He screamed and broke free, tearing the spectral tendrils with raw will. But the Throne Bearer was upon him now, swinging a tower-sized arm.
Veyra moved faster than thought. Her illusion dove between them, erupting in a nova of light. It bought Aelric half a second, which was enough.
He leapt. The chains lashed forward. One shared the Lord's eye socket. The other is embedded in a joint at the shoulder. Then he pulled.
Not for power this time, but for momentum. He launched himself into the Lord's back, climbing the bony throne, ignoring the clawing dead.
His heart thundered, his breath burned, and at the peak, he slammed both of his hands into the throne's crown and let the shackles feed.
The souls screamed. The construct convulsed. Energy surged into him like liquid fire. He turned from the inside out, but he held the chains firm.
The Throne Bearer toppled with a bellow that split stone, its bones crumbling, its puppets disintegrating. Slowly, everything returned to silence.
The Censer Bearer was motionless, leaking smoke from shattered vents. The Glaive Wielder had crumbled, its body dim and inert. And the Throne Bearer was returned to dust.
Aelric collapsed to one knee, every muscle trembling, lungs heaving from breath that didn't help. The chains around his arms pulsed erratically, glowing too brightly.
The Forge, what remained of it, was fractured. Part of the crucible had collapsed. Several pylons sparked, their runes failing. The resources to forge again were gone.
But something glinted in the wreckage. He approached the ruins of the Forge and pulled a twisted slab of metal free.
On its underside was a glowing diagram, part of a schematic, a design so alien that even the Voice took several moments to comprehend it.
[These are plans for future enhancements. Traps woven into armor. Chains that thunn, Essence-fueled augmentations. We can still learn.]
Veyra approached, limping, face pale. "You are still standing," she said. "That's rare."
Aelric looked at her, then down at the chains coiled I'm his fist. "I am just adapting fast."
And in the dark, the shackles purred. The remnants of battle still hung heavy in the air, the ash settling into the shattered flagstones, black ichor staining the Forges' runes, the echoes of collapsing Lords fading into silence.
Aelric stood amid the wreckage, shoulders stuffed with blood, crusted over his torn garments. His breath came in ragged bursts, each one dragging pain across cracked ribs and aching joints.
And across the room, illuminated in the Forges lingering red glow. Stood Veyra, her silhouette still flickering with the afterimage of her illusions, her eyes distant and unreadable.
She had not spoken since then. He slowly turned, dragging the Soulbound Shackles behind him like the chains of a prisoner, but only for now, there were his own.
Their glow had dimmed, the energy within them had depleted, but still present, humming with Hunger.
"You knew, right?" Aelric asked at last, voice like stone grating against stone. "About the Forge. About the lords. About all of this."
Veyra didn't flinch. "I suspected," she replied, almost too quietly. "I don't know."
Aelric advanced a step. "Don't lie to me. The way you moved, the way you handled the runes, the sigils..you didn't even hesitate once." His voice hardened. "You have been here more than once."
Veyra said nothing. Aelric's fury surged. "You guided me here like it was instinct. You wanted me to awaken them."
Still no response. The chains snapped taut in his fists. "Speak, damn you." At last, Veyra sighed and sat against the fractured remains of a collapsed pillar.
She leaned her head back, gazing at the ceiling where molten lines still glowed faintly from the Forges' last breath.
"I was born before this place fell," she said. The words hung in the air like a noose. Aelric froze. Veyra smiled faintly, without warmth. "Or rather…I was remade then. During the city's final days."
"The city of demons," Aelric murmured. "The one the Voice said vanished."
"Yes," Veyra said. "It wasn't always like this. There was a time when the Abyss bowed to it. When this city was called by a different name, Rathma Nuul, they called it a beacon for demonic intellect. Not just violence or gluttony or lust, but knowledge. They sought to understand the Abyss, to master it."
"And you?" Aelric asked, slowly. "What were you at that age?"
Veyra's eyes glittered, almost mournfully. "A tool, a whisper, I was a spy for the royal bloodline. I slipped between courts, between factions, wore a dozen names and a hundred faces." She paused, voice tightening. "My last name was Veyra. It's the one I kept."
"And the pactkeeper?" Aelric asked. "The Forge? You knew them."
"I did," she said. "The pactkeeper was not always bound. Once, he was a court advisor. A master of bargains, politics, and manipulation. He crafted the original accords that kept the city's ruling families from destroying each other. But eventually, he sought power beyond the laws. He tried to bind the Abyss itself."
Aelric tensed. "And the Forge?"
"It was the result of that ambition. A fusion of demonic craft and Abyssal will. The Forge could create weapons that did not merely kill, but consumed the meaning of what they destroyed." She met Aelric's gaze. "The Soulbound Shackles are just the beginning."
He studied her. Her tone was calm, but there was tension under the words. Regret? Or something else?
"So you led me here," he said. "Knowing what the Forge could do."
"I didn't lead you," she snapped. "The Abyss did. The paths you walk are shaped by more than just me."
"But you didn't stop it," he said coldly. "You didn't warn me."
"No," she admitted, softer now. "Because I need you to grow strong, Aelric. You may not understand it yet, but this place, the Abyss, is waking. Something deeper stirs beneath us. The Rootborn were symptoms. The Lord's were relics. But what's coming…"
She tealed off.
Aelric stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "You say you were cursed. By whom?"