Sylthara’s shadows writhed and lashed erratically, mirroring the tempest within her, as she ascended the massive obsidian steps leading to Nyxhold Citadel. Her irritation was palpable, a dark energy simmering beneath her composed facade. She had captured Aetheros’s precious Champion—a feat no mortal or god had dared dream—and yet her brother, Vorlath, had dismissed it entirely. His indifference gnawed at her pride, as if he simply expected her to execute his every whim without question or recognition.
The steps beneath her feet seemed to pulse with a malevolent rhythm, each one resonating with the corrupted veins of Aether that coursed through the fortress. As Sylthara reached the top of the stairway, she paused and turned, her sharp gaze sweeping over the dark horizon. Below her sprawled an army of unfathomable proportions—a seething, writhing tide of Veinforged monstrosities. Their grotesque forms undulated with an almost hypnotic rhythm, their eyes glowing faintly in the crimson haze of the Red Wastes.
A smile spread across Sylthara’s lips, cold and predatory, as the intoxicating power coursed through her. This was her doing. Her triumph. And here, at the pinnacle of her domain, she was a goddess of shadow and ambition.
Nyxhold Citadel rose behind her like a wound upon the earth—a monolith of blackened stone and pulsating veins of corrupted Aether. The fortress was alive, its twisted arteries glowing faintly with malevolent light as they snaked through the walls. Shadow-forged spires pierced the ash-choked sky like claws, and the air itself was a suffocating miasma of decay and despair. Above, an unrelenting storm churned, its dark energy blotting out the sun and casting an eternal twilight over the land.
Here, where the scorched sands of the Red Wastes met the jagged expanse of the Obsidian Ridge, stood Nyxhold—unbreakable, unyielding, and steeped in the promise of conquest. Sylthara’s eyes burned with dark satisfaction as she turned back toward the fortress’s gaping maw, her shadowy tendrils trailing behind her like living extensions of her will.
Let Vorlath brood in his endless calculations. The Champion was hers to break, hers to wield. And when she was done, he would kneel before her—not out of respect, but out of necessity.
Asher awoke with a sharp intake of breath, his body jolting against restraints that bit cruelly into his flesh. Panic surged as he took in his surroundings. He hung suspended on a rusted, jagged metal rack, shadowy tendrils coiled tightly around his ankles, his remaining wrist, and his neck. The chains clinked softly with each shallow breath, and the sharp edges of the rack dug into his back. Warm blood trickled down his skin, a chilling sensation that mixed with the stickiness of older, dried wounds. He shuddered, a visceral response to the stark vulnerability of his position.
Fighting to ground himself, Asher instinctively reached inward, seeking the bonds he had forged with Vicky, Brynn, and Aetheros. He reached and reached—only to find emptiness. There was nothing, not even a whisper of their presence. It was as if they had never existed. A fresh wave of despair rolled over him, but he gritted his teeth and pushed it aside.
Desperation guided his thoughts to the Aether, the lifeblood of his strength. He drew on it—but the moment he did, the shadowy tendrils tightened and absorbed the energy greedily, siphoning it away before he could wield it. Asher clenched his jaw, his breath coming faster. He was trapped.
The room’s oppressive silence bore down on him, his fraying thoughts filling the void. It wasn’t until now that he took in his surroundings. The space was completely barren save for the rack that held him, an array of cruelly gleaming instruments arranged on a nearby wall, and a grotesque throne positioned directly in front of him.
Without warning, a door materialized from the shadows in the bare wall, its appearance rippling through the gloom like ink dropped in water. Sylthara swept in with a flourish, her presence commanding and suffused with dark amusement. Her gleaming grin was a predator’s—hungry, victorious.
“Ah, Champion! Awake at last!” Her voice was honeyed venom, every syllable soaked in mockery. “I trust you find your accommodations... adequate? This room, you see, is the most secure in all of Nyxhold. Escape is utterly impossible—unless, of course, I decide to let you go.”
Her grin widened as she paused, clearly savoring the revelation. She was waiting, waiting for Asher to react, to show her some shred of fear or anguish she could feed upon. But Asher remained silent, his emerald eyes fixed on the floor, his expression carefully blank. He would not give her the satisfaction.
Sylthara laughed, a rich, mocking sound that filled the room. “Ah, the silent treatment. How delightful. I do love when they play hard to get.”
She began moving toward him, her steps deliberate, a predator circling its prey. A weapon materialized in her hand—a cat-o’-nine-tails, its tails tipped with jagged obsidian shards that glinted menacingly in the dim light. She stopped behind him, her presence a suffocating weight. With a flick of her wrist, she released a mechanism on the rack.
The back of the contraption swung open with a groan of rusted hinges, and Sylthara carelessly tossed the piece aside. Now, Asher hung fully exposed, his clothes stripped away, leaving him vulnerable in every sense of the word.
Her fingers, cold and unnaturally smooth, trailed lightly over the scars that crisscrossed his back, his legs, his neck—marks of countless battles, each one a testament to the warrior he had become.
“You’ve been through so much, haven’t you?” she murmured, her tone a mixture of mockery and admiration. “Such a warrior. Such resilience.” Her touch was light, almost tender, but it carried a dark intent that made his skin crawl.
“I know what you’re thinking, Champion,” she continued, her voice a low purr. “You’ve resolved to stay silent, haven’t you? To deny me the satisfaction of hearing you break. Admirable, truly.” She leaned closer, her breath brushing against his ear like a whisper from the void. “But remember this, Asher: this fortress is an extension of me. It functions much like my realm. I can feel your thoughts, your emotions, your deepest fears. You can’t hide from me here.”
She moved to stand before him, her piercing black eyes locking onto his. Her grin widened, cruel and triumphant. “Do you fully understand the situation you’re in now?”
Her words lingered in the oppressive silence, coiling around Asher like chains. He remained stoic, his lips pressed into a thin line, but his mind churned with a storm of rage, defiance, and humiliation. He would endure. He had to endure. Yet as Sylthara’s smile widened, her black eyes gleaming with sadistic glee, he felt the creeping certainty that she believed otherwise—that she was utterly confident in his eventual collapse.
Without warning, Sylthara raised the cat-o’-nine-tails above her head. The obsidian-tipped tails hissed through the air, striking Asher’s back with a force that reverberated through his entire body. The shards bit deep, tearing into flesh with merciless precision. Then, with a brutal tug, she ripped the weapon free.
Chunks of flesh were torn from him, spraying the opposite wall with dark streaks of gore. Asher’s body trembled violently, his muscles spasming under the relentless assault. His jaw clenched so tightly he felt a tooth crack under the strain, but he refused to scream. His vision swam with agony, his blood pounding like a drumbeat in his ears.
Sylthara tilted her head, her expression equal parts mockery and delight. “Oh, you won’t die, Champion,” she purred, her voice silky with malice. “Not yet. Not before the grand finale—the real icing on the cake, just for you.”
She reared her arm back again, the whip gleaming faintly in the dim light as she struck once more. The tails dug deeper this time, each cruel shard ripping new lines of torment into his already ravaged back. Another sharp pull, another spray of blood. Asher’s vision darkened at the edges, and his head drooped forward. His strength was fading, his body betraying him.
But then, something shifted.
The fire of pain that consumed him dulled abruptly, ebbing like a retreating tide. A strange numbness settled over him, a sensation eerily reminiscent of the first moments of the battle in the Red Wastes. His breathing slowed, and he attempted to twist his head, desperate to understand what was happening to him.
Before he could, Sylthara appeared before him, her movements swift and inhumanly graceful. Her grin was wide, her expression brimming with an almost childlike glee. “Ah, are you confused, Champion? Shall I explain? You see,” she said, leaning in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “as the Lady of Shadows, Secrets, and Time itself, it is but a trifle to rewind the clock on a single object.”
She stepped back, gesturing theatrically toward his bloodied form. “Your flesh, for example. It’s a delightful game—tear it, restore it, tear it again. Think of the possibilities! Think of the fun we’ll have, mortal king!” Her laughter was a symphony of malice, echoing off the bare walls.
The full weight of his predicament crashed over Asher like a collapsing mountain. She could reset his injuries indefinitely, stretching his torment into eternity. This was not mere pain; this was calculated, unending cruelty. His gaze dropped to the blood pooling at his feet, his chest heaving as he forced himself to steady his thoughts.
He thought of Vicky, her fierce eyes blazing with determination. He thought of Brynn, her sly grin masking an unshakable loyalty. And Aetheros, the divine force who had chosen him for reasons he didn’t yet fully understand.
If this was to be his future, he would meet it head-on. He would endure the torment, no matter how deep it cut or how long it lasted. If it’s just pain, I’ll bear it.
Sylthara’s grin faltered, just for a moment, as if she sensed the shift in his resolve. Her delight returned quickly, but the faintest flicker of unease lingered in her gaze. Asher lifted his head, his emerald eyes blazing with defiance.
“You think you’ve won,” he rasped, his voice hoarse but unwavering. “But you’ll never break me. Do your worst, Sylthara.”
Her laughter echoed in the chamber, rich with venom but faintly frayed, as if some hidden uncertainty clung to its edges. “Oh, Champion,” Sylthara purred, her tone a silken blade, “I don’t think I’ll win. I know it.”
Yet as her words hung in the air, Asher felt something stir deep within him—a defiant ember of victory. He clung to it, fragile but unyielding. As long as he resisted, he was not defeated. As long as he remembered those waiting for him—Vicky, Brynn, his people—he was still in the fight.
Miles away, in the camp that bore his name, Vicky stood at the heart of Ashhold. The faint glow of the Aether Lantern bathed the forward outpost in a dim, unsteady light, a pale imitation of the fire Asher had always brought to their cause. She sat on a weathered bench, sharpening her twin blades with deliberate care. Her hands moved methodically, but her thoughts were a tempest, replaying the moment of his capture over and over.
It had been a week since he’d been taken. A week of restless nights, of waiting for a response from Aetherhold, and of trying to shoulder the impossible weight of her failure. Vicky’s runes flickered faintly beneath her skin, mirroring the tension she couldn’t seem to shake. She had failed him. She had let her take Asher, the man she’d sworn to protect, and now he was in Sylthara’s hands.
With a sudden growl of frustration, Vicky hurled one of her swords across the clearing. The blade embedded itself deep into a wooden practice target, quivering from the force of her throw. She stood abruptly, her chest heaving as anger and shame roiled inside her.
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled her from her spiraling thoughts. Elara and Malisya strode into view, their expressions grim but determined. Elara’s sharp eyes scanned the camp before settling on Vicky. “My queen,” she began, her voice steady, “the scouting parties have returned. The surrounding area is clear, and the Aether Lantern remains stable. But the soldiers are restless. We need to discuss our next steps.”
Vicky didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she stalked across the clearing, retrieving her blade from the target with a sharp tug. Her movements were purposeful, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her inner turmoil.
“I know they’re restless,” Vicky said finally, her voice low but heavy with frustration. She sheathed her swords with a sharp motion before turning to face her lieutenants. “But what would you have me do? We’ve sent word to Aetherhold. We’ve established this outpost. We’re scouting the area. Without any information on his whereabouts, we’re grasping at shadows.”
Elara hesitated, but Malisya stepped forward, her tone edged with impatience. “And how long do you think we can sustain this? Sitting here, waiting for something to happen, isn’t a plan—it’s a slow death for morale. The soldiers need hope, Vicky. They need direction.”
Vicky’s violet eyes flared as she rounded on Malisya, her voice rising. “You think I don’t know that? You think I don’t feel it every second he’s gone? That every moment we wait, he’s suffering at her hands?” Her voice cracked, and she turned away, her hands clenching into fists.
The air between them grew thick with tension until Elara spoke, her tone calm but firm. “None of us doubts your resolve, Vicky. But this army is looking to you for answers. If we stand idle for too long, we risk losing everything—not just Asher.”
Vicky inhaled deeply, forcing herself to steady her voice. “We can’t move blindly,” she said after a long pause. “If we charge into the unknown, we lose everything. Without Asher’s power, we can’t afford recklessness.” She straightened, her resolve hardening as she met their gazes.
“Then we prepare,” she said, her tone steady but cold. “We keep scouting. We fortify this outpost. We train until every soldier here can stand against the Veinforged without him. If we find even a hint of his location, we move—but not before.”
Elara and Malisya exchanged a glance before nodding. “Understood, my queen,” Elara said softly.
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As Elara and Malisya left to carry out her orders, Vicky turned her gaze to the distant horizon, her heart heavy. Wherever Asher was, she prayed he could hold on—because she wouldn’t stop until she brought him home.
Far from the Red Wastes, in the heart of Aetherhold, life was thriving. The city had transformed into a hub of innovation and resilience, its growth a testament to the vision Asher had sparked and the determination Brynn had nurtured. The towering spires of the Aetheric College gleamed under the evening light, pulsating faintly with the power of the crystals housed within.
Inside, Brynn paced her expansive lab, the soft hum of Aether-powered devices and the whir of golems filling the space. Aetherhold’s advancements were unparalleled: defensive constructs now patrolled the streets, hospitality golems ensured the city’s flourishing trade network ran smoothly, and the latest Aether weapons were being tested to strengthen their armies.
The city’s expansion mirrored the progress within the lab. Beyond the protective outer wall, villages and hamlets had sprung up, their inhabitants thriving under the safety and prosperity of Aetherhold’s reach. Miners had even unearthed a Sylvari bunker buried deep beneath the earth. Within it, they’d discovered a cache of ancient relics, including an Aether crystal of staggering purity. Among the treasures was a teleportation crystal, a vital foundation for restoring the long-lost Sylvari teleportation circles.
Yet despite the city’s progress, an oppressive shadow loomed.
A faint chime broke Brynn’s concentration, pulling her attention to a glowing crystal that floated above her desk. She moved toward it, her expression shifting from focus to unease as she read the message that began to scrawl itself across the crystal’s surface:
Frontline Update. Urgent. Asher captured by Veinforged forces. Confirmed alive. Additional details unclear.
The words froze her in place. Her hand hovered over the crystal as a cold weight settled in her chest. It had been over a week since she’d checked the bond threads in her mind’s eye. She had been so consumed by her work, by the relentless demands of the city’s advancement, that she hadn’t noticed their absence.
Closing her eyes, Brynn reached inward, searching desperately for the familiar connection she had always felt with Asher. The bond that had always been there—vibrant and steady—was gone, as if someone had severed it cleanly.
Her eyes flew open, panic flickering across her face. He wasn’t just captured. He was beyond her reach, beyond her ability to sense.
Brynn gripped the edge of her desk, her knuckles white as she stared at the message, her mind racing. For the first time in weeks, the hum of progress around her felt hollow, a far cry from the suffocating dread now threatening to overtake her.
In that moment, Brynn felt her world tilt beneath her. The sudden realization that she couldn’t feel Asher, that the bond that had always tethered them was gone, struck like a physical blow. She collapsed to the ground, her knees hitting the polished floor of her lab with a dull thud, her head sinking into her trembling hands. Her breath came in ragged gasps, a sob escaping her throat before she could stifle it.
She remained there, paralyzed by the weight of her emotions, until a voice broke the suffocating silence.
“My Queen, I got the message. Are you alright?”
Brynn looked up to see Jorven, his broad frame silhouetted against the glow of the Aether-powered lights. Behind him stood Drayvn and Kaelen, their faces etched with concern and resolve. The three of them, Asher’s most trusted generals, had come immediately upon hearing the grim report from the frontlines.
Jorven knelt before her, his piercing blue eyes steady as he spoke. “My lady, please lean on us. As his generals, it is our duty to support you, as he commanded. We need a plan, and we will help you decide the best path forward.”
Brynn wiped at her tear-streaked face, drawing a shaky breath as she forced herself to stand. She looked at the three men, the tears still glistening in her eyes now tempered by a burgeoning fire. Her voice was steady as she spoke.
“Call the war council. Our king has been taken, and we need to bring him back.”
The generals exchanged a glance before nodding, their expressions shifting to grim determination. They turned to leave, ready to summon the lieutenants, officers, and anyone else required for the emergency council. But before they could fully exit the room, Brynn’s voice stopped them in their tracks.
“Call all of our researchers as well,” she added, her tone sharp and commanding. “They will be pivotal to my plan.”
The generals nodded again, this time with understanding, and hurried from the lab to fulfill her orders. Brynn lingered for a moment, her hands clenching into fists at her sides as she stared after them. Then, with purposeful strides, she made her way toward the war council chamber.
As she walked, her thoughts began to crystallize, the first seedlings of an idea taking root in her mind. But it wasn’t just strategy that drove her now—it was something far deeper, something primal. A rage she hadn’t felt in over five centuries bubbled to the surface, raw and untamed.
They had dared to take her king. They had dared to try to extinguish the fragile light she had found after seven hundred years of darkness.
She wouldn’t allow it.
Not now. Not ever again.
The moonlight spilled through the high windows of the council chamber, casting pale beams across the solemn faces gathered around the wooden table. Jorven, Drayvn, Kaelen, a host of researchers, and ranking officers all sat in tense silence, their eyes fixed on Brynn as they waited for her to speak. The room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of the moment pressing down on every soul present.
Brynn finally cleared her throat, her voice steady despite the fire simmering beneath her calm exterior. “Leaders and protectors of Aetherhold, our beloved king has been taken. From what little information we have, it appears that a Veinforged general emerged during the battle and pulled Asher into a portal of pure shadow.”
A murmur rippled through the room, low and anxious. The weight of the revelation hung heavy over the table, and the unease was palpable. Jorven was the first to break the silence.
“We must mobilize the army immediately and march into the Red Wastes,” he growled, his massive hand slamming down on the table with enough force to rattle the maps and documents. “If Asher is corrupted or falls... Aetheros warned us—everything would be over. Even the city isn’t worth the king’s life in this scenario. Damnit!”
Kaelen, seated beside the Frostborn warrior, placed a calming hand on his shoulder and spoke with a measured tone. “I share your sentiment, Jorven, but we must act with caution. Leaving Aetherhold unguarded would invite disaster. I don’t believe the enemy is aware of the stakes tied to Asher’s life. They likely think corrupting him is their best way to turn the tide of this war.” He glanced around the table, his gaze steady. “That plays to our advantage—for now. If they knew the truth, he’d already be dead.”
Kaelen straightened, his voice gaining strength. “We must take a force into the Wastes, yes—but we must first prepare. The army needs to be armed with our latest Aether weapons and supported by the golems. At the same time, we must ensure the city remains well-defended while we split our forces.”
Drayvn, ever the pragmatist, leaned forward, his tone brisk and direct. “The best course of action is to get word to Vicky immediately. Have her push the campaign deeper into the Wastes, using Ashhold as her base. Her forces can pressure the Veinforged back toward the Obsidian Ridge. While she holds the front, we send a medium-sized force into the Wastes—maneuvering to flank the enemy, disrupt their lines, and scour the region for Asher’s location. This way, we weaken their resistance and secure the battlefield for when we launch the final strike.”
Brynn listened intently, her expression unreadable as the room fell silent once more. After a long moment, she stood, the quiet hum of her runes amplifying the gravity of her presence. When she spoke, her voice carried an undeniable authority.
“My decision is this,” she began, her eyes sweeping the room. “We will utilize the teleportation crystal discovered in the Sylvari bunker. Through the bond I share with Asher and the Aether vein Vicky has extended to Ashhold, I will scry his location. Once our scouts confirm the stronghold where he is being held, we will set the crystal to teleport our forces directly to it.”
A murmur of surprise spread through the room, but Brynn continued without pause. “We will move half of our standing forces through the portal—10,000 soldiers armed with our most advanced Aether weaponry and supported by every golem we have. This combined force will bring our numbers to nearly 20,000. The remaining 10,000 soldiers will remain in Aetherhold, fully equipped and prepared to defend the city should the Veinforged attempt to strike while we are engaged in the Wastes.”
Her tone grew sharper, commanding. “We will relocate all civilians to the inner rings of the city as a precaution. Buildings can be rebuilt; lives cannot. Preserving the people of Aetherhold is our highest priority. Meanwhile, we will fortify the outer walls and deploy defensive golems to ensure no force catches us by surprise.”
Brynn’s eyes burned with determination as she turned back to the map. “Once I Locate the stronghold, Vicky will be informed through our bond to prepare for the assault. With the element of surprise on our side, we will overwhelm the Veinforged and take back our king. This is not a campaign of attrition—it is a precision strike. We will leave no room for failure.”
The room was silent for a moment, the gravity of her words settling over the council. Then, one by one, the generals, officers, and researchers nodded, their resolve hardening.
Jorven rose first, his voice gruff but steady. “We’ll make it happen, my queen. You have our full strength.”
Kaelen followed, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. “Every blade, every spell, every golem—we will be ready.”
Drayvn smirked, his confidence as sharp as ever. “The Veinforged won’t know what hit them.”
Brynn allowed herself the barest hint of a smile before her expression turned grim once more. She placed her hand on the table, her fingers brushing the map as she traced the path to Asher in her mind.
“They took our king. Now, we will take their stronghold. And when we find him,” her voice lowered, seething with quiet fury, “we will remind them why they should have never dared to challenge us.”
The council adjourned with a ripple of determination, the sound of chairs scraping against the floor and boots thudding against the wooden planks fading as the leaders dispersed. Brynn lingered for a moment at the head of the table, her gaze fixed on the map before her. Slowly, she exhaled, then turned and strode from the chamber, her purpose carrying her down the winding corridors of the Aetheric College and back to the sanctuary of her lab.
The air within was cool, the faint hum of Aether-powered devices providing a soothing backdrop to her racing thoughts. At the center of the lab, on a pedestal of polished obsidian, rested the teleportation crystal. Its surface shimmered faintly, refracting the soft light into shifting patterns of brilliance. Brynn approached it, her fingertips brushing the intricate etchings carved into its surface.
She had spent hours unraveling its mysteries, tracing the winding threads of Aether that coiled and pulsed within. The crystal was more than a teleportation device—it was a marvel of ancient magic, capable of functioning as a scrying orb, a power conduit, a booster for Aetheric energy, even a tool for long-distance communication. Yet, for all its potential, Brynn’s focus was singular.
Her mind’s eye followed the Aetheric threads as they wove together in impossibly intricate patterns. Each strand seemed to hum with latent power, their intersections forming glowing nodes of energy. She moved her hand slowly above the crystal, feeling the pull of its magic, her senses attuned to the delicate balance within.
The strings of Aether seemed to sing as they twisted and danced, converging into a central nexus that pulsed faintly in response to her touch. Brynn narrowed her focus, her eyes glowing faintly as she poured her will into the task. The crystal’s secrets unraveled before her, but the complexity of its design was staggering—a symphony of magic woven with precision that made even her vast knowledge seem inadequate.
But she pressed on, her determination unwavering. The teleportation function was paramount, the key to striking the Veinforged and rescuing Asher. Everything else could wait.
Miles away Vicky stood atop a ridge overlooking the shifting expanse of the Red Wastes, her violet eyes scanning the enemy lines below. The Veinforged moved like a dark tide in the distance, a constant reminder of the battle still raging. Her fingers tightened on the hilt of her sword, tension radiating from her as the weight of her next move pressed down on her.
The air around her shimmered suddenly, unnervingly. A faint pulse, almost imperceptible, thrummed at the edge of her mind. She froze, her breath hitching. Then she heard it—a voice, weak but unmistakable.
“Vicky…”
It was Brynn.
The queen’s voice echoed in her mind, and Vicky’s knees nearly buckled in shock. Brynn had never reached out like this, had never used the bond in such a direct and intimate way—especially not over such a distance. It felt intrusive, almost alien, but the strain in Brynn’s voice cut through her surprise.
“Brynn?” Vicky asked aloud, her voice barely above a whisper.
“There’s not much time,” Brynn said, her tone faint and labored, as if maintaining the connection was draining her. “I need you to listen carefully.”
Vicky closed her eyes, forcing herself to focus as the bond pulsed faintly. “I’m here,” she said, her voice steady despite her unease. “What’s happening?”
“We don’t know where Asher is,” Brynn admitted, the words laced with frustration and pain. “The Veinforged are keeping his location hidden, and the Wastes are too vast to search blindly. But we’ve uncovered something—a Sylvari teleportation crystal.”
“Teleportation?” Vicky echoed, her shock clear even in her thoughts.
“Yes,” Brynn continued, her tone sharpening despite the strain. “It’s ancient and immensely powerful. I’ve been studying it—unraveling its secrets. If I can unlock its full potential, we can use it to teleport our forces directly to wherever Asher is being held. But...” She hesitated, and Vicky felt the flicker of uncertainty through the bond.
“But you don’t have it figured out yet,” Vicky said grimly.
“Not yet,” Brynn admitted, her voice quiet. “It’s intricate, more complex than anything I’ve ever worked on. But I’m close, Vicky. Close enough to make this our best chance.”
Vicky exhaled, a mix of relief and frustration coursing through her. “So what do you need from me?”
Brynn’s voice grew fainter, but the urgency remained. “We need to find him, Vicky. I need you to push the Veinforged back—take the offensive. Scout the Wastes, search for their strongholds, any sign of where they might be keeping him. Once we have his location, I can set the crystal and bring the army directly to the fight. But until then...”
“I get it,” Vicky said firmly. “I’ll find him. Just... take care of yourself, Brynn. You sound like hell.”
Brynn’s weak chuckle was faint, almost inaudible. “I’ll survive. Just don’t waste time. We don’t know what they’re doing to him. I’ll hold the bond as long as I can... but I can’t feel him anymore.”
The connection wavered, the bond flickering like a guttering flame. “Good luck, Vicky,” Brynn murmured before the link severed, leaving Vicky in heavy silence.
She opened her eyes, the ridge and the Wastes snapping back into focus. Malisya approached from behind, her expression questioning.
“Everything okay?” Malisya asked, her twin swords resting on her shoulders.
Vicky turned to her, her expression grim. “Brynn just reached into my mind. Directly.”
Malisya’s eyebrows shot up. “She’s never done that before.”
“No,” Vicky said, shaking her head. “And now I know why. She’s working herself to the bone on some teleportation crystal, but it’s not ready. We need to buy her time. Get word to the captains—tell them to push the Veinforged back. Hit their supply lines, harass their defenses, and scour the Wastes for anything that might lead us to Asher.”
Malisya nodded, her expression serious. “And if we find nothing?”
Vicky’s runes flared faintly as she looked back toward the Veinforged lines. “We’ll find something. We have to. We’re not leaving him to them.”
Malisya grinned, the feral light returning to her eyes. “They won’t know what hit them.”
As Malisya hurried off to relay the orders, Vicky turned back to the horizon, gripping the hilt of her sword tightly. “Hold on, Asher,” she murmured under her breath. “We’re coming.”