The expedition assembled at the eastern gate of Thornwick: fifty knights, twenty mages, and a hundred men-at-arms. It was the largest military force the kingdom had mustered in a decade, and it was being sent to root out a cult in the woods rather than fight the Empire. The irony was not lost on Kaelen. He stood beside Caspian, wearing the silver-and-blue armor of House Vane, his black blade hidden beneath his cloak. The blade was hungry—he could feel it pulsing against his hip, eager to drink.
The leader of the expedition was Ser Godfrey himself, the king's champion. The Tier 4 knight rode at the head of the column on a massive black warhorse, his armor gleaming, his sword—a Tier 4 artifact called Winter's Fang—strapped across his back. Kaelen studied him with cold calculation. Ser Godfrey was the strongest person in Thornwick, the only Tier 4 in the kingdom. If Kaelen fought him openly, he would lose—his Tier 3, no matter how close to breaking, could not match a true Tier 4. But if he could absorb enough essence from the cult, if he could break through before the expedition returned…
Patience, he told himself. The hunt is not yet begun.
Magister Elora led the mage contingent. She rode in a carriage inscribed with protective runes, her Tier 3 aura flickering like a candle in the wind. She was powerful, but her power was brittle—the power of scholarship, not combat. Kaelen had seen her kind before. They crumbled when faced with true violence.
The column marched east, into the Thornwood. The road narrowed, the trees closed in, and the sunlight dimmed. By mid-afternoon, they had reached the Old Pass—the site of the ambush where Kaelen had first encountered the avatar. The bodies had been removed, but the ground was still scarred, and the air still smelled of rot.
"We make camp here," Ser Godfrey announced. "Tomorrow, we push deeper into the woods. The cult's temple is said to be half a day's march to the north."
The camp was set up with military precision. Tents were pitched, fires were lit, and sentries were posted. Kaelen volunteered for the first watch—a chance to observe the camp without being observed. He stood at the edge of the clearing, his eyes scanning the treeline, while behind him the soldiers ate and drank and told coarse jokes.
Caspian joined him after an hour, carrying two cups of watered wine. "You don't drink, Voss. You don't laugh. You don't do anything except watch."
"Watching keeps me alive, my lord."
Caspian handed him a cup. "Tonight, you drink. That's an order."
Kaelen took the cup and sipped. The wine was cheap and sour, but he forced himself to swallow. "As you command."
They stood in silence for a while. Then Caspian said, "My sister spoke to you the other night. What did she say?"
Kaelen's pulse quickened. Seraphine had confronted him, threatened him. But Caspian's tone was curious, not accusatory. "She said she does not trust me, my lord. She said she is watching."
Caspian snorted. "Seraphine trusts no one. Not even me. She was always the clever one—too clever for her own good." He took a long drink. "But she is not wrong to be cautious. The world is full of wolves in sheep's clothing."
If only you knew, Kaelen thought. He said, "I am no wolf, my lord. I am a dog. And dogs are loyal to those who feed them."
"Loyalty bought with silver is not loyalty at all."
"All loyalty is bought, my lord. Some with silver, some with respect, some with fear. The question is which currency you wish to spend."
Caspian turned to look at him. In the firelight, the heir's face was open, vulnerable. "You are a strange man, Kaelen Voss. I have never met anyone like you."
"That is because most men like me die in ditches, my lord. I survived."
They returned to the campfire, and Kaelen played the part of the loyal knight, laughing when others laughed, nodding when others spoke. But his mind was elsewhere—in the depths of the Thornwood, where something ancient waited.
The next morning, the expedition broke camp and marched north. The forest grew denser, the thorns longer, the air heavier. By mid-morning, they found the first signs of the cult: totems made of bone and sinew, hung from tree branches; circles of black stones stained with dried blood; and, eventually, the first corpses—cultists who had been killed by their own god, their bodies twisted into impossible shapes.
Magister Elora dismounted and examined one of the corpses. "This is not simple corruption. This is consumption. The entity in the temple is feeding on its own worshippers, absorbing their essence to grow stronger."
Ser Godfrey's face was grim. "Then we destroy it before it grows any stronger. Double the pace."
They marched faster. The trees grew darker, their bark black as charcoal, their leaves dripping with a viscous fluid that smelled of rot. The ground became spongy, as if something had died beneath it and was slowly decomposing. Kaelen's Shard pulsed urgently. Close. Very close.
Then they saw it.
The temple was a ruin of black stone, half-sunken into the earth, overgrown with roots and vines. But it was not the architecture that drew the eye—it was the heart. A massive crystal, as tall as a man, beating like a living organ in the center of the temple. It was the source of the corrupted essence, and it was Tier 4.
"By the gods," someone whispered.
The heart pulsed, and the ground erupted.