Up ahead, Kael and Oliver sat close to the campfire, their silhouettes shifting with the restless flicker of orange light. Sparks drifted upward into the dark, vanishing into the vast, star-strewn sky. Their voices were low, almost swallowed by the quiet crackle of burning wood.
Lyra slowed as she approached, the warmth of the fire brushing against her skin. For a brief moment, she lingered at the edge of the light, watching them—measuring the space, the ease between them—before stepping forward.
"Oliver, Kael," she called, her tone casual but clear. "Mind if I join you?"
Kael looked up first. His expression brightened almost instantly, a natural warmth settling into his features. "Sure, sure. Take a seat."
Oliver blinked, caught off guard. His shoulders stiffened for a fraction of a second before he shifted, scooting aside to make room. "Yeah—of course."
Lyra lowered herself onto the ground beside them, the grass cool beneath her palms. The firelight painted her features in soft gold, shadows dancing across her face as the three of them settled into a quiet, tentative conversation. Words came slowly at first, then easier, their voices blending with the rhythm of the night.
A few minutes earlier—
Darius exhaled sharply as he watched Lyra walk away, her figure disappearing into the dim glow of the camp. No scolding. No glare. Not even a warning.
He released Ronan and dragged a hand across his forehead, as if wiping away sweat that wasn't there.
"Man… your luck is insane," he muttered, shaking his head.
Ronan arched a brow, dusting off his clothes with deliberate calm. "What do you mean by 'luck'?"
Darius leaned in, glancing over his shoulder before lowering his voice. "Lyra's got a… reputation." He paused, searching Ronan's face as if gauging whether he should continue. "She doesn't like being teased. Especially by boys. I heard she once broke both arms of a guy who tried to hold her hand."
For a heartbeat, Ronan simply stared at him.
Then his eyes widened—just enough to betray the flicker of surprise—before he pushed himself to his feet. "Let's go," he said briskly, brushing off his sleeves. "We need to check in with Sir Alden."
Darius followed, quickening his pace to match him.
A few steps later, Ronan shot him a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth twitching. "So… are you interested in Lyra?"
Darius recoiled as if struck. "NO!" His voice cracked, and he immediately dropped it, glancing around. "Don't drag me into that mess. I still want to live."
Ronan's laughter broke free, bright and unrestrained, echoing softly through the camp. "Is she really that scary?"
Darius didn't hesitate. He nodded, eyes wide, deadly serious. "Yes. And don't tease her again." He jabbed a finger toward Ronan's chest. "You'll regret it."
Ronan only laughed harder, the sound lingering as they walked, boots crunching lightly against dirt and scattered gravel.
By the time they reached the gathering, the mood had shifted.
Alden stood with Alaric, Felix, and Lady Ishalune, their conversation low and intent. The air felt heavier here, as if the night itself leaned closer to listen.
Ronan stepped in with a grin that hadn't quite faded. "Sir, the vision's gone—but the Keen Eye skill is still active."
Alden gave a small nod, his gaze steady. "Same here."
Lady Ishalune's eyes flicked toward Ronan, sharp as drawn steel. "You should be resting." Her voice cut cleanly through the space. "You're still recovering. Recklessness won't help you."
The words settled with weight, pressing briefly against Ronan's chest—but before he could respond, another voice broke in.
"I found a way to unlock the mansion's barrier."
Roderick stepped forward.
Every head turned.
Beyond them, the golden dome shimmered faintly in the darkness, its surface rippling like liquid light around the ancient structure it encased.
Alaric straightened. "Then we move. Gather everyone."
—
Moments later, the entire group stood before the barrier.
The air hummed faintly, a low vibration that prickled against the skin.
Roderick raised his hands, fingers weaving through a series of intricate signs. His sword—Luminastra—slipped free, rising into the air as if drawn by an unseen force. It hovered before the dome, its blade gleaming.
Then the runes appeared.
Concentric circles unfolded around the sword, layer upon layer of glowing symbols spinning slowly, each brighter than the last. The light intensified, casting long shadows across the ground, bathing every face in gold.
The hum deepened.
And then—
The dome shattered.
Not with sound, but with light. It broke apart into fragments of radiance that dissolved into the air, revealing a vast courtyard beyond.
A breath caught.
Lady Ishalune stepped forward slowly, her gaze sweeping across the revealed space. Her lips parted, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"It looks just like it did… when I left."
The words carried something fragile—something buried deep.
One by one, they stepped through the gate.
The courtyard stretched wide, ancient stone pathways lined with overgrown greenery, the faint scent of earth and time hanging in the air. Silence lingered here, thick and unmoving.
Ronan crossed the threshold beside Samantha, mid-conversation—
—and stopped.
Two circles flared beneath his feet. Another ignited beneath Alden.
They froze.
The shift was immediate. Ronan's expression emptied, the light draining from his eyes as if something had reached inside and pulled him away.
"Ronan?"
Samantha turned sharply, unease tightening in her chest. "Ronan!"
She grabbed his shoulders, fingers digging into the fabric of his clothes—but he didn't react. Not even a flicker.
The golden light beneath them pulsed.
And in a single, blinding instant—
They vanished.
Gasps tore through the group.
"What just happened?!"
The question barely had time to settle before a voice answered.
Soft. Melodic. Echoing from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Lady Ishalune… It's been a while."
Lady Ishalune turned, her breath catching. Her hands trembled faintly at her sides as the sound washed over her.
"That voice…"
Her throat tightened. Memory stirred—faint, distant, aching.
"I—"
She couldn't finish.
"It's been a long time, My Lady."
The air shimmered.
A figure stepped forward, translucent and softly glowing—a woman suspended between presence and absence, her form tinged with a faint blue light. She was beautiful in a way that felt untouchable, her features softened by something that no longer belonged to the living.
Lady Ishalune staggered forward.
Tears spilt freely now, tracing silent paths down her cheeks. Her lips parted, trembling as she tried to speak.
"Lita…?"
Lita's expression softened, her eyes glistening. "A hundred years or something…" A faint, bittersweet smile touched her lips. "I never thought I'd see you again."
The words struck like a blow.
Ishalune recoiled, breath hitching as the weight of time crashed down on her. "A hundred… years…?"
Her hands rose to cover her mouth, as if trying to hold something inside that refused to stay contained.
Lita closed the distance without hesitation and wrapped her arms around her.
The embrace carried no weight—no warmth of flesh—but it held something deeper. Something that pressed against the soul.
"We missed you so much, My Lady," Lita whispered, her voice trembling at the edges.
Above them, Luminastra stirred.
The sword rose higher into the air, its glow intensifying as a massive golden magic circle unfolded from its core. It spread outward, vast and intricate, illuminating the entire mansion grounds in radiant light.
The air thickened, charged with ancient power.
Lita tightened her hold, her form flickering faintly. "We don't have much time. Soon… we'll fade completely." She pulled back just enough to look at Ishalune. "But I'm happy I got to see you one last time."
Ishalune gripped her arms, fingers passing slightly through the ghostly form. "What happened to you all?" Her voice cracked, urgency breaking through. "Why are you like this?"
Lita lowered her gaze. "I don't know everything." A pause. "But we were… the last of the Threadwatchers."
A ripple of murmurs spread through the group.
"The Threadwatchers…?" Ishalune echoed, her voice quieter now, heavier.
Lita nodded. "I found only traces of our lineage here. Nothing more."
Alaric stepped forward, frowning. "Then why were you sealed in this place? What's the point if there's nothing left?"
"I wish I knew," Lita replied softly.
"Is everyone here?" Ishalune asked, her gaze searching the courtyard.
"Not all," Lita said. "Only those whose souls were strong enough to remain. Most… have already faded."
Felix crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing. "Isn't the barrier trapping your souls here?"
A faint shimmer rippled through the air.
From Roderick's body, another figure emerged—translucent, older, composed. Her presence carried a quiet gravity.
"Souls aren't immortal," she said, her voice steady. "If a soul has enough strength, it lingers. Otherwise…" She paused. "It fades into the beyond."
Another figure materialised beside her—a middle-aged man with sharp eyes and a tired, knowing smile.
"It's been a long time, Linaxi."
Linaxi—hovering near Roderick—stiffened. Her eyes widened, disbelief crashing across her face. "Jaxom…?" Her voice faltered. "But… you died. I saw you die."
Jaxom let out a dry, hollow chuckle. "Yes. I died." His gaze drifted, distant. "Trapped inside something… waiting all these years to be released."
The confusion deepened, spreading through the group like a slow tide.
Lady Ishalune's brows knit together, her thoughts racing. "Linaxi…" she murmured. "That name…"
Her fingers pressed against her temples as memory clawed its way to the surface.
Then—clarity.
"A legend," she whispered. "A party of four adventurers… said to be on the verge of surpassing Grandmaster Tier Eleven. The last Tier." Her voice lowered. "They vanished. Without a trace."
The air seemed to tighten around the revelation.
But Alaric cut through it.
"Forgive the interruption," he said, his tone firm, controlled, "but can we save the reunions for later?" His gaze swept the group. "Three of our members are missing. And this magic circle—whatever it is—has engulfed the entire mansion." He looked directly at the spirits. "We need answers."
Jaxom turned to him, calm, distant.
"They're safe," he said. "We mean no harm."
His eyes lifted toward Luminastra, its golden light pulsing softly overhead.
"But when they return…" His voice lowered slightly. "We can only pray they have the strength to endure what awaits them."
A faint silence followed.
"Until then," he continued, "this magic circle will hold—and guide us into the world of the dead." His gaze darkened. "But once those three come back… this fragmented space will collapse entirely."
"I don't believe a word you say."
Linaxi's voice snapped through the tension. Her fists clenched at her sides, her form trembling with restrained fury.
"You lied before," she said, her eyes locked onto Jaxom. "You could be lying now."
The golden light above flickered.
And for a brief moment, the entire courtyard seemed to hold its breath.