The sensation of falling was not new to Asher.

But this was different.

He felt the little girl’s fingers digging into his arm, her small hands gripping him with a force that seemed impossible for someone so fragile. Fear made her hold on tighter, as if letting go meant being lost forever.

To his left, Sylthara hovered, her form twisting against the unnatural pull of the collapsing portal. She was straining, her teeth clenched, sweat beading on her forehead as she fought to stabilize the rift.

The intricate threads of Void Aether buckled and snapped, the delicate weave of her magic unraveling as reality itself closed in on them.

Asher heard her groan through gritted teeth, her crimson eyes burning with exertion.

Then, the portal folded inward.

It didn’t simply vanish—it imploded, the void sealing shut in a violent, soundless collapse. For a heartbeat, there was nothing—no up, no down, only weightlessness and the deafening roar of their own existence being flung into the unknown.

Then—the ground rushed to meet them.

Sylthara’s cloak billowed outward, but it did not behave like mere fabric.

It stretched—grew—becoming an amorphous, weightless mass of shadow beneath them.

The impact was still jarring. Asher landed hard, the breath torn from his lungs. He felt the tremor of the impact ripple through his bones, but the shadowy cushion lessened the force, turning what could have been a crippling fall into a mere shock to the system.

The little girl landed against his chest with a small, pained whimper, but she was unharmed.

Asher lay there for a moment, his breath coming in ragged gasps, the adrenaline of the fall still thrumming through his bloodstream. He stared upward, blinking, adjusting to the alien sky.

Then—he stood.

Their surroundings were wrong.

He had expected the Red Wastes. Instead, what he saw was something foreign.

The land stretched out before him—blackened and cracked, fractured like shattered glass. The very ground beneath them was obsidian, sleek and jagged, stretching as far as the eye could see.

Among the wasteland, great ruins jutted from the earth, some little more than crumbling heaps of stone, others still holding onto their ancient forms. They loomed like the skeletal remains of a civilization that had been ripped from existence.

Strange flora sprouted amidst the ruins—plants with obsidian leaves, their surfaces gleaming in the dim, eerie light. They looked alive, yet completely still, as if waiting.

And the air...

Dead. Hollow. Unmoving.

Not just still—unnatural.

No wind. No movement.

Only the weight of something ancient pressing down upon them.

Asher turned to Sylthara, who had been silent, studying their surroundings with sharp, calculating eyes.

"Do you know where we are?"

She didn't answer immediately. Instead, she walked a few paces forward, running a gloved hand along the smooth, ruined stone of a fallen structure.

She traced intricate carvings that had long since eroded, her fingers gliding over faint, indecipherable runes.

Then, she shook her head.

“No. None of this looks familiar.”** Her voice was quiet but laced with thought.**

Then, after a pause, her gaze flickered toward the ruins ahead.

“Although… those structures…” Her fingers pressed into the stone as if trying to pull meaning from its surface. “They look Sylvari, but… I need to investigate further.”

That made Asher’s stomach tighten.

Sylvari ruins? But these ruins looked older than anything he had ever seen.

He turned to her, expression serious. "What happened? How did we end up here?"

Sylthara hesitated.

It was subtle, but Asher caught it.

The slight downturn of her lips, the way her fingers flexed before forming into a fist.

Finally, she exhaled, looking downcast. "I don’t know."

Her voice was quieter this time. "Vorlath could have disrupted the Aether when he tried to pull us back. Your golden arm could have interfered. Maybe… the little girl’s presence, or my emotional state, altered the intent just enough to shift the destination."

She shook her head again, clearly frustrated.

“It’s embarrassing.”

Asher smiled. A warm, understanding smile—one that carried no judgment, no blame.

"Don’t worry about it. We got out of there, and that’s all that matters. We’ll figure this out. One step at a time."

A small voice interrupted them.

"Excuse me, sir..."

Asher turned his gaze downward to the little girl. She had been silent, clinging to his side, but now she looked up at him with wide, tired eyes.

"I'm really hungry… and tired… do you think we can rest, please, sir?"

She sounded so small. So fragile.

Her dark brown hair hung messily over her bruised face, but her eyes—a striking silver-grey—remained bright, despite everything.

Asher’s heart ached.

He offered her a warm smile, one that softened the sharp edges of his battle-hardened face.

"Of course, sweetheart. I’m tired too."

Asher turned back to the landscape, scanning for a safe place to rest.

Then, in the distance, he spotted it—a relatively intact tower, its structure still standing despite the erosion of time. It was surrounded by ruins, providing cover from the open terrain.

He pointed toward it.

“We’ll make camp there. It’ll give us some shelter while we figure out our next move.”

Sylthara gave a nod of agreement, and they began walking.

The journey across the obsidian wasteland was eerily silent.

Not just from them—but from everything.

No insects. No birds. No distant howls of predators.

Just the rhythmic sound of their footsteps against the cracked stone.

After a long stretch of silence, Asher finally broke it.

He looked down at the girl walking beside him.

“What’s your name?”

She flinched slightly at the question. Then, after a moment, she spoke—soft, hesitant.

“…I don’t remember, sir.”

She swallowed, lowering her gaze. "I don't remember much about my life before I was with… Master Vorlath."

Asher cringed. The way she said that title—it was ingrained into her.

He shook his head. "You don’t have to call him that anymore. He doesn’t deserve it."

She looked up at him, a flicker of uncertainty in her silver eyes.

Then, Asher thought for a moment.

"How would you feel if I gave you a name?"

She blinked. Surprise. Then… something softer.

"You’d do that?"

Asher nodded, then exhaled, thinking. "How about... Lunira?"

She tilted her head. "Lunira?"

"It matches you."** He smiled.** "Your pale skin, your silver eyes. Your smile—when it comes—shines as bright as the moon."

There was a pause.

Then, her lips slowly curled into a small, genuine smile.

"Lunira…" She whispered the name to herself.

Then, she nodded, her eyes shimmering.

"I love it, sir! I'm Lunira now!"

Sylthara watched the exchange silently, but Asher caught the faintest flicker of amusement in her expression.

She found this cute.

But more than that—she found it fascinating.

Asher had no idea how much she was learning about him in this moment.

And perhaps, even she didn’t realize how much it meant to her.

The journey to the ruined tower stretched for hours, the three of them moving in silence, their footsteps echoing against the lifeless, obsidian landscape.

As they approached, Asher realized just how tall the tower truly was.

It loomed above them—weathered, cracked, yet strangely intact.

The ruins around it had crumbled into heaps of broken stone, but the tower still stood defiant against time.

It was no ordinary structure.

And as they stepped inside, Asher could feel it.

The interior was unexpectedly well-preserved.

Time had worn away at some parts—the stone was fractured, the walls faded with age. But there were remnants of something greater here, traces of old magic that still lingered in the air.

In the center of the main room, a bed sat against the far wall.

It was ancient, but still intact—and as Asher’s gaze landed on it, he saw why.

Golden threads of Aetheric energy wove through the fabric, barely visible to the naked eye but pulsing faintly with old enchantments.

He ran a hand along the surface, feeling the traces of magic beneath his fingertips.

It had been enchanted for preservation.

Someone had lived here once.

Someone had expected to return.

Sylthara was already making use of it. She sat on the bed with Lunira, her fingers weaving through the air as she conjured blankets and sheets from her realm—deep, inky fabric that seemed to swallow the firelight.

Asher turned his attention to the fireplace.

To his surprise, it was already stocked.

Piles of old, brittle wood had been gathered—left untouched for who knew how long.

He crouched down, gathering a few unreadable documents from a nearby shelf, their ink faded beyond recognition. He set them as tinder beneath the dry logs.

Then, with a flick of his fingers, he willed a small spark of golden Aether into existence.

Fire bloomed instantly.

Warmth spread through the room, casting flickering shadows against the ancient stone walls.

For the first time since their arrival in this strange land, the cold, oppressive stillness felt… distant.

Asher turned back to Sylthara and Lunira, who were now wrapped in the conjured blankets.

"I'm going to look for food," he said, brushing the dust from his tunic. "We need meat. Hopefully, I can find something edible."

Sylthara glanced up from her place on the bed, her expression calm, yet watchful.

“Alright, Champion.” A small smirk tugged at her lips. "Try not to get yourself eaten."

Lunira, half-buried under the thick black fabric, blinked up at him sleepily. "Be safe, sir."

Asher chuckled, nodding. "I will."

Then he turned, stepping out into the night.

Asher gave them one last glance, the firelight casting flickering shadows across Sylthara’s face as she leaned back, watching him with lazily veiled amusement.

Lunira shifted beneath the thick fabric, her silver-grey eyes already half-lidded with exhaustion, but still watching him with a child’s quiet trust.

The warmth of the fire lingered on his skin as he stepped beyond the ruined threshold.

Then—cold.

The stillness of the night swallowed him whole, the air eerily stagnant, the ever-present weight of something unseen settling back onto his shoulders.

The tower’s glow faded behind him as he moved into the vast, obsidian expanse.

He exhaled, flexing his golden fingers.

Time to hunt.

Asher trudged forward across the endless black expanse, his boots crunching softly against the fractured obsidian beneath him.

All around, towering remnants of long-dead trees loomed, their forms frozen in time—coated from root to branch in gleaming obsidian and streaks of jade.

They stood like silent sentinels, untouched by wind or decay, as if they had been flash-fossilized mid-breath, preserved by some ancient force that had long since abandoned this land.

A chill, not of wind but of something unspoken, crawled over Asher’s skin as he took in his surroundings.

No movement. No sound. No life.

Nothing but the hollow stillness of a world long dead.

Finding food here would be a challenge.

Realizing this, Asher turned inward, reaching **not with his body, but with his senses—**downward, toward the veins of energy spiraling beneath the land.

The moment his mind brushed against them, he froze.

It wasn’t Aether.

Not the pure, golden currents he had forged alongside Brynn and Aetheros.

And not the corrupted filth that battled against him within his own soul.

This was something else.

The energy ran through the land like ancient rivers, coiling and shifting, its glow a deep, undulating violet, threaded with strands of cerulean light.

It felt alive.

Not in the way Aether did—not as a raw force to be wielded, but as something with intent.

Asher narrowed his eyes, studying the way it moved, the way it reacted to his presence.

When he reached for it, it did not resist.

But neither did it obey.

Instead, it... considered him.

Like a beast watching from the shadows, waiting to see if he was worthy of its aid.

Then, faintly—emotions.

Not thoughts, not words, but impressions.

Curiosity. Caution.

Judgment.

Asher exhaled slowly, realization settling over him.

This magic had a will of its own.

If he had tried to force it, it would have refused him.

But here, now—it was watching. Weighing him.

Asher had the strange sense that if it deemed him unworthy, it would simply cease to respond.

He decided to meet it on its own terms.

Raising his golden arm, he traced intricate runes in the air, their symbols glowing faintly as they took shape.

Ancient Sylvari glyphs, ones he had learned from Brynn—symbols woven with the meanings of pulse and seek, of searching for life amidst death.

The moment he released the spell, the new energy coiled around it, considering, twisting, flowing.

Then—it obeyed.

A wave of energy rippled outward, stretching across the wasteland, carrying his intent with it.

With Asher as the anchor, the pulse moved through the broken earth, searching.

Somewhere in the darkness, something would answer.

And he would be waiting.

Asher moved forward, his steps slow, methodical, the obsidian landscape stretching endlessly before him. The pulse of his magic rippled outward again, unseen yet felt, like the slow exhale of something ancient slumbering beneath the land.

The energy—this strange, sentient force—moved with him.

At first, it had hesitated, uncertain of him. But now, it flowed eagerly, willingly, weaving through the shattered earth like veins of living twilight. It was guiding him, though to what, he did not yet know.

His breath curled in the still air, vanishing too quickly, as if the land itself consumed warmth.

Everything here was dead, yet not dead.

Frozen in time, preserved in stillness, waiting for something to stir it back into motion.

Then—a flicker.

Not of light. Not of sound.

But of life.

The pulse hit something. Something breathing.

Asher stopped.

He felt its shape through the returning magic, the way its energy wove against the strands of the land.

Four-legged. Not large, but not small.

Its form was dense, muscular, built for endurance.

It was alone.

A predator? No—a grazer. A scavenger.

Something built to survive in a world that should not allow life to exist.

Asher crouched low, his golden arm glowing faintly as he focused, extending his senses further.

Then, through the thick obsidian formations, he saw it.

It stood just beyond a jagged ridge, half-hidden in the shadows of a toppled ruin.

A beast unlike anything Asher had ever seen.

It was canine in size, but built more like a small elk, its body covered in thick, pale-grey fur that shimmered faintly, as if it absorbed the strange light of this place.

Its legs were long and sinewy, its joints reversed, almost insect-like in their precision.

Two branching antlers curved backward from its narrow skull, etched with violet streaks, pulsing faintly like living runes.

But its eyes—its eyes were hollow.

Not empty. Not blind.

Just... void-like.

As if they had once held light but had long since forgotten it.

It sniffed the air, ears twitching, sensing something was wrong.

Asher remained motionless.

The beast was tense, but not afraid.

That meant it had never been hunted before.

He almost felt guilty.

Almost.

Then—it turned its head toward him.

Not fully. Not entirely aware of his presence.

But close.

Asher exhaled, steadying himself.

He had one shot.

Time to see if this land’s magic was truly his to command.

Asher’s golden fingers twitched as he reached down—not with his hands, but with his will.

The energy beneath the land pulsed in silent anticipation, waiting, watching.

Not like Aether.

Not like Corruption.

Something older.

Something buried.

For the first time since setting foot in this place, Asher understood.

This was not a power to be commanded.

It was a power to be unearthed.

He reached down into the broken land, into the veins of deep violet energy coiled beneath the surface like a sleeping serpent.

And then—he pulled.

The obsidian ground splintered.

Thin, jagged fractures tore outward, threading beneath the beast like black lightning.

The Wraith Elk lifted its head, sensing something unseen, its hollow eyes scanning the dark.

Then—it moved.

A desperate leap, powerful and swift. A survival instinct honed over countless years.

Too late.

The shadows erupted.

They weren’t solid. They weren’t smoke.

They were something in between.

Liquid-dark tendrils surged from the cracks in the earth, not wrapping around the beast—redirecting it.

It had already committed to the jump.

That was its mistake.

The moment its limbs left the ground, the shadows seized the motion and twisted it.

It didn't bind the elk.

It didn't restrain it.

It used its own power against it.

The leap snapped downward, momentum reversing midair—an unnatural, gut-wrenching shift in force.

The beast’s own speed became its execution.

Its body slammed into the obsidian, its skull fracturing against the stone with a sickening crack.

It didn’t even have time to cry out.

Asher exhaled, letting the magic settle.

The shadows slithered back into the cracks, sinking beneath the earth as if they had never existed.

Only the dead elk remained.

A strange thrill rushed through him, his heart hammering—not from exertion, but from realization.

This power didn’t hold.

It didn’t crush.

It simply took what was already there—and turned it inward.

A warrior’s charge could be made into their downfall.

A beast’s speed could be turned into an impact.

A kingdom’s power… could be turned into its own ruin.

Asher clenched his fist, feeling the deep magic still pulsing below, waiting.

This was a weapon.

And he had only just begun to understand it.

Asher slung the elk’s corpse over his shoulder, the weight meaningless compared to the gravity of what he had just learned.

The obsidian trees stood unchanged, frozen in time, their jade-tipped branches gleaming in the strange ambient glow of the sky.

But something felt different.

Or perhaps, it was Asher who had changed.

He had tapped into something buried.

Something lost to time.

And now, it was his.

The ruined tower loomed in the distance, its flickering firelight barely visible through the vast, endless dark.

He exhaled.

It was time to return.

And time to share what he had discovered.

Asher stepped through the ruined archway of the tower, the scent of burning wood and faint traces of Sylthara’s conjured magic welcoming him back.

The fire crackled low in the stone hearth, casting long shadows against the ancient walls.

Lunira lay curled on the bed, half-buried under the thick black fabric Sylthara had summoned earlier, her breaths soft and even.

Sylthara, however, was very much awake.

She sat at the edge of the bed, one leg crossed over the other, watching him with those cosmic, unreadable eyes.

Asher dropped the elk’s corpse near the fire with a heavy thud, shaking dust loose from the old stones.

Sylthara tilted her head, studying the strange beast with mild interest. “Well, that’s ugly.”

Asher huffed a quiet chuckle. “It’ll taste fine once it’s cooked.”

She smirked but said nothing, instead patting the empty space beside her on the bed.

“Come, Champion.” Her voice was softer than usual. “Sit. You look like you’ve seen something interesting.”

Asher hesitated.

The idea of resting beside her wasn’t something he would have considered a few weeks ago.

But now…

He exhaled, pushing his golden fingers through his hair before stepping forward. He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, feeling the faint trace of enchantment woven into the fabric.

The mattress was softer than it had any right to be for something that had been abandoned for gods knew how long. Likely Sylthara’s doing.

She watched him as he sat, then leaned forward slightly. “Tell me what you found.”

Asher leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, the firelight casting shifting gold reflections across his Aether-woven arm. He let out a slow breath, gaze lingering on the strange beast he had slain.

“The magic here…” he started, rolling his shoulders, “it doesn’t work like Aether.”

Sylthara tilted her head slightly. “I assumed as much. But tell me—what does it feel like?”

Asher frowned, his fingers tightening into a loose fist as he tried to put it into words.

"It isn’t just energy. It isn’t something I can force into shape or command outright. It feels… aware.” He exhaled sharply. “Like it’s waiting for something before it decides to act.”

Sylthara remained silent, listening intently.

Asher’s fingers flexed, recalling the sensation of reaching downward, into the veins beneath the land.

"At first, it hesitated. Like it was testing me. If I had tried to take it by force, I think it would have ignored me completely."

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Sylthara smirked faintly, crossing one leg over the other. “A magic with preferences? How amusing.”

“Not just preferences,” Asher corrected. “Judgment.”

The smirk faded slightly.

“It chose to respond to me.” He gestured vaguely toward the dead elk. “And when it did, it didn’t act the way Aether would. It didn’t strike, didn’t consume, didn’t push.”

He looked at her, his golden eyes flickering with something between fascination and wariness. “It redirected.”

Sylthara’s lips parted slightly, her brows furrowing. “Explain.”

Asher exhaled, running his palm along his thigh in thought. “That beast was trying to flee. It had already committed to the leap when I used the magic.” He turned his gaze back to the carcass, eyes narrowing slightly. “The moment it jumped, the shadows took its own force and turned it against it. It wasn’t like a binding spell. It didn’t freeze it in place—it just… shifted its momentum in the opposite direction.”

He flexed his fingers. “It broke itself on the impact.”

Sylthara tapped a single finger against her knee, her gaze darkening with thought.

"That shouldn't be possible."

Asher nodded. "It isn't. Not with normal Aether."

Sylthara’s eyes flickered toward the corpse again. “You said it waited before obeying you.”

Asher nodded. "It did."

She leaned forward slightly. “Then perhaps it’s not just a different kind of magic.”

He met her gaze. “What do you mean?”

Sylthara tapped her temple lightly. “It has will. If it has will, then perhaps it has… memory.”

That made Asher pause.

Memory?

Aether didn’t remember. It was a force, raw and ancient, bound by laws that only powerful practitioners could manipulate.

Corruption did not remember. It was a hunger, a mindless devouring force.

But this?

The thought sent an uneasy thrill through him.

Sylthara continued, her voice lower now, thoughtful. "If this magic does not simply act, but decides, then the people who lived here must have interacted with it for centuries. Perhaps even longer."

She rested her chin on her knuckles. "It makes me wonder..."

Asher raised a brow. "Wonder what?"

Sylthara met his gaze, her crimson-and-violet eyes gleaming with something deeper than curiosity.

"If it remembers them… does it also remember their mistakes?"

A chill crawled up Asher’s spine.

That was a question he wasn’t sure he wanted answered.

The magic here had let him use it.

But what if that wasn’t a gift?

What if it was a test?

What if, like the ruins around them, it had once belonged to people who thought they understood it—and paid the price when they were wrong?

The fire crackled softly between them, the only sound in the heavy silence that followed.

Then Sylthara exhaled and leaned back, the seriousness of her expression softening just slightly.

"You’ll have to test it further. See how far it allows you to go."

Asher nodded. He had already come to the same conclusion.

Still, his mind was racing.

If this magic was alive, if it had memory, then that meant something far more dangerous.

It had expectations.

And if he didn’t meet them?

What then?

For now, that was a question for another time.

Sylthara studied him for a moment longer, then let out a slow breath.

"I have something I want to talk about."

There was no teasing in her voice.

No arrogance.

No sharp wit.

Whatever it was, it was serious.

Asher turned his head fully toward her. “Go on.”

She hesitated—just for a moment.

Then, she spoke.

Sylthara’s crimson eyes flickered in the firelight, shadows shifting across her sharp, elegant features. Her usual smirk, her casual arrogance—gone.

Instead, her expression was somber, uncertain.

A rare vulnerability.

She exhaled, fingertips trailing along the fabric of the conjured sheets, as if grounding herself before she spoke.

“Asher… I’ve been thinking about what happens to me once this is all over.”

She hesitated. Not out of fear, but as if she was choosing her words carefully, deliberately.

Her voice was softer than he’d ever heard it.

"Back in Nyxhold, I told you my life was yours to do with as you saw fit."

A pause. She swallowed, then straightened slightly, her voice firming.

"I want to be completely honest with you—I do not want to die."

That caught Asher off guard.

Sylthara, the goddess of shadow, admitting fear of death?

Her hands clenched slightly in her lap.

“I want to see this world reborn.” Her gaze flickered to the fire. “I want to witness the day when my mistakes—when all of our failures—are finally corrected.”

The fire crackled, but she barely seemed aware of it.

"I know I have no right to ask this of you. I don’t expect an answer now." She exhaled. "I just wanted you to know… traveling with you, fighting beside you—it has made me feel more connected to my mortal side than I have in a very, very long time."

She turned to face him fully now, her eyes locking onto his.

"Of course, in the end, it is all your choice."

Asher didn’t respond immediately.

He studied her, his golden gaze sharp, searching.

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant howling of the wind against the ruined tower.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Sylthara, I try to be a trusting person.” His voice was even, but there was no softness in it. “I like to see the good in people, even when others don’t. But I won’t lie to you… trusting you is going to be difficult for me.”

Sylthara’s fingers twitched slightly, but she said nothing.

“It’s not just me,” he continued. “My queens, Aetheros—none of them will be quick to forgive, either.” His jaw tightened. "The things you did to me, the things you were willing to do… those don’t just disappear."

A flicker of something crossed Sylthara’s face—guilt.

Not the shallow kind, not feigned regret. Something deeper.

Asher inhaled, the memories of Nyxhold sharp, cutting.

“I still remember the way you looked while you peeled and carved into my flesh.”

Sylthara shuddered. A barely perceptible tremor ran through her fingers.

She had not forgotten either.

Her crimson eyes darkened, and for a moment, she looked away.

"That is reasonable," she admitted softly. "And honestly, you’d be a fool to trust me at my word. No matter how badly I wish I had met you under different circumstances… I understand the weight of what I’ve done."

She let out a slow, measured breath, as if steadying herself.

Then she lifted her gaze once more, and something resolved burned behind her eyes.

“That’s why I have a proposal.”

She held up a hand before he could interrupt.

"And don’t waste your breath asking if I’m sure. I want this."

Asher frowned, his expression wary but intrigued.

He said nothing, waiting for her to explain.

Sylthara leaned forward slightly, her voice quiet but unwavering.

“There exists a contract. One similar to the one we signed in Nyxhold when we forged our partnership to escape.”** She met his gaze, unflinching.** “Except this one is permanent.”

The weight of her words settled between them like a stone.

Asher’s brow furrowed. "Permanent?"

She nodded once. "Much more strict. Much more binding."

Her hands curled together, resting against her lap.

“It is called a Master’s Contract.”

Asher’s breath stilled.

He had heard of such things. Rare. Forbidden in many lands.

And unbreakable.

Sylthara continued, her voice unwavering. "If I sign this contract, you will become my master in every sense of the word. My will, my emotions, my choices—all secondary to yours."

She leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering. "Your family, your people, your decisions—everything that concerns you will become my first and only priority."

She inhaled.

“More than that—I will be barred from ever betraying or working against you in any way. If I do, the contract will enforce its punishment… with my life.”

Silence.

Asher sat back slightly, staring at her.

A contract that would bind her entirely.

Not just physically. Not just magically.

Her mind. Her purpose.

Sylthara’s gaze did not waver.

“I want to help you, Asher.” Her voice was quieter now. “And I am willing to give up my full freedom to do that.”

She exhaled, looking down for a brief moment, then back up.

“Because I know you.”

She smiled faintly, almost bitterly.

“You wouldn’t abuse me. Not like Vorlath did. Not like the corruption did.”

Her fingers tightened.

"I know how you treat your allies. And I know that, in time, I can become one of them."

She hesitated.

Then, voice barely above a whisper—

“And… I want to get closer to you. Like Aetheros.”

Her words sent a strange sensation through Asher’s chest, one he wasn’t ready to examine.

She straightened slightly, forcing steel back into her voice.

"I know I can be of assistance to you, Asher Veinheart. I will sign the contract now, if you accept."

Then, her expression softened just slightly—but only slightly.

She tilted her head, her lips curling into the smallest of smirks.

“So tell me, High King…”

She met his gaze, voice both reverent and teasing, but undeniably sincere.

“…Will you have me, Master?”

Asher paused.

For a moment, the surreal nature of the moment rattled through his mind.

A goddess, kneeling in her own way.

Offering herself fully.

Not through deception.

Not through coercion.

Through choice.

He exhaled, slowly, deeply.

Then, with a voice steadier than he felt—

"Let me see the contract."

The air hummed with latent energy as Sylthara lifted her hands, fingers tracing silent, intricate symbols in the space between them.

At first, there was nothing.

Then—a pulse.

Aether twisted and condensed, taking form before Asher’s eyes.

A single sheet of deep violet parchment materialized between them, its edges curling faintly like smoke. The ink was not ink at all, but liquid shadow, shifting and reforming as the contract adjusted to Asher’s will.

The symbols inscribed upon it were ancient, older than any Sylvari text Asher had ever seen. The letters did not stay still, instead shifting, twisting, pulsing like something alive, as if waiting to be bound.

It was not simply a document.

It was an oath given form.

A soul-forged bond.

Sylthara spoke, her voice low and reverent, her crimson-violet eyes glinting in the firelight.

“The Master’s Contract is absolute.”

She raised a single hand, and as she did, the words on the parchment glowed with an eerie luminescence, burning with violet-blue fire.

“This is no mere pact of servitude. It is a restructuring of purpose. A fundamental rewriting of my very being.”

The words upon the contract solidified, no longer shifting. Now they were law.

THE CONDITIONS OF THE CONTRACT

Asher read the document carefully, feeling the sheer weight of the magic woven into its fabric.

1. ABSOLUTE LOYALTY

"The signee, Sylthara, forsakes all previous allegiances, all personal ambitions, all independent purpose. Her will is no longer her own—it belongs entirely to Asher Veinheart, High King of Aetherhold. His command is law, his word unchallengeable. Should she act against him, deceive him, or betray his interests, the contract shall unravel her existence, consuming her body, mind, and soul in unmaking fire."

The ink pulsed, shifting into chains of light as it etched itself permanently onto the parchment.

2. A MIND BOUND TO ITS MASTER

"The signee’s mind, thoughts, and emotions are anchored to her Master’s presence. While she retains her consciousness, her purpose is irrevocably linked to his. She cannot act outside of his wishes, cannot plan against him, cannot withhold knowledge that would serve him."

The moment Asher read it, he felt the magic tighten around her. A faint ripple coursed through the air, the contract’s power waiting for acceptance.

3. THE BANISHMENT OF AUTONOMY

"The signee relinquishes all claim to independence. Her will no longer belongs to herself, but to her Master. Her choices are his to shape. Her fate is his to decide. She is bound to serve, to fight, to obey, for as long as he commands it."

Asher’s brows furrowed slightly. This wasn’t just servitude. This was devotion in its most binding form.

Sylthara had given orders to armies. Now she would be unable to command even herself.

4. THE FORSAKEN REALM

"The signee forfeits her personal realm. No longer shall she exist as an independent entity bound to the Void. Instead, her tether shall be remade, her existence anchored to the mindscape of her Master."

Asher felt a sharp pull in his chest at those words.

This wasn’t just a contract of subjugation. This was a permanent restructuring of where she belonged.

Her entire existence would now be anchored inside his own mindspace.

She would no longer retreat to the dark corridors of her own plane. No sanctuary. No domain of her own.

Her essence, her being, her very presence—would exist within him.

An extension of his will.

The ink glowed as the final clause solidified.

5. THE MASTER’S RIGHT

"Upon sealing this contract, Asher Veinheart shall become Sylthara’s sole anchor, her Master in all things. His presence is law. His emotions, his desires, his survival—all take precedence over her own. He is her world, and should he demand it, she shall walk willingly into oblivion."

Asher exhaled slowly.

This was no simple oath.

This was binding in ways most magic could never replicate.

It would rewrite her existence, bind her entirely to him, strip her of all autonomy.

And yet—she was waiting for him to accept.

Not fearful.

Not hesitant.

But willing.

She met his gaze, searching, as if expecting his doubt.

Then, in a voice quiet but unwavering, she whispered:

"This is what I want, Asher."

He knew that if he accepted this—if he signed this contract—there would be no reversing it.

Sylthara would no longer be a goddess in her own right.

She would be his.

Asher reached for the parchment.

And the moment his fingers touched the contract, the runes blazed to life.

A pulse of unfathomable power surged through the air, rippling outward like an unseen tidal wave. The very fabric of reality around them trembled, flexed, bent inward—as if acknowledging what was about to be bound.

Sylthara let out a slow breath, her crimson lips parting slightly, her posture still, composed—but her hands trembled.

This was it.

A contract no goddess had ever sworn.

No escape. No return. No self beyond the one she was giving him.

Asher pressed his palm fully against the parchment.

The words upon it ignited.

Brilliant veins of violet and gold surged across its surface, spilling outward like living tendrils of fate.

The contract rose from the parchment, its magic shifting from mere script into something alive, something that now sought to weave itself into existence.

A golden sigil blazed beneath Asher’s hand, curling outward like the roots of an unbreakable tree, twisting through the very air, reaching for her.

Sylthara inhaled sharply.

Then—the binding began.

The contract’s magic shot into her chest like a spear of liquid light.

Sylthara gasped—her entire body arching backward, her pupils dilating, expanding, the firelight reflecting in her irises like the birth of new stars.

Then—she burned.

Not in agony.

Not in suffering.

In transcendence.

The corruption that had once twisted through her body, that had tainted her being, shriveled away like dying embers.

Asher watched, unmoving, as the blackened remnants of what she had once been cracked, split open—like an eggshell peeling away.

And from within…

She emerged.

Her hair lengthened, cascading down her back like flowing strands of night itself, impossibly long, moving as though caught in an unseen current.

But it was no longer simply black.

Swirling through it, woven into its very existence, were ribbons of deep violet and shimmering starlight, threads of endless night scattered with galaxies.

Her eyes—once crimson, once predatory—opened anew.

Now, they were violet and blue, swirling together like the birth of infinity itself, shifting with a depth that seemed to stretch into realms unseen.

She trembled, small, delicate hands tightening into fists, her fingertips now tipped with claw-like black nails, not jagged, not monstrous—but elegant, regal, as if shaped with purpose.

The same transformation extended to her feet, her toes tipped with matching talon-like nails, sinking slightly into the ancient stone beneath her.

From behind her, a long, sinuous tail unraveled, its sleek, violet surface rippling with power, ending in a sharp arrowhead tip.

And from her back—

A set of wings unfurled.

Not feathered. Not bound by flesh.

But crafted from pure, living shadow, curling and unfurling like the whisper of midnight winds.

Asher watched in silence.

A goddess once feared. Once corrupted.

Now—remade.

Bound not by darkness.

But by him.

The magic that had erupted between them slowed, its final strands curling into Sylthara’s form like threads of woven fate.

The last embers of the contract sealed themselves deep within her, forever anchored to Asher’s will.

The world settled.

Sylthara stood before him, her breathing slow, steady—changed.

Her crimson lips parted, her voice soft, reverent.

“…It is done.”

She lifted her gaze to his, and for the first time, Asher saw no trace of the war-hardened general, no lingering remnants of the cruel, calculating woman who had once led the Veinforged.

Only Sylthara.

A goddess—reborn in his name.

She took a step forward, then another, until she stood just before him.

Her wings curled slightly inward, her tail flicking idly behind her, adjusting to this new existence.

Then, she knelt.

Not in submission.

Not in humiliation.

But in acknowledgment.

She placed one delicate hand over her heart, the other resting lightly against her knee, her violet-and-blue eyes never leaving his.

“Master.”

One word.

One truth.

One unbreakable bond.

Asher stared down at her, the weight of what had just transpired settling deep in his chest.

He had not just gained an ally.

He had claimed a goddess.

And she was his.

Asher exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of the contract settle into place.

And yet, rather than burdened, he felt… lighter.

It was a strange feeling, knowing that a goddess—**a once-feared general, an enemy turned something far more complex—**had just freely given herself to him, not just in servitude, but in purpose.

He looked down at Sylthara, still kneeling before him, her new cosmic-violet eyes locked onto his own, watching him with rapt attention.

She was still herself. The same confident, sharp-witted, and sometimes infuriating woman he had come to know.

But now, there was something else.

A clarity in her gaze. A pure, unwavering focus on him.

She wasn’t waiting for orders.

She was waiting for him.

A small smirk curled at the corner of Asher’s lips. “Since you’re kneeling there like that, maybe you can actually help me.”

Sylthara raised a brow, her tail flicking idly behind her. “Oh? And what, exactly, do you require, Master?”

The way she stressed the word, teasing but sincere, sent a strange sensation through his chest.

He shook it off, gesturing toward the elk. "I need to dress the kill. Use some of that magic of yours, unless you'd rather watch me hack through it like a barbarian.”

Sylthara let out a soft chuckle, rising to her feet in one fluid motion.

She stepped toward the elk carcass, not even bothering to touch it. Instead, she lifted one hand, shadows curling from her fingertips.

The magic moved with absolute precision.

The hide peeled away as if slipping from the beast effortlessly, clean cuts forming along the muscle, separating bone from meat in seconds.

Asher raised a brow. “Efficient.”

Sylthara smirked, flicking her wrist as the last of the unnecessary parts vanished into nothingness.

“A goddess does not waste time with crude knives and messy butchering.” She turned, wings folding neatly behind her. "Would you like me to cook it for you as well, or is that still beneath my station?"

Asher huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I can handle that much. Besides, you need to get used to watching me eat mortal food. Wouldn’t want you forgetting how to act among people.”

Sylthara rolled her eyes but said nothing. Though she never looked away from him.

Asher finished setting the fire properly, adjusting the elk meat over it as the rich scent of cooking flesh filled the air.

Once satisfied, he turned his attention to the small bundle curled up on the bed.

“Lunira, wake up.”

The little girl stirred, mumbling something incoherent before shifting under the blankets. Slowly, her silver-grey eyes peeked open.

She blinked blearily at Asher, still caught in the fog of sleep.

Then she turned—and saw Sylthara.

For a long second, she simply stared.

Then—her jaw dropped.

"You're… you're so pretty!"

Sylthara raised a delicate brow, clearly amused. “Am I now?”

Lunira scrambled into a sitting position, her tiredness completely forgotten. “You weren’t like that before! Your hair! Your wings! Your tail! Your eyes! Everything is so—”

She gasped, gripping the edge of the blanket like she had just made a profound realization. “Are you a real goddess now? Like a real, real one?!”

Sylthara chuckled, stepping closer, crouching beside the bed so she was at eye level with the girl. “I was always a goddess, little one.”

Lunira shook her head furiously. "No, no, no! You were all dark and scary before. Now you look like… like a queen of the stars!"

Sylthara tilted her head, casting a glance at Asher.

"A queen of the stars, hmm?"

Asher smirked. "Don't let it go to your head."

Sylthara chuckled but said nothing, watching as Lunira continued to gape at her.

The girl reached out, hesitated, then asked, "Can I touch your wings?"

Sylthara’s lips twitched. “Go ahead.”

Lunira’s small fingers brushed against the edges of the shadow-formed wings, her expression turning into one of absolute awe.

"They're so soft… like clouds made of night!"

Sylthara allowed the child her fascination, amusement playing at the corners of her lips. "I suppose I should be honored by such high praise."

Asher shook his head. "Alright, Lunira, time to eat before you start worshiping her."

The girl pouted but relented, finally turning toward the food.

Sylthara, however, never stopped watching Asher.

Later that night, when the fire had burned low and Lunira was sleeping soundly again, Asher sat near the dying embers, lost in thought.

Then, movement.

A whisper of shifting silk. The soft rustling of wings.

He didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Sylthara stepped up behind him, moving with slow, deliberate grace.

Then—she sat beside him.

Close.

Too close.

Her presence was impossible to ignore, the warmth of her body despite the night’s chill, the soft perfume of magic and shadow clinging to her form.

Asher didn’t react.

Not at first.

Then, fingertips brushed against his wrist.

Soft. Deliberate.

“Asher.”

His name, spoken in a voice that had always carried arrogance and control…

But now, it was something else entirely.

He turned his head slightly, meeting those swirling cosmic eyes.

She had leaned in just enough that he could see the faint parting of her lips, the slight flicker of anticipation in her gaze.

He inhaled.

Then, quietly—"Sylthara."

Her fingers curled slightly against his wrist.

“You know I belong to you now, don’t you?” Her voice was soft, yet heavy with meaning. “All of me.”

Asher exhaled, glancing down at where her hand rested.

Then, gently, he removed it.

Sylthara froze.

His voice was firm, but not unkind. “I won’t lie to you. I care for you, Sylthara. More than I ever thought I would.”

Her lips parted, but she said nothing.

“But I made a promise.”

She blinked, confusion flickering across her face. “To who?”

Asher’s golden eyes darkened slightly. “To my queen. To Vicky.”

Sylthara’s breath caught.

She pulled back slightly, searching his face. “And what was this promise?”

Asher held her gaze, unwavering.

“That I would take no other woman as my own.”

The words hung between them, heavy with finality.

Sylthara stared at him, something unreadable in her expression.

Then—slowly—she smiled.

Not her usual smirk.

Something softer.

Something… understanding.

She let out a slow breath, leaning back slightly. “I see.”

She wasn’t angry.

She wasn’t bitter.

If anything… she looked almost relieved.

Then, she smirked again, but this time, it was playful.

"Well, Master… I suppose I'll just have to settle for being your most devoted servant."

Asher shook his head with a quiet laugh.

Sylthara chuckled, standing gracefully. “Get some rest, Asher. You’ll need it.”

Then she turned, stepping back toward the shadows of the ruined tower.

And for the first time in centuries, she didn’t feel alone.

The night passed in quiet stillness, the ruins wrapped in an eerie, dreamlike silence.

But Asher was already awake.

Before the first hints of false dawn touched the storm-wracked sky, before even Sylthara stirred from her place of restless sleep, he was out beyond the tower.

Alone.

Training.

He stood in the middle of the obsidian field, surrounded by jagged stone formations, the blackened earth cracked with veins of dormant power.

In his hand, a small, smooth obsidian rock.

He exhaled, tossed it high into the air.

As it arced, gravity seized it, pulled it back down.

And just before it struck the earth—

He reached out.

Not with his body. Not with Aether.

With the power buried beneath the land.

A pulse—subtle but precise.

The moment the rock should have hit the ground, the energy redirected it.

Not just stopping it.

Forcing it upward.

The small stone shot back into the air at triple its original speed, whistling past his head like a slingshot loosed by unseen hands.

Asher let out a slow breath.

Again.

He grabbed another rock, tossed it high, and the same thing happened—it should have fallen, but instead, the land twisted its force, magnified it, turned it against itself.

Higher. Faster. Stronger.

This was unlike anything he had ever wielded.

It wasn’t just magic.

It was momentum repurposed, force turned inward, energy given direction rather than destruction.

He rolled his shoulders, feeling the way the land’s energy stirred beneath his feet.

Then, without hesitation, he grabbed a much larger rock.

Time to push further.

Asher crouched low, pressing his golden fingers against the obsidian ground, letting himself sink deeper into the strange energy beneath the land.

It moved differently than Aether. It didn’t surge forward like fire, nor did it pulse like raw power waiting to be shaped.

It was fluid, reactive, deliberate.

It didn’t simply exist—it watched.

As if waiting to see if he was worthy of it.

He exhaled, tightening his grip around the larger rock—one the size of his torso, dense and heavy.

Hefting it easily, he tossed it into the air.

Higher.

It reached its peak.

Fell.

Asher’s golden arm flared, but he didn’t call on Aether.

Instead, he reached down, into the land’s veins—into the buried rivers of power running beneath the stone.

And the moment the rock should have struck the ground—

It didn’t.

A violent shockwave of force erupted beneath it, flipping its momentum completely.

The rock shot back into the air, twice as fast.

Then—it kept going.

Asher’s breath caught as the force exceeded his expectations. The stone blurred into the sky, vanishing into the swirling violet clouds above.

A second passed. Then another.

Then—a deep, distant crack as it shattered somewhere far beyond his sight.

Asher’s lips parted slightly.

That was… effective.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the energy settle beneath his skin, waiting.

This power—it wasn’t about overwhelming destruction.

It was about taking what already existed and amplifying it beyond control.

Momentum, force, weight—all of it could be turned into a weapon.

Not just in battle.

On the battlefield itself.

The implications sent a thrill through his chest.

He wasn’t just commanding magic.

He was shaping the very rules of motion and physics itself.

A slight smirk played at the corner of his lips.

“That’ll come in handy.”

He was about to pick up another stone when—

A voice, amused and laced with curiosity.

“Tearing apart the sky so early in the morning, Champion?”

Asher turned his head slightly, unsurprised to see Sylthara standing at the edge of the ruins, arms crossed over her chest, watching him with unreadable amusement.

She was still adjusting to her new form, he could tell—her tail flicked absentmindedly, her wings shifting as if still reacquainting themselves with being part of her again.

But what stood out the most was her gaze.

The way she watched him now.

Like he was the only thing in the world worth looking at.

He huffed a quiet breath. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Sylthara smirked, stepping forward. “Didn’t want to.”

Her wings curled slightly behind her as she glanced at the sky, where his last experiment had vanished.

“You’re getting used to it already?”

Asher rolled his shoulders. “Still figuring out what it can do.”

Sylthara tilted her head, watching him for a long moment.

Then, with a small, knowing smile—“Care to show me?”

Asher met her gaze.

Then—he picked up another rock.

Time blurred as Asher continued his training, pushing the strange energy further, testing its limits while Sylthara observed with rapt attention.

At first, she merely watched, her expression flickering between amusement and curiosity.

Then, as Asher demonstrated how he could reverse force, amplify motion, and redirect momentum with deadly precision, Sylthara’s intrigue turned into genuine fascination.

She circled him like a shadow in orbit, her cosmic-violet eyes tracking every movement, studying every effect.

“It’s not just magic,” she murmured after a particularly impressive display where Asher had sent a heavy slab of obsidian hurtling skyward, then forced it to crash down with double the force—creating a shockwave that cracked the land beneath them.

“It’s deeper than that.”

Asher smirked, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “You sound impressed.”

Sylthara tilted her head, her wings flexing slightly. “I am.”

And from the way her gaze lingered on him, it was clear that wasn't just because of the power.

Asher exhaled, shaking his arms out. "I think that's enough for now."

Sylthara gave him an exaggerated sigh. "Shame. I was enjoying the show."

Before Asher could respond, a small, sleepy voice interrupted them.

“Sir?”

Lunira stood at the entrance to the ruins, her small frame still wrapped in a conjured blanket, her silver-grey eyes blinking blearily in the dim morning light.

Then—she saw Sylthara.

Again.

Her mouth dropped open.

"You're still beautiful."

Sylthara let out a quiet laugh. "And you're still adorable, little one."

Lunira rubbed her eyes, shuffling forward, her expression shifting from awe to something more important.

"Is there food?"

Asher chuckled. "Yes, Lunira. Let's eat."

The three of them gathered by the fire once again, eating what remained of the elk Asher had cooked the night before. The meat was tough but rich, the smoky aroma blending with the crisp, still air.

As they ate, Asher spoke between bites. "We're moving out soon. It's time we started uncovering the secrets of this place."

Sylthara wiped a drop of juice from her lip with the back of her hand. "Agreed. If this land is tied to the lost empire… then the deeper we go, the more answers we’ll find."

Lunira swallowed a piece of meat. "And maybe a way home?"

Asher nodded. "That’s the goal."

Before they could continue, Asher closed his eyes, reaching outward, beyond himself, beyond this place.

Reaching for the golden threads of his bonds.

He focused on Brynn first.

Nothing.

Vicky.

Silence.

Aetheros.

A flicker—then gone.

Asher’s brows furrowed.

Something was wrong.

His bonds were still there—he could sense them, faintly, like distant stars behind thick clouds—but something was interfering.

Something in this land.

Something blocking the connection.

His golden arm tensed, the energy within him shifting. Had the empire that once ruled this place created something that interfered with Aetheric connections?

Had they cut themselves off on purpose?

Asher slowly opened his eyes, exhaling sharply.

Sylthara immediately noticed. "Something wrong?"

Asher's jaw tightened. "The bond. I can still feel them... but I can’t reach them."

Sylthara frowned. "Interesting."

Lunira looked worried. "Does that mean they don’t know we’re okay?"

Asher ran a hand through his hair. "I don’t know. I’ve been sending messages since we got here, but if they’re not getting through… we might be on our own for longer than I thought."

Sylthara tapped her fingers against her knee, thoughtful. "If there’s something interfering, we may find the source deeper in. The lost empire clearly had power—enough to ascend, and enough to fall. Whatever they left behind, it’s still affecting this place."

Asher sighed. "Then we’ll have to go deeper."

But before he could rise, something shifted in his mind.

A pulse—not in the world around him, but in his own mental landscape.

Asher closed his eyes again—but this time, he looked inward.

Within his mindscape, where the golden threads of his Aetheric bonds wove through the void, there was something new.

Something beautiful.

A presence curled near his other bonds, not woven into them, but separate, unique.

Sylthara’s soul.

It was unlike anything he had seen before—a luminous swirl of shadow and starlight, moving with slow, deliberate grace.

Her essence had anchored itself here, no longer tethered to her old realm.

She was part of him now.

Asher inhaled deeply, feeling the quiet pulse of her existence inside his mind.

It was warm. Constant. A quiet hum of something vast, yet loyal.

She was watching him.

Even now.

Asher opened his eyes, glancing at Sylthara.

She arched a brow. "You just felt it, didn’t you?"

He nodded.

Her lips curled into the smallest, knowing smirk.

"Then I suppose it’s time to see what else I can do, now that I belong to you."

Asher exhaled, standing. "Let’s move out."

And with that, they gathered their things—and stepped forward into the unknown.