The boots stopped outside Kael's cell with finality, the sound echoing through the damp stone chamber. Iron hinges shrieked in protest as the door swung open, revealing Draven flanked by two Order sentinels. Though their faces were hidden behind steel helms, the sickly green glow emanating from their eye slits marked them as corrupted. The Spymaster held Mercy casually at his side, the sword's bruise-dark blade shimmering with restless energy that made the air hum.
"Still alive," Draven observed, his voice carrying that familiar tone of detached amusement. "How stubborn of you."
The caretaker rose from his stool with a creak of aging bones and offered a mocking bow. "As you requested, Spymaster. The Wielder remains intact." His ruined mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. "Mostly."
Kael tested his chains instinctively, feeling the cold iron bite into his wrists. The blackroot poison still lingered in his system, sapping his strength, but the fire in his veins burned hotter than ever. "Where's Eris?"
Draven sighed, the sound heavy with feigned patience, like a tutor dealing with a slow student. "At the Maw, of course. Where all failed weapons are reforged—or discarded." He tapped Mercy's flat against his palm in a rhythmic pattern that set Kael's teeth on edge. "You, however, interest me."
The caretaker limped forward, his uneven gait making the torchlight dance across the cell walls. "The Scythe sings for him still. Even now."
Kael felt his pulse throb in the black veins of his arm, the rhythm perfectly matched to Mercy's quiet hum. The connection was undeniable, and growing stronger by the minute.
Draven crouched suddenly, bringing himself eye to eye with Kael. The Spymaster's breath smelled of mint and something faintly metallic. "The Order is purging itself of weakness. The Hollow King's Garden grows ever hungrier." He tilted his head, studying Kael like a specimen under glass. "But you? You resisted the Scythe. That makes you unique."
"Get to the point," Kael snarled, the chains rattling as he strained against them.
"Very well." Draven's smile was a razor-cut in the gloom. "Serve me. Hunt the remaining dissidents in the Order. And I'll spare Eris's life."
The caretaker hissed through his ruined teeth. "The girl is already—"
"Silence." Draven didn't so much as glance at the old man, his gaze locked on Kael. "Well?"
Mercy's voice slithered through Kael's mind like oil through water, cold and certain: Lies. The Maw has already taken her.
But beneath that familiar presence came something else—a whisper like rustling leaves and rotting lilies. The Hollow King's voice, softer but no less potent: All things rot in time. Even him.
Kael bared his teeth in something too feral to be called a smile. "I want proof she's alive."
Draven stood smoothly, brushing invisible dust from his immaculate sleeves. "Bring him."
They dragged Kael through torch-lit tunnels that stank of sulfur and wet stone, the air growing thicker and hotter with each step. The heat became oppressive, clinging to his skin like a second layer of filth. Finally, they emerged onto a narrow ledge overlooking the Maw—a vast, circular pit where the earth looked to have been clawed away by some great beast.
The Maw pulsed with greenish light from its unfathomable depths, and the sound that rose from it defied description. It wasn't quite a scream, not truly a song, but something unsettlingly alive.
Eris knelt at the precipice, her arms bound tightly behind her. The brand beneath her ribs had turned pitch black, the corruption spreading across her collarbone in intricate patterns like some grotesque lacework. A corrupted initiate stood behind her, a wickedly curved blade poised at her throat.
"Proof enough?" Draven asked, spreading his hands in mock generosity.
Kael lunged against his guards instinctively, his chains clanking violently. Mercy's hum spiked in response, and for just a heartbeat, the corrupted soldiers flinched—a reaction that didn't escape Draven's notice.
"Fascinating," the Spymaster murmured, his eyes gleaming with calculation. He gestured to the initiate. "Hold the blade to her throat."
The steel kissed Eris's skin, drawing a thin line of crimson. She didn't struggle, didn't beg. Only stared at Kael with eyes like shards of broken glass, her message clear: Don't. Whatever he wants—don't.
The world narrowed to three immutable truths: Eris at the edge of death, Mercy's song thrumming in his blood, and the Hollow King's voice sighing through his mind like a breeze through dead trees: You know what you must do.
Kael exhaled through his nose, the decision settling in his bones. "I'll serve."
Draven's smile could have cut glass. "Wise." He extended Mercy hilt-first, the sword's dark metal gleaming hungrily. "Then prove it. Prune the weakness from your heart."
A heavy pause settled over the ledge. The corrupted initiate tensed, his blade pressing harder against Eris's throat.
"Kill her yourself."
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the Maw seemed to hold its breath.
Kael took the sword. The moment his fingers closed around the grip, the visions came—
Eris, laughing as they sparred in the Order's courtyard, sunlight glinting off her practice blades.
Her hand gripping his in the Gauntlet's darkness, her whisper fierce: "We survive together."
Her face when she revealed her brand, eyes burning with determination: "Help me burn this place to the ground."
Mercy's voice sliced through the memories, cold and clear: Lie. Strike him instead. The King will aid you.
Kael turned to Draven, the sword humming in his grasp. "You're right. The Order does need pruning."
He moved.
Not toward Eris.
Toward Draven.
Mercy flashed through the air—but the Spymaster was faster. He sidestepped with liquid grace, a dagger appearing in his hand as if by magic. The blade sank into Kael's side, twisting viciously.
"Predictable," Draven murmured, his breath warm against Kael's ear.
Then the world exploded in green fire.
The Maw erupted.
Tendrils of glowing mist lashed upward like living things, wrapping around the corrupted initiate holding Eris. The man had one second to scream before his body dissolved, flesh sloughing away from bone like rotten fruit.
Draven staggered back, his composure cracking for the first time. "No—!"
The mist coiled around Eris—but instead of consuming her, it healed. The black veins receded from her skin, the angry brand fading to silver scars. Her eyes flew open, pupils dilated with shock as she gasped in a ragged breath.
The Hollow King's laughter echoed through the cavern, a sound like dead leaves skittering across stone: All things rot. Even you, Spymaster.
Draven turned to run—
—as Kael drove Mercy through his back.
The sword feasted eagerly, draining the Spymaster until nothing remained but a withered husk.
When it was done, Kael stood amidst the aftermath, Mercy dripping black ichor onto the stone. The corrupted soldiers lay scattered like broken dolls, their armor empty of whatever foulness had animated them.
Eris crawled to his side, her breathing ragged. "What the hell was that?"
The mist still swirled around them, gentle now. Almost reverent in its movements.
Kael looked down at Mercy. The blade's bruise-dark metal had changed—faint silver veins now ran through it, pulsing in time with his own heartbeat.
The Hollow King's final whisper curled through his mind like smoke: The Garden grows anew.
Then—silence.
Eris gripped his arm, her fingers warm against his skin. "Kael?"
He sheathed the sword, the weight of it familiar yet changed. "We have work to do."
Above them, the Order's bells began to toll, their mournful peals echoing through the tunnels like a death knell.