Lysandra couldn’t stop wondering why she wasn’t allowed to deal with the Count alongside the rest of the soldiers. The only answer her mother gave her was, “She needs him, but not his guards.” It made sense, though she doubted that thing could protect him while Edel kept it busy.

Still, she accepted the plan as it was. This wasn’t the time to argue.

They reached the end of the dark staircase. Neither the Count, his sister, nor the soldiers seemed to have noticed their presence. Alaric signaled for them to stop and peeked briefly into the chamber to check if the way was clear. Then, he gave one last look at the group, ensuring everyone was ready. Lysa responded with a clumsy smile that failed to hide her nervousness.

They stormed into the room. Alaric quickly drew his sword and made his way to the center of the hall. The others followed, raising their hands in a mysterious and threatening stance. They didn’t really need to, but it often intimidated those untrained in magic. The guards hesitated for a few seconds, caught off guard. However, they quickly turned to face them. The Count raised his hand to stop them.

“Hold!” the young man commanded his guards. “These are our guests; show a bit of respect, please,” he finished with a smile. Lenna, his sister, didn’t seem surprised by the sudden appearance.

As the guards stepped back, the group formed a circle in the center of the room. Alaric stood opposite the Count. Lysa positioned herself at his back, watching the guards. Edel faced the red-haired witch, whose smug smile boded ill. Zari stood in between, alert. Lysa could feel the tension in her sister, undoubtedly mirroring her own.

“So, here you are, at last,” the young man said, genuinely surprised. “Lenna was confident you’d make it, though I personally doubted you’d even set foot in the valley. No matter, let’s begin.”

He reached for his neck, pulling out a pendant to display it over his clothes. Lysa shivered at the sight. That cursed golden medallion, with the snake coiled around the red stone at its center. He turned toward the door, raised his arms, and began chanting in an ancient tongue. She understood the words perfectly. The opening ritual. Shouldn’t they act now? Everyone awaited Alaric’s signal.

The medallion’s red jewel gleamed briefly, and a hissing sound came from the dark stone in the doorway, quickly fading. Moments later, the slab began to flow, melting. First, it formed tiny droplets; then, in seconds, it became liquid, like the surface of a dark pool, but vertical, and not spilling. It bubbled and rippled, sending small black particles outward, which didn’t splatter but instead returned to the portal as if defying gravity.

“You surprise me again,” the young man continued, turning back to face them. “I’ve half a regiment camped outside, yet you’ve found a way in. A back door, perhaps? I should have guessed. Unfortunately, this is the end of the road for you and your companions. In other circumstances, you could have been useful to me. Truly, your skill is impressive.”

“Save your flattery. Hand over that medallion, and we’ll let you walk out alive,” Alaric replied, stepping forward and raising his sword.

The Count couldn’t suppress a laugh. His sister smiled too, amused.

“But my dear thief, I believe you’re in no position to demand anything. We outmatch you in strength, power, and numbers. You are four against eight.”

“We’ll manage, don’t worry. Besides, your math is off. Eight? You’re two, plus five soldiers...”

Alaric trailed off. The Count’s mischievous grin said it all. They quickly turned toward the pillar where Brisur was tied. That’s why Rendel hadn’t come out with them. He had stayed behind, deliberately hidden, and, taking advantage of the guards’ distraction, had stealthily approached to free the giant. He had just undone the shackles.

“Wart, step back! Now, Lysa!” Alaric shouted, running toward the pillar.

She focused and began reciting the mantra. Her eyes turned white, and a charged aura filled the room. The soldiers rushed toward them with raised swords but didn’t make it more than three steps. Lysa infiltrated their minds, overloading the vestibular system in their ears. They lost all sense of balance, and the pain rendered them unconscious. Some might even die from the shock. She felt no remorse. They would have killed them without hesitation. The five soldiers collapsed to the ground, clutching their heads, screaming, blood pouring from their noses, eyes, and ears.

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Her mother acted immediately, chanting words that forced the witch to step back. The redhead’s smile faded, her features contorted in frustrated rage.

Lysa was exhausted, her knees buckling under her. Too much Power. Then she felt an arm supporting her—it was Zari, standing by her side, her eyes fixed on the Count, who still showed no intention of acting.

With the soldiers neutralized, Lysa turned toward Alaric. He had just reached their comrades. The giant was crouched, leaning on the ground, exhausted. Slowly, he stood. Amid the fading screams of the soldiers and her mother’s increasingly loud chanting, Lysa barely heard Rendel asking his companion how he was.

Everything happened very quickly. Too fast. Her mother’s voice was abruptly cut off by a wet cry. A dark metallic tip protruded from her chest, and a red stain began to spread across her clothes. Zari screamed, grabbing her mother as she collapsed to the ground.

Lysa turned and froze in horror as three soldiers suddenly emerged. They had been hiding behind the farthest columns. How long had they been there? They hadn’t seen them enter. One of them was wielding a crossbow, already reloading it with practiced efficiency. They were clad in full, dark armor, heavy and imposing. Most striking were their helmets—oversized, crude, made of blackened iron, and grotesque in shape.

She tried to stop them. She had already channeled a significant amount of Power, but she couldn’t let them get any closer. Concentrating again, she pushed harder. Something was wrong. Those helmets… she couldn’t reach them! The strain from her last attempt left her drained. She collapsed to the ground, her chest aching, struggling to breathe.

The soldiers advanced toward her. The one with the crossbow raised it, aiming directly at her. But suddenly, a dagger struck the metallic gauntlet of the guard, causing him to fire at the ground instead. It was Rendel. The boy leapt among them, agile as a cat, landing a few blows before darting away. He managed to draw their attention. They moved sluggishly under the weight of their armor. However, that same armor made them virtually impervious to his attacks.

Lysa crawled toward her mother as best as she could. Zari was casting a powerful healing spell, trying to stop the severe bleeding. The bolt had pierced through her back, and the tip was visible in her chest. Fortunately, it had missed her heart, but her mother’s eyes were unfocused, her breathing labored, and she couldn’t utter a word. Desperately, Lysa turned her gaze toward Alaric. What she saw rendered her speechless.

Her beloved thief was fighting Brisur—or rather, dodging him, as he seemed unwilling to strike his companion with his blade. In his opponent’s eyes, a purple glow flickered. She understood instantly. Turning her gaze to the red-haired witch, she saw the same violet light illuminating her eyes. She was controlling Brisur. The witch met her gaze and smiled. Lysa heard her voice echoing in her mind.

“Do you see now? You’ve failed. The soldiers will finish off the handsome boy. The Guardian is about to take her last breath. Neither you nor your sister has the strength to stop it. And that giant will snap poor Alaric’s neck. I think that’s the second man I’ve taken from you. Tell me, what does failure taste like? Bitter? Perhaps you’ve grown so accustomed to it that you no longer notice...”

Lysa screamed in fury, mustering the last strength her rage could provide. She stood and began reciting the mantra to control that thing. She had to stop her, even if it consumed her entirely. Her sister, though also weakened by the healing spell, didn’t hesitate to join her.

For a moment, the witch seemed startled and stepped back. She hadn’t expected this last attempt to challenge her control. But it was true. They had no strength left. They hadn’t been able to defeat her the first time they crossed paths, even with their energies intact. Now, that thing was more powerful, and they were much weaker. The witch raised her arms, and the spell shattered before it could even take form. Lysa collapsed, spent. Zari slumped over their mother, nearly unconscious.

It was all over. The witch laughed as she approached her brother to embrace him. He hadn’t even made the slightest effort to move, watching the scene with an amused and haughty air. The soldiers had finally caught Rendel, beating him on the ground. His face was entirely covered in blood. They didn’t use their swords—it would have been too quick. Kicks and punches landed relentlessly, with boots and iron gauntlets.

At last, she looked to the other side. Brisur had just caught Alaric’s sword with his metal claw. Alaric tried to pull away, but the giant grabbed his neck with his other hand before he could escape. Lifting him off the ground with a feat of incredible strength, he held him there for a moment, as Alaric kicked helplessly in the air. Then, he hurled him violently to the ground. He didn’t even wait for his opponent to catch his breath before lunging at him, intent on choking him to death.

The noise, the screams, the laughter, the exhaustion—it was too much for her. She felt something slide down her cheeks. Blood? No, tears. Tears of defeat. Of rage. Of helplessness. How had it come to this? How had their plan failed so disastrously?

In despair, she began crawling toward Alaric. If this was the end, she at least wanted to be by his side. There was no hope. It was the end.