Gio's axe hummed in his hands.
The air by Caelwyn's gate had thickened—like time itself was slowing, dragging every breath, every thought, into syrup.
Across from them, Second and Third no longer walked—they hovered. Shadows curled around their forms like lazy serpents.
"Gio," Lysara whispered, her fingers curling around her staff, "these aren't like the others."
"I know," he muttered. "They feel like history. Heavy, quiet… fatal."
By the gate of Caelwyn…
The Third moved like a whisper of death.
He fought with twin daggers—sleek and curved, each coated in a subtle, green sheen that glimmered under the illusion-filtered light. Poison. But not just any poison. Judging by the color and scent that followed each slash, it was alchemical—likely forged by a blacksmith with high-tier magical alloy knowledge. Each cut could end a person with a single graze.
"Lysara—back me up!" Gio barked, shifting his grip on his axe.
He didn't even get to blink.
