Nyric tore through the forest, Kael unconscious over his shoulder, and reached the mountain's peak in seconds.
Above him, the mountain loomed — and above it, blotting half the blood-red sky, the Harrowing Hand.
It wasn't a hand anymore.
It was a mountain unto itself.
Five blackened, rotted fingers clawed skyward from the earth like a god trying — and failing — to drag itself back to life. Each was wider than a fortress tower, cracked and bleeding shadow into the sky. The thumb alone could crush a city.
As the Hand neared, Nyric grimaced. He never thought he'd come near this cursed place — not until he met him.
---
After the battle with Scarborn, he'd limped to the witch's house, desperate for help.
What he found instead shattered him.
The house was wrecked. Blood soaked the floor. Limbs scattered like discarded dolls. The stench was thick enough to choke.
Four corpses lay mangled in the ruin. One more — intact — rested off to the side.
And at the center, the witch. Dead.
Nyric dropped to his knees, blood leaking from the tears in his thighs.
He stared into her vacant eyes, gave a hollow laugh.
"At least I know she could die."
He glanced at his legs — shredded, barely holding him upright.
I shouldn't even be alive. Not like this.
Then he saw it — a circular iron hatch beneath the rubble.
He crawled to it, gripped the handle. It screeched as he pulled, metal grinding stone.
A gust of stale, ancient air spilled out.
"Might be lucky after all," he muttered, dragging himself into the passage.
The hatch slammed shut behind him.
"Not creepy at all."
The chamber below was hewn from solid rock, square and unnaturally precise. Shelves lined the walls, torches flickered between them. A table sat in the center, an open book resting atop it.
Nyric limped to the shelves. The books were in no language he recognized.
He scoffed.
"Great. Die in a library."
Something caught his eye — white runes, half-concealed beneath the table.
He shoved it aside.
At the center of a sprawling sigil lay a crystal — pulsing faintly like a dying heart.
His breath caught.
"Essence stone... If I take it, I can heal. Maybe even break through…"
But unease coiled in his gut.
"Why's it just sitting here? These runes... they're wrong."
He rubbed his chin, frowning hard.
Seconds dragged into minutes.
Finally, he cursed under his breath.
"Damn it. I'll risk it."
It was that or death anyway.
He stepped into the formation, hand reaching.
The instant he touched the stone, his veinfire drained — ripped from him like water through a shattered dam.
The runes flared white-hot.
Nyric smiled bitterly.
"Shit." he cursed, too weak to even try escaping.
Then came the light.
A blinding pulse, searing and absolute — not just light, but force, pulling him inside-out, as if the world folded through a needle's eye. He didn't move. He was moved, every atom torn loose and rebuilt in a blink.
The light disappeared, the room returning to normal.
Then, from the heart of the crystal, a low hum — building, growing —
— until a deafening explosion ripped through the underground chamber, annihilating it.
---
Nyric staggered upright, vision swimming.
He was in a new room — larger, more refined. Shelves crammed with jars and scrolls. A bed in one corner. A heavy table with a map. A crate of glass vials shimmered with murky green liquid.
Near the entrance: a clothes rack. Neat. Clean. Ordinary.
"This better not be the afterlife," he muttered.
His wounds still bled, sluggishly.
"I didn't even get to heal…"
A calm voice answered from the doorway.
"The gods aren't always kind," it said. "But don't worry — your injuries won't follow you to death."
Nyric turned.
A man leaned in the frame, arms behind his back. Tall, wiry, dressed in tailored purple and black. A sharp goatee framed a predatory smile.
Eyes cold. Dangerous.
Nyric forced a grin. "The gods might be jealous of me."
"They're mysterious creatures," the man shrugged. "Who knows what they think?"
Nyric studied him. "So... if I'm not dead, where am I?"
The man smiled — white teeth, all too perfect.
"Normally, I'd kill you for trespassing," he said casually, Nyric tensed. "But... I need your help. I'll heal you in return. Plus you can have that."
He nodded toward a crystal on a pedestal — pulsing deep and slow, its power undeniable.
Nyric's eyes sharpened. An essence crystal, he could feel the power radiating from it, even from across the room.
"And why would I help you?" he asked carefully.
"You have to," the man said simply. "I'm offering rewards out of kindness. But if you refuse..."
He didn't need to finish the threat. It hung in the air, heavy and certain.
Nyric hesitated. He couldn't feel any pressure from the man — no visible aura, no killing intent — but that made it worse.
The absence of energy often meant the person was either weak—or far stronger than they appeared.
And based on the man's demeanor, he believed it was the latter.
"What's the catch?"
"Just a retrieval."
Nyric laughed bitterly, glancing at his bloody legs. He stumbled to the bed, collapsed.
"You noticed I'm not exactly mission-ready."
"Easily solved." The man flicked a hand.
Pain vanished. Blood stopped. Flesh knitted smooth.
Nyric stared.
"What the hell was that?"
"Just a trick."
He flexed his hands. His body felt whole — but his power…
"My veinfire's still low."
"You won't need it," the man said.
Nyric didn't like the way he said it. And before he could protest, the man's voice darkened.
"Don't even think of running."
He gestured.
Nyric looked down.
A jagged spiral of sigils had appeared on his right forearm — black ink that pulsed faintly.
"What is this?" he asked, dread sinking in.
"A failsafe. Until you deliver what I asked for, your veinfire stays sealed. Try anything clever... you'll regret it."
Nyric's stomach turned. He flexed — no response. Like something inside him had slammed shut. Searing frustration built in his chest.
What kind of person could do this so easily? The fear began to settle in.
He cursed under his breath. If this man could do that casually, he could certainly kill him if he wanted.
Gods, who is this man?
"Fine," Nyric growled. "What do you want?"
The man tapped the map.
"Not a thing," he said. "A person. Kael."
Nyric stiffened. "Kael? Where is he?"
"Down the mountain," the man said, tracing a path.
Nyric blinked. "Down the—? Where are we?"
The man grinned.
"Oh, didn't I mention? You're in Nephroth's remains. Specifically..." he paused, "...the palms."
Nyric gasped. His throat tightened.
Nephroth's corpse. The mountains above Red Hallow.
He rubbed his temples. "How am I supposed to leave? That cursed snake kills anything that gets near the Hand."
"Yes, yes," the man said, waving dismissively. He tossed Nyric a small compass.
Nyric caught it. The needle spun, then locked, glowing faintly.
"Follow it. It'll guide you past the threats. Go off-course, and..."
He smiled again. Too wide.
Nyric glared. "And when I return?"
"Same. Follow the compass."
Nyric tucked it away. "What do you want with Kael?"
"Protect him," the man said. "He was supposed to be teleported here. You arrived instead. Now, you'll bring him."
Nyric froze.
Teleported?
Gods, what monster is he?
The man clapped once, sharp and final.
"Time's short. Bring him, or—"
Nyric muttered, "I know. No veinfire. Damn it all."
He stood, grim-faced, compass in hand.
He stopped at the clothes rack.
"One last thing."
The man arched a brow. "Yes?"
Nyric pulled a torn sleeve aside.
"Got a coat?"