Asher let out a strained, pained sigh as blood trickled down every inch of his battered body. Agony clawed at his resolve, testing the limits of his mental fortitude. Sylthara stood before him, her crimson eyes narrowing with growing frustration. Each passing day brought her closer to the edge of patience, but still, Asher refused to bend. He would not scream. He would not beg.
She could feel his pain, taste the chaos within his thoughts, but his silence was like a wall she could not breach. It infuriated her.
With a flick of her wrist, the cat-o’-nine-tails lashed across his mangled back, the cruel shards at its tips tearing flesh into a grotesque mess of blood and gore. Sylthara’s voice dripped venom but carried a silken edge as she sneered, “If you would only accept the inevitable, the pain would stop. I could show you another path, another side. Why must you be so stubborn, Champion?”
Through the haze of crimson and pain, Asher lifted his head, blood-soaked hair clinging to his bruised face. He smiled—a grim, defiant expression that only deepened her fury. “You’ll never win, Sylthara,” he rasped. “Take what you want from my body, but you’ll never have my soul.”
Her lips curled into a cold, predatory smile. “Oh, Asher,” she purred, her voice like poisoned honey. “You truly leave me no choice. I didn’t want to do this, you know.”
The oppressive torture chamber began to dissolve like smoke, Sylthara’s form shifting as her power manifested. In an instant, the bleak room was replaced by a vision that made Asher’s breath hitch.
Standing before him was Delaney, his daughter, her bright eyes gleaming with innocent joy.
“Daddy!” she exclaimed, her voice ringing with laughter. But her expression quickly darkened, her lips trembling as tears filled her eyes. “You let me die, Daddy. You promised to protect me… but you lied! Liar! Daddy’s a liar! I hate you!”
Asher’s heart clenched, the illusion cutting deeper than any physical wound. He knew it wasn’t real, knew it was a cruel fabrication conjured by Sylthara, but her words pierced him all the same. Tears welled in his eyes, streaming silently down his bloodied cheeks. Still, he did not cry out.
Sylthara, now back in her true form, appeared beside the illusion. She plucked a gleaming knife from a table of cruel implements, its blade catching the dim, flickering light. Grinning with twisted delight, she pressed the knife to Delaney’s throat. With her free hand, she seized Asher’s head, forcing him to watch.
“No!” Asher growled, his voice breaking with desperation. But it was too late.
Sylthara plunged the blade into the soft flesh of Delaney’s neck. The illusion crumpled to the ground, her lifeless body gurgling as blood spilled from her lips, her wide eyes filled with betrayal.
A cloud of dark, swirling smoke exploded outward, and Sylthara stepped closer, her grin widening. “I can make you watch it again and again, Champion,” she said, her voice as sharp as the knife she had wielded. “I’ll carve it into your mind until it’s seared into your soul, until you’re nothing but a hollow shell of what you once were. Or…” She paused, savoring the moment, “you can spare yourself the torment. Serve me, Asher. Don’t make me destroy you.”
Asher’s chest heaved with emotion, tears mixing with the blood staining his face. Yet, even now, his defiance burned. Summoning what remained of his strength, he spat at her feet, his voice hoarse but unyielding. “Get on with it, bitch.”
Sylthara’s crimson eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, the weight of his defiance coiling around her like a vice. The air in the chamber seemed to thicken as she turned sharply on her heel and left without another word. Hours later, her fury radiated like an untamed storm as she stormed through the shadowy halls of Nyxhold, her usually elegant stride quick and uneven. Servants and guards pressed themselves against the cold stone walls as she passed, unwilling to draw her ire.
Her thoughts churned with frustration. How could one man, broken and battered, resist her so completely? Asher’s silence and unwavering resolve were a thorn buried deep in her pride. Even her most intricate illusions, those designed to unmake minds, had only served to strengthen his defiance.
Sylthara had no desire to hear her brother’s inevitable criticisms, but Vorlath had summoned her, and refusing him was unthinkable.
She entered the massive obsidian throne room, an awe-inspiring expanse where colossal pillars of pure obsidian and molten rock stretched endlessly upward. At the far end of the hall, a towering jade throne stood ten feet tall, an imposing seat of power. Upon it sat a swirling mass of black, coagulated shadow, its menacing presence spilling from the throne like a living, writhing shroud.
Sylthara’s footsteps echoed ominously as she approached. Reaching the base of the throne, she knelt, her voice steady despite the storm raging within her. “Brother, why have you summoned me?”
Vorlath’s voice reverberated throughout the chamber, a chilling sound that seemed to emanate from nowhere and everywhere at once. “Sylthara, the Champion remains defiant, and his queen rampages through the Wastes even as we speak. Why do you persist in failing me in this task? Break the Champion—it is simple. Must I do everything myself? Are you truly so useless, Sylthara?”
Sylthara flinched at the sharp rebuke, but her face remained a mask of calm. “Brother, I am exhausting every method imaginable to break this man. He is infuriatingly stubborn and shows no signs of weakness. But rest assured, he will break.” She hesitated briefly before pressing forward. “As for his insufferable queen, I suggest you send Kael’Zarath after her with a large portion of our forces.”
Vorlath’s shadowy form shifted slightly, his presence thrumming with quiet menace. His voice grew colder, more deliberate. “I have already sent Kael’Zarath with a force of 25,000 troops to intercept the forces of Aetheros. We shall see how he performs. As for you, sister…” The shadows surrounding him darkened, their weight pressing down on Sylthara like an unseen hand. “You must break the Champion immediately. We need him corrupted and bent to our purpose. He is far too valuable to let slip through our grasp. If we kill him, Aetheros will merely find a new Champion. That cannot happen. This time, we will erase her from existence entirely.”
Sylthara rose gracefully, though her hands trembled faintly at her sides. Her voice was cool, though tension tightened her words. “Very well, Brother. I will break the Champion. And you, ensure Kael’Zarath crushes his queen.”
Vorlath did not respond, but the suffocating tension of his gaze lingered as Sylthara turned and left the throne room. Her steps quickened as she made her way back toward Asher’s chamber.
The situation had just become far more urgent. Sylthara’s thoughts churned with the weight of what lay ahead, but the shadow of her failure loomed large over Nyxhold.
Far away, beyond the oppressive halls of Nyxhold and its darkened skies, a battlefield burned with blood and chaos. Fires smoldered in the distance, and the ground was churned to mud from the mix of rain and spilled ichor. Amid the carnage, Vicky waded forward with grim determination, her every step unwavering. The queen moved like a storm given form, her blade carving through the Veinforged with brutal precision.
Elara and Malisya flanked her, their movements a deadly contrast—one a shadow, the other a blaze. Together, the trio were a relentless force, their coordination honed through countless battles.
Vicky’s blade found its mark in the gut of a hulking Veinforged, the force of her strike punching through its jagged armor. She twisted savagely, black ichor spraying across her scarred breastplate. As it doubled over, she brought her sword upward, cleaving through its neck in one fluid motion. Before the body had even hit the ground, another monstrosity lunged at her, its serrated claws outstretched. Vicky sidestepped, her blade coming down like a guillotine to split its head, the glowing crimson of its eyes dimming to lifeless black as it crumpled at her feet.
A flash of claws raked across her side, biting through her armor. Pain flared, sharp and hot, but Vicky didn’t falter. Her free hand clamped onto the offending limb, holding the beast in place as her sword plunged into its chest. She drove it back with a roar, slamming the creature into the ground before finishing it with a thrust to the skull.
Beside her, Elara moved like a wraith, her twin daggers flashing in the dim, blood-soaked light. She slipped between the ranks of Veinforged with deadly grace, her blades finding the weak points in their armor with unerring accuracy. One dagger plunged into a Veinforged’s exposed throat, while the other severed the tendons at its knee, sending it crumpling. Blood and ichor coated her hands, her sharp eyes scanning the chaos, assessing threats and opportunities in equal measure.
She dodged a heavy swing from a brute, the wind of its strike brushing her face. Elara’s left eye, now a bandaged ruin from a previous encounter, throbbed faintly as sweat and grime streaked her skin. She spun behind the creature, her dagger sinking into the base of its spine with precision. It collapsed with a guttural howl, writhing until she silenced it with another thrust.
Malisya, by contrast, was pure chaos—an inferno of rage and destruction. Her twin swords glowed with searing fire-Aether, each strike accompanied by a blinding burst of flame. She hurled herself into the thickest fighting, her blazing swords cutting fiery arcs through the enemy. Veinforged limbs and shattered armor littered her path as she hacked her way through.
A massive beast, its plated body glistening with black ichor, barreled toward her. Malisya met it head-on, deflecting a blow from its clawed arm with one blade while the other carved through its side, leaving a smoldering gash. The creature roared, swiping again, its claws tearing the armor from her shoulder and leaving angry gashes along her arm.
Her snarl was fierce, the pain only fueling her fury. With a powerful leap, she drove both swords into its back, the burst of flame-Aether igniting its insides. It screamed as the fire consumed it, collapsing into a heap of smoldering ash. Malisya grinned savagely, though her dented armor and raw, blistered flesh betrayed the toll of the battle. Three fingers missing from her right hand were a grim reminder of the campaign’s brutality, but she fought as if it didn’t matter.
The three warriors moved as one, their deadly rhythm unbroken despite the chaos around them. Vicky’s blade struck with brutal efficiency, Elara’s daggers dismantled the enemy with precision, and Malisya’s fiery strikes left nothing but charred remains. The Veinforged writhed and fell beneath their onslaught, unable to withstand the combined might of the queen and her generals.
A Veinforged monstrosity, taller and more armored than the rest, lumbered forward with a massive, serrated axe. It roared, its glowing eyes fixed on Vicky. She met its charge head-on, her sword ringing against its weapon as sparks flew. The brute’s strength nearly drove her to her knees, but she held firm, her teeth gritted against the strain.
“Elara!” Vicky shouted, her voice cutting through the din.
Elara darted in like a shadow, her blades finding purchase beneath the creature’s arm. It howled, swinging wildly, forcing her to back away. “Malisya, now!”
With a roar of her own, Malisya leaped onto the creature’s back, her fiery blades plunging into the gaps in its armor. Flames erupted from the wounds, and the beast staggered forward before crumpling to the ground.
The battlefield grew quiet for a brief moment, save for the labored breathing of the survivors.
Amid the carnage, a luminous figure appeared beside Vicky, their form untouched by the blood and ash. Aetheros, the divine force who had chosen Asher, stood in radiant contrast to the brutal scene. Their voice, resonant as the chime of celestial bells, broke the silence. “Their forces are teetering on the brink of collapse,” they observed, calm yet charged with purpose. “One more decisive push, and they will break.”
Vicky nodded, wiping blood and ichor from her face with a gauntleted hand. Her violet eyes burned with determination as she turned to her soldiers—6,500 warriors who stood resolute despite the horrors they faced. Raising her sword high, she bellowed with all the authority of a queen and the fire of a warrior:
“Charge!”
The command tore through the battlefield, and her army surged forward as one. The ground trembled under the weight of their advance, the thunder of their charge a testament to their unyielding resolve.
The Veinforged, already faltering, shattered under the renewed onslaught. Vicky’s forces pressed their advantage, hacking through their ranks with unrelenting ferocity.
Vicky drove her blade into yet another foe, ichor splattering across her armor as the beast fell. She straightened, scanning the battlefield as the last pockets of resistance were extinguished.
Elara approached, her daggers glinting with blood. Her bandaged eye and numerous bruises couldn’t hide the exhaustion in her face. “It’s done,” she said tersely, her sharp gaze continuing to scan for threats.
Malisya wiped soot and blood from her face, her grin fierce despite her injuries. “Another victory,” she said, her voice tinged with weary satisfaction. “One step closer to Asher.”
Vicky nodded, her blade still clenched tightly in her hand. “Let’s make sure it’s the last step they take.”
Malisya wiped her twin swords clean with practiced ease, the flames along their edges guttering out. “Another victory,” she said, a feral grin tugging at her lips. But beneath the bravado lay a weary edge. “One step closer to Asher.”
Vicky sheathed her blade, her violet eyes fixed on the horizon where the dying embers of the battle's aftermath bled into the darkening sky. Another victory, hard-won, but hollow in the grander scheme. The war raged on, relentless and unyielding. Her thoughts strayed to Asher, and her resolve solidified, unbreakable as forged steel. She would find him. No matter how many Veinforged she had to cut down, no matter the cost, she would bring him home.
The sound of hurried footsteps broke her reverie. A scout emerged from the throng of soldiers, weaving through their triumphant cheers. He halted before Vicky and dropped to one knee, his chest heaving with exertion.
“My queen,” he rasped, his voice raw and strained, “I come with a report from the 4th Squad scouting team.”
Vicky studied the young man, noting the telltale signs of exhaustion. His blue eyes were bloodshot, heavy shadows etched beneath them, and every breath seemed to cost him. Without hesitation, she handed him a water flask, the liquid within shimmering faintly—a gift from the Morvani water manipulator aiding their campaign. Her voice was steady but commanding. “Where is your unit? What news do you bring?”
The scout hesitated, his gaze flicking nervously between her and the generals flanking her. Elara stepped forward, her sharp tone cutting through the tension. “Speak plainly, soldier.”
The man swallowed hard, his throat bobbing as he fought to steady himself. “I… I’m the only one left.” His voice wavered, and he clenched his fists as though the words themselves caused him pain. “We were ambushed… a Veinforged scouting party. My comrades… they gave their lives so I could escape with this message. My queen…” He paused, drawing a shuddering breath. “They’re coming. A massive force, led by a winged Veinforged. They called him Lord Kael’Zarath.”
Vicky’s generals tensed at the name, their expressions darkening. But the scout wasn’t finished. He drew in a trembling breath and continued, his voice steadier now. “They’re about 30 miles out, advancing slowly. It seems they’re trying to position themselves to ambush what they think is a smaller force.” His eyes darted to Vicky’s face, then to the ground. “From what I saw, their numbers exceed 20,000. They’re gathering strength with each passing hour.”
The weight of the scout’s words settled like a leaden shroud. Vicky’s gaze remained on him, unwavering despite the grim news.
“Stand, soldier,” she commanded, extending a hand to help him rise. Her touch was firm but compassionate. “You’ve done your duty. The deaths of your comrades are not on your shoulders. They chose to protect you so you could bring us this warning—and you’ve honored their sacrifice.” Her voice softened, though her words carried the unyielding force of resolve. “Rest now. We’ll handle what comes next.”
The scout hesitated, guilt flickering in his weary eyes, but Vicky’s steady gaze did not waver. Finally, he nodded and stumbled off toward the rear of the camp, leaving her and her generals to face the storm gathering on the horizon.
Vicky turned to her commanders, her grip tightening on the hilt of her sword until her knuckles whitened. Her voice, when it came, was sharp and resolute, cutting through the tension like tempered steel. “Prepare the troops. If Kael’Zarath seeks to ambush us, we’ll turn his trap into his grave. No Veinforged army will stop us.”
Elara smirked, the glint of a challenge in her sharp eyes. “And what is your plan, my queen?” she asked, her tone laced with curiosity and unshaken confidence.
Vicky allowed a brief, knowing smile to cross her lips. She reached out, patting Elara on the shoulder with a familiarity reserved for trusted comrades. “You’ll know soon enough, King’s Shadow,” she said, her voice tinged with sarcasm, aiming to draw a chuckle from her ever-loyal lieutenant.
Elara did laugh, the sound carrying a rare warmth amidst the rising tension. “My queen, your king gave me that name, and it’s a title I bear with honor,” she replied, her voice steady and proud.
Vicky’s expression softened, though a flicker of anger burned behind her violet eyes. “I know,” she said quietly, “and we’ll need all of your skill in this battle. The fields will run red with their blood before the day is through. Sylthara thought we’d crumble when she took our king, but she was wrong.” Her voice sharpened, her final words spoken with an edge of cold fury. “Now… I’m just angry.”
Malisya stepped forward, her twin blades glinting faintly in the torchlight. “As am I, Your Highness,” she growled, her voice heavy with frustration. “No matter how many I cut down, I feel as though my blades thirst for more.”
Vicky turned her piercing gaze to Malisya, nodding sharply. “Then let them feast,” she said curtly. “Gather the squad leaders and lieutenants. We need a war council—immediately.”
Without another word, her commanders dispersed, their footsteps swift and purposeful. Vicky lingered at the table, her gaze fixed on the map. Closing her eyes, she reached out through the bond to Queen Brynn, her thoughts a steady pulse of urgency.
Brynn, we need that portal opened immediately. Kael’Zarath is coming, and we’re outnumbered nearly four to one. Without reinforcements, this battle will be lost before it begins.
The weight of her words hung heavy, but Vicky’s resolve did not falter. She opened her eyes, her hand tightening on the table’s edge as determination solidified within her. The battle ahead loomed, but she would meet it head-on, unyielding.
Far away, beyond the battlefields and desolate Wastes, in the heart of the Aetheric College, ancient knowledge pulsed through the air like a living force. Each vibration resonated in perfect harmony with the web of magic suffusing the space, as if the College itself breathed and thrummed with arcane life.
Brynn stood at the center of her laboratory, a nexus of swirling energy, her slender fingers moving with purpose over the massive, multifaceted crystal mounted on an ornate dais. The crystal pulsed in steady, rhythmic waves, its light shifting through hues of cerulean and gold, as though it carried the lifeblood of the magic she wove. Cables of woven silver and enchanted silk radiated outward from its base, linking it to a complex array of machinery that filled the room.
The machinery itself seemed alive, its surfaces carved with glowing runes that shifted and realigned with each surge of Aether. Gears turned silently, their motions powered by intricate enchantments, while small orbs of light orbited the crystal, feeding it with threads of luminous energy. The air crackled with latent power, thick and heavy, as if the room itself strained under the sheer magnitude of the magic being channeled.
Brynn’s focus was absolute, her blue eyes glowing faintly as she muttered incantations under her breath. Aether flowed around her like liquid light, ribbons of raw energy threading through her hands before winding their way into the crystal. Each motion was deliberate, each word precise, stabilizing the volatile core of the portal that would bridge an impossible distance. The faint scent of ozone tinged the air, mingling with the metallic hum of power that reverberated through the space.
Then, without warning, a sharp pang struck her mind. She gasped, stumbling as if an unseen hand had shoved her. The crystal flickered, its light faltering momentarily as a ripple of thought not her own pierced through her concentration.
The bond.
The connection through the bond was tenuous, like peering through a fogged and cracked window. Fractured glimpses of Vicky’s thoughts flared in her mind, fragmented and fleeting. For an instant, Brynn saw a map—enemy positions sketched in frantic strokes, the markers shifting like pieces on a game board. Another flash: the glint of crimson eyes against a backdrop of smoke and blood.
Brynn, we need that portal opened immediately.
The words echoed, distant yet urgent, like a voice carried on a storm’s wind. Brynn staggered, clutching the edge of the crystal’s frame as the vision sharpened. Vicky’s tone was laced with desperation, but beneath it burned an unyielding resolve.
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Kael’Zarath is coming, and we’re outnumbered nearly four to one. Without reinforcements, this battle will be lost before it begins.
Brynn clenched her jaw, grounding herself as the images continued to flood her mind. Soldiers standing in rigid lines, their faces grim yet steadfast. The thunderous charge of Veinforged monstrosities. The blazing violet fire in Vicky’s eyes as she led the charge.
The bond crackled, unstable, as if the sheer distance strained its connection. Brynn focused, willing the thoughts to stabilize, her mental grip tightening as though grasping at a fraying rope. The final image was Vicky’s war table, the positions of allies and enemies illuminated with striking clarity.
And then, the connection snapped, leaving Brynn gasping for air.
“Damn it, Vicky,” she muttered under her breath, her voice tinged with both admiration and exasperation. “You always manage to pick the worst times.”
Straightening, she adjusted the crystalline conduits with practiced movements, her fingers dancing over the sigils engraved along their surfaces. Sparks flared as the machinery hummed louder, recalibrating to match the sudden surge of energy required. The portal was close to activation, but stabilizing it—ensuring the reinforcements wouldn’t be scattered across the Wastes or torn apart by the transition—was another matter entirely.
She turned toward a side table piled high with crumpled notes and schematics etched with glowing ink. Her assistants, two young Aetheric students, rushed to her side, their faces pale with anxiety.
“Prepare the secondary relays,” she ordered, her voice sharp with authority. “The anchor runes need to sync with the portal’s core. We’re accelerating the timeline.”
One of the students, a freckled boy clutching a tome almost too large for him, hesitated. “But, Your Majesty, the calibrations—”
“There’s no time for calibrations!” Brynn snapped, rounding on him with eyes that burned like sapphires. “Do you think Kael’Zarath is going to wait for us to finish our homework? Vicky’s forces are outnumbered four to one. If we don’t act now, they’ll be overrun.”
The boy flinched, then nodded hastily and scrambled to relay her commands.
Brynn returned her attention to the crystal, her movements precise and deliberate. Closing her eyes, she reached out through the bond once more, her thoughts weaving like threads of light into the chaotic storm of energy swirling between her and Vicky.
Vicky, I hear you. The portal will be ready soon. Hold them off until then.
The bond wavered again, images flickering past her like a rapidly spinning kaleidoscope. The thunder of hooves, the clang of steel against steel, Vicky’s face set in fierce determination. Brynn focused harder, her voice a steady thread in the storm. Help is coming. Just hold on.
When the bond finally faded, Brynn exhaled deeply, her body trembling with exertion. The laboratory around her seemed to pulse in response, runes flaring to life along the walls, their intricate patterns casting shifting shadows. Arcane machinery hummed with a low, resonant thrum as the portal’s energy swelled to a crescendo.
Stepping back from the glowing apparatus, Brynn turned to her remaining assistant. “Send word to the palace,” she said firmly. “Messengers are to gather the full army of ten thousand. The city is to be placed on high alert. The first real battle since Duskshade is upon us, and we will be moving through the portal soon.”
The assistant nodded, their face pale but determined, and hurried from the room. Brynn took a steadying breath before returning her focus to the crystal. Her hands hovered over it, threads of Aether winding through her fingers as she aligned its chaotic energies.
The soft hum of the portal deepened into a resonant thrum, vibrating through the floor and walls. Brynn whispered incantations under her breath, her words weaving into the fabric of the spell. The crystal’s light intensified, glowing so brightly it cast the entire room in a surreal, shifting glow.
“Hold steady,” she murmured to herself, her voice calm despite the storm raging within her.
Her thoughts turned to Vicky once more—the grim determination of a queen who would not falter. Every second mattered. Every choice carried the weight of countless lives. Brynn steeled herself as the portal’s energy coalesced, its surface shimmering like a pool of liquid starlight.
Far across the desolate expanse from the radiant halls of Aetherhold, the oppressive air of Nyxhold’s deepest chambers seemed to mock such hope. The cold stench of blood and despair clung to the stone walls like a malevolent presence. Asher hung limply from his chains, his body a tapestry of wounds, each shallow breath rattling in his chest. Yet, even in his broken state, the faint ember of defiance burned in his eyes. Sylthara stood before him, her frustration crackling like a storm on the verge of eruption.
“You’ve been most impressive, Champion,” she purred, though her voice carried an edge of venom. “But this stalemate grows tiresome.”
Her crimson eyes narrowed, shadowy tendrils rippling at her fingertips. She took a step closer, her anger radiating from her in waves. “You’ve resisted pain, illusions, and every trick I’ve devised. I thought I might savor the process of your undoing, but you leave me no choice.”
Asher’s lips curled into a weak, bloodied smile. “Guess you’re not as clever as you think,” he rasped, his voice hoarse but steady.
Sylthara’s eyes darkened, her frustration boiling over into icy resolve. Extending her hands, the tendrils of shadow shot forward, latching onto Asher’s temples. A sharp, guttural groan escaped his lips as the magic invaded his mind, dragging his consciousness into a storm of swirling shadows and fractured time.
Asher’s mind was chaos—a battlefield of memories and emotions twisted by Sylthara’s intrusion. Shattered fragments of his life—Delaney’s laughter, Rachel’s betrayal, Vicky’s fierce determination—flashed like jagged lightning across the void.
Sylthara materialized amidst the chaos, her form sleek and predatory, cloaked in a shimmering veil of darkness. She reached out, her voice dripping with calculated tenderness. “Let me in, Asher. Let me take this burden from you.”
As her hand hovered near his soul, the shadows convulsed violently. The darkness thickened, taking on a presence far more menacing. A guttural, mocking laugh reverberated through the mindscape, its sound a razor against her senses.
“What have we here?” the voice drawled, oozing malicious amusement. “A little goddess playing with forces she cannot comprehend.”
Sylthara whirled, her composure faltering. From the churning abyss, an entity emerged—a grotesque amalgamation of shadow and fractured light. Its form writhed, ever-shifting, its jagged edges glinting with a sickly radiance. Eyes like smoldering embers bored into her, searing her resolve.
“Who dares interfere?” Sylthara demanded, though her voice trembled with a fear she couldn’t suppress.
The entity’s laughter deepened, mocking her. “I am what remains of your brother’s folly,” it sneered. “The corruption he welcomed with open arms. And you, Sylthara? You are nothing more than another vessel—a pawn in the endless cycle of greed and destruction we orchestrate. How quaint.”
Sylthara’s breath hitched. “My brother still lives. Vorlath commands the Void. He is no one’s pawn.”
The corruption’s form shifted, leaning closer, its tendrils brushing against her skin with an icy, invasive touch. “Does he?” it mused. “The one you call brother was consumed long ago. He initiated the Sundering himself, lured by our promises of power. It was his hand that attempted to slay Aetheros, not mine. We merely… facilitated his ambitions.”
Sylthara staggered back, horror etched across her face. “No… you’re lying.”
The entity loomed over her, its presence suffocating. “You know the truth, goddess. You’ve always known. And now, you walk his path. You are mine, as he was, as this world shall be. You think yourself in control, but you are merely a plaything—a puppet dancing on the strings of your own arrogance.”
A surge of corruption coursed through her, the dark energy coiling around her like a serpent. Sylthara’s defiance crumbled under its oppressive weight.
“I… I am no one’s puppet,” she whispered, though the words rang hollow.
The entity’s laughter twisted into a venomous hiss. “Admit it,” it snarled, forcing its tendrils deeper into her mind. “You are nothing more than a vessel for my will.”
A voice broke through the tension, hoarse yet resolute. “Enough!”
Sylthara and the corruption turned as one to see Asher standing within the mindscape, his form battered but unyielding, his eyes blazing with defiance.
“You think you’re untouchable, don’t you?” Asher snarled, addressing the corruption. “That no one can resist you. But I’m not like the others you’ve twisted and broken. I’ll never kneel to you.”
The corruption chuckled darkly, its tendrils reaching for him. “Bold words, Champion. But even now, you carry my mark. You fight with my strength. You are already mine.”
Asher’s lips curled into a grim smile. “Maybe I’ve got a piece of you in me, but that’s all you’ll ever have. You don’t own me, and you never will.”
His gaze shifted to Sylthara, his voice hardening further. “And you… If you keep standing in my way, I’ll do what I have to. I’ll kill you myself.”
Sylthara recoiled, the weight of his words cutting deeper than any blade.
“Or maybe I won’t have to,” Asher added, his tone icy. “My queens would be more than happy to finish the job.”
The mindscape trembled as Asher’s will surged, the searing strength of his defiance tearing through the darkness. The corruption’s laughter faltered, replaced by a low, venomous growl that reverberated before fading into nothingness. The shadows shattered, and Sylthara staggered as her connection was severed, the collapsing mindscape ejecting her into the harsh reality of Nyxhold.
She stumbled out of the chamber, her steps uneven and frantic. The cold air of Nyxhold’s shadowy corridors pressed down on her like a suffocating weight, and her crimson eyes darted wildly as though trying to flee the haunting images seared into her mind.
But everywhere she looked, the filth was there.
She stumbled out of the chamber, her steps uneven and frantic. The cold air of Nyxhold’s shadowy corridors pressed down on her like a suffocating weight, and her crimson eyes darted wildly as though trying to flee the haunting images seared into her mind.
Behind her, Asher’s hoarse, rasping laughter echoed, low and broken at first, but growing louder and more unsettling with each passing second. It reverberated off the cold stone walls, twisted and unrelenting.
“What’s the matter, Sylthara?” he croaked, his voice sharp and venomous despite its weariness. “Didn’t like what you saw? All that power, and you’re running like a coward. Pathetic.”
The words struck her like a whip, and she froze for a moment, her breath catching in her throat. The laughter trailed her like a living thing, mocking her with every uneven step she took. But no matter where she looked, the filth was there.
The corruption pulsed and writhed before her eyes, like an oily film sliding over everything it touched. The once-grand corridors of obsidian and jade now seemed bloated and diseased, their intricate carvings twisted into grotesque mockeries. Statues that once embodied power and glory stood malformed, their faces warped into expressions of torment and despair.
Her breathing quickened, her composure unraveling with every step. The walls seemed to close in, the suffocating air filled with the stench of decay and despair. Servants she passed bowed low, their faces hollow-eyed and pale, but she recoiled at the sight. To her, they appeared warped, their forms grotesque and wrong, like marionettes dangling from unseen strings.
“No,” she whispered to herself, shaking her head violently. “This is not real. This is not me.”
But deep down, she knew it was.
She ran blindly through the halls, her thoughts a whirlwind of denial and fury. The once-unshakable sense of command she carried now felt like a brittle mask cracking under the weight of her own corruption.
Finally, she burst into her chamber, slamming the heavy door shut behind her. The air inside offered no reprieve—tainted by the same vile energy that oozed through the rest of Nyxhold. Her gaze fell on the gilded mirror above the ornate vanity, its surface catching the faint light of the room.
Slowly, as if compelled by a force she could not resist, she approached.
Her reflection stared back, and the breath caught in her throat.
The goddess of secrets and shadow she had once prided herself on being was gone. Her sharp, elegant features were still there, but they were wrong. Malicious. Her skin was pale and almost translucent, veins of dark energy pulsing faintly beneath the surface. Her crimson eyes burned brighter than before, their light unnatural and predatory. Her lips curled into a snarl without her willing it, revealing too-sharp teeth. She looked like a monster.
A wave of nausea overtook her. She doubled over, clutching the edge of the vanity as bile rose in her throat. She vomited onto the cold floor, the acrid taste lingering as she wiped her mouth with a trembling hand.
“This is not who I am,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “This cannot be who I am.”
But the corruption’s insidious whisper curled into her mind, cold and mocking.
You are exactly what I’ve made you, Sylthara. Beautiful. Malignant. And mine.
She recoiled, clutching her head as the voice echoed in her skull. For what felt like hours, she paced the room, her thoughts spiraling into chaos. Every choice, every step she had taken—all of it had led her here: to corruption, to rot, to ruin. She had believed herself the queen of shadows, a goddess who ruled with cunning and strength. But now, the truth loomed over her like a guillotine.
She was nothing more than a pawn.
Finally, she sank into a chair, her head in her hands. Her mind raced, teetering between despair and fury. The only way forward was to destroy the corruption’s hold.
Her thoughts turned to Asher—the Champion who had resisted everything she threw at him. Even in the face of agony and despair, he had stood firm, his soul burning brighter than any she had ever seen. He had defied her. He had defied the corruption itself.
If anyone can stand against it… it’s him.
Sylthara closed her eyes, her breathing slowing as an idea began to form. The injuries she had inflicted on him would not be an obstacle—time itself was her weapon, a power she rarely used for fear of destabilizing her own plans. But now, plans no longer mattered. She would rewind his injuries, every cut, bruise, and broken bone reversed until he was whole again.
The next step would require cunning. Even if Asher was healed, his presence in Nyxhold could not go unnoticed. The corruption would sense him instantly, and her brother’s forces would swarm before she could even reach the outer gates.
She stood abruptly, her sharp eyes darting to a heavy cloak draped over a mannequin near her wardrobe. Crafted from her shadows and woven with her power, it could suppress Asher’s aura entirely. Combined with a simple glamour to alter his appearance, she could disguise him as a Veinforged human. The corruption itself might still sense him faintly, but she was Sylthara—none would dare question her.
Her gaze shifted to the ornate clock mounted on the wall, its pendulum swinging with a slow, deliberate rhythm. She knew Vorlath’s habits intimately. He would be meditating tonight, deep in the chambers behind his throne room. It was the only time Nyxhold’s oppressive gaze would momentarily shift away from her.
“I can do this,” she whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “No one will stop me. No one would dare.”
Her plan solidified as she moved swiftly across the room, gathering the tools she would need. The cloak. A small, curved blade for the glamour spell. A vial of Aether-infused ink for masking Asher’s scent—an old trick she had perfected centuries ago. Every movement was precise, calculated, her confidence growing with each step.
She stopped before the mirror again, the monster still staring back at her. For a moment, doubt threatened to creep in, but she crushed it beneath the weight of her resolve.
“I am Sylthara,” she said, her voice steady now. “And this is my choice.”
With the cloak and supplies in hand, she turned toward the door. The corridors of Nyxhold stretched before her, dark and foreboding, but for the first time in centuries, she felt a glimmer of control.
Her plan was reckless, perhaps even suicidal, but it was the only path forward. If there was any hope of redemption, any chance to reclaim even a fragment of herself, it lay in freeing Asher and sending him to his queen.
Sylthara stepped into the shadows, her resolve unyielding, her thoughts a tempest of defiance and desperation. The air around her seemed to ripple, her presence commanding the darkness to bend to her will. No one would stop her—not Vorlath, not the Veinforged, not even the corruption itself.
Across the Stronghold Asher sat in his cell, He hung limply in his chains, his body battered but his resolve unbroken, a faint ember of defiance still glowing in his eyes. Then without warning Sylthara shimmered into existence before him, she wore traveling clothing and seemed to have supplies. Her usual predatory grace was subdued. Her crimson eyes no longer burned with cruel intent; instead, they held a strange sorrow. She stopped before him, her gaze sweeping over his ravaged form. For a long moment, she said nothing, her hands trembling at her sides.
Then, with an exhale that sounded almost like a sigh of resignation, she extended her hands. Dark tendrils of magic swirled around her fingers, not menacing but delicate, unraveling time itself. The wounds across Asher’s body began to reverse—blood retreating into his veins, torn flesh knitting itself back together, bruises fading as though they had never existed.
Asher’s breath hitched at the sudden relief, his exhausted body instinctively tensing. He glared at her, his voice hoarse but laced with suspicion. “What game are you playing now, Sylthara?”
Her hands gently cupped his face, and for the first time, he saw something new in her expression: regret. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice soft and trembling. “I need to get you out of here.”
She moved quickly, her fingers deftly undoing the chains that bound him. The cold, Aether-draining bonds clattered to the floor one by one, but Asher didn’t move. His body ached with freedom, but his mind screamed distrust.
As soon as the last shackle fell, he lunged. His hands clamped around Sylthara’s throat, pinning her against the wall. A low growl escaped his lips as rage flooded his senses, his grip tightening with every heartbeat.
The corruption’s voice slithered into his mind like a serpent. Do it, Champion. She deserves no mercy. End her. Make her pay.
His vision blurred with fury as he pressed harder, her pale skin bruising under his fingers. But then he paused.
Sylthara wasn’t fighting back. Her hands hung limply at her sides, her crimson eyes gazing up at him, unblinking. A tear slid down her cheek, cutting a glistening path through her flawless skin. She smiled—a sad, broken thing that held no mockery or defiance.
Asher’s grip faltered, his breathing ragged. He didn’t realize when the pressure in his hands eased, but suddenly she was gasping softly for air, her head tilting to the side in confusion.
“Why?” he rasped, stepping back, his voice heavy with disbelief. “What the fuck do you want from me?”
Sylthara coughed but didn’t retreat. She straightened, her expression solemn, her voice steady despite the quaver of emotion beneath it. “I want to undo what I’ve done. What I’ve become.”
Asher glared at her, his fists still clenched. “You expect me to believe that?”
Sylthara nodded, her tone thick with remorse. “You should hate me. You have every right to. But I’m not lying, Asher.” She hesitated, glancing at the floor before meeting his gaze again. “I thought I was in control, but now I see… I’m just another piece on the corruption’s board. I’m no different from the others it has devoured. If I don’t do this, I’ll lose the last shred of myself. And this world will fall.”
He said nothing, his jaw tightening as he processed her words.
Sylthara took a step closer, her voice soft but resolute. “I’ll take you to your queen—the one rampaging through the Wastes. Once you’re with her, my fate will be in your hands. If you want me dead, so be it.”
She extended a hand, and a shimmering scroll of magical parchment appeared, its edges glowing faintly with an otherworldly light. Ancient runes scrawled themselves across the surface, detailing a pact in flowing script.
“This is my bond,” Sylthara said, her tone almost reverent. “Sworn on my power of secrets. If I betray you, I die. If I hinder you, I die.” She produced a small, curved blade from thin air and slashed her palm, crimson blood welling up before she pressed it to the parchment. Her name etched itself onto the page in glowing red letters.
She offered the blade to Asher. “Your turn. If you agree to this, my power will bind me to it.”
Asher stared at her for a long moment, the weight of everything pressing down on him. Slowly, he took the blade, cutting his hand and pressing his bloodied palm to the parchment. His name joined hers, the scroll flaring with light before folding itself into nothingness.
Sylthara exhaled shakily, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s done.”
Asher’s eyes remained cold, though his voice was quieter now. “If you think this changes anything between us, it doesn’t.”
Sylthara nodded. “I don’t expect it to. But I’ll get you to her, Asher. And then…” Her voice broke slightly. “Then I’ll accept whatever judgment you see fit.”
For a moment, silence hung between them, the air heavy with tension and unspoken truths. Then Asher turned away, his voice flat. “Let’s go.”
Sylthara hesitated, glancing at the darkened corridor beyond. She stepped forward, her hand brushing against the folds of her shadow-forged cloak, now draped over her arm. “Not yet,” she said, her tone sharp but controlled. “If you walk out of here like this, every Veinforged in Nyxhold will sense you.”
Asher turned his piercing gaze on her, his body tense. “And what do you suggest? You going to smuggle me out in a box?”
Ignoring the venom in his tone, Sylthara stepped closer, holding out the cloak. Shadows seemed to ripple from its edges, a faint shimmer of Aether pulsing beneath its surface. “This will mask your aura. The corruption won’t be able to sense you through it—not fully. And I can weave a glamour to make you appear as one of Vorlath’s human Veinforged.”
Asher’s jaw tightened, skepticism etched into his bloodied face. “Why do I feel like this is just another way to trap me?”
“Because you don’t trust me,” she replied bluntly, her voice devoid of defensiveness. “And I don’t blame you. But if you want to get out of here alive, you’ll let me do this.” Her crimson eyes softened slightly, but they held firm. “Let me help you.”
He said nothing for a long moment, his battered form radiating tension. Finally, with a curt nod, he relented. “Do it.”
Sylthara exhaled and stepped closer. “Hold still.”
She began weaving the glamour, her hands moving with fluid precision. Dark tendrils of shadow coiled around Asher, twisting like serpents as they poured over his skin. The threads of magic shimmered faintly, latching onto him and melding into his form. His bloodied and broken visage shifted—his features dulling and hardening, his eyes dimming to a lifeless amber, and his skin paling into the sallow, sickly hue of a Veinforged soldier.
The transformation was unsettling. Where Asher once stood, a cold and lifeless creature now lingered, its hollow expression betraying none of the fire that burned within him.
Sylthara stepped back, her gaze critical as she examined her work. “It’s not perfect, but it will pass under casual scrutiny,” she said. Then she took the cloak and wrapped it around his shoulders, fastening it at his throat. Asher flinched at the touch, but she ignored his reaction, adjusting the fabric to ensure it draped properly.
The shadows within the cloak seemed to come alive, folding around Asher like a second skin. A faint shimmer pulsed outward before settling, the cloak’s enchantment locking into place. Sylthara stepped back, her brow furrowing as she observed him. “It should suppress your aura enough to keep you hidden from most of the corruption’s tendrils,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
“Should?” Asher asked, his voice dry.
“It will,” she said firmly, her tone brooking no argument.
With that, Sylthara closed her eyes and reached out with her senses. The oppressive energy of Nyxhold surged around her like a living beast, its veins pulsing with Vorlath’s influence. She felt the familiar pull of his presence deep within the fortress, behind the throne room. His aura was steady, concentrated—a sign he was lost in his nightly meditation, as she had anticipated.
“He’s in his chambers,” she muttered, opening her eyes. “If we move now and keep to the side corridors, we’ll avoid any patrols. No one will stop us.”
Asher shifted slightly beneath the cloak, testing its weight. “If this plan of yours falls apart, you’ll have to do more than apologize,” he said, his tone biting. “I’m not going back in chains.”
Sylthara’s lips tightened, but she nodded. “It won’t fall apart,” she said quietly. Her crimson eyes flickered with determination as she stepped toward the door. “Stay close to me, and don’t draw attention to yourself. Remember, you’re supposed to be lifeless. Act like it.”
With a final glance at him, Sylthara pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the corridor beyond. Asher followed, his steps cautious, the weight of the enchanted cloak pressing down on him like a shroud. Sylthara led the way, her movements fluid and purposeful, her shadow-forged form blending seamlessly with the darkness around them.
As they moved through the shadowy halls of Nyxhold, the silence between them was heavy. The tension of their uneasy alliance hung thick in the air, a fragile thread that could snap at any moment.
For now, though, it held. And in the cold, suffocating depths of Nyxhold, that fragile thread was their only lifeline.