The Hunters stood in the oppressive darkness of Rykaedi’s palace, their weapons brandished, their eyes desperately watching the dark walls for any slight movements.

The palace was giant, overarching. There were odd cracks spread in the domed black ceiling which let in light, but did no more to illuminate the pitch walls, nor did they light the gap into oblivion which surrounded their great platform on all sides. The only way out was the bridge back toward that massive door. Every other path led to darkness.

And they’d just lost their commanders.

“Look alive, men!” shouted one of the soldiers, attempting a meager imitation of a leader.

Then the arbiter walked between them all. He smiled down at a strange bulge in the ground confidently before clapping his hands together, knocking some white ash into the air. “Looks like my work here is done.”

Just like that, a gust of wind took him, tore his body into millions of particles of grey ash…

And he was gone.

Then that lump in the floor grew, became a white tumor. It pulled up and out like a man emerging from a swimming pool.

Ivalié gasped when his head finally emerged, his blonde hair fallen loose all around. He desperately flailed out a hand.

One of the men grabbed his hand to pull. The magi swatted him away irately.

Then a gleam of bright magic—a pair of spectacles appeared in the that hand. He quickly pushed them up onto his nose, pulled himself up out from the floor. Dark green liquid drooled from him before another pulse of ley magic eradicated it, left him dry and let his robes fall dramatically around him.

“Gather ‘round, men!” he shouted. “Rykaedi’s not long from us; and we’ve got more than that to contend with.”

“Regrettably, you’re not alone.”

Ivalié looked behind him. There was Jirtu, approaching from the open doorway with that bright desert light illuminating him like a spectre.

The white-robed magi could not help but smile. “You’ve recovered.”

“I did. And then I thought—how could I let you have all the fun of tearing down Rykaedi alone? That bitch has tormented me for decades.”

“You and I aren’t so different after all, are we?”

Jirtu growled. “No. I suppose in many ways, we aren’t. But don’t go expecting me to do some facsimile of Etherian fusion with you.”

Ivalié chuckled. His face took on a youthful peace which he no longer knew

Then came the skittering from all around.

“Imps. Be ready men, they’ll come from anywhere. They’re small and nimble but they’ll go down like—”

Krnch!

“I… I got one!” cried out a soldier. Then she looked up, looked all around with a look of delight across her face. “I got one!”

“Look out you fucking—” Jirtu barked.

Another soldier smashed his body into her, knocked her to the floor. His shield came up just in time to deflect a slice from a small clay creature’s scythe.

“Dozens more are on the way, everyone! On your guards!”

Each squadron assumed their trained positions, shields raised by the frontmen and bows by those in the back. Ivalié and Jirtu took the center positions, surrounded by eight groups of twelve soldiers each, forming a huge sun-like shape around them.

“I know a few spells, Ivalié. A few that would do well against such threats.”

“So? Go ahead.”

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“The draw upon myself would be too great considering what I just went through.”

“If you’re asking to borrow my power…”

“I wasn’t asking.”

Jirtu stuck his fingers into the back of Ivalié’s neck, under the skin. He pressed right up against his brainstem.

Then came the pulse of magic from him. He winced. Ivalié tried for breathless screams but could not command them.

“This should do a number to any earthly creatures she wields. Pawn-killer, fail me not.”

And just as the spell came into effect…

Cedric emerged from the ground just as Ivalié had.

Jirtu gasped, released the spell. He swept both of his hands through the air as though commanding a waft of air, shot the stray magic up into the ceiling.

“What insolent timing!”

Cedric groaned, “Good to see you, too.”

Then he carried Faunia up out of the floor.

Ivalié gasped back to life, back to cognition. “What... what happened?”

“We’ll talk later. I think Rykaedi is chasing us. Not to mention—get ready.”

“Ready for what—” Ivalié gasped out again. He placed his hand against the side of his face in agony. “The things you all subject my mind to…!”

“Relax, let him in!” Cedric ordered.

Jirtu sneered down once. Then the sounds of battle began all around them. Shouts from the warriors. The clatterings of shields against scythes. The impish cries of fiends sent into Rykaedi’s oblivion.

Ivalié had fallen to his knees by the time Jirtu looked back at him. Marisol was already glowing in his arms, dragged up from the floor between them.

“Cedric. I’ve got a healing device.” He tapped a teal ring twice. “This is Ilo, divine warden of Elima. She’s got one last charge in her, if you’d have me resuscitate one of them.”

He grit his teeth. “Faunia, then. Please. With her, at least, we can get Tirolith back, then heal Marisol… But then—Marisol is…”

The ring sparkled then fell dim.

Cedric lowered his eyebrows, looked at Jirtu in hurt surprise. “Did you kill that Etherian?”

He narrowed his own eyes. “I burnt her out, yes. Unless you’d rather’ve we lost this fight because of your girlfriend’s incapacitation.”

Cedric was speechless for a moment. Then Faunia woke up with a start. “Cedric, where are…?”

“Relax, Faunia.” He helped her to her feet from his arms. Her balance was unsteady at first, but she found it fast. “We escaped Rykaedi. Marisol is still unconscious, but if we get Tirolith…”

“We’ll need Grivonym for that. Where’s Akvum?”

“Right here.”

They all looked down at the kneeling Ivalié.

He glared back up with a ferocity to his expression that was not quite his own. “I’m right here, Faunia.”

Rykaedi’s face could not quite grin, but she imagined herself shining a big and bright one at Serkukan as he destroyed the last of her draconic structure.

“Whose side are you really on, darling?”

Serkukan swam back through the Deadworld’s sea. He faced her, brandished the entirety of his musculature. “My side is the side of warfare. Of bloodshed. You should know that better than any, Queen of Calros”

“Ah, yes! I do remember what fun we had when you decided to slaughter my people, to launch a full-scale war in which you destroyed everything I’d ever created!”

“The towers, yes. You’d enslaved thousands of crimson Etherians just to—”

She flexed her remaining bone wing in an order for silence. “I remember what I’d done. Is vying for power so unnatural, so evil?”

“With your methods, it is.”

Serkukan rushed forward.

Rykaedi lifted a shattered arm toward him. Her eyes shone violet, then black.

“You’ve forgotten your place, Serkukan!”

And the Deadworld exploded in an aurora of horrible magic.