The three newcomers—Darmakaya, Maynar, and Pale—took their seats at the table. Arsik kept his eyes fixed on the Gargoyle, drumming his fingers against the wood in a steady rhythm. Food, rum, and wine had already been served, while the fire in the hearth burned brighter than ever.
Kalden studied the new arrivals with an expression so pitiful that even Arsik felt sorry for him. When his gaze finally settled on Pale, the knight looked as though he had given up trying to make sense of anything. Arsik chuckled. It was the first genuinely sympathetic reaction he had ever seen from Kalden.
"Do I know you from somewhere?" Darma asked, eyeing Arsik.
"Know me?" Arsik shot to his feet, and the entire hall seemed to tense at once. "We killed you, you bastard... We watched you sink to the bottom of the sea like a stone."
"So you killed me, did you?" Darma replied. "Then what's this?" He spread his arms. "Have you killed many people like that?"
Arsik felt the blood rush to his head.
"Not as many as I'd like, Kraken. But it's never too late. I remember Arthax barely letting you breathe beneath his sword."
"Arthax? That lizard?" Darma spat onto the floor. "I still owe him something. Now that you've reminded me... where can I find him?"
"He's dead," Ilandro answered calmly. "It's obvious the two of you have a history. I suggest you keep yourselves under control."
Arsik lowered his head.
Arthax had once nearly drowned him, so he had never felt any fondness for the dragonkin from Miasel. Back then he had merely been a mercenary hired by Karadra and Sentrik, yet he had still been one of them—and that entire company had come to mean something unique to Arsik.
"Dead, is he? Him too?" Darma said with a dry laugh. "Nothing survived your little trip across the sea, did it?"
"I did."
"You did. Imagine that."
With a furious roar, Arsik smashed a chair against the floor.
"Watch your tongue, criminal. This time I won't let you end up as nothing more than another pebble."
Darma rose to his feet and unfurled his enormous wings, nearly filling the room. Kalden stared open-mouthed for a heartbeat before remembering to draw his sword in an attempt to restore order.
"Enough!" Ilandro barked.
Yet Arsik thought he caught the faintest hint of a smile as the mage's eyes lingered on Darma's wings.
"You are guests beneath my roof, and you will conduct yourselves accordingly. My home will not become some tavern alley for drunken brawls. If you insist on behaving like dogs, then take it outside, dogs."
Silence settled over the room.
Pale alone had not touched the food or drink before him.
"You look hungry, friend," Kalden said, studying the man's gaunt frame.
"I don't need it."
"I'm sorry?"
"I don't need any of it."
"You'll only end up more confused, Sir," Maynar said at last.
He stood, turned toward Ilandro, and bowed.
"Lord Ilandro, we come on behalf of Priest Nastal and Lady Siriafil Elaya. If you've already been informed of our arrival, then perhaps you know why we're here. Otherwise... we have much to tell you."
The name Elaya echoed through Arsik's mind. It was Sentrik's surname.
"Of course, young man," Ilandro replied, taking a sip of wine. "But tell me your version regardless. I'd like to hear it."
"We're looking for answers, my lord. You see... we found a book. Well, first we lost a friend, and then we found a book. It's... complicated. The book led us to a woman. Or... not exactly. We think it's a woman."
Arsik tried to follow Maynar's increasingly panicked train of thought.
Darma merely shook his head.
It took some time for them to recount everything that had happened over the past few days.
The events at Ayaton. The mysterious book. The demoness. Arsik.
Everything seemed tied together by a shared past—and an even more uncertain future.
Having Arsik and Darma in the same room was like forcing two opposing forces into the same space.
Ilandro listened intently, paying close attention to every detail. From time to time he jotted down notes, treating the entire matter almost like a scientific inquiry.
None of them are being completely honest, he concluded.
The same story carried a different flavor from every mouth that told it. Each of them was hiding something, though for different reasons—or so he believed.
When the last voice finally fell silent, only the crackling of the fire remained to fill the hall.
"So," Ilandro said at last, "you wish to find the woman from the book—the demoness. Is that correct?"
"Yes," Darma and Arsik answered in unison.
"Why?"
"So she can die," Arsik replied without hesitation.
Ilandro turned his gaze toward him.
"And why do you want to kill her, Arsik?"
Arsik frowned.
"You already know. I've been coming here for long enough."
"You want revenge."
"Then why ask?"
"Because I want everyone else to hear it. I want them to know why."
For the first time since arriving, Arsik hesitated.
Darma saw the fury burning behind his eyes—a tide powerful enough to drown an entire city.
He knew that look.
It was the face of a man with nothing left to lose.
"She killed people..." Arsik's voice faltered. "She killed someone who... meant everything to me."
A heavy sadness settled over Maynar.
Darma's expression grew thoughtful.
The others remained unreadable.
"There is only one way to find the end of this thread," Ilandro said.
"The book. The missing child from the island. The power lurking behind all of this... it all began somewhere. We must find the source."
"And how do we do that?" Maynar asked.
"There is a ritual."
"A ritual?"
"I can trace those who have been touched by that power. Now that we possess even a single page from the book, I can attempt the spell."
"Touched?" Darma asked suddenly, anxiety plain across his face.
"I'll find her," Ilandro answered simply, offering no further explanation.
He rose from his chair and pinched out the candle before them with two fingers.
The room darkened.
A gust of wind swept in through the window, making the fire dance inside the hearth.
"Enough talking, young men," he said. "I'll need the table."
The men exchanged uneasy glances.
For the first time since they had arrived, Kalden felt genuinely uncomfortable.
Ilandro began to chant.
The hall seemed to grow darker, and there was something strange about his voice. A metallic resonance distorted it, as though another voice were speaking in perfect unison with his own. Arsik noticed spasms twisting the mage's face. Whatever spell he was weaving demanded a physical toll.
Ilandro was submerged in darkness, his mind growing numb.
The void through which he swam was so dense that it swallowed every sound around him, along with the voices of those nearby. It felt as though he were forcing his way through an endless abyss, each movement growing heavier as exhaustion settled over him. He drifted in different directions, searching the darkness for anything that stood apart from the black.
Then a brilliant light flared beside him.
One of them? Interesting... he murmured to himself.
He focused once more and spotted another, fainter light far in the distance. He swam toward it, feeling as though he were passing through people, buildings, and forests alike before finally reaching his destination.
Beyond it, there was nothing.
No other light for countless miles.
Ilandro opened his eyes, first looking at Darma, then at the others.
"There is someone," he said firmly.
"Someone?" Maynar asked.
"In the forest north of here, just outside the city. I don't know who they are or what they're doing there, but..." He paused. "She has left her mark on them."
"Her mark?"
Ilandro nodded.
Darma's expression darkened with thought.
"The forest isn't far," Arsik added.
"We've already come this far..." Maynar said, though in truth he simply wanted to leave the manor.
"I believe you'll go together," Ilandro said.
"Together? What do you mean?"
Darma rose abruptly, clearly unsettled by the mage's words.
"You and Arsik are searching for the same person—each for your own reasons, perhaps—but for now, that makes no difference. The power you're pursuing concerns me as well, Darma. I owe a debt to the Queen of Ayaton... and to other powers."
Ilandro turned toward Kalden.
"Lord Kalden, I would like you to accompany them."
Kalden remained composed.
"I'll need someone at their side whom I trust."
"You honor us," Arsik said dryly, spitting onto the floor.
"The nature of my work doesn't permit carelessness, young man."
"I'll accompany them, Lord Ilandro," Kalden said. "I cannot, however, guarantee what will happen."
"And you?" Ilandro asked, turning to Pale. "Have you nothing to say?"
The man smiled. The weak firelight caught the yellow tint of his skin.
"I'm ready," he said simply, rising to his feet.
Once Ilandro was finally alone again, he resumed drinking.
During the ritual he had seen the demoness's mark clearly upon Darma... upon the unknown figure in the northern forest... and who knew where else. The ritual had given him his first trail.
Arsik had begged him for help before, but always in vain. Then, all at once, a new group had appeared carrying the very pieces that had been missing.
"Coincidences," he muttered into the darkness before taking another drink.
He resisted the urge to summon his apprentice. Instead, he tried to arrange his thoughts, piecing together the motives of the forces he understood so far. With one finger he absentmindedly traced patterns across the stone tabletop, a habit that always helped him think.
A spirit. Female. Ruthless.
She's playing with the Gargoyle, so she's watching.
Arsik hunts her for revenge, blaming her for the death of the woman he loved.
And yet... the spirit kept the elven woman alive for centuries.
They had an agreement.
But the violin...
That was the one thing Ilandro could not understand.
Whenever Arsik visited the manor, he could feel the violin's magic. Even so, he deliberately avoided examining it too closely. There was something about it that unsettled even him.
Among the circles of mages, if there were truly forbidden relics, they were those connected to Amar of the Arcanaran elves. Her curses had become the stuff of legend.
Ilandro had decided to conceal Arsik's presence from Nastal and the Queen of Ayaton.
He regarded him as an unpredictable variable, a man capable of bringing nothing but chaos.
The spirit appeared before the Gargoyle for obvious reasons, he continued to himself. He's the easiest soul to corrupt... though I imagine she'd enjoy a challenge.
She's appearing in the mortal world far more often now. That means she's found other gateways.
Other victims?
The book is certainly helping her.
But at what price?
Someone had created that book with a greater purpose in mind.
Someone possessing immense magical power.
And somewhere within Lothen, for two of her marks had already appeared so close together.
Ilandro rose from his chair.
"You're fortunate," he murmured into the darkness. "Who have you found this time to bridge the distance? And what did you promise them?"
To anyone listening, the mage would have sounded insane.
Those who knew him, however, were accustomed to his habit of speaking to himself. What he said rarely made sense to untrained ears.
He still couldn't find the end of the thread.
His head felt light, and frustration gnawed at him. Many times before he had wrestled with mysteries like this while possessing little more than scattered clues.
He was rarely right.
His work was not an exact science.
The future could not be predicted so easily.
The only certainty he possessed was that demons always sought the same thing:
To remain in the mortal world at any cost.
In the end, he decided the affair wasn't worth any more of his time.
Once the travelers completed their investigation, he would send the knight back to Forcry. His uncle would owe him a favor regardless, and his obligation to the Queen of Ayaton had been nothing more than guiding them—which he had already done.
Two favors.
One from a baron.
One from a queen.
For a mage of Lothen, that was hardly a poor bargain.
He settled back into his chair—more satisfied this time—and refilled his cup.
Still...
A guilty curiosity lingered.
He wanted to know more about the demoness.
The hours drifted by.
Rat'Ala found herself trapped among thousands of ravenous souls, each one draining her strength with savage hunger.
Within that endless wall of spirits, finding Taarum's gem had been an almost impossible feat.
The colors and auras of everyone gathered there—the living, the immortal, and the dead—swirled around her in a bewildering storm. The souls imprisoned within the barrier had faded into lifeless shades of gray, every trace of vitality consumed by Taarum.
At the center of that dreadful place stood an immense pillar of energy, its golden surface feeding the amber barrier that surrounded them all.
"This place is sealed beyond breaking," Rat'Ala muttered bitterly. "We'll be trapped here forever. Damn you, cursed Maestra... look what you've dragged us into. We had everything."
She felt her form slowly unravel, her colors fading with every passing moment.
Then she spotted the gem.
A cruel smile spread across her face.
"We don't have much time."
She seized it and fought to break free from the souls clinging to her like leeches.
Taarum's power was overwhelming.
Sooner or later her entire plan would collapse once again.
The party would die.
Maestra's fate would be sealed.
And she, too, would vanish forever among the maddened souls.
Rat'Ala made her decision.
She betrayed Maestra.
She condemned her to death and, for the first time, risked existing without a mortal vessel, if only briefly, until she could escape the watery tomb that would soon swallow them all. The danger was immense. If she remained bodiless for too long, she would be cast back into the Abyss.
So she abandoned them to their fate.
She sped away, searching desperately for a crack through which she could escape Taarum's realm.
A figure appeared before her.
Its aura shimmered in black and crimson. Its silhouette was slender, framed by long black hair that hung like whips.
"Endorious... the bearer of the violin," Rat'Ala said with mocking amusement. "Step aside. I'm finished here."
"So you'll leave them?" the spirit asked, its voice torn between grief and rage. "You'll abandon them all?"
"Oh, my dear." Rat'Ala smiled. "Do I look like a heroine to you? Our journey ends here, but I have no intention of going back."
She gestured toward the sea of imprisoned souls.
"I refuse to become part of... that."
She slipped away at great speed until the screams, explosions, and echoes of battle faded behind her.
Now she drifted alone, her soul stripped bare of any body.
If she failed to find another vessel soon, she would be forced back into the Abyss.
The thought alone filled her with panic.
"No... no. There's still time. I only need a few moments... and a clear mind."
Horrible images flooded her thoughts.
A barren, lifeless place where every nightmare lurking within her mind took shape. A place where she would be forced to confront her greatest fear—
A reflection of herself.
Far from the battlefield, Rat'Ala came to a halt within the darkness.
Her mind and spirit lingered between worlds.
Yet her gaze remained fixed upon the mortal realm, desperately searching for a bridge that would allow her to remain there.
The sins of mortals created such bridges.
It was only a matter of time before another opportunity appeared.
Then, without warning, a silver line carved its way through the void, slowly unfolding into a gateway.
"There we are," she whispered.
She prepared to intervene.
Through the portal, she saw a traveler who had stopped his wagon to speak with a royal tax collector.
Their voices reached her.
"Taxes? But I already paid them, my lord. There must be some mistake."
"I believe you're right," the collector replied.
In truth, he was no royal official at all, but a criminal in disguise.
"I stopped you for nothing."
He turned to leave, and relief washed over the traveler's face.
His wife and children smiled from atop the wagon.
"Before you go, though..." the false collector said. "One last thing."
Rat'Ala smiled.
She could already feel the criminal's intentions and eagerly awaited the ending of the tale.
A sphere of fire blossomed in the man's hand.
He hurled it toward the wagon.
The unfortunate traveler froze in terror.
Then he realized—
The spell hadn't been aimed at him.
His thoughts simply stopped.
The explosion was devastating.
The wagon erupted into flames.
His wife.
His children.
Even the horses.
Everything burned.
The man collapsed to his knees, unable even to whisper why as his entire world disappeared beneath the fire.
Perfectly satisfied, Rat'Ala rushed toward the pyromancer.
Another shadow reached him first.
Larger.
Faster.
"He's mine," it hissed at Rat'Ala before slipping through the gateway.
The portal vanished behind it.
Rat'Ala screamed in frustration.
"Damn you... you beat me to him."
Another demon had already marked the pyromancer.
It had reached him first, leaving Rat'Ala exposed once again.
She waited patiently for another sign.
At last, a voice echoed through her mind.
A man.
Powerful.
A mage.
This time, however, he had summoned a spirit of his own accord.
The opportunity seemed almost too perfect to be real.
Rat'Ala wasted no time.
She followed the voice, and moments later found herself standing before the mage's astral form.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Easy now, my dear," Rat'Ala purred. "Let's get acquainted first."
"My name is Dyran," he replied eagerly. "I've summoned you because I require assistance with something important. If you help me, I'll reward you generously."
"Oh, Dyran..." Rat'Ala smiled. "The gods themselves have sent you. You're my savior."
She circled him slowly.
"Now then... what is it you're after?"
Her eyes fell upon the book.
"Mmm... what a lovely book."
"This spell is ancient. Difficult."
"Oh, Dyran... you're remarkably talented."
"Of course I can help you."
"As luck would have it, I was with another mage only moments ago—one who completed this very ritual."
"And succeeded."
"He's immortal now."
"He rules the ocean like a king."
She smiled.
"Don't you want a kingdom of your own?"
"I like you, Dyran."
"Your ambition is... measured."
"I think we'll get along very well."
"There is one small problem."
"I need a young, healthy body."
"I can't spend eternity living through a book, you understand."
"I need something... more permanent."
"I need my independence."
She leaned closer.
"And remember this, Dyran."
"The younger and more beautiful the body..."
"...the better it will be for you as well."
Dyran understood immediately.
"I'll see to it at once, my lady," he replied without hesitation. "I already have the perfect candidate in mind. It won't be a problem."
There was unmistakable desire in his voice, and an eagerness within his soul that pleased Rat'Ala.
She liked men like him—
Men willing to do anything.
Men who welcomed violence.
They grew boring quickly, of course.
Still...
A dull life in the mortal world was far preferable to an exciting one in the Abyss.