Chapter 162
For a long heartbeat, Daniel could only stare, his chest burning as though the world itself had folded in on him. They stood there,his parents, yet not his parents—clothed in the grandeur of the Rothchesters, but carrying the warmth of a home long lost. His legs moved before thought could stop them, and he found himself face-to-face with the man who bore the title of Duke but whose eyes, steady and kind, belonged to Edward Lazarus.
Daniel's breath trembled as he reached forward, and then the dam broke. He embraced his father, the weight of years and questions crashing against his ribs as the Duke's strong arms closed around him in return. "You've grown," the man whispered, his voice deep and familiar, the cadence of countless childhood memories. Daniel could not speak; the words choked in his throat, trapped between disbelief and relief. Then another warmth touched him, Elleena Laeanna Rothchester, though Daniel saw only Miyako Azai, the mother he had buried in grief.
She smiled through tears, her hands trembling as she cupped his face before he pulled her into his embrace as well. His body shook, and tears he had thought long buried streamed freely, dampening her gown. For a moment, the world, the Tower, the quest, all of it, fell away, leaving only family reclaimed from the impossible. But then his father drew back, his eyes narrowing with the faint spark of recollection, as though memory itself had leaked through the seams of reality.
"Daniel," he said softly, his hand gripping his son's shoulder with unshakable firmness, "what is wrong? Are you so overwhelmed by this quest that it bends your heart? Remember what I told you in the past… that no path worth walking comes without pain. Survive and never backdown from a fight."
The words struck like a blade of memory, a phrase Edward Lazarus had spoken long before, in another life, in another world, yet here it was, reborn in the mouth of the Duke. And as those words echoed, Daniel's chest tightened, his breath broke, and he arched as if struck by lightning, for the line between past and present, between truth and fabrication, had shattered.
The untimely reunion weighed too heavily on Daniel's chest; his tears had not yet dried, but already his mind churned with questions that clawed at his soul. The embrace of his parents—no, the Duke and Duchess, was both balm and torment.
He needed to be certain, needed to see for himself if the bond he felt was truly theirs or some cruel fabrication of the Tower. He drew a shuddering breath, then lifted his gaze to the woman who bore Miyako Azai's face, his mother's warmth wrapped in the grandeur of nobility. "Mother…" his voice cracked, then steadied with effort, "before supper, would you spar with me? Just for a while. There's… something I must know."
For a moment the hall fell silent, the four armored Daughters of War casting uneasy glances toward their Duchess, unsure if they had heard correctly. But Elleena Laeanna Rothchester only laughed softly, her smile curving with the same gentleness Daniel remembered from a childhood long buried. "Spar?" she repeated, tilting her head as if she had been expecting such a request. Her jeweled hands unclasped the train of her gown, and in that single motion, her bearing shifted—not a lady of court, but a hunter honed by years of blood and steel.
"My son, we molded you to be a true hunter. To ask this of me is no insult, nor burden. If this is the way you seek clarity, then so be it."
She extended her hand, her eyes glinting with the fire of challenge Daniel had only ever seen once before, when his real mother trained him under the sunlit fields of their home.
"Come," she said, her voice both command and invitation. "We have a few hours yet until supper is ready. Let us see what your heart truly seeks."
The words struck Daniel like a hammer, both comfort and terror. For if this spar mirrored his past with unbearable precision, if her movements carried the same weight, the same rhythm… then the truth would cut deeper than any blade could.
The courtyard had barely settled when another voice cut through the silence. "You've tested your mother's hands," the Duke said, his tone deep and measured, though his eyes gleamed with something sharper. He stepped forward, removing his coat with deliberate calm, the fabric falling into a servant's arms. Beneath, his frame was lean but corded with the kind of strength earned not in ballrooms, but on battlefields. "Now test mine."
Daniel's heart lurched. That stance, feet squared, shoulders loose, hands raised not in noble fencing form but in a fighter's guard—was one he had seen countless times in a dirt yard far removed from marble courtyards. It was Edward Lazarus's stance. His father's. The man who had drilled him in the ways of survival when he was still Damon, when swords were scarce, and fists had to be enough.
Daniel sheathed his blade slowly, letting it clang against the marble. "Hand to hand, then?"
The Duke nodded once. "A man stripped of his weapons shows his true nature. Let me see if you remember what I taught you."
They collided in a storm of movement.
The Duke struck first, a straight jab meant not to wound but to measure distance. Daniel blocked, palm deflecting, and answered with a low hook. The Duke rolled with it, pivoting just as Edward once had, and swept Daniel's leg. Daniel stumbled, but caught himself with a roll, springing back onto his feet.
Every motion was memory clawing back to life.
The Duke advanced with relentless pressure: elbow strikes, knees, a sudden grapple attempt. Daniel countered with sharp blocks and quick strikes, but the cadence was identical to the man who had once towered over him in their yard, forcing him to learn not just how to fight, but how to survive.
"Too wide on your stance," the Duke muttered mid-exchange, just as Edward had scolded years ago. "Tighten it, don't waste motion."
Daniel's breath caught, his fists trembling. He adjusted without thought, his body obeying the buried rhythm of past lessons. The Duke's eyes flashed in approval, then he surged forward, grappling Daniel's arm and twisting it behind his back in a lock. Pain flared, sharp and familiar.
"Break the hold!" the Duke barked, his tone the exact echo of Damon's childhood.
Daniel twisted, dropped his weight, and slammed his shoulder into the Duke's chest, breaking free exactly as he had been taught. For a fleeting moment, the courtyard vanished—he was a boy again, struggling in the dust, his father's voice correcting every mistake with harsh love.
The fight stretched on, long and grueling. The Duke fought with the precision of a teacher, exploiting openings, correcting them in the same breath. Daniel countered with his own ferocity, layering instinct from his past with the power he now wielded as the Neatherborn. Fists cracked against forearms, knees clashed against shins, bodies collided with bone-jarring force. The Daughters of War watched in silent awe; they had never seen a Duke move like this, nor a son fight him blow for blow.
At last, the Duke caught Daniel with a sudden feint, a half-step back followed by a crushing elbow to the chest. Daniel staggered, the air leaving his lungs, but before the Duke could press further, Daniel surged with raw instinct, sweeping his father's legs and driving him to the marble. In an instant, Daniel was atop him, fist cocked, the fight balanced on the knife's edge.
But the Duke only smiled, unflinching. The same smile Edward Lazarus had worn when Damon finally bested him years ago.
"Good," he said, voice ragged but proud. "You remembered."
Daniel froze. His arm trembled, lowering slowly as the truth sank deeper into his chest. This wasn't mere mimicry. This wasn't the Tower spinning illusions from fragments of memory. This was his father, the man who had once shaped him, alive in flesh and blood, standing now as Duke Seaton Rothchester. The Tower had not only rewritten the world; it had stolen his past and dressed it in nobility.
The weight of it crushed him, more suffocating than any blow.
Daniel's voice cracked as the words tore out of him, raw and unguarded, louder than the echoes of steel that still lingered in the courtyard air.
"Are you really my parents? Or just ghosts wearing their faces?!"
The outburst froze the night. The torches hissed. The Daughters of War shifted uneasily, as if the question itself summoned something darker than blades.
The Duke and Duchess, Edward, Miyako, Elleena, Seaton, all and none of these—stared at him, stricken. For a long moment they said nothing, only exchanged a glance, a silent communion born of years together. Then, as though bound by one thread, they both stepped forward, their movements slow and careful, like approaching a wounded beast.
"My son…" the Duke said at last, his voice low but steady, carrying the weight of a man who had buried grief too long. "Five years you were gone. Five years of silence, of wandering halls that no longer echoed with your laughter. We thought you lost in the gorge, consumed by the claws of that clan and their hired steel.
Do you not know what it did to us? Every night, Elleena wept into my shoulder, cursing the gods for taking you. Every morning, I stood on this courtyard and trained alone, imagining your fists striking mine again, imagining your stubbornness breaking through the shadows. You were our light, Daniel. And you were gone."
The Duchess's eyes glistened, her daggers forgotten at her side. She reached out, her hand trembling. "Daniel, listen to me. We are real. Flesh, blood, and breath. When you vanished into that cursed gorge, we searched until our bodies broke. When word came that the Bouldergrove had swallowed all trace, we clung only to hope. And when you did not return… hope became grief. But now, now you stand before us."
Daniel's chest heaved, his sword shaking in his grip. The logic inside him screamed that this was a trick, that the Tower had shaped illusions from memory to torment him. Yet their eyes, their voices, were not hollow specters. They carried weight, history, and the ache of years lost.
"You… you don't understand," Daniel rasped, his knees nearly buckling. "I've seen the Tower twist faces, rewrite lives, erase truth itself. Damon Lazarus, gone, forgotten. My name stolen, my life devoured. How can I trust this? How can I trust you?"
The Duke stepped closer, until he towered above him, broad and solid as Daniel remembered from childhood. Slowly, he laid a hand on Daniel's shoulder, firm and grounding. "Because I remember the first time you bloodied my nose in this courtyard, when you thought speed could overwhelm strength. Because I remember the night you confessed you feared the hunt, and I told you fear was the mark of wisdom, not weakness. Because no ghost would carry those memories, Daniel. Only your father would."
The Duchess joined him, cupping Daniel's face with both hands, her touch warm and trembling. "And I remember the boy who fell asleep by the fire, clutching his wooden sword, dreaming of glory. I remember the scar on your wrist when you saved a stray hawk from the hunter's snare. I remember every moment, Daniel. Not the Tower. Not illusions. Us."
Daniel's breath shuddered. His sword slipped from his hand and clattered on the marble. His vision blurred with tears he had fought for too long. The dam inside him broke, and his voice cracked into a whisper.
"Then why… why does it feel like I've lost you all over again, even when you're here?"
The Duke and Duchess drew him into their arms, holding him as though he might vanish again, their embrace fierce, desperate, unyielding.
"You have not lost us," the Duke murmured, his voice trembling for the first time."You have come home," the Duchess whispered through her tears.
And for a heartbeat, just a fragile, fleeting heartbeat, Daniel allowed himself to believe it.
Daniel almost collapsed into their embrace, into the warmth of arms that should have been dust by now. His cheek pressed against the familiar slope of his father's shoulder, his mother's fingers combed gently through his hair, and for a moment—the briefest, most dangerous moment—he let himself believe. The Tower, the trials, the blood and fire of forgotten wars, all of it fell away under the weight of this reunion.
But then a whisper, soft, almost careless, slipped from the Duke's lips.
"You've returned, Daniel. Just as I always knew you would… before continuing on to the Empire of Graves."
The words should have been harmless. A father recalling a son's path. Yet Daniel froze, his heart stuttering in his chest. He had never spoken of that quest here. Not to them. Not aloud. The Empire of Graves was a burden carried only in his mind, his oath unshared, his torment unvoiced. And yet… they knew.
His grip tightened unconsciously against their embrace. Slowly, he pulled back, staring at them both, his parents, his mentors, his ghosts made flesh. Their faces were calm, expectant, almost tender. Too tender. His breath came in uneven gasps as realization coiled inside him like a serpent.
The unseen and forgotten god… it must have been them. It must have woven his parents into this Tower's fabric, threading their memories with his, binding his past into the Rothchester names, the noble titles. Not illusions, no, something more cruel, more precious. They were real, sentient, with his mother's rhythm in every strike, his father's wisdom in every word. Not mere shadows. Living echoes, sculpted from his truth.
And if they were real, then the other gods would see them. Judge them. Erase them.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as a new fire roared in his chest. For years he had told himself his goal was freedom. Absolute, unshackled freedom from the Tower's chains. But now? Freedom meant nothing if it left his parents vulnerable to divine whim. What was liberation if it cost him them all over again?
No. The honor of escape no longer mattered. The old dream of walking beyond the Tower as a man unbound was ash. A greater purpose had taken root, an iron vow.
He would not flee the Tower. He would conquer it.
Every floor, every trial, every beast, every god that dared weave its influence, he would bend them all. He would become a force so vast, so undeniable, that no deity could touch his family again. He would carve a dominion where their existence was untouchable, where their stolen memories could no longer be rewritten or erased.
The path was no longer freedom. It was dominion. Sovereignty. Rule.
Daniel's hand found his sword again, not in rage, but in clarity. He stared past his parents into the shadowed spires of the estate, as though the Tower itself loomed just beyond the walls. His pulse steadied, his breath slowed, and in his silence burned a terrifying certainty.
If the gods had given him this gift, then he would answer with defiance. He would protect it with fire and blood. He would build a throne from the Tower's bones, and upon it secure every soul he cared for.
Daniel Lazarus would no longer be the lost son, the erased Neatherborn, the wandering hunter.
He would be the sovereign of the Tower.
Edward Lazarus, the Duke, was the first to notice it. That subtle but terrible change in his son's bearing, the way Daniel's shoulders squared as though bearing the weight of kingdoms, the way his gaze no longer wandered with uncertainty but cut forward with grim inevitability. The proud father's lips parted, yet hesitation clung to his breath. This was not just growth. This was something sharper, harder, dangerous.
"Daniel…" Edward's voice rumbled low, a mixture of pride and unease. "You carry a fire I have not seen since" He stopped himself, eyes narrowing, as though afraid to name the shadow he saw rising again.
Elleena, Miyako, the Duchess reached out, brushing her son's cheek with trembling fingers. She saw the storm behind his eyes, the quiet madness of resolve, and her heart tightened. "My son," she whispered, voice tender but tinged with fear, "whatever vow you just forged inside yourself… do not let it devour you. You were not born to be a weapon alone. You are flesh, and spirit, and loved."
Daniel almost faltered. Almost. But before he could answer, Melgil moved. Silent until now, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms tightly around him from behind. Her mana brushed against his like a warm tide, soft where it could have been overwhelming. "Whatever burden you take, Daniel," she murmured, her words searing into his heart, "I will walk beside you. Even if the entire land itself trembles and crack opens . Even if the gods themselves descend." Her cheek pressed against his shoulder, her grip tightening. "I will not let you face this vow alone."
For the first time, Daniel let his hand rest over hers, grounding himself in her touch. In that fragile moment, the vow shifted from silent obsession to an oath spoken between hearts. His parents saw it, the way Melgil steadied him, the way her presence made the impossible seem tangible. Their fear softened, though worry still flickered behind their smiles. If their son was to climb into peril, at least he was not climbing alone.
But time was slipping. He could not linger here in their warmth, no matter how much his soul ached to stay. The Tower moved ever onward, and the second city—the prize of the joint guilds—waited.
So Daniel withdrew gently, bowing his head to his parents with reverence that carried both gratitude and secrecy. "I'll return," he said quietly, words carrying the weight of promise and deception both. They smiled faintly, mistaking his calm for reassurance rather than determination to leave.
The transfer gate shimmered once more, and Daniel stepped through.
When the shimmer of the transfer gate faded, Daniel stood once more among the living, yet it felt almost foreign after what he had just left behind. He emerged into the battered outskirts of Erethune, the Fractured City, where tattered banners of half a dozen guilds flapped weakly in the night wind.
The cobbled streets were still slick with blood, rubble lay in heaps where towers had fallen, and the stench of smoke clung to every breath. Yet despite this, laughter and drunken songs spilled through the avenues. Survivors raised mugs of stolen wine and shouted their triumph as though the fractured city was theirs to claim. But beneath their cheer, Daniel saw it clearly, faces too pale, eyes too hollow, voices too forced. They were trying to drown out the truth: that victory had come at a cost they could not afford.
The voice that cut through the revelry was not a cheer, but a lash.
"Silence."
Mary Kaye, her crimson cloak darkened by ash, stood atop a shattered stairway, her presence commanding in the half-light. Her gaze swept across the gathered guilds like a blade drawn across throats. The laughter faltered, the songs broke, and one by one, the voices fell away until only the crackle of burning timber remained.
"This is no victory," she said coldly, her voice carrying in the hush like iron striking stone. "Twelve of our own lie dead in these ruins. Twelve who will never see another dawn, not because the enemy was too strong, but because we were too weak." Her eyes narrowed, and no one dared meet her gaze. "Your resolve faltered. You forgot the oath we swore when we entered this cursed Tower—that we do not fight for gold or spoils or fleeting glory. We fight for the climb, for the truth at its peak, for the chance to break the chains that bind us."
The silence deepened, thick as a shroud. Warriors who had moments ago lifted mugs now stared at their hands as though the blood still clung to them. A handful of younger adventurers trembled, eyes red from unshed grief, but Mary Kaye gave them no quarter.
"If you dare call this a celebration," she spat, "then you mock the dead. You mock the very climb itself. Erethune is not conquered, it is fractured, and so are we." Her voice broke into a roar that echoed off the broken walls. "Remember the fallen. Remember that their blood stains your boots, their screams haunt these streets. If you cannot carry that weight, then leave the Tower now and rot as cowards. For if you climb further with that weakness, the Tower will claim more than twelve."
No one moved. No one spoke. The air grew heavier with each heartbeat until even the drunken haze seemed burned away by her fury. In the shadows, Daniel watched it all unfold, unseen, unheard. To him, it was more than grief or anger, it was proof. Proof that even here, among the so-called victors, the Tower was already winning.
Daniel's hood cloaked his features, his steps careful and discreet. To them, it would be as if he had never vanished. As if he had fought with them, bled with them, stood with them through the conquest. Only he and Melgil knew the truth, that while the guilds had fought for a city, Daniel had unearthed a vow that could shatter gods.
The night air smelled of ash and triumph. Daniel inhaled slowly, his gaze lifting toward the unseen spire above the second city. His heart was steady now. His path set.
No god would take his parents from him again. No destiny would write him out. He would carve his sovereignty floor by floor until the Tower itself bent its knee.
And none would suspect, not yet, that their sovereign walked in silence among them.
The old hunting hut sat at the edge of the wildwood, half-swallowed by vines and shadow. Its timbers were weathered, gray as bone, the roof sagging under years of neglect. Moss crawled up the stone base, and the single narrow window gaped like a hollow eye staring into the forest. Inside, the air was cool and still, carrying the faint musk of rot and wet earth.
Daniel sat cross-legged on the warped wooden floor, sword laid across his knees, his breath deep and steady. To Cody and Farrah, who had passed this place earlier, it had seemed abandoned, a husk forgotten by time. But to the siblings who now entered, Charlotte and Jacob Lazarus, it was the place their brother seemed to prefer: silent, forsaken, and removed from the celebration of the newly cleared city.
Charlotte pushed the door open first. Its hinges shrieked like a dying thing. She held her torch aloft, casting flickering light over her brother's unmoving figure. Jacob followed, his steps cautious but steady, eyes scanning the hut as though it might swallow them whole.
They found Daniel not asleep, not resting, but meditating, his aura low but coiled, like a predator conserving its strength. His eyes opened slowly at their approach, and though his face softened, there was something in his gaze that made the air grow heavier.
"Brother," Jacob said carefully, breaking the silence. "We… ahem lord Daniel Rothchester , wanted to ask you something. The guilds are thankful and currently celebrating , but we are a bit restless, already turning their eyes to the third city. We've heard whispers, but nothing certain."
Charlotte stepped closer, her voice steady but tinged with worry. "Is it like this one? Another fortress to break, another guild to divide the spoils? Or something worse?"
Daniel's fingers brushed the edge of his gun blade ,before he finally spoke. His voice was low, carrying the weight of knowledge not won easily. "The third city," he said, "is Dravensk. The Dead City."
Both siblings stiffened at the name, and he continued, his words measured like a death knell.
"Dravensk was once fertile land, known for its wide plains and dark, rich soil. Families there raised cattle and bred war horses that were prized across the realm. Their steeds could outlast armies, their herds could feed nations. But when the plague of undeath fell upon them, the land itself changed. Now the soil bleeds ash. The plains are blackened fields where bones sprout instead of grain."
He rose slowly to his feet, his shadow stretching long in the torchlight. "The city itself lies at the heart of the valley, ringed by crumbled watchtowers and broken fences that once penned thousands of beasts. Now the pens hold only silence. And yet… the herds remain. The horses of Dravensk still roam, but their eyes glow pale, and their flesh carries the stench of death. They are steeds of the grave, tireless, fearless, never breaking to whip or flame. A warlord who claims them commands more than beasts, he commands an army's endurance."
Charlotte's throat tightened, but Daniel's gaze sharpened further.
"The population numbers ten thousand… but none among them are truly alive. Ghouls prowl the streets, wearing scraps of the lives they once had, their hunger endless. Dementors drift in the higher quarters, cloaked figures that whisper despair into the bones of any who enter. And yet, they are not mindless. Dravensk remembers. Its dead carry memory of the lives they lost, and its city breathes with a culture twisted but unbroken."
He stepped toward the door of the hut, looking past them into the night as if he could already see the Dead City. "They still trade, carrion for iron, bones for weapons. They still honor their festivals, though the firelight is dim and their laughter is hollow. Even their songs remain, sung by voices that should not speak." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Ten thousand undead inhabitants that can used magic… waiting. Watching. Their patience is longer than ours, and their hatred is older."
The torch trembled faintly in Charlotte's hand. Jacob swallowed hard, his voice rough. "Then the guilds don't know what they're walking into."
Daniel's eyes gleamed faintly as he turned back to them, his voice low, carrying the weight of truth that none wished to hear. "No. They do not. And Dravensk will not forgive the living for trespassing. It never has." His words fell like stone into water, rippling unease through those gathered.
The thought of the Dead City itself, its streets crawling with ghouls, its air thick with whispers of the damned, was enough to drain the color from even seasoned warriors' faces. Then his tone hardened, like iron struck against an anvil. "So like the first city of Grisval, the City of Echoes, that I purged and turned to dust, I shall wipe Dravensk and all its undead to ash.
But mark my words, this is not triumph, it is survival. Prepare your guild members well. You have already lost a dozen to weakness. If you march into Dravensk as you are, you will lose twice that before the gates are even breached."
He let the silence breathe for a moment, then spoke again, his gaze narrowing as though seeing beyond the horizon itself. "And beyond Dravensk lies Drasklorn, the Glass City. Do not mistake it for mercy that its undead cannot weave spells as the others.
Every soul that once lived there was a forgemaster, a craftsman whose art was steel and shard. Their death twisted that art into something crueler. Hundreds of glass arrowheads rain from their towers, piercing flesh and armor as though it were parchment.
Even a single volley can shatter a line of men before they take ten steps. The streets are not streets, but killing grounds, littered with hidden traps, lined with mirrored illusions meant to turn brother against brother, and patrolled by abominations whose bodies are fused with jagged crystal, their very skin sharper than blades." His voice dropped, almost a whisper. "There, hesitation means death. Courage without clarity means slaughter."
He turned to Charllote and Jacob, the steel in his eyes now edged with warning. "Be wary of those in your ranks who are already faltering in spirit. The weak of mind will not only fail—they will drag others into the grave with them. Before you step into Drasklorn, you must decide who among you has the strength to walk into a storm of glass and not lose themselves to fear. If you cannot, then your dead will outnumber the enemy before the battle even begins."
Jacob and Charllote exchanged a glance as Daniel's words settled over them like a shroud. Loyalty bound them, yet fear coiled quietly in their chests, tightening with every revelation he spoke. Jacob's jaw clenched, the instinct to protect warring against the creeping dread of what his brother had become. Charllote, though steadier, could not disguise the tremor in her voice when she finally stepped forward, her eyes narrowing with a mix of suspicion and pleading.
"How is it you know all this, lord Daniel? These are not things whispered in taverns or passed down by frightened villagers. You speak as though you have walked those cursed streets yourself."
Her question hung in the stale air of the ruined hunting lodge, her hand unconsciously tightening around the hilt of her blade, though not out of hostility—out of instinctive unease.
Daniel did not flinch, nor did he soften his gaze. Instead, a shadow seemed to pass over his face, a weight older than his years.
"Because I am not the first," he said, his tone grave, each word measured like a verdict. "The Netherborn have always walked these lands, unseen, gathering knowledge from the marrow of the world itself. They crept into forgotten libraries, listened at the edges of dying cities, stole whispers from the mouths of spirits before they could fade. Each of them, a keeper of truths too dangerous for men to hold. And I…"
He touched his chest lightly, almost absently, as though feeling the pulse of something not entirely his own. "…I am its chosen disciple. When I took its helm, I inherited not only its mantle but all it had gathered before me. Knowledge like a hive, every fragment, every warning, every nightmare lived and remembered, passed into me as though I had endured them all myself. Its memories are mine. Its power, mine. And with it, its burden."
The firelight caught in his eyes then, glinting like shards of obsidian, and the siblings felt their breath hitch. It was no longer merely Daniel standing before them, their lost kin returned, it was something larger, stranger, ancient. Jacob swallowed hard, torn between devotion to his brother and the sickening realization that Daniel's path might carry him further from humanity with every step. Charllote, though shaken, forced herself to hold his gaze, her loyalty tempered now with a fearful awe. Somewhere deep down, they both understood: the boy they had once known was gone, and in his place stood the living vessel of a knowledge meant never to be borne by man.
Daniel's hand dropped from his chest, and for a heartbeat the mask of certainty cracked. His eyes softened, but not with warmth, rather with the dull glimmer of exhaustion, the kind that gnaws at the soul more than the body. He exhaled slowly, as though the weight pressing against his ribs threatened to crush him if he breathed too deep.
"Do you think this gift comes without a price?" His voice was low, almost a whisper, but sharp enough to still the night air around them.
"Every secret I speak, every shadow I unearth, is carved from the memories of those who bore this curse before me. Their triumphs, their failures… their deaths. I see them all. Night after night, I walk through cities burning, hear armies screaming as they are devoured, feel the last breaths of men who begged for release and never found it."
His gaze flicked to Jacob, then Charllote, as if weighing whether they could stand to hear the truth. "I wake in the silence, my skin cold, convinced that I am still bleeding from wounds not mine. Sometimes I hear their voices, warnings, regrets, promises made and broken. It is as though a thousand lives are stitched into my bones, and each one demands to be remembered.
Do you understand? The burden is not knowledge alone. It is living the ruin, over and over, with no escape. What you see standing here is not untouched by it. I am fraying, piece by piece."
The siblings stood frozen, the enormity of his confession settling heavily between them. Daniel's expression hardened again, but the steel was born of necessity, not pride.
"So when you follow me, know this, your loyalty will not only be tested by the enemies we face, or the cities we must burn, or the dead we must fight. It will be tested by me. By whether you can bear to stand at my side while I carry the weight of countless graves and not falter, not question, not abandon me when the toll grows too heavy. For I will not stop. I cannot stop. The cost of turning away is greater than the ruin I already endure."
The fire in his eyes flared once more, masking the shadow of despair with resolve. "If you choose to walk beside me, it will not be as family alone, it will be as those willing to shoulder a fraction of this curse. And if you cannot…" His jaw tightened, the silence that followed more terrifying than threat.
"…then you must decide now, before the next city swallows us all."
Daniel listened to the silence that followed his ultimatum as if it were a living thing, breathing, patient, and waiting for a cue.
Charlotte and Jacob carried Daniel's words with them as they left the crumbling hunting lodge behind, each step toward Erethune weighted by the shadows of Dravensk and Drasklorn. The Fractured City lay quiet now, its corpse-lord banished, its twisted towers still cracked and groaning with the echo of recent battle. The air smelled of soot, blood, and the sour stench of magic burned to ash. Yet when they reached the heart of the guild encampment, the sight that greeted them was not one of grim vigilance, but of foolish triumph.
The guild members, ragged, mud-streaked, half the number they had marched in with—were laughing, drinking, clashing cups of water and cheap ale as though the empire of graves had been vanquished in a single night. Their voices rose too high, their laughter too sharp, the giddy sound of survivors who mistook survival for victory. To Charlotte it rang hollow, and Jacob felt his gut twist as though he could already hear Daniel's warning whispering through the noise: You have already lost a dozen to weakness.
Mary Kaye saw it too. She cut through the milling crowd like a blade, her cloak still dark with dried gore, her face drawn but unflinching. Her voice lashed across the firelight like a whip.
"Fools! Do you think Erethune was the end? Do you think this was triumph? You've slain one corpse-lord and now believe the empire of graves will bow? Look around you—five of our own rotting in the ruins, their names already fading from your tongues, and you drink as though their bones bought you peace."
The laughter faltered, leaving only the crackle of firewood and the guilty shuffle of boots. Some lowered their cups. Others looked away, shame burning in their eyes.
It was then that Charlotte and Jacob, still shadowed by Daniel's revelation, found themselves standing near Natasha, vice-captain of the White Devil company. Her pale hair was streaked with grime, her armor dented, her face streaked with blood that was not all her own. She met their eyes with a gaze that smoldered with a quiet, dangerous anger.
"Five of mine died today," she said coldly, her voice pitched low enough that only they could hear. "Five, and they died hard. Broken against the corpse-lord's horde while your High Strategy scholars and your East Lazarus tacticians were still scribbling their perfect plans on parchment. Now I've got a handful left, most of them borrowed from guilds that think strategy is worth more than blood. Tell me, how long before their paper shields burn in the fires of Dravensk?"
Her words were not accusation alone, they were a demand. Jacob clenched his jaw, torn between defending the unity of their fractured alliance and admitting the bitter truth Daniel had laid bare. Charlotte felt the tremor in her throat, but she forced it down, answering with steadiness born of necessity.
"This is no time for triumph, Natasha. Nor is it time for division. Erethune was but the first scar. What waits for us in the valley makes this city look like a child's graveyard game. If your five fell here, then what will your White Devils do when faced with ten thousand undead who still remember how to hate, how to fight, how to cast?"
The vice-captain's lips thinned, but her eyes did not falter. Around them, the surviving guild members listened, the fragile illusion of victory crumbling further with every word. The drunken cheer was gone now, replaced by a grim, silent tension that clung to the camp like fog.
Mary Kaye's voice rose again, harsh and cutting, driving the final nail into their hollow celebration.
"Remember this night. Remember the ones who are already gone. And burn into your skulls the truth, Erethune was not conquest. It was warning. If you cannot carry that weight into the Dead City, then you'll die before you even see its gates."
The fires hissed, the wind whistled through the cracked stones of the Fractured City, and for the first time since their march began, the guild felt the silence of true fear settle around them.
Natasha's pale eyes lingered on Charlotte and Jacob a moment longer. The cold edge in her stare softened, just enough to show something close to regret. She stepped forward, voice low, carrying like wind through broken glass.
"I misjudged them," she said at last. The words fell into the firelight with a weight no one expected. "They were fools. They were greedy. I will not excuse that. I should have struck when they faltered, and I did not. For that, I am sorry."
The apology tasted of iron and ash. Even Charlotte, who had braced herself for another sharp cut of blame, blinked in surprise. Jacob felt his shoulders ease, the tension in his chest loosening by a fraction.
Natasha pressed her lips together, then spoke again, slower, as though forcing the words out. "But their failure is ours to mend. We will train harder. We will bind watches tighter. And we will teach the men to lift their eyes from coin and fix them on the comrade at their side."
The air shifted. The fragile truce might have broken there—too many ears, too much pride hanging between the guilds—but before it could curdle into silence, Mary Kaye Lazarus stepped forward. Her presence cut clean through the camp, her voice sharp and steady.
"Apologies are wind," she said. Not cruel, not dismissive—just hard truth. The flicker of the fire carved her features into sharp planes, the authority in her voice leaving no room for denial. "Useful, yes. But empty if we let them hang in the air while we bicker over blame."
Her gaze swept the gathered guilds, resting on those who had laughed too soon, and on those who had avoided every stare. Her next words fell like hammer blows.
"Greed kills. We can train against greed. But contempt? Division? That is poison in our blood. If we tear at each other now, when the valley ahead is only a rumor and the real storm has yet to break, then the twelve we've buried will be the first stones of a mountain. What you call twelve deaths will become a thousand."
The words sank into the earth between them. Even the fire seemed to burn quieter. Around the circle, the guild members shifted uneasily. The last trace of laughter died.
Mary Kaye lifted her hand—callused, steady, decisive. "We've built this alliance from shards. Fragile, yes, but it is the only bridge we have to cross what lies ahead. If you let petty grudges or one night's grief widen into suspicion, then you'll shatter that bridge with your own hands. The Dead Cities won't need to strike us. We'll be finished long before their gates."
Charlotte felt the truth settle deep inside her bones, Daniel's earlier warning aligning perfectly with Mary Kaye's words. Temptation could be resisted. Training could be hardened. But distrust? Distrust spread like rot.
Jacob glanced at Natasha, then at the weary survivors around them—faces that had been strangers yesterday but now carried the same bruises, the same exhaustion, the same haunted stare. His jaw loosened. For the first time, he saw them less as rivals and more as the only shield he had left.
The camp responded not with cheers, but with quiet movement. Watch posts were doubled. Straps were buckled again. Packs were checked a second, even a third time, as though the act of preparing could press Mary Kaye's warning deeper into muscle memory.
As night closed in, the fires sank to careful coals. The camp fell into a brittle, uneasy rest. Yet Mary Kaye's words did not fade. They threaded through the silence like an incantation.
Men and women lay awake, staring at ruined ceilings or the dark canvas of a torn tarp, remembering her warning—twelve deaths, not as an ending, but as the first cracks in a dam. Some thought of Natasha's five and the greed that had doomed them. Others thought of parchment plans that had collapsed the moment steel was drawn. And in the hollow dark, each made small, private vows.
A hand to pull a brother back from a cursed relic. A name to be learned so no one fought beside a stranger. A shield raised without hesitation. A seam mended before it unraveled.
The night held its breath. The valley beyond slept, waiting. But inside the camp, the weight of Mary Kaye's words pressed into every survivor's gut like cold iron. Unity was not given. It had to be forged. And once forged, it had to be guarded fiercer than any wall or gate.
For all of them knew the choice was simple—loyalty or discord. One meant a chance to reach the Dead Cities alive. The other meant they would bury each other long before they ever saw the gates.