Despite herself, Nephis felt her lips curl into a thin, sardonic smile.
"And what was the result of your investigation?" she asked.
The bitterness surprised even her. She had been played—outmaneuvered by a man she underestimated, deceived by two she had begun to consider part of her Cohort. It seemed that, aside from Sunny and Cassie, everyone on the Forgotten Shore was a liar, a traitor, or something in between.
Her gaze flickered briefly to the corner of the room, where Sasrir stood unmoving, his shadow coiled and ready.
And if Cassie's vision was true, then—
"Yes," Adam's voice cut through her thoughts.
"Sasrir and I collected the Shards a long time ago," he said calmly. "Athena and Nightingale were part of it as well." He inclined his head slightly. "I apologize for deceiving you, Lady Changing Star. But Athena is right—I needed proof that I could trust you."
His blue eyes met hers steadily.
"And now that I can guarantee you spoke the truth about your intention to return us to the Waking World," Adam continued, "I have decided to throw my full support behind you."
The room was silent once more.
But this time, the silence was heavy with inevitability.
Nephis' gaze hardened.
"You lied to me," she said slowly.
Her eyes moved deliberately across the four of them—Adam, Sasrir, Athena, and Kai—each word measured, each syllable weighted with restrained anger.
"You kept secrets. You sent me on a mission across the Forgotten Shore where we all could have died. You looked me in the eyes and insisted you didn't want war—and now you stand here urging me to draw blood." She paused, her silver eyes fixing on Adam. "Of all of you, I am most inclined to deal with you."
Adam inclined his head, unoffended.
"An understandable reaction," he said calmly. "But I assure you, my lady, everything I did was in good faith. I am willing—truly willing—to throw everything behind you. To help you remove Gunlaug and breach the Crimson Spire." His voice softened, losing its earlier levity. "For that, I am willing to swear to God Himself that I will not betray you. You have my solemn word."
"Words are worthless right now," Nephis cut in coldly. "I need proof. Something tangible."
She did not hesitate.
"Hand over the Lord Shards. Then we can talk properly."
Sasrir's head turned toward her in a motion disturbingly reminiscent of an owl, sharp and unnatural. For a brief moment, tension rippled through the room—but Nephis did not flinch. She met his gaze head-on, unyielding.
She would not trust them further without leverage. This was her line.
Adam was silent for several seconds. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"Very well," he said. "If that is the price of stable cooperation." He extended his hand, silver light already beginning to gather. "But you won't object to returning them afterward, I presume?"
"If you are true to your word," Nephis replied evenly, accepting his hand, "then of course not."
The hated chime of the Spell echoed in her mind—once, twice, three times.
[You have received a Memory]
[You have received a Memory]
[You have received a Memory]
Nephis summoned her Runes immediately, scanning them with practiced speed and precision. Her eyes lingered on the Attributes of the three Lord Shards, verifying every detail, every clause, every hidden risk.
They were real.
Legitimate.
Only then did she dismiss the Runes and look back up.
"Very well," she said. "I'm willing to talk now."
She moved to a table at the center of the room, pulling out a chair and gesturing for Adam to sit. He did so with a polite smile. Sasrir, however, remained standing behind him, arms at his sides, refusing the invitation without comment.
Nephis took her seat opposite Adam.
"All right," she said. "Speak. What exactly do you want from cooperating with me?"
"Gunlaug's death," Adam replied instantly.
The simplicity of his tone drew a slight arch of Nephis' eyebrow.
"I thought you were against violence," she remarked.
Adam did not answer immediately. Instead, he raised his left hand and spread his fingers.
White circles marked every knuckle.
"When Sasrir went to retrieve the Dawn Shard," he said quietly, "he was gone for months. In his anger, Gunlaug chopped off all the fingers on my left hand."
The room reacted as one.
Athena and Kai went wide-eyed—either hearing this for the first time, Nephis realized, or deserving awards for their acting. Sunny stiffened. Cassie drew in a sharp breath. Even Caster's composed façade cracked, just slightly.
Nephis did not react.
"Continue," she said.
"Sasrir returned just in time to reattach them," Adam went on, lowering his hand. "But the marks remain. These fingers are why I killed Harus. And they are why I will kill Gunlaug." His gaze was steady, unwavering. "That is my first condition. I get to kill him."
Nephis studied him for a moment, then shrugged lightly, silver hair shifting over her shoulder.
"I can't promise that," she said. "But if possible, I'll send him your way."
Adam nodded, accepting the uncertainty.
"What else?" Nephis asked.
"I know you want as many able-bodied Sleepers as possible to clear the Citadel," Adam continued. "But there are people here who deserve justice. I want your help in killing them too."
Bloodthirsty, aren't you? Nephis thought—but she merely hummed, offering neither agreement nor refusal.
Taking that as tacit acceptance, Adam moved on.
"And finally," he said, voice firm, "when Gunlaug is dead and the Castle is taken, I want your promise of general justice once we return to the Waking World. Helping clear the Crimson Spire will not absolve everyone here of their crimes. Some may not deserve death—but neither can they be allowed to walk free."
Nephis looked at him with quiet surprise.
"Do you really care about justice that much?" she asked.
Adam fell silent. His hand rose to the cross around his neck, fingers brushing it absently before he spoke.
"If light is the meaning of everything," he said slowly, "then justice is the method of everything. Without justice, nothing can truly be done. Nothing can last. We return to savagery—no better than beasts."
Nephis watched him for a long moment.
Her mental image of Adam shifted yet again, rearranging itself into a new configuration. He was almost fascinating, she realized—not because he was simple, but because he wasn't. A man of contradictions, conviction, and carefully chosen masks.
Or perhaps, she thought, all those facets were the same thing—merely shown from different angles.
Either way, she understood one thing clearly now.
The man that was Adam went a lot deeper than she thought, than anyone she had met in years.
Nephis did not answer immediately. She leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled lightly before her lips, silver eyes half-lidded as she weighed Adam's words. The room had fallen into a cautious silence, broken only by the faint crackle of her dormant flames and the distant murmur of the camp beyond the walls.
Adam took that silence as permission to continue.
"With Harus dead, the Castle has lost its spine," he said calmly. "Gunlaug ruled through fear, but Harus enforced that fear. Without him, the Bright Lord stands alone. Gemma has never been loyal—only pragmatic. Seishan despises weakness. Neither of them will die for a sinking cause."
Sasrir inclined his head slightly, his unnatural gaze fixed on nothing in particular. "The Host will fracture," he added in his hollow, measured voice. "Chains held by terror tend to break once the hand gripping them is severed."
Adam nodded. "Exactly. A direct challenge is the cleanest option. You confront Gunlaug publicly. Strip him of authority. Defeat him decisively—but do not kill him. Once he is bound and exposed as powerless, the rest will fold. Only a handful of Guards and Hunters will resist. Those who truly believe in him… or those who believe there is no path back."
"To the death," Kai murmured quietly.
"Yes," Adam said without hesitation. "But there will not be many."
Nephis exhaled slowly, her gaze drifting to the tabletop. "You make it sound trivial."
"It will be," Adam replied. "Compared to a siege. Compared to months of starvation, unrest, and quiet bloodshed in the shadows. A single overwhelming display will end this swiftly."
Athena crossed her arms, frowning. "Assuming nothing goes wrong."
Nephis' eyes snapped back to Adam. "That is precisely my concern."
She rose from her seat, the chair scraping softly against the stone floor, and began to pace. Each step was measured, controlled, as if she were already walking the battlefield in her mind.
"Gunlaug is not foolish," she said. "Cornered men rarely are. He will anticipate a challenge. He may not have Harus, but he still has knowledge of the Castle, prepared positions, and contingencies we are not aware of."
Adam watched her closely, saying nothing.
"And Gemma and Seishan," Nephis continued, "are not so predictable as you believe. Self-interest cuts both ways. If they think Gunlaug might still win, or if they believe siding with him buys them leniency later, they may stand their ground."
"That would be a mistake," Adam said flatly.
Nephis turned to face him. "Many mistakes are made on the Forgotten Shore."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then Adam inclined his head in concession. "Very well. Caution, then. What do you propose?"
Nephis stopped pacing.
"We prepare for a challenge," she said. "But we do not rely on it alone. While you spread word of the confrontation, I want eyes inside the Castle. I want to know which Guards remain loyal, where they are stationed, and who is wavering."
Her gaze flicked briefly to Sasrir. "You know its passages better than anyone."
Sasrir bowed his head. "I will map every route worth using. And every route worth sealing."
"Kai," Nephis continued, turning to the archer, "you'll coordinate with the Hunters outside. If Gunlaug tries to flee or call reinforcements from the Settlement, I want him cut off."
Kai nodded, jaw tightening. "Understood."
"Athena," Nephis said next, "you stay with me. If this turns into a battle, I want you close."
Athena grinned faintly. "Wouldn't be anywhere else."
Finally, Nephis returned her attention to Adam. "As for you… you will issue the challenge."
Adam blinked once. "Me?"
"You carry authority among the faithful," she said. "And Gunlaug wronged you publicly. If you demand justice before the Host, he cannot refuse without appearing weak. Any more of that, and he will truly fall from his pedestal."
A slow smile touched Adam's lips, though there was little warmth in it. "And once he is defeated?"
Nephis' expression hardened. "If he is captured, he will be judged. If he resists until the end…" She paused. "Then you may have your due."
Adam lowered his head slightly. "That is sufficient."
The plan settled over the room like a drawn blade—clean, sharp, and heavy with consequence. It was not the effortless victory Adam envisioned, but neither was it the grinding war Nephis sought to avoid.
For now, it was a compromise.
And as Nephis resumed her seat, silver fire flickering briefly in her eyes, one thing was clear to everyone present:
Gunlaug's reign was ending. Whether by submission or by blood, the Bright Lord would soon face the light.
Off with his HeadChapter TextWhen the sun reached its zenith, I declared my challenge.
There was no trumpet, no dramatic proclamation shouted from the walls. I simply walked forward to the front gates, encountering no projectiles, nor any human life standing in the way. When I reached the gate, it stood barren and empty-the faces I had come to seeas familiar now absent.
The gates opened without resistance.
The posts were abandoned, watchfires left to smolder unattended. Gunlaug had pulled everyone back, just as I suspected he would. Fearful rulers always do the same thing when the illusion of control begins to crack: they gather what remains close, mistaking proximity for loyalty.
Sasrir was already inside. He had bee sent in earlier to make sure Gunlaug hadn't hidden any trump cards, any divulgences from the original plot. He also served as a blade resting at their back—unseen, but unmistakably present. Kai had remained behind with part of the Sleeper force, overseeing the City and watching the roads. Cassie stayed with him, her prophetic sight stretched thin across the Settlement, hunting for signs of flight or treachery. If Gunlaug attempted to slip away like a rat through a fissure in the stone, she would know.
Behind me walked Athena and Nephis.
Ahead of them, I led.
Caster and Sunny followed at a measured distance, alert and tense, hands never far from their weapons. They were not part of the plan's core, but they were sharp blades all the same—useful if the situation degraded into chaos.Without Harus to slay, I wondered what role Sunny would play; Caster wouldn't have a chance to try and kill Nephis either, would he? Not unless she changes her mind and decides to fight Gunlaug after all. Maybe she will; maybe her order for me to challenge him is just to call my bluff.
The Castle courtyard was empty.
No jeers. No ambush. No arrows loosed from parapets.
Only silence.
Gunlaug had recalled everyone to the main hall. Of course he had. That was where he had crowned himself Bright Lord. That was where he believed authority lived—in stone, in elevation, in spectacle. He intended to make his last stand there, surrounded by symbols of power, as though they could still shield him from consequence.
As we advanced through the corridors, I felt my lips threaten a smile.
I forced it down.
Revenge, even justified revenge, was a treacherous thing. It was indulgent. Lawful justice demanded clarity, restraint, and purpose—not relish. I was well within my rights to inflict themost grusome of revenge, but I wouldn't. Harus was already ash, and Gunlaug's corpse would be dumped in the Dark Sea when he wa dead. The ignoble burial would be insult enough.
We reached the doors to the main hall with more than a hundred Sleepers behind us—former slaves, conscripts, victims, and survivors. They moved with a disciplined quiet that would have been unthinkable mere weeks ago. Changing Star had seen to that.
Athena stepped forward and planted her hands against the heavy stone doors.
She pushed.
They swung open without resistance.
No volley met us. No roar of defiance.
Instead, Gunlaug sat upon his throne.
He lounged there, one arm propping up his head, posture casual to the point of mockery. His golden armor gleamed brilliantly beneath the shafts of light spilling in from the high windows, polished to perfection—as if shine alone could mask rot.
Gemma stood to his right.
Seishan to his left.
Kido lingered just behind Gemma's shoulder, half a step removed, already hedging her loyalties-though I knew her mind had been made up long ago.
Around them, a ring had formed: Guards in heavy armor, Hunters with taut expressions and ready weapons, Handmaidens standing rigid and pale. The strongest remnants of each faction. The ones too loyal, too afraid, or too compromised to step away now.
Every eye turned toward us.
I felt their gazes linger on Nephis—Changing Star, radiant and cold as a drawn blade.
Then they settled on me.
Even through his helmet, I could feel Gunlaug's stare like a physical weight. It was intense, burning, furious. If hatred could kill, I would have fallen dead where I stood.
Harus had been found.
Or rather, what remained of him.
Ash. Scattered fragments of scorched armor. A smear of finality that even the Bright Lord could not deny. The knowledge of that loss hung over the hall like a funeral shroud, unspoken but omnipresent.
I stepped forward, my boots echoing against the stone floor.
"Gunlaug," I said evenly, my voice carrying through the vast chamber. "Third Bright Lord of the Castle."
A murmur rippled through the assembled Host.
Gunlaug's golden helmet, his Echo of living gold, rippled and flickered.
"So," he drawled, rising from his throne at last, "the priest finds his courage."
I did not flinch.
"I have come to issue a formal challenge," I continued. "Before witnesses. Before your Host. You stand accused of tyranny, mutilation, unlawful execution, and the abuse of authority granted by the Castle. I challenge your rule—and you—to judgment."
Gemma's eyes flicked toward Seishan.
Seishan remained as calm and poised as ever.
Kido swallowed.
Gunlaug laughed.
A deep, booming sound that rang hollow even to my own ears. "Judgment?" he scoffed. "From you? From a pathetic zealot and a false star?"
Nephis took one step forward, silver fire stirring faintly around her.
I raised a hand—not to stop her, but to signal patience.
"This is not her challenge," I said. "It is mine."
The hall grew still.
I met Gunlaug's gaze without hatred, without fear.
"Step down," I said. "Submit. And you will live long enough to be judged."
Gunlaug studied me in silence.
No one else dared to speak. Even the restless Sleepers behind us seemed to hold their breath, as though the air itself had thickened under the weight of the moment. Then, at last, he shook his head slowly, almost regretfully.
"Do you know," he said, his voice measured and deliberate, "how I acquired the position of Lord?"
I did not answer immediately. I watched him instead, searching for the angle of his words, the hidden barb. From the corner of my awareness, I sensed Sunny shifting, his presence sliding like a drawn wire along the periphery—already positioning himself to strike the instant steel met steel. A kunai would fly first, no doubt, aimed at the nearest Guard to break the circle into chaos.
Still, there was no reason to lie.
"Of course I do," I replied calmly. "You dove into the Dark Sea, slew a dying leviathan, and claimed a Transcendent Memory from its corpse. With that power, you carved a path to the throne and have occupied it ever since."
Gunlaug laughed softly and began to clap, gold-plated gauntlets ringing dully against one another. "Close," he said, mockingly. "Very close. And yet, not quite."
He rose from the throne at last and lifted one arm, letting the golden metal flow and gleam beneath the light. "Even with this," he continued, "I struggled. Power alone was not enough. Strength, I learned, is meaningless without structure. Authority. Control. A man who relies only on brute force is nothing but a common warlord."
I said nothing.
There was no need to point out the irony. I had learned long ago that villains reveal themselves far more thoroughly when allowed to speak.
"And so," Gunlaug went on, pacing a short distance before the throne, "I gathered others. Capable people. Harus. Tessai. Seishan. Gemma and Kido came later, but they too were brought under my wing. For years, everything worked. The Settlement prospered. Order was maintained. Everything was… perfect."
His voice hardened.
"And then you arrived. You and your miserable shadow."
The contempt in his tone was naked now. He turned, sweeping his gaze across the hall before barking a name that cracked like a whip.
"Sasrir! Come out, coward! Fight me like a man! Fight for your master, dog—just like you did against Tessai!"
For a dozen heartbeats, nothing happened.
Then the shadow in the corner of the hall stirred.
It rippled unnaturally, folding in on itself like dark silk caught in a sudden wind, and from it stepped Sasrir. The reaction was immediate and visceral. Guards stiffened. Hunters raised their weapons half an inch. Even Gemma's fingers twitched.
Sasrir ignored them all.
He walked past Nephis. Past Athena. Past me.
Then, after a brief pause, he stopped at my side.
He lifted his gaze to Gunlaug without hesitation, unaffected by the oppressive aura that made lesser men avert their eyes. With a flick of his wrists, an Azure Blade and a Steel Memento appeared in his hands, their edges humming faintly with restrained lethality.
Gunlaug answered in kind.
Golden liquid flowed from his arm, coalescing into a massive broadsword gripped firmly in both hands. The weapon looked heavy enough to shatter stone with a careless swing—and I knew it could.
Before either of them moved, I placed a hand on Sasrir's shoulder.
He did not flinch.
I turned to Nephis and allowed myself a small smile. "My Lady," I said evenly, "I know I promised to deal with Gunlaug myself. But Sasrir has a grievance that predates mine. May I ask that he be allowed to stand as champion instead?"
Changing Star regarded me in silence. Her grey eyes were flat and unmoving, like stone worn smooth by centuries of water. For a moment, I wondered if she would refuse simply out of principle.
Then she nodded.
"Fine," she said coolly. "You have convinced me… anyway."
I bowed deeply, sincerely, and stepped back, giving Sasrir a brief pat on the shoulder. "He's all yours."
Sasrir snorted and rolled his shoulders, swinging both swords idly to reacquaint himself with their balance. Gunlaug watched the exchange without interrupting, his expression unreadable. With a gesture, the guards withdrew, clearing the dais until only the two of them stood upon it.
Soon, there would only be one.
Just before the clash, Gunlaug spoke again. "I am curious," he said, his tone almost conversational. "How did you kill Harus? The method destroyed an entire wall and part of the corridor. I have never seen you wield such a Memory or Echo."
Sasrir answered by action alone.
Silver motes whirled into existence around his head, spinning faster and faster until they settled into the form of a golden circlet crowned with a single, radiant ruby. The Dawn Shard.
Light poured into his weapons, sharpening their presence until even I felt the pressure of it against my skin.
Understanding dawned in Gunlaug's eyes.
He laughed once—short, sharp, and bitter—and then lunged.
The broadsword came down in a brutal, vertical arc, carrying the weight of years of hoarded strength and rage. Sasrir met it head-on, blades flashing, and the impact thundered through the hall.
Despite years spent reclining upon a throne, Gunlaug was still a formidable warrior.
And Sasrir was about to remind him what true violence looked like.
The first clash echoed through the hall like the ringing of a great bell.
Gunlaug's broadsword came down with terrifying weight, but Sasrir was already gone by the time it struck stone. He moved like a sliver of night given form, slipping past the descending blade by the width of a breath and answering with a flashing cross of steel aimed at Gunlaug's exposed flank.
The strikes landed cleanly.
And did almost nothing.
The Dawn-enhanced Azure Blade and Steel Memento screeched against golden armor, sparks bursting outward as Sasrir's blades bit in—only for the metal to ripple, flex, and then settle as if wounded flesh had already healed. Thin lines marred the surface, shallow and fleeting, but no true damage followed.
Gunlaug laughed, low and satisfied.
"There it is," he growled, twisting with surprising force and sweeping his broadsword horizontally. Sasrir vaulted backward, boots skimming the stone, the golden blade missing him by inches and smashing into a pillar instead. The impact pulverized rock, fragments raining across the dais.
Sasrir did not pause.
He surged forward again, faster than most eyes could follow. His footwork was immaculate—short steps, precise pivots, never wasting motion. His swords moved in tandem, one striking high to draw attention, the other darting low toward joints, seams, and weak points that would have ended any lesser opponent instantly.
Again and again, his blades struck true.
Again and again, Gunlaug endured.
The golden armor shuddered with each hit, flowing like thick liquid under stress. Where Sasrir struck the same place repeatedly, the metal began to dull and crease—but it never broke. The gap was unmistakable. The Dawn Shard elevated Sasrir's weapons far beyond their base state, but Gunlaug's armor and broadsword remained an entire Rank above them. At least a fifty-percent difference in raw authority, perhaps more.
Gunlaug exploited that fact mercilessly.
He fought with a style stripped to its bones—no elegance, no finesse, only functional brutality. Wide arcs. Crushing downward blows. Shoulder charges backed by sheer mass and the confidence that his defenses would hold. He trusted his armor, trusted his strength, and pressed forward relentlessly.
Sasrir weaved through it all.
A thrust skimmed past his ribs. A backswing shaved a lock of hair from his head. A downward chop cracked the stone where his foot had been a heartbeat earlier. Gunlaug was slower—noticeably so—but every movement carried such force that a single mistake would have meant death.
And Sasrir did not make mistakes.
Yet.
Minutes passed, though it felt longer. Sasrir's breathing deepened, imperceptibly at first, then steadily. Sweat darkened his collar. His movements remained sharp, but I could see it now—the slight delay before each burst of speed, the fraction of a second longer spent recovering after each exchange.
Three Soul Cores gave him immense reserves, but this was not a battle of attrition he could win cleanly.
Gunlaug, for all his crudeness, had only one Soul Core—but he fought like a fortress. Every blocked strike cost Sasrir strength. Every evasive maneuver burned stamina. Gunlaug needed only to endure.
The Bright Lord slammed his sword down again, and Sasrir crossed both blades to catch it.
The impact drove Sasrir to one knee.
The floor cracked beneath him, spiderwebbing outward, and the sound of straining metal filled the hall. Sasrir's arms trembled, muscles screaming under the pressure. Gunlaug leaned into the clash, grinning savagely, pouring his weight and power downward.
"There," Gunlaug snarled. "That's it. You can't cut me. You can't outlast me."
Sasrir twisted suddenly, letting the broadsword slide off his crossed blades. He rolled aside as the weapon smashed into the floor once more, then sprang up and answered with a flurry of strikes so fast they blurred together.
One. Two. Three. Five. Eight.
Each hit landed on the same spot along Gunlaug's shoulder.
The gold finally dented deeply, rippling violently as if in pain—but still it did not break.
Gunlaug roared and backhanded Sasrir with his armored forearm. Sasrir barely managed to duck; the blow grazed his shoulder, tearing cloth and skin alike. Blood splattered across the stone.
The first hit.
A hush fell over the hall.
Sasrir staggered once, then steadied himself, eyes narrowing. His breathing was heavier now. Gunlaug straightened, rolling his shoulders, seemingly unfazed despite the visible warping of his armor.
I felt it then, cold and undeniable.
Skill and speed were not enough. Precision alone would not win this fight.
If nothing changed, Sasrir would exhaust himself long before Gunlaug fell—and the Bright Lord knew it.
Was I worried?
Of course not.
Gunlaug's greatest trump card—his Aspect—was meaningless here. Deprived of water, the Bright Lord was reduced to nothing more than flesh, steel, and arrogance. Powerful, yes. Dangerous, certainly. But limited. Predictable.
Sasrir, on the other hand, had not yet shown his hand.
Until now, he had fought Gunlaug on Gunlaug's terms: steel against steel, strength against strength, skill against skill. It was a courtesy. A final nod to the warrior he was about to kill. But courtesy had its limits, and fairness only mattered when the scales could actually balance.
They could not.
And so Sasrir stopped pretending.
The shadows stirred.
At first, it was subtle—so subtle most of the onlookers missed it. The darkness pooled a little deeper beneath Sasrir's feet, stretching unnaturally, thickening as if infused with weight. Then it climbed, coiling around his legs like living smoke.
Gunlaug sensed it a heartbeat too late.
Sasrir vanished.
Not leapt away. Not dodged.
He was simply gone, swallowed whole by shadow.
Gunlaug's next swing cleaved nothing but air, the golden blade shrieking as it cut through empty space. He turned sharply, scanning the hall, muscles tensing beneath his armor.
"Tricks," he spat.
The word had barely left his mouth when the darkness behind him rippled.
A blade of pure shadow thrust toward the gap beneath his arm.
Gunlaug twisted just in time. The shadow-knife scraped across his armor, leaving a deep, smoking groove that refused to immediately close. The gold writhed, slower than before, as if struggling to reassert itself.
Gunlaug roared and swung backward.
Again—nothing.
Sasrir emerged from the ceiling.
Shadow peeled away as he dropped, both swords descending in a scissor-like strike aimed at Gunlaug's neck. Gunlaug raised his broadsword and caught one blade, but the second slipped past and carved a long line across his helmet. Gold sprayed like molten light.
Before Gunlaug could counter, Sasrir dissolved once more, his body flattening into darkness and streaking across the floor like spilled ink.
The rhythm of the fight shattered.
Gunlaug turned in place, forced onto the defensive for the first time. Shadows lashed out from every angle—tendrils snapping at his legs, clawing at his balance, dragging at his armor. Some hardened into spears and blades, others merely entangled, disrupting his footing at critical moments.
Sasrir struck with surgical cruelty.
From a pillar's shadow—slash.
From beneath Gunlaug's feet—stab.
From the silhouette cast by Gunlaug's own body—cut.
Each attack landed where armor was already strained, where gold had dulled or warped. Shadow-enhanced steel bit deeper now, amplified not just by the Dawn Shard, but by an Aspect that thrived in confined, light-starved spaces like this hall.
Gunlaug's strength became a liability.
Every wide swing exposed him. Every overcommitted strike gave the shadows another opening. His functional, aggressive style—so effective moments before—was now being dissected piece by piece.
Still, he endured.
With a bellow, Gunlaug slammed his broadsword into the floor. The impact sent a shockwave through the stone, dispersing several shadow constructs and forcing Sasrir to reappear, skidding backward with a hiss of pain.
Gunlaug charged.
Fast, for his size. Faster than he had any right to be.
The golden blade swept low, then high, then low again in a brutal sequence that left no obvious gaps. Sasrir ducked, rolled, twisted—but the third strike clipped his thigh, drawing blood and tearing muscle.
Sasrir stumbled.
Gunlaug pressed the advantage immediately, battering forward, armor blazing, eyes wild.
For a moment, it looked like brute force might prevail after all.
Then the shadows thickened again.
They did not merely obey Sasrir now—they anticipated him.
A dozen tendrils erupted from the walls, binding Gunlaug's arms and legs mid-stride. He tore free of two with raw strength, but the delay was enough.
Sasrir appeared directly in front of him.
No theatrics. No hesitation.
Both blades drove forward, guided by shadow, reinforced by Dawn, aimed at the same compromised section of armor Sasrir had been working since the beginning.
The gold finally screamed.
The armor buckled inward, collapsing around the point of impact. Shadow poured into the breach like liquid night, forcing its way through cracks and seams, biting into flesh beneath.
Gunlaug staggered back, coughing, blood and molten gold spilling from his mouth.
He tried to raise his sword.
A shadow-hand crushed his wrist and pinned it to his side.
Sasrir stood before him, breathing hard, eyes cold and unyielding. Darkness coiled around his form like a living mantle, blades of shadow hovering at his back, poised for the killing strike.
The balance had shifted.
Decisively.
And this time, there would be no recovery.
Around Gunlaug, the Transcendent Echo writhed.
It was no longer merely reacting—it was suffering.
The golden substance that had once flowed with regal smoothness now convulsed like flayed flesh, bulging and collapsing in uneven pulses. Jagged ripples of light raced across its surface as it emitted a sound that was not quite metal and not quite alive: a shrill, animal screech that scraped against the nerves. The Echo twisted away from Sasrir's blades, bunching and recoiling as though trying to crawl out of its own skin.
And then it did something that made the entire hall freeze.
It tried to leave.
Thin streams of gold peeled away from Gunlaug's shoulders and ribs, stretching outward like desperate limbs. The armor pulled at itself, spasming, as if the thing wearing Gunlaug had suddenly decided it no longer wished to be worn.
The murmurs began then—sharp, fearful whispers spreading through the Host like fire through dry grass.
"That's not a Memory…"
"It's alive…"
"Gods, it's an Echo…"
A few of the sharper minds finally understood what they were seeing. Gunlaug's so-called Transcendent armor was no forged relic. It was a pseudo-living creature, bound into service. A thing with instincts, sensation… and now, pain.
Sasrir showed no hesitation.
If anything, he became more methodical.
He carved into it with surgical precision, alternating blades in a relentless cadence. Each strike carried shadow deep into the Echo's substance, and with every cut the golden mass visibly degraded—not physically, but spiritually. Shadow Ascetic techniques did not merely wound flesh; they gnawed at the soul itself. Gunlaug was insulated from that corruption by the bond, but the Echo was not.
It screamed again.
This time, the sound fractured, splintering into overlapping tones—as if multiple voices were crying out at once.
Sasrir adjusted his angle and continued.
A dozen more cuts. Then another dozen. Slashes across joints, across seams, across places that should not have existed on armor at all. The Echo's form destabilized, swelling and collapsing, light dimming and flaring erratically. Whatever dim awareness slumbered within it had been dragged fully awake, and now that awareness was drowning in cold, invasive darkness.
Eventually, it could not endure.
The golden mass went rigid.
Then it burst outward in a violent surge, tearing itself free from Gunlaug's body and sloughing off him like molten skin. The Echo recoiled, gathering itself into a convulsing heap before dissolving into streaks of light that fled in every direction, abandoning its master completely.
A stunned silence followed.
An Echo disobeying its master was, by all known laws, impossible.
But degeneration warped laws. And Angels—true Angels—had a way of gifting monstrosities with forbidden things. Awareness. Choice. Fear.
Without the armor, Gunlaug was finally laid bare.
Blond hair matted with sweat and blood. Brown eyes, one swollen shut from a deep cut. A scruff of beard stained dark red where blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. He looked older than most had expected—mid to late thirties, perhaps—with the face of a man who had been worn down by years of strain rather than age.
Sasrir stepped in close and rested the Steel Memento against Gunlaug's throat.
The [Slaying Blow] enchantment flared softly, sensing weakness, sensing inevitability.
Gunlaug spat blood onto the stone and glared up at him, one remaining eye blazing with fury and contempt.
"This proves nothing, dog," he growled. "You may have beaten me, but you won't make it fifty meters inside the Crimson Spire. You're a dead man all the same. You're all dead!"
The last words came out as a roar—but Sasrir silenced him by pressing the blade a fraction deeper. Blood welled immediately.
"You talk big," Sasrir said evenly, "for a man who fattened himself on the misery of others."
"I protected them!" Gunlaug snarled. "I'm the only reason these people are alive! Food, water, shelter—I gave them everything! And this is how they repay me? Ungrateful wretches!"
His gaze swept the hall, and many of the assembled Host flinched or looked away.
Nephis did not.
She stepped forward, silver armor catching the light, her eyes steady and unblinking. "You may have kept them alive," she said quietly, "but they were not living. You trapped them in a gilded cage and surrounded yourself with ignorance. You gave up on the Waking World. You surrendered to the Dream Realm."
Gunlaug stared up at her.
For the first time, something fragile cracked through the rage.
"Gave up?" he murmured. "Surrendered?"
He laughed—once, short and brittle—before the sound died entirely. When he spoke again, his voice was stripped bare of bravado, almost human.
"I tried," he said softly. "In the beginning… I really did. But it was too hard. Everything was too hard."
Nephis watched him in silence.
Then Gunlaug lowered his head, baring his neck. "Just get it over with," he muttered.
Nephis raised her sword.
The blade lifted, steady, merciless—ready to end the Bright Lord's reign with a single stroke.
"Wait."
Sasrir's voice cut through the moment.
Nephis paused and looked at him. Even Gunlaug lifted his head slightly, confusion flickering across his bloodied face.
"What?" Nephis asked.
Sasrir tilted his head toward Gunlaug's discarded Echo residue. "He still possesses a Transcendent Echo," he said calmly. "Wouldn't it be a waste to let that go?"
From the back of the hall, I failed to restrain myself.
A laugh slipped out—sharp and unguarded—drawing startled glances from both sides of the conflict. I quickly turned it into a cough, but the smirk remained, tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Yes. There it was.
Try as he might to cloak it in stoicism and shadow, Sasrir was unmistakably my other half.
A greedy little loot goblin to the very end.
Gunlaug laughed from the floor, the sound raw and jagged, echoing off the stone like something already half-dead.
"So that's it?" he sneered hoarsely. "First you tear down my reign, then you beat me in front of everyone I ever commanded… and now you want to loot my corpse?" His gaze burned into Sasrir with naked hatred. "Go to hell, you fucking shadow dog."
Sasrir did not rise to the insult. He merely lifted an eyebrow, his expression almost bored.
"You can hand it over," he said calmly, "or I can torture you until you go insane and beg me to let you die. In case you've forgotten, Changing Star can heal others with her flames. I can do anything short of decapitation, and she can return you to full health in minutes. I have enough time to repeat that cycle all day."
He leaned a little closer, voice lowering.
"So. Which will it be?"
Gunlaug's gaze snapped to Nephis. She frowned—clearly displeased at being volunteered as an accessory to torture—but she did not deny it. She did not step in. She simply stood there, sword lowered, eyes cold.
For the first time since his defeat, real disbelief crept across Gunlaug's face.
"You would let him torture me?" he rasped. "And you call yourselves the good guys?"
"Compared to you," Nephis replied flatly, "we are."
She turned her head slightly toward Sasrir. "If you want his armor, that's your decision. Don't drag me into it without asking."
Sasrir shrugged. "Increasing my strength increases everyone's chances."
Then he looked back down at Gunlaug.
"Last chance before I start cutting," he said evenly. "And understand this—what your Echo felt was a fragment of a soul being damaged. You have a whole one. What you'll experience will be far worse."
Gunlaug trembled, rage and fear twisting together. For a moment, I thought he might spit defiance to the very end. Instead, he let out a long, exhausted breath.
"Fuck you, Sasrir."
He thrust his hand out.
Sasrir took it without ceremony.
Ten seconds passed. Nothing outward changed, but I could feel it—the subtle shift in the air, the way the Spell's presence tightened and then relaxed. Sasrir released Gunlaug's hand and nodded once.
"Thank you very much."
Gunlaug sagged back against the stone. "Just let me die with some dignity, you fucking creep." His gaze slid to Nephis. "Either kill me, or don't."
Nephis closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, there was no hesitation left.
Her blade fell.
Silver fire traced the arc of the cut, cauterizing flesh even as it severed bone. Gunlaug's head rolled free, striking the stone with a dull sound. There was barely any blood—just a brief hiss of steam where flame met exposed tissue.
Nephis staggered.
I saw it immediately—the subtle sway, the tightening of her shoulders. She was absorbing the excess Soul Essence, the residue of a Lord's death flooding into her cores. I shifted my gaze to Sunny.
As expected, his attention was locked onto Caster Han Li like a predator tracking prey. Caster bit his lip, muscles tense, but he did not move. Whatever calculations he was making, he knew this was not the moment.
Then Seishan stepped forward.
She stood atop the dais, crimson eyes sweeping the hall. Her gaze lingered on me longer than anyone else-proud, happy—before she turned to her sisters.
"Well?" she said coolly. "What are you waiting for? Clean house."
The Handmaidens moved.
They did not hesitate. Daggers flashed from sleeves. Slim spikes drove into spines. Short blades punched through gaps in armor and into skulls. The strongest Guards and Hunters—those who had stood closest to Gunlaug, those who had remained loyal to the bitter end—collapsed in confusion and blood.
Cries died mid-breath.
Weapons clattered uselessly to the floor.
Within half a minute, it was over.
Bodies lay sprawled across the throne room, blood pooling between the stone tiles, steam rising faintly where silver flame had scorched flesh. The survivors—those who had hesitated, those who had never truly believed—stood frozen, staring at the carnage in stunned silence.
I exhaled slowly.
The Bright Lord was dead.
The Castle had fallen.
And the Forgotten Shore, at long last, had reached its final stage.
Last DaysChapter TextGemma still felt as though he were dreaming, even a week later.
Gunlaug was dead.
The Bright Lord—the tyrant who had ruled the Castle for over half a decade, who had crushed challengers and monsters alike with equal indifference—had fallen in a single afternoon. Not to some ancient horror or unknowable abomination, but to a man who had been trapped on the Forgotten Shore for barely two years.
Harus was gone. Tessai was gone. Three names that had once carried absolute weight, three figures Gemma had never once imagined himself standing against… all slain by the same hands.
He stood atop the Castle ramparts, arms resting on cold stone, staring out toward the Dark City. Below, the ruins crawled with motion. Teams of Sleepers moved through broken streets and collapsed towers, hunting monsters relentlessly. Every kill fed their Soul Cores, every death bringing them closer to readiness. The final assault on the Crimson Spire loomed, no longer a mad dream but an approaching certainty.
Seven Lord Shards had been gathered.
Changing Star had united her forces with Adam's followers.
Every obstacle had been removed—by blade, flame, or shadow.
And Gemma still could not quite accept it.
Even now, the memories rose unbidden. The clean arc of Nephis's sword as Gunlaug's head fell. The sudden, brutal efficiency with which Seishan had ordered the purge. The way the Host—so terrifying for so long—had collapsed in less than a minute.
Gemma had lost only a handful of Hunters. Not because their sins were lighter than the Guards', but because Nephis had needed their strength for the Spire. That much was obvious. And once they returned to the Waking World…
He exhaled slowly.
He had no doubt that Adam and the Settlement Sleepers would settle their grievances then. Justice, deferred but not forgotten.
Gemma lifted his gaze to the white sun hanging motionless in the sky. It struck him that this might be one of the last times he ever looked at it. Soon, either they would escape this cursed place—or die at the gates of the Spire.
Changing Star was waiting on a few key individuals to complete their Soul Cores before launching the assault. The blind girl who never left her side was one of them. Cassie. Gemma had no strong feelings about her—only a quiet unease born of not knowing whether she was looking at you or through you.
The other was that strange, sharp-eyed young man who manipulated shadows.
Sunless.
Gemma's mouth tightened slightly.
There was something unsettling about him. Not his strength—his Aspect was nowhere near Sasrir's level—but the way he moved, the way he watched. His shadow control reminded Gemma too much of the man who had helped topple the Bright Lord himself. Still, compared to Sasrir, the boy felt… incomplete. Dangerous, yes, but not insurmountable.
Footsteps sounded behind him.
Gemma did not turn.
Kido came to a stop beside him, resting her elbows on the rampart as well. They stood in companionable silence, gazing out at the ruins that had imprisoned them for years—and which they would soon leave behind.
She had adapted faster than Gemma had expected. Then again, perhaps she had been waiting for this moment longer than he realized. Or perhaps she simply didn't care either way. Artisans, he had learned, flowed wherever survival demanded.
"What do you plan to do when we get back?" Kido asked suddenly.
Gemma hesitated. The question caught him off guard—not because he hadn't thought about it, but because thinking about it made everything feel real.
"Well…" He scratched the back of his head, choosing his words carefully. "I guess I'll check in on my parents first. My dad was ill before I left. I don't even know if he's still alive. And my mom…" His voice softened. "She's probably been worrying every day."
Kido hummed quietly. "Makes sense."
She tilted her head slightly. "Me? I'll probably kill a few bastards."
Gemma blinked, then turned to stare at her. "Huh?"
She laughed at his expression. "You know I used to run with a drug gang, right? I've got some scores to settle. And honestly?" Her smile sharpened. "I doubt the government will complain if I clean up a bit of trash."
Gemma stared at her, incredulous.
"If we make it back," she continued casually, "we'll be legends. The government, the Legacies, the Great Clans—they'll all be lining up to recruit us."
"Really?" Gemma asked, doubtful.
She shot him a look of faint disdain. "Yes, really. More than half of us have completed our Soul Cores. People like you have killed as many monsters as a Master would have. We're more familiar with death than ninety percent of the Awakened back home."
She gestured vaguely toward the Castle behind them. "Add Changing Star as our figurehead, and we'll be bigger celebrities than Night ever was."
"Ah… I see," Gemma nodded, though in truth, none of that stirred him much.
Fame. Power. Influence.
He didn't want any of it.
He just wanted to go home. To see the girl he loved. To live without listening for monsters in the dark. To sleep without dreaming of blood and screaming stone.
"Are you planning to challenge the Second Nightmare?" Kido asked suddenly.
Gemma stiffened.
The question landed too close to his thoughts, as though she had reached into his head and crushed the fragile peace forming there.
"Become a Master?" he repeated slowly.
He considered it for a moment, then shook his head. "Not for at least ten years. I've had enough of the Dream Realm and the Spell."
He looked back out at the Dark City. "Besides… just because we survived the Forgotten Shore doesn't mean we're ready for a Nightmare Seed. We hid. We ran. We endured."
His voice hardened slightly.
"You can't do that in a Nightmare."
Kido gently placed a hand between Gemma's shoulder blades, the contact light but grounding.
"Well," she said quietly, "if you ever decide to try, Seishan and I would be willing to team up with you."
Gemma turned toward her in surprise. "You talked to Seishan?"
"Yeah." Kido nodded once. "Believe me, I find that woman just as creepy as you do. But she was… surprisingly open to the idea of becoming Masters together." A faint, crooked smile tugged at her lips. "Add Athena, Sasrir, and Adam, and you'd have a near-perfect team."
"Adam and Sasrir agreed as well?" Gemma asked.
Now he was truly startled.
Kido hesitated, her expression turning thoughtful. After a moment, she shook her head. "Not directly. They didn't say it outright. I think both of them are more focused on staying with Changing Star." She paused, then added, "Adam did say that if he was available at the time, he would assist us. So really, it's a matter of timing."
Gemma leaned back against the rampart, considering her words.
Adam possessed a Transcendent Memory—he had seen enough of Harus to understand just how devastating that meant. Raw, overwhelming firepower, the kind that erased enemies rather than defeated them. Sasrir, meanwhile, now wore Gunlaug's Transcendent armor. With that and the Dawn Shard, he was already skirting the threshold of sainthood. Another step, and he would no longer be something Gemma could meaningfully compare himself to.
A half-Saint.
And Sasrir himself, even without the armor, had always felt like a blade balanced on the edge of inevitability.
Gemma exhaled slowly.
He still harbored misgivings about both Adam and Sasrir. Not fear, exactly—something subtler. A sense that they walked paths he did not fully understand. But he knew this much: neither of them was evil. And neither would betray him without reason.
As far as people to watch your back went, they were… reliable enough.
Still, the faint discomfort remained.
Kido noticed it immediately. She always did. With an easy shift in posture, she redirected the conversation.
"Anyway," she said lightly, "all this talk about Nightmare Seeds is just theory. First, we have to survive this place and actually get out."
That snapped Gemma back to the present.
He straightened, turning toward her fully, his expression suddenly serious. "When the fighting begins," he said, "you need to stay close to me. All right?"
Kido raised an eyebrow.
"I'll be fighting alongside Sasrir," Gemma continued. "Between the two of us, we can keep you safe. But you have to promise me you won't do anything reckless."
The Artisan looked at him steadily, her brown eyes calm, clear, and unflinching. There was no bravado in her gaze—only quiet resolve.
"Don't worry," she said. "I promise to look after my own life."
Gemma studied her for a moment, then nodded.
Somehow, despite everything—the bloodshed, the looming battle, the impossible odds—he believed her.
Sunny felt like it was all a bad joke.
Weeks—no, months—of quiet calculation, of measuring glances and weighing loyalties, of planning contingencies within contingencies. Every step of the coup had been dissected until nothing but bone remained: how to succeed, how to control the fallout, how to minimize casualties so the victory would not poison itself before it even settled. Sunny had agonized over every variable, every human weakness, every possible betrayal.
And then Sasrir and Adam had simply walked in and erased the board.
Just like that.
The carefully stacked tower of plans collapsed without resistance, not because something went wrong, but because it had all been… unnecessary. The Host had not fractured. There had been no prolonged struggle, no desperate last stand, no spiral into chaos. Power had shifted hands with surgical brutality, and then it was over.
Was it really meant to be that easy?
Sunny didn't believe it. He couldn't. Nothing in his life had ever unfolded so cleanly. He had learned long ago that if something appeared merciful, it was only because the knife had not yet fallen.
So he waited.
He waited for minutes, then hours, then days—for the familiar tightening in his chest, for the subtle tug of dread that preceded disaster. He waited for Fated to bare its teeth and remind him of his place in the world.
But nothing happened.
For once, it seemed that life had taken it easy on him.
And that, somehow, terrified him more than any catastrophe ever had.
Nephis and Cassie had been just as stunned, even if neither had allowed it to show. Nephis remained composed, as always, her expression carved from cool resolve. Cassie, blind eyes hidden behind her calm demeanor, had said little—but Sunny could tell. He had grown adept at reading the pauses in her speech, the infinitesimal hesitations that betrayed surprise.
The Host itself had been spared from a true bloodbath, though only barely. What could have devolved into a prolonged meat grinder had instead ended in a one-sided slaughter, courtesy of Seishan and the Handmaidens. Sunny had watched bodies fall in waves—clean, efficient, merciless. Daggers flashed, throats were opened, spines were pierced, and it was over before most of the Guards even understood what was happening.
It had shaken him.
Not because of the violence—he was long past that—but because of how prepared they had been.
Seishan had not improvised. Neither had Adam. The aftermath had been planned with chilling precision, and neither of them had thought it necessary to inform Nephis. The Daughter of Song had acted as if she were simply tidying up an already-decided outcome.
Sunny didn't like that.
He hated secrets, especially when they were kept from the person he had chosen to follow. And when he added that to the fact that Adam had sent them on a wild goose chase across the Forgotten Shore—testing them, manipulating them, watching from the shadows—Sunny felt something hard settle in his chest.
Adam's name was now on his list.
Not at the top. Not even close. There were far worse people in the world, and far more urgent threats. But it was there, etched neatly in mental ink, with a small note beside it: debt outstanding.
Sunny never forgot being made a fool of.
Still, even that irritation paled in comparison to the revelation about Effie and Kai.
That one hurt.
In the short weeks he had known them, Sunny had grown closer to the two than he had ever intended. Effie was loud, brash, and impossibly alive, her presence filling space as naturally as fire consumed air. Kai, on the other hand, was gentle and warm, the kind of person whose kindness felt effortless rather than performative.
After months of isolation in the Dark City, starved of real human connection, they had been irresistible. A perfect balance. Too perfect, perhaps.
He understood their reasoning. Truly, he did. Testing Nephis before entrusting her with the remaining Lord Shards was logical. Sensible. Responsible, even. Sunny would have done the same in their position.
But Sunny had the rare and wonderful ability to discard logic entirely when it inconvenienced him.
He had been on the other end of that test. So he didn't care.
He hadn't spoken to either of them since that day. When they had tried to approach him—awkward apologies half-formed and heavy with regret—he had brushed them off without a word. Eventually, they had stopped trying and let him sulk in peace.
If nothing else, the shared sense of betrayal had drawn Sunny, Nephis, and Cassie closer together. There was something grimly comforting about licking your wounds alongside people who had been cut by the same blade.
Now, there was only one task left in this cursed place.
The Crimson Spire.
And Caster Han Li.
The Legacy assassin would not pass up the opportunity to kill Nephis—of that she was certain. While she confronted whatever abomination guarded the Gateway, Caster would strike. He would have no choice.
Sunny's role was simple.
Protect Nephis. Kill Caster.
He felt no hesitation about the latter. He had never liked Caster, not even a little. The man was sharp in all the wrong ways, a blade without honor, a predator that wore civility like a mask. If he truly attempted to assassinate Nephis, Sunny would have all the justification he needed to drive the Midnight Shard through his heart.
More than that, Sunny felt the need to vent.
That was why he was currently stalking through the Dark City with Cassie at his side, hunting anything unfortunate enough to cross their path. Partly to vent his pent-up frustration. Partly to prepare.
And partly because his Shadow Counter was almost complete.
[980/1000]
Only twenty Dormant beasts remained.
Under normal circumstances, he would have finished that easily. But Sunny was not operating under normal circumstances. He pushed himself harder than usual, abandoning his habitual caution, moving through the ruined streets with reckless urgency. Shadows bent and stretched at his command as he hunted, his focus narrowing into something sharp and obsessive.
He wanted it finished.
Now.
Yet, as always, Fate seemed to take personal pleasure in mocking him. The Dark City was quiet. Too quiet. With every Sleeper on the Forgotten Shore scouring the ruins for prey, the monster population had plummeted. The weak were gone. The careless were dead.
Only the truly dangerous remained.
Or the ones clever enough to hide.
Sunny stood atop a broken spire, scanning the streets below, his jaw tightening. Not a single creature stirred. The city felt hollow, picked clean by desperation and ambition alike.
He exhaled slowly, fingers curling at his sides.
Of course.
Just when he actually went looking for a fight, the world decided to deny him even that.
"Sunny," Cassie called out to him, turning her head slightly and pointing toward the northern quarter of the city. "There are three Awakened that way. Some kind of centipede."
Sunny glanced at her, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. A slow, sharp grin spread across his face—predatory, almost feral.
"Thanks, Cass."
The Midnight Shard slid into his hand as if it had been waiting for the invitation, its dark surface catching the pallid light of the white sun. Sunny rolled his wrist once, feeling the familiar balance settle into place, and then stepped forward.
For a moment, the frustration receded.
The ruined streets stretched ahead, broken stone and skeletal towers forming a jagged maze of shadow. Sunny moved into it without hesitation, his presence thinning, dissolving, until he was less a person and more an absence where a person should have been. Shadows bent toward him instinctively, eager to be used.
Three Awakened creatures.
Good.
That meant experience. That meant progress. That meant the Shadow Counter would finally tick closer to completion.
He flowed from cover to cover, boots barely touching the ground. As he moved, the world sharpened—every sound clearer, every angle measured. The familiar calm of the hunt settled over him, pushing aside lingering resentment and bitterness. This, at least, was honest. Monsters did not lie. They did not pretend loyalty or cloak betrayal behind smiles.
They simply tried to kill him.
And he killed them first.
A faint scraping echoed ahead—the sound of segmented limbs dragging across stone, claws clicking rhythmically. Sunny slowed, melting into a long stretch of shadow cast by a collapsed archway. From there, he watched.
The centipedes were enormous, each as thick as a man's torso and long enough to coil around a tower's base. Their chitinous bodies shimmered faintly, marked with veins of dull crimson light that pulsed in time with something deep and hungry. Mandibles snapped as they moved, tasting the air.
Awakened, indeed.
Sunny's grin widened.
He did not rush in. Instead, he let his shadows creep forward, thin tendrils slithering across the ground, mapping distances, angles, timing. Cassie remained behind him, safely out of reach, her role already fulfilled.
When he struck, it was sudden.
Sunny burst from the darkness like a thrown blade. The Midnight Shard flashed once, twice—clean, precise arcs aimed at the vulnerable joints between chitin plates. One centipede shrieked, its body convulsing as black blood sprayed across the stones. Another reared up, mandibles snapping where Sunny had been a heartbeat earlier.
But he was already gone.
He slipped into shadow, reappeared along the creature's flank, and drove the blade deep. The third lunged blindly, crashing through rubble, its bulk more hindrance than help in the narrow street.
The fight was brief. Brutal. Efficient.
When the last centipede collapsed in a twitching heap, Sunny stood among the remains, breathing steadily, the Midnight Shard dripping dark ichor.
[986/1000]
He glanced at the counter and let out a quiet breath, the satisfaction real and grounding.
Fourteen left.
Sunny wiped the blade clean on a fragment of stone and let it dissolve back into shadow. For now, revenge could wait. Resentment could simmer. Doubts could fester.
Growing stronger always came first.
And tonight, the Dark City still had something left to give.
Adam sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, spine straight, hands resting loosely on his knees. His eyes were closed, his breathing slow and even, as though he were meditating rather than sitting in the middle of a strategic council that might decide the fate of everyone on the Forgotten Shore.
Across the table, Sasrir and Nephis were very much not at peace.
Their voices clashed sharply in the confined room, steel-edged and unyielding. Sasrir stood with his arms crossed, posture relaxed but coiled, the habitual stance of an assassin who trusted preparation and patience above all else. Nephis faced him squarely, one hand braced against the table, silver hair falling over her shoulder like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath.
"The horde is too large to ignore," Sasrir said calmly, though there was iron beneath his tone. "Rushing straight through it is wasteful. We chip away at them, day by day. Kill the sentinels. Cull the elites. Starve the mass. When we finally advance, there will be nothing left that can threaten you."
"And give the Spire time to react?" Nephis shot back. "No. We charge. All at once. Break through, reach the Citadel, and seal the Dark Sea before it can adapt. The longer we wait, the worse it becomes."
"That is reckless," Sasrir replied without hesitation. "You are betting everything on momentum. If it breaks—"
"It won't," Nephis interrupted, eyes cold. "Not if everyone moves together."
Each plan had merit. Anyone in the room could see that much. Sasrir's approach was clean, efficient, and safe—death by a thousand cuts, tailored perfectly to his talents. Nephis' plan was brutal and decisive, relying on overwhelming force, morale, and her own ability to carve a path where none should exist.
Adam listened to neither, or rather, listened to both without reacting.
On the far side of the chamber, Caster leaned against the wall, arms folded, expression smooth and unreadable. His posture was casual, almost bored, but his eyes flicked between the arguing pair and Adam with sharp, calculating interest. Since Gunlaug's death, the blond priest had changed.
There were no jokes now. No subtle provocations. No amused glances meant to unsettle or expose. Adam had grown quiet—unnervingly so. He spoke little, smiled rarely, and carried himself with the tranquil certainty of someone who had already reached a conclusion the rest of them were still circling.
Serene as a monk. Or a fanatic who had found his truth.
Caster decided he did not care which it was. Adam could be enlightened, deranged, or both—so long as he did not interfere with the mission. And the mission was all that mattered.
The argument reached another crescendo.
"Your method takes too long," Nephis snapped, slamming her fist against the table. The sound echoed through the room. "We don't have enough Sleepers capable of assassination to whittle down the horde at the Spire's base. Do you want us to spend another three months trapped here?"
"Why be in such a rush?" Sasrir countered immediately. "Gunlaug is dead. The City is secure. There is no monster left that can challenge you. Let time pass. Let people grow stronger. Build your army properly, then advance. You can never be too prepared."
"We need to return as fast as possible," Nephis said, her voice tight.
Sasrir tilted his head slightly. "Why?"
For a heartbeat, the room went quiet.
Nephis said nothing.
Caster knew the answer.
Every second Changing Star remained in the Dream Realm, the Sovereigns of the Waking World continued to grow in power. Every delay increased the chance that they would decide she was too dangerous to be left alive—or worse, that they would destroy her physical body and condemn her to become Lost. Nephis could not afford patience. Time itself was her enemy.
The silence stretched, brittle and uncomfortable.
Caster closed his eyes with a quiet sigh, preparing to disengage from the stalemate, when a calm, measured voice cut through the tension.
"I agree with Lady Changing Star."
Every head turned.
Adam opened his eyes and rose smoothly to his feet, unfolding from his seated position without haste. Sasrir stared at him in open surprise. Nephis' expression shifted as well—less shock, more wary attention.
The priest met their gazes evenly, blue eyes steady, untroubled.
"The problem with waiting," Adam continued, turning slightly toward Sasrir, "is that it invites stagnation. It is how Gunlaug fell into his decay. While the people are still vibrant—while their fear, hope, and desire still burn brightly—we must take the Citadel."
He gestured vaguely, as though indicating the entire settlement beyond the walls.
"If we wait too long, they will settle back into routine. Survival will become habit. Ambition will dull. And when that happens…" His eyes flicked briefly to Nephis, then back to Sasrir. "Even Lady Changing Star will find it difficult to rouse them again."
Adam clasped his hands behind his back.
"Some things," he said quietly, "once set alight, can only burn once."
The room fell silent again—but this time, it was a thoughtful silence.
And for the first time since the argument began, the balance had shifted.
Silence followed Adam's words, heavy and contemplative.
Even Sasrir, who had been bristling with restrained impatience, did not immediately retort. He studied Adam from beneath lowered brows, then relaxed and no longer bothered to argue. If Adam spoke, then he would follow. Nephis, on the other hand, did not look surprised for long—only thoughtful. Her fingers loosened from the edge of the table, and the rigid line of her shoulders eased a fraction.
Caster opened one eye.
Adam finally uncrossed his legs and rose to his feet in a smooth, unhurried motion. He did not loom, did not project authority through posture or volume. Instead, he simply existed—calm, centered, and immovable, like a pillar sunk deep into bedrock.
"Momentum," he continued evenly, folding his hands behind his back. "It is a fragile thing. Too much pressure, and it shatters. Too little, and it bleeds away into complacency. Gunlaug failed because he mistook stability for permanence."
Caster clicked his tongue softly. "You're comparing Nephis to Gunlaug now?"
"No," Adam replied at once, turning his head slightly. "I am comparing people to people. Fear kept them obedient under Gunlaug. Hope keeps them moving now. Hope is far more fragile."
Nephis lifted her chin. "And more powerful."
"Agreed," Adam said, meeting her gaze.
Caster watched the exchange carefully. Adam's tone was neutral, almost gentle, yet there was no mistaking the conviction beneath it. This was not posturing. He genuinely believed what he was saying.
"And your solution?" Nephis asked.
Adam inclined his head. "A unified advance. Not reckless—but decisive. We do not waste lives thinning the horde piecemeal, nor do we throw our weakest into the grinder. We strike with layered intent."
Sasrir crossed his arms. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Adam said, turning slightly so all present were within his view, "that Lady Changing Star does what only she can do—break the path forward through overwhelming force. The horde will converge on her flame. That is inevitable."
Nephis did not object.
"Sasrir," Adam continued, "you do not waste yourself on attrition. You hunt the irregularities. Commanders. Abominations that do not belong. Anything that thinks instead of merely charging."
A faint, sharp smile tugged at Sasrir's lips. "Now that," he said, "I can agree with."
"Athena and the Guards," Adam went on, "form the spine of the advance. Defensive cohesion. They keep the line intact when the pressure mounts."
Caster straightened slightly as Adam's gaze slid toward him.
"And you," Adam said calmly, "Lead the Hunters to protect the ranged units. They are are best way to deal with flying foes, including Spire Messengers, so your job is equally vital, do you understand?"
Caster's lips curved faintly. "No need to worry: I was trained since childhood for this."
Adam met his eyes. "Then I entrust their lives to you."
For a heartbeat, something unreadable passed between them. Then Caster exhaled and inclined his head in acknowledgment.
Nephis considered the outline in silence. She could already see it, and found no real flaw. It was more or less what sh had planned anyways, and Nephis considered Adam in a new light for a second. Unless his ability could directly read thoughts instead of just emotions, thne he possessed a keen tactical and staretgic mind, as well as a political one.
In truth, he had simply ripped off her strategy from the original novel.
"This gets us to the Gateway fast," she said.
"Yes," Adam replied. "But to actually open the doors of the Spire requires someone to enter the Lord Shards. Who do we trust with this?"
"Sunny" Nephis spoke immediately, like she had made her mind up ages ago and was merely waiting for someone to ask. Caster turned to look at her, surprise and doubt on his face, while Sasrir also seemed to disagree. "Him? I know he's your Scout, but does he really have the capability to handle this? He doesn't seem that impressive to me."
"Sunny is stronger than you think" she refuted clamly, but with a force that refused to bend. Sasrir observed her coldly for a moment longer before shrugging. "Fine, but if he loses a Shard, then you're paying us back. We're only lending you the Dawn, Moonlight and Starlight Shards."
"When we have reached the Gateway, I will return them to you" Nephis promised blandly, and then Adam cleared his throat. "We do not doubt you, my Lady. Sasrir is just...very resource-conscious."
"Aren't we all?"
With that, the discussion came to and end and, with a polite bow, Adam led Sasrir out of the room. Caster watched them both go, and then turned to Nephis. "Lady Changing Star, are you certain about those two? Sasrir is deadly, unpredicable and his personality isn't very cooperative. Adam also has the stench of a schemer. I don't feel comfortable around them."
"I know" she looked at his eyes as she spoke, with the same flatness that unnerved him as it always did. "But we cannot claim the Gateway without them, not at this point. For the greater good, we will have to put up with them. Besides," she paused then, lookin at the door where the two had left. "Adam strikes me as someone who won't go quietly into the night. Once we return to the Waking World, he will definitely draw attention from the Great Clans and Government. I need to be able to keep a close eye on him."
On that, Caster could agree.
Sunny waved as he walked off, his silhouette quickly dissolving into the maze of ruined streets, leaving Cassie standing alone in the shadow of the broken building. His steps were light, almost buoyant, as if shedding weight with every pace—another hunt concluded, another small victory carved out of the Dark City's corpse.
Despite their best efforts, the results had been meager. They had only managed to bring down a single Fallen creature, and even that one had already been half-dead, wounded and driven into a corner by other Sleepers. Sunny had delivered the final blow with clinical efficiency, then wordlessly handed the Soul Shards over to the exhausted group that had done most of the work.
Cassie hadn't even commented on it.
She had long since learned that Sunny did not need them.
Her lips curled into a faint, private smile at the thought.
Sunny and Nephis both carried more secrets than anyone else she knew, but they could not truly hide them from her. Not because they were careless, and certainly not because she pried—but because her Aspect forced the truth onto her, even if she wanted nothing more to avoid it. She remembered something Kai had once said to Sunny, back when the world had briefly felt warm and unreal, when they had lain on the beach and pretended to be normal.
Sometimes, the truth can hurt more than any lie.
Indeed, Cassie thought, fingers brushing against the hilt of Quiet Dancer.
Through the silver rapier, the world unfolded before her in a strange and alien fashion. It was not sight, not sound, but something closer to presence. Quiet Dancer had been born from a Steel Memento—an Echo shaped into a weapon, animated by a fragment of will. By linking her soul to it, Cassie could perceive her surroundings as a shifting field of signals and impressions, like a living radar.
Souls appeared as points of light in the void.
The stronger the soul, the brighter it shone.
She could not see faces this way, nor expressions, nor detail. At best, she perceived vague silhouettes and relative positions. But it was enough. More than enough. Combined with her ability to sense Aspects and Attributes, it allowed her to know—always—when someone stood before her.
It was how she walked without fear. How she fought. How she survived.
And yet, her faint smile faded as familiar discomfort crept in.
Nephis was difficult to look at, even with Quiet Dancer. Her soul blazed with such intensity that focusing on it felt like staring directly into the sun. Cassie could sense her, unmistakably so, but trying to examine her Attributes too closely resulted in a sharp, disorienting pressure—like being blinded, not in body, but in spirit.
Sunny, by contrast, was easier.
And stranger.
His soul appeared as a soft, gentle sphere of black, smooth and muted, with tiny flecks of gold drifting lazily within it. It was nothing like any Soul Core Cassie had ever encountered—neither the clean brilliance of most Awakened nor the warped distortions of corrupted beings. There was something oddly peaceful about it, despite the darkness.
But there were two souls she could not see into at all.
Adam and Sasrir.
Adam's presence was a void of a different sort. Where others radiated light, color, or texture, he was simply… blank. A white sheet stretched taut over nothing. Cassie could perceive his single Soul Core, clear and undeniable—but everything beyond that was absent. No depth. No resonance. No echo.
As though reality itself refused to provide her with further information.
Sasrir was worse.
His soul was a vast, cold abyss, darker than Sunny's by orders of magnitude. It did not feel soft or distant, but sharp and predatory, like a bottomless pit lined with teeth. Cassie sensed, instinctively, that if she ever tried to look too closely—if she pushed her perception even a fraction deeper—something would look back.
And devour her.
The two of them had unsettled her from the very beginning, long before Gunlaug's fall, and for more reasons than one. The most troubling of those reasons lay not in what she could perceive—but in what she could not.
Her visions.
They had been fragmented. Inconsistent. Shifty in ways that made her uneasy.
In one future, Gunlaug died still seated upon his throne, clad in golden armor. In another, he lay sprawled across the floor, choking on his own blood. In a third, his head rolled free from his shoulders, silver fire sealing the wound.
No matter how hard Cassie tried to focus, the details changed. The outcome never did. Gunlaug would die—of that, she had been certain—but the how and the when refused to settle into a single, stable truth.
Until Nephis cleaved his neck.
The same pattern repeated again and again.
Cassie had known the First Lord would perish near the Hollow Mountains, yet in none of her visions had she seen the Dawn Shard itself. When they arrived, the Memory was already gone. She had foreseen Sunny leading her through the Castle gates—but Nephis had followed behind them, an addition the future had neglected to show her.
Her visions were never wrong.
At least, not in the way people expected them to be.
But the path between cause and effect had grown blurred, obscured, as though something—or someone—was interfering with the flow of causality itself. Cassie felt a chill whenever she dwelled on it for too long.
Because Adam and Sasrir loomed large in the present.
Yet they did not appear in a single vision.
Not once.
It was as if they did not exist in the tapestry of fate, even as their actions sent ripples through it, spreading wider and wider with every passing day.
Her prophecy was nearing completion.
They had reached the Dark City.
They had claimed all seven Lord Shards.
They had overthrown the Bright Lord.
Now, they would take the Citadel.
Cassie tightened her grip on Quiet Dancer, her expression turning solemn.
And somewhere beyond the veil of time, she could feel it waiting.
The final part of her prophecy—once so clear, once so inevitable—now lay fractured in her mind.
At the top of a crimson tower, a radiant silver Angel would be devoured by flowing darkness.
Cassie had believed she understood what that meant. She had believed she knew who the Angel was, and what form the darkness would take. But now, the image refused to settle. Two answers overlapped where once there had been only one, and no matter how carefully she traced the threads of fate, they refused to untangle.
For the first time since receiving her prophetic calling, Cassie was uncertain.
She sighed softly and turned away from the ruined street, walking toward her house with measured steps. Even after the Castle had been taken, many Sleepers—including herself—still preferred the Settlement. It felt closer to home. Less oppressive. Kinder, somehow. The Castle carried too much history, too much blood soaked into its stones.
Nephis herself still moved between the two places, never staying long in one or the other, as if unable—or unwilling—to settle. Adam, meanwhile, had remained in the Castle alongside the remnants of the Host, reorganizing what little remained of Gunlaug's former power. His followers were split evenly between the two territories, a quiet, deliberate balance.
Cassie crossed the threshold of her house and closed the door behind her.
She reached up to adjust the blindfold around her eyes, fingers lingering there for a moment before she exhaled and began to move forward. One hand extended, she traced her way along the wall. Quiet Dancer's perception did not help her here—soulless objects were nothing more than empty voids to her senses. Tables, chairs, counters: she had to rely on memory and touch.
She moved carefully, unhurried.
Much like the Fate that was drawning nearer.