Chapter 141 (Part 1): Thorns of the Void
Frost Saint's Farewell
Rodriguez hovered midair, his silver armor flecked with ash from the smoldering battlefield. The Saint Roland Guardian—a towering spectral knight wreathed in holy fire—loomed behind Prince Chen-Augustine, its blade crackling with suppressed fury.
So close, Rodriguez seethed. For decades, he'd yearned to test his frost-forged skills against another Saint-tier opponent. Yet now, with victory nearly in his grasp, the fool necromancer had drawn the Magic Guild's ire.
"Retreat, Your Highness?" Rodriguez mocked, sheathing his glacial broadsword. "Today's dance ends here. But tell your brother—" his voice sharpened, "—this blade will carve his throne from ice before it warms his backside."
Chen-Augustine smirked, though his knuckles whitened around the Saint Roland Pendant. "Run then, Frost Saint. But know this: shadows always flee the dawn."
Rodriguez's laughter rang hollow as he dissolved into a silver streak, slicing through the night toward Bennett's desperate battle.
Hunger of the Abyss
Bennett's world had collapsed to a shrinking dome of light. The Guardian's Barrier—a shimmering shield conjured by his Life Horn—flickered like a dying candle. Outside, tendrils of necrotic smoke coiled and hissed, their violet lightning gnawing at the weakening magic.
"Persistent little cockroach," the necromancer crooned from the swirling void. "Your trinket falters. When it shatters, I'll siphon your soul slowly—a fitting penance for my ruined darlings."
Bennett gritted his teeth. His summoned treants lay as desiccated husks, their life-force devoured to fuel the barrier. No offensive spells, he cursed inwardly. Just… defense. Always defense.
The Life Horn trembled in his grip, its ivory surface spiderwebbed with cracks. One more assault would—
A golden comet tore through the blackened sky.
Saint's Gambit
Rodriguez plunged into the necrotic storm, his glacial aura freezing the ravenous tendrils mid-strike. "Imbecile!" he roared, seizing the necromancer's robes. "The Magic Inquisitors descend! Flee, or spend eternity in their lightless pits!"
The necromancer sneered, gathering shadows for a retort—until a bone-chilling wail split the horizon. Four obsidian-clad figures streaked across the moonlit plains, their pointed hats blotting out stars.
"No… No!" The necromancer's bravado shattered. Frantic chants spilled from his lips as he clawed at the air, recalling his Voidspawn. Black smoke funneled into a cracked obsidian orb at his belt—too hastily. Strands of necrotic energy writhed free, latching onto nearby debris.
Rodriguez's blade flashed. Ice encased the fleeing pair as he hurled them westward. "Pray they hunt you first," he hissed, vanishing into the night.
Inquisitors' Gaze
The Inquisitors descended like carrion birds. Bennett crouched motionless as four psychic tendrils—cold as gravestones—pierced his barrier. Memories surged unbidden: Damp Guild cells. Chains that drank magic. A masked voice demanding, "Who taught you?"
The lead Inquisitor tilted its faceless hood. "Irrelevant," it intoned, voice echoing from nowhere and everywhere. "Primary target… escaped."
Relief flooded Bennett as the quartet pivoted westward. Yet one paused, its "gaze" lingering on the Life Horn's fractures. A gloved finger traced the air—and the horn's cracks sealed with obsidian filigree.
"Curiosity," it rasped before dissolving into smoke.
Dawn's Hidden Teeth
Sunrise revealed a wasteland. Every tree within half a mile stood skeletal, leaves reduced to ash. Even the soil felt dead—a graveyard of splintered bark and brittle bones.
Bennett staggered from his barrier, drenched in sweat. Residual wisps of necrotic smoke coiled at his feet, shrieking as sunlight struck. To his astonishment, they clung to his boots—not attacking, but pleading.
"What the…" He froze as the blackened crystal orb—a cursed artifact bought on a Guild whim—pulsed in his satchel. Acting on instinct, he withdrew it.
The result was immediate.
The smoke screamed, surging into the orb with violent urgency. Within seconds, the crystal's depths swirled with liquid shadow, its surface gleaming like polished night.
Prince of Whispers
"Collecting trophies, Bennett?"
Chen-Augustine emerged from the ruins with two dozen battered guards. His gaze locked onto the now-ebony orb. "Tread carefully. Dark trinkets have a habit of… biting."
Bennett pocketed the sphere. "It absorbed the remnants. I don't even know—"
"Ignorance is no shield," the prince interrupted, tossing him a silver flask. "Drink. You'll need clarity for what comes next."
As the restorative brew burned his throat, Bennett noticed the prince's guards—their armor bore frost patterns no fire could explain.
Chen-Augustine followed his gaze. "Rodriguez spared you," he mused. "Curious, for a man sworn to my brother's cause." His smile chilled worse than the Frost Saint's blade. "Tell me, Bennett—what do you think he fears more? My sibling's wrath… or yours?"
Chapter 141 (Part 2): Heir to the Web
The Caravan of Broken Blades
The dawn procession crawled toward the capital like a wounded beast. Imperial Guards in dented armor flanked the battered convoy, their gazes wary. At its heart, Kik lay swaddled in blood-stained bandages, his muffled curses echoing from a carriage shared with four shell-shocked sorceress apprentices.
Prince Chen-Augustine rode at the front, his pallor belying the ease of his smile. When Bennett approached, the prince dismounted and clasped his shoulders with theatrical warmth. "The great Gandolf's heir, surviving a necromancer's ambush! I knew my trust wasn't misplaced."
Kik's rasp cut through the charade. "Eclipse Bow… You killed Deniro?"
All eyes snapped to the crescent weapon slung across Bennett's back.
"He attacked first," Bennett replied flatly.
The prince's laughter rang hollow. "My brother loses his prized assassin and his favorite toy in one night? Poetic justice."
Kik's bandaged hand trembled. "That bow slaughtered hundreds of mages. Now it serves one? Mockery…"
"Enough," Chen-Augustine snapped, though his eyes gleamed. "Let's savor this victory. The capital awaits."
Whispers in Daylight
The city gates loomed, their gilded spikes dripping with morning dew. As the convoy dispersed, the prince leaned close to Bennett. "Visit the palace tomorrow. We'll discuss… opportunities."
Bennett's nod masked his unease. The prince's camaraderie felt like a garrote tightening with each compliment.
At the Earl's estate, Captain Alfar awaited, his stoic mask fracturing at the sight of the Eclipse Bow. "Your father demands your presence," he muttered, gaze averted. "Immediately."
The weapon's runes pulsed faintly as Bennett followed, as though laughing.
A Father's Gambit
The Earl's study reeked of oiled steel and sleepless nights. Moonlight carved shadows across the aging lord's face as he polished his ancestral blade—the same weapon that had carved his legend across southern seas.
"You've waded into deep waters, boy." The Earl slid a scroll across the desk without looking up. "Read. Then explain."
The parchment bore Emperor Augustus VI's seal. Bennett's breath hitched at the title:
"Imperial Decree on the Founding of the Royal Arcane Academy"
His name glared from the list of inaugural councilors.
"Seven seats to the Magic Guild. Seven to the Crown. You—" the Earl's voice sharpened, "—are the fulcrum. The Guild tolerates you as Gandolf's heir. The Crown trusts you as my son. Congratulations—you've become the rope in a tug-of-war between gods."
Bennett's knuckles whitened. "Why not Gandolf's other apprentices?"
"Dead. Disgraced. Or," the Earl slammed his blade into its scabbard, "lacking a noble house to anchor them. The Guild would sooner burn this academy than let the Crown control it. Your name… is a compromise written in blood."
Silence pooled like spilled ink.
"You hid this," Bennett accused. "You meant to spring it at the Summer Solstice."
The Earl's smile held no warmth. "Plans shatter when princes nearly die. Now wolves circle—Guild assassins, court rivals, even your precious Chen-Augustine. He doesn't favor you, boy. He fears what you represent."
He gripped Bennett's shoulder, fingers digging like talons. "This academy isn't about teaching spells. It's about control. The Guild hoards knowledge; the Crown craves power. Choose a side, and the other will destroy you. Stay neutral, and both will devour you whole."
Eclipse's Covenant
Alone in his chambers, Bennett traced the Eclipse Bow's runes. Moonlight bled through the window, casting the weapon's shadow across the wall—a scythe-shaped stain.
"Fear not, little mage. I've no quarrel with kin."
The voice slithered from the bow's core. Bennett froze.
"But ponder this: why did Gandolf die weeks before his life's work began? Why does the Guild—so desperate to kill you—now tolerate your council seat?"
The runes flared crimson.
"You're not a player in their game. You're the prize*."*
Chapter 142 (Part 1): Shadows in the Sunlight
Port of Whispers
The midday sun glared down on the Port of Enk, thirty miles downstream from the imperial capital. Waves shimmered like molten gold beneath the dock's creaking planks, where merchants, sailors, and tax officials danced their eternal waltz of greed and compliance.
A three-masted merchant vessel, its sails still taut from the voyage, loomed over the harbor. Two men in silk tunics descended first, their laughter oily as they pressed a gold coin into the palm of a yawning tax officer. Behind them, dockworkers swarmed like ants, voices rising in a cacophony of desperation:
"Hire me, sir! My crew won't bruise a feather!"
"Two copper bits per man! Twenty men at your service!"
Amid the chaos, two figures emerged from the ship's shadow. The first was a knight—her armor glinting, legs sculpted for both battle and admiration. The second, a silver-haired mage, drew gasps. Her white robes had been slashed into a defiant hybrid of sorceress and sellsword, a scarlet cloak billowing behind her like a banner of warning.
"Look away," the mage muttered. Frost crept into her tone. The crowd recoiled.
Lynette, the knight, smirked. "They fear you more than the taxman, Joanna."
Joanna's glacial eyes swept the docks. "Fear is wasted on fools."
Cargo of Wolves
The ship carried more than hides and hemp. Beneath layers of legal pelts lay contraband: furs from ice wolves, bones of frost wyrms, and a satchel of shimmering cores—treasures smuggled from the Frozen Wastes. Lynette barked orders at her crew, a motley band of ex-pirates whose eyes strayed to the taverns lining the port.
"Rot in hell, you lucky bastards!" a sailor on duty spat as his comrades staggered toward brothels.
Joanna's lip curled. "Filth."
Lynette shrugged. "Men are men. Even pirates need release." She turned to a hulking first mate. "Secure the special cargo. One scratch, and I'll feed your fingers to the harbor rats."
The man palmed a dagger. "Aye, Captain."
Threads Unraveled
As the sun dipped, Lynette approached Joanna near the gangplank. "The capital's a half-day ride. Bennett will want to see you."
Joanna stiffened. "Want? That brat's wants mean nothing. I came to guard your ship, not grovel at his feet." Her fingers brushed the hilt of a rune-carved dagger—a twin to Bennett's own. "Tell him our debt is settled. Next time we meet, I'll freeze his tongue before he can lie."
Lynette's smile didn't reach her eyes. "You'd abandon a student so soon? Your lessons on frost-weaving—"
"—were wasted," Joanna snapped. "You're too old to master true magic. But your sword arm… it has promise." For a heartbeat, her icy facade cracked. "My mentor could make you a legend. Why waste your life serving a boy who plays at politics?"
Lynette gazed toward the distant spires of the capital. "Some games are worth the risk."
Joanna scoffed. "Fool." She turned, her cloak whipping like a farewell flag. "When the wolves come for him—and they will—don't expect me to mourn."
Dagger's Edge
By dusk, the port buzzed with drunken shanties. Lynette stood alone on the deck, clutching a sealed letter from the Frozen Wastes. The wax seal—a howling wolf—felt heavier than lead.
To Lord Bennett, Heir of Gandolf,
Your terms are accepted. But know this: the Guild's eyes are everywhere. Ship your next payment in lead, not gold. Corpses sink quieter.
—B. of the Snow Wolves
She fed the parchment to a lantern flame. Ash swirled like snow over dark waters.