Grall
Grall stumbled out of the portal like a man waking from a nightmare, Tyril's limp body slung over his shoulders like dead weight. The others—who had emerged mere seconds earlier—froze in place, eyes snapping to the unconscious figure hanging from Grall's grasp.
"How did you find Tyril?" Imp asked first. Suspicion hardened his face, as if he were staring not at an ally but a loaded trap.
"I didn't find him," Grall muttered, lowering Tyril to the ground with more care than he expected himself capable of. "He found me."
"Explain." Grodak's voice was a growl, heavy and edged with anger. He had been worried sick, but Grodak's worry always came out wearing violence like armor.
Grall sighed. The shadow realm was stitching itself back into him—slowly, agonizingly—now that he was free from the choking grip of hell. "There's not much to tell," he lied, hating how easily the lie rolled across his tongue. "The demon kept pushing me back. Every time I shoved it away, it returned angrier. It kept going until Tyril showed up and… killed it."
Imp's eyes narrowed. "Then why is he unconscious?"
Grall caught the flicker of arcane light between Imp's fingers—Imp preparing a spell he thought Grall couldn't detect. But Grall could see every line of it etched in the weave, clearer than daylight.
"I don't know."
Another lie. A smoother one.
"No exhaustion works like this," Imp said softly, like a surgeon diagnosing an illness.
"He's exhausted," Grall insisted. "That's all."
The others accepted it. Or pretended to. Suspicion lingered around them like smoke.
Grodak lifted Tyril in his arms, his massive frame trembling not from strain but from fear—for Whitewater, for his people, for the world that might have changed while he wasn't looking. Grall almost pitied him.
Almost.
The moment their eyes left him, Grall slipped into the shadow realm.
---
The shift should have been seamless, comforting. Instead, something was off. The darkness was too still. Too quiet. Wrong.
Change this rapid shouldn't be possible—centuries were the usual pace of this realm's evolution. Not days.
As he searched for the source of the distortion, Wreag materialized from the gloom.
"So," Wreag said with a cruel half-smile, "you finally slither back."
"How long?" Grall demanded.
"In the mortal realm?" Wreag pretended to think. "Six years. Perhaps a bit more."
---
Imp
Imp knelt over Tyril's battered body, applying a potion mixed in a frantic blur of motion. Nothing about Tyril's wounds matched Cassandra's—Imp knew it, tasted the lie in Grall's story, felt the shape of it like a blade tucked behind a smile.
But he said nothing.
Not yet.
When he rose, Grall was gone. Cassandra lay unconscious on a cot, Sakurako gripping her hand as if to protect her from ghosts. Adrian stood guard like a statue carved from fury.
"I'm returning to my tower," Imp said to Grodak. "There is… something I must do."
Grodak nodded. "Can you take us to Whitewater first?"
"Of course."
A flash—and they were standing before Whitewater's changed gates. And Imp was home.
Dorothy appeared at once, metal limbs clattering as she seized him in a desperate embrace.
"Master! You're finally back! I was terrified. You vanished for a year, I thought—"
"A year?" Imp blinked. "It hasn't been—"
"Six years, three months, twenty-five days, two hours," Dorothy corrected, tone bright and musical. "Exactly."
Imp sighed. Another timeline fracture. Wonderful.
He scanned the tower's interior, calculating. "Is there a way to strengthen my link to the tower?"
"Yes," Dorothy said eagerly, "we must bind you to the other towers."
"Other?" Imp repeated. "…There are more?"
"Five, master."
"Where is the closest?"
Dorothy hesitated. "Juten."
A dead city. A cursed one.
"And the guardian?" Imp asked.
Dorothy checked her arcane screen. "Still there."
Imp nodded. "Then I'll deal with him now."
---
Juten greeted him with a shambling army of undead. Weak. Pathetic. He carved through them like a scythe through wilted crops.
The tower of magic awaited him—shielded, ancient, humming with locked power. Imp traced the barrier, searching for imperfections until his fingers found a hidden seam of displaced air.
Inside, a spectral sword-tip kissed his throat.
Malik.
"Who are you?" His voice was frost and steel.
"Impartis," Imp said without flinching. "Master of the Tower of Knowledge."
A pause. A long stare.
Then Malik lowered his blade.
"Hm."
He turned away as if Imp were beneath notice. "Claim it. I have no interest in slaughtering a weakling."
Imp exhaled only when the specter vanished.
---
Grall
Grall ended another grueling set of exercises as Wreag circled him like a wolf inspecting fresh prey.
"You summoned Malik," Wreag said. "The same lunatic who nearly ended the world because life displeased him. And you expect no consequences?"
Grall smirked. "You know it wasn't because he had a 'bad day.' He was consumed by madness. You know that better than anyone."
Wreag's scowl tightened. Especially when Grall added:
"And what exactly is your problem with Tyril?"
Wreag clicked his tongue, refusing to admit aloud that Tyril was the only enemy he had never defeated.
"I dislike weaklings," he spat.
Grall laughed. "I'm still weaker than you."
"For now," Wreag muttered, barely audible. "But you are climbing. Soon… you may surpass even me."
Warmth flickered in Grall's chest—rare, fragile. He crushed it before it softened him.
"Enough," Wreag said. "Your godhood must sharpen further. Training continues."
---
Cassandra & Sakurako
Grall stepped through the veil into the room where Cassandra lay bandaged and pale, Sakurako gripping her hand like a lifeline. The moment he appeared, Cassandra screamed—a raw, jagged sound that stabbed Sakurako's heart.
"Don't move," Grall said. His tone was calm, unyielding. "I came with a question."
Cassandra's trembling slowed. Her eyes—glassy, bruised—locked onto his bandaged gaze.
"Do you want to become stronger?"
A simple question. A terrible one.
"H-how?" Cassandra whispered. "I can… barely stand."
"I will ask your father," Grall said, voice flat, "to rebuild you. And help Sakurako learn to survive wounds far worse than these."
Sakurako looked up sharply—fear, worry, and desperate hope all tangled in her expression.
Cassandra stared at Grall. And despite the pain, despite her trembling body, despite everything—
She smiled. A faint, broken, defiant smile.
"Fine," she whispered. "Do it."
"So be it."
Grall raised his hand. The air grew cold enough to bite.
And he called for Malik.
Grodak
Grodak awoke with a violent jolt, a cold pressure crushing his ribs as if an unseen hand were squeezing the air from his lungs.
Fear, dread, and a sorrow he could not name surged through him—an ancient weight spreading across the castle like a storm collapsing from the heavens.
"Are we under attack?!" he barked, ripping the blankets off his naked body.
Xierma stirred beside him, blinking sleep from her eyes. "What are you talking about… love?"
The presence vanished—snuffed out as abruptly as it came. Grodak stood frozen, fists clenched, a pulse of frustration rolling beneath his skin.
"I'm sorry," he muttered, already pulling on his clothes. "I need to check something."
Xierma murmured assent, sleep dragging her back under. Grodak slipped out, wandering through the dim corridors, chasing the fading echo of that oppressive force.
He reached Cassandra's chamber—and froze.
She stood fully upright. Armor buckled. Weapons strapped. Skin unmarred.
The woman who had been broken beyond recognition only hours before now looked ready for war.
"I thought the healers said you'd need a month," Grodak said, suspicion knitting his brow.
"There are many ways to heal," Cassandra replied, tightening a strap across her chest. "Your healers only know the gentle ones."
Grodak's jaw tightened. "That… sensation I felt. Was it the one who healed you?"
Cassandra paused—just long enough for the truth to show in her eyes.
"Yes. Someone used magic beyond your kingdom's reach."
Magic stronger than his best healers? The thought stirred something dangerous in him—curiosity born from instincts he didn't yet understand. His confusion must have shown.
"You recently survived a transformation most die from," Cassandra said, her smile sharp and knowing. "It changed you—mind and body. Don't let your old prejudices blind the creature you have become. Casarns feed on souls, after all."
A chill clawed up Grodak's spine.
He turned away, needing the silence of the halls to gather his unraveling thoughts. He walked until instinct, or fate, guided him into a familiar room—his forge.
And there, waiting as if he'd always known Grodak would come, sat Grall.
"Brother," Grall said, rising smoothly from his seat, "I think it's time you met my teacher."
---
Jaxale
Somewhere far from the shifting tides of gods and kings, a young Dasari and his dragon companion chased fortune across the world.
Jaxale and Dronde arrived at the gates of Whitewater after following a request whispered across nations. The city was beautiful, impossibly alive—yet Jaxale had long ago learned that beauty often hid teeth.
"What do you think, Dronde?" he asked.
The dragon rumbled agreement. Words were unnecessary.
"Then let's go."
They approached the gate, but a guard stepped forward, voice tense.
"State your business… Dasari."
"We're here for the quest," Jaxale said, enjoying the flicker of unease the dragon caused.
"Ah… then you seek the king."
The guard led them through Whitewater—a city glittering with new wealth—and at last into a spiraling castle. Inside waited the cause behind the widespread summons.
A throne.
A young king.
Snow-white hair.
Crimson eyes.
Skin pale as bone.
He looked barely twenty-five—yet something ancient stared out of him.
"So," the king said in a voice smooth as honey, "you wish to handle our… small problem."
Jaxale couldn't speak. He only nodded.
"Then you are ready for the test."
The test. The infamous, mysterious challenge that had killed countless would-be heroes. Jaxale glanced at Dronde. A reassuring nuzzle steadied him.
"Yes," Jaxale said. "We're ready."
The king pressed a button on his throne. Three hounds slithered from the shadows—eyes glowing, ribs protruding, jaws dripping.
"Begin."
The single word—soft, but carrying absolute authority—triggered instinct. Jaxale's blade carved the first two creatures apart, while Dronde's lightning breath obliterated the third.
A slow clap echoed across the chamber.
"Impressive." The king rose, robes whispering like silk wrapped around steel. "I am Tyril, king of Whitewater. Join me in the map room."
Jaxale followed. But as he walked, the ground seemed to lurch beneath him. The walls twisted, shadows bending like wounded beasts.
He blinked—
And suddenly he and Dronde stood in a quiet forest outside towering castle walls.
What game had they just stepped into?