The world had dissolved into a single, brutal rhythm: the scuff of a boot, a stab of pain, a ragged breath. Repeat.
Tarrin's universe had shrunk to the cracked ground two feet in front of him. His vision swam, the horizon tilting nauseatingly with every lurching step.
He wasn't leading a squad anymore; he was just trying to keep the grey haze at the edge of his sight from swallowing him whole.
Then, a sensation cut through the agony—a sudden, magnetic pull from his palm.
It wasn't a pain. It was a tug, a physical insistence from the very flesh branded with the words CONTINUE WEST.
It felt like a hook had been set deep in his bones, and an invisible line was now drawing him sharply to the left, away from the dead-straight path they'd been trudging.
He stumbled to a halt, his hand flying to his chest as if he could physically clutch the sensation. The sudden stop sent a fresh wave of dizziness crashing over him.
"Why are we stopping?" Nick's voice was raw with exhaustion and immediate suspicion. "We're sitting ducks out here."
Tarrin didn't answer. He stared at his palm, then looked southwest, the direction of the pull.
Then he looked due west, the direction they'd been heading. His mind, fogged with pain, scrambled for calculation.
Was this a trick of the Basin? A side effect of his warping Gift? Or was it Nicolas?
"We need to go this way," Tarrin said, his voice a dry croak as he pointed southwest.
Nick was in his face in an instant.
"That way? Are you insane? The order was west. Straight west. You're the one who was so hell-bent on following it! Now you want to take a detour because you got a feeling?"
"It's not a feeling," Tarrin gritted out, holding up his branded hand. The skin around the words was inflamed, almost glowing.
"It's this. It's pulling me. Nicolas didn't just give us a direction. He gave us a path."
"Or it's a trap! Or you're finally cracking from the pain!"
The others watched, too weary to even choose sides. They were a jury of the half-dead.
Tarrin met Nick's furious gaze. He had no proof. No logic. Only the unshakable, physical certainty burning in his palm.
"You're right," Tarrin said, his voice dropping, forcing them all to listen closely.
"I could be wrong. This could lead us right off a cliff. But Nicolas knew this place. He knew what he was leaving us with. I'm choosing to trust that. I'm choosing to trust that this,"
he held his hand up again, "is more than just a scar. It's our only map."
He looked past Nick, at the shattered hope in Lena's eyes, at the grim endurance in Celith's.
"We follow the pull, or we continue wandering until we drop. The choice is yours. But I'm going this way."
Without waiting for another argument, he turned and took the first stumbling step southwest, letting the hook in his palm guide him.
For a terrifying moment, he heard only his own footsteps. Then, one by one, he heard the others follow.
Tarrin's lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. The fact that the squad had chosen to follow his lead over Nicolas' final, self-righteous orders—it burned into him like a quiet brand of vindication.
Then came that familiar, irritating voice that grated against his nerves like sandpaper.
"Alright," Nick drawled, "but if we end up dead, don't look at me like I didn't warn you."
Tarrin turned his head just enough to catch the bastard in his peripheral.
Gods, if this guy could just shut up for one mission, life would be so much easier.
Still, he couldn't deny the grudging respect buried beneath the irritation. Nick had been the test subject for every half-mad plan Tarrin had thrown at him—and he hadn't snapped his neck yet.
Very commendable, he thought dryly.
He adjusted his stride, careful not to trip over the uneven terrain, when a softer set of footsteps matched his pace.
Lena.
She glanced his way, her voice gentle but forced. "Where do you think this path will take us?"
He could tell she was trying to cut through the tension, but her attempt fell flat in the heavy air.
Tarrin masked his fatigue and frustration behind an easy smile. "You want the honest answer, or the one that'll make you feel better?"
Lena tilted her head, pretending to think. "Hmm… I think I'd like to feel better today." Her voice carried a light laugh—thin, but genuine.
"Then, good news," he said with mock brightness. "This is all part of Nicolas's grand design. Every twist, every dark tunnel—it's leading us right to him."
Lena rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. "That's not comforting at all."
He chuckled. "Didn't say it would be. Just said it'd make you feel better."
For a brief moment, the air between them eased. The exhaustion, the blood, the weight of survival—it all faded, if only slightly.
Then they walked on, the quiet returning like an old friend neither of them had the heart to chase away.
The march dissolved into a haze of pain and endurance. Time stretched and folded on itself, meaningless beneath the sunless sky.
Every step was an act of will, their boots grinding against the brittle earth in a rhythm that had long replaced thought.
The world had narrowed to exhaustion—and the faint, relentless pull in Tarrin's palm. That invisible thread, etched into his flesh and blood, tugged them onward.
Then, at last, something broke the monotony.
A silhouette rose against the horizon—sharp, severe, and utterly alien to the wasteland around it.
A tower of dark, seamless stone, so black it seemed to devour the weak light that touched it.
It stood like a blade stabbed into the world's carcass, ancient and defiant.
For the first time since the serpent, the squad exhaled. A ripple of relief passed through them—ragged, weary, but real.
Even Nick let out a laugh that wasn't quite bitter, flashing Sabrina a grin that she returned with a faint, tired smile.
Tarrin's voice cut through the fragile moment like a knife.
"Don't."
They froze.
"Don't get sloppy now," he said, his tone calm but cold. "A roof doesn't mean safety. It just means the danger has walls."
He led the way, and the others followed—half limping, half dragging themselves into the shadow of the tower.
Inside, the air was still and stale, thick with dust and silence. The first floor was nothing but a hollow shell—bare stone, old scars of age.
In the center, a spiral staircase wound upward, vanishing into the gloom above.
No words were needed. They climbed.
Each step was agony. The rasp of boots and strained breaths echoed through the narrow shaft until, finally, they emerged into the topmost chamber.
A circular room greeted them—spacious, solemn, almost reverent.
A massive stone table occupied its heart, its surface carved into a detailed relief of the Ash Basin.
It was impossibly precise, far beyond what any field map should be.
Crystalline instruments and cracked scrolls littered the edges, remnants of minds that once plotted war and survival here.
For a heartbeat, hope stirred.
Knowledge. Shelter. Maybe even answers.
Then it died.
From the far corner of the room, the shadows stirred. They didn't move—they peeled. A shape uncoiled from the darkness, slender and wrong.
It wasn't smoke, or mist, but a man-shaped wound in the air itself.
Two pale eyes glimmered within, white and cold, cutting through the dark like distant stars.
It glided forward, noiseless, predatory—and then it struck.
Not at Tarrin. Not at the weakest. It went for Noah.
The big man raised his arm out of instinct, too slow, too human. The creature's clawed limb came down in a blur—
—and Sabrina moved.
A telekinetic shove cracked through the air, slamming into Noah's side and knocking him clear.
The phantom's arm carved through empty space. The save was perfect. But it left her wide open.
The thing turned on her instantly.
Its featureless head cocked, those pale eyes locking onto her trembling form. Then it lunged.
Sabrina froze—terrified, trapped, nowhere to run.
Then the world blurred.
One moment, Nick was meters away—fear painted across his face. The next, the air cracked, and he was there. Between her and the nightmare. No running, no warning—just arrival, instant and absolute.
Daggers gleamed in his hands, gripped not with swagger but raw intent. He didn't try to block the shadow's arm. He met it–driving his shoulder straight into its chest with a force that made the darkness recoil.
The impact echoed like steel on ice. The phantom staggered, its form rippling, a hiss of cold fury escaping its shapeless maw.
Nick didn't back down. His breath came ragged, his eyes wild, his Gift finally unveiled for all to see.
He didn't spare a glance at Sabrina. His world had shrunk to a single truth—the phantom before him, and the promise that he would not fall first.