> [First Era (War Year 3)]

The moment he released the bowstring he finally heard the sound he'd been waiting for. It had started as a harmless idea, a way of training his entanglements and timing together as they searched for the hidden temple. How could he have known what it would bring? Sure there were the clues. Well, the first clue had been easy to ignore, but the second, not exactly.

Moraithe stood on the precipice, the thin veil of mist curling around his feet like a phantom's breath. The world felt hollow. The winds that should have carried the scent of distant flowers instead brought only the acrid tang of smoke and ruin. The air crackled, not with power, but with the weight of loss. The kind of loss that gnawed at the edges of the soul, leaving only shadow in its wake.

The sky above was bruised with storm clouds, and the air hummed with something he couldn't name, something wrong, dark—unnatural, like the very fabric of reality was tearing itself apart. A tremor of dread rippled through him, his heart pounding, as if the land itself whispered in warning. That feeling was the first clue.

Norgoth strode beside him. A brooding presence as dark as the longbow he held. With raven-black hair falling over sharp, piercing eyes.

Moraithe glanced back to Saffrael, still stunned by her ethereal beauty which contrasted with the rugged lands they traversed. The sight of her unfathomable sapphire eyes, like drinking the depth of eternity, made his breath catch in his throat.

He turned back to the path to find a new target. Moraithe had been practicing the strike again for the thousandth time. He was always too late or too early. The trick was to trigger the entanglement at the exact moment the shot was to land. Entangling the mass of the entire boulder he'd marked with a runic key some leagues back. Entanglement didn't care if the object of an entanglement lay across the glade or across the galaxy. It worked the same in either case. A simple mass entanglement like this would share the mass between the two objects, namely his arrow and the boulder.

He had already laid a runic key on each of the arrows. Now all he had to do was perform the entanglement. A touch of blood, draw, loose, now entangle. The arrow hit the branch he had targeted and blasted through it with a force he could only have dreamed of, blowing the branch clean off.

It was the sound that did it. Suddenly a strange chittering and wheezing echoed through the woods. Then, from beneath the shadowed canopy of the bunchknot trees, something emerged. A dark inhuman thing shambling through the woods.

"What is that?" Moraithe wondered aloud.

"It's a scout," Norgoth whispered, ducking behind a bush, "one of the Severed."

Saffrael snatched a sword out of seemingly nowhere. "Then the war has come to this world as well."

Grabbing another arrow Moraithe nocked, sighted, and loosed. He tried to entangle just as before. The arrow struck the creature—then, inexplicably, tore itself free and dropped to the ground, leaving the creature angrily pawing the ground for a charge.

"You were too late again," Norgoth observed.

"Why can't I get the timing on this?"

Norgoth took one of his own arrows sighted and just as the scout was building up momentum he blasted a hole right through the creature. It tumbled and fell screaming, a strange scream that seemed to call to the skies themselves.

They waited for an answering call, but all was silent.

"Lucky it was alone. We'd best get away from here."

Saffrael's sword disappeared somewhere, and just as mysteriously out came a map. "We have to find that temple—before more of them show up."

The wind whipped through the tall grass, and the storm clouds above them grew darker by the minute. Moraithe's frustration was palpable, his eyes darting over the endless expanse of land. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were so close, yet it felt like the temple was taunting them, just beyond their reach. He pulled out another arrow and prepared for yet another attempt at the entanglement.

The wonder of the temple was not anything inside it, rather that it was a permanent entanglement. Those were rare. Few people, quite few indeed knew the technique to make an entanglement last beyond the moment of concentration. To find such a structure, to study it. They hoped to be able to unravel this great secret and catapult their power to heights few had ever reached. If things went as he hoped he would soon go from being no one, among the weakest of all souls, to becoming a power few could compare. Then he might finally amount to something in this war.

"How long are we going to keep this up?" he muttered, loosing his arrow once again. But this time he triggered the entanglement too early and it dropped off course. He cursed. "It's here, right? Somewhere in all these trees."

Saffrael, trailing behind them, glanced up from an old journal she'd somehow replaced the map with. She had that distant, focused look that meant she was processing something—something he wasn't quite seeing yet. She spoke in her usual calm, controlled tone. "It's not just here, Moraithe. It exists—but not in the way you think. You've been looking for it all wrong."

He stopped, his boots crunching against the dry ground, and glared at her. "What do you mean? The temple's not exactly hiding itself."

Saffrael, walking a few paces ahead, didn't look up from the journal in her hands. "It's not hiding. It's in a revenescent." Her voice was soft but confident.

Moraithe stopped mid-step. "A what?"

"Revenescent," Saffrael repeated, as if it explained everything.

Norgoth kicked a small rock down the path. "Great. Now we're chasing a temple that's in some magic pocket dimension. Just what I needed to hear."

Saffrael ignored Norgoth, her gaze still fixed ahead, the journal clenched tightly in her hands. "It's not just in a pocket dimension. It's in a revenescent—but only its physical form came through. The walls, the floors—they exist here, but their properties don't."

Moraithe furrowed his brow, trying to make sense of it. "Wait... so the temple's here, but it's not here?"

"Exactly," Saffrael said, now turning to him with a hint of frustration in her voice. "The physical structure is here, yes. But it's not fully in this world. You can touch it, you can feel it, but you can't interact with it the way you should be able to. It's solid, but it's not."

"Like an illusion?" Moraithe asked, his tone bitter, trying to grasp the idea.

"No," Saffrael flipped a page in the journal. "It's not an illusion. The walls are real. They just don't behave like they should. They're like... remnants. Fragments of something that crossed over but didn't come all the way through. It's physically there, but entangled across into this space."

Norgoth chuckled, shaking his head. "So we're chasing a solid ghost temple? Great."

Moraithe stopped pacing for a moment, staring at the storm clouds above them. It made sense in a way, but it was maddening. The temple was right there, but it was like trying to grab fog. "So, we can't touch it like a normal temple. But how do we find it then?"

Saffrael snapped the journal shut, looking at them with quiet certainty. "Debris."

"Debris?" Moraithe echoed, his voice full of confusion.

Saffrael nodded, her gaze hardening as she looked at the landscape around them. "The journal says this kind of entanglement sometimes leaves behind traces, as if the temple didn't come through perfectly. Some pieces—fragments—slipped out. They don't belong in this world. Those are the clues. The debris."

Norgoth raised an eyebrow, looking between Moraithe and Saffrael. "So we're hunting down some magical junk? Pieces of the temple?"

Saffrael didn't hesitate. "Exactly. Things that don't belong. They're anomalies—floating, out of place. Pieces of the temple that didn't fully cross over."

Moraithe's mind was racing now, slowly beginning to piece it all together. "So we don't just walk up to it. We track the debris. We find the floating junk, and that's how we know where the temple really is."

Saffrael's eyes sharpened. "Yes. The temple isn't going to give itself away. But the debris will."

Norgoth shrugged, but there was something more serious behind his grin. "Not my first choice for tracking down an ancient temple, but I'm listening."

Moraithe glanced at the storm clouds above, a sense of clarity slowly settling over him. They weren't chasing the temple—it was more like they were following the trail it left behind. "Right. Floating debris. That's the key. Stay sharp, and keep an eye out for anything that doesn't belong."

Saffrael nodded, her focus already shifting as she scanned the horizon. "The pieces are out there. We just have to find them."

"And then we'll master an entanglement so rare it's only spoken of in legend and song."

The group fell into silence, each of them focused on the task at hand. The storm clouds continued to roll in, and the world felt heavier, as though it were holding its breath. With their plan clear, they moved forward, no longer just wandering through the land. Now, they were hunters, tracking the temple by the pieces it left behind.

And somewhere ahead, hidden in the storm, the temple waited for them.

A vine somehow floated in the distance before them. “Look. This must be it.” They rushed toward the floating debris, excitement boiling.

A roar shattered the tense silence. It came from the distance, deep and guttural, a sound vibrating through his bones, so primal it shook the very core of the earth beneath him. The tension in the air thickened with an oppressive heat, and his breath quickened as his eyes scanned the horizon.

He'd hoped they would have more time, but it seemed the war would not wait. The war that he and Norgoth had started by breaking Throm'tor's throne to rescue Saffrael.

Like black fire falling to the earth, the Severed impacted trees and earth, a grotesque wave of writhing shapes that had once been human. Their bodies twisted unnaturally, crawling forward in a mass of venomous hunger, monstrous forms writhing like ink-black shadows. The leader was a hulking silhouette, tall and terrible, his form cloaked in an aura of shadows and black fire.

With a single motion, the leader raised his hand, and the first bolt of anger shot out—a streak of searing white that flashed across the sky, jagged and violent, like lightning splitting the heavens. It crackled and burned, as it tore through the air with the force of a thousand storms. Then it slammed into the ground shattering stone with a deafening blast that sent waves of burning heat toward them, scorching the air.

Moraithe felt it hit him then—a direct blow to his chest, as though a fist had punched through his ribs. The sensation was jagged, like a blade scraping across his heart. A fury so hot it felt like his very soul might burn away beneath it. His skin prickled with the heat, his thoughts disintegrating beneath its ferocity. And yet—beneath the unbearable pressure, something deep within him flared to life.

A warmth surged within him, like sunlight pouring through a cracked window. A soft pulse of peace that pushed back against the fury, like a candle struggling to hold the night at bay. Gratitude. That was what it felt like, he realized with a sudden shock.

He stumbled back, blinking, confused. It wasn't his doing—he hadn't conjured it, hadn't asked for it—but it was there, deep within him. A wellspring, endless and constant, that shielded him from the attack. He was protected. Untouched.

The fires of anger struck him but didn't burn. A scorching blast of light turned into harmless sparks as the force of gratitude pushed it away, like a wave crashing against a cliff, breaking into foam.

Then Moraithe saw his friends writhing upon the ground. They were caught in the same barrage of anger, crumbling beneath the weight of it, their movements faltering, their clothes and hair smoldering. Their faces were tight with effort, their hands trembling as they fought to defend themselves.

The Severed approached, the darkness in their eyes spreading outward like an infection. Moraithe ran between them to protect his friends, giving them a moment of respite to regain their feet.

"Everyone jump on my call," Saffrael called, "Now!" And they all jumped. While in the air a stone house appeared to surround and protect them. As their jump concluded they all landed on an expertly cut stone floor.

Norgoth spluttered. “You had a house in your revenescent this whole time?”

But the Severed were immediately hacking and burning through the door and tearing off the shutters. One of the Severed had been stuck inside the wall when it had emerged, the trapped body shuddered and moved no more. The walls gave them a chance to regroup and put their backs against something solid.

Though the searing heat of the attacks had receded beneath Moraithe's shield, something else now crawled at the edges of his consciousness—a coldness, like fingers of ice reaching into his mind.

Fear.

It wasn't like the anger. The fear didn't strike with the force of a storm, it crept in, cold and suffocating. It warped reality, bending the world until it felt alien, twisted. His vision darkened at the edges, and the ground beneath him seemed to waver, as though it might swallow him whole. His breath hitched, his pulse quickened, and just as the first tendrils of dread crept up his spine, something shifted.

The stench of rot filled his nostrils. His hands were dripping with blood—his own? No, no. It didn't matter. The stone shifted beneath his feet like it was made of soft earth, threatening to swallow him whole. His stomach lurched. He could feel the cold, wet breath of something breathing on the back of his neck, the sounds of scraping nails against stone.

The world bent and shifted. The ceiling was alive, the knots in the wood swirling with movement, each one formed into a grotesque face, whispering in a thousand voices. His limbs went numb, his knees buckling, and he fell to the ground, unable to stand. His heart hammered in his chest as the world continued to twist around him, and all he could do was gasp for breath, his mind struggling to hold onto itself.

Through the suffocating haze of terror, he heard it—screaming.

"It burns! Please, help us!" Norgoth's voice, raw with panic, shattered the hallucinations for a moment, but only for a moment. His words slipped back into the nightmare's grip.

Norgoth screamed, his voice strangled as his flesh stripped away in blackened cords of ash.

"Norgoth!" It was Saffrael this time, her voice strained, desperate. "No! Please! Help!"

Moraithe could barely focus on their voices. The fear was too much. It wrapped around him, crushed him, paralyzed him. But through the haze, through the pain, he could feel them, fighting, struggling against the flames of anger the Severed wielded.

And then, a thought pierced through the fog, quiet but certain. He could help them.

Gratitude. The warmth, that strange, constant pulse within him. It hadn't failed him in the face of anger. Maybe, just maybe, it could help them fight back. It couldn't shield them from fear, not any more than it had him. But it could protect them from one thing—the burning anger that had the power to turn them to ash.

With what strength he could muster, Moraithe reached deep. His chest tightened as he focused on that warmth, that strange, endless well of gratitude he couldn't fully understand. It pulsed inside him like the steady beat of a heart, like the rise and fall of breath. He couldn't move. He couldn't fight the fear that clutched at him like chains. But this—he could do this.

The gratitude spread.

A soft, golden light erupted from him, flooding the air around him like sunlight bursting through fissures in a storm, wrapping around his friends like a protective cocoon. The light pulsed, steady and unyielding, like the calm in the eye of a storm. It was shielding them—not from fear, but from the flames of anger that threatened to consume them.

Norgoth gasped as the shield wrapped around him, his shaking hands steadied. Saffrael's wide eyes flickered, down to Norgoth as his flesh was slowly restored. Her expression softened, the tension melting from her shoulders as the searing heat of the anger faded.

The Severed lunged, their twisted faces contorted with hunger and rage. The nearest ones hit an unseen barrier, flung backward as if struck by an invisible hand. They snarled and staggered, confusion flickering across their grotesque features. The Severed paused. Their fury had no place to go. The shield was too strong, too constant. Moraithe felt their rage shattering against it, turning into harmless sparks. The anger could no longer burn them or break them.

Gratitude. It countered anger as one of the four great powers—gratitude, anger, self-assurance, and fear—somehow they had been entangled across all of the universe, becoming magics in their own right. But gratitude was the greatest of all, for it could be traded for goods and services. It was their currency, for it could both shield and heal. When others feel gratitude for you, this natural currency forms inside your soul. He didn't remember earning any particular wealth of gratitude, so where had it all come from?

His gratitude now shielded them from the searing wrath of the Severed. And though fear still gnawed at their minds, they could fight. In fact, the power of his gratitude was rapidly healing their scorched flesh.

But Moraithe's own vision was still warped, still twisted. His mind reeled with images—bodies rising from the earth, twisted faces leering at him, the sound of cracking bones. The fear was still there, eating away at him. But he held on, focusing on them. The shield around them was strong, stronger than he ever thought possible.

He couldn't move. He couldn't escape the cold grip of fear that still clutched his chest. But they were protected. The fear hadn't taken hold of them, for they had enough self-assurance to resist it. Their self-assurance stood as a bulwark against fear as surely as his gratitude had against the bolts of anger.

Moraithe realized, with a strange clarity, that maybe that was enough. Even paralyzed by terror, he had done something. He had protected them.

Even if he could do nothing for himself, his friends might survive this. And they could fight back.

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The Severed roared in frustration, their power shattered by the protection he had given his friends. They couldn't destroy them. Not now.

And Moraithe, though still trapped in the icy grip of fear, held onto that one, fragile hope.

The world was still burning. The fear still whispered in his ear. But for the first time, he knew that even in these darkest of moments, he could help them survive.

A distant bellow of horns echoed across the battlefield, a sound that froze the air. It was a rallying cry, a signal to retreat, to regroup. But it was also a challenge to the Severed, daring them to come forth. The invaders—those twisted horrors—were pulling back, regrouping as well. But Moraithe, Norgoth, and Saffrael had no such luxury. The battle had been long and fierce, and now the enemy was closing in again, relentless in their assault.

"We need to find somewhere safe. I think that call came from the great fortress on the downs. They say its lord can entangle himself with the entire structure."

"An entire fortress?" Norgoth scoffed, and fired an entangled arrow, blowing apart one of their attackers. "And they expect us to believe that?"

Saffrael threw spear after spear, grabbing each from her revenescent. "I say it's our best bet."

Norgoth nocked another arrow and held it between the fingers that clutched his bow. "Better than here I guess."

"I'm going to pack up the house. Be ready to move."

Moraithe tried to stagger to his feet, feeling his legs buckling under him, the fear, paralysis, and strain of holding the protective shield almost too much to bear. The shield held firm, but he felt a creeping numbness in his limbs. His vision was blurred, his mind frayed. Horrific hallucinations still bled into his thoughts—twisting shadows, strange faces, figures he had never seen before.

"Norgoth," he gasped, barely able to form words, "I—I can't—"

But Norgoth was already there, his face grim, his jaw clenched. "Hang on, Moraithe. We're getting out of here. Just stay with me."

Without hesitation, Norgoth hoisted Moraithe onto his back, his strength like an unyielding mountain, unwavering even as the Severed pressed closer. Saffrael put the house away in her revenescent and moved to keep pace beside them, her sword drawn, a fierce protector even in the face of overwhelming odds. The shield was now their only bulwark against the oncoming tide of shadowy foes.

"Move!" Saffrael cried, and Norgoth surged forward, his legs pumping as they sprinted for the long distant fortress, their only hope.

Now, seeing the fortress, that speck in the distance, he wondered how they had even heard the blast of the trumpet's call. It must have been entangled with bellows of such ferocity that the sound could travel a dozen miles.

On and on they ran, Moraithe struggling with the hallucinations and pouring all his focus into keeping the shield over his friends as the bolts kept raining down upon them. His friend's breaths came in ragged gasps as they struggled to keep ahead of the Severed, from being blocked in by them. There was safety in the fortress, or so they trusted—if only they could make it.

The eerie howl of the Severed echoed around them, but Moraithe, despite his paralyzing fatigue and wavering consciousness, pressed on, his will alone holding the shield intact around the trio. He could barely focus; his vision swam with mad images—twisted faces, contorted limbs reaching from the edges of reality, their mouths whispering horrors he couldn't fully comprehend.

Moraithe’s shield flickered, its golden light wavering like a dying ember.

"We must be getting close," Saffrael's voice broke through the haze, though it sounded distant and muffled, like underwater. She reached out to hold Norgoth steady, then glanced at Moraithe with concern, the heavy weight of battle having worn them all thin.

Moraithe gritted his teeth and dug deep into his remaining strength, desperate to keep the barrier up. It was not his well of gratitude that was running dry, never that, but his strength to project it over his friends. The shadows clawed at it, eager to break through, but each time they got too close, a surge of energy would send them reeling back. The shield was his, but so was the strain it caused him—each pulse of energy to sustain it made his limbs feel heavier, colder. The paralysis in his legs spread higher, inching up to his chest, but he held firm.

Finally, they crested a hill and found the fortress looming ahead, an imposing structure on the horizon. Moraithe could barely hold his eyes open, his mind slipping further into delirium. But he knew they had to reach it. It was their only chance.

They crossed the barren land, the ground beneath them cracked and scarred by battle, the sky dark with smoke and ash.

"Moraithe," Norgoth grunted, half-turning to face him. His voice was strained, but there was something in his eyes, a desperate plea for something more than just survival. "We can't keep this up much longer. You're bleeding energy—how much longer can you keep this going?"

Moraithe didn't answer immediately. The shadows seemed to swirl around him, their phantasms growing in number as if his mind were giving way to the madness of such horrors. The hallucinations were becoming more vivid. Faces of his friends—now twisted and distorted—emerged from the darkness, their features dissolving like smoke as they screamed his name.

"You've got to keep it together," Saffrael urged. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the fog of his mind like a knife. "The fortress is right ahead—just a little more! Don't let go now!"

Her voice seemed to echo from a distant shore. The world around him was warping. Was this reality? Or just another dream, another nightmare? How could he know if any of this was real?

And then, through the chaos of his mind, he saw it—the fortress, its looming spires cutting through the twilight sky. It was a massive structure, a testament to its owner's power. The walls shimmered with faint, golden light, and though the gates were shut, Moraithe saw the intricate entanglements binding them. Those entanglements were the key—the fortress was sealed by a kind of magic so powerful, it was said no invader could breach it, and no enemy could tread there without being consumed by its will.

But as they neared, the shadows of the Severed closed in, their howls growing louder.

Moraithe's energy waned further. A tendril of darkness was winding into his mind, wrapping around his consciousness like a vice. His vision blurred, and for a split second, he thought he saw the form of a monstrous shadow, its glowing eyes staring directly at him. It called to him, beckoned him to let go, to surrender to the dark.

His grip on the shield faltered.

The shadows surged forward, eager to tear into them. An army stood between them and their destination.

"Moraithe!" Norgoth shouted, seeing the wavering shield. The Severed were close, too close.

The fortress gates—already shimmering with the power of the owner's entanglements—began to glow brighter, but they weren't opening. Not yet.

"I … can't … hold it." Moraithe whispered through clenched teeth.

He was losing the fight. He knew it, felt it in his bones. The pain from the effort of holding the shield was too much, his power drained.

How were they to break through those ranks of Severed to the fortress? "I have an idea," Saffrael shouted. "Grab onto that tree."

They surged toward a lone tree at the edge of the horde of Severed. Their arms wrapped around it and suddenly, they were inhaling water and struggling to hold on against a massive weight, so much water. How had the ocean suddenly poured out on their heads? Moraithe struggled to hold his breath, but just as his lungs were burning with the need to breathe the water stopped. He choked and gasped for breath.

Norgoth sucked in a breath. "How did you store an entire lake in your revenescent?"

The way was clear, at least most of it. Maybe they could break through the final ranks and reach the gates.

With wild desperation they slammed into the line of Severed, only to be rebuffed. They couldn't break through. Moraithe had passed the edge of his strength to extend the shield over his friends. Now the Severed that had been swept away in the flood were returning to surround them.

But then, just as the shadows reached out to break through, there was a tremor. A ripple in the air, as if the very fabric of reality were shifting. The gates of the fortress slowly creaked open, and an enormous wave of golden light poured out, engulfing the Severed.

Stone fingers of the entangled fortress stretched out, reaching far beyond its walls. The Severed began to scream as they were caught, bound by the power of the lord of the fortress. The shadows flailed, pulled into the fortress like ragdolls trapped by an invisible force. The night air grew thick with tension, and for a moment, the world seemed to still. The enemy's assault faltered.

Moraithe's shield finally began to give way. Norgoth and Saffrael collapsed to their knees, exhausted beyond measure. The shield flickered and then vanished completely as his focus snapped. His breath came in ragged gasps, and he looked up just as Saffrael and Norgoth crawled to his side. The golden light from the fortress walls illuminated their faces, but his vision was still clouded, the hallucinations lingering.

"Stay with us, Moraithe," Saffrael urged, her voice softer now.

But Moraithe's body felt like stone, heavy and unyielding. He tried to speak, to tell them it wasn't over, but no words came. His mind swirled in a haze of confusion, the remnants of his shield still flickering in his vision.

And then, a new voice cut through the chaos—a deep, resonant voice filled with power, so commanding it made the very air tremble.

"You're safe now. But we should hurry."

Moraithe barely managed to lift his gaze toward the source of the voice. A figure stepped through the shimmering light of the gates, tall and imposing, a cloak of green and silver billowing behind him. The man's eyes were like pools of molten gold, and in them Moraithe saw not just power—but the weight of untold knowledge. The walls of the fortress bent around him, binding itself to him in a way that seemed truly alive.

"You've come just in time," Norgoth said, his voice tight with exhaustion.

The man nodded, his expression weary.

"We're not done yet," the lord of the fortress said, his voice carrying the certainty of someone who had seen the worst the world had to offer—and survived it. "Get inside. We have work to do."

Saffrael and Norgoth helped Moraithe to his feet, and together, they staggered into the fortress, the gates closing behind them with a final, resounding boom. The Severed were locked out, but they could still feel their presence, like a cold wind at their backs.

And as the darkness encroached upon the walls, Moraithe felt a flicker of hope—thin, fragile, but there. They had made it. For now.

Defenders manned the battlements, their weapons ready, and refugees huddled together within the walls, their faces drawn with fear and exhaustion.

Once inside, the sheer magnitude of the fortress's power hit them like a wave. Moraithe took a deep breath as the fear that had gripped him for so long finally released its hold. He blinked, his body slowly coming back to life as his senses sharpened. The world was clearer now, the hallucinations fading away.

"What is this place?" Saffrael whispered, her eyes wide as she surveyed the fortress. The walls seemed to pulse with energy, and Moraithe could feel the entanglement suffusing the place—an overwhelming, suffocating presence that made it feel as though the very earth beneath them was alive, aware.

From the walls, the defenders unleashed a barrage of arrows, entanglements, and siege weapons against the Severed. But it wasn't just the weapons that struck fear into the enemy—it was the walls themselves. The massive stone structures seemed to move and shift with a life of their own, forming an impenetrable barrier, crushing the Severed with an almost casual disdain.

Saffrael stretched her legs and back, kneading her cramped muscles. "So it was true, what they said about the lord of this fortress entangling the whole of it."

"How is it possible?" Norgoth wondered. "He's standing against an entire army. How could such power even exist?"

Moraithe stared in awe, his mouth dry. He wasn't the only one in shock. The other refugees, the defenders—everyone within the walls was staring, struck silent by the raw, unearthly power of the fortress. It was as though the land itself was under the control of a single, unfathomably strong will.

But the Severed didn't stop coming. They were drawn to the fortress, like moths to a flame. No matter how many were destroyed, more poured in, driven by some insatiable hunger for destruction.

Moraithe checked for his weapons, his quiver still held arrows, but something was missing. "Where's my bow?"

"Don't worry" Saffrael grabbed something out of seemingly nowhere and presented it to him. It was his bow. "I stored it in my revenescent when you fell."

He took it, mounted the battlements, and turned toward the Severed. Perhaps now was as good a time as any to get in more practice with entanglements. Especially if he ever wanted to get even remotely as strong as the lord of this fortress. He lined up his shot …

Then a blast of force seemed nearly to rupture his eardrums. The wall covered them to stop a massive wall of anger as it roared over the fortress. What was that?

A new presence had entered the battlefield. A Severed of such power that his every step caused tremors to shake the earth. His was a blackness that seemed to drink in light, turning it to tendrils of midnight. Fiery hatred bloomed in his eyes like the rays of a thousand suns.

From the corners of his eyes Moraithe saw heads fall lifeless from the shoulders of hundreds of defenders, and their bodies dropped an instant later.

Moraithe stood untouched by the attack, but shaken to the core.

The horrified faces of the defenders told volumes. And a shout rang out, “The Severed brought a baron to the battle.”

“What is a baron?” Moraithe asked one of the surviving defenders who stood beside him.

“One of the highest ranked beings in existance, higher even than our lord. With power to exceed him.”

“Bring him down!” Someone cried. An entire volley launched at the baron. Moraithe fired his shot, and finally timed the entanglement perfectly, he could hear the sound of the strike from here, but the baron didn’t even notice.

His next step forward broke the earth, rending the walls of the fortress itself. Moraithe lost his footing, falling to his knees as the walls shook.

Then the world went white, and the sky itself seemed to shudder.

A presence descended—a man of impossible power, floating in the sky above the battlefield. He was like a storm incarnate, his very presence dwarfing the stars themselves. The Severed recoiled, panic spreading through their ranks as they saw him. With barely a flick of his hand, he unleashed a wave of destructive force that carved through the ranks of the Severed, scattering and obliterating all their forms in an instant, even disintegrating the imposing bulk of the baron. A massive canyon cleaved the land in the wake of the strike, a testament to his sheer might.

In an instant, the godlike lord of the fortress and even the Severed baron had been utterly eclipsed by this being of unimaginable power.

He descended slowly as if the earth itself bent to his will, landing before Moraithe and his friends with quiet grace. The air around him thrummed with power, and every step he took seemed to make the ground tremble.

Moraithe's world slowed as the man reached toward him and lifted his chin, locking eyes with him. "You seem well," he said, his voice like thunder, yet strangely calm.

Moraithe could barely speak, still reeling from the overwhelming display of power. His mind raced to comprehend what had just happened. This man—this force of nature—was more powerful than anything he had ever imagined.

And yet, there was something in his eyes—something familiar. A recognition.

But before Moraithe could gather his thoughts the unfathomable being scooped him out of the world, and tossed him into another place, a strange place with other worlds floating in a sky amid a panoply of brilliant light. His friends were gone, the world was gone, and he stood alone on a strange shore.

Moraithe stammered at the being who had just saved the world and whisked him away. "You … What … Why would someone like you take note of someone so insignificant?"

"There is nothing insignificant about you. I was once where you are now, stumbling in the dark with none to lead the way. It is like entanglement, I find my glory in your glory. I seek to lift you, and every soul, up to be like me, to have what I have. You of all people deserve that much."

"Me?" Moraithe nearly fell back.

"You have a well of gratitude that dwarfs even my substantial reserves."

"What? I'm no one, I can barely throw a punch, let alone save anyone. How … Where did I get such wealth?"

"Due to Throm'tor's experiments, amnesia has stolen most of your strength. But that wealth of gratitude remains, and no one can take it from you, not without your approval."

"But after what you did how could I have more than you?"

"By my estimates, you must have over half the gratitude in all the universe. That is quite a lot of money, quite a lot of power." The being stepped in and looked closely into his eyes, as if he could see his very soul. "But you don't remember me, do you?"

"You just saved the world. I … Should I?"

"My name is Elithir. Once, I was your father." The being turned and stepped away to look out over a strange sea. "But before that, you were something even greater to me, and likely, just about everyone else."

"What does that mean?"

Elithir turned back to Moraithe. "It's no great riddle." He tapped Moraithe gently on the forehead. "If you could only remember."

"Why don't you at least tell me what you know about me."

"Very well. But first I must do something about that world. There is a war coming to all worlds, the enemy is combined, and they have no true bodies, but great wickedness. They have killed a great many. So I must save and protect what I can."

Suddenly they had both returned to the world, back to the fortress with his friends.

By some trick of the light the world seemed to invert, everything falling through the surface of the earth to emerge on the inside, as if all things were bent inward, inside the planet, and they could see the whole surface of the world at once. Elithir rose into the air, high above the land or rather in the center of it, as if in the center of a hollow world. He spoke and every corner of the world was filled with the sound. And every eye turned up to see him.

Moraithe stood there, feet sinking into the detritus of the battle, and watched as the impossible unfolded before him. The ground trembled, shaking as if the earth itself feared what stood at the center of it. He stood there—the one who had wrenched the world back from the edge of oblivion, Elithir, whose presence was a churning, infinite thing. Not man, not god, but something beyond both. The air rippled with the force of his voice, heavy and deep, vibrating the bones of the world itself.

"Look upon me," Elithir called, his words weaving through the vast expanse of the sky, over oceans, through mountain passes. They passed like a soft breeze over the land, touching every ear, soothing the deepest aches, and raking the soul with their weight. "I offer you mercy, and in mercy, I offer you choice."

Moraithe's heart hammered in his chest. He had felt the tremors of that distant battle, the unspeakable invasion that had only just been halted. The dead. The broken. They lingered in the aftermath, their cries muffled, but not silenced. Was it enough? The gods had no place here anymore, not after what had been done. But this... this thing... this being who now held the pulse of the world in his hands, whose voice soothed yet stirred unease in the pit of Moraithe's stomach.

The words, so casual, so unnervingly warm, rippled through the air: "I will heal your wounds. Your bodies shall mend, your lives restored. No more shall you wander through a thousand ages seeking to reclaim what has been lost. I shall protect you—if you choose it."

Moraithe's breath caught. Lives restored? How many had fallen in the wake of this battle? How many would need to spend ten thousand years to remake or restore their bodies, until their next death, over and over, only to face the same damnation once more? Their lords had failed them, but this... this being, Elithir, was offering them an escape—a way out of the war. A way into his embrace, where time could be turned and twisted, a place where the world itself could be saved.

But the offer came into focus as the words grew darker, richer. "I will take your world into a revenescent," he intoned, as the land around Moraithe trembled beneath his feet. "A pocked dimension. Your world will be sheltered. And I will keep it safe."

A silence followed, thick and suffocating. Moraithe could feel it—could hear the distant stirrings of hope, mingled with fear. Who would follow? Those who wanted to hide from the fire, from the rage, would seek shelter. But the others … the ones who refused to be hidden?

Elithir's voice, now heavy with command, slipped into every crack of the land, into every corner of their souls: "I will take those who wish it, and the matter of your world shall come with them. I will separate it, twist it, divide it into two. Two worlds, separate and whole. You may remain, whether you wish to fight or merely wish to reject my words."

Moraithe's chest burned. He did not want to be hidden away. He did not want to leave. He wanted to fight, this was his war, he had started it, and he would finish it. He wanted to stand with the others, not be coddled away in some… pocket of reality. His hands clenched into fists, and at that moment, he knew there was no choice. He could never bend to this offer.

Suddenly the inversion was undone and the world was right-side-out again. Then, the earth below him began to rise, a violent surge that pressed against him with such force that it seemed as though the world itself would crush him. He stumbled, legs shaking, and then—a rush. The ground ceased its rebellion, and with a suddenness that stole the breath from his lungs, he was thrown upward.

The sky spun in dizzying arcs as he soared, weightless, for a brief moment. Around him, the jagged edges of the land were cast as if in some great celestial forge—each sliver of earth a speared fragment of the world. And before him, rising and falling, endless spikes of broken land shot from the ground like towering spires. The shape of the world was coming apart.

But then, just as quickly, the pressure returned—forceful and unyielding, holding him in place, pulling him down to the surface once again. His feet found purchase on a jagged piece of land, and there he stood, gazing around in awe.

He wasn't the only one. Around him, he saw others—distant figures, each standing atop their own jagged piece of earth, each caught in their own moment of shock and wonder. The world was changing. The great being had wrought something incomprehensible. The world was breaking apart. But somehow, the world was being remade, remade into something new, into two.

The spikes removed from the earth were taken and brought together. The metallic gleam of something immense shone between the great spikes of earth. The spike on which he stood fell, his stomach lurched as all the spikes were brought down onto it. Crushing the fragments together, locking them into place, the world folded upon itself. Though it ought to have been deafening, somehow the sound was muted. The air hummed with power, and for a moment, it seemed as though time itself was bending, warping, like the fabric of reality itself was being skinned and stitched together anew.

The spikes of land—each bearing a piece of the old world—sank, melding with the world's core, only to rise again like skin being stretched over bones. Slowly, the world took on a new shape. Continents shifted like puzzle pieces, some crushed into mountains, some spread thin into valleys. The seams were barely visible now, only small ripples here and there where the earth had been laid back together.

Two worlds now orbited one another.

Then, in a blink, the other world was gone—swallowed whole into the revenescent, a pocket of the cosmos that shimmered with light beyond the known world.

Yet, in that brief instant, in the flicker of light from beyond the veil, as the revenescent opened to swallow up the other world, Moraithe swore he saw something in the depths of that revenescent—hundreds of worlds, perhaps thousands, spinning like stars in a sky that should not exist. It was as though the very essence of the universe had been scooped up and wrapped in a blanket of some untouchable mystery. There, in the boundless depths, thousands of orbs shined with billions of lives, and infinite futures.

Moraithe stood still, his breath caught in his throat. The enormity of it pressed down on him. What kind of being could do this?

His eyes traced the outline of space where he had seen the revenescent open wide to swallow a planet, his mind racing. This Elithir was beyond a force, beyond a god, he was something beyond comprehension. Beyond reckoning.

Just what kind of a person, what kind of power, what kind of being could entangle entire worlds?

Moraithe swallowed, his resolve hardening. He had not chosen to hide. He had to know.

He turned to find Norgoth and Saffrael right beside him. But before he could speak a word the unfathomable might of Elithir stood before him again.

"I promised you some answers. Perhaps it is time for a long overdue talk."