Silas led Axle and James along the winding path of Blackstone Mountain, the terrain growing steeper with every step. The two boys walked ahead of him, their hands bound behind their backs with a strange rope that glowed faintly with etched symbols—pulsing slowly, like a heartbeat. Silas directed them with casual gestures, his smile never faltering, his eyes scanning the horizon.
They stopped at a massive boulder that jutted out from the mountainside, overlooking the valley below. The view was immense—the scarred earth, the clusters of trees, the remnants of Lyrielle's Ramulus Dei rising like a broken monument in the distance. Half the valley was already torn apart, gashes cut into the soil, trees uprooted, the land weeping from the violence of the night.
"How can my backup need backup?" Axle whispered to James, his voice barely audible.
James kept his eyes forward, his expression carefully blank. "Well, this backup left a trail of blue stones for Rowan to find and follow."
Axle's shoulders relaxed, just slightly. A sigh of relief escaped him.
Behind them, Silas chuckled. "You guys know I can hear you, right?" He tilted his head, tapping one ear with a finger. "It's especially quiet up here. My ears can pick up the littlest sounds."
James said nothing. Axle shook his head in quiet disappointment. Their only chance—the hope that Rowan would find them—was now known. And Silas didn't seem concerned.
"Let Rowan come." Silas's smile widened. "It'll make my work easier."
He produced a coil of rope from his sword belt—thick, dark, covered in the same glowing symbols as the bonds already on their wrists. The symbols shimmered faintly in the moonlight, pulsing with an energy that felt wrong, invasive. He looped it around their arms, their chests, securing them to each other. "I'll trade you guys in for the vessel."
James turned his head, his voice sharp. "What is this vessel you keep talking about?"
Silas paused, as if considering how much to say. "It's a harbinger of doom."
Silence. The wind carried the words across the mountainside and into the trees below. James waited. Axle waited. Silas said nothing else.
"And?" James prompted, his brow furrowed.
"And?" Silas blinked. "I told you already."
James stared at him. "You can't just spout a phrase and expect us to understand it. You have to explain."
Axle added, with a shrug that was half resignation, half amusement, "Kinda like if I asked what your favorite meal was and you just said 'It could've been rice.'"
Silas held his chin, considering this. "That is... definitely frustrating." He shook the thought off. "But you don't need an explanation."
James pressed further. "You can't just say something, pique our interest, and then leave us hanging."
Axle nodded in agreement.
Silas's smile faded. "Zip it, kids. You think you're so funny?" He stepped closer, his eyes cold. "The next word out of your mouths, and I may be forced to do a swap with someone without a spleen."
James opened his mouth.
Silas raised a finger. "Uhn-uhn. Zip it, blondie."
"I was just going to say," James said, "that Rowan is behind you."
Silas turned.
Rowan stood a few meters away, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his expression unreadable. The moonlight caught the edges of his face, throwing half of it into shadow. He hadn't made a sound—no footsteps, no breathing, nothing. Silas's hand tightened around Nithfang. He could pick up the faintest vibrations, the quietest whispers, and yet he hadn't heard Rowan approach at all. What manner of skill did that require?
"I need the kids," Rowan said. His voice was calm, flat, carrying no threat—and that made it more threatening than any shout.
Silas recovered quickly, his smile returning. "Let's not get hasty." He gestured to the rope binding Axle and James. "The rope I tied them with has been spelled to tighten if I die. Keep tightening until it tears through skin, through bone. I wouldn't want to rush an attack and leave them... collateral damage."
Rowan's eyes flicked to the rope, then back to Silas. "What do you want?"
Silas laughed. "Oh, come on. You're a smart guy. Surely you've figured it out by now."
Rowan's gaze didn't waver. "True. I have." He gestured toward James and Axle. "But you know I can't let you have the vessel you seek. So just hand over the kids, and we can all be on our merry way. I'll even forgive you for destroying my home. For hurting the ones I care about."
Silas's smile tightened. "That's the thing. I can't leave. Not without the vessel." He shifted his weight, his grip on Nithfang steady. "This organization I work for—the Eclipse Collective. They don't take too lightly to failure. Bringing the vessel seems like better odds for me."
"Well," Rowan said, "you're losing those odds."
"It seems you don't understand." Silas's smile vanished. "I need the vessel. You need the kids. Give me what I want, and I'll give you yours. You can't kill me, so you might as well cooperate."
Rowan drew his sword. The blade caught the moonlight, silver and cold. "You misunderstand something." His voice dropped, low and dangerous. "If I can't kill you, I'll just have to beat you to the point of death." He settled into a stance, his eyes never leaving Silas. "You really thought I would let you walk out of here whole? After the havoc you've caused?"
Silas's hand tightened on Nithfang. The green veins along the blade pulsed, and a dark liquid began to seep from the edge, dripping onto the ground in heavy drops that seared the stone beneath. "I may be weaker than you," he admitted, "but even you can't go against the Seal of the Lesser Vessel. A mythical-grade sealing item." He gestured at the mountain around them. "Why do you think I came here? This is where the seal is strongest. I'm not affected by it, but you should be feeling its effects heavily." He smiled again, sharp and confident. "I've set enough precautions to make sure I win."
He raised Nithfang, the blade humming with dark energy.
"I offer twenty percent life energy."
The sword pulsed. A thin line of blood rose from Silas's palm, absorbed into the hilt. Nithfang's glow intensified, the green veins spreading, the air around it growing thick and heavy. The dripping poison intensified, eating into the stone, creating small craters wherever it landed.
Silas took a stance.
Time seemed to stop. The wind died. The insects fell silent. Rowan and Silas faced each other, neither moving, neither blinking. James and Axle watched from their bound position, barely breathing.
Then they clashed.
They vanished from sight—only the ringing of steel marking their positions. Sparks erupted in midair where blades met. Rowan's swordsmanship was superior—more refined, more seasoned. His thrusts were precise, his counters fluid, his strikes relentless. He pushed Silas back step by step, forcing him onto the defensive.
Silas was not a poor swordsman. But against Rowan, he was outmatched.
Nithfang's poison dripped and seared, eating through stone, through air, through anything it touched. But Rowan had coated his blade in a thin layer of aura, and the disintegration halted against it—for now. He parried, dodged, wove through Silas's attacks with the economy of someone who had been fighting for decades. Every movement had purpose. Nothing was wasted.
Silas leaped back, trying to create distance.
Rowan closed it instantly.
Silas smiled.
"Vox Corruo!"
The sonic blast erupted from his palm, a wave of compressed sound aimed directly at Rowan. The air itself seemed to shatter. Rowan summoned a current of wind—huge, powerful, roaring—that met the sonic blast midair. They canceled each other, the collision creating an explosion of dust and debris.
Through the smoke, Rowan lunged.
His blade found Silas's guard again and again, pressing, pushing, forcing him back. Silas abandoned regular swordsmanship, grabbing the chain attached to Nithfang's hilt and swinging the greatsword in wide, deadly arcs.
"Nithfang," he shouted, "thirty percent life energy!"
The blade hummed. More blood rose from Silas's palm, absorbed into the hilt. The green veins spread further, the poison intensifying. He twirled the chained sword, creating a vortex of death around himself.
Rowan backed away, dodging one strike, then another. He tried to parry—and Nithfang cut clean through his blade.
The broken sword clattered to the ground.
Rowan looked at the two pieces in his hand, then at Silas. The poison had increased. His aura coating hadn't been enough. This sword was bad news.
He rubbed his palms along the broken blade, and aura flared—bright, concentrated, forming a new edge where the steel had been. An aura blade, humming with power. He swung it once, testing the weight, the balance.
Then he moved.
A burst of aura in his step. He crossed the distance in a heartbeat. Silas opened his mouth to scream—
Rowan dodged. The sonic wave passed him.
And Silas was there, inches from his face, Nithfang raised.
Rowan countered. His aura blade caught the greatsword, and his free hand shot out, grabbing the chain. He yanked, dragging Silas closer, and slammed him into the ground.
The impact created a crater. Stone cracked. Dust rose.
Rowan raised his blade and Silas's left hand fell away from his wrist, severed cleanly.
"Undo the spell on the rope," Rowan said, his voice cold, his aura blade pointed at Silas's face, "or your right hand is next."