LOCATION: BLACK RIDGE RUINS — MID-FIGHT
Blood hit the stone like old rain.
Lucan twisted mid-air, blade arcing in a half-moon slash that sent one of Verrick's shadows sprawling. Behind him, Jareth moved like a storm that remembered how to whisper—precise, clean, lethal.
Eight had come.
Now four remained.
But fear was eating their formation. Fast.
One tried to flee.
Jareth didn't even glance. He turned, wrist flicking once—his dagger sang through the air, struck true, and ended a coward mid-sprint.
> Thud.
Lucan exhaled, breath fogging in the ruin's chill. He pivoted on his heel, barely dodging a swipe aimed at his throat. His counter was brutal—an elbow to the ribs, a palm strike to the jaw, then his blade shoved upward through exposed armor.
Another fell.
And then—
> [SYSTEM UPDATE: COMBAT SYNC COMPLETE]
[SINFORGED STATE STABILIZED]
[TIER II ➤ TIER III ASCENSION: PARTIAL]
[NEW TRAIT UNLOCKED: SHADOWBURN CORE]
[– Your system now retains latent flame in your soul after combat. Passive stat increase: +8% STR, +10% DEX during combat initiation.]
Lucan staggered.
The feedback hit like wildfire. His bones buzzed with energy, his veins flooded with something hotter than rage. But the high came at a price—his vision blurred, his knees dipped.
Overdraw.
His system burned brighter than it should've.
"Lucan!"
Jareth was at his side in a blink—faster than instinct, faster than thought.
His hand clamped around Lucan's arm, not just to steady him—but to hold him here.
"Don't you fall," he muttered under his breath—low, urgent, almost shaken.
The edge of panic in his eyes flickered. Then he forced it down. Buried it beneath the soldier.
The weight steadied Lucan—but it steadied Jareth, too.
Lucan coughed, blood in his throat.
Jareth didn't let go.
"Still think you're just a ghost?" Jareth asked.
Lucan gave a crooked smile. "Maybe. But this ghost bites back."
They looked around.
Bodies lay scattered. Verrick's shadows—all dead or dying. None left to crawl home.
The wind shifted.
The ruin stood silent once more.
Lucan and Jareth walked side by side, steps slow but certain.
They didn't run.
They didn't hide.
They left the dead behind.
Together.
---
LOCATION: DIVINE ORDER — THE CATHEDRAL CORE, SANCTUM OF THE SEVEN
Beneath the living city of Aetherion, where sunlight had never dared crawl, the seven rulers of the Divine Order sat in a room built of oathstone and god-bone.
No guards. No scribes. No advisors.
Just them.
Seven Thrones.
Seven powers beneath the One Light.
The chamber was shaped like a circle cracked by intent—each throne carved in the image of its ruler's dogma, its deity, or its sins.
They did not look at each other.
They did not smile.
They waited.
Until Halix rose.
Her throne was a towering spire of pale, veined marble, sculpted to resemble the wings of broken angels. She wore white not as grace—but as declaration. Her voice echoed like chimes that cut the skin.
"The Fourth Throne calls this council to question the Third."
All heads turned. Slowly. Predictably.
Ezekar Nythe didn't move.
His throne was nothing but black iron and silence. The Umbra Seat. Forged in the old shadows of Shadereach. It looked more like a noose waiting to close.
Halix's fingers tightened on her staff, a weapon shaped like the Tree of Trials—bleached white and cracked down the center.
"Ezekar Nythe has harbored a creature marked by the Rite's corruption. One who escaped judgment. A system anomaly. A blasphemy."
A pause. She looked around.
"And now he calls it… potential."
The Seventh Throne—Lady Nyssra, Warden of the Veil (sorceress of the endless sands)—clicked her tongue.
"Is it potential, Ezekar? Or power you mean to bend to your own dominion?"
The First Throne remained still. Cardinal Vael, the oldest, draped in prayer-robes that wept ash. He said nothing. He rarely did. But his eyes tracked every breath. And in his silence,kingdoms had burned before.
Ezekar finally moved.
A single, casual shrug—like the accusation was just another cloak on his shoulders.
"I do not leash beasts. I test their teeth."
He leaned forward, the grin curving now like the edge of a killing word.
"Lucan Malryk broke the Rite. He lived where gods decreed he should not. That doesn't make him a mistake. It makes him a question. One we can't afford not to ask."
Halix's voice hardened.
"He's a heretic, Ezekar. An echo forged in sin."
Ezekar chuckled. Low and dangerous.
"And you think you still own sin, Halix? You who built Ashvale on the backs of children too loyal to scream?"
A blade-edge silence followed.
The Fifth Throne—Warlord Dren of the Flame Vale—laughed then. Loud and mirthless.
"Maybe the boy's a threat. Or maybe he's a blade none of us own yet."
The Sixth Throne, quiet Seraphine of Hollowglass, spoke next. Her voice like cracked glass in wind.
"The Rite failed him. And yet he lives. Such souls are not born. They are… shaped."
The Second Throne, High Seer Elvar, rose a bony hand.
"Then let us watch. Closely. If he falls, we claim the corpse. If he ascends—"
His grin was missing three teeth and most of its hope.
"We pray he remembers who made him."
Halix stepped forward, fury hidden behind perfect calm.
"You will all stand idle while he slips free of the chains we forged?"
Ezekar's reply was cold as Shadereach's winter.
"I don't stand idle."
He rose.
And every flickering glyph in the room dimmed.
"I watch. And I warn."
He met her eyes now, and the air between them bent.
"Try to chain him again, Halix—and you won't need to fear what he becomes."
"You'll need to fear me."
The room said nothing.
Because what else was there to say?
One by one, the rulers stood. And like falling dominoes of empire, each left without another word.
Only Halix remained for a moment—her gaze locked on the dark where Ezekar had stood.
And in her heart, something ancient and divine whispered:
You've already lost him.