"I've said it before."
Throne leaned down abruptly, pulling Melina onto the horse's back with a force that brooked no argument.
"I'll handle your affairs. No matter the cost."
His voice left no room for doubt, and Melina stiffened slightly. She didn't speak, just clutched her crimson cloak tighter and pressed her face into his back. The strange calling in her mind fell silent, if only for a moment.
Was it already beginning to seep into her consciousness? If they couldn't take her openly, they'd resort to subtler methods. Throne's gaze turned eastward. The mountains blocked his view, but he knew the golden city lay beyond them. Melina's situation was proving more complicated than Ranni's.
She was Marika's tool, and though the goddess had fallen silent, her schemes were far from over. The Godskin Apostles—Throne didn't know how Marika controlled these followers of the Gloam-Eyed Queen, but they were now trying to "correct" Melina.
No blade, no matter how swift, could sever the bond between Marika and Melina. Avoiding the Church of Marika was one thing, but Leyndell was unavoidable. And as a swordsman, Throne wasn't the type to hide. You want Melina? Fine. You'll have to go through me first.
A grin split his face, teeth gleaming white. He pulled a dagger from his belt and handed it to Rya, who looked up at him, confused.
"Do me a favor."
"Huh? What do I do?" she asked, her voice uncertain.
"Simple. Cut your palm and leave a few drops of blood here."
Thud. A towering figure landed amidst the cratered ruins of the village. Broken horns jutted from his head, and his tattered clothes hung loosely on his frame. Morgott—or Margit, the Fell Omen—stood still, his wary gaze sweeping the scene.
Corpses littered the ground, and shattered houses lay in ruins. He'd seen the commotion during the night march and rushed over with a handful of elites, but he was too late.
"The battle's over. Search for survivors."
"Yes, sir."
Several members of the Night's Cavalry bowed and fanned out, halberds and greatswords at the ready. They were on the outskirts of Mt. Gelmir, and caution was paramount—ambushes were always a possibility. Margit moved through the ruins, his sharp eyes examining every detail.
"These people died first. Hm. This crater... Comet Azur? Sorcerers lived here."
His experience facing the Alliance of Kings made him adept at reading such signs; nothing escaped his notice. He strode to the edge of the cliff and looked up. His expression darkened. A massive triangular gouge marred the cliffside, as if carved by a giant's chisel, plunging into an abyss.
"Such power. Are there still sorcerers in this world capable of wielding it?"
After a moment's hesitation, he moved to the largest pile of corpses. His face grew graver still. The bodies lay in grotesque positions, but each had been killed with a single, precise stroke. No struggle, no resistance. And those wounds... Black Knives?
Shock gave way to confusion. What were Black Knife Assassins doing here? The corpses held staves, but their garb didn't match any sorcerers he knew. They weren't from Raya Lucaria, nor Sellia. These sorcerers were... different.
No—
He hurried to a large boulder. On the ground lay a magnificent robe, surrounded by fragments of flesh and crystal. Margit crouched, picking up a shard to examine it closely. His pupils narrowed. This scent... this wasn't an ordinary sorcerer. He knelt on one knee, motionless as a statue.
The scent tugged at his memory, sharp and insistent. He'd hunted her once, hadn't he? That woman—companion to the Death Eater, the linchpin of it all.
"A Primeval Sorcerer? Sellen? No. Someone older. Stronger. Another Primeval Sorcerer, even more formidable."
The Grand Library of Leyndell's secrets surfaced in his mind. When a sorcerer condenses primeval glintstone, it's only the first step. As they delve deeper into the Primeval Current, their bodies crystallize. A heresy against the golden order. Could the Black Knives have been the executioners?
Margit's thoughts churned. He regretted leaving his true body in Leyndell. This projection's senses were dull, insufficient. He'd have to find time to consult the Two Fingers. They'd always maintained ties with the Black Knives.
"Your Highness, no survivors," a Nights Cavalry reported. "Everyone's been slaughtered. The attackers finished them off."
"Same on my side," another added. Throne's work was thorough, leaving no loose ends. Margit frowned.
"Why would Primeval Sorcerers be here? And who killed them?"
His nose twitched. He turned sharply.
"Erickson. Don't move."
He strode over, spotting a pool of blood beside his subordinate's iron boot. Kneeling, he smeared some on his hand and inhaled deeply. This blood was different—not human, not Black Knife, not Primeval Sorcerer.
"Another ancient species," he murmured, his gaze drifting toward the volcano. His mouth twitched. An ancient species… and there just happened to be one here.
"They're here," Throne observed from the cave. The black army advanced, fewer than five hundred but radiating the presence of ten thousand. Nights Cavalry on funeral steeds, Omen Soldiers with giant machetes—they moved like a storm cloud, their footsteps shaking the ground.
Throne's gaze skipped over the tall figure with the staff. A projection. Morgott couldn't leave Leyndell; he had too much to manage. Throne wondered how Ranni's side was faring. The secret was out now, enough to ignite Leyndell's tinderbox.
The secret was true, the conflict of interest undeniable. The Golden Nobles might tolerate the Omen as cannon fodder, but never as rulers, no matter their service or bloodline.
"They're cautious," Melina noted, watching from the cave entrance as the army split into three groups—front, middle, rear—with others guarding the hilltops.
"They've got intelligence. Like the Carian Knight visiting Volcano Manor. Morgott's wary of an ambush."
Throne shrugged.
"Aren't you afraid they'll use this as an excuse to move against you?"
"Everyone who saw me is dead. Where's the evidence? Besides, Leyndell's got its own troubles. Sending an army south now would look like using a borrowed blade."
Throne's mind was steady, his understanding clear. Power was everything. If Morgott had enough, he'd find excuses when he needed them. For the weak, even a sneeze profaned the golden order.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The cave ceiling rained dust as heavy footsteps shook the earth. The Night's Legion crossed the boundary line right under Throne's nose—and this time, no loyal knights or monsters rushed to stop them. Rykard stood alone now. No one wanted to stay with a man-eating monster.
"You want Morgott to kill Rykard?" Melina asked, unnerved by the silence.
"No. And he can't. That serpent's too tenacious, and Gelmir's too vast. Unless Morgott comes himself."
"So he marches all this way for nothing?"
"Rykard's getting greedy. He'll come out."
Throne's voice darkened.
"But he won't beat this legion. And then—"
"You swoop in for the prize?"
Melina's lip curled. After all this time beside Throne, she knew better than to believe the noble rumors. To her surprise, his expression twisted—conflicted. It wasn't simple.
Rykard could hide anywhere in the volcano. How was Throne supposed to face the Night's Legion alone? The rewards of luring them away were greater. While they campaigned here, he could bypass Leyndell entirely—strike straight for the Haligtree. And if he stayed? Those Godskin Nobles might return.
He'd always suspected something about Melina. Why did the Godskins find her every time? Once was chance. Twice, coincidence. But three? Four?
"Still... I hate wasting this chance. If Rykard slips away now, I'll have to turn Gelmir inside out to find him again."
"Greedy."
Melina scoffed.
"Careful you don't become the serpent."
She saw right through him.
"Then I'll start by eating you in one bite."
He bared his teeth.
"I'm not tasty. Try the Lunar Princess instead."
She rolled her eyes and turned to Rya, smug. She was already outshining Ranni—getting along with Millicent, chatting with Rya. No stiff-backed chair, no hollow majesty. Just real connection.
Throne ignored her gloating. He had plans to weigh.
Leaving now risked Adula being spotted. Morgott wasn't a fool—what if he guessed their destination? And then there was the Fell Omen at the center, that towering demigod, his greatest open enemy. At the very least, he should show his face. Better yet, destroy the projection.
Ranni's words had reshaped his view. Leyndell was the true obstacle. Burning the Erdtree? Unappealing. After centuries of plunder, swallowing it whole would be the ultimate power boost.
The Greater Will loomed behind everything. He needed strength to survive it. Even if he followed Ranni to the stars, he couldn't abandon the Lands Between. This was home now. His friends were here. Over a decade had turned him from traveler to local.
Opposing the Greater Will demanded more than conventional paths. To rule Leyndell, he needed power—and Rykard was perfect prey. A Great Rune. The Ancient Serpent.
Throne licked his lips. What mutation would devouring the serpent bring?
"Both of us consume," he murmured. "But the serpent and I... we're nothing alike."
"Could devouring the serpent boost my efficiency? Expand my... menu?"
Throne rubbed his chin. Years of testing had revealed his cheat's limits. Power came from killing, yes, but the returns diminished as he grew stronger. Slaughtering a hundred knights now barely moved the needle. And his devouring remained incomplete.
Great runes aside, he only siphoned one-fifth of a victim's strength—never the full measure. Worse, his hunger only worked on living flesh. The Erdtree's golden veins, the golems' stone sinews, puppets with their hollow cores—they left him starving. No matter how deep he stabbed, the tree wouldn't wither under his grasp.
"Rykard dies. Public necessity. Private hunger."
Throne's fingers curled. In all the Lands Between, only the serpent-king embodied true devouring. He'd play the mantis to Rykard's cicada. Better yet, let Morgott's phantom and the Night's Legion tear each other apart—leave the Golden Nobles defenseless. His gaze slid toward the whispering women.
Melina's voice carried through the sulfurous air, doling out advice to Rya.
"Don't let the Lunar Princess intimidate you. Beneath that frost, she's just... persistently annoying."
A pause.
"Caria won't care about your bloodline. Their courts welcome outcasts, mutants, anything that breathes."
Rya listened, eyes wide with Liurnia's reflected glow. No grand ambitions burned in her. No death-seeking resolve. Just the quiet need to belong somewhere. But first—one last thing.
"You're eavesdropping."
Melina's voice cut through his thoughts.
"Decided something?"
Throne's smile tasted bitter.
"If I hadn't intervened, Ranni would've lost face again. Absentee humiliation this time."
He shrugged.
"I'm staying. Killing Rykard. Crushing the Night's Legion if possible. Clears the board for our next move."
Melina nodded. She prodded at his hesitations but never questioned his choices. Too many battles had forged that trust.
"Which means sending you away before the bloodshed starts."
Throne studied Rya's face. No relief there.
"Changed your mind? You held your own at Hermit Village."
Azur's survival proved that much—had she faltered, the old mage would've bolted.
"N-no, it's... Mother."
Rya twisted her hands, cheeks flushing.
"I need to see her. Even if she still won't look at me. To say goodbye properly."
Her voice shrank to a whisper.
"I know it's selfish, but... may I?"
A child of the volcano shouldn't blush so easily. Throne exhaled.
"When blades clash, I can't protect you."
"I'll stay hidden. Silent."
"Fine. Keep up."
Everyone has their own obsessions, and only after fulfilling them can a new journey begin. He thrust a blank parchment at her.
"Map Gelmir's guts for me. Every tunnel leading into the mountain's belly. Can you?"
"I'll try."
Rya's fingers trembled. She'd glimpsed the manor's secret charts.
"Start now."
Steel shrieked against steel. Throne followed the sound back to the cave mouth. Westward—the Night's Legion had breached the boundary. Their black tide crashed against a ragged line of fighters.
Manor Inquisitors. Throne's lip curled. Conscripted criminals, every one. Not worth consuming. Not permitted to yield. All they could do was die standing.
The cavalry didn't bother dismounting. A hundred Omen Warriors hit the inquisitors like a scythe through wheat. Blades bit deep. Axes split skulls.
"Slaughter," Throne muttered. The Omen fought with a brutality that made the Redmanes look tame.
Throne watched with his own eyes as the inquisitors were sliced clean through breastplate and bone. Saw them driven into the mud, skulls pulped under fist-sized gauntlets. No battle here—just butchery.