The throne room beneath the obsidian spires felt colder than it had any right to be.
Valthar Drakenscale sat motionless on the petrified leviathan spine, crown slightly askew, the blackened adamantite ring on his right index finger dull and silent. The chamber's molten gold veins pulsed faintly, casting slow, liquid light across the black marble floor.
Two crystals had stood on pedestals to his left—twin orbs of crimson and void-black, each the size of a fist, each linked to one of his most dangerous lieutenants.
They were gone.
Not cracked. Not dimmed.
Simply gone.
Dissolved into nothing, leaving only faint scorch marks on the stone where they had rested.
Valthar stared at the empty pedestals for a long moment.
The doors groaned open. Seven high-ranking demons entered—princes, sovereigns, warlords from the remaining kingdoms—each one radiating power, each one now radiating unease. They had felt it too: the sudden severing of two threads in the Underworld's web. Veyrissa the Bloodweaver and Umbralis Light Devourer were no more.
No echo. No lingering mana. No final scream carried on the wind.
Just absence.
Morbelith the Whisperkin was the last to enter.
She glided forward—half shadow, half silver-eyed delight—until she stood close enough that Valthar could smell the faint ozone of her Veil of Echoes.
She smiled.
Not a laugh this time. A slow, knowing curve of the lips.
"I can't believe what I'm seeing," she said, voice soft and delighted as she circled him slowly. "Veyrissa and Umbralis. Completely erased. Not just killed—erased."
She leaned in, close enough that her breath brushed his ear.
"And by Gruk and Aamon, no less. The clown and the shadow. Who would have thought?"
Valthar did not move.
He kept quiet.
In his mind, the truth was already clear.
The ring had reacted—for one single second, just one heartbeat—earlier tonight. A faint pulse. A flicker of ancient power. The same pulse he had felt when Deathwing answered the call once before.
This was not Gruk's doing. Not Aamon's.
This was the summoner.
The dragon rider.
Gruk and Aamon were working together with him now.
Valthar's expression did not change.
He could not trust anyone with this knowledge—not the seven remaining high-ranking demons, not even Morbelith with her mocking smile. Not yet.
The battlefield was a graveyard of silence now.
Rogue bodies lay scattered in twisted heaps—some broken by Gruk's bare hands, some pierced by Haldir's arrows, some charred by Beatrice's violet blasts. The air still smelled of blood, ozone, and scorched earth. The wind moved slowly, carrying away the last echoes of screams.
Haldir lowered his bow, arrow half-nocked, eyes sweeping the carnage.
"Why were they after Gruk and Aamon?" he asked, voice low but sharp. "That wasn't random. They knew exactly who they wanted."
No one answered immediately.
Beatrice was already moving—robes swirling as she hurried to Aamon's side. He was still on one knee where Veyrissa's blood threads had slammed him into the tree, armor cracked, dark ichor seeping from shallow gashes across his ribs.
She dropped beside him, hands hovering, worry etched across her face.
"Are you hurt?" she asked, voice tight. "Let me see. Elara can help—"
Aamon raised a hand—calm, firm—stopping her before she could touch him.
"I'm fine."
Beatrice frowned. She had seen the wounds—deep, ragged, bleeding black. They couldn't have closed that fast.
But as she opened her mouth to argue, Gruk barreled over, cloak flapping, blood still dripping from his knuckles.
"Hey! Mage girl!" he called, voice loud and deliberately obnoxious. "You missed the best part! I threw one of those rogues so hard he bounced off a tree like a damn ball! You should've seen it—classic!"
Beatrice blinked, momentarily distracted.
"What—?"
On that instant of diversion, Aamon's wounds sealed. The gashes knitted together in seconds—flesh mending, ichor evaporating, armor cracks smoothing over. By the time Beatrice looked back, there was nothing left but faint scars already fading.
Elara arrived a moment later, golden light already blooming in her palms.
"Let me check you," she said gently, kneeling beside him.
Aamon stood smoothly, brushing dirt from his cloak.
"I'm fine," he repeated. "Just some small scratches."
Beatrice stared. She knew what she had seen—deep cuts, black blood. But now… nothing.
In her mind: I saw them. I know I did.
Kufa's voice cut through the confusion.
"Where the hell is Vael?"
Gruk turned, grin spreading wide—too wide, too pleased.
"He's right there," he said, pointing.
Vael was walking back from the far edge of the clearing—slow, deliberate, hands loose at his sides. Umbralis's severed head was no longer in his grip; the skull had vanished somewhere in the dark.
Darius stepped forward, sword still drawn, eyes flicking between Vael and the empty space where Umbralis had stood.
"What hit that demon?" he asked. "And where's the other one?"
Vael stopped a few paces from the group.
He looked first at Elara—checking her with a quiet sweep of his gaze. She was already healing Raymond's arm (a shallow cut from the blood-whip), golden light soft between them. Both were smiling—small, tired, relieved.
Vael's expression softened for half a heartbeat.
Then he looked at Darius.
"Oh," he said, voice calm, almost casual. "I accidentally killed him. By luck."
He paused.
"Threw a rock straight at the other demon. Got lucky."
Gruk choked on a laugh—sharp, disbelieving.
"What?"
In his head: A rock? A fucking rock? After those crimson eyes and that sonic boom? He's lying so badly it's hilarious.
Haldir stood a little apart, bow lowered, eyes narrowed.
He had seen it.
Not a rock.
A severed head—thrown with enough force to shatter bone and break spells from fifty paces away. As an archer, he knew trajectory, velocity, impact. That was no rock.
But he had no proof. Just the memory of a skull flying through the air like a missile.
He kept silent.
Vael added quietly, almost as an afterthought:
"Gruk and Aamon killed one of their companions earlier. So the demons were here for revenge."
Aamon remained silent.
In his mind: Why is he lying?
He studied Vael's face—calm, unreadable—and said nothing.
The group stood in the quiet aftermath.
Raymond broke the quiet.
"Let's continue our journey," he said, voice steady but carrying an edge only Vael could hear. "The temple isn't far. We're wasting time."
The group moved without argument—horses gathered, weapons sheathed, wounds checked one last time. Darius and Kufa mounted first, Haldir scanning the treeline for any lingering threat. Beatrice lingered near Aamon a moment longer, eyes still searching his armor for signs of injury that weren't there anymore. Elara helped Miraleth back onto her palfrey, golden light fading from her palms.
Vael rode near the rear this time, eyes fixed on the prophetess ahead of him.
Miraleth sat sidesaddle, back straight, blind gaze turned toward some distant point only she could see. The black opal at her throat caught faint moonlight—pulsing once, softly, then going still.
Vael stared at her.
His heartbeat was steady, but his thoughts were not.
What are you hiding?
She had not flinched during the ambush.
Her breathing had never quickened.
Not once.
Even now, as the group rode south toward the temple she had insisted they reach, she remained calm—too calm.
He remembered her words from the guild gathering:
"The wheel groans. The graves remember their names."
He had let it slide then.
He was not letting it slide now.
The road continued south.
Miraleth rode on, silent, smiling faintly as though she could feel his stare.
To be continued.