is still just a man.”

Zlaniz crouched, her violet silk pooling around her like a storm. Her hand cupped Neth’s chin, forcing her to meet her gaze.

“Not just a man,” the goddess whispered, her lips close enough to brush Neth’s. “He carries something older. Something forbidden. And if you could tell me its name, its truth…” Her smile widened, cruel and sensual. “…then I would soothe you. I would give you everything your body screams for. I would show you what no mortal lover ever could.”

Neth’s heart pounded so hard she thought it might burst. She wanted to scream, to beg, to surrender. But all she had were fragments, pain, and fear.

“I don’t know,” she whispered again, her voice breaking.

For a long moment, Zlaniz said nothing—only stared at her like a cat watching prey that could not escape. Then the goddess smirked, leaning close enough for her breath to tease Neth’s lips.

“Then you will ache until you learn, my little goblin.”

And just like that, Zlaniz was gone.

Neth collapsed back onto the floor, shaking, every nerve on fire, her urges raging hotter for being denied once more.

Neth sat slumped on the violet tiles, the golden rod still lying where she had dropped it. Her chest heaved, every breath shallow, her skin hot as if fire ran beneath it.

Her hands shook. Not from fear—at least not only fear. From want. From need. From being denied again and again.

She pressed her palms to her face, her one good eye burning.

“Why him…” she whispered. “Why Pehliff…”

Every time she clawed toward some scrap of relief, some thread of peace, it circled back to him. His golden eyes. His mocking grin. The way his blade pierced her like she was nothing. The way he took her mother’s head.

She hugged her knees to her chest, rocking slightly.

Dykenta had given her purpose. The Unchained had given her family. But Pehliff had given her scars that not even gods could erase.

Even Zlaniz couldn’t fix it.

That thought twisted her stomach. If a goddess couldn’t restore her eye, what did that say about the sword? About the man who wielded it?

Her nails dug into her shins. “It’s just steel,” she muttered. “It has to be. It has to be…” But her words rang hollow.

Was Pehliff truly just a man? Or something worse? Something chosen by the same dark hands she now walked beneath?

Her need, her urges, pressed harder than ever—but she refused to give in. Not yet. Not like this.

Instead, she stared into the mirror where her scars had been erased, where her reflection looked like some other woman—a stranger.

If I can’t even control my own body, how can I fight him?

Her eye stung with tears, and she whispered one last thought before curling onto the violet bed, trembling in both anger and hunger:

“I’ll find out what you are, Pehliff. Even if it kills me.”

Kasien — Day 23 The Cruel Nightfall

The teal-blue wastes stretched endless, broken only by jagged crystal spires and the crawling shadow of the colossal Hand far in the distance.

Kasien’s boots were ruined. Every step drove stone shards into his feet. His ribs ached with every breath—still cracked from the giant’s club. His scimitar, Soul of the Elderwood, was nicked and dulled from the endless fights.

But he kept walking.

No battles yet this day. No ambush. Only the weight of silence and the storm-choked sky glaring down with its countless teal-blue eyes. They watched him, whispering, taunting.

“Die here.
Lie down.
Bleed into the dirt.
No one will find you.”

He gritted his teeth, clutching the pommel of his weapon tighter, and pressed on.

Hours passed. The ground shifted beneath him—the maze of Geardaz never still. Corridors opened, walls of crystal folded away, paths stretching into infinity. Kasien mapped what he could in his head, though he knew it was pointless. The realm wanted him lost.

Food was gone. He chewed strips of dried cockatrice hide until his jaw ached, just to trick his stomach. His water was low, but enough—thanks to his makeshift boiling trick.

His body wanted sleep, but he refused. He knew what sleep meant here. Too long in dreams, and he’d never wake.

Still… fragments of dream tugged at his mind. His sister’s face. His cousin’s voice. Elyndra’s song, soft and dangerous, echoing like it had lingered in his blood. He shook his head violently.

No. Not her. Not now.

By dusk—the realm’s sky shifting to a darker teal storm—Kasien found himself at the edge of another ridge. Below, he saw movement: a Geardaz warband, a hundred strong. Giants, minotaurs, Saracens, banners of fractured runes.

They hadn’t seen him. Not yet.

Kasien sank to his knees, clutching his ribs, staring at the warband as the wind howled against him. He whispered, ragged:

“I’m not dying here. Not like this. Not before I find them.”

And with that vow, he forced himself onward, away from the ridge, deeper into the shifting maze of the wastes.

The teal sky darkened into storm-light, thunder rippling across the wastes. Kasien had found no shelter, only a hollow in the crystal ground where he crouched, ribs aching, eyes burning with exhaustion.

The colossal Hand loomed closer than ever before—still impossibly far, but close enough now that its jagged shadow seemed to scrape the horizon. He stared at it until his vision blurred.

That’s when the wind changed.

He heard it—soft at first. The sound of boots scuffing against stone. Too light for giants. Too measured for beasts. His hand went to Soul of the Elderwood, though even gripping the blade made his cracked knuckles sting.

The storm-eyes above flickered, and shadows pulled from the crystal spires.

Saracens. Half a dozen at least. Shields, scimitars, eyes burning teal. They moved with a hunter’s patience, circling the hollow. Behind them—two Arcane Archers, already nocking arrows that shimmered with Geardaz’s runes.

Kasien forced himself to stand, his legs trembling, lungs raw. He whispered the incantation, voice cracking:

“Bladesong.”

The air around him tightened, his body answering despite his exhaustion.

The first Saracen rushed. Kasien pivoted, parried, and slashed across the man’s throat in one smooth arc. Blood hissed into the dust. Another came from behind—Kasien spun, but too slow. Steel bit into his shoulder. He staggered, growled, then thrust backward with Soul of the Elderwood, skewering the man through the gut.

Arrows hissed. One shattered against a mirror-image illusion. Another grazed his arm, burning like acid as it cut.

Kasien roared and lunged at the nearest Saracen, slashing high, then low, then thrusting deep into the ribs. He kicked the body free, already spinning toward the next.

The Archers loosed again. He dodged one, deflected another, then whispered a spell through bloody lips—Firebolt.

The realm twisted it.

Not fire alone—but flame, acid, and lightning combined. The bolt slammed into one Archer, exploding his body into shards of charred bone and crystal. The second staggered, screaming, armor half-melted.

Kasien charged. His blade sank into the man’s chest before the scream was done.

Four Saracens left. They hesitated—then all struck together. Kasien was a blur, parrying, slashing, twisting, every motion agony but precise. One fell, then another. A blade slipped past his guard—cutting across his ribs. He gasped, blood pouring.

The last two Saracens rushed. Kasien’s boot lashed out, kicking one into the crystal wall. His blade carved through the other’s spine.

The final Saracen crawled, bloodied, trying to rise. Kasien stood over him, chest heaving, blade shaking in his hand. For a moment, he almost faltered—his exhaustion pulling him down.

But then he remembered his sister’s face. His cousin’s laugh.

Kasien drove the blade down, clean through the man’s skull.

Silence.

Kasien staggered, collapsing to one knee. His vision swam. The storm above flickered, the watching eyes blinking in cruel amusement.

He spat blood into the dirt, whispering:

“Not yet. Not tonight.”

And somehow, on shaking legs, he forced himself onward—bloody, unbroken, walking again toward the Hand.

Geardaz’s Reaction

From the spires of his shifting citadel, Geardaz watched the hollow where Kasien fought. The god’s laughter rang sharp as broken glass, echoing through the teal storm.

Fifteen minutes ago, the Saracens were his hunters. Now their corpses smoked in the dust, scattered like dice across a game-board.

And still—the boy lived.

“Look at you,” Geardaz whispered, his many eyes flickering in the storm-sky above Kasien. “Your ribs cracked, your blood in the dirt… and yet your legs move. Why do you still walk, little bladesinger?”

He twirled a shard of living rune-light between his fingers, grinning with too many teeth. The shard fractured into six pieces, each showing Kasien’s fight from a different angle: the desperate dodge, the firebolt that twisted into three elements, the final strike through a crawling man’s skull.

Each fragment was a story. And Geardaz adored stories.

“You bleed yourself dry for shadows of family,” he murmured, tilting his head. “But blood is blood, Kasien Ash-Fall. Do you think they wait for you at that Hand? Do you think they are still… yours?”

The storm-eyes blinked as if in time with his laughter, cruel and delighted.

“Every step you take,” Geardaz hissed, “you prove me right. You are not my enemy, boy. You are my greatest jest. You walk willingly into the jaws I leave open, and yet—”

He leaned back on his throne of fractured runes, gaze never leaving Kasien’s trembling form dragging itself across the wastes.

“—yet part of me wonders.”

For a heartbeat, Geardaz’s grin faltered. One of his storm-eyes narrowed, as if in suspicion.

“Do you walk into the joke… or do you mean to rewrite it?”

The thought lingered like a bad chord, buzzing dissonant. Geardaz hated it.

So he laughed louder, shattering the unease into madness.

“Walk on, little Ash-Fall. Walk until you crack. Every drop of blood you spend writes my song in the sky.”

The storm above flared teal, arcs of lightning etching Kasien’s silhouette into the clouds.

And the Trickster God laughed, shaking the wastes with the sound.

Neth — Day 23, The Violet Palace Alone in the Spiral

She woke with a gasp, her body slick with sweat, her sheets tangled tight around her legs like bindings.

The violet silk clung to her skin, whispering against her like teasing fingers. Her breath came shallow, chest rising and falling too fast, and for a moment she thought she’d screamed in her sleep.

Her one eye burned, but not from tears—this was deeper, lower. The ache. The hunger. The need.

Her thighs pressed together involuntarily, her hips shifting against the emptiness. It was worse today. So much worse. The golden rod gleamed faintly where it lay on the table, mocking her restraint.

Her hand trembled as she clutched at her hair, tugging at the roots, trying to fight it back. Not now. Not again.

She whispered to herself, ragged and cracked:

“Gods… please… just let it stop for one day…”

But the silence of the chamber answered her with nothing. Only the faint perfume of black roses drifting through the open window, and the echo of Zlaniz’s laughter, as if the realm itself was pressing against her skin, feeding her torment.

Every nerve in her body screamed for release. And still—she fought, trembling, naked in the violet dawn.

The chamber was too quiet.

Every breath she drew filled her with the scent of violet silk, incense, and the cloying sweetness of Zlaniz’s realm. Every heartbeat pounded in her skull, her chest, her pelvis — a rhythm that had no release.

Neth curled in on herself on the bed, knees to chest, one hand digging into the sheets hard enough to tear threads loose. The other hovered in the air, trembling, almost reaching for the golden rod — but again she pulled back with a hiss of frustration.

“No… not like this…” she muttered. Her voice sounded small in the vast room, swallowed by marble and velvet.

Her body didn’t listen. Her thighs squeezed tight. Her lips parted with ragged gasps. She rocked against the sheets like a caged animal, every movement taunting her with how easily she could give in.

Her mind rebelled. It dragged her back to other nights — huddled at campfires, laughing with the Unchained. Lek’s bright smile. Desnora’s lazy jokes over wine. Hookspark’s roaring laughter, shaking the earth. Those memories were warm. Human.

And yet the warmth only sharpened her torment. Because now she was here, alone, trapped in violet silk with no one’s laughter, no one’s comfort. Just the gnawing emptiness inside her, wanting to get back to the Cinders, back to her new friends Reyn, Rheana, Lila and share the bed with August again, then she know she would not suffer from these needs.

She pressed her forehead into the pillow, whispering broken words that dissolved into the fabric.

“I can’t… I can’t keep fighting myself like this…”

The urge didn’t fade. It pulsed stronger. Her own body betrayed her, every nerve alight, every scar healed but leaving behind this hunger.

For a fleeting moment she wondered — if this is what Zlaniz wanted all along, then maybe I’ve already lost.

And that thought terrified her more than the hunger itself.

The silence broke with the soft chime of the door.

Neth’s head snapped up, her one eye red from exhaustion. Four demonettes glided into the chamber, their laughter like wind chimes in a storm. Their violet skin shimmered in the glow of crystal lamps, their movements deliberate, knowing.

“We’ve come to wash you again, little champion,” one purred, her claws tapping against the silver basin they carried.

“I don’t need a bath,” Neth snapped, clutching the sheets around her bare shoulders. Her voice cracked, more pleading than commanding.

The demonettes only giggled, closing in. Hands like silk seized her wrists, easing her up from the bed. Their touch lingered too long, nails dragging against her skin as they stripped her once more. Neth’s breath hitched despite herself — every caress made her urges scream hotter.

They lowered her into the steaming bath, brushes sliding through her hair, cloths trailing over her body in ways that were too careful, too slow. One bent close, her lips brushing Neth’s ear as she whispered, “You tremble so sweetly when we touch you…” before flicking her tongue across her earlobe.

“Stop that!” Neth jerked away, water sloshing over the basin. Her fists clenched, knuckles white. “If you’re not going to—” She cut herself off, face flushing crimson, teeth gritted.

The demonettes only giggled louder, their eyes glowing with knowing amusement. One let her hand slide down Neth’s arm, pausing just at her hip before pulling away as if in mock innocence. Another traced lazy patterns on her thigh with the brush, each stroke too close, too deliberate.

“You burn with need,” one whispered.
“You should let us put out the fire,” another teased.

Neth ground her teeth, every muscle in her body taut. She wanted to scream, to hit them, to surrender, to anything—but instead she sat there trembling, rage and desire twisting into something unbearable.

“Enough,” she spat, glaring at them with her one fierce eye. “Either stop teasing me or—” Her voice cracked, and she slammed her fist into the water, sending a wave crashing against the edge of the basin. “Or get out!”

The demonettes only laughed again, voices like cruel bells. They finished brushing her hair and drying her off with delicate hands that only worsened her torment, then draped her once more in violet silk.

They left her standing alone in the chamber, dripping, furious, every nerve raw.

The door shut.

And silence returned.

Only this time, it pressed heavier — thick with her own trembling frustration, the echoes of their giggles still scratching in her ears.

The food tray sat waiting for her when she staggered back into her chamber. Silver platters of roasted meats, sugared fruits, and dark bread still steaming as if freshly pulled from the oven. The wine gleamed violet in its crystal goblet, taunting her with its rich, spiced scent.

She sat hard on the edge of the bed, fists shaking. Her one eye burned hot, not with hunger but with fury.

She tore into the food anyway, biting savagely at the meat, ripping bread with her teeth. Juice ran down her chin and her trembling fingers couldn’t keep hold of the fruit, sending it tumbling onto the silk sheets.

By the time she drained the wine, her chest heaved, her cheeks streaked with tears. She pressed her hand hard against her face, trying to hold herself together — but the storm inside was too much.

Her nails dug into her palm, her body betraying her with every breath. She wanted release, wanted touch, wanted to burn away the need clawing at her skin.

“Damn it…” she hissed through clenched teeth, her voice breaking as fresh tears spilled. “I can’t… I can’t take this anymore.”

She slammed her fists into the silk sheets, sobbing, angry and desperate. Every cruel tease, every withheld moment, every whisper of her body screaming for what it had been denied — it all came crashing down on her at once.

She curled over, forehead pressed to the food-stained sheets, whispering to herself between ragged breaths:

“I just want… I just want to be touched. I just want to fuck. Why won’t they just let me?”

The words tasted like ash, like surrender.

The chamber was silent again, but her sobs filled it, her tears soaking into violet silk as her body shook with need and frustration.

She shoved the empty platter aside, the clatter sharp in the chamber’s stillness. Her hands trembled as if her body itself were mocking her. Every nerve burned, every scar that Zlaniz had erased seemed to itch with phantom fire.

Her eye caught the mirror — her own reflection staring back, raw and flushed, tear-stained and hungry. She couldn’t bear to look. She turned away and crawled onto the bed, dragging the violet sheets around her like armor.

But there was no protection. Only silk clinging to her damp skin, only the scent of fruit and wine still on her lips. The sheets reminded her of hands, of touch, of the weight she craved and could not have.

She curled tight, knees to chest, fighting her body’s demands with clenched teeth. The tears came again, quieter now, spilling into the pillow as she whispered broken words to herself.

“Please… please… enough… I can’t…”

No goddess answered. No demonette teased. No lover soothed.

Only the pulse of her own heart, pounding against the cage of her ribs, reminding her of how alive — and how desperately alone — she was.

Her breathing slowed, exhaustion dulling the fire just enough for sleep to creep in. The urges did not fade. They clung like chains, humming through her veins even as her eye fluttered shut.

Neth fell into restless slumber, still trembling, still aching, still bound by a need that sleep could not silence.

Kasien — Day 24

The Dream of Splintered Eyes Sleep took him like a blade to the back. No gentle drift — just the collapse of a body too far gone. His cheek pressed into the humming crystal and the world slid sideways.

The dream came at once.

He stood in a forest. But the trees were made of eyes, every branch lined with blinking orbs, pupils dilating in unison. Each eye was violet. Each was his own.

When he tried to move, the ground shifted beneath his feet. Roots wrapped around his boots, glowing with teal fire. They pulsed with a rhythm that was not his heartbeat.

A voice rose — a chorus, and yet singular.

“Little bladesinger… why do you walk toward the Hand, when all your answers lie here?”

Kasien turned — and saw Yshari. Not as he remembered her, but cloaked in teal crystal shards that sprouted from her skin like armor. Her eyes burned too bright, her smile too sharp.

Behind her, Vhalis stood, her shadow long and ragged, hair drifting as if underwater. She whispered his name, but her voice was distorted, syllables stretched until they cracked.

He ran to them, but the distance stretched like tar. Every step drew him no closer. His book fell open in his hands, pages fluttering, but every map he’d drawn was crossed out in violet ink. One word repeated:

LIAR.

Kasien roared and slashed with Soul of the Elderwood. The forest of eyes screamed, weeping violet light, but the blade cracked in his hands. The green shimmer winked out.

Then Geardaz himself leaned down from the sky, a face made of too many mouths, too many eyes, speaking in riddled harmony:

“You chase a truth that does not want you, Ash-Fall. Yshari is mine. Vhalis is mine. Your ink maps nothing but your own undoing.”

The dream shifted. He stood at the foot of the colossal Hand. Its fingers curled like towers above him. Each nail was an altar, and each altar bore a broken figure. Reyn. Rheana. Neth. One by one, their faces turned to him, mouths sewn shut with teal thread.

Kasien fell to his knees, clawing at the earth. He screamed until his throat tore.

And then the forest of eyes blinked all at once.

He woke with a gasp.

The crystals around him pulsed teal, as if they had been watching his dream. His body shook, his lips dry, his breath ragged. Soul of the Elderwood lay across his lap — whole, still gleaming faintly green.

But the echo of the dream lingered.

"Are they already his? Am I chasing shadows?"

He clenched his jaw, dragging himself upright, blood on his palms from where his nails had cut into his fists.

"No. I’ll find them. Even if it kills me."

The Hand still loomed in the distance, silent. Watching.

The teal-blue wastes stretched endless, broken only by the jagged thrusts of crystal that pulsed with Geardaz’s strange magic. Kasien’s boots were torn near to the sole; every step sent grit biting into raw blisters. He had stopped counting days. Only the Hand mattered. Only the looming shadow in the distance, impossibly far yet closer than it had been.

The air was heavy. The storm had not broken, but the sky swirled with watching eyes, opening and closing like lids of glass. Every time he looked up, Kasien swore they narrowed at him, testing, waiting for his weakness to show.

His rations were gone. What meat he had carried was long since eaten raw or roasted in hurried fires. His stomach gnawed at itself now, but he pressed forward, leaning on Soul of the Elderwood like a pilgrim with a staff. The blade hummed faintly, green shimmer flickering across its edge — as if reminding him: you are not alone.

Hours bled into one another. His thoughts tangled — Vhalis, Yshari, Reyn, the Cinders. Faces swam before him, sometimes clear, sometimes twisted into mockery by the realm’s illusions.

At midday, he stumbled across a ridge and found a broken cairn of crystal. The stones hummed with echoes — not words, but fragments of voices, laughter and screams mingled together. He sat there a moment, letting the hum vibrate through his bones, and scribbled quick notes into his battered book. Patterns, fragments, anything. His mind clung to study because it was easier than despair.

By nightfall, he staggered into a ravine where the crystals bled teal light across the sand. He collapsed against one, breathing ragged, staring at the colossal Hand still far on the horizon.

Closer. Always closer.

His last thought before exhaustion dragged him under:

"If this is what it takes, then I’ll break myself before I let them win. I’ll see Yshari. I’ll see Vhalis. Even if this land eats me alive."

The crystals hummed back, like mocking applause, as Kasien drifted into uneasy sleep.

Neth — Day 24: Dream of the Fate Killer

The violet silks wrapped her in uneasy warmth. Sleep came in fractured waves, dragging her down into memory.

And there he was.
Always him.

Pehliff.

The golden-eyed elf’s face split across her dreamscape like cracks in glass — each shard a different meeting, a different wound.

She saw again the mountain snow when his sword, Fate Killer, pierced her left eye. His laughter ringing as her world went black, her mother’s head falling in the snow beside her.
She saw her father, Sepher Roth, bloodied and broken after they had fought side by side against demons — and then Pehliff leaving him there to die, smiling as if he were granting her a gift of grief.
She saw the Twin Pike Tavern, where she had first joined the Cinders. She remembered the warmth of Reyn and Rheana’s presence, the chance at belonging. But even there, in the quiet of Reyn’s private room, Pehliff had slipped in, like a shadow smirking in her periphery.
She saw the Loutibs Research Site, grim revelation echoing: “That blade… it is no mortal forge.”
She saw Maddax Tibur the Black Swordsman, the resurrected emperor declaring war against the God Hands, his voice like steel: “The Fate Killer is wrought from the bones of divinity itself. God’s Metal.”
She saw Renazar atop the Sky Temple, his divine light cutting through the storm as he too spoke its name as he said he charged the Orbs to make them power orbs.

Piece by piece, the fragments coalesced.

The truth slammed into her chest like a blade.

Fate Killer was not of this world.
Forged from God’s Metal, stolen from the very planes of the High Heavens.
Bound with Neztra Magus Metal Runes, their ancient glyphs bleeding power into its edge.
And charged by The Power Orbs — orbs that pulsed with stolen lives, stolen essences. But whose? Mortals? Demons? Gods? She did not know.

But she understood now why no goddess could restore what it severed.
Why Tymira’s light had failed her.
Why even Dykenta’s touch could not mend her eye.

The sword was not just steel.
It was a chain of godhood, sharpened into one man’s will.

She heard Pehliff’s voice, layered over every memory:

“You are not fated to win, little goblin. My blade writes fate itself.”

Her fists clenched in the dream.
Her body trembled, even in sleep.

But her voice — steady.
“Then I will break fate.”

The dream shattered.

Neth woke in the violet bed, sweat on her brow, her body trembling not with urges this time, but with rage. She pressed her hand against her eyepatch, her breath ragged.

She knew now. She knew.
Pehliff’s blade wasn’t just a weapon.
It was the key.
And if she could survive long enough to face him again — she would tear that key from his hand, even if it meant her death.

Four demonettes glided into the chamber, their laughter like wind chimes in a storm. Their violet skin shimmered in the glow of crystal lamps, their movements deliberate, knowing, come to give Neth her daily wash but this time Neth was ready.

The violet washroom steamed with perfume and warmth, the demonettes’ hands lingering far longer than was necessary. Their teasing caresses only stoked the hunger she’d been caged in for days, each brush of fingers against her skin like fire poured into her veins.

But this time Neth’s voice cut through the haze.
“I wish to speak to Zlaniz.”

The demonettes froze mid-motion, their playful giggles caught in their throats. One blinked in surprise, lips parting.
“I… I will tell our lady,” she whispered. “Tomorrow you will speak.”

They finished their work quickly after that, though not without resuming their torment — brushing across her neck, tangling their fingers in her hair, dragging their nails gently down her sides. They thought her will was breaking.

When they led her back to her chamber, still feeding the flames of her urges, Neth acted.

She caught one demonette by the wrist and pulled her close, lips pressing against hers. The demonette gasped, melting into the kiss — her own body quick to betray her with a shudder. Neth’s hand slid across her chest, squeezing, before slipping lower, fingers pressing firmly between her thighs. A sharp moan broke from the demonette’s mouth.

And then Neth stopped.

She pulled back, her eye burning with fire, her hand withdrawing just as quickly as it had claimed. The demonette, flushed and trembling, leaned forward instinctively, desperate for more.

“Fuck off,” Neth hissed, voice low but steady. “You’ll get what you want… after I’ve spoken to Zlaniz.”

The demonette’s eyes widened — shock giving way to frustration, then reluctant desire. She lingered a moment, lips parted, before retreating with the others, all of them now feeling the sting of denial that had plagued Neth for so long.

For the first time since she had entered Zlaniz’s palace, it was the demonettes left writhing.
And Neth — battered, bloodied, burning with need — had taken back a sliver of control.

She sat alone in her chamber, body trembling, but her thoughts clear:
Tomorrow she would face Zlaniz.
Tomorrow she would speak the truth she now carried about Fate Killer.
And tomorrow, she would seize this torment by the throat and bend it to her will.

The chamber was too quiet. Even the silk sheets felt like they whispered against her skin, every breath of air like a tease. The demonettes had left her in torment, and Neth lay sprawled on her bed, one arm thrown across her eyes, the other clutching at the sheets as though they could ground her.

But nothing grounded her.

Her mind spun back to Zlaniz’s words, to that sly promise: “I will give you what your lovers would.”

The thought stabbed deep, and once it was there, it would not leave.

Neth flushed hot, her breath catching as she pictured it — Zlaniz not as a distant goddess, but close, intimate, bending to her, hands smoothing across her back, her thighs, her chest. Lips marking her with ownership and devotion in equal measure. She imagined the endless cascade of kisses, the goddess’s touch rewriting every ache and scar into something tender. Even her laughter turned to a soft giggle as she thought of Zlaniz’s mouth brushing over every place she longed to be seen, to be cherished, even the places she dared never ask of another.

The images grew heavier, stacking like stones on her chest until she could hardly breathe. Her body burned. Days of suppressed need, days of torment and denial, coiled into a single unbearable weight that begged release.

She turned on her side, clutching the sheets, whispering hoarsely into the emptiness:

“Gods… I just need it gone. I need to fuck this storm away…”

Her eye welled with frustrated tears, and she laughed bitterly through them — a flustered, desperate sound. The giggle from earlier twisted into something hollow, then back again, caught between exhaustion and desire.

She pressed her forehead into the pillow, trembling. The thought of tomorrow burned in her mind like fire:
Would Zlaniz grant what she imagined?
Would she finally be freed from this gnawing hunger?

The silence did not answer. Only her body did — shivering, aching, begging.

And so Neth lay in that quiet torment, waiting for dawn, waiting for Zlaniz, waiting for the chance to finally burn these urges away.

Kasien - Day 25 — The Wastes and the Winged Shadow

The teal-blue wastes stretched endless, storms boiling above like torn silk, eyes watching from every seam of the sky. Kasien staggered onward, Soul of the Elderwood dragging in his grip, his breath thin from hunger, his boots slick with blood and grit.

Then the wind broke.

Wings unfolded, vast and sharp as broken glass. A figure landed before him, armored head to toe in Geardaz’s teal-and-gold plate, her presence so heavy it made the crystals hum. Her helm’s slitted visor glowed faintly — not flame, not storm, but something alive, watching.

Kasien stopped, raising his blade, but she did not move to strike.

Instead, the Champion’s voice rang out, low, firm, edged like steel drawn slow from a scabbard:

Champion: “Your defiance burns long, bladesinger. Too long for a mortal without patronage. Tell me — what keeps your feet moving when the wastes themselves hunger for your bones?”

Kasien’s jaw tightened. His throat was raw, his ribs ached with every breath, but he forced the words out, blade still lifted.

Kasien: “I keep walking because I must. My family waits. My answers wait. Not you, not Geardaz, not the Hand itself will break me before I reach them.”

The Champion tilted her head, wings curling faintly inward.

Champion: “Family. That word cuts deeper than any blade. And yet… you do not know if they live. If they ever will again. What if your walking only carries you closer to a truth too heavy to bear?”

Kasien swallowed hard. He hated the way the words slid beneath his skin, like claws searching for a weak seam in his armour.

Kasien: “Then I’ll carry it anyway. Even if it kills me. Better truth than the lies you whisper.”

For a moment, silence stretched — only the storm’s lightning flashing across her winged silhouette. Then the Champion leaned slightly forward, voice softer now, almost testing.

Champion: “Perhaps. But what if truth breaks you before you can wield it? What if it is not a burden… but a chain?”

Their eyes — his burning with exhaustion, hers veiled in the glow of the helm — locked in that endless waste. Neither yielded.

And then, without another word, the Champion turned, wings unfurling again with a sound like cracking crystal.

She did not strike.

Kasien stood there, blade trembling in his grip, his whole body screaming at him to rest — but his heart hammering louder than the thunder.

What if she was right?
What if the truth wasn’t freedom at all?

The silence stretched between them, storm-light flickering across jagged crystals. Kasien’s grip tightened on Soul of the Elderwood, but the Champion only watched him, still, patient.

Then her voice cut through the air, low and deliberate:

Champion: “Tell me, bladesinger… what do you know of the goblin girl? The one who bears the Hand’s mark. Genethia Roth.”

Kasien stiffened.

The question hit him harder than any blade could have. He searched her visor for a motive, for any hint of why she would ask. Her tone gave nothing away.

Kasien: “…Why do you care?”

The Champion tilted her head, wings shifting ever so slightly, like the faint rustle of a predator circling.

Champion: “Because the realm watches her as it watches you. She bleeds, she breaks, yet she crawls forward still. Much as you do. But she does not walk for family, or vengeance, or truth.”

A pause.

Champion: “So I ask again. What do you know of her?”

Kasien’s mind flashed: Neth in the ruins, Neth clutching the amulet, Neth’s one eye burning with defiance, Neth’s broken laughter in the campfire glow of the Cinders.
He thought of her strength, and the weight she carried that none of them fully understood.

And yet he said nothing.

He only stared back, sweat rolling down his temple, chest heaving.

Kasien: “Enough to know she isn’t yours.”

The Champion stilled. Then a slow, almost inaudible chuckle escaped the visor — a sound that might have been amusement… or pity.

Champion: “Bold. But boldness does not always save the ones you cling to.”

The Champion’s voice was low, almost reluctant.

Champion: “You wish to know where her path leads? Then see it… and despair.”

Her gauntleted hand lifted, palm opening. The teal storm warped, the wastes fell away, and Kasien’s vision was torn from him.

He gasped—suddenly standing in a withered field beneath a crimson sky. The blood moon drowned every star.

And there she was.

Neth.

Her cloak shredded, her small frame trembling, her right eye a void of burning red. In her hand, the amulet pulsed like a heartbeat.

Behind her—impossible, vast—rose the Hand. Its stone fingers were towers, and upon each stood a god: Zonid, Geardaz, Zarlnis, Urmbrik, Zlaniz. Silent, towering, their shadows suffocating the earth.

Kasien’s stomach lurched. His voice caught in his throat.

Kasien (whisper): “No… not her.”

Then Neth’s voice cut through the field—raw, cracked, but steady.

Neth: “I have lost all I was meant to love.”

Each word ripped him open.

Neth: “You offer power… not to destroy the world… but to remake it so that no one else suffers like we did.”

Her hand rose. The amulet glowed.

Her one eye glistened with a blood tear.

Neth: “I accept!”

The world convulsed, the sky tore red, the gods leaned forward as if claiming her—

And then the vision shattered.

Kasien collapsed to his knees in the wastes, sweat dripping, his body shaking. His ears still rang with her voice.

The Champion loomed above him, wings spread, silent for a long moment. Then, softly:

Champion: “This is the choice she carries. And perhaps… the choice you carry too.”

The storm’s whisper fell silent. Only the armored figure remained before Kasien, wings folded like jagged walls of night.

Her voice was not cruel, not mocking — but low, patient, cutting.

Champion:
“You think her burden is hers alone? You think you are different?”

Kasien’s jaw tightened. His hand brushed the hilt of his blade, though he didn’t draw.

Champion:
“No, Kasien Ash-Fall. You too have suffered loss. You too have sacrificed as much as she. And your path…”

She gestured to the horizon, to the Hand looming vast in the haze.

“…your path leads to the same ruin, the same despair.”

Her voice lowered, almost intimate.

“You cling to scraps of family, to whispers of love. You fight, hoping one thread may survive the scissors of fate. But you know.”

Her burning eyes locked with his.

“You know you will lose it all in the end.”

Kasien’s breath quickened, his throat raw with unspoken rage.

The Champion stepped closer, her armored hand lifting — not to strike, but as if offering.

“So why not you?” she pressed. “Why not seize an Amulet of your own? Why not accept what the Hands offer? Power to undo the losses. Power to remake fate. Power… to hold what you love instead of watching it torn away.”

Her words cut deeper than any blade.

The words hung in the air like a snare, vibrating through the wasteland.

Kasien’s lips parted, then closed. He wanted to spit defiance, to name her a liar, a servant of madness — but the sound died in his throat.

Her question echoed, hammering inside his skull.

Why not you?

He saw flashes — Yshari’s laughter before she vanished, Vhalis’s smirk when he taught him a parry, the halls of the Black Dragon Scales, his mother’s voice praying over him as a child. All of it gone. All of it slipping further away with each step deeper into this cursed land.

His fists clenched until his knuckles whitened. He felt his ribs ache where wounds still hadn’t fully healed, the throb of exhaustion in his bones. And beneath it all — a terrible whisper in his own blood that agreed with her. That asked again: Why not me?

Kasien’s breath grew ragged, chest heaving. His blade hand twitched, as though unsure whether it wanted to draw against her… or reach for the promise she laid before him.

But still — no words came. Only silence. Silence so taut it could break.

The Champion tilted her head, studying him like a book half-read. She did not press, not yet. She let his silence writhe, coil, become its own answer.

And Kasien stood in the storm of his own mind, spiraling, fighting to remember who he was, what he had come here for — and why the offer tasted like poison even as it burned sweet on his tongue.

Kasien’s chest rose and fell like he had just run a mile, breath sharp, eyes burning. For a heartbeat he almost faltered. He almost reached.

Then his hand closed tight around the hilt of Soul of the Elderwood. His voice broke out harsh, low, and ragged.

Kasien:
“Because I’ve seen what your gifts cost.”

He took a step forward, though his body trembled.

“I’ve watched families torn apart, kingdoms gutted, people hollowed out until nothing was left but your chains.”

His voice cracked, but he forced it louder.

“I’ve already lost too much. My sister. My cousin. The life I should’ve had. But if I take your Amulet, if I take your bargain…”

He spat the word like venom.

“…then I lose what little of myself is left.”

Kasien’s single violet eye flared with the same fire that had carried him this far, though weariness clawed at its edge.

Kasien:
“I’d rather break. I’d rather die. But I will not be your puppet.”

The storm above seemed to still for the space of a breath — as though even Geardaz’s realm listened for what would come next.

The armoured figure stood silent as Kasien’s words echoed into the teal-blue void. Her wings folded in slowly, deliberately, and the helm tilted just enough for the glow in her eyes to catch him fully.

Then—laughter. Low, sharp, but not cruel. Almost tired.

Champion:
“Defiance. Always defiance. Even when your ribs are cracked, your veins burn, and the world itself gnaws at you, still you cling to that brittle word: no.”

She paced once in front of him, the weight of her steps ringing like iron on glass.

“You think that makes you strong? Perhaps it does. Or perhaps it just means you are too fucking stubborn to see the gift for what it is.”

Her hand lifted slightly, as if to reach toward him, but she stopped herself.

“You speak of chains, Kasien Ash-Fall. Yet do you not already wear them? The chain of your family’s memory. The chain of guilt for what you could not save. The chain of hunger for answers that bleed you dry.”

Her voice lowered, almost intimate.

“Tell me—do you really fight for freedom? Or only for a prettier chain?”

For the first time, a shadow of something almost human slipped through her tone—sorrow, grief, something he could not place. She turned away before it lingered too long, wings stretching wide again.

Champion:
“Keep your defiance, little bladesinger. It will either be your salvation…”

She looked back over her shoulder, the glow of her eyes narrowing like embers.

“…or the blade that cuts your throat.”

With a beat of her wings, she lifted into the teal storm, leaving only the churn of the air and the ringing echo of her words.

The storm-silence rushed back in as the sound of her wings vanished. Kasien stood there, chest heaving, every rib aching. Sweat stung his eyes, or maybe it was the sting of her words still lodged in his skull.

Chains. Always chains. Family, guilt, hunger… prettier chains.

He wanted to curse. To scream. But his throat was sandpaper, his body wrecked. He staggered two steps forward, then dropped to one knee in the dust. The teal crystals hummed faintly around him, like the realm itself had heard every word and was whispering its agreement.

He pressed his palm into the ground, fingers trembling. I’m not them. I won’t bow. I won’t—

But his thoughts frayed. His vision blurred. For the first time since he’d entered Geardaz’s wastes, Kasien felt the weight of exhaustion not as a battle he could push through, but as an inevitability.

The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the colossal Hand in the distance, faint and flickering through the storm. It looked closer than ever, but also unreachable, as though mocking his crawl toward it.

Kasien slumped sideways into the dirt, eyes half-open, lips cracked, whispering a last breath before unconsciousness took him:

“…not… chains… mine…”

And then he was still.

Neth - Day 25

Neth woke with a gasp, sheets clinging to her bare skin as though they too wanted to hold her. The violet silk was damp against her thighs, her chest tight, her breath shallow. The urges had gnawed at her for days—now they felt like fire, like claws scraping the inside of her skin. She pressed her hands against her stomach, willing it to stop, but the hunger only grew sharper.

She staggered from the bed, clutching the edge of the carved frame, her single eye burning with frustration. “Enough,” she hissed under her breath. “Enough of this.”

The mirror caught her in passing—a pale, beautiful reflection patched from wounds, made whole but never truly healed. She couldn’t meet her own gaze. All she saw was longing, weakness, the exhaustion of holding back.

She thought of Dykenta’s words. She thought of Zlaniz’s smirk. She thought of the Demonettes’ teasing fingers and laughter. And she thought of what Zlaniz had promised—if she gave her what she wanted, she would soothe every ache, drown every hunger in endless touch.

Today, the waiting would end.

Today, she would face the Violet Queen herself.

Neth pulled the silk tighter around her shoulders, her body trembling not with fear of battle, but with the torment of her own need. “I’ll make her listen,” she whispered to the silence. “She’ll give me what’s mine.”

And outside, as if summoned by her resolve, the soft knock of Demonette hands came at her chamber doors.

The chamber doors opened with a whisper, and the four Demonettes glided in, their bare feet silent on the violet marble. Their skin shimmered with the same hues as the palace—violet, rose, and dusk—and their smiles carried that eternal mischief which made Neth’s stomach twist.

“Rise, little flame,” one of them cooed, pulling the silk from Neth’s shoulders as though peeling fruit. “Today you see our Lady.”

Neth didn’t resist. Her body burned too hot to fight their touch. They guided her forward, stripping her bare as if it were a ritual, their hands light and lingering where they did not need to be. One brushed her damp hair back, fingers tracing her neck. Another ran a cloth across her thighs slower than necessary. A third leaned close, licking water from her shoulder with a giggle when Neth shivered.

Her urges flared—sharp, unbearable, like she could break apart from wanting. She clenched her fists, eye shut tight. “Don’t,” she snapped, her voice strained. “Unless… unless you mean it.”

The Demonettes only laughed, cruel and sweet at once. “Mean it? We always mean it, little goblin. But our Lady has claimed the rest.”

They washed her until her skin glistened, combed her hair until it shone like onyx, and anointed her with violet oils that made every breath dizzy with perfume. By the time they dressed her, Neth could barely hold herself steady. The toga they bound around her was no simple garment—it clung to her curves, cut high at the thigh, leaving her shoulders bare. Gold clasps glittered at her collarbone.

One Demonette leaned close, fastening the final clasp, her lips brushing Neth’s ear. “You are beautiful enough to make even Zlaniz ache.”

Neth’s breath hitched, her body crying out for more, but she bit her tongue until she tasted iron. She could not give in now—not yet. Not until she had what she wanted.

When they were done, they stepped back in unison, their teasing smiles unchanged.

“Go, little flame,” one said, bowing low. “Our Lady waits.”

And as they led her down the endless violet corridors, every sway of their hips, every giggle behind painted hands was a torment designed to sharpen her hunger to the breaking point.

The halls stretched forever, gilded in violet light, shadows painted with black roses and crystalline blossoms. Each step echoed like a heartbeat, heavy, unsteady.

Gods… her chest rose and fell quick, too quick. The oils still clung to her skin, every breath thick with perfume, every brush of silk against her thighs like fire. The Demonettes’ laughter still lingered in her ear—soft, cruel, knowing.

Why do I feel like this? Why won’t it stop?

Her legs wanted to buckle. Not from weakness—no, she had fought giants and fiends and walked Urmbrik’s wasteland on bloodied knees. This was worse. This was the slow, gnawing kind of breaking. The kind that whispered promises in her blood.

She thought of Dykenta—her goddess, her anchor. The kiss they had shared. The warmth in her eye when she called Neth hers. For a breath, that steadied her. For a breath, she almost felt safe.

And then Zlaniz’s face pressed into her mind: that smirk, that gaze that stripped her soul as easily as her body. The promise she’d made: whatever your lovers would do.

Her fingers twitched against the silk folds of her toga. She imagined reaching down, dragging herself into release, ending this torment. The shame burned hotter than the want.

Dykenta wouldn’t deny me. She never has. But… is this Dykenta’s love, or Zlaniz’s poison?

She swallowed hard, her throat dry despite the wine she’d drunk. Her one good eye caught the violet light flashing in the polished walls—her reflection, her face flushed, her body taut with need.

“Fuck…” she whispered under her breath, unheard by the Demonettes. “I can’t… I can’t take much more.”

The colossal doors at the end of the hall loomed closer. Beyond them waited Zlaniz. Beyond them, answers—or chains.

And Neth, trembling in every step, knew that whichever way she leaned today, she would never be the same again.

The Demonettes stopped before the massive doors, carved with roses and spirals of crystal that pulsed as though alive. One pressed a palm to the surface, and the stone sighed open with a low groan, spilling violet light across Neth’s bare feet.

But Neth didn’t move.

Her breath caught in her throat, every nerve screaming at once. She could feel the air change—heavier, warmer, charged with something she couldn’t name. Like stepping onto the edge of a cliff and feeling the void call your name.

Her fingers twitched against her toga. Her thighs pressed tight together, the hunger in her body clawing at her even now. She thought she could smell Zlaniz already—wine, roses, smoke.

The Demonettes tilted their heads, waiting. One even giggled softly, a sound like glass breaking.

But Neth stood still, heart hammering, her eye fixed on the darkness beyond the threshold.

If I walk through here…
…I’ll never come back the same.

Her lips trembled. Her body leaned forward, instinct pulling her on, but her spirit held her back for one final, desperate breath of silence.

And in that silence, she whispered to herself:

“Dykenta… are you watching me?”

The chamber swallowed her as she stepped inside. Velvet banners shimmered violet against walls of black crystal, the air perfumed with roses and incense so thick it made her lungs ache. At the far end, upon a dais strewn with silks, Zlaniz sat—no, lounged—her body draped like temptation itself, one leg bent, one arm propped, eyes gleaming with knowing delight.

“Ah, my little goblin,” Zlaniz purred, her voice silk and thorns. “You kept me waiting. But anticipation sweetens the feast.”

The Demonettes left her with a bow, the doors closing behind, sealing Neth into the violet glow.

Neth’s knees trembled as she moved forward. She forced herself not to stumble, not to let her body betray how badly it ached. She sat on the low cushion before the dais, head tilted back to meet the goddess’s gaze.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the thrum of the palace itself, like a heartbeat, filled the silence.

Finally, Neth drew in a ragged breath.

“You said…” Her voice cracked, but she pressed on, her lone eye burning steady. “You said that if I told you what you wanted—if I gave you the truth—then you’d… you’d give me what I’ve been denied. That you’d… fulfill your promise.”

Her throat tightened. She hated how raw it sounded, how needy. But the words were out.

Her fingers curled into her silk skirts, knuckles white. She lifted her chin, staring at Zlaniz without blinking.

“I came here for that promise.”Zlaniz didn’t answer at first. She rose from her throne of silks with languid grace, every step a ripple of violet shadow. Her bare feet whispered against the marble as she descended the dais, circling slowly, never breaking eye contact.

“You speak of promises…” she said, her voice smooth as wine, dangerous as venom. “Do you know, little goblin, how many promises I have heard in my time? How many mortals have sworn oaths with trembling lips, only to choke when asked to pay the cost?”

She drifted behind Neth, fingertips brushing across her shoulder—so light it sent shivers through her skin.

“But you,” Zlaniz whispered near her ear, “you have not broken. Not yet. You tremble, you burn, you nearly fall apart at the seams, but you do not break. I could almost admire that… almost.”

She moved back into view, crouching low before Neth, their faces a breath apart, eyes locked like predator and prey. A slow smile curled her lips.

“And so you cling to my words, do you? My promise.”

Her hand rose, the back of her knuckles grazing Neth’s cheek, lingering dangerously close to her lips.

“Tell me, Champion of Dykenta… did you come here for truth? Or did you come because your body begs louder than your prayers?”

Zlaniz straightened suddenly, towering again, her voice sharp as glass now.

“Enough circling. Enough waiting. Give me what I want—what I asked for. Tell me of the elf who took your eye. Tell me of the sword that even gods cannot undo.”

She leaned forward, gaze molten violet.

“Then… then we will see if I keep my promise.”

Neth’s nails dug into her palms, hidden in the folds of her violet toga. Her throat was dry. Her single eye locked on Zlaniz’s, and for a moment she thought she’d drown in that molten violet gaze.

The words clawed at her tongue—Pehliff. Fate Killer. God’s metal.—but she bit them back, choking them down.

Her breath came shallow. Her body, already betraying her with heat and need, screamed for the promise she’d been taunted with. But her mind hissed another truth: once she gave Zlaniz everything, she would have nothing left to bargain with.

“You… you want it all,” Neth said at last, her voice hoarse, wavering between anger and temptation. “The name. The blade. Every secret burned into me.”

She shook her head, trembling, though whether from desire or defiance she couldn’t tell herself.

“I’ve bled for these truths. My mother’s head. My father’s last breath. Hookspark’s death cry. You think I’ll just hand it over? Not without knowing what it makes me, what it costs me.”

Her eye narrowed, flaring with something sharp, something proud that refused to break even here.

“You made a promise, Zlaniz,” she said quietly, almost a growl. “But I’m not giving you everything. Not yet. You’ll get what you want when I know I’ll still be more than your plaything afterward.”

Silence pressed in heavy. Her own chest heaved with effort, urges biting, gnawing, begging her to just give in—but she held, trembling on the edge.

Zlaniz’s smile deepened, as if Neth had given her a favorite dish and then refused a second helping. She lounged back on her dais for a breath, eyes never leaving the small goblin, then rose again with the slow, feline grace of a tide turning.

“You frustrate me in the most delicious way,” she purred. “You bristle like a blade and yet you ache like a child. Good. Keep that fire—burning, raw, honest. It makes the harvest sweeter.”

She drifted forward until the violet light haloed them both. Her hand ghosted over Neth’s shoulder—not the cruel prod of the demonettes, but a careful, exploratory touch, as if feeling for a pulse beneath the armor of pain. Her fingers were cool; the scent that followed her—wine and black roses—filled the space between heartbeats. Neth’s breath hitched.

“I do enjoy resistance,” Zlaniz said softly, voice braided with amusement and something like approval. “It proves you can be relied upon to make a choice, not merely to be swept along. But you asked for proof of a promise. Proof is a small thing. A seed to show the tree is real.”

She stepped back and snapped her fingers. Two demonettes glided in with a tray: a small carafe of deep violet wine and a single, black-velvet ribbon threaded with silver runes. Zlaniz placed both on the floor by Neth’s knees.

“First,” Zlaniz murmured, “a small mercy.” She uncorked the carafe. The wine smelled of night-blooming roses and cut grass, bitter and honeyed all at once. When she offered the cup, Neth hesitated—then drank. Warmth spread, not the hollow fever of the demonettes’ teasing, but a slow, settling warmth that sank into bone and muscle, easing the edges of panic. Her body unclenched a fraction; for the first time in days her breath did not tremble.

“Second,” Zlaniz said, and took the ribbon. She looped it around her own wrist, touched the rune-threads with a fingertip, and whispered something in a language older than the palace. The ribbon hummed faintly with a violet light. Instead of tying it around Neth’s wrists as chains, she let it fall through Neth’s fingers like a promise offered, not seized.

“Keep this,” Zlaniz said. “A token. A tether. When the hunger gnaws so fierce you cannot think, press the ribbon to your throat and breathe my name. It will quiet the storm enough for reason to return. Enough to think. Enough to bargain. It is a small mercy, but it is mine to give.”

She crouched then, so close that Neth felt the goddess’s breath at the corner of her mouth. Zlaniz’s eyes softened, almost imperceptibly.

“This is not all I promised,” she added. “It is the taste. The proof. If you give me the truth I asked for when I ask—truth that matters—then I will keep more of my word. I am patient. I am lavish. But I favor those who can choose deliberately.”

Then, as if to underscore the tenderness of the gesture without breaking the thread of power between them, Zlaniz placed a single, careful kiss—only a brush—on Neth’s brow. It was not the frantic, crushing contact the demonettes offered, nor the privacy of a lover’s claim; it was ceremonial, a small benediction that left Neth’s skin warm and her heart oddly steadied.

“Go,” Zlaniz whispered. “Taste what you have. Let your head be clear when you return. Tomorrow we speak again. Bring me the truth when you are ready—and you will see how lavish I can be.”

Neth sat there with the ribbon warm in her hand and the wine at her tongue. The urge that had been a hurricane inside her did not vanish, but the winds lessened into something like a tide—still insistent, but manageable. She could feel bargaining room forming, a thin line between surrender and strength.

Alone at last with thought instead of torment, Neth let herself breathe. The choice still loomed. The promise had been partially fulfilled—enough to prove Zlaniz was not lying, enough to temper the immediate torment. But it was also a reminder: each small mercy was a note on a ledger. The full payment had not been made.

As the goddess’s laughter echoed faintly from the dais and the demonettes rearranged the silks with idle hands, Neth closed her fingers around the ribbon and felt, for the first time, that she had something she could hold onto—however fragile—as she walked the thin, dangerous path toward a bargain she could not yet trust.

Neth drifted back through the palace halls with the demonettes’ teasing laughter still clinging to her ears. The violet silk of her borrowed toga whispered against her skin, every brush reminding her of the hunger still gnawing inside. Yet there was something different tonight — not peace, not relief, but a slackening of the rope that had been strangling her.

When the chamber doors closed behind her, the silence pressed heavy. She sank into the bed, its softness too rich, too yielding, and stared up at the carved ceiling veined with glowing violet crystal. Her body still burned, every nerve on edge, her thighs trembling with an ache she could not banish. She bit her lip, half-ready to reach for the golden rod again, to end this torment herself.

But she didn’t move.

Instead, she turned onto her side and curled against the sheets, clutching them like a shield. The memory of Zlaniz’s voice, her promises, her smirk, curled around her thoughts. The goddess had kept her game alive, feeding just enough hope, just enough fire, to keep Neth from breaking outright.

Her urges clawed at her ribs, but exhaustion was stronger. With each breath her eyelids grew heavier. She whispered once, almost ashamed:

“Dykenta… please keep me… steady.”

And with that, Neth slipped into uneasy sleep — not freed, but no longer drowning, her hunger still simmering beneath the surface like an ember waiting to flare.

Kasien - Day 26 Left With Only Dreams

Kasien did not wake with the dawn.

For the first time since he had stepped into Geardaz’s cursed dominion, his body gave in entirely. His limbs were too heavy, his ribs still bruised from the last clash, and his mind finally unshackled by exhaustion. He collapsed in the shallow hollow of broken teal stone and slept.

And he did not stir again.

The day slipped by in silence. Winds howled across the wastes. The skies blinked with their watching eyes. Camps of Saracens and war-bands passed far on the horizon, but none strayed close. For one day, he was left untouched.

Yet sleep brought no peace.

Kasien’s dreams were a blur of faces and voices: Reyn laughing over a mug in the Twin Pike tavern, Rheana’s sharp eyes catching every shadow, Gojo’s steady presence at his back, Neth’s single eye flashing with defiance. One after another they came, some smiling, some broken, some already fading like ash.

His sister’s voice — Yshari? Or was it memory? — threaded through them all, soft but piercing. “Every harmony dies. What will you hold onto when the discord takes them?”

He reached, again and again, but every time his hands came away empty. The gem his mother entrusted him with. The warmth of his cousin’s voice. The family he had tried to rebuild in the Cinders. Each image dissolved into teal dust.

By the time the crimson haze of false dusk settled over the wastes, Kasien still slept, chest rising and falling shallow but steady, curled against his blade as though it alone could anchor him.

His first true rest since entering the realm — bought not by safety, but by collapse.

Kasien’s dreams thickened.
What had begun as a haze of faces became a single scene, clear and merciless.

He stood in a plain of shattered crystal, teal dust drifting like snow. Before him rose the Hand — not distant, not unreachable, but towering just beyond him, close enough to see every vein of stone, every rune burned into its colossal fingers.

The skies bled red around it. The eyes that had followed him since the wastes now swarmed the sky like stars, each one staring, unblinking.

And at the base of the Hand…
stood the Cinders.

Reyn with his bow drawn. Rheana at his side, knives glinting. Gojo, Francesca, Lila, August, Nórue. Even Lek, Desnora, Jojo — all of them, waiting, weapons in hand.

But their eyes glowed. Their smiles were wrong. Their voices rose together, chanting words Kasien could not understand. Each syllable shivered his bones, warped his vision. They were not the Cinders he knew — they were puppets, twisted by the Hand’s power.

And at their center, Genethia Roth raised the amulet. Her single eye burned like a sun, crimson and merciless.

“Kasien,” she whispered, though her voice filled the whole dreamscape, pressing down on his chest.
“You cannot save us. You can only choose who you’ll stand beside when the world breaks.”

Behind her, the Hand’s fingers curled, stone grinding like thunder. One by one, the Cinders turned their weapons on him, the light of the Hand spilling through their veins.

Kasien raised his sword — but his arm would not move. His feet were stone. His voice locked in his throat.

The Hand loomed closer, as though the world itself was bending him toward it, forcing him to kneel. The last thing he heard before the vision fractured was Neth’s voice, no longer herself but something deeper, darker:

“Every step you take is already mine.”

Neth - Day 26 The Promise

Neth woke with a start, sweat damp against her skin, her body still humming with that same gnawing ache of urges. But this morning, something was different.

The violet glow of the chamber was dimmer, as if the crystals themselves had bent in deference.

And she wasn’t alone.

Zlaniz sat at the foot of her bed, serene and composed, yet with that same dangerous seduction in her eyes. Draped in flowing silks that shimmered between violet and black, the goddess seemed carved from desire itself. One hand rested lazily on her knee, the other traced idle shapes into the air — shapes that hung like smoke, dissolving into whispers.

Her gaze pinned Neth, a predator’s calm wrapped in a lover’s softness.

“You’ve resisted long enough, little flame,” Zlaniz purred, her voice low, filling every corner of the chamber. “But today you will give me what I asked for. The truth about the elf who scarred you. About Pehliff. About the blade that even gods cannot undo.”

She leaned forward, her presence suffocating yet intoxicating.

“I can feel it burning in you — not just your urges, but the answer you carry. Don’t make me pull it from your tongue.”

Neth clutched the sheets to her chest, her body trembling with the weight of it all: exhaustion, need, and the memory of everything Pehliff had taken from her.

The goddess tilted her head, smiling with indulgent patience, like she already knew Neth’s choice but wanted to hear her admit it.

Without a word, Zlaniz bent to her, her mouth claiming Neth’s with a kiss that burned and chilled all at once. Her tongue tasted of wine and smoke, her breath threaded with whispers that were not her own. The goddess’s hand trailed down Neth’s side, the touch light as falling silk, until it rested at the hollow of her thigh. A current passed through her body — not flesh against flesh, but something deeper, like violet lightning sinking into her bones.

Zlaniz inserts her fingers in to Neth.

Neth gasped, a soft sound that turned into a moan, her body arching as if answering to a rhythm she could not hear. Words caught in her throat — then spilled, halting, between breaths and cries:

“Pehliff… his blade… not of this world—”

Zlaniz smiled against her lips, coaxing the truth with every lingering touch, increasing the speed of her fingers in to Neth.

Neth moans taking breaths as she tells Zlaniz.

“Gods’ metal… forged with runes… the orbs he—” Neth’s voice broke as pleasure and fear braided into one.

The goddess’s fingers pressed — not physically, but through her very spirit, prying open locks that Neth had held tight.

“Show me everything,” Zlaniz murmured, her eyes gleaming with a terrible satisfaction. “Every secret… every shard of him that haunts you.”

Zlaniz sucked on Neth's nipple while still pleasing her with her fingers.

Neth shuddered, surrendering in a torrent of moans and words, her body aflame and her will unravelling.

Neth told her about the Loutib's research Site in Albion about how Pehliff was there teaching them about the other planes and helping make a machine to travel between the planes.

Zlaniz making circler motion in Neth with her fingers while licking Neth's breasts.

"Go on my beauty."

Neth moans louder and in deep breaths tells Zlaniz more.

"He... created the orbs... AH!... at the research site.... mmmm... and took them to the Sky Temple in Albion... OH! and got Renazar to charge them."

Zlaniz nodding thinking to her self.

"Don't stop now little one"

Neth found it hard to speak with all the pleasure being given to her by Zlaniz.

"Neztra... Magus... ruins... He... found the metal... runes....mmmmmm..."

And when it was done, she collapsed against the silks, trembling, emptied and ashamed — and yet, beneath it all, a seed of relief. For she had carried this burden too long, and Zlaniz had drawn it out of her like poison.

The goddess leaned back, lips curved in indulgent triumph. “See how sweet truth becomes, when it is taken with pleasure.”

Zlaniz rose from the bedside, violet silk whispering around her form like smoke unraveling. Her smile was sharp, victorious, the gleam in her eyes already shifting far away — to councils, to plots, to the other Hands waiting in the dark.

But Neth, trembling against the pillows, her chest rising and falling with ragged need, pushed herself up on her elbows.

“No.”

The word cut sharper than her rapier ever had. Her single eye blazed, even through the sheen of tears and sweat.

“You promised.” Her voice cracked, but her will did not. “You said truth would be met with pleasure. You said you’d finish what you started. So finish.”

For the first time in the exchange, the silence belonged to Neth.

Zlaniz tilted her head, studying Dykenta's champion not with amusement now, but with something nearer to fascination. The goddess could have dismissed her with a gesture, vanished into the storm of her realm without a second glance. Yet here was Genethia Roth — battered, broken, aching with urges that tore at her sanity — daring to command a god.

A low laugh purred from Zlaniz’s lips. “Ah, my little violet flame. Even in your surrender, you bare your fangs.”

She leaned closer, her shadow falling over Neth, and for a moment her presence was suffocating, divine, unbearable. Her hand traced the line of Neth’s jaw, thumb pressing at her lower lip as though savoring the defiance there.

“You will have what you demand, goblin,” she whispered, voice a promise and a threat. “But remember this—when a goddess gives, she also binds.”

Zlaniz sucks on her own fingers she used on Neth and slowly pull them out of her mouth as she was savouring the flavour.

"Mmm you taste good little Goblin"

Neth’s voice cracked into a shout, raw and trembling, but it carried the weight of years of hunger and days of torment.

“You will not tease me anymore. You will not leave me wanting. You will worship me as you promised—every inch, every scar, every hunger you have awoken. You will not stop until these urges are ashes.”

Her fists clenched in the violet silk. “Do it, Zlaniz. Make me scream. Make me free.”

The goddess stilled. For one heartbeat the realm itself held its breath, the black roses quivering, the crystals humming. And then Zlaniz laughed low in her throat — not mocking, but thrilled, like a storm answering a prayer.

She sank to Neth’s command, her every touch a tide, her every kiss a liturgy, her every lick and movement the weight of a goddess bending to a mortal’s demand. The golden rod gleamed in her hand not as a tool but as a sceptre of dominion, and when she wielded it using it on Neth, it was not Neth who was conquered — it was the goddess who knelt to the flame of a champion.

And when the cry finally tore free from Neth’s throat, it was not just release. It was defiance, devotion, and victory, all in one.

The violet chamber was still humming when it was over. The air was thick with incense, sweat, and the strange perfume of Zlaniz’s realm — roses bleeding black sap, crystals pulsing faintly as though they had felt the echo of Neth’s cries.

Neth lay on the silken bed, chest heaving, her body trembling not with need but with the raw shock of finally being emptied of it. For the first time in what felt like eternity, the fire in her blood was not a torment, but embers glowing warmly, softly.

She touched her own cheek, half expecting the tears there to burn, half expecting the hunger to surge again — but it didn’t. Her body was sore, her muscles weak, but she was at peace in a way she hadn’t thought possible in this place.

And then came the thoughts, rushing in like a tide behind the storm:

• She had commanded a goddess, and the goddess obeyed.
• She had let herself be worshiped — not as a tool, not as a plaything, but as something sacred.
• She had been given what she demanded, not stolen, not bargained, but claimed.

It was almost too much. She laughed, then sobbed, then covered her face in the sheets, ashamed and proud all at once.

Her one good eye turned to the mirror across the chamber. She expected to see the monster-self again, that dark reflection whispering of godhood and ruin. Instead, she saw only herself — hair tangled, lips red, scars bared, but her own.

For once, she did not look broken.

For once, she looked alive.

Neth whispered into the silence, as if Dykenta and Zlaniz both could hear her:

“Maybe I am more than what they think. Maybe I am more than even I thought.”

And then she let herself fall back into the silks, heavy-limbed, drifting in the afterglow of both triumph and unease, wondering if she had just taken her first step toward freedom… or deeper into a snare she might never escape.

The silks still clung to Neth’s skin when Zlaniz rose. The goddess moved with effortless poise, her violet hair falling like a veil as she pulled on her armor and draped herself in shadows that shimmered like silk. Every movement was deliberate, sensual, yet cold with divine detachment — the way one might dress after claiming a victory.

Her crimson eyes turned to Neth, who lay spent in the tangle of sheets. Zlaniz smiled faintly, indulgent.

“If you crave more release,” she purred, fastening a clasp at her throat, “seek Kaelthys. This is his palace as much as mine. He lingers in these halls, and he knows how to serve.”

The words stung with their casual cruelty, even as her tone dripped honey. Neth shifted, her single eye narrowing. Before she could speak, Zlaniz raised a hand to silence her.

“There are things I must see to. The others will not wait forever.” Her voice turned sharper now, businesslike. “The council must be gathered. You, little goblin, are already a piece on the board — whether you wish it or not.”

She paused then, her gaze softening into something almost tender. Her lips curved into a knowing smirk.

“Oh, and before I go… you should know. You are with child.”

The words landed like a blade. Neth froze, her breath catching.

Zlaniz tilted her head, amused at the shock in her champion’s face. “Do not fret. It is not mine. The seed was planted in Platera, long before you stepped into my realm. But time here moves differently. What would have taken moons… now hastens. When you return, your due will be close.”

She leaned down, her presence overwhelming, her lips brushing Neth’s in a kiss both mocking and gentle.

“Rest easy, little one. You are more entangled in fate than even you realize.”

And with that, Zlaniz turned and strode toward the chamber doors, violet light folding around her form until she vanished, leaving Neth in stunned silence with only the echo of her words — and the weight of new life inside her — burning in her mind.

Neth sat frozen against the silken pillows, her breath quick, shallow, her heart pounding louder than the storm outside the violet windows.

Pregnant.

The word coiled around her ribs like iron bands. She pressed a trembling hand to her stomach as if she might feel something shift beneath her skin, but all she felt was herself — aching, exhausted, wrung out from days of torment and release.

Her single eye burned with tears. Not the tears of relief. Not joy. Something far heavier.

She was a goblin. She knew what that meant. Not one child. Not two. But a litter — five, seven, maybe even ten. Ten mouths. Ten tiny bodies. Ten lives pressed into hers, demanding she carry them through a world already hostile enough to one small goblin girl.

Her mind spun. Who? The two names flashed like blades through her thoughts. August? Ulfreds? Another moment she had shoved into memory’s corner, blurred by chaos and pain?

Her throat tightened. “Ten… gods, what if it’s ten?” she whispered to herself, the words breaking as soon as they left her lips.

A strange mixture brewed inside her:

• Fear — she had fought demons, gods, monsters, but the thought of giving birth, of being split open by her own body, shook her deeper than any blade.
• Anger — at Zlaniz, for smiling when she said it. At Dykenta, for not warning her. At herself, for letting her body’s needs drown her judgment.
• Love — unwanted, unbidden, creeping in anyway. The thought of little ones with her blood, her fire, her stubbornness. Could she protect them better than her parents protected her? Could she even survive long enough to try?

She curled forward, clutching the sheets, her tears staining the violet silk. For once, the mighty Black Dragon of Asher rapier meant nothing. Her power meant nothing. She was only a broken, bloodied goblin girl in a palace that wasn’t hers, staring down a fate she hadn’t chosen.

And yet… some ember in her chest whispered stubbornly: Maybe this is another trial. Maybe this is what survival means now. Not just for me, but for them.

Her hand stayed pressed to her belly, shaking, as though daring the world to try and take what was now hers.

Neth lay back into the violet sheets, still clutching her stomach as though her hand alone might shield her from the truth Zlaniz had spoken.

Her body trembled, nerves frayed raw from days of hunger, from urges that had torn her apart, from the sudden crushing weight of new life pressed into her mind. Her eyelid fluttered shut, her chest rising and falling too quickly, then slowing, then steadying into something like surrender.

She whispered once into the darkness, words she hardly knew she was speaking:

“…ten… gods help me.”

The palace was quiet, its walls humming faintly with Zlaniz’s lingering presence, but for the first time since she had entered this realm, Neth did not burn with need. She burned with fear, with confusion, with the heavy, aching ache of what lay ahead.

Her small frame curled into itself, like she was trying to protect what might already be growing inside her, and at last exhaustion pulled her under.

Sleep took her not as rest, but as escape.

And so Neth, Champion of Dykenta, burdened by battles and whispered futures, drifted into uneasy dreams, one hand still pressed firm against her belly as though she could keep the world out by sheer stubbornness alone.

Kasien Day 27 A Soft Awakening

Kasien blinked awake, the teal-blue haze of Geardaz’s sky pouring down on him like a crushing weight. His head rested on something soft — not the jagged stone he expected, but Elyndra’s lap. Her fingers idly brushed through his white hair, each movement delicate, like she was afraid he might shatter if she pressed too hard.

“You drifted again,” Elyndra’s voice came, low, melodic, heavy with that eternal ache that clung to her. “For hours. I thought perhaps the Wastes had stolen you from me.”

Kasien jerked upright, pulling away as though her touch burned. His violet eyes narrowed, suspicion hard and sharp. “I didn’t ask you to keep me,” he said, voice raw with exhaustion. “I don’t need your pity. Or your songs.”

She tilted her head, lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite sorrow. “I don’t offer pity, Ash-Fall. Only presence. Sometimes that is enough.”

Kasien’s jaw clenched. He wanted to spit back that her presence was poison, that everything in this realm bent toward corruption. But some small, dangerous part of him — the part that remembered the warmth of her hand on his cheek, the gentleness of her voice when the world screamed against him — hesitated.

“You’re wasting your time,” he muttered, forcing himself to his feet. His body ached with every movement, ribs sore from old blows, scars pulling tight. “My path doesn’t bend toward your god. I’ll see the Hand with my own eyes, and I’ll walk through it — with or without your help.”

Elyndra rose gracefully, her lyre strapped across her back like a second shadow. Her eyes lingered on him, unreadable. “You speak with such fire. So much like him…” Her words trailed, and for an instant, her composure cracked, just enough for Kasien to glimpse the wound beneath her beauty.

Kasien frowned. “Like who?”

She shook her head, hiding it behind a curtain of silver hair. “No one you need to know.”

Silence hung between them, thick as the storm-winds. Kasien adjusted his satchel, tightened his grip on Soul of the Elderwood, and turned toward the endless path leading closer to the colossal Hand.

“Thank you,” he said at last, voice clipped but not empty. “For… keeping me alive.”

Elyndra did not follow immediately. She watched him walk, her song trapped in her throat, her thoughts a tempest.

Elyndra Remembers

Elyndra lingered where Kasien had left her, her eyes still fixed on his retreating figure. His stubborn fire, his refusal to bend, it lit something old in her—a memory she had buried so deep, she sometimes convinced herself it was only a lie the Wastes whispered back to her.

Maddax Tibur.

She remembered him.

Not as the broken Emperor history spoke of, but as a man of defiance who had stumbled through Geardaz’s realm in blood and ruin after his fall to Zelistra. She had found him much as she found Kasien—half-dead, dragging his body forward through storms that had shattered a thousand others. His eyes had burned, not violet like Kasien’s, but iron-grey, full of that same refusal.

He had spat at Geardaz’s offers. Spat at her songs. Spat even when she had tried to ease his wounds. “I’d rather die a man than live a pawn,” Maddax had told her, his voice raw with hatred.

And yet, he did not die.

He fought her. He fought the realm. He fought the Hand itself until his body was ripped apart and remade. She had sung over his broken bones, but he would not yield his name, his soul, or his fate. When he clawed his way out of Geardaz’s Wastes and back into Platera, he carried with him not corruption, but something darker: a vow. A vow to end them. To end her. To end Geardaz. To end Zonid. To end all the God Hands.

And now, here stood another—Kasien Ash-Fall—walking the same cursed paths, carrying that same relentless fire.

Elyndra’s fingers tightened on the Lyre of Shattered Echoes. The chords hummed faintly, catching her grief, her longing, her fear.

Will you be like him? she thought, eyes following Kasien until he vanished into the teal mist. Will you be another blade risen against us? Another soul I failed to keep?

Her lips parted, a whisper meant for no one but the winds of Geardaz’s realm:

“Or will you be the one I cannot let go?”

The teal mists coiled around Elyndra like smoke from a dying fire, and as Kasien vanished into the haze her breath caught—because it was not his silhouette she saw anymore, but another.

The Wastes shifted. Memory became vision.

She was there again, century ago, when the storm screamed louder than her voice, and Maddax Tibur dragged himself across the crystal ground. His imperial armor was torn, his crown shattered, his sword broken down to half a blade. Yet his eyes—those iron-grey eyes—burned hotter than any flame.

Elyndra had stood above him then, her lyre humming with discordant notes that warped the air. She had sung to him:

“Yield, Emperor. Yield to the discord. No throne awaits you now. No people call your name. Only we—the Hands—can give your ruin meaning.”

But Maddax spat blood into the dirt, his lips curling into a feral grin.

“I’d sooner bow to ash.”

Geardaz’s laughter had rolled across the sky that day, a thousand voices in one. Runes shifted like serpents under Maddax’s feet, tearing at his flesh, clawing at his soul. Elyndra’s song swelled, trying to drown him in despair, to unravel what stubbornness still clung to him.

But Maddax only roared back, his voice cutting through her lament.

“You’ll not have me, trickster. I have lost my empire, my people, my crown. You’ll not take what remains. My will is mine.”

And she remembered the way he fought—by then, no longer as an emperor, but as a beast of sheer defiance. He rose with that broken sword, striking at shadows, hacking at illusions, blood pouring from wounds that should have ended him long before.

Geardaz had whispered through the storm:
“Why fight, when surrender is simpler?”

Maddax’s laugh was hollow, but it never faltered.
“Because you expect it of me.”

And then the storm broke. Elyndra remembered how he tore himself free of Geardaz’s grasp—not by power, not by blessing, but by hatred and vow alone. She had watched as the Wastes spat him back into Platera, remade but not claimed.

The last thing he said before vanishing into the rift still clung to her like a curse:

“I’ll return with a blade that cuts even gods. And when I do, all of you will fall.”

The vision faded, leaving Elyndra alone again, staring into the mist where Kasien had gone.

Her heart trembled. Her fingers brushed the strings of her lyre, but no sound came—only silence, heavy and aching.

Maddax had defied them. Escaped them. Vowed to end them.

And now Kasien Ash-Fall walked the same cursed path.

Her lips parted, a whisper tasting of fear and longing both:
“Geardaz, if he becomes another Tibur… what then will I become?”

Neth's Eye Day 27

Neth stirred, the violet silk sheets clinging to her skin as though they meant to keep her bound in dreams. Her one eye opened to the dim shimmer of crystal light filtering through the tall windows of the palace. For a moment she simply lay still, staring up at the carved ceiling above, its violet stone veined with threads of glowing pink that pulsed like a heartbeat.

Her body still ached—not just with the wounds long healed by Zlaniz’s will, but with the gnawing, endless hunger that had burrowed into her bones. That hunger was quieter this morning, less like a scream and more like a heavy weight, but it was there all the same.

Neth sat up slowly, the toga tangled around her waist, her hair falling loose about her face. She pressed her palm over her stomach, the memory of Zlaniz’s words from before whispering back to her—pregnancy, a litter, the weight of a future she hadn’t chosen but couldn’t ignore.

Her lips parted in a mutter, half to herself, half to the silent air:
“Another day in her game.”

The chamber was quiet, but never silent. The faint laughter of distant demonettes drifted through the halls. The perfume of black roses seeped through the cracks in the window, sweet and sharp. The palace itself seemed alive, watching her as though every wall bore hidden eyes.

She rose, bare feet sinking into the cool marble. For a moment, Neth caught her reflection in the long mirror by the wall—scarless now, her body restored almost to innocence, save for the patch where her left eye would never return. She lingered there, staring into herself, torn between pride and unease.

Her thoughts swirled: Zlaniz’s deal, Dykenta’s kiss, the path to the Hand still impossibly far. She clenched her fists and whispered, almost defiantly:

“I’ll endure. I’ve always endured.”

But even as she said it, her gaze lingered on the mirror, wondering which self stared back—the goblin who survived, or the one who might yet be claimed.

Neth sat before the mirror, her breath still heavy from restless sleep. With trembling fingers, she reached up and untied the strip of leather covering her left eye socket. The patch slipped loose, falling into her lap.

The violet light of the palace caught in the amethyst gem that Dykenta had given her that sat in her eye socket—a shard of divinity, cool and heavy in her palm. She turned it once, twice, her one good eye narrowing at the way it pulsed faintly with inner fire, as though alive.

Slowly, she pressed it back into place.

A shiver went through her body, sudden and violent. The world sharpened—colours deepened, shadows stretched, and for the first time in years she saw with two eyes again. Only one was her own, the other filled with alien clarity, like staring through a window into another realm. The amethyst gem didn’t just see—it gazed, piercing, prying.

Dykenta’s words came back to her, quiet but unshakable:

“It is a gift of my blood, Neth. With it, you may bear my form—become my avatar, towering and terrible, to turn the tide where none else could. But understand this: Mog gives his to fight and laugh another day. Mine is different. Yours will burn brighter, last longer—two full minutes. Enough to end a war… or to end yourself. Half the time, it will take you with it.”

Neth closed her eye, holding her breath.

Two minutes. The thought rang like iron in her skull. Two minutes to become a goddess. Two minutes to stand above armies. Two minutes to remind the world that a goblin girl from Dread Dragon Kingdom could shake the heavens.

And then maybe die.

Her fingers traced the edge of the socket where flesh met gem. She thought of Mukkie’s head at her feet, of Pehliff’s sword burning through her skull, of Hookspark holding the line alone. She thought of her mother’s blood, her father’s last words, her friends’ faces, and all the graves she carried with her.

She whispered, voice tight:

“Two minutes might be enough.”

The gem glowed faintly in reply, as though testing her resolve.

Kasien - Day 28 The Battle of Will Power

The wastes fell silent.

Kasien’s boots dragged through the teal-blue dust, every muscle aching, every thought fixed on the looming silhouette of the Colossal Hand in the far distance. It was closer than it had ever been—no longer just a dream, but a structure of impossible scale etched against the horizon. Each step brought with it a flicker of hope, but also the gnawing certainty that something worse awaited him the nearer he drew.

Then the silence broke.

A ripple of psychic static crawled across the air, making the crystals hum and the storm-eyes above flare open. Kasien staggered, hand snapping to the hilt of Soul of the Elderwood. He already knew.

The ground split with a low groan. From it rose not just one, but six figures: five Mind Flayers, their tendrils twitching with hunger, and at their center, a towering Ulitharid, its form lean and terrible, its staff crowned with crystal that pulsed with mind-fire.

Kasien’s chest tightened. He had heard of Ulitharids—half-whispers from the Black Dragon Scales, stories told around campfires by men who never saw dawn again. They were lords of the mind, shepherds of lesser Illithids, born to command. Where one walked, entire worlds were enslaved.

The Ulitharid’s voice was not sound, but an intrusion:

“Kasien Ash-Fall. You walk closer to the Hand, yet each step drags a chain you cannot see. You should not be here.”

The five Mind Flayers stirred, tendrils swaying, eyes glowing with violet hunger. Their presence pressed on Kasien’s skull like a storm, whispers gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. He bit down hard, forcing clarity through the pain.

He had survived giants, beholders, storms, and worse. He was battered, broken, starving, but he was still here. And these things—aberrations born of Geardaz’s will—stood between him and the Hand.

Kasien whispered under his breath, almost a prayer, almost a curse:
“Then I’ll cut my way through.”

He drew his blade.

The wastes screamed.

The wastes held their breath.

Kasien froze where he stood, his scimitar heavy at his hip, his lungs refusing to pull air. The five Mind Flayers advanced in perfect silence, their robes whispering against the crystalline dust. Their eyes glowed faintly, pulsing with a rhythm that synced to the ache behind his temples.

And then the pressure began.

It wasn’t physical. No hand touched him. No blade pierced him. Yet Kasien doubled over as if crushed, his skull caught in a vice of whispers. His violet eyes blurred; the world bled teal and black.

“You are prey.”
“You are a boy playing with runes you do not understand.”
“You are alone.”

The Ulitharid stepped forward, towering, staff of crystal humming as if it were alive. Its psychic presence didn’t press so much as fill him, sliding into the cracks of his thoughts, making even his memories feel fragile, unreal.

Kasien tried to focus—on Vhalis’s smile, on Yshari’s voice, on Reyn’s laughter when they first shared a drink in Whitestone. But each memory shattered like glass in his hands, replaced by images not his own: Vhalis screaming as tendrils pierced her skull, Yshari begging for release as her body writhed in the grasp of unseen horrors.

His breath caught. He saw it. Felt it. His knees hit the ground.

The Mind Flayers circled, tendrils twitching in hunger. Each one probed at him with psychic talons, not yet striking, just tasting. It was a cruelty in itself—like wolves letting the herd animal run a little longer before tearing it apart.

The Ulitharid’s voice invaded again, calm, inevitable:

“Lay down your blade. Your resistance is a wound in the song of Geardaz. Surrender, and your pain will end. Surrender, and we will carry the burden of your memories. We will make you useful.”

Kasien’s hand twitched toward his sword hilt, not out of choice, but because his mind was being dragged toward it—an image planted by their will, of cutting his own throat just to silence the storm.

He shook, sweat dripping down his pale face, teeth clenched hard enough to bleed. His knees wanted to stay on the ground. His lungs wanted to give in. His mind whispered Yes. Stop fighting. Just let them take it. Let them take you.

And yet—beneath all of it—a flicker. The faintest glimmer.

The Black Dragon Scales, long ago, had warned him of this. When the mind is stormed, breathe with your blade.

Kasien forced his hand against the weight of the psychic tide. His palm rested on the hilt of Soul of the Elderwood.

For one breath.

For one heartbeat.

He remembered who he was.

And he whispered, lips barely moving through the blood pooling in his mouth:

“Not… yours.”

The Ulitharid’s eyes flared. The circle closed.

The silence was worse than steel on steel.

The five Mind Flayers didn’t lunge. They didn’t need to. They stood in a half-circle, each one a black seam in the shimmering teal waste, their robes fluttering without wind. The air around Kasien buzzed with invisible pressure, a constant drone that drilled into the folds of his mind.

The Ulitharid moved closer. Its crystal staff pulsed, the rhythm tightening like a heartbeat—but not his own. He realized, with a sick twist in his gut, it was synchronizing to his pulse, hijacking the very beat of his life.

His vision doubled. Every step of theirs blurred into five echoes. The horizon cracked into overlapping lines of false paths. He blinked hard, but the false images remained. Was this the labyrinth again? Had he ever left it?

“You are still in the maze.”
“You never left.”
“You will never leave.”

The whispers poured into him, and with each one, Kasien felt his grip on himself fray. His hand on the hilt of Soul of the Elderwood twitched—not in strength, but in surrender, as if his fingers wanted to let go, to drop the blade into the dust and kneel.

His breath caught sharp in his throat. He thought of Reyn, the smile that had welcomed him in Whitestone. But the vision warped, and suddenly Reyn’s eyes glowed sickly blue, his throat torn by invisible talons, his voice hollow:

“You couldn’t save me either.”

Kasien’s stomach heaved. He bit his lip until blood ran, the iron taste anchoring him for half a heartbeat. But the next vision was worse: his cousin Vhalis—her face radiant as he remembered—until it split open in a crown of writhing tendrils, her voice breaking in agony:

“You followed me here. You brought me to them.”

He gasped, staggering, falling to one knee. His body trembled as though gravity had multiplied tenfold. The dust beneath his palm hummed, each grain of crystal buzzing with their invasive song.

The Ulitharid’s voice pressed down on him, not spoken but implanted.

“Your story ends as theirs did. A vessel, hollowed and filled. Do not fight the inevitable.”

Kasien wanted to scream, but the sound was caught in his throat. His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts. His violet eyes flickered between clarity and the dark fog of their will.

The hilt of his blade burned in his palm—hot, heavy, demanding.

One thought broke through the flood:

If I let go, I am gone.

And so he clutched it, knuckles white, his body quaking. His face twisted with pain and defiance, every muscle fighting not the enemy before him—but the collapse inside his own mind.

Another step from the Ulitharid. The circle tightened. The final threads of his will stretched to breaking.

Kasien’s knees buckled, his scabbard clattering against his thigh as his vision swam. The world was too loud inside his skull—whispers like knives scraping against the marrow of his bones.

The Ulitharid loomed, its staff pulsing brighter, five voices layering into one thought:

“Kneel.”

The word wasn’t heard. It was inside him. A command stitched into his nerves, a weight behind his eyes. His body shuddered as his knee bent, his sword-hand loosening. His mind reeled with the pull—Vhalis, Yshari, Reyn, all staring at him through the glowing sockets of Illithid faces.

His lips parted. A broken, empty breath escaped. His fingers trembled—slipping from Soul of the Elderwood’s hilt—

And then something snapped.

Not their chains, but his.

The grip reversed: not a letting go, but a clutch. The hilt seared into his palm, as if demanding blood, and Kasien gave it—his own. He gritted his teeth, blood streaking from his bitten lip, and his violet eyes flared sharp against the sea of fog.

His body screamed with pain, but his voice cut through, ragged, alive:

“No.”

He surged forward. The circle of Illithids recoiled at the raw defiance, the sudden spark they had nearly drowned. His blade swept up in a storming arc, humming with booming force and green flame that warped into lightning and acid under Geardaz’s twisting realm.

The first strike fell.

Steel met the unnatural flesh of the nearest Mind Flayer, and the spell-suffocating silence shattered into violence.

The instant Soul of the Elderwood bit through the first Mind Flayer’s chest, the world erupted.

The dying creature shrieked, not with its mouth but in Kasien’s mind. The scream fractured his balance, but he turned the stumble into a spin, blade sweeping back across the second Mind Flayer. Green fire hissed across its robes, searing flesh into smoke.

The third flung a tendril of psychic energy into his skull. Kasien’s ears bled. His vision blurred. His body buckled—
—but he roared through it, forcing his arm to rise, casting Thunderstep. He vanished in a crack of lightning, reappearing behind the psion. His blade came down in a vertical arc that split its head open like rotten fruit.

Three dead. Two left.

The last two pressed harder, tentacles flaring. They worked in unison: one weaving a net of psionic force, the other channeling paralysis. Kasien’s knees locked, his throat seized. The world narrowed to a tunnel.

He clawed at his own mind, scraping against the darkness. “Not yours,” he hissed. The Bladesong flared, his body moving like wind. His sword snapped up, carving the paralyzing Mind Flayer from shoulder to sternum.

The fifth reeled back, shrieking. Kasien stumbled forward, every bone screaming, and thrust straight through its face. Acid-fire seared from the wound, and it collapsed in silence.

All five lay broken.

But the Ulitharid remained.

It raised its staff. The ground itself warped—crystals tearing from the teal-blue earth like jagged teeth. The sky dimmed, dozens of teal eyes blinking open, watching.

Kasien’s breath came in shudders. His ribs screamed. His body begged for collapse. But he lifted his blade, steadying it at the staff-bearing abomination.

The Ulitharid stepped forward. A pulse of psionic energy rippled, a wall of thought and pain. Kasien nearly fell, but dug the blade into the ground to anchor himself. Sparks of green fire, acid, and lightning bled along the edge of his sword, the realm twisting every spell into wild chaos.

He moved first.

Booming Blade. His feet hammered the earth. He closed the gap.

The Ulitharid’s staff lashed out, glowing with pure mental force. Kasien ducked under the swing and cut across its side, the blade singing with thunder. The creature reeled, but responded with a mind blast that hurled Kasien into a wall of jagged crystal. His back split open, ribs screaming anew.

Still he rose.

He spat blood, set his stance, and rushed again. Strike. Parry. Another strike. Sparks flew as steel clashed against the arcane staff.

Finally—an opening.

Kasien ducked low, his scimitar flashing upward in a brutal slash that tore into the Ulitharid’s jaw. The creature shrieked, staggering. Kasien pressed—another strike, another—each swing wild but desperate, powered by survival itself.

With a final thrust, he drove Soul of the Elderwood into its chest. The blade pulsed with warped fire and thunder, detonating in a burst that ripped the creature apart from within.

Kasien dropped to one knee, panting, bloodied, his blade dripping ichor that hissed into the ground. His whole body trembled. His ears still rang with their whispers.

The storm of teal eyes in the sky blinked once—then closed. Silence returned.

Kasien forced himself up. One more step forward. One more breath. The colossal Hand still loomed ahead, impossibly close, impossibly far.

Kasien staggered out from the shattered circle of bodies. His boots slipped on ichor, and for a moment he almost let himself collapse face-first into the muck. But instinct drove him forward—three dragging steps, a half-fall against a crystal spire, his arm braced just to keep upright.

His lungs clawed at the air, every breath sharp as glass. Blood trickled down his temples, seeping into the corner of his mouth. He spat—it tasted like iron and ash. His ribs ground against one another when he moved, a reminder of every strike that landed.

The corpses of the Mind Flayers twitched still, as if their thoughts hadn’t yet accepted death. The Ulitharid’s remains smoked from the inside, the last pulses of warped psionic energy fading out. Kasien stared at it too long, felt a headache bloom behind his eyes, and forced his gaze away.

His hands shook as he pressed cloth to his side. The wound bled stubbornly. He bound it as best he could—just enough pressure to stop the warmth spilling down his hip. His scimitar lay across his knees, ichor sizzling along the blade.

“Still here,” he rasped, though there was no one to hear.

The ground beneath him hummed faintly, still charged from the clash. He tried to center himself, but the air buzzed with aftershocks of thought—like the whispers hadn’t truly left. He shut his eyes, pressed his forehead against the hilt of his sword, and willed his mind into silence.

Every muscle screamed for rest. His body begged to fold, to sleep right here in the dirt. He thought of Elyndra’s lap, the fleeting peace he’d tasted, and shoved the thought down before it could root.

Instead, he opened his eyes. The colossal Hand still loomed, closer now—its stone fingers tearing at the teal-blue sky. It looked both impossibly far and unbearably close.

Kasien forced one leg under him, then the other. He rose, swaying. His shadow stretched long across the crystal ground, bent and fractured by the spires.

One more step. Then another. His whole body protested, but he kept walking. Because stopping now wasn’t an option.

Geardaz Reactions

The teal skies split with laughter—thin at first, like the sound of glass fracturing, then rolling into a chorus of overlapping voices, a thousand tones at once, all belonging to Geardaz.

The Trickster God leaned in through his realm, his eyes—too many to count—blinking open in the storm above. Each gaze fixed on Kasien, that battered, bleeding figure still dragging himself toward the colossal Hand.

“Remarkable,” Geardaz whispered, his words sliding through every crystal, every stone. “The boy carved through an Ulitharid and its choir of mind-thieves… and still stands. Barely, but stands.”

His voice turned almost tender, mocking and reverent at once:

“You stagger, little Ash-Fall, but your will outpaces your flesh. You bleed, yet you walk. This is no lesson of strength—no, this is discord in purest form. You should have broken. You should have collapsed beneath their thoughts, but instead you thrash forward, ripping the script to shreds.”

Lightning cracked teal across the sky, sketching jagged runes that danced and vanished. The realm hummed in harmony with its god, vibrating with delighted malice.

“You remind me,” Geardaz continued, “that I do not need to give you power for you to serve my game. Every step you take, every scar you earn, it feeds me. You defy—yes, but even your defiance is a note in my song. Even your rage is a thread in my weave.”

The laughter swelled again, sharp enough to rattle the ground beneath Kasien’s boots.

“Walk, Kasien. Crawl if you must. The Hand waits for you, and so do I. Whether you claim it or it claims you, the discord will sing louder than ever. And I will be listening.”

The storm eyes closed, one by one, until silence fell again—except for the whispering hum of crystals, echoing Geardaz’s parting amusement.

Neth - Day 28 The Dream of The Avatar

In sleep, Neth felt herself lifted, unmoored from her small, aching goblin body. The violet silk sheets dissolved, the walls of the palace melted into horizonless light.

She stood in an endless plain of flame and shadow—yet when she looked down, she was not herself. Her hands were vast, fingers tipped in radiant claws of porcelain and gold. Her skin glowed with the pale, fractured beauty of Dykenta’s avatar: half luminous, half shadow-bone.

The earth trembled beneath her colossal weight. Every step cracked valleys, every breath pulled storms through the skies. She could feel it all—the pulsing of the land, the weeping of the spirits, the terror and awe of mortals miles away bowing or breaking beneath her presence.

The rapier she once held was now a tower of obsidian light, its edge long enough to cleave armies in one sweep. The eyeless socket of her mortal body burned in this form as a radiant void—an endless gaze that saw all, both lover and foe, wound and desire.

Her voice rolled out like thunder and honey, vibrating across the plain:

"I am not forsaken. I am not broken. I am Dykenta’s hand."

And yet—within the power, there was a sharpness. Every beat of this immense heart carried the cost. Her body strained, her spirit frayed at the edges. She felt it: the 50% chance of death Dykenta had warned her about, the sense that even this godhood might eat her alive from within.

She looked down at her colossal hands. They shook—not from weakness, but from the weight of choice. If she invoked this power in truth, she would save lives. She could turn the tide. But it could be her end.

The plain rippled, turning to faces. Hookspark, Martamo, Rhegar, her mother Mukkie, Tyrion, Lek, Desnora… all gazed up at her, mouths opening as one:

"Would you give yourself to die for us, little light?"

The words reverberated in her chest, echoing against the massive hollow of her divine form.

Neth’s colossal silhouette stood alone against the horizon, glowing with hunger and burden, desire and dread.

And then—she woke, heart pounding, small again, the weight of the vision pressing on her ribs.

Neth jolted awake, breath ragged, the violet silk clinging to her sweat-slick skin. For a moment, she half-expected the bed to crack beneath her weight, her arms to shatter the walls just by moving. But when her eye adjusted, she saw only her small goblin hands, trembling in the dawn light.

Her chest rose and fell too fast. The dream still burned in her bones—the echo of a colossal heartbeat, the tremor of entire lands shifting beneath her stride. She could still feel it, that impossible power, as if the world itself had been inside her veins.

"I was Dykenta’s hand…" the words lingered, terrifying and intoxicating.

Neth pressed her palm over the gem-eye, the amethyst still warm as if it remembered too. The memory of her massive form—the rapier a tower, her voice thunder—clawed at her, whispering: You could end armies. You could save them all.

But she also remembered the fracture. The strain in her spirit. The gnawing certainty that invoking such power would cost her life as easily as it gave her strength.

She swallowed hard, whispering to herself:
“Two minutes… two minutes to change everything. Or two minutes to die.”

Her fingers dug into the sheets. She thought of the Cinders. Reyn, Rheana, Lila, August, Gojo, Francesca, Scyana, Nórue… Kasien. Her brothers and sisters in battle. If it came to it, if they stood at the edge of ruin—could she not call on it?

And yet—was it heroism to die for them, or cowardice to give in to such temptation?

She sat there in silence, her urges, her fears, her hungers all knotted together, staring at the gem-eye’s faint glow in the mirror.

"I could be their saviour. Or I could be their funeral pyre."

The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

The thought struck her like a blade.

Pregnant.

Her hand, which had been clutching the sheets, drifted down to her belly almost without thought. She stared at her own reflection in the mirror—her one eye wide, her face pale, the violet gem faintly pulsing in its socket—and for a moment she looked like a stranger.

The word itself echoed through her head with all the weight of doom and wonder.

Pregnant.

A goblin’s body meant more than one. A litter. Five? Eight? Ten? Her heart thrashed in her chest as though it wanted to break free. Was it true? Was it possible, here, after everything? Zlaniz’s words replayed in her mind, sweet and cruel: not mine, but someone you lay with in Platera…

Her mind churned. She thought of the nights, the moments with Ulfred and the night with August, of bonds forged in desperation, of laughter and loss. Which of them? Whose blood mingled with hers?

The dream of Dykenta’s colossal form returned suddenly, crashing into the thought of small lives inside her. If she took that form, if she risked the 50% chance of death… what then? What would they inherit? Nothing but silence.

Her chest tightened. She whispered aloud, a broken rasp:
“I can’t… I can’t just die.”

And yet the hunger, the rage, the need burned through her veins. To fight, to endure, to protect. Could she be both? A mother and a champion? Or would one consume the other?

Her hand trembled against her stomach. For the first time since Urmbrik’s realm, since Pehliff’s blade, since the cursed march through blood and fire—Neth felt truly small. Small, and unbearably fragile.

She whispered into the stillness:
“Dykenta… what do I do now?”

Neth slid the violet silk sheets aside and rose slowly, her legs heavy, her belly still beneath her hand. The mirror stared back at her, unflinching. She reached for the familiar strip of black leather on the bedside table and tied it tight across her left socket.

The world dulled as the amethyst gem vanished beneath the patch. The vision it granted—the power, the danger—was hidden again, locked away where no one could see.

She breathed out hard. One eye. One scar. One truth she could live with.

The patch made her feel smaller, weaker, but it also made her feel like herself again—not a goddess, not a vessel, not a mother-to-be, not a pawn in Zlaniz’s games. Just Neth. Just Genethia Roth, scarred goblin cleric who had walked through Urmbrik’s hell and still lived.

Her fingers lingered on the knot, pressing it tighter.

I can’t let them see all of me. Not yet.

The urges still burned in her blood. The thought of her pregnancy still coiled like a shadow in her mind. But with the patch on, she could at least pretend she was still the same girl who once sat at the Stag’s Head Inn, laughing over apple pies and wild dreams of adventure.

She drew a shaky breath, squared her shoulders, and whispered into the violet silence of the palace:

“One step at a time.”

The violet halls were hushed when Neth stepped from her chamber, silk hem brushing against the marble floor. The stillness did not last.

Kaelthys Vorannar stood waiting, his armor catching the faint light of the crystals embedded in the walls. He did not move, yet his presence filled the corridor as though the stones themselves had bowed to him. His gaze fixed on her—sharp, deliberate, measuring.

Neth’s single eye met his, unwavering despite the exhaustion weighing on her. In her, Kaelthys saw the contradiction that consumed him: a goblin, despised by blood and creed, yet beautiful in a way that mocked every oath he’d made to his people. She carried her scars like sigils, each one proof that she had survived where others broke. To him, she was not merely a woman—she was a prize, a flame to be claimed, a bloodline to be conquered.

To Neth, Kaelthys was a wall of violet steel and veiled danger. His armor gleamed with power, his bearing was noble, almost regal, and yet the hunger in his eyes betrayed something more primal. She felt the weight of that hunger press against her—the sense that he wanted more than just her body; he wanted her entirely, her will, her legacy, her very place in history.

Neither spoke. The silence was the dialogue. His gaze promised possession, hers resisted with quiet fire. For a heartbeat, the hall seemed to narrow until there was nothing in it but the two of them, staring into the truth of what they each saw:

Kaelthys, envisioning her as his queen, his brood-mother, his jewel of conquest.
Neth, seeing a man who could just as easily ruin her as he could lift her, a danger draped in violet silk and iron.

The silence broke only when Kaelthys inclined his head—half courtesy, half claim. And then he moved past her, leaving the echo of his presence clinging to the hall, heavy as iron and intimate as breath.

The corridor turned into a confessional, their voices low, threaded with tension that neither violet crystal nor silken shadow could soften.

Kaelthys spoke first, his words deliberate, measured like a commander reporting on a campaign. He told her what had passed between their goddesses—Dykenta and Zlaniz, circling each other in promises and threats—and of Zlaniz’s intent to summon the other Hands. His tone was formal, but his eyes never left her face, watching every flicker in her expression. Then, quieter, he added: Kasien is close. Closer than anyone has ever come. Two days, perhaps less, until he reaches the Hand.

Neth’s heart surged against her ribs. The exhaustion that had weighed her for days seemed to dissolve in a rush of urgency. “Then I must go,” she said, her voice ragged but steady. “I can’t wait here in silks while he walks into that alone.”

Kaelthys stiffened. His gauntlet clenched, the sound of steel on steel sharp in the still air. “The wastes will break you,” he replied. “Even champions falter in them. Five days at least—if you survive them at all.”

“I don’t care if it takes five years,” she shot back, a trembling fire burning in her single eye. “I’ve walked through worse. I’ll walk through this.”

For a long moment he simply looked at her, the silence stretching taut as a drawn bowstring. His jaw flexed, torn between refusal and something he would not name. Then, with a heavy breath, he yielded—not to her words, but to the iron conviction he saw blazing in her.

“Tomorrow,” Kaelthys said at last, his voice low, reluctant. “Tomorrow I will see you armed, supplied, and prepared. You will not walk into those wastes empty-handed.”

Neth’s shoulders sagged, half in relief, half in dread of what lay ahead. She whispered, “Thank you,” though both knew it was not thanks—it was a promise that she would not be swayed.

Kaelthys inclined his head again, but his eyes lingered on her. There was pride in them, but also the shadow of something deeper, something dangerously close to devotion.

Kaelthys lingered long after she had gone, her footsteps fading down the violet halls, leaving only silence and the faint shimmer of torchlight dancing across the polished stone. He stood very still, gauntlets flexing against his palms, the weight of his vow pressing like armor on his chest.

He had promised her supplies, guidance, a path through the wastes. But what he had truly given her was permission. Permission to leave the safety of Zlaniz’s walls, permission to gamble her fragile, scarred body against the storms and beasts of the violet wilds.

It was madness. He knew it.

And yet—when her eye had burned with that raw, unshaken fire, when her voice cracked but did not waver—he had found himself unable to refuse. Not even for her own safety. Not even for his god’s will.

“She reminds me,” he muttered under his breath, as though admitting it aloud might ease the sting. “She reminds me too much…”

Of what, he dared not finish. Of who, he would never say.

He paced the chamber, every line of his violet armor catching the crystal light, his reflection fractured in the walls. He thought of Zlaniz’s games, of Dykenta’s return, of the alliance balanced on the knife’s edge. And in the midst of those grand currents, he thought of her—a single goblin, wounded and stubborn, carrying her burdens like they were forged steel.

Zlaniz might see her as a pawn, Dykenta as a champion. But Kaelthys saw her as something else entirely. A storm walking on two weary legs. A heart that refused to break, even when it should have.

And that terrified him.

Because storms did not remain storms. They became ruin.

He pressed a hand to his chest, whispering in the quiet: “Forgive me. Tomorrow, I arm her for her doom.”

The violet palace slept, but Neth did not.

She lay on the silken bed, her body still and her mind a storm. The sheets clung to her skin like damp vines, too soft, too rich—mocking her with comforts she could neither trust nor accept. She turned from side to side, staring at the canopy, at the mirror, at the faint glow of the crystal lamps. Every corner of the chamber seemed to whisper her name, echoing her choices back to her.

Her urges still hummed beneath her flesh, restless and gnawing, but tonight they were tangled with something heavier: fear. Not fear of Zlaniz, not even fear of Kaelthys. Fear of failure.

She thought of Kasien. How close he must be now. Two days, Kaelthys had said. Two days and he would stand before the Colossal Hand. She clenched her fist against her chest, whispering his name like a prayer, like an anchor. If she fell behind, if she lost her way in the wastes, what then? He would face it alone.

Her single eye burned. She saw again the crimson visions that had haunted her—herself standing beneath the Blood Eclipse, amulet in hand, the world burning red. She heard Agadra Gora’s whispers, saw Hookspark fall, saw her mother’s head in the snow. The weight of it pressed down until she thought she might suffocate.

Neth sat up suddenly, clutching the sheets. The palace air smelled of roses and wine, sweet and heavy, choking. She pulled the eye patch tighter across her scarred socket, grounding herself.

“I’m still me,” she muttered into the quiet. “Still Neth. Just Neth.”

But sleep, when it finally took her, was shallow and restless—visions of violet eyes watching her from the storm, Kaelthys’s armored silhouette lingering at her side, and the distant hum of the Colossal Hand, like a heartbeat pulsing across the realm.

The violet palace dissolved.

Neth opened her eye and found herself not in silken chambers but standing barefoot on creaking wooden floorboards, the air filled with the smell of roasted venison and spilled ale. The Stag Head Inn, alive again in memory, lantern light flickering on rough-hewn beams.

At one table, cross-legged on the bench, sat her younger self at sixteen—hair brushed and neat, her second eye still shining bright with Tymira’s fire, her tunic patched but proud. She looked up, biting her lip as she recognized her older self.

“You’ve ruined everything,” young Neth spat, voice sharp as a thrown dagger. “You traded Tymira’s blessing for a goddess no one even trusted. You think Dykenta cares? You’ve chased death and filth until there’s nothing left of me.”

Before Neth could answer, the hearth fire turned black, flames licking upward like ink. From the shadows of the smoke she stepped out—the Evil Goddess Neth, radiant and terrible, her single void-red eye blazing, amulet burning against her chest. Cloaked in power, violet-black silk clung to her like the robes of a queen of ruin.

Future-Neth smiled with cruel softness. “Don’t be so harsh, little one. She has done what you never could. She has made the world see you.”

The young Neth leapt to her feet, fists trembling. “At what cost? Mother’s head in the snow, father’s body rotting in the dark, Hookspark’s sacrifice! Tymira could have—”

“—Tymira gave you nothing,” the Goddess interrupted, voice like a blade across glass. “I gave you everything. Strength in despair. Desire in hunger. Power when you were broken. And when the time comes, it will not be Tymira or even Dykenta at your side—it will be me.”

The inn walls shuddered, warping into a scarlet battlefield, the Colossal Hand rising in the distance. Lightning split the crimson sky, and the three versions of Neth stood in a triangle: the girl with bright eyes, the weary goblin clutching her rapier, and the goddess wreathed in ruin.

The young Neth turned on her older self. “Tell me now—are you still me? Or are you already hers?”

The Goddess only laughed, her smile widening, her voice echoing like the God Hands themselves:
“Why choose at all? You’ll be all of us. You’ll be mine.”

The battlefield roared to life around them, the noise of unseen armies clashing. Neth clutched her chest, feeling both versions pulling at her. One hand pulling her back to innocence, the other toward apotheosis and ruin.

The inn hollows out into a breath as the three of them stand framed by the roaring, impossible horizon — firelight, violet silk, and the small bright face of a child who should never have had to learn how to kill.

Before Neth can steady herself, the ten-year-old slips forward. She is smaller than the sixteen-year-old, all wide eyes and a crooked, fearless grin that remembers apple pies and hiding under Caladawn’s cloak. Her voice is thin and stubborn, the sort of voice that once convinced bark-faced barkeepers to chip her stew bill down to coins.

“You came back for the pies,” the child accuses, and there’s no accusation in it — only the blunt sorrow of someone who expected the world to be easier. “You shouldn’t have left. You left us alone and went looking for glory. Did you find it? Did it fix the holes?”

Neth’s throat tightens. The child’s small hand lifts — not demanding, not begging — just open. A scarless palm, inked with the careless scratches of training daggers and tree climbs. For a second the whole theatre of dream collapses into that single offered hand.

Behind the hand, the goddess moves like a tide. Future-Neth’s smile is liquid and cold; her shadow curls into the young one as if to swallow light. “You are weak to pity,” the godlike Neth murmurs, voice threaded with the hush of enormous things. “Give me the hand. Accept me. I will make you whole in ways Tymira never could. I will give you thunder that will not ask your consent.”

The child frowns at that—at thunder offered as a bargain—and steps closer, bridging the impossible distance with the naive bravery of a creature that believes words are promises. “If you take her power,” she says plainly, “you will take her back, too. You’ll take the laughs, the pies, the people who look at you like you’re one of them. You won’t be me if you do. You’ll be a story told in a faraway palace.”

Neth feels the pull like a physical thing: the goddess’s promise tugging at the amethyst at her temple, the memory of Dykenta’s warmth, the cold hunger of Zlaniz’s smile, the stubborn, stubborn smallness of apple pie at dawn in Albion. Her chest fractures into two truths — the furious ledger of loss that says the world must be remade by any hand that can hold a blade, and the quieter ledger that counts names and small mercies.

She steps forward. Her boot heels click once on warped floorboard. Time does something strange at the edges — the crimson sky folds, the Hand flexes, and the three of her breathe together for one hold of a moment.

Neth extends her arm.

Her hand moves toward the child’s first. The action is almost automatic; muscle memory from a thousand small mercies. She wants to scoop that bright thing into her arms, to promise she will keep cups of porridge warm and tie bootlaces again — to prove she can be both the shield and the woman behind it.

At the same instant, Future-Neth’s great hand slides forward too — not to take but to crown: a slow, fanning motion that would place amulet and destiny into the palm of the girl and boil her down into the god’s chosen instrument. The goddess’s fingers are like eclipse; warmth that suffocates and light that burns.

Everything pulls.

For a breath, Neth’s fingers brush the child’s small knuckles. Warmth blossoms — simple, human warmth that smells of flour and laughter. The child’s eyes shine and, in them, Neth reads a map of roads she once wanted to travel: the Stag Head’s crooked sign, Caladawn’s patient smile, afternoons stealing pies.

But the goddess’s presence is a pressure at her sternum, a note in her bones that says power will answer this pain. The amethyst at her temple hums, and for an instant Neth feels the possibility of something vast: whole cities saved, the Hand unmade, the names she mourns returned in a tide. The cost sits on that same coin: her breath might stop two minutes into glory. Ten tiny lives inside her could be left without a mother.

Neth’s hand clamps.

She does not make a clean, heroic choice. There is no declamatory refusal, no baptism of resolve. Instead, she feels the world like an animal beneath a net and squeezes with everything left in her. She draws the child in — not to hide her safe, not to bargain — but to anchor herself to what was real before bargains and gods and the terrible geometry of the Hand.

The child—stubborn, real—presses into her, forehead to forehead. For a heartbeat, there is peace: the smell of smoke and pie, the clatter of tankards, the soft, human smallness of being loved back. From the goddess, a cold whisper: You will regret this. You will break and be remade whether you wish it or not.

Neth hears it. She tastes iron and memory. She feels, too, the tremor of the amethyst warming under the patch on her socket, as if something enormous has been noticed and is cataloguing her defiance.

She closes her eyes. In the dark behind her lids the vision offers one last impossible road: raise the god’s hand and unmake the hurt, or carry the hurt forward and keep the names in her own voice.

Neth’s grip tightens around the child’s wrist. Her other hand flutters, almost of its own will, toward the pouch at her hip — where the Black Dragon of Asher scabbard hangs and where, beneath leather, a faded scrap of Mukkie’s hair rests. She makes no grand vow. She only breathes, ragged and small and terrible, and whispers to the echoing sky:

“Not yet.”

The goddess laughs — not a triumph, exactly, but a promise: The clock is only paused. The child hiccups, then inhales, whole and stubborn. The dream splinters: the inn dissolves, the Hand leers, and Neth wakes with the aftertaste of pie and iron on her tongue and a new thing coiled in her chest: decision, deferred, dangerous, hers for the holding.

She sits up in the violet sheets, the empty room around her both mercy and trap. The amethyst thins to a tiny glow beneath the patch. Her hand still holds the memory of the child’s knuckles. Outside, far and terrible, the Hand waits.

Kasien - Day 29 - So Close

So close. Too close. Can’t—no, must. Step. One more. One more. Gods, the sky is watching—always watching. Eyes in the storm. Can’t shut them out. Don’t need to. They see me. Let them see me.

The Hand. The Hand. Not a shape anymore. Not a lie on the horizon. It’s there. Mountains of stone and bone and something older than truth. Fingers clawing the heavens. Palm swallowing the world. Tomorrow. I’ll touch it tomorrow. Or it’ll touch me.

Breath burns. Chest cracks. Ribs are wrong—doesn’t matter. Legs shake—don’t care. The ground hums under every step. It’s laughing at me, or singing, or both. I don’t care. I don’t care. I will get there.

Yshari’s voice. Vhalis’s shadow. Every ruin. Every scream. Still in me. Still pulling me forward. If they’re gone—no. Don’t think it. They’re there. They have to be there. The Hand stole them. The Hand keeps them. The Hand—answers.

No faith left. Just steps. Just tomorrow. If the Hand kills me, so be it. If it opens, I follow. I don’t stop. Not now. Not ever.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.

Kasien stumbled, knees buckling, his body a ruin of bruises and half-mended wounds, but his eyes—raw, violet, burning—never left the horizon.

And the Hand moved.

It shouldn’t move. It was stone, mountain, relic. But in his fevered mind, it shifted in the storm. Fingers that had always pointed skyward bent at their joints. The colossal palm tilted, groaning, creaking, reaching back.

Toward him.

Every thunderclap was its knuckle cracking. Every flash of teal lightning lit up lines of veins across its surface, veins that pulsed like living flesh. The ground quaked with each of his steps—not because he was weak, but because the Hand answered.

It sees me.

Kasien’s lips cracked, blood seeping, but he smiled. Or grimaced. He couldn’t tell anymore.

The wasteland warped in his vision. The crystals around him hummed in rhythm with his breath. The eyes in the teal sky blinked in unison, and for one moment, he swore the storm itself bowed, just slightly, as though the Hand commanded all.

Then came the voices. Not whispers this time, not the distant chorus of Geardaz’s realm. Clearer. Louder. A chant without words, a song of command and surrender. His name bent and reshaped inside it—Kasien, Kasien, Kasien—but not as he had ever known it. More like the syllables of a language he couldn’t yet understand.

His knees gave out. He collapsed on the jagged earth, the colossal fingers towering so close now in his mind that their shadows smothered him. The palm tilted fully toward him, as if inviting him into its grip.

And for a heartbeat—one heartbeat—he thought he saw his sister standing in the Hand’s palm, smiling. His cousin beside her. Both alive. Both reaching.

Kasien screamed. Whether it was defiance or longing, even he didn’t know.

The storm broke, the vision shattering like glass. The Hand was distant again—still vast, still unmoving—but closer than it had ever been.

He crawled to his feet, chest heaving. One word rattled through his teeth, cracked and broken, but unstoppable:

“Tomorrow.”

The storm in his skull refused to quiet. Every blink still carried afterimages of the Hand bending, every breath still caught on that phantom vision of Yshari and Vhalis reaching for him. Kasien staggered, almost fell again—until he felt it.

A hand—not of stone, but slender, pale, steady—touching his shoulder.

Elyndra.

Her voice slid into the cracks of his mind like balm poured into broken glass. She didn’t sing a dirge this time, nor a hymn of discord. Just a low hum, soft and mournful, steady enough to anchor him. Her words followed, spoken like lyrics stripped bare:

“Breathe, Kasien. One breath. One step. The Hand will wait.”

The jagged rhythm of his heart slowed. His vision stopped splitting at the edges. The illusions—the fingers curling, the storm bowing—faded until only the teal wasteland remained, terrible but still.

He tried to shake her off. Instinct. Suspicion. Trap. But his body betrayed him; his head tilted, resting against her arm for just a moment as if it had no strength left for defiance.

Elyndra didn’t press. She only kept humming, her thumb drawing circles on his shoulder—small, human gestures at odds with the enormity of the gods and horrors around them.

“Calm,” she whispered again, almost as if reminding herself as much as him. “You are more than their storm. More than their game.”

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, Kasien’s mind was quiet. The fever broke. He was himself again—logical, sharp, suspicious, but whole.

He pulled away, ragged but standing, violet eyes narrowed as if trying to pierce her intentions. Yet his voice, when it came, was steadier.

“…thank you,” he muttered, reluctant, as though the words themselves tasted of surrender.

Elyndra only inclined her head, her eyes unreadable, her song still faintly vibrating in the storm.

Kasien’s chest rose and fell in uneven pulls, the last tremors of the fever still shaking his bones. The hum lingered in his ears even though Elyndra had stopped, as if his skull itself was still vibrating with her voice. He hated that. He hated how steady it had made him.

Why… why do I feel clearer after her?
She’s Geardaz’s. She should be poison. Every note should be a hook. Every word, a lie. And yet—

His hand twitched against Soul of the Elderwood’s hilt, needing the weight of the blade to remind him who he was. A scholar. A bladesinger. A seeker of truths, not a boy rocked to sleep by lullabies.

*It’s weakness. That’s all it is. My body gave out. My mind fractured. Anyone’s voice—no, her voice, soft and broken—was enough to patch the cracks. It doesn’t mean she cares. It doesn’t mean she sees me.

But doubt crept in with every breath.

The way her hand had lingered—not possessive, not cruel, but gentle. The way she said “You are more than their game” as though she almost believed it herself.

Was that for me… or for her?

He shook his head, grit his teeth.

No. No more spirals. She is Geardaz’s discord. A lament shaped into flesh. If I let myself believe in her comfort, then I’ve already lost. She’ll play me like a string, and I’ll walk to the Hand with a leash around my neck.

Yet, beneath the harsh thoughts, a whisper lingered.

…and still, I said thank you.

Kasien shut his eyes, forcing his legs to move, forcing his breath back to rhythm. His suspicion was iron in his gut—but around it, cracks of warmth still smouldered.

Elyndra said nothing as Kasien steadied himself, as if speaking now might shatter the fragile scaffolding he was rebuilding inside.

She only watched.

Her eyes—those ancient wells of grief and discord—rested on him as one might study a storm just before it breaks. He was trembling, but he was standing. That mattered. The weak collapsed. The broken begged. Kasien did neither. Even when her song had pulled him back from the edge, he had looked at her with suspicion sharp enough to cut.

And still, beneath it all, he had said thank you.

Elyndra’s lips curved, not quite a smile. It was dangerous, what she felt then. Familiar, like a chord she hadn’t played in centuries. The set of his jaw, the fire in his violet eyes—it echoed someone she had lost long ago. Aelthar. A memory sharpened to pain.

No, she told herself. This is not love. It cannot be love. This is Geardaz’s game, and I am his instrument. If I falter, if I soften… he will unravel me as he did before.

But her gaze lingered anyway, tracing the ragged edges of Kasien’s defiance, the cracks in his certainty. He was not broken yet, but every step toward the Hand brought him closer to that moment. And when it came… would she be the one to push him into the abyss? Or catch him before he fell?

She lowered her eyes, hiding that thought even from herself.

The storm of teal-blue above surged, singing Geardaz’s laughter. Elyndra bowed her head to it, but her hand, hidden in the folds of her robe, tightened into a fist.

Kasien drew a long breath, steadying himself against the trembling in his chest. The Hand loomed, closer than ever, but his eyes flicked sideways to Elyndra.

She hadn’t moved since pulling him back—silent, still, her face unreadable.

It unnerved him more than any monster.

“You’re quiet,” he said at last, his voice raw, cracked from thirst and the storm’s bite. He forced a crooked grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “That silence… it’s worse than your singing.”

No reaction. Just those eyes on him, distant, measuring.

He let the grin drop. “I know what it means. You’re weighing me. Wondering if I’ll crack the way all the others do. Wondering if Geardaz will win me—or if I’ll collapse before he gets the chance.”

Kasien took a step closer, not aggressive, but steady, violet gaze burning into hers. “You’re not the first to look at me like that. Like I’m already half-buried.”

He swallowed, his throat tight. “But I’m still here. And I’ll keep walking until the gods themselves give me an answer. Not Geardaz. Not Urmbrik. Not Zlaniz. Them. The ones they want to erase.”

His hand lingered near Soul of the Elderwood’s hilt, not in threat, but as if grounding himself. He leaned closer, his voice lowering.

“So if you’re going to say something—if you believe I’m more than a pawn—say it. If not…” He let the words hang, bitter and sharp. “…then keep your silence. At least I’ll know it’s honest.”

Elyndra’s lips parted at last, the faintest curve of something that was not quite a smile, not quite sorrow. Her voice came softer than the storm, a thread of song barely woven into words.

“You remind me of another who walked these wastes,” she said, gaze drifting past him, as if into memory. “Maddax Tibur. He, too, raged at silence. He, too, burned with the thought that he could carry answers back to a world that was already bleeding.”

Her eyes flicked back to Kasien—clear, sharp, and unreadable. “He survived. For a time.” The pause lingered like a knife left hovering above the skin. “And still he walked away marked. No one leaves these lands untouched, Kasien. Not even those who defy them.”

Her hand brushed against the strings of her lyre, a single note trembling into the air before fading. “I cannot tell you if your path is triumph or ruin. Only that the fire in you now is the same fire I saw in him. And that fire… frightened even the gods.”

The ambiguity hung heavy—was it a warning, or a confession of faith?

Then she turned her gaze back to the colossal Hand, violet stormlight dancing across her face. “Walk, bladesinger. As long as you can still walk, the choice is yours.”

Kasien’s jaw tightened, the fever still burning in his blood, but her words lodged in him like a hook pulling him steady. Maddax Tibur—defiant, scarred, unbroken. If even he had frightened the gods… then maybe Kasien wasn’t mad to keep walking. Maybe his fire wasn’t wasted.

He drew in a ragged breath, forcing his shoulders square, forcing the storm in his skull into something like rhythm. The colossal Hand loomed larger now, no longer a vision, but a mountain of stone and impossible intent. Every step forward felt like dragging chains, but he kept moving, blade tapping against his thigh in time with his stagger.

Behind him, Elyndra’s voice wove through the wind, low and certain:

“Remember, Kasien—if ever you would have me take you from this place, I can. I would. A single word, and I will lead you out of Geardaz’s labyrinth. But if you keep walking toward that Hand…” Her words trailed, but the meaning was clear.

Kasien didn’t look back. He let her words settle into him like a brand. She was offering him an escape, a way to live—but that wasn’t what he came here for.

Still, he clenched his fist at his side, violet eyes burning. She said she would help. If it comes to that… if I fall… at least one hand will not let me drown alone.

The Hand loomed closer, each finger a tower clawing at the teal-blue sky. The air grew heavier, charged with impossible weight. Kasien whispered to himself, voice raw, hoarse, but steady:

“Tomorrow… I touch it. Tomorrow, I find the truth.”

And he walked on.

Neth - Day 29 Towards the Colossal Hand

The morning light in the violet palace was never truly light—it was a dusky glow, filtered through crystals that bled pink and purple hues across the floor. Neth sat at the edge of her bed, one hand clutching the bed post for steadiness, the other brushing at her tangled hair. Her body still remembered the ache of urges, the gnaw of restlessness, but her mind tried to focus on what Kaelthys had promised: supplies, guidance, and a path toward the Colossal Hand.

She turned to the mirror.

And froze.

It wasn’t her tired, scarred face staring back—not the champion weighed down by gods and trials. It was her at ten years old: Genethia Roth with both bright red eyes, her tunic sticky with hand-pie crumbs, her cheeks rounded with youth. The little girl tilted her head, smiling faintly, as though waiting for Neth to break the silence.

“You look… different,” Neth whispered, her throat dry.

The girl giggled softly. “No, you do. All grown, all serious. You don’t even laugh like you used to.”

Neth blinked, her eye stinging. “I don’t have the luxury of laughing anymore.”

“Is that what you think?” the younger self asked, leaning close to the glass, her gaze sharp. “Or is it because you’re scared that if you laugh, it means you’ve forgotten them—Mom, Dad, Rhegar, Martamo, Hookspark, Ulystra…?”

Neth’s breath caught. Her fists clenched in her lap.

The girl’s voice softened. “You used to dream about being a hero, remember? About saving people and being loved by them? You thought you could be more than a goblin—just Genethia, not something to fear, not something to use. Where did that dream go?”

Neth pressed her forehead against the cool glass, tears threatening. “That dream… died. It burned away with everyone I lost.”

Her younger self shook her head slowly, crumbs falling from her lips. “No, it didn’t die. You buried it. You’re scared to pick it back up, because it hurts too much. But it’s still there. I can still see it in your eye.”

The room was silent but for Neth’s ragged breathing.

She wanted to reach through the glass, to hold that little girl, to apologize. But her hand only met her reflection.

The child’s smile faded. “Don’t forget me, Neth. Don’t forget who we were.

”The mirror stayed alive with that younger self—wide-eyed, innocent, sitting cross-legged on the stone floor of memory as though the world were still small, safe, and full of sweet-smelling pies. Neth wiped at her cheek but didn’t turn away. Somehow, she couldn’t.

The younger Genethia beamed. “Tell me, please. You’ve really been on adventures, haven’t you? Proper ones? Fighting monsters, saving people?”

Neth’s throat caught, but she nodded. “I have. More battles than I can count. More wounds than I can name.” Her voice cracked as she leaned closer to the mirror. “I’ve… survived.”

The child clapped her sticky hands together. “See? I knew it. You became the hero we always wanted to be.”

Neth gave a trembling smile, though her shoulders sagged under the weight of it. “I don’t feel like a hero, little one. I feel… broken. Every fight takes something from me. Hookspark died saving me. Martamo—” her voice faltered, “—I watched him fall. I can’t save everyone. Not the way I thought I could when I was your age.”

But the younger self only tilted her head, eyes shining. “But you tried. And you keep trying. That’s what makes you a hero. Heroes aren’t perfect—they just don’t stop, even when they’re hurting.”

Neth swallowed hard, a tear slipping down her cheek. “I don’t laugh anymore. I don’t sing. I only walk, fight, and bleed. That’s what my life has become.”

“You laugh now,” the girl countered softly. “You laugh every time you remember them. Every story, every name—you carry them with you. That’s what a hero does.”

For the first time, Neth let out a shaky chuckle. “You always were stubborn.”

The younger Neth smiled, leaning her chin on her hand. “And you still are. Just… tired.” She tilted her head again, like she was memorizing every scar, every line on Neth’s older face. “When you walk into the Hand, remember me. Remember this girl who believed you could be more. Don’t let her fade.”

Neth pressed her palm flat against the glass, her breath shaking. “I’ll try. For you.”

The child’s grin was bittersweet, but joyful still. “That’s all I wanted.”

The mirror shimmered faintly, her younger self’s image beginning to fade. But her voice lingered, a whisper threaded with hope:

“Don’t forget—you are a hero, Genethia Roth.”

The mirror-cloud faded to still glass just as the whisper of her ten-year-old self slipped away, leaving Neth trembling with one hand still pressed against the surface. The quiet of the chamber pressed in—until the door creaked open.

Kaelthys stepped inside, violet cloak trailing, arms burdened with what looked like both bundles and steel. His presence filled the space, heavy as the memory of the gods themselves.

“You’ll need these,” he said, his voice even, though his eyes took in the wet sheen on her cheek before drifting politely away. He set the items down with measured care. First, her rapier—the familiar weight of the Black Dragon of Asher, cleaned, sharpened, and gleaming once more. Then, piece by piece, the new armour: a fitted cuirass of violet steel trimmed in black, the sigil of Zlaniz etched faintly over the heart.

Neth’s one eye lingered on that mark, her throat tightening. “My old armour…?”

“Shattered. Beyond use,” Kaelthys replied. “You pushed it past breaking. This will serve you better.” He looked at her steadily. “It’s strong. Lighter, too. But—” he tapped the goddess’s crest with a gauntleted finger, “—you should know whose symbol you’ll bear.”

She frowned, running her fingers across the etched violet mark. “Her eyes will be on me always, then.”

“Always,” Kaelthys said, but softer this time, his tone shifting as if to temper the weight. “That does not make you hers unless you choose it.”

Neth strapped the rapier at her side, testing the grip, the balance. Familiar comfort steadied her hand, though the armour's sheen caught her reflection in the mirror once more, the violet flaring against her scars.

Kaelthys had just shifted the last strap of the cuirass into place when Neth broke the silence, her tone cutting through the charged quiet.

“So… if I do make that deal with your goddess…” She tilted her head, eye fixed on him. “That’d make us married, wouldn’t it?”

His hands paused, only for a breath, before he set the buckle straight. “That is the shape of the bargain she proposed,” he admitted evenly.

Neth gave a short, bitter laugh and waved a hand at herself—scarred skin, weary frame, eye-patch, violet armour still too new. “Bet you didn’t think you’d end up marrying a dirty, ugly goblin like me. But hey…” she tapped the Black Dragon sigil at her chest with a wry smile, “at least I’m noble blooded.”

For a moment, Kaelthys didn’t answer. His gaze lingered on her, unreadable, violet light from the chamber catching on the edges of his helm. Then he leaned back slightly, gauntlets resting on his knees.

“Ugly?” he said at last, voice low, controlled. “If that is what you see when you look in the mirror, then you look with the eyes of your enemies, not your own.” His words carried no jest, no softness—only steel.

He let the silence linger, then added, almost like a vow:
“Should such a marriage come to pass, it will not be born of pity, nor of bargains alone. Do not diminish yourself, Neth. You are far more than what the world has called you.”

Her throat tightened, caught between a laugh and something heavier. For a heartbeat she wanted to say more, to press, to twist it into another joke so she didn’t have to feel how close his words cut.

But Kaelthys had already turned, reaching for his helm, pulling it into place with a sharp motion. The expressionless mask hid whatever truth lingered in his eyes.

“Dawn comes soon,” he said, tone once again the iron of duty. “Rest while you can.”

She let out a slow breath. “I’ll take what keeps me alive. But I won’t be her pawn.”

Kaelthys gave a faint smile, though shadow touched the edges of it. “Spoken like one who has survived more than most. And more than many thought you could.”

Their eyes met—hers weary but burning still, his unreadable beneath the helm’s shadow. For a moment, the chamber felt too small for what passed unspoken between them: loyalty, suspicion, the unyielding storm of choices yet to come.

Then Kaelthys gestured toward the door. “Dawn will not wait. Be ready. The Hand is closer for your friend than it is for you. If you are to walk into those wastes tomorrow… you will need every ounce of strength.”

Kaelthys had almost reached the door when Neth’s voice stopped him.

“Wait.”

The word wasn’t sharp—it was small, almost uncertain. He turned, helm half-raised in his hands, violet eyes catching hers.

“I… don’t want to just talk about me,” Neth said, her throat tight as if each word weighed too much. “All I ever do is spill my scars on the table like they’re worth something. But you…” She motioned at him with a small, restless flick of her fingers. “You’re just… stone. Always armour, always the champion. I want to know who you were before all this. Before Zlaniz. Before the Conqueror.”

For a moment, Kaelthys stood utterly still. The silence stretched, heavy as a blade at her throat. Then slowly, deliberately, he set his helm aside and stepped closer.

His voice was quieter this time, almost like it belonged to someone else.

“Before Zlaniz, I was no one worth remembering. A soldier of a forgotten war. A name that was spoken only on the lips of the dead who fell beside me.” He paused, searching her face as if measuring how much truth she could bear. “Zlaniz found me in the ashes of defeat and offered me something I could not give myself—purpose.”

He looked down then, gauntlets tightening. “And so I became what I am. The Violet Conqueror. The mask you see now.”

Neth’s eye softened, her mouth opening, then closing again. She wanted to joke, to poke at him, but the weight in his tone silenced her.

“That’s not enough,” she said at last, voice firmer. “You’re not just the mask. There’s more to you than ashes and titles. Tell me the rest. Who was Kaelthys before the Conqueror?”

For a fleeting second, something passed across his face—pain, or memory, or both. Then his jaw set.

“Perhaps,” he said carefully, “if you walk beside me long enough, you’ll learn that truth for yourself. Some stories are not given. They are earned.”

With that, he lifted his helm again, concealing whatever flicker of humanity had slipped through. His final words were a whisper of steel.

Kaelthys lingered near the door, helm tucked beneath his arm, when Neth’s voice cut across the silence again.

“What about after then?” she pressed, her tone sharper now, almost demanding. “If you won’t tell me who you were before… then tell me what you’ve done since. As Zlaniz’s champion. What have you done for her? What has she made you do?”

He turned slowly, the torchlight catching in the lines of his armour. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he stepped closer, shadows clinging to him like a second skin.

“I have broken kings,” he said evenly. “I have silenced prophets who spoke truths she did not want sung. I have turned armies against themselves, burned cities that thought themselves untouchable. I have carried her banner into halls where gods once whispered, and I made them silent.”

His voice did not rise, did not boast—it was too flat, too weary.

“I have killed men who were innocent, women who prayed for mercy, children who looked at me and saw only the monster I had become. All of it in her name.”

Neth’s stomach twisted. She wanted to recoil, to curse him—but there was something in his tone that stopped her. It wasn’t pride. It wasn’t joy. It was the emptiness of a man who carried the weight of every life he’d taken like stones in his chest.

Kaelthys lowered his gaze then, violet eyes dulled.

“That is what it means to be Zlaniz’s champion. Not glory. Not freedom. Only chains disguised as purpose.”

He finally set the helm over his face again, the mask of the Conqueror sliding back into place. His last words drifted like a blade’s edge:

“And if you seek her favour… you would do well to remember that.”

The corridors of the Violet Palace seemed endless, each one lined with silken drapes and black crystal braziers that hissed with pink fire. Neth padded after Kaelthys, her new boots whispering over the polished stone, her violet armor faintly clinking as she moved. His stride was long, purposeful, and though he said nothing, his presence filled the silence—steady, commanding, a pillar in this place of temptation.

They turned corner after corner, passing demonettes who bowed in silence as they went. The palace’s beauty felt oppressive now, heavy with the weight of what she was leaving behind. The air itself seemed to tremble with violet perfume, a mixture of roses and ash, sweet and suffocating.

Finally, they pushed through a final archway, and the air changed.

The courtyard stretched before them, vast and open beneath the strange sky of Zlaniz’s realm. Here the ground was paved with dark stone carved in geometric patterns, each groove filled with faintly glowing crystal. At its center stood the Nightmare—a beast out of myth. Its coat gleamed with unnatural blackness, its mane and tail roared with fire, and every breath it exhaled was a storm of embers. It pawed the ground, stamping hooves that left burning imprints in the stone.

Kaelthys led her toward it without pause. He rested a gauntleted hand on its bridle, flames licking his armor, but the Nightmare stilled under his touch, as though tamed by his will alone. He glanced at her then, a faint shimmer of violet behind the slits of his helm.

“Follow,” he said simply.

The word carried weight. It wasn’t a command—it was a bridge. A step forward, a moment suspended in the violet air.

Neth’s heart raced as she stepped closer, the heat of the Nightmare’s flames licking at her skin.

The violet courtyards of Zlaniz’s palace shimmered under the strange twilight, crystal spires casting long, jagged shadows across the stone. Neth followed Kaelthys in silence, her small steps quickened to keep pace with his tall, armored stride. The air carried that heady perfume of roses and ash, every breath a reminder of where she was—and what she was leaving behind.

In the courtyard, waiting as if it had been called from the Abyss itself, stood the Nightmare. Its coat was midnight black, its mane and tail licked with living fire. Each snort sent embers scattering, each step burned faint prints into the stone. The beast tossed its head when it saw her, flames flaring brighter as if testing her resolve.

Kaelthys steadied it with a gauntleted hand, then bent down, surprising her by taking the time to help her with the saddle. His movements were precise, almost ritualistic—an old warrior’s care, but softened by something he didn’t speak aloud.

When she mounted, he adjusted the straps, his hand brushing against her leg. His violet gaze lingered on her, unreadable behind the faint shimmer of his helm. Then, in a voice low and steady, he offered his words:

“Ride straight. Don’t falter. This beast will carry you faster than fear can catch you. And when the shadows close in, remember—pain doesn’t make you weaker. It proves you still endure.”

He gripped the Nightmare’s bridle, leading it through the last archway of the courtyard, toward the looming gates that opened onto the violet wastes. The torches along the walls flickered as though bowing her farewell.

Just as the gate yawned wide and the road stretched ahead, Kaelthys stopped. He turned to her one final time. His helm tilted, and though she could not see his face, the weight of his words was naked, vulnerable:

“You are not ugly, Genethia Roth. You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen.”

Before she could respond, before her throat could unclench from the knot his words tied there, Kaelthys released the bridle and struck the Nightmare’s flank. The beast surged forward, hooves striking sparks, flames streaming in its mane.

The palace of violet and shadow shrank behind her. The walls dissolved into the horizon, fading into mist and memory.

Neth clutched her rapier at her side, her new armor glowing faintly with Zlaniz’s sigil. Her one eye burned with determination, yet sadness hollowed its glow. As the colossal Hand grew a fraction nearer on the endless horizon, she didn’t look forward.

She looked back.

Back at the fading palace. Back at the man who had sent her away.

And then she faced the wastes again, the Nightmare’s fire carrying her onward, her heart a storm of sorrow and resolve.

Day 30 - The God and his Hands

Kasien’s steps echoed like hollow drums against the wide path, every footfall swallowed by the void yawning on either side. The bridge of crystal and stone stretched impossibly straight, carrying him toward the Colossal Hand that now dominated everything—no longer distant, no longer a mirage, but a mountain of living stone and shadow reaching into the black.

The skies had shifted. No longer the restless teal storms with eyes peering down from their curtains of energy. Now there was only black. A void sky—deaf, endless, oppressive. It pressed down on him with the silence of a tomb, as though sound itself had been devoured. Even the hum of magical resonance that had always whispered in Geardaz’s wastes was gone. The realm felt stripped bare, and Kasien felt naked inside it.

His breath steamed in the unnatural chill, his violet eyes fixed on the Hand. Every finger was a tower, each etched with runes that glowed faintly like dying stars. The Hand’s palm was tilted toward him, as if offering or demanding. It was so close now he swore he could see movement in its stone skin, veins of dark light pulsing faintly as though the hand itself was alive.

He whispered, though there was no sound but his own breath:

“I’ll be there.”

The void on either side rippled. Shapes flickered in the black, like thoughts that didn’t belong to him, memories stretching like claws from the abyss. His legs felt heavy, every step harder than the last, but he kept moving, the Hand drawing him like gravity.

This was no longer just a journey—it was the final approach.

The world itself seemed to hold its breath.

Kasien’s boots struck the teal-blue stone of the last stretch, every step dragging as though the air had thickened into glass. The Colossal Hand loomed before him, no longer an unreachable icon but a living mountain of stone and void-light. Each vein glowed with runes that pulsed like a heartbeat, the fingers rising into the black sky like towers of gods long-dead. He could feel its pull—not just on his body, but on his mind, dragging thoughts out of him, demanding his soul bare itself. Just a few more steps and he would set foot upon it. Just a few more, and he would leave Geardaz’s realm behind.

And far away—thundering hooves split the silence.

Neth.

The Nightmare’s flaming mane whipped like banners of war as she galloped across Zlaniz’s violet wastes, black roses crushed beneath its burning hooves. Crystals bled pink light in jagged spires, the storm-sky above boiling with violet and rose. She leaned forward, her one eye wide with exhaustion and determination, the Black Dragon of Asher glinting faintly at her side. The wind stung her face, tearing her violet studded armour, but she did not slow.

And then she saw it.

The Hand—closer than it had ever been, so vast it seemed to pull the whole of the realms into its shadow. And there, like a lone figure on the edge of creation, she saw him.

Kasien.

His pale hair caught the void-light, his stance swaying as though the world itself wanted to break him. But he stood, still moving, still fighting for each step.

Neth’s chest clenched. For a heartbeat, she felt every mile, every wound, every tear that had carried them both here. And now—now, at last—they were about to converge.

The Hand loomed between them, and destiny with it.

The world shifted.

The flaming hooves of the Nightmare pounded against the violet earth—then, as though it had never been real, the beast dissolved into smoke and fire, galloping on without its rider. Neth leapt free, landing hard, her knees biting against the dark stone. She rose, breath sharp in her chest, the Nightmare’s wild flame vanishing as it rushed past Kasien and into nothingness.

And then—silence.

She was running. Her legs screamed, her body still broken in a dozen ways, but she didn’t stop. Across the void-burned ground, across the black horizon that belonged to no god but Zonid, she saw him.

Kasien.

He turned, half-delirious, hand still resting on the Soul of the Elderwood. His violet eyes widened as he saw her—a single goblin figure, battered and bloodied, sprinting toward him through the black mist. For a moment he thought she was another phantom, another trick of the Hand. But her voice cut through the void.

“Kasien!”

It was her.

They met at the threshold of the black lands, where the teal and violet wastes bled together and were swallowed by Zonid’s dominion. The air was thick with rot and silence, broken only by the low hum of the colossal Hand above them.

The Hand was closer now than either had ever dreamed—its colossal palm stretched above like a continent, its ramp rising before them, etched with runes older than creation. The shadow of the fingers fell across them both, binding them in the same darkness.

For the first time in what felt like eternity, Neth and Kasien stood side by side.

Two survivors. Two broken souls. Two bearers of a fate neither had chosen.

And together, they looked up the ramp to the palm of the Hand.

The path was there. Waiting.

Neth doubled over, her chest heaving, her rapier clattering against the black stone as she caught herself on trembling knees. Her one eye lifted—red-rimmed, swollen from sleepless nights—but burning with that same defiance that had carried her through Urmbrik’s realm.

Kasien reached out instinctively, steadying her with a hand that shook no less than hers. His lips were cracked, his hair matted, his body a map of wounds—but he was standing, and in that moment, that was miracle enough.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The silence between them was heavier than the void. Then—

“You made it,” Kasien whispered, voice raw, as though he couldn’t believe the sight of her.

Neth let out a wet laugh, half sob, half relief. “So did you, bladesinger. Thought you’d be bones and dust before I caught you.”

He almost smiled, but his eyes were glassy, fever still clinging to him. “I almost was.” His hand tightened on her shoulder, grounding himself in the truth of her presence. “But you’re here.”

“I’m here,” Neth said, her voice breaking on the words. Tears streaked down her cheek. “And I’m not letting you go. Not now. Not after everything.”

They both turned then, slowly, to the ramp that led upward into the palm of the colossal Hand. Its vastness dwarfed them, its runes pulsing faintly, as though aware of their arrival.

Kasien’s voice was a rasp, but steady. “One more step, Neth.”

She nodded, gripping his arm as much for her strength as his. “One more. Together.”

The ramp climbed higher and higher until the ground itself seemed to vanish behind them, leaving only the abyss yawning wide below. At its peak, the path widened, and they stepped onto the palm of the colossal Hand.

The air changed—thicker, darker, every breath tasting of iron and ash. Before them stretched a long, straight corridor of living stone. On either side stood the armies of the God Hands, rank upon rank of horrors.

To their left: Urmbrik’s war-fiends, plated in black steel and drenched in blood, their weapons dripping gore. Giants with chains wrapped about their arms, minotaurs snorting smoke, knights whose eyes burned red through shattered helms.

To their right: Geardaz’s twisted host—spawn of crystal and void, eyeless things with too many mouths, mind flayers whose heads turned as one to regard them, and arcane archers with bows made of pure rune-light.

And beyond them both, stretching further still, the other armies: Zarlnis’ shadow-swarm, Zlaniz’s violet cults of silk and blade, and the armorer behemoths of Zonid himself. A corridor carved in nightmare, and yet the path through it was clear.

Neth swallowed, her throat dry. Her one eye swept the endless ranks, then flicked to Kasien. “Gods… they’re waiting for us.”

Kasien’s jaw tightened, his hand resting on Soul of the Elderwood. “Not to fight. Not yet. This…” he gestured down the path, where the armies seemed to ripple like a living tide held at bay, “...this is a trial of its own.”

Neth gave a bitter laugh, quiet, hollow. “After all we’ve survived, walking between them might be the cruelest thing yet.”

Kasien looked at her then, really looked—her new violet studded armour and her stubborn stance. And for the first time in days, something like a smile tugged at his lips. “We walk it together. No matter what waits at the end.”

Neth met his gaze. Despite everything—despite her hunger, her exhaustion, her breaking body—her heart steadied. She squeezed his hand, fierce and unyielding. “Together. Let them watch. Let them know we don’t bow.”

With that, they stepped forward. The silence of the armies was deafening, broken only by the echo of their footsteps as they began their march down the path carved between gods and monsters.

The path stretched longer than either of them could measure. Each step landed heavy, echoing off the colossal stone palm, the sound swallowed by the weight of watching armies.

First came Urmbrik’s host. Rows upon rows of crimson-armored killers, axes slick with old blood, giants pounding chains against the ground like war drums. Their jeers rose as Neth and Kasien passed—mocking laughs, guttural chants.

And there, among them, loomed Thanax, the Balor Lord. His massive frame was bent, his once-proud horns dulled, his hand clutching the space where his manhood had been severed. His eyes blazed when he saw Neth, yet he did not charge. He only roared in fury, a sound that shook the Hand itself.

From the line of Urmbrik’s champions came harsher mockery.
“Thanax the Ball-less!” Kaelira Veythar laughed like thunder, her axe raised in cruel salute.
Dravanya Khorne sneered, licking her blade. “The mighty undone by a goblin.”
Even Draegor’s lips curled in grim amusement.

The champions’ jeers rolled like fire, and yet Neth only adjusted her pack, feeling the small, grim weight inside. His testicles. A trophy she had not forgotten. Her one eye met Thanax’s with cold defiance, and though he snarled and strained, Urmbrik’s will held him still.

They pressed on.

Next rose the twisted spawn of Geardaz. Crystal-bodied horrors leaned down from the ranks, whispering broken fragments of Kasien’s own voice back at him. The mind flayers hissed in unison, pressing against his thoughts. But he walked on, his grip white-knuckled on Soul of the Elderwood. The arcane archers bowed mockingly, releasing arrows of teal light that shattered harmlessly in the void above—mock salutes, mocking threats.

Past them waited Zlaniz’s violet legions. The demonettes pressed their lips with mocking kisses, tossing roses of black flame. Silk-clad cultists hissed heresy in her ear, voices that were hers yet not hers: “Give in, little goblin. You’ve wanted it all along.”

Then came Zarlnis’ shadows, shapes without faces, whispers without mouths. Every footstep of Kasien and Neth seemed swallowed in silence, as if the world itself wanted to erase them. The soldiers of Zarlnis pointed but said nothing—specters holding their breath for what was to come.

Beyond all, the colossal figures of the God Hand champions themselves stood among their armies, silent monoliths of will and terror. Some watched with hunger, others with disdain, but all were present. All but Kaelthys, who remained apart.

And finally—at the path’s end—stood Zarlax “The Rift-Touched” Nyxara. Cloaked in shifting fragments of reality, her form flickered between planes with every heartbeat. Her eyes burned violet-black as she stepped forward, barring the way.

She smirked. The armies behind them fell silent.

“Well,” she purred, her voice a ripple across the void, “look what the Hand has carried to its palm. A broken goblin with a thief at her side. I wonder…” She tilted her head, studying them both with predatory amusement. “Do you walk here to rise… or to be unmade?”

Kasien’s breath caught. Neth’s hand tightened on her rapier.

The trial was not over. It had only begun.

The armies pressed closer, an ocean of crimson, teal, violet, and shadow, but none dared step past the line Zarlax had drawn.

She leaned on her glaive, voice curling with cruel amusement as it carried across the Hand:

Zarlax:
“Kneel. Bow your heads. Offer your broken backs to the Hands that shape your fates. Do this, and perhaps you’ll be allowed to crawl a little further before you break.”

Her eyes burned as they flickered between them. First Neth, scarred, trembling, yet still standing. Then Kasien—his ribs aching, his body bound in bandages, but his grip on his blade unshaken.

Neth straightened, spitting red on the colossal stone at her feet.
“Bow to you? I’ve bled across Urmbrik’s fires and drowned in Zlaniz’s whispers. If I didn’t kneel then, I’ll never kneel now.”

Zarlax’s smirk widened.
“Defiant to the last. A goblin who bites at gods. How quaint.”

Kasien stepped forward, his voice hoarse but steady.
“I didn’t come this far to kneel. I came for one thing—my family. Yshari. Vhalis. Tell me where they are.”

The Rift-Touched tilted her head, the void rippling behind her like torn cloth.
“Your family?” She gave a soft, mocking laugh. “So fragile, so desperate. Always thinking your bloodline matters in the shadow of eternity.”

Kasien’s knuckles whitened on Soul of the Elderwood. His voice cracked, but his words burned.
“Answer me, damn you!”

Zarlax leaned in, close enough that her shifting form seemed to blur at the edges of Kasien’s vision. Her whisper was poison and honey both.
“No.”

The word hit like a blade.

She turned away, her smirk never fading.
“You’ll kneel in time. All things kneel, when the Rift takes them.”

The silence of the armies roared louder than any war cry, waiting to see if Kasien or Neth would snap first.

Then silence, the armies went quiet.

The silence of the Hand hung heavy, so absolute it seemed the world itself had forgotten how to breathe.

Zarlax’s smirk lingered in the air like smoke as she stepped aside, her form bowing low, black-violet silks brushing the ground.

And then the shadow fell.

Five titans rose above Neth and Kasien, blotting out what little sky remained. Not statues, not illusions—living towers of nightmare, each a god carved from dominion itself.

To the left, Zlaniz, radiant in violet hunger, her beauty sharpened into cruelty. Beside her stood Urmbrik, a mountain of blood-iron and ruin, his gaze a weight that ground mortals into dust.

To the right, Geardaz, trickster and terror both, his storm-wreathed form seething with eyes that blinked in and out of existence. At his side loomed Zarlnis, shrouded in abyssal silence, her presence swallowing every whisper of hope.

And in the centre, vast and immovable—Zonid, the leader of the hand, the god of the void. His skeletal face burned with red fire, his throne-shadow encompassing them all.

Five gods. Five voices waiting.

Neth and Kasien stood between armies, their lungs still ragged with mortal breath.

And before them, the universe itself seemed to lean closer.

The silence pressed harder. The moment stretched long, unbearable.

And then, as one, the God Hands looked down.

The world itself waited to see if the two would kneel.

The Hand was vast beneath their feet, but it felt suddenly too small, too fragile, to hold the weight that pressed upon it now.

Neth’s throat burned with words she could not release. Kasien’s fists ached, clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened, yet he dared not move.

Armies waited in reverent stillness, demon and mortal alike reduced to shadows, all eyes fixed on the two figures who had refused to kneel.

Above them, the five stood. No words, no gestures—only presence. A presence that crushed thought, that split memory, that made the heart beat like a war drum in the ribs.

The silence stretched until it seemed time itself faltered, suspended on the edge of something inevitable.

Neth’s one eye burned. Kasien’s chest heaved with a breath that would not leave him.

And still the gods only watched.

Watched.

Waited.

The silence became its own judgment, its own trial.

Neth’s thoughts:

Too close. Too loud. I can’t breathe.
Her eye stung as if the gods themselves bored into it, peeling her bare.
They see everything… every failure, every scream, every time I wanted to give up. Dykenta, where are you now?
The amulet at her breast felt heavy, like it pulsed with their heartbeat instead of hers.
I won’t bow. I won’t. Even if they tear me apart right here, I’ll stand. I’ll stand… I’ll stand.

Her lips trembled with the unspoken truth: But I am afraid. Gods, I am afraid.

Kasien’s thoughts:

They’re bigger than mountains.
He forced his eyes up, even though his body begged him to drop to his knees.
One word, one gesture — and I’m ash. But no. No. I’ve come too far. Too many graves left behind me. Too many lies told to my face. I won’t end as another kneeling shadow in their court.

His ribs ached as if the weight of the five pressed on them directly.
Where are you, Yshari? Where are you, Vhalis? If I fall here, let me at least fall with your names on my lips.

And beneath the terror, a flicker, raw and reckless: If they want me broken, they’ll have to break me with their own hands.

The air itself seemed to thicken with their silence, as if the five gods were not merely watching but measuring.

The silence held so long it became unbearable, a weight pressing bone into dust. And then—

A voice, vast and cold as the grave, rolled over them.
Not a shout. Not a roar. Just a word, yet it thundered through marrow and soul.

Zonid.

“You stand.”

The void itself seemed to echo his syllables, black skies shuddering with every breath he loosed.

“You bleed. You suffer. You arrive here unbowed… before the Five.”

The other gods did not stir, though their gazes burned brighter. Urmbrik’s armor cracked with faint embers. Geardaz’s form shimmered like fractured glass. Zarlnis’s shadows writhed like serpents in her wake. Zlaniz leaned forward ever so slightly, a smile both approving and predatory.

But Zonid’s voice cut through all of them, deeper, older, final.

“Then answer me.”
The colossal skull-helmed god leaned upon his throne, the fire of his eyes boring into Neth and Kasien both.
“Do you defy us… or do you seek us?”

The armies stirred with unease at the words, as if even they feared to hear the answer.

Neth’s throat burned, but she forced the words out, her voice sharp and trembling with defiance.
“I defy you. All of you. I have bled too much, lost too much, to bend now. You are gods, yes—but gods who gorge on ruin. I will not seek you.”

Her one eye burned like a coal, her hand tight on her rapier’s hilt even though she knew how small it looked against their enormity.

Beside her, Kasien did not answer at once. His jaw worked, his fists clenched. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower, steadier—but no less dangerous.

“I seek,” he admitted, and the word cut like a blade.
“Not for your power. Not for your thrones. I seek what you took—my blood, my kin. I will walk into your abyss to find them. But make no mistake—when I find them, when I hold them again, I will tear your abyss down with my own hands.”

The words hung between them like fire and ash—Neth’s rejection, Kasien’s brutal claim.

The five gods loomed, their silence sharpened by the contrast. Zlaniz’s smirk deepened, clearly amused. Urmbrik rumbled with a growl, eager for blood. Geardaz tilted his head, fascinated by Kasien’s hunger. Zarlnis’s shadows trembled, whispering unseen words. And Zonid’s hollow gaze flared brighter, as though measuring both of them against a fate already carved in stone.

It was not the thunderous Urmbrik, nor the amused Zlaniz who spoke.
It was Zonid, the Hollow Lord, the one in the middle.

His voice was not a sound but an absence—like silence pressed into their skulls until it hurt.

“One denies. One seeks.
Both kneel already.
The goblin’s refusal is a mask for hunger she does not yet admit.
The elf’s seeking is already surrender, for the moment he demands, he accepts the shape of our gift.”

Neth staggered, her heart rattling against her ribs. She wanted to scream, to spit, to say no. But the weight of his words pressed into the softest, most secret corners of her.

Kasien gritted his teeth, but even he felt the hook in the truth Zonid flung. He had spoken of seeking, and the god had turned that thread into a noose.

Zlaniz chuckled softly at Zonid’s verdict, her gaze flicking between the two mortals like a cat watching trapped birds.
Urmbrik only snorted, hungry to see who would break first.
Geardaz grinned sharp, as though delighted by the paradox of Kasien’s stance.
And Zarlnis said nothing, her shadows whispering with a thousand voices but offering no meaning.

The colossal Hand trembled faintly beneath Neth and Kasien’s feet, as though the very ground shared the gods’ anticipation.

The weight of Zonid’s words hung in the air like chains.
Every heartbeat was a hammer.
Every breath scraped like glass.

Neth’s nails dug into her palms. Her single eye burned, not just with defiance but with the sting of truth she hated—that there was a hunger in her, and the god had seen it.

At last, her voice broke the silence, raw and ragged:

Neth: “You don’t know me. You don’t own me. My hunger is mine, not yours to twist.”

Her words quivered between fury and despair, yet they stood.

Kasien turned toward her, violet eyes sharp, his chest rising like he carried a storm inside. He spoke next, cutting across her defiance with a voice like steel drawn too thin:

Kasien: “And I do not seek your gifts. I seek only my blood. My family. If you cannot give me them, then all your words are emptier than this void we stand in.”

The two voices clashed—hers denying dominion, his demanding truth—and the echo rose like a spark between the five gods, who leaned in as though savouring the divide.

The colossal silence broke not with Zonid’s voice again, but with the deep rumble of Geardaz.
It rolled through the void like stone grinding against stone, each word shaking the path beneath Neth and Kasien’s feet.

Geardaz:
“You crave truth, boy. You demand your blood? Then look well. She has walked before you already. She has borne the weight of my choir. She is mine, now.”

The air darkened, teal sparks rippling like veins of lightning across the black sky.

From above, wings unfurled—a shadow cutting the void. The armored figure Kasien had faced before, the winged champion who had haunted his path, descended with heavy strides. The void-fire gleamed along her blade as she landed between the mortals and the gods.

Her helm tilted toward him. Slowly, deliberately, she reached up and removed it.

Not a stranger.
Not an enemy.
But Yshari.
His sister.

Her eyes burned with the teal light of Geardaz, her face touched by sorrow but locked in iron resolve.

Yshari:
“…Brother.”

The word struck harder than any blade.

Kasien staggered back, his breath broken, his voice a raw snarl.

Kasien:
“No. No—you’re not her. You can’t be. This is another trick. Another song. Another lie!”

But the gods were silent now, letting the weight of the revelation crush him. Only the sound of Yshari’s wings folding behind her, and the echo of her word—Brother—hung in the void.

Kasien’s denial ripped out of him like a wound that wouldn’t close.

He staggered back another step, his blade trembling in his grip though he hadn’t raised it. His voice cracked, half a roar, half a plea:

Kasien:
“No—you’re not her! You can’t be her! My sister would never bend the knee to this filth—she would never cloak herself in their chains! Yshari died long before she’d wear wings made of rot!”

His breath came ragged, fury clawing at the edges of his voice.
“This is another one of your lies, Geardaz! Another hallucination! I will not believe it—I will not—”

But Yshari did not flinch. She only looked at him, the sorrow in her gaze heavy, the light in her eyes unyielding. Slowly, her voice cut through his denial—low, steady, and haunting.

Yshari:
“Do you remember Liniruppa mountains? When Father caught us sneaking out of camp to play with the fireflies? You broke your ankle on the rocks, and I carried you all the way back while he laughed. I was thirteen. You were six. You wouldn’t stop crying until I sang the lullaby Mother taught us.”

Kasien’s mouth went dry. His grip slackened on his sword. His breath faltered. He shook his head, whispering, desperate:

Kasien:
“No… stop. Stop! That’s… that’s mine, that’s ours—how could you—”

She took a step closer, her wings curling behind her like shadows of memory.

Yshari:
“I remember more, brother. I remember the promise you made me—when you said you’d protect me, no matter what. Even though I was the older one. You believed it. You still do.”

Her voice cracked on the last words, but her eyes burned brighter, as though Geardaz’s fire smothered the ache.

Kasien’s face twisted with grief and rage. His voice broke again, raw and hoarse:

Kasien:
“Then tell me… if you are my sister—if you are really Yshari—where is Vhalis? Where is our cousin?”

For the first time, Yshari’s expression shifted. Not sorrow. Not pity. But something cold, cruel.

Her lips curled into a sharp, wicked smirk.

Yshari:
“…Dead. By my hand.”

The words landed like steel to the gut. Kasien reeled as if struck, his legs buckling, his voice barely more than a gasp:

Kasien:
“…No… you didn’t… you couldn’t…”

But the glimmer of pleasure in her smirk told him it was no lie.

Kasien’s sword fell from his hand with a dull clang against the black stone.

The sound seemed to echo forever in the silence between the five gods. His body folded forward as if something inside him had been ripped loose. He pressed his palms into the ground, trembling, his breath tearing ragged through his chest.

Kasien (hoarse, broken):
“…I searched for you. Every step. Every mile. Through ruins, through storms, through the wastes—every breath was for you both. For family. For the only blood I had left.”

His head lifted just enough to look at her through blurred vision, his eyes wide and hollow, disbelief clinging like shards of glass.

“And this… this is what I find? My sister… my sister a butcher? My sister a pawn to the filth we swore to fight? And Vhalis—gods, Vhalis—”

His voice cracked so violently he choked, his body wracked by a sob that he couldn’t suppress.

Kasien (screaming):
“WHY?!”

His fists slammed against the stone until blood marked the surface. He sagged, shoulders shaking, tears cutting through the grime of his face.

Kasien (whispering, almost to himself):
“…You were my hope. You were my reason. And you killed her… you killed everything.”

For a moment he was utterly still, his chest heaving, his face a mask of ruin.

Then, barely audible, a final rasp of broken words left him:

“…If you are truly Yshari… then my sister is already dead.”Neth moved without thinking. Her rapier clattered to the stone as she dropped to her knees beside Kasien, one hand on his shoulder, the other curling around his arm as though anchoring him to the world. His body trembled like a bowstring too tightly drawn, every sob raw and jagged, every breath tearing out of him like it cost his life to take.

Neth (soft, desperate):
“Kasien… look at me. You’re not alone. Not now, not ever. I’m here. I swear it—I’m here.”

Her words cracked, her throat tight with her own grief. She had never seen him unravel like this, never felt him break. And in that moment, she cared nothing for gods or armies—only for keeping him from shattering beyond repair.

Kasien buried his face into her shoulder, his tears hot against her skin. His fingers clawed weakly at her back, like a drowning man holding to the last piece of driftwood.

Across from them, Yshari stood like a statue carved from midnight. Her armoured wings stretched, catching the cold blue light, her helm shadowing her face.

At first—silence. Cruel silence.

But in the faint tremor of her voice when she finally spoke, the fracture showed.

Yshari (sharp, trying to hold her mask):
“Pathetic. He weeps like a child clinging to stories of home. This… this is what I abandoned. Weakness. Chains.”

Yet her eyes—glowing behind the slits of her helm—lingered on Kasien too long. Too heavy. The smirk she wore faltered at its edges, trembling just enough to betray that under Geardaz’s cruelty, something else stirred.

Yshari (lower, quieter, almost to herself):
“…Brother.”

Her hand twitched on the hilt of her sword, as though unsure whether to strike him down or reach for him. The gods watched, silent, as her mask of cruelty fought against something deeper, something she dared not let breathe.

The black sky seemed to shudder, as if even the void strained to hear. From the central throne, where the vast shadow of Zonid loomed, came a voice that was not merely sound but gravity itself, crushing the marrow of all who stood within its reach.

Zonid’s voice — vast, resonant, inexorable:

“Look around you, little embers of Platera. You stand not in halls of men nor forests of elves, but upon the palm of eternity itself. Here, we—the Hands that carve fate—have watched your every step, your every cry, your every act of defiance. You bleed, you mourn, you rage… yet what has it bought you but scars and graves?”

His red eyes burned through the void, and the other gods seemed smaller around him—silent, like generals in the shadow of their sovereign.

“You chase freedom. You clutch at love. You call yourselves unbroken. But it is we who have carried your story, just as we carried the rise and fall of Tibur, just as we carried Zelistra into ruin, just as we will carry all who come after. You are threads, and we are the loom.”

The colossal hand beneath them trembled, not with violence, but with the weight of his words, a living stage for his will.

“Bow, Genethia Roth. Bow, Kasien Ash-Fall. Bend your knee, and you shall not only be spared—you shall rise. Your suffering will not be in vain. Your blood, your pain, your lost kin… all will become pillars of a new world that you will rule beneath us.”

The air itself seemed to press them downward, knees aching, spines creaking under the invisible weight of command. Zonid’s final words cut like iron chains snapping shut:

“Kneel, and be remade. Kneel, and belong. Kneel… to your gods.”

Kasien’s voice cracked as he leaned closer to Neth, eyes wide and lost under the weight of the five divine gazes. His chest heaved, every breath a war between despair and defiance.

Kasien (hoarse, desperate):
“Neth… tell me… should we kneel? Is this how it ends?”

Neth turned to him, her one eye bloodshot from exhaustion but blazing with a light the gods themselves had not crushed. She pressed a trembling hand against his arm, grounding him, her voice firm despite the storm in her chest.

Neth (steady, iron beneath the cracks):
“No, Kasien. Not now. Not ever. We’ve bled too much, we’ve lost too much. We will not kneel.”

Kasien stared at her—his sister broken, his cousin gone, his body failing—and in that one moment, he drew from her fire. He straightened, breath shuddering but clear, and looked up at the towering forms of the God Hands.

Kasien (defiant, teeth bared):
“You hear her. We will not kneel.”

Neth took a step forward, her voice carrying like a blade through the oppressive silence, her gaze locked on Zonid’s vast, abyssal eyes.

Neth (fierce, unyielding):
“We do not kneel to tyrants. Not to Zonid. Not to Zlaniz. Not to any of you. We stand.”

The colossal Hand itself seemed to shake, as though their refusal echoed against the very bones of the realm. Soldiers in the gathered armies shifted uneasily. Urmbrik’s champions sneered, Geardaz’s spawn twitched in agitation, Zlaniz’s demonettes whispered among themselves.

And for the first time since the silence broke—
—the gods were answered.

The stillness cracked like thunder.

Zonid leaned forward from the central height of the colossal Hand, his form blotting out what little light the void-sky still offered. His voice came not as sound but as weight—each syllable pressing into marrow, dripping down spines, coiling in lungs like smoke.

Zonid (cold, vast, inexorable):
“You stand. You defy. Small things clinging to fire, even while drowning in shadow. You speak of not kneeling, of bleeding, of standing. I have seen empires burn for less. I have watched kings kneel quicker than dogs.”

His gaze passed over them both—Kasien, pale and trembling, Neth, her eye blazing but body broken by trials.

Zonid (deepening, echoing):
“Courage is not defiance. Courage is knowing when the stone will crush you, and bowing before it shatters your bones. You are children, bleeding on my floor. Your defiance amuses, but it is not strength—it is ignorance wearing pride like a mask.”

The air blackened further, the void above splitting like a wound.

Zonid (rising to a decree):
“Maybe… you need to be broken some more.”

A ripple moved through the armies of the Hand. Knights shifted, spawns shrieked in guttural joy, even Urmbrik’s Balor Lord rumbled bitter laughter.

Zonid extended one finger—colossal, divine, inevitable—pointing down toward them.

Zonid (commanding):
“Fight. Not us. Not yet. Fight her.”

Wings beat like thunder. Yshari descended, armored and radiant in Geardaz’s mark, her eyes gleaming through the helm. She landed hard before them, cracking the stone beneath her, her sword shrieking free from its sheath.

Zonid’s voice rolled one last time, sealing the decree:

Zonid:
“Prove your strength, or crawl broken at her feet. Neth Roth. Kasien Ash-Fall. Face Yshari… your sister, your blood, your ruin.”

The silence that followed was jagged, merciless. Yshari raised her blade in a fluid arc, leveled it toward them both, and for just an instant—a cruel, knowing smirk curved her lips beneath the visor.

The Cinders Arrived

The air cracked open like glass shattering.
A tear in the void widened behind the God Hands, its edges bleeding violet and white fire, until a ragged portal yawed open.

From it stepped familiar shapes—her new family, her broken band, her fire-forged circle.

Reyn first, steady even with fear in his eyes. Gojo close beside him, hand resting on steel. Cipher, sharp gaze darting, assessing every god and monster. Jojo, anxious but clutching his staff with resolve. Lek, nimble even here, face unreadable but watching Neth. Desnora, fierce red hair like a banner of defiance. Lila, serene mask hiding a storm. Nórue, wide-eyed but clutching his bow. And finally—Willow Bloodeyes, her gaze already fixed on Neth, loyal, burning, unshaken.

The Cinders. Here.
Her heart stopped.

Neth staggered back half a step, one hand clutching the Black Dragon of Asher at her side. For an instant her whole trial, her whole torment, felt meaningless. They were here, in the jaws of the storm. In danger because of her.

Her eye snapped toward Zlaniz.

The goddess was already watching her—lips curved in a predator’s smile, tongue brushing over them with a slow, indulgent savor. She leaned against her throne of thorns as if this had all been scripted, as if the board was falling exactly into place.

And in that look, Neth knew. Zlaniz was telling her—without words—You remember the deal. Their lives for your chains. Say yes, and they live.

The pit of Neth’s stomach turned to stone. Her body trembled—not from exhaustion now, but from terror. The thought clanged in her skull like iron:

“If I say nothing, they will die. If I bow… I damn myself forever.”

Her gaze lingered on Reyn, her oldest anchor. On Desnora, who had once been lost and found again. On Willow, her shadow of loyalty. One by one their faces seared her soul.

And still, the taste of Zlaniz’s smirk burned in her veins like poison.

Neth’s chest rose and fell like a smith’s bellows, every breath shallow, ragged, uneven.

The Cinders—her Cinders—stood before her, caught in this black theatre of gods and monsters. Their eyes glimmered with trust, with readiness, but none of them understood the abyss yawning beneath their feet. None of them knew the deal that gnawed at her insides like a worm in rotten fruit.

Zlaniz’s words coiled around her skull, sweet and venomous:

“When you want to save your friends such as the Cinders but you can't do anything… agree to this deal of marriage and I will save them from their own destruction.”

Her throat burned. Her one eye filled with tears that she fought to blink away, because weakness now was a scent the gods would feast upon.

If I bow, I save them. If I yield, they live. If I give myself to her, maybe their futures aren’t crushed under the heel of these gods.

She pictured Reyn’s laugh, so stubborn and bright even when broken. She saw Lek slipping into shadow, grinning at some trick only he understood. Desnora’s pride, fierce even in the face of mockery. Willow’s eyes, always on her, always loyal.

Her stomach clenched so tight she thought she might vomit.

But then came the other voice, low and steady—the voice of Caladawn in memory, the voice of Dykenta in prayer, the voice of herself when she still believed she could stand against anything:

If you kneel, you are theirs. Not just your body, not just your vows—your soul, your story, your fire. They will use you until you are nothing but shadow. And then the Cinders will be spared only to walk in a world where you are the sixth god of their conquerors.

Her hands shook on the hilt of the Black Dragon of Asher. Her eye burned with exhaustion, terror, and fury.

Do I trade myself for them? Do I damn myself to Zlaniz’s bed, her chains, her games, her hunger? Is saving them worth killing myself?

The colossal Hand beneath her feet pulsed with silence, as though the stone itself waited for her answer.

Above, the five gods watched.
Beside, Kasien burned in grief.
Before her, the Cinders stood—innocent, unaware.

And Neth’s heart screamed against itself, caught in an unending spiral:

“What kind of champion am I—if I save them? What kind of monster am I—if I don’t?”

Reyn’s eyes darted across the black expanse like a hawk circling storm-torn skies.

The Cinders stood behind him—wide-eyed, unready for what towered before them. Five gods loomed like mountain peaks; their champions burned like torches along the path. And there, at the center, Neth and Kasien, their faces etched with agony that words couldn’t reach.

His instincts roared the way they always had: protect them. Find the crack. Find the path.

He’d grown up on Reyn’s mother’s words, whispered in halls of Albion where politics and blades cut alike: “Every trap has a seam. Every cage has a door. Don’t waste your time screaming—find it.”

So Reyn’s gaze hunted:

• The colossal Hand itself, its palm marked with fractures that pulsed like veins. Could it be climbed, broken, turned?
• The armies—disciplined, yes, but held in rigid lines. If chaos broke here, a spark could unravel them.
• Zlaniz—smiling like a serpent, but her eyes locked on Neth. Obsession. That was leverage.
• Geardaz—mocking, but laughing too much. Mockery hid something brittle.
• Urmbrik—rage straining at its leash, more beast than god. Rage could be baited, turned inward.

And Zonid, at the center, the one they all seemed to anchor themselves around—he didn’t just watch. He measured. He was the seam.

Reyn’s jaw clenched. He could feel the Cinders breathing behind him, waiting for him to falter. Lila’s hand hovered near her daggers. Francesca mouthed a prayer she didn’t finish. Willow’s glare was fixed on the gods like she’d cut their throats if she could.

We’re not ready for this. Not like this. Not all of us. Not yet.

And yet, he knew if he didn’t move—if he didn’t find the seam—they would all break here, one by one.

His hand brushed the gemstone his mother had entrusted to him, the weight of its secret promise pressing in his palm. For the first time since stepping through the portal, he thought: maybe there’s still a way. Maybe one of us doesn’t have to die for all of us to live.

Reyn inhaled slow, steady, and let his eyes burn into Zonid’s, calculating his chances.

Reyn stayed perfectly still.

His breath came calm, too calm, like he was back in the wilds hunting deer with Rheana, waiting for the perfect draw of the bow. Around him the Cinders shifted, restless, caught between awe and terror—but Reyn’s gaze stayed locked on the five gods, then flicked—just once—back to Neth and Kasien.

He said nothing.

Not to the gods.
Not to his friends.
Not even to himself.

Only silence, letting the weight of the moment settle heavier and heavier, like snow piling on a roof until something had to give.

Inside, though, his mind raced. Every breath counted, every heartbeat another chance to see deeper into the weave of this trap. The gods wanted him to speak, to break, to move. But he’d learned long ago: sometimes the strongest blade in your hand is restraint.

So Reyn waited.

Waited for Zonid to lean too far forward.
Waited for Zlaniz’s smile to slip, even for a heartbeat.
Waited for the seam.

Because when it came, he would strike—not with rage, not with despair—but with precision.

And in that silence, the storm grew.

The moment cracked like thin ice.

Lek dropped to his knees, hands clawing at the black gravel, muttering something about tunnelling beneath, about getting to Neth and Kasien the only way he knew how. But the earth turned against him—the ground shifted like quicksand, stones writhing like living things, latching onto his arms, his legs, his face. He screamed as they burrowed into his skin like leeches, drinking his strength, feeding on his panic.

“Lek!” Lila cried, voice breaking, her hands clapped over her mouth. She didn’t move—couldn’t—her body frozen between terror and instinct.

Gojo, always the brute wall of defiance, took one step forward, shoulders squared. “Enough of this. I’ll—”

“Don’t.” Reyn’s voice cracked out sharp as a whip. But Gojo kept his jaw locked, one boot pressing forward.

Meanwhile, Cipher had already vanished into the shadows at the edge of the god-army’s ranks, slipping low, inching closer to Neth and Kasien with every breath. For a moment it seemed like he might make it—until one of Zarlnis’s pale soldiers tilted its head unnaturally, nostrils flaring, gaze cutting into the shadows. Cipher froze mid-step, sweat gleaming on his temple.

And all the while, Neth’s eye trembled. Her body quivered, not with exhaustion this time but with a terror she could not hide. She looked not at Zonid, nor Geardaz, nor the vast armies bristling at her defiance—but straight at Zlaniz.

And Zlaniz… smiled. A wide, indulgent, predatory smile. The smirk of someone who knew how the pieces would fall. Who knew what string to tug.

Reyn saw it. Saw all of it. His friends unraveling, acting on impulse. Neth trapped in a silent tug-of-war, her terror written plain. Zlaniz savoring it, drinking it in.

His pulse hammered in his throat.

No time. No more waiting. He had to bind them all back together before the gods tore them apart, before Neth made a desperate choice she could never take back.

Reyn snapped.

“Lek—Bloodeyes—Kasien!” His voice cut through the madness like a whip. “Now! Go!”

The two didn’t hesitate. Lek, bleeding from the gravel still clinging to his skin, tore himself free and bolted through the black dust toward Kasien. Willow Bloodeyes blurred beside him—her red eyes locked forward, her daggers drawn but reversed, running not to fight but to reach.

Reyn turned to the others. “Gojo, Cipher—you’re with me. We get Neth. Desnora—open us a way out. We’re leaving this nightmare now!”

The Red Wizard clenched her teeth, her hands already blazing with the furious red of Sturvik spellcraft. She slammed her palms together and tore a rent in the air—a ragged wound of crimson light that fought against the black gravity of the God Hands’ realm. It flickered, threatening to collapse, but it was open.

“Not for long!” she shouted.

Reyn’s focus cut back to the field. Neth still hadn’t moved—frozen under the five divine gazes, the armies’ eyes burning into her. Kasien looked hollowed, lost.

“Move!” Reyn barked, sprinting down the divide. Gojo was beside him, Cipher slipping through the spaces between shadows like a ghost.

The world seemed to shudder around them—the gods watching, curious. Zlaniz’s smirk widened; Geardaz tilted his head, amused. Urmbrik snarled, but made no move.

Lek reached Kasien first, grabbing his arm. “We’ve got you, brother—come on—”

Kasien blinked, dazed. “Reyn? Neth—”

Bloodeyes grabbed his other arm, dragging him.

At the same time, Reyn and Cipher reached Neth. She didn’t resist, but her gaze was still fixed on Zlaniz—on that smile that seemed to know everything.

“Come on, Neth,” Reyn urged, gripping her shoulder. “We’re getting you home.”

Her lips trembled. “She—she knows what I want…”

“Then stop letting her take it!” Reyn growled. “You already won. You’re still here. Let’s go!”

They ran.

The ground shuddered, the air howled. Divine laughter rolled across the sky like thunder. The gods did not chase. They only watched—as if letting their prey flee was part of the game.

The portal flickered. Desnora’s face was pale, sweat beading down her brow. “Now or never!”

Reyn locked eyes with Zlaniz across the distance. Her smirk softened into something almost tender—and that terrified him more than any rage could have.

The air froze.

Reyn’s boots dug into the black soil as the portal winked out behind them, Desnora’s magic unraveling like a dying ember. Every god loomed impossibly tall now—no longer still, no longer silent. Zonid’s voice rolled like an eclipse swallowing the sun.

“If you wish to save them,” the god said, every syllable burning, “then replace them. A life for a life. Your courage for their defiance.”

The armies stirred. Thousands of soldiers—demonic, divine, monstrous—shifted in perfect rhythm, the sound of armor and bone a whispering tide.

Then came Geardaz’s laugh. A high, crystalline thing that shattered the quiet like glass breaking underwater.

“So dramatic,” he said, teal energy sparking from his crown of shifting runes. “Come now, hunter of the weak. Choose. My champion hungers for a challenge.”

The ground trembled. From the shadowed ranks, Yshari stepped forward—her armored wings unfurling, her eyes glowing through the slits of her helm like dying stars. She said nothing, her spear humming low and steady in her hands.

Reyn’s throat closed.

“No.” His voice was barely sound. Just breath. “No, there’s been enough killing.”

Zonid’s red eyes flared. “Then yield.”

Reyn looked over his shoulder. His friends—his family—stood behind him.

Kasien, shaking, burned raw from his ordeals, eyes sunken and haunted.
Neth, clutching her chest, her breathing shallow, her single eye defiant but tired beyond measure.
Bloodeyes, blades drawn, teeth bared, a ghost of bloodlust flickering behind her calm.
Gojo, standing tall, unflinching.
Desnora, near spent, smoke still rising from her hands keeping the portal open.
Lila, Cipher, Lek, Nórue—all watching him, waiting, trusting.

His hand trembled. He hated himself for even thinking about who could still stand, who might survive the longest.

“Reyn,” Gojo said softly. “Don’t think. Just decide.”

“You think I can send anyone to die?” Reyn snapped.

“We’re already dying,” Bloodeyes said, stepping forward. “Might as well make it mean something.”

The gods’ laughter rippled again. Zlaniz crossed her legs, chin resting on her hand, smiling down at the mortals like a queen at a play.

“So much fire in such fragile things.”

Reyn’s breath shuddered. His eyes met Neth’s for a heartbeat—and in her one gaze, he saw her decision forming before she even spoke.

“I’ll do it.”

“Neth, no—”

“I owe them this.”

The words hit him like a blow.

Geardaz’s grin widened. “That’s one. Choose another.”

Reyn’s jaw clenched until it hurt. The silence stretched.

Bloodeyes took a single step forward. Bloodeyes hands signed “Make it me.”

Reyn spun. “No.”

Bloodeyes signed softly, “I’m not letting her go alone.”

The gods watched in delighted quiet, savouring every pulse of mortal despair.

Zonid inclined his head, shadows curling around his hands. “It is decided.”

Geardaz’s laugh was like a blade scraping glass. “So be it. The duel begins will begin!”

The armies roared—not with sound, but with psychic pressure, a wave of divine hunger rolling through the air.

Reyn wanted to scream, to tear the sky apart. But all he could do was stand as his friends—his family—were claimed by the gods’ decree.

The air split with Reyn’s roar—
“STOP!”

Even the gods flinched.
The armies froze, their endless ranks shifting in uneasy silence. The tension was a blade at the throat of the world.

Reyn’s voice was raw, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. “I never chose anyone! I lead them—it’s my call, my burden! You want a sacrifice, take me!”

Zonid’s red eyes pulsed like burning suns. The air itself seemed to listen.

“He speaks truth,” the god murmured, voice like thunder rolling behind clouds. “The leader bears the weight. Let him carry it.”

Geardaz sighed with theatrical annoyance, fingers tapping the air as if bored. “How tedious. So full of self-importance, these mortals. Always turning tragedy into poetry.”

Neth’s voice cracked. “Reyn, no—you don’t have to do this. We can find another way—”

He turned sharply. “This is the other way.”

Bloodeyes’ hands flickered in fast, desperate signs—Don’t. Not like this. We’re not done fighting.

Reyn’s jaw clenched. He was buying seconds—every heartbeat was another moment for Desnora’s portal to hold, another breath for Kasien to think.

Kasien’s violet eyes darted to him. He understood.

Then—like a ripple through the dark—the air shimmered.
A soft, melodic hum rolled through the battlefield, echoing off the bones of reality itself.

Kasien turned his head and saw her.
Elyndra Veylith—the Lament of Discord—stood at the edge of the void, her silver hair glowing, the lyre in her hand bleeding teal light. She met Kasien’s eyes and gave a single, deliberate nod.

Kasien whispered, “Now.”

The ground erupted in a shimmer of teal-blue glyphs. The gods’ voices rose in fury as space twisted. Elyndra’s song tore the world open.

In that chaos—Kasien seized Lek and Bloodeyes by the wrists.

“Trust me,” he hissed.

Geardaz’s booming laugh turned to a shriek of outrage. “You dare twist my realm’s weave—”

The light engulfed them. Elyndra’s voice crescendoed—discord and harmony colliding.
In a breath, Kasien, Lek, and Bloodeyes vanished—thrown through the howling tear toward Desnora’s failing portal.

On the other side, Desnora screamed as her magic buckled. The rip widened like a wound; her eyes went blood-red. “I can’t hold it!”

Kasien hit the stone hard, tumbling through, Lek crashing after him. The air ripped again as Bloodeyes appeared last—then she looked between them both, jaw set.

“This will do,” Lek said, already reaching for his dagger.

Bloodeyes gave him one last look—then, with a sharp kick, sent Kasien flying into Desnora's portal back to Platera. His scream was lost to the light.

The moment his form disappeared, the portal screamed.

The realm of the gods, the air fell deathly still.
Reyn still stood beneath Zonid’s gaze, sweat streaking his face.

He looked over his shoulder—Desnora doing her best to keep the portal open, the light flickering. Kasien gone and Lila and Norue went through too.

Reyn exhaled, shaking. “That’s three I’ve saved.”

Then, turning to Neth, his voice cracked softer:

“You’re not fighting. Not today. Go to the portal—get out while you can.”

Neth stepped past the armies, past the smirking gods.
Each step was a battle—the pressure of their gaze pressing against her skin. She reached the lip of the portal had been, stopped, and turned back.

Reyn stood alone now, before the towering pantheon.

His sword was drawn.

And even the gods went silent to watch what he would do next.

The world split open in chaos.

Reyn turned just as Neth reached the edge of the fading portal, the air around her shimmering like liquid glass. The gods loomed behind him—vast, motionless, patient—but he could feel their fury brewing like thunder.

“Now!” he roared.

Cipher and Gojo didn’t hesitate. They broke into a sprint, their boots striking the dark stone like war drums. Desnora’s hands flared in agony as she tried to stabilize the portal’s collapsing rim. Sparks of her magic burned her skin, but she held it open with a scream.

Bloodeyes and Lek heard the call. They ran for the light and vanished through it in unison—gone in a single flash.

Neth stood frozen, trembling, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might burst. Cipher slipped past a divine spear of light, rolled across the fractured ground, and dove through the portal. His voice echoed behind him—

“Go!”

Reyn flared his wings. Holy light burned behind him as his Aasimar nature surged forth—his feathers searing white against the black. He shot upward, trying to rise past the gods’ reach.

Gojo was right behind him, running on foot.

But the gods were not slow.

Urmbrik’s hand lashed out—a storm of molten fury, catching Gojo mid-step. He tripped, sliding to the ground.

Reyn almost made it through. His wings cut through the darkness. But Zonid’s gaze alone stopped him.
Invisible chains of red energy wrapped his wings, dragging him midair. The light in his feathers dimmed.

“You think you deceive me?” Zonid’s voice tore through the air, each word an earthquake. “You think mortal cunning can outwit the Hands of the End?”

Urmbrik’s gauntlet closed around Gojo’s throat, lifting him from the ground. The Half High-Elf struggled, gasping, as holy fire began to burn across his body. Reyn screamed in rage, pulling against the binds until his wings tore, blood scattering into light.

The sound that followed was agony itself.

Neth stumbled back, tears flooding her one good eye. She could hear the crack of bones, the rip of wing and flesh, the choking roar of Gojo as the gods made examples of them.

She looked up through her tears—at Zlaniz.

The goddess sat on her throne of violet crystal, chin resting in her hand, her legs crossed elegantly. She was smiling. Waiting.

Neth’s entire body shook. Every scar, every wound, every failure led to this moment—this awful, silent truth pressing in her chest.

She took one breath.

And screamed.

“I ACCEPT THE DEAL!”

The words tore her throat raw.

Zlaniz’s eyes lit up, her grin splitting wider than a mortal face should allow. She stood slowly, the shadows bending around her like silk.

“Ahh…” she purred, stretching her arms. “There she is. My little violet flame.”

She snapped her fingers.

Reality twisted.

Reyn’s scream was cut short as his body vanished in a burst of violet light. Gojo was ripped from Urmbrik’s hand, the flames snuffed out mid-breath. Desnora, collapsing beside the fading portal, was swept away as well—her magic extinguished the instant she crossed the veil.

When the silence returned, they were gone.

Reyn, Gojo, and Desnora—back in Platera. Safe.

And Neth stood alone.

The portal flickered out, leaving nothing but the low hum of divine power. The air trembled with laughter—Geardaz’s mocking amusement, Urmbrik’s low growl, Zarlnis’s whisper of intrigue.

Zlaniz stepped forward, her violet eyes gleaming with victory.

“A deal sealed in blood and desire,” she said softly. “The first of many, my little goblin.”

The five gods surrounded her now, titanic and radiant, their attention fixed wholly on her.

Neth felt the world spin—
the gravity of their power pressing against her chest,
the memory of Reyn’s scream still echoing in her skull,
the cold realization that she was no longer one of the Cinders—
she was going to be a wife to Zlaniz's Champion.

And in that breathless silence, beneath the eyes of gods,
she whispered only one thing to herself:

“...what have I done?”

The vast plane of the gods began to still, the thunder of divine armies shifting into a low, retreating murmur. The black air trembled with residual power — the echo of Reyn’s rescue fading into the void, the glow of the portal finally gone.

Zonid stood at the centre of it all, his massive form outlined in the crimson afterlight. His gaze drifted to Zlaniz — lounging now, radiant and victorious, a small, satisfied smile cutting through her lips as she cradled Neth’s trembling form in her arms.

“We are done here,” Zonid said, his voice breaking the quiet like iron cracking stone.

The command carried weight. The hosts obeyed.

One by one, the legions of gods began to depart — Urmbrik’s blood-armoured soldiers marching with thunderous precision, Zarlnis’s serpentine shades slithering back into shadow, Geardaz’s crystalline constructs humming low, fading like cooling embers.

Only Zlaniz remained smiling.

Urmbrik lingered beside Zonid, the fires in his eyes flaring. “You’re far too pleased, sister,” he rumbled.

Zlaniz tilted her head, her voice smooth as poured wine. “Shouldn’t I be? You saw her—she chose. No chains. No threat. Her will was hers. That makes her mine.”

She glanced down at Neth in her arms — the little goblin warrior who’d survived every trial, now limp with exhaustion, her single eye wide and glistening.

Zlaniz brushed a strand of Neth’s dark hair away from her cheek, her tone softening almost to affection.

“Oh, my violet little flame,” she cooed. “What wonders await you in my halls. You’ll shine brighter than any mortal queen. You’ll wed my champion—Kaelthys, the Conqueror—and bear him children of power and beauty. Each one blessed by my touch.”

Her smile turned darker, predatory.

“And once your mortal children are born, we’ll see what divine use they might serve.”

The words dripped like venom wrapped in honey.

Urmbrik stepped forward, his colossal fist curling. “You forget yourself, Zlaniz.”

The temperature dropped as the God Hand of Rage loomed closer. “That one,” he growled, gesturing to Neth, “still owes me blood. She humiliated my Balor Lord — cut the line of Thanax the Strong, my chosen general. You think I’ll forget that?”

Zlaniz looked up at him lazily, unbothered, still cradling Neth as though she were something delicate. “Thanax the Ball-less, you mean?” she said, her voice dripping with amusement.

Urmbrik snarled, his horns glowing molten red. “Give her to me. She’ll return to my realm and answer for her crimes. I’ll have her hands for his loss.”

Zlaniz rose slowly to her full, divine height, still holding Neth protectively in her arms. The air shimmered with violet energy around her, bending light itself.

“No, brother,” she said softly, though her tone carried an edge that could cut gods. “You’ve had your sport. She’s mine now. Bound by will and by word. If you want vengeance, take it up with me.”

The two gods stood nearly nose to nose, their divine energies pressing against one another — crimson fury against violet temptation — the air between them vibrating with raw power.

Zonid raised a single hand, his expression unreadable. “Enough.”

The word silenced them both.

“Her fate is sealed,” Zonid continued, his gaze flicking to Neth. “She chose her mistress. Let the bargain stand.”

Zlaniz’s smirk returned, victorious once more.

Urmbrik gritted his teeth but turned away, his soldiers following him into the red storm beyond. The last thing he said, his voice low and heavy with promise, was:

“This isn’t over.”

Zlaniz watched him go, then looked down again at Neth — so small, so fragile, yet so fierce even in defeat.

She leaned down, whispered against Neth’s ear:

“Come, little flame. Let’s go home.”

The air shattered again—like a mirror struck by lightning.

Urmbrik’s growl still echoed across the blacken floor, his molten rage crashing against Zlaniz’s taunting laughter.

“You think your deals make you untouchable?” he thundered, claws gouging the cobble floor of Zonid's domain. “She mutilated my chosen! You coddle a thief of honour!”

Zlaniz’s eyes burned with violet flame, her tone sickly sweet.

“You call it mutilation, I call it justice. Your pet Balor mistook arrogance for strength. He learned that mortals have their own ways of cutting down pride.”

She adjusted her stance, still holding Neth in one hand, the goblin limp but alive. “And she’s more mine now than any of your broken generals ever were.”

Urmbrik’s fury shook the entire colossal hand; every crystal vein in the blackened land pulsed red, molten from the force of his divine wrath.

“You overstep, sister—”

“Brother,” Zlaniz interrupted, her smirk curving like a knife, “if you think to frighten me, you’ve forgotten who taught you to rage.”

That was the spark.

Power met power—red and violet colliding into a storm of screaming light. The heavens of Zonid's realm warped; the black rocks turned to ash, the ground splitting under their clash.

And then—
the portal tore open.

A blast of green and black lightning ripped through the throne chamber, cutting through both gods’ auras. The air turned cold, humming with dimensional strain.

Out of it stepped Reyn, feathers of light flaring from his back, his face grim with fury. Gojo beside him, blood still on his armour. Cipher, dagger drawn, eyes sharp as glass.

Behind them came Zyra Darkborn, the Skaven mage, hunched and trembling, clutching her magical orb that dripped voidlight. She forced the portal wider, her whiskers burning, screaming in Skavish tongue.

And then—
the shadow fell.

A roar like the end of the world shook the air.

Xantamoor, the Black Great Wyrm, burst forth. His wings blocked the light itself, his scales swallowing colour. The gods staggered.

The dragon’s voice rolled like thunder breaking across mountains:

“ENOUGH.”

His tail lashed through the land, shattering the black crystals, sending black dust into the void. He seized both Zlaniz and Urmbrik, his claws wrapping around their colossal forms, dragging them down into the black cobble dirt. The world bent under his strength.

Zlaniz’s hold faltered.
Neth slipped from her grasp—

—and Reyn caught her before she could hit the floor, wings flaring to slow their descent.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, breathless.

Zlaniz shrieked, her divine voice warping the air as she struggled against the wyrm’s grip. “You dare lay claws on me!”

Urmbrik bellowed in fury, hammering his fists against Xantamoor’s scales, red energy surging. “You’ll be ash, dragon! You’ll—”

But the wyrm’s power was monstrous—
until it wasn’t.

Slowly, inevitably, the tide turned.

The two gods—rage and seduction united in fury—began to push back.
Their combined radiance turned the entire realm blinding white, their divine essence cutting into Xantamoor’s wings, his neck, his scales peeling under the force of their wrath.

Zyra screamed, her tail lashing as she poured every last shred of her magic into keeping the portal open. “GO!”

Reyn turned—Neth in his arms, Gojo covering the flank, Cipher already diving through the rippling gate. The air screamed as it collapsed around them.

“Reyn!” Gojo shouted, hauling Zyra by her cloak. “We have to move now!”

Reyn nodded, spreading his wings to shield Neth from the collapsing storm. He took one final look—
at Xantamoor still straining, his claws dug deep into both gods, wings cracking, divine blood spilling into the void—
and then the wyrm’s voice echoed once more, broken but proud:

“RUN.”

The portal screamed as they dove through—Reyn first, clutching Neth close, Gojo and Cipher following, Zyra’s magic unravelling behind them.

As the gods finally ripped free, Xantamoor slammed his wings together, knocking them back long enough to turn—grabbing Zyra by the tail and throwing her through the gate just before he followed.

The last thing any of them heard before the portal collapsed was the dragon’s roar—
a sound so vast it shook the realms.

And then silence.

Platera’s air hit like ice.

Reyn stumbled to his knees, still holding Neth against his chest. Gojo and Cipher collapsed beside him, both gasping, bloodied, alive. Zyra hit the ground hard, coughing black smoke, her staff still humming faintly.

Behind them, the portal sealed with a thunderous snap.

The gods’ realm—gone.

Neth stirred weakly in Reyn’s arms, her lips parting to whisper, hoarse and broken—

“...you came back.”

Reyn closed his eyes, wings still faintly glowing. “We don’t leave family behind.”

And far, far away, in the shattered heavens of Zonid’s domain, the two gods of rage and desire screamed their vengeance into the void.

Home

The doors of the Reyn Estate burst open with a rush of cold Plateran air, and for a long, breathless heartbeat, no one moved.

Then came the roar of joy.

“She’s back!”

Gojo shouted first, his booming laugh half-choked with tears. Reyn barely managed to carry Neth through the threshold before the others swarmed around her—Kasien’s arms thrown around her shoulders, Jojo and Cipher shouting over each other, Tresh Fangmaw letting out a ragged bark of laughter that was half-sob.

They pulled her into a crush of warmth and relief.

Reyn’s wing folded protectively behind her. Lila pressed her forehead to Neth’s. Norue clasped her hand. Even the usually silent Bloodeyes gave a trembling nod before stepping into the embrace.

The estate walls filled with the sounds of homecoming—boots on stone, laughter breaking through exhaustion, the faint hum of Desnora’s protective wards still lingering in the air. In the corner, Villhar Undawn worked silently over the unconscious bodies of Zyra Darkborn and Desnora, tending to their burned hands and glassy eyes, whispering quiet words of recovery.

And then a heavy, familiar tread approached from the doorway.

Xantamoor—no longer the mountain-sized dragon of shadow and scale, but a tall, broad-shouldered dragonborn in blackened armour, smoke still coiling faintly from the cracks along his skin. His eyes, molten gold and tired, softened when they found Neth.

She looked up from the tangle of arms around her, one small hand pressed against her chest, still trembling.

The great wyrm smiled faintly and reached out—one clawed hand resting gently atop her head. “You did well, little spark,” he murmured.

For a moment, she smiled too. It was brief, bright, almost childlike—her one eye gleaming through the haze of exhaustion.

But then Xantamoor’s expression changed. The smile faltered, replaced by something sorrowful, heavy with centuries of knowing.

“You should go home, Neth.”

The room quieted.

Neth blinked, confusion and fatigue blurring her voice. “...I can’t. There’s still work to be done. Things I promised—things I—”

He nodded slowly, eyes closing for a moment. “I know,” he said softly. “There always is.”

He leaned forward and pressed a single kiss to her forehead. It felt like fire and calm at once—an old, ancient farewell.

Then he straightened, giving a weary smile to the others before turning toward the door. His voice lingered as he walked out into the hall, deep and rumbling.

“Hold her close while you can.”

And then he was gone.

The silence that followed was fragile—then it broke all at once as the Cinders pulled Neth back into their embrace. Reyn’s arm around her shoulder, Gojo’s laughter rumbling in her ear, Lila’s tears wet on her neck, Cipher muttering something about “never again.”

Neth smiled through it all—smiled until her chest hurt—
but when she closed her one good eye, the warmth didn’t reach the ache behind it.

Because deep down, she knew.

The deal she had made was still alive, etched in divine fire.
Her family had her now—but only for a while.
And one day, Zlaniz would come to collect.

For now, though, surrounded by the Cinders’ warmth, she let herself believe—just for a heartbeat—that she was safe.

That she was home.

The laughter and warmth of the night lingered faintly, fading like dying embers.
The estate was quiet now—soft, after the thunderous joy of reunion.

Cipher stood by the great window in the meeting hall, the firelight gilding his black hair and the faint smile on his face. His hand rested on the hilt of his rapier—his ever-faithful companion through everything the Cinders had endured. The others watched him, unsure if he was pausing for words or simply taking one last look.

Finally, he turned to Reyn.

“I’ll be leaving,” he said simply.

A hush followed. Gojo straightened in his chair. Lila’s mouth opened, then closed again.

Cipher’s smile didn’t waver—it was gentle, tired, sure. “Athela Whitestone asked me to stay. We’re to be married by season’s end. She… she deserves someone who won’t vanish into other realms or gods’ wars.”

Reyn’s wings twitched slightly. “Cipher—”

But Cipher stepped closer and gripped Reyn’s forearm with a soldier’s clasp. His eyes shone with the kind of quiet that only comes from long roads shared.

“You don’t have to say it. I will always believe you.”

The words hung there—solid, true, carrying years of trust and survival. Then Cipher pulled him into a brief, fierce hug. When he stepped back, there was a flash of moisture in his eyes.

“Take care of her,” he said softly, glancing toward Neth before walking out through the great doors. The faint sound of his boots on the marble faded until only the wind and the fire remained.

One by one, the others drifted away to their chambers. Gojo muttered something about needing to rest before his bones staged a revolt. Lila and Nórue lingered for a quiet moment beside Neth, each giving her a wordless touch to the shoulder before following the others up the stairs.

Soon, the estate was silent again.

But Neth did not go to her room.

She wandered instead down the steps beneath in the back room, where the air grew cooler and smelled faintly of candlewax and myrrh. The cellar chapel was small—its stone walls lined with violet tapestries, the statue of Dykenta rising at the far end, her hands open as if to gather every lost soul into her light.

Neth sat in the front pew, her armor still on, her rapier resting at her side. A single candle flickered beside her, reflected in her lone amethyst eye.

The priestess at the far end of the room turned when she heard the steps but said nothing. She knew this look—the weight that never truly leaves a warrior’s face.

Neth lowered her head, her voice trembling as it broke the silence.

“Mother Dykenta,” she whispered, “I don’t know if I came back the same. I don’t know what I am anymore. I fought for you, for them, for hope… and now I’ve made a deal that could take it all away.”

The flame wavered, her reflection dancing in the waxen light.

“I thought I was strong enough to face anything. But I’m scared. Scared I’ll lose them like I lost the others. Scared you’ll turn away from me when you see what I’ve become.”

Her voice cracked. She pressed a hand to her chest, over the faint pulse that still trembled with Zlaniz’s mark.

“Please… if there’s a way to keep them safe without giving myself up, show me. Tell me what I must do.”

The chapel stayed silent, save for the faint drip of wax and the soft exhale of the priestess in prayer.

Then—so faint it could have been imagined—the violet flame of the altar candle brightened.
The light curved, almost tenderly, around Neth’s hand.

No words. No booming divine voice.
Just warmth.

And in that warmth, Neth felt—if only for a breath—that she wasn’t alone.

She bowed her head again, whispering,

“Thank you, my goddess.”

Her single tear fell to the stone floor, gleaming violet in the candlelight.

The candlelight flickered again.
Not wildly—but with intent.

Neth lifted her head. The shadows in the chapel shifted, slow and deliberate, as if guided by unseen fingers. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, the violet glow of the flame deepening to gold for just a breath before it returned to its original hue.

A whisper brushed her mind—not sound, not words, but sensation.
Warmth and sorrow intertwined.
The unmistakable touch of Dykenta.

The statue before her—the serene face of the goddess carved in marble—seemed to move. Or maybe the light only made it seem so. The head tilted ever so slightly, the expression softening, the open hands glowing faintly.

Then the walls began to hum.
Soft, low, rhythmic—like the beating of a distant heart.

Neth blinked, and the world around her melted into something between dream and memory.

She stood—not in the chapel—but in a field of violet lilies swaying under an eternal dusk.
The air smelled of rain and ash.
A warm wind brushed her hair, and in it came the faintest echo of laughter—gentle, maternal, familiar.

“My child… every choice ripples. Even those made in desperation.”

The voice wasn’t sound. It was feeling—settling deep into her chest, heavy and calm.

“You gave yourself for love, not for greed. Even the dark ones see it, though they mock what they cannot understand.”

The lilies bent under an invisible weight, their petals turning to silvery ash that danced upward, dissolving into starlight.

Neth turned, searching the horizon. “What do I do now?” she whispered. “How do I fix what I’ve done?”

The wind grew softer still, brushing her cheek like a caress.

“You cannot undo what is promised… but promises change when the heart that made them does.”

And then—light.
A single lily near her feet began to glow brighter than all the rest, its color shifting from violet to radiant white.

It pulsed—once, twice—before the petals fell away, revealing a fragment of crystal in its center. It hovered for a heartbeat before sinking into Neth’s chest, warmth spreading outward, soothing but heavy.

“When the time comes, remember this place.”

The world began to fade—the wind, the light, the lilies. The chapel’s chill crept back in.

The priestess still knelt in the corner, whispering prayers. The candle burned low.
But in the quiet, something gleamed faintly in Neth’s lap—
a single violet petal, untouched, resting on her hand.

Neth exhaled, trembling. Her voice barely a whisper:

“I understand… not yet, but I will.”

She pressed the petal into her pocket, rose from the pew, and looked once more at the statue of Dykenta. The marble no longer moved, but the eyes—carved from pale amethyst—seemed softer now.

Neth bowed deeply.

The chapel was silent but for the soft trickle of the fountain near the altar—a gentle, rhythmic sound that echoed through the small underground hall like a heartbeat. Its water glowed faintly violet from the candlelight, throwing shifting ripples of color across the walls and the marble form of Dykenta’s statue.

Neth lingered by it, her reflection dancing between light and shadow. The lines of her face—tired, scarred, and older than her years—blurred in the rippling surface. She knelt and dipped her hand in, feeling the coolness slide through her fingers, grounding her.

But when she looked again—
it wasn’t her reflection anymore.

A small face beamed back at her from beneath the shimmering water.
Wide red eyes. A crooked little smile.
Her ten-year-old self—Genethia Roth of the Jhambi Circle—bright-eyed, barefoot, and happy.

“Don’t forget me,” the child said, her voice bubbling like the fountain itself. “You are the hero you always wanted to be.”

Neth froze. Her throat tightened, her hand trembling above the water.

The little Genethia continued, voice soft but clear, like a memory recited from a long-lost song.

“You laughed at everything once. Remember? Even when Caladawn dropped the pie. Even when your boots got stuck in the mud. You weren’t afraid to smile then.”

The reflection tilted her head, curls of dark hair bouncing.

“Heroes don’t stop being scared, Neth. They just keep walking, even when it hurts. And you’ve walked so far.”

Neth’s breath hitched. The child’s smile didn’t waver—it was impossibly warm, impossibly kind.

“You’ve seen gods and monsters. You’ve fallen and gotten up again. You’ve saved people. You’ve changed the story. So don’t forget me—the girl who started it all. The one who dreamed that being small didn’t mean being powerless.”

Neth’s hand shook harder now, droplets of water slipping down her wrist. “I haven’t forgotten you,” she whispered. “I just… I don’t know how to be you anymore.”

The reflection smiled wider.

“You don’t have to be me. Just remember that I’m still here.”

The light flickered. The reflection began to dissolve, turning into ripples, then mist.

Neth reached out, desperate. “Wait—”

But the water only reflected her again—her tired face, her one red eye, and behind her, the soft shimmer of Dykenta’s statue bathed in candlelight.

She stood there for a long moment, then walked to the front pew.
Her legs felt heavy. Her chest—heavier still.

She sat, staring blankly at the altar until her vision blurred. Then the tears came, quietly at first, then in trembling waves.

She covered her face with her hands, whispering apologies to no one and everyone—her mother, her friends, her goddess, herself.

And when her sobs finally quieted, she slumped sideways on the pew, exhaustion overtaking her.

The last thing she saw before sleep claimed her was the faint glow of the fountain.
In its reflection—just for a moment—
the child smiled at her again.

And the chapel stayed peaceful, the gentle sound of running water lulling the broken hero into a rare, dreamless rest.