“The remaining heretics must be dealt with. The Marked Empire only fell a century ago, and now we’re expected to forget it and move on? I say no, even if the Alliance of Worlds is insisting; and I believe this council would agree with me.”

—Highlord Jangar Fyrkaj in a speech to the ancient Dragonrider Council on Midliore

When Zaina’s eyes opened, she was staring at the ceiling. She sat up quickly, grabbing at her aching head. That same odd noise was filling the room in rapid, non-rhythmic succession—her eye caught a flash of light, and her head snapped to find it. Gir’s cipher was crossed with Beni’s black blade. Their swords, too, seemed to be enemies—the black sword shrieked and hissed while Gir’s cipher vibrated with a resilient hum.

Zaina was in awe of their battle; the cipher danced to guard attacks from every angle. With every clash, their blades let out bursts of heat and the crackling groans of smoldering sparks.

Beni growled and snarled with each exchange—he was keeping up this time.

How did he get so much faster in one day?

Their swords crossed, and Beni pushed into the lock, driving Gir backward. The Raolgrian disengaged, parried a wild swing, and jumped back. He was taking deep breaths and clutching at his side—Zaina’s eyes widened as green blood seeped from between his fingers. One of Beni’s strikes had wounded him.

Beni pointed his blade at Gir and spat, “Come then, lancer. Win your glory if you can.”

Gir leaped forward and knocked aside Beni’s thrust, unleashing a slash—it was blocked at the last moment. Even in the heat of battle, there was an earnest calm about Gir; his movements centered around his wrist with his sword out in front of him. Beni exerted more effort, often the aggressor in their exchanges—his attacks were hackneyed, a series of brutal swings and full-body slashes.

Zaina struggled to her feet. Clicking the mag-hammer to load a spread-tip bead, she aimed the scrapshot—she had to help. They were moving fast, with Beni jumping to attack from different angles, getting a lock would be difficult. As their fight rotated, her eyes met with Gir’s for an instant, and there was an understanding between them.

Gir feinted a strike, then leaped sideways, putting Beni between him and Zaina. He met Beni’s next frontal charge head-on, pushing against the assault, exposing Beni’s back. Zaina exhaled and pulled the trigger. Two pops burst out in rapid succession as the round fired off and split as Gir dashed aside.

Time seemed to slow as Beni, in multiple, dark voices, said, “Defend us.”

A black pillar jutted from the ground behind him and blocked the beads with a clatter of pings. Zaina winced—those words, or the way he said them, bothered her mark.

“Strike her.”

A stinging pain attacked Zaina’s eye, and she collapsed to one knee. The pillar gave an ear-splitting crack as it detached from the ground and launched toward her.

“No!” Gir shouted, reaching out—a stream of water burst from his open palm, whipping around and knocking the pillar off course. Beni took the opportunity to slice off Gir’s outstretched arm at the elbow. The Raolgrian jumped back, grunting in pain as he cauterized the wound with his cipher.

Without thinking, Zaina rose to her feet. “Gir—no!”

She charged in with a shriek, fist raised, and threw a punch at the back of Beni’s head—

He turned and caught her hand, then yanked on it to pull her shoulder onto his blade, driving his sword through. His face, plastered with a smug grin, was two inches from hers. Zaina’s jaw dropped as her mouth filled with blood—the mark flared up at the same time as her injury, jolting her body like a storm of angry needles. Beni freed his sword and she dropped to the hard, cold floor, clutching her wound as she gasped for air.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“You’ve been nothing but a pest ever since we became enlightened,” Beni said, “but the prophet’s rebirth is happening whether your mortal consciousness wishes it or not. If we must break you, so be it.”

Zaina gasped as he raised the black sword, but the blow never came—with a mad shout, Gir lunged into Beni shoulder-first. The heretic crashed into one of the pillars, shattering it. The Raolgrian turned and said, “Zaina—go!”

Beni stood and pointed the black sword. Gir summoned his cipher and waited, his remaining arm casually hanging to the side. For the first time since Zaina had met him, his eyes were serious—lethally so.

Beni bellowed a maddened war cry and charged. Gir held his blade in front of him—Zaina reached out, her mouth opening to shout a warning; it was too late. The lancer sidestepped with a simple parry—a hissing clang and a wet squish rang out as Beni passed by.

For a moment they were still. Then, with a grunt, Beni’s torso slid from his waist, plopping onto the ground and spilling his putrid insides. His legs fell beside him at an awkward angle.

Staring off at the distance with his face pressed against the ground, Beni’s eyes turned to disbelief and horror. “No—it can’t be—I had—so much power—”

The cipher disappeared from Gir’s hand. “Power isn’t everything.”

Zaina sadly stared at the man she once knew. No—Beni Gardol, the real Beni Gardol, had died defending Ildegor. This was someone else. The voices were back, a dull, buzzing pool of whispers in the back of her mind.

“Zaina,” Beni said, startling her. “We have been shown the truth of this universe. There is no excuse not to know it—and there’s no path for you except with us.” He stretched a shaking hand toward her, and the voices focused into an echoing phrase of power spoken in unison with his darkened voice: “Come to us, Zaina.”

Her foot moved forward. She tried to pull her leg back but wasn’t able to control it. The Hollow peeled away and revealed darkness beneath. She took another step against her will.

Gir leaped forward—with a flash, his cipher cleaved through Beni’s arm. Zaina stepped back, able to move freely again. He stabbed Beni through the shoulder, pinning him to the ground.

“I think you’re done,” the Raolgrian said, taking deep breaths.

Zaina stared at her hand. If only she had been able to summon her cipher, use some magick, anything—she wanted to do more. Gir had almost died because she couldn’t do anything.

“More—” Beni, trying to crawl forward, ripped his torso on Gir’s cipher. “I need—more—give me—more—”

Gir freed his blade and then stumbled. He averted his gaze from his foe, and Zaina caught a glimmer of sorrow in his eye.

Beni sprawled out, eyes wide in disbelief. “Why—all I want is to serve—I need more—to serve—”

Gir shook his head. “The Eldritch cares little for those who bear its mark. Those whispers of power are only words, and it can go back on its words if it pleases.”

The chamber shook with a tremor. A dark chuckle came from Beni’s lips. “Lancer… You’ll never understand—but you, Zaina—you know better.”

She stepped forward and said, “If you’re still in there—goodbye, Beni, and I’m sorry. If I ever find Orna and Eniri, I’ll tell them you died defending your home. They’ll never find out what happened here. No one will.”

“Our eyes were opened,” he replied. “It’s a pity yours are not.”

An ear-splitting shriek came from the iron door as it peeked open. A rush of wind tore through the chamber, extinguishing every flame—with writhing flickers, they disappeared, stranding the Hollow in darkness. Beni released a defeated sigh.

“I guess I was always weak—after all—”

He closed his eyes. Bright, writhing red flames consumed his body, leaving behind a pile of ash swirling away. Zaina released a deep, heaving sigh, hoping there was some sort of peace awaiting him in the next life.

A frown crossed her lips. Demelia didn’t deserve any of this. None of us did. But I guess that doesn’t matter.

The room shook again. Fumes of black smoke filtered through the cracks of the chamber walls. Visibility was low—Zaina’s breathing mask was reading at a quarter-charge.

No good.

Gir nodded. “Zaina, it’s time to go. For real this time.”

“Huh?” Her head snapped toward him. She couldn’t leave now—not when they were so close.

“There’s no time! Use the particle hook—get out of—”

They both turned as a foul presence manifested in the chamber.

Gir pulled the Origin Warhead from his belt. He clicked it, and a row of blue lights sparked to life on the sides of the bomb. It gave a slight hum. “I’ll be right behind you—all right? Now, go.”

“I’m not leaving you here!”

Gir shook his head. “Zaina, please.”

Moisture pricked her eyes. “But—”

He grabbed her shoulder. “You have to make it out of here. Otherwise, this has all been for nothing. I didn’t think I’d be able to help anyone here. Please.”

She shook her head and blinked tears out of her eyes. Then, she met Gir’s gaze. There was no arguing this.

With a defeated nod, Zaina turned as Gir approached the cracked iron door. She aimed the particle hook-gun for the exit and turned back toward the lancer. Darkness slithered through the door, gathering at the foot of the stairwell in front of Gir—her heart skipped a beat. Swirling spools of shadow unwound through the doors, coalescing into a single form.

Zaina stared in horror, trembling as the voices grew louder—she clutched her ears and stared in disbelief at the phantasmal darkness taking shape in the Hollow.