We had carved our way through the bandits' stronghold, our blades cutting down any who barred the path. The bronze halls had run slick with blood, yet still their numbers seemed endless. Each room bled into another, filled with shouting voices and clattering weapons.
But then the shouting stopped.
The bandits who had filled the ruin with noise fell silent all at once, as though the air itself had been snuffed out. The quiet was worse than their taunts. Worse than the sound of blades.
I froze mid-step, sword dripping in my hand. Zavir's eyes narrowed, his blade raised. He felt it too—the weight in the air had shifted.
From the shadows at the far end of the chamber, a figure emerged.
He was enormous, taller than any man I'd seen, encased in steel plate from head to toe. The armor was thick, battered with old scars and dents, yet it looked impenetrable. At first I thought his helmet gleamed—but then I saw them.
Eyes.
Two glowing orbs burned in the center of his breastplate. Greenish-yellow, searing against the dim light of the ruin. They flickered, alive, watching.
My breath caught. The sight clawed into my mind, dragging with it another image—black waters, writhing tentacles, eyes without number staring from the dark. Hermaeus Mora.
The resemblance was unmistakable.
My grip on the sword faltered for half a heartbeat. The weight of those eyes pressed into me, and I felt as though they could see through more than just flesh.
The figure stopped in the center of the hall. His voice rolled out from behind the steel, low and grating, as though the ruin itself spoke.
"Pathetic."
I blinked, confused—until he moved.
The Unseeing Bandit, as the whispers had called him, turned not toward us, but to his own men. The handful of bandits who had survived our assault looked to him with relief—until his gauntlet seized the nearest by the throat.
There was a sickening crunch, and the man's body went limp. The armored giant hurled the corpse aside like broken kindling.
"You are weak," he growled. His glowing eyes swept across the rest, and I swore I saw them flinch. "You stain this place with your cowardice."
The bandits shouted in protest, fear sharpening their voices—but none dared to run. Steel rang as the Unseeing Bandit drew his weapon, a greatsword so wide it could have been a slab of iron. He swung once, and two men fell, cleaved in half by a single strike.
The others tried to fight, but it was useless. His blade tore through their defense as if they carried sticks instead of swords. Blood splattered across the bronze walls, steaming in the ruin's chill. Their screams echoed, then fell silent one by one.
When it was over, the great hall was painted red. Only the armored figure stood.
He turned to us.
My chest tightened. Those eyes burned brighter now, locking onto me as if they knew me, as if they recognized something.
Zavir's stance hardened. He raised his blade, his voice sharp. "Stay close. He's no ordinary foe."
The Unseeing Bandit raised his greatsword and slammed it into the floor. The impact shook the ground, dust falling from the bronze pillars above. When he spoke again, the words seemed to grind through his helm.
"You do not belong here."
And then he came for us.
Zavir met him first. Their blades collided with a thunderous crash, sparks showering the bronze floor. Zavir was quick, darting with precision, his strikes aimed for joints and weak points—but the steel armor turned most aside. The Unseeing Bandit's counterblows were like hammers. Each one forced Zavir back, step by step.
I moved to flank, heart hammering. My boots slipped in blood as I circled. The giant's eyes tracked me even as he fought Zavir, glowing like two hateful suns.
I lunged. My sword struck his side, but it skidded off with a shriek of metal, leaving only a shallow scratch. His helm snapped toward me, and before I could recover, his gauntlet swung wide.
The blow caught my chest. Pain exploded through my ribs as I was hurled backward, slamming into a pillar. My sword clattered away. Breath tore from my lungs in a ragged gasp.
Zavir's voice roared through the haze. "On your feet!"
I staggered up, coughing, vision swimming. The Unseeing Bandit pressed him hard, each strike a storm of steel. Zavir blocked, dodged, countered—but for every precise strike he landed, the giant gave back twice the force.
I crawled for my sword, fingers slick with blood on the bronze floor. My chest ached, every breath shallow. But when I grasped the hilt again, a strange fire burned through me. Not courage. Not strength. Something else.
The memory of those eyes—Hermaeus Mora's eyes—seared into my skull.
The Unseeing Bandit was not just a man. He was something more, something touched by the same power that had dragged me here.
I rose. My legs trembled, but I rose.
Zavir drove the giant back with a sharp flurry of strikes, but the reprieve was brief. The Unseeing Bandit batted him aside with one crushing blow, sending him sprawling across the floor.
The armored helm turned back to me. Those glowing eyes fixed me in place.
"Chosen," he rasped, voice dripping with scorn. "But unworthy."
The words chilled me deeper than the ruin's air. How did he know?
His greatsword lifted, its edge gleaming in the torchlight.
I forced myself forward, sword raised, heart pounding in my ears. The weight of the ruin, of Meridia's unseen hand, of Mora's shadow, pressed down on me all at once.
The clash came like thunder.
Steel shrieked, sparks flew, and the ruin's hum deepened as though it too watched the battle.
And for the first time, I realized—this was not just a fight for survival. It was a test.