"I am telling you," Grall roared, voice shaking the stone walls, "that I do not care about your gods-damned opinions."
The council chamber fell into a tight, fearful silence.
Grall stood at the head of the table—looming, shadow-backed, barely leashed. He had dragged himself in front of these cowards to make one thing absolutely clear: while Grodak was bedridden—or dying—Xierma would assume command. That was the plan.
He had prepared for resistance.
He had not prepared for their insult.
Instead of listening, they had decided to elect him—him, the one who wanted nothing to do with their politics—as temporary leader. And they dared to treat the idea of an elf, a woman, leading their people as a joke.
"With all due respect," one of them said—Grall no longer remembered the man's name, and truly no longer cared—"electing an elf, a female at that, to lead us is preposterous."
A chorus of approving grumbles followed.
Grall's fingers curled into the edge of the table. He fought the urge to snap the wood like a brittle bone.
He could see right through them.
Soft. Spoiled. Dead weight wrapped in titles.
They wanted a shield, someone they could push to the front the moment something snarled at them.
"Does she need to prove her worth to you?" Grall hissed. "Is that what you piss-soaked cowards are demanding?"
Their nods were small, pathetic, but united.
That was the breaking point. A red haze washed over Grall's vision. He drew in breath to unleash real violence on them—
—and then a soft hand touched his shoulder.
Xierma.
Her presence steadied him, but only barely.
"If you require proof of my worth," she said, voice steady but her eyes flickering with fear, "then so be it. Bring forth your challenge, and I will conquer it."
Grall inhaled sharply.
He knew exactly what they would ask.
A task so impossible it bordered on cruelty.
"Bring us," one councilman said with a sick, triumphant smile, "the feather of an Altean."
Xierma blanched. Even the council members seemed unsure whether they'd crossed a line.
Grall didn't hesitate.
"Fuck it," he growled, and hurled the heavy council table against the wall with a thunderous crash. Wood splintered, stone cracked.
"If you want proof of her worth," Grall snarled, "ask the soldiers who saw the Altean themselves. When she left, only one person remained standing—and it was Xierma. She stayed upright before a creature that brought Grodak to his knees. She has more right than any of you spineless sacks of flesh to take a feather from her."
The chamber exploded into frantic shouting.
"If she brings the feather, I'll resign—!"
"She can have all my gold—!"
"Armor from the finest smith, I swear it—!"
"I'll kiss her gods-blessed feet if she—!"
Grall punched the stone wall. A six-inch slab cracked inward like thin ice.
"Shut the fuck up."
Silence slammed over them. Every face blanched.
"She will get the feather," Grall said, voice low and lethal. "And when she does, you will keep your word. If not… I'll redecorate this chamber with your bodies. Understood?"
No one argued.
---
Outside, as the heavy doors shut behind them, Xierma's voice trembled.
"Grall… how do you expect me to get a feather from Cassandra?"
"Simple," Grall said. "You ask for it."
---
They waited beyond the city walls. Far enough that Cassandra's arrival wouldn't drive Whitewater's residents into mind-shattering terror.
"Are you sure she'll come?" Grall asked Tyril. If anyone understood the Altean's mind, it was her brother.
"She's already here," Tyril murmured, pointing upward.
Grall followed his gaze—
—and felt cold lance through his ribs.
Cassandra wasn't descending.
She was struggling.
Her human and Altean blood warred violently inside her—forces twisting, gnawing, clashing in a battle visible even to normal eyes as flickering distortions under her skin. She showed no pain, no blood, no wounds.
A storm contained within flesh.
Grall focused past the spiritual carnage. Past the monstrous aura. Past the legend.
And there—beneath everything—he saw loneliness.
Fear.
A person crushed beneath her own birthright.
The Altean landed before him. Her expression snapped into something fierce, emotionless. A mask.
"Tyril," Cassandra said, voice echoing with terrible power, "who are these… things?"
"I am Grall, chieftain of none."
Her blade touched his throat faster than sound.
Grall laughed. "Do you intend to kill the unkillable?"
"I intend," Cassandra said coolly, "to erase a bug from Xenomovia."
She swung. His head separated cleanly from his body.
His corpse didn't fall. The Shadow World swallowed it whole like a hungry maw.
One heartbeat later, Grall stepped out of the dark behind her, rubbing the stump of his neck.
"I could have helped you squash it," he said lightly. "If you needed practice."
Cassandra's disgust was palpable.
She raised her sword again—only for a small hand to touch her arm.
Sakurako.
The Altean froze. Something in her instincts—deep, ancient—seized her wrist and held it still.
She lowered the blade.
"Speak," she commanded. "What do you want of me?"
"I never said I wanted anything," Grall said quietly, eyes watching how Sakurako calmed the storm inside Cassandra.
"You don't need to say it," Cassandra hissed. "No one comes to me unless they want something."
"I wanted to meet the one who brought my brother to his knees," Grall admitted.
Cassandra paused—assessing him with predator's precision.
"Tell me how you lived," she said. "And how you see without eyes. Do this, and I will grant you one wish."
Tyril chuckled. "He's the one I told you about. The orc tied to the old resting place."
Grall summoned a Shadow Elder. Its form towered, whispering, before he dismissed it.
"My eyes were the price for true sight," he said. "I don't see colors. I see truth."
Cassandra flinched.
He could see the war inside her.
He could see everything.
Her voice tightened. "What is your wish?"
"A duel."
She laughed in his face. "With you? Fool. I just killed you."
"Not with me." Grall pointed at Xierma.
The elf stiffened like prey caught in a torchlight.
Cassandra blinked. Then scoffed. "Fine. But if she dies—"
"No killing," Grall interrupted sharply. "Honorably."
Cass dragged Tyril away by the ear, muttering about needing a "chat." Sakurako followed her, unable to look away from the Altean.
The moment Cassandra was far enough, Xierma collapsed, legs giving out.
"Grall," she whispered, "I can't do this."
"You don't have to win," Grall said gently. "Just steal a feather. Alteans follow rules to the letter."
He wasn't sure. But he had to pretend he was.
Xierma steadied herself, breath shaking. She unsheathed her sword. "Then… let's do this."
---
Cass returned, hand on her sword, eyes hungry for combat.
"Are you sure you wish to proceed?" she asked. "You could still walk away and be spared the humiliation."
Xierma lifted her chin. "There is no humiliation in fighting an Altean. Only honor."
Cass looked away as if disgusted—except the truth flickered beneath: exhilaration.
"So be it."
She launched forward—blade singing, body a blur. Xierma barely blocked, sent skidding backward through the dust.
But she didn't fall.
She charged. Slashes like rain. Most deflected—one slipped through.
Steel whispered across Cassandra's wing.
A single feather drifted down.
Cassandra's eyes widened. Pain—real pain—flashed across her face.
She slammed her sword hilt into Xierma's back. The elf hit the ground hard, gasping.
Cass raised her sword for the finishing strike—
—and Grall appeared between them, taking the blade through his shoulder.
He hissed but stood firm.
"Thank you, mighty Cassandra," Grall ground out. "But the rule was no killing."
Cass pulled her blade free, blood dripping. "I know the rule. I would have stopped before touching her skin."
"Of course you would," Grall muttered, holding his shoulder as shadows stitched the wound shut.
Cassandra looked at Xierma.
"Elf," she said, voice softened, "you fought with more pride than many of my own kind. I won. But you have my respect. If you need anything, ask."
---
As Xierma took the feather, blushing, Cass asked:
"Why aim for my wings?"
Xierma hesitated. "The council demanded a feather… to prove I am worthy to lead Whitewater while its chief is unwell."
Cass stared.
Then laughed—a stiff, rare, almost painful laugh.
"What use is a council that hides behind others?" she said. "Take it. You earned it."
Grall escorted Xierma back toward Whitewater, already wondering whether killing the council would be quicker than arguing with them again.
---
Sakurako
Sakurako stayed behind.
Cass turned to fly away, but paused when she felt Sakurako's stare.
"Yes, little one?" Cassandra asked, voice unexpectedly gentle.
Sakurako didn't speak—she couldn't—but her wide eyes said everything.
Cass stepped closer, uncertain.
A throat cleared. She spun instantly, hand to her blade—
—but it was only Tyril.
"My dear sister," Tyril said, overly sweet, "we still need to discuss the Hell's Gates."
Cass blinked, pulled from whatever strange trance Sakurako had put her in.
"Right," she said, glancing again at the small doctor. "Apologies, brother. I got… distracted."
Tyril nearly choked. Cassandra? Apologizing?
"It's fine," he stammered. "But we need a plan. Before the inevitable happens."
"Of course." Cass looked at him.
But her attention drifted back to Sakurako.
Again.
Grall
"What do you mean she got the feather?" one of the councilmen barked. His outrage sparked the others into a chorus of snarls and accusations.
"Exactly what I said," Grall snapped back. His hand tightened around the pommel of Oathkeeper as if daring someone to take one more breath wrong. "If you refuse to believe me, then open your eyes and look."
Xierma lifted the feather. Light caught the black sheen—an unnatural, oil-slick shimmer that made the council's laughter sound even more pathetic.
"That's just a bird's feather!" one scoffed, nearly choking on his own amusement.
"What did you do—gut a chicken on the way here?"
Grall felt something coil inside him, something old and hungry. Oathkeeper slid halfway free before a gentle hand landed on his shoulder. Xierma. Her touch was soft, but her voice carried through the chamber like thunder spoken through silk.
"This is an Altean feather," she said calmly. "And if you still doubt it, the Altean herself is outside the castle walls. She is currently speaking with Tyril—former king of Whitewater."
Silence lasted only a heartbeat before the council broke into chaos again.
"You were ordered to kill that winged abomination!"
"Tyril is dead—whatever stands out there is a lie!"
"This is treason! Madness!"
The noise trembled against the stone walls until Grall's patience finally snapped. He drew Oathkeeper in one smooth motion and slammed the blade into the marble beneath him. The floor cracked like ice under a hammer, splitting wide.
"Anyone else," Grall growled, "who questions Xierma dies where they stand."
Silence fell like a corpse hitting the ground.
Then—of course—Adrian walked in.
"Hey, assholes," he said, disgust dripping from his tone, "what are we bitching about now?"
The council immediately latched onto him, shrieking about his lateness, grasping for something—anything—to shift the subject away from their fear. Adrian simply raised his sword lazily.
"Alright," he said, bored, "which of you wants to die first?"
The room froze. Even the dust seemed afraid to move. Adrian snorted, sheathed his blade, and flopped into his chair.
"Thought so. Bunch of cowards. Now—what's going on?"
"We're choosing who leads while Grodak recovers," Grall answered. He yanked Oathkeeper free of the stone without a care for the debris.
"Oh, easy," Adrian said. "You or Grodak's honey."
Grall shook his head. "I have my own matters to settle. I nominated Xierma. The council disagrees."
Adrian blinked at the council. "You reject Grodak's woman?" His grin widened maliciously. "You do realize he'll tear the skin off your bones for that when he wakes up?"
Panic rippled across the council. Good.
Grall stepped forward, his voice low, venomous. "Xierma will rule in Grodak's stead. If I return to find you've harmed her—or defied her—" he paused, letting the silence strangle them, "—I will dig up your graves, desecrate them, and drag your souls out of the shadow world to beat them myself."
The chamber grew colder. Some councilmen paled.
"What makes you so sure we'll be dead?" one squeaked.
"If you're not," Grall said, deadpan, "I'll fix that. As for why you will be—my former soldiers have orders to protect her. Anyone who opposes her, short of civilians, dies screaming."
"And what stops her from becoming a tyrant like Malik?" another asked.
"If she endangers a single civilian," Grall replied, "she dies swiftly. My men know what mercy means in this case."
The council swallowed their protests.
The doors creaked open. Tyril entered, looking half-alive, and behind him stood Cassandra—eyes glimmering with disdain so sharp it felt like a blade. The council shrank under her gaze like vermin beneath a torch.
"Grall. Adrian," Tyril said urgently. "I have work for you."
Grall grimaced at the eavesdropping council. "Another room."
The dim chamber they relocated to was quiet—until Imp materialized, hatred twisting his face. His glares at Grall said everything: he wanted his God Stone back.
Grall ignored him.
"We found the source of the corpse flowers," Tyril said. His voice trembled with exhaustion. "They originate from Hell."
Grall cursed under his breath. Of all realms—Hell was where his abilities faltered most.
"You're certain?" he asked.
Tyril nodded. "Time flows differently there—a day may be seconds here… or decades."
The room broke into frantic objections—no strategy, no manpower, too many unknowns.
"Silence!" Tyril roared. "I'm not commanding you. I'm asking. I won't force anyone into Hell."
Grall's choice was instant. "I'll go."
Adrian stepped forward. "You don't even need to ask, king-bro. I'm in."
Imp hesitated—calculating, greedy. "I'll join. But if a demon dies, I want the corpse."
Tyril's face darkened. "If a demon appears, we run. Not even Grall's godhood stands against them."
Adrian choked. "You're a god now?"
Imp flicked a dismissive hand. "Gods are algorithms wearing flesh. Their power is overrated. I could replicate it with a gesture."
Grall's eyes flashed. "Is that so?"
Power rolled off him—thick, suffocating, shaking dust loose from the ceiling.
"But I am still beyond you, little Dasari."
Imp looked away. "Enough. We have work."
He disappeared through the door.
Grall turned back. "When do we leave?"
"Sunrise," Tyril whispered.
Grall nodded and left.
He walked straight to Grodak's room… and froze.
The bed was empty.
Xierma knelt beside it, trembling, tears streaking down her face.
"Where is Grodak?" Grall demanded, rushing to her.
"I—I don't know," she rasped. "He just… vanished. Do you think the Casarn sickness killed him and took the body?"
"No," Grall said, dread curling tight in his gut. "Something else took him. Something worse."