Captain Marshall lay sprawled atop the Runelord, naked and mangled. Blood soaked her skin, her right arm severed at the wrist. Slivers of black glass—jagged remnants of the shattered manastone—were buried deep into her flesh, glinting malevolently under the dim light. She was alive, though barely. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, labored breaths.
“The Homunculus… is dead,” she croaked, her voice faint, almost a whisper. “The Warlock… he…” Her words drifted away, lost to the void as her eyes fluttered shut.
“Hush now, rest,” Cypher whispered, though panic clawed at his throat. He was in no condition to save anyone, much less himself. But he couldn't let her die. Not here. Not like this. He called upon the dregs of his power, casting his sand skin spell. A weak sheath of protective sand coiled around her ruined wrist, staunching the bleeding as best as he could manage. It was all he could do—pathetically little against the scope of her injuries—but it was something.
The tower groaned louder now, tipping dangerously to one side. The walls were failing, the structure collapsing in on itself like a rotten carcass. Cypher felt it in his bones: the tower’s death throes. Whatever they had done here—whatever he and Lothorr had unleashed—it was tearing the foundation of this nightmare structure apart. Everything was coming undone.
He thought, briefly, of the MetaTEC connection on the floor above. If he could somehow reach it, link into the antenna array, he could activate the anti-sprite field and possibly, just possibly, stabilize the area long enough for them to escape. But that was a fantasy. As he tried to shift Captain Marshall’s dead weight off his chest, his arms trembled, and his strength failed him. He had nothing left to give. The energy to move, to cast, to even think… It was gone. Utterly spent.
Cypher lay there, staring up at the crumbling ceiling, his breath shallow. He had failed. Every bone in his body ached with the weight of it. Warren had been right all along. This entire misadventure had been doomed from the start. They had come here hoping for salvation, for some sliver of hope in a world devoid of it, and instead, they had found ruin. His mind screamed at him to fight, to struggle, to survive—but his body refused. It was over.
There was nothing left to do but accept the inevitable. The tower was going to fall. And so would they.
From above, another figure plummeted through the gloom. It descended with a chilling silence, as though it were a shadow falling from a darkened sky. The creature was a gaunt, skeletal giant—nearly seven feet of raw, twisted menace. Its limbs were elongated and spindly, arms stretching down with a disturbing grace, fingers ending in claws so white they seemed to glow faintly against the encroaching darkness. The legs bent in unnatural angles, its entire form a grotesque parody of human shape, a marionette of sinew and bone.
Its body, though slim, shimmered with the sheen of dark, taut muscle. Yet for all its near-human semblance, its face was a horror. The grin was a bone-white rictus, wide and jagged, framed by a mane of shaggy silver hair. Where eyes and nose should have been, there was only a single triangular void—a cavernous abyss that seemed to consume light. Red, otherworldly ichor dripped from the creature’s gaping maw, pooling in the crevices between its teeth, a sickening contrast against its pale visage.
The monstrosity regarded Cypher with an unsettling curiosity, gurgling low, ominous clicks that resonated from deep within its grotesque mask. The sound was alien, a language of clicks and hisses that seemed almost… mechanical.
"Warren?" Cypher asked, his voice barely more than a breath, as his eyes caught sight of the MetaTEC embedded in the creature’s wrist. The clicking shifted, taking on a sharper, more deliberate tone.
"Warren, oh God. What have you done?" Cypher’s voice wavered, a mix of horror and disbelief.
A sibilant hiss escaped the creature’s maw, the sound of steam hissing through a broken pipe. "Survived," the creature rasped, its voice unmistakably Warren’s yet twisted and layered with a flat, feminine undertone—the Hollow Knight’s voice, Cypher realized, merging with Warren’s in a discordant harmony.
A maelstrom of questions surged through Cypher’s mind, but they were drowned out as a section of the tower’s wall peeled away with a metallic screech, the outside mist seeping in with an insidious flow.
“The tower is disintegrating,” Cypher said, his voice filled with a desperate hope that the Warlock-thing might still be an ally. The creature nodded, acknowledging the crumbling reality around them.
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With a slow, ponderous grace, the creature extended a clawed hand and wrapped it around Cypher’s wrist, the touch cold and nauseating, sending shivers through his flesh. It simultaneously grasped one of Captain Marshall’s ankles, the contact making Cypher’s skin crawl with a visceral revulsion. He would have given anything to be free of this monstrosity, but with the tower collapsing all he could do was cling to a shred of hope as the the dark Warlock held them tight and took off running towards the hole in the wall.
The dark figure erupted from the Blood Tower, unfurling midnight wings that sliced through the London mist. Cypher watched in a mixture of awe and dread as the sprawling cityscape, veiled in its own shroud of fog, slid away beneath them. The Warlock—once Warren, now transformed into something darker and more formidable—sustained its flight with grim determination, steering southward toward Victoria Train Station. Above, the tower's final, cataclysmic collapse reverberated through the sky, a resounding crash that shook the very fabric of the city.
Cypher's mind churned with the weight of failure and lost opportunity. The anti-sprite field had not been activated, the Blood Tower had fallen, and the mission’s objective had slipped through his fingers. Yet amidst the wreckage, he clung to fragments of solace. The knowledge gleaned from the Blood Mages’ notes and the lessons learned from the primal spells were not without worth. They might yet turn the tide in humanity’s favor. The tower's destruction, though devastating, was a necessary step. Perhaps the leyline node would heal in time. Cypher couldn’t ignore the bitterness in his heart, though. The price of their endeavor had been steep, and the sense of victory felt hollow. His gaze lingered on Captain Marshall and the twisted form of Warren, reminders of the heavy toll this mission had exacted. Sid murmured a silent prayer for Davey, hoping his soul might find peace amidst the chaos.
The dark Warlock's wings slowed their relentless beat, guiding them down onto a rooftop with a jarring thud. The creature, still clad in its twisted form, carefully released Cypher. He staggered under the weight of Marshall, the Captain’s form heavy and lifeless in his arms. Once her weight was transferred to the rooftop, Warren’s gaunt form withdrew, a shadowy presence against the smoky sky.
"Must hunt," the Warlock hissed, its voice a rasping echo of what once was Warren. The inverted triangles of its eyes seemed to focus on Cypher, though he could not be sure.
"Hunt what?" Cypher demanded, a flicker of defiance in his voice despite the exhaustion that gnawed at him. He was ready to fight if it came to that.
"Power to sustain," the Warlock replied cryptically, its voice a blend of hunger and cold intent. With a final, sweeping motion, it spread its wings wide and launched into the mist-cloaked sky,
High above, a flock of Harpie-type sprites erupted from the swirling mist, their shrill cries piercing the air as they engaged the dark Warlock. Cypher watched with a mix of awe and trepidation as the once-familiar form of Warren, now twisted into something both terrible and magnificent, tore through them with claws wreathed in furious black fire. The sprites fell one by one, consumed in the maw of the transformed Warlock before it soared into the fog once more.
"I really hope you’re still on our side, Warren," Sid muttered, his gaze locked on the shadowy figure vanishing into the oppressive whiteness.
"Give me your coat. It's bloody cold out here," Captain Marshall’s voice cut through the chill, her words a weak plea as she stirred in Sid's arms. He gently lowered her to the ground, steadying her as she swayed, then removed his beige cloak with practiced care. He wrapped it around her, trying to offer some semblance of warmth.
"Not that I doubt your tenacity, Captain," Cypher said, his voice strained but sincere, "but how are you still alive?"
Marshall looked up at him, her blue eyes gleaming with a newfound, unsettling light. "Let’s get to safety. You’re going to want to sit down for this."
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Elsewhere, Warren Orlock awoke on the shore of a vast, silent river. The silver pebbles at his feet gleamed eerily against the encroaching twilight. He instinctively reached for his MetaTEC, but his wrist was bare. Panic surged through him as he scrambled to his feet, scanning the desolate landscape for any sign of the missing device. The riverbank, leading to a jagged, broken meadow, stretched out before him, its terrain as harsh and unyielding as his predicament. In the distance, dark silhouettes of buildings loomed against the moonlit sky, stark against the vast emptiness.
“The Dread Queen’s court,” came a voice from behind him, slicing through the eerie quiet. Warren turned to see the Hollow Knight emerging from the river, her presence both commanding and serene. “We should avoid that place until you are much stronger.”
“I have so many questions,” Warren said, struggling to marshal his swirling concerns into something coherent.
The Hollow Knight inclined her head in a gesture of acknowledgement. “I am sure you do, and I will answer them in time. But first, I have a question for you.”
Warren blinked, taken aback by the unexpected shift. “Okay, shoot. What do you want to ask me?”
“How do you feel about the name Vespera? Do you think it suits me?”
The question seemed so absurdly normal that Warried tried to hold back a chuckle.
Then, the Warlock’s laughter erupted, a rich, resonant sound that felt alien in the desolate expanse of Nyxathalaya domain. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the bleak realm echoed with the sound of mirth. And yet, in the shadowed recesses of that forsaken land, the Dread Queen stirred to the imposing sound.
She was not amused.