The forest was still. So still that even the crows perched high above in the skeletal branches had chosen silence, as if sensing some greater darkness prowling through the air. Four figures moved among the roots and shadows, their robes brushing against damp earth and moss. They did not walk like pilgrims on sacred duty, nor like hunters in search of quarry. No, their gait was deliberate, predatory, the tread of men who knew themselves feared.
They were mages, though no kindly healers or wardens of light. Wickedness clung to them like the reek of rot. Any soul stumbling upon them would have known, at a glance, that here walked malice draped in human flesh.
The first was Veynar Khold, lean as a serpent, his eyes pale gray and his lips habitually curved in a smile that never reached them. He carried with him a bundle of bones—human bones—strung on sinew and polished until they gleamed like ivory. With each step they clattered softly, a grisly rosary he would finger whenever he spoke lies or promises.
The second was Maelric Dorn, broad-shouldered, scar-crossed, his bald scalp painted with red sigils. His hands bore scars not from honest labor but from the torments he had inflicted, skin seared by the backlash of cruel experiments in fire and flesh. A blade hung at his hip—not steel, but one carved from black stone, runes etched deep across its edge.
The third was Sarthain Voelle, a soft-spoken figure who concealed his face with a mask of polished onyx. His robes were embroidered not with stars or moons, as gentler mages favored, but with twisting knots that resembled strangled throats. He said little, though when he did, even birds in flight faltered, for his voice carried the weight of hidden graves.
The last was Caldrith Fenmoor, youngest by appearance though oldest in cruelty. His hair, white as bleached parchment, framed a face too beautiful to be trusted. His eyes glowed faintly violet, always watching, always hungry. It was he who carried the satchel of ritual implements: chalk dust ground from sacred stones, phials of thickened blood, fragments of shattered idols.
They had not come here for prayer. They had come to wound the world.
***
They set about their work in silence first, the solemn silence of criminals preparing a feast of horror. Maelric dragged a dagger through the soil, carving a rectangle large enough to encompass them all, muttering at intervals as if speaking to the dirt itself. Veynar scattered his string of bones along the lines, each piece rattling as it touched the earth, leaving a faint shimmer in the air where it landed. Sarthain drew out a bundle of candles—tallow mixed with ash from burned corpses—and set them at the corners, lighting each with a whispered syllable that made the flames burn sickly green. Caldrith, eyes gleaming, opened his satchel and spilled powders into the wind, powders that clung unnaturally to the air, twisting upward as though obeying unseen hands.
The forest itself recoiled. A fox darted out from a thicket, froze, and then vanished deeper into shadow. The trees creaked as if leaning away. Even the moss seemed to shrink, withdrawing from the corrupted chalk lines carved into the soil.
When all was ready, the four stepped into place—each at a corner of the rectangle, forming a prison of flesh and will. Their arrangement was precise, measured not merely for geometry but for power. Veynar, whose tongue dripped poison, faced north, the direction of winds and speech. Maelric stood to the south, seat of fire and fury. Sarthain guarded the west, where graves swallowed the sun. Caldrith took the east, where dawn promised beginnings—beginnings he intended to twist into endings.
The candles guttered. The air grew heavy, as if the world itself bent to watch.
Veynar was first to speak, his voice a hiss. "Khal essun dravikor…"
Maelric joined, his baritone rumble thick with hunger. "Varunthal, serokh, draem."
Sarthain's whisper was so soft it was almost lost, yet it seemed to echo against every trunk and stone. "Yraelth, morath, sevrin."
And Caldrith, beautiful, smiling, raised his arms high and intoned the final syllables. "Ulthareen, come forth, rise and be seen."
The forest trembled. A wind stirred from nothing, lifting leaves from the ground in frantic spirals. What began as a rustle grew to a roar, a gale tearing through branches, yet curiously avoiding the four figures. The leaves, twigs, dust—all swirled into the rectangle's heart, creating a whirling column of debris that climbed higher and higher.
The mages exchanged looks, grins stretching wide. Their trap had teeth. The ritual was working.
The wind built until it howled like a beast unchained, then, with a sound like the crack of worlds, it collapsed inward. The debris scattered into the surrounding woods as though flung by invisible hands. Silence followed, sharp and absolute.
And in the center of their rectangle, he stood.
He was a man—or seemed so. Taller than any mortal, towering a head and shoulders above them, with shoulders broad enough to carry mountains. His beauty was sharp, flawless, almost painful to behold. Hair like molten gold tumbled down his back, and his eyes shone with arrogant light. He appeared no older than a man in his mid-twenties, skin unlined, posture imperial.
Yet the mages knew. This was no man. This was a god.
The God of Pride. Aurelthas, the Unbending.
They fell to their knees as one, robes dark against the earth. Their heads bowed, but their smiles betrayed them. Each spoke in turn, offering praises rehearsed and dripping with reverence.
Veynar: "Glory unto you, Aurelthas, fountain of our gift, whose name is terror and triumph."
Maelric: "Mightiest among the deathless, we kneel as sparks before the sun."
Sarthain: "Your pride is our banner, your power our breath. Without you, we are dust."
Caldrith: "We worship you, radiant one, who grants to mortals what they do not deserve."
The god listened, chin lifted, chest swelling. His pride radiated from him like heat from a forge, saturating the clearing. Then, before their eyes, his form diminished—shrinking until he stood no taller than they, though his beauty did not dim. Aurelthas smiled, his teeth like pearls. He spread his arms as though bestowing grace.
"Rise, my devoted. Rise and look upon me. You have torn me from greater halls, from worshippers more devout than you, yet I forgive your intrusion. Tell me—why summon me in flesh, when prayer alone suffices?"
His voice was velvet over steel, each word carefully poised, every gesture steeped in self-regard. Even as he spoke, he adjusted the fall of his robes as if ensuring the perfection of his stance. Pride was not merely his nature—it was his being.
The mages hesitated, exchanging glances. Aurelthas's brow furrowed. Irritation flashed in his bright eyes.
"Do not squander what you have stolen of my time. Mortals may squander, for you have but decades at most. I, however, am eternal. Speak swiftly. I have other temples to grace, other tongues to kiss my name."
Maelric, boldest, bowed lower. "We summoned you to thank you, lord. To praise you not in whispers but in flesh. You gifted us magic, and we—faithful servants—use it well."
What he did not say was truth: that they had warped the gift.
Veynar had stolen voices, ripping speech from the throats of children to silence their cries.
Maelric had burned villages in pursuit of vengeance no man remembered but he.
Sarthain had ensnared the souls of the dead, binding them into stones to whisper answers to his questions.
Caldrith had seduced kings and queens with illusions, tearing kingdoms into ruin for no cause save amusement.
They had wielded their gift as a butcher's knife, carving misery into the flesh of the world. And now, before the god who had granted them power, they dared to kneel in false reverence.
Yet Aurelthas, drinking deep of their praise, swelled with satisfaction. He lifted his chin, gaze proud, and laughed softly, as though all existence confirmed his superiority.
"Ah," he said, "how sweet it is to be adored. How just, how fitting. You honor me with your words, and though I have heard such praise uncounted times, each time is as wine upon my lips. Continue, if you wish. For though eternity makes all things familiar, pride such as mine never tires of being crowned."
His laughter lingered, low and self-pleased, echoing through the silent forest.
He stretched his arms as though embracing the forest itself, his robe rippling with unnatural grace. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he spoke as one dismissing servants.
"Yet now my time is spent. I must depart to temples greater than your circle of mud, to voices more sincere, to altars more adorned. When next you seek to please me, do so in prayer. I have no need to be dragged bodily from eternity for trifles. Remember—Aurelthas is precious, Aurelthas is costly. I am not to be summoned as though a beast at leash."
He smiled again, dazzling and cruel, and willed himself gone.
Nothing happened.
For a moment, his expression did not falter. He adjusted his stance, as though the stillness were deliberate, his silence calculated. Then, with more force, he willed it again—his essence straining to dissolve, to vanish back into his celestial dominion. Again nothing. The god remained, very much flesh and form, standing in the mortal forest where leaves still whispered and candles guttered.
His smile twitched, the first crack in a facade carved from centuries of arrogance. He tried a third time, whispering a word older than stone, a syllable that should have shattered the divide between realms.
Still nothing.
Confusion stirred behind his perfect eyes. He frowned and tried again, harder, harder—summoning the authority of his name, the authority that had bent thousands of worshippers to kneel, that had raised empires of pride. His divinity strained, yet his body remained bound, trapped in the rectangle of bones and ash.
The four mages did not move. They watched, their eyes gleaming, lips twitching with suppressed laughter.
At last, Aurelthas lowered his hands. His smile was gone. The air about him shimmered with suppressed fury.
"What game is this?" His voice was colder now, like frost creeping across glass. "Do you mock me? Do you think yourselves hidden in shadow when I see every thought flicker across your faces?"
He tried once more, willing himself away with the full weight of his divine will. The forest shivered. The candles leaned. His hair whipped in invisible wind—yet still he stood, unmoved, unfreed.
This time, the mages laughed aloud.
Their laughter rose, sharp and cruel, echoing through the clearing. Veynar was first, his thin frame shaking with mirth. Then Maelric, booming like a drum, slapped his thigh. Even Sarthain's hollow whisper gave way to chuckles muffled by his mask. Caldrith, beautiful Caldrith, tilted his head and smiled as one savoring victory long before the foe has realized it.
Only then did Aurelthas understand. His eyes widened—not with humility, for that was a concept unknown to him—but with shock, a god's incredulity at the impossible. His voice thundered across the rectangle, pride laced with sudden fear.
"You dare—" He cut himself short, rage shaking his words. "You dare ensnare me? You dare cage the Unbending? Mortals! Worms! Do you not know that your lives, your destinies, are clay in my hands? That I may twist you, break you, grind you into dust with a thought?"
He raised his hands, summoning fire from the very air. Bright tongues leapt, roaring toward the four with heat enough to blister stone. Yet before the flame could consume, Veynar hissed words of denial, and the fire twisted like a snake denied its prey. The flames guttered and vanished, smoke drifting harmlessly away.
The god's fury deepened. He bared his teeth in something not unlike a snarl.
"You use my own gifts against me," he spat. "You dare wield what is mine—what I gave—against the hand that granted it?"
Maelric spread his scarred arms, his grin wide. "We do more than dare, lord. We succeed."
Aurelthas roared, the sound splitting the canopy above. The world itself bent to his rage. Trees trembled, the ground warped, and then—the forest was gone. Darkness swallowed them, total, suffocating. The god's voice boomed through the void.
"You cannot fight what you cannot see. Here I am everything, and here you are nothing. I will crush you, blind things, crawling in my night."
Yet the mages laughed again. Sarthain whispered from within his mask, describing aloud: "The god of pride clenches his fists. He paces three steps to the left. He lowers his head as though hiding his shame."
Aurelthas froze. His eyes darted—though in this darkness, who could see? Still, they saw. They saw him, utterly. He sat, thinking to deceive them, and they described the very angle of his posture. He moved to strike, to leap—and they named the gesture before his hand twitched.
Their laughter was knives. Mockery cut deeper than any blade. And the god of pride, for the first time in uncounted ages, felt naked. Powerless. Seen.
The truth pressed itself upon him like a stone upon his chest. He had flown into their trap. They had laid the cage with care, each bone, each candle, each word of their chant a bar in an invisible prison. And he—arrogant, unbending—had strode willingly into it, lured by the sweetness of praise, blinded by his hunger to be adored.
Now, wings clipped, he was caught like a great bird thrashing against a snare.
The mages' laughter swelled, filling the void. And Aurelthas, god though he was, trembled at the sound.
The god's fury burned, but beneath it something new crept—a shadow Aurelthas had never known: doubt.
He had laughed when other gods whispered tales of slaughter. Mortals with cunning, mortals with rituals, mortals who had learned the forbidden craft of trapping the deathless. Stories of gods brought low, their raw essence harvested, their eternity broken into shards of power. To Aurelthas, these had been little more than jest. If a god fell, it was only proof that he had been weak, unworthy of worship. Such a fate could never befall the Unbending. Pride alone safeguarded him. Pride made him untouchable.
Yet here he stood, bound in a mortal forest, mocked by four worms with clever hands. The very thing he had scorned now pressed its weight upon him, undeniable.
The darkness he had conjured dissolved with a ripple, torn apart by the will of the mages. Sunlight returned, spilling through branches. The candles still guttered at the rectangle's corners. Bones still gleamed. The forest had not changed; only his illusions had.
They had never left. They had never been lost. His trick, desperate and proud, had failed.
Aurelthas staggered back, though his body did not tire. It was instinct, a reflex born of fear that had never been allowed to touch him until now. His voice came hoarse, shorn of its velvet.
"You know not what you do," he rasped. "To chain a god is to bind your own fate to ruin. Do you not see? If I fall, so too shall your lineages, your kingdoms, all that springs from your soil. I have woven pride into your world's foundation. Without me, all shall collapse."
Veynar tilted his head, his serpent's smile unbroken. "Then let it collapse. Pride is nothing but a mask we wear. If we must wear another mask, so be it."
Maelric spat into the dirt. "Your pride fed my fire. Your pride told me I was chosen, destined to rise above all others. I listened, aye. And what did it give me? Empty battles, empty victories. I burned because you whispered that I should. Now I burn for myself."
Sarthain's whisper slithered through the mask of onyx. "You made me jailer of the dead. Their voices haunt me still. You said it was gift. I call it curse. I will return the curse to its source."
Caldrith, beautiful and cold, lifted his violet eyes. "We are not fools, lord. We are thieves. And today we steal eternity."
The god's breath quickened. His perfect features twisted in something not even he could name—terror, despair, rage. He fell to a knee, not in worship but in desperation.
"Spare me," he said, the words tasting like poison upon his tongue. "Spare me and I shall make you kings among mortals. I shall lift your names into stars. I shall—"
Veynar cut him off with laughter, sharp and cruel. "Listen! The Unbending bends."
Their mirth was a blade, sharper than steel. For the first time in his countless existence, Aurelthas begged—and they reveled in it.
The god roared again, summoning power, straining against the invisible bars. Lightning crackled across his skin, arcs that split trees and scarred stone. Yet when he hurled them outward, the bolts bent mid-air, dissipating before reaching the mages. His cage drank his wrath and rendered it hollow.
Sweat beaded upon his brow. His chest heaved. He was being unmade before their eyes—not yet in body, but in soul.
"End him," Maelric growled. His scarred hand rested upon the hilt of his rune-carved blade. "End him before his tricks grow sharper."
Caldrith raised both arms, his violet gaze narrowing. "No steel. His power must be his end. Let him slay himself."
The others nodded. Together, they reached into the weave of magic that bound them to him—the tether through which his gift had always flowed. They pulled, not to draw strength, but to twist it back upon its source. Words spilled from their mouths in unison, ancient syllables reversed, corrupted, turned into shackles.
Aurelthas screamed. The sound shook the canopy, drove birds shrieking into the sky. His hands clawed at his own throat as invisible chains yanked him to his feet. His body convulsed, pride battling against compulsion, will battling against will.
"NO!" His voice cracked, thunderous and broken. "I AM ETERNAL! I AM—"
The words choked as his own power betrayed him. His fire curled inward, searing his skin. His lightning struck his chest. The air itself turned upon him, winds battering his form.
The mages stood, eyes gleaming, forcing his hand, forcing his divine will to end itself. Sweat poured down their brows as they held the command, their voices shaking but unrelenting.
Piece by piece, the god of pride unraveled. His golden hair withered into strands of light. His flesh flaked away into dust, carried off on the same winds that had once heralded his arrival. His eyes, blazing with hatred and terror, burst into sparks.
He screamed until his throat was no more. He thrashed until his arms were gone.
And then, with a sound like the sundering of mountains, his essence broke apart.
What remained coalesced at the rectangle's center—a sphere of radiance, yellow and blinding, pulsing like a miniature sun. It hovered above the earth, spinning slowly, casting long shadows of the mages across the forest floor. The god's body was gone. Only raw power remained.
A notification rang through the very air, not heard by ears but felt in the marrow:
[System Notice: Raw System Energy acquired. 1,200 Points.]
The four mages gasped, awe piercing their cruelty for a moment. Then greed returned, fiercer than ever.
Maelric laughed, loud and booming. "We did it! By all infernal fires, we did it!"
Sarthain clutched his mask, whispering feverishly. "The gods are not immortal. They can be ended. They can be harvested."
Veynar hissed through his smile. "Think of what 1,200 points will buy us. Power beyond empires. Lifetimes beyond lifetimes."
Caldrith alone did not laugh. He stepped forward, slowly, reverently, and from his satchel drew a vessel: a crystal phial encased in bronze latticework, its mouth wide enough to drink light. He held it high, murmuring words smooth as silk.
The sphere of radiance trembled, then drifted toward the vessel. With a final pulse that scorched the grass black, it sank into the phial, shrinking until it fit, glowing like a captured sun behind bronze bars.
The forest fell quiet once more. Only the four mages remained—victors, murderers, thieves of eternity.
They exulted, voices overlapping in savage jubilation. They embraced, clapped shoulders, shouted their triumph to the trees. For them, the world had shifted. They were no longer mere mortals dabbling at divinity—they were predators who had devoured the divine.
"Back," Maelric said at last, voice still thick with triumph. "Back to the chamber. Let us divide our prize."
Veynar nodded, eyes gleaming with cunning. "Yes, back. Let us prepare to ascend."
Caldrith smiled then, beautiful and cold, and raised his hands. A circle of light spun open before him, rippling in the air like a mirror of molten glass. Through it shone a chamber lit by a hundred candles, their flames swaying though no wind touched them. The place where their plot had been birthed, nurtured, perfected.
One by one, the mages stepped through. Maelric first, eager as always to claim spoils. Veynar slithered behind, already scheming. Sarthain moved in silence, his mask glinting.
Caldrith lingered. His hand tightened around the vessel, the captured sun within. His smile sharpened, no longer cold but cruel.
With a flick of his wrist, he closed the portal before stepping through. The gateway snapped shut with a whisper, leaving him alone in the forest.
He laughed then, soft at first, then louder, louder, until the trees seemed to lean in horror at the sound. Another portal bloomed at his command—this one opening not to the candlelit chamber, but to streets alive with noise, a distant city of stone and smoke.
"Fools," he murmured, stepping through. "You think evil honors itself? Evil devours."
The portal closed. The forest was silent once more, save for the faint hiss of dying candles and the whisper of the wind through bones.
***
By the time the three mages realized the truth, the room of candles was already empty save for themselves. The air hummed with the faint echo of a portal collapsing, the aftertaste of betrayal sharp as bile.
Maelric was first to curse, slamming a fist against the stone wall. "That snake!" he roared, his voice rattling the candles in their sconces. "He's taken it for himself."
Veynar only smiled, though his teeth were clenched so tightly blood beaded on his lip. "Of course he did. That's what I would have done."
Sarthain lowered his masked face, his whisper barely audible. "Evil feeds upon itself. We knew this. We allowed it. Yet still it cuts."
Their triumph had turned to ashes. They had slain a god, yes—but their prize had fled into the hands of the most treacherous among them.
***
Meanwhile, Caldrith strode the streets of a city far away, the vessel tucked beneath his cloak. The city was alive with the clamor of markets and the cries of hawkers, the clatter of wheels on cobblestones, the laughter of drunkards staggering from taverns. He moved among them as though he belonged, smiling faintly, his violet eyes glimmering with secrets no one around him could guess.
He was radiant. Victorious. The vessel at his side glowed faintly through the bronze lattice, spilling golden light whenever he shifted.
Laughter burst from a group of men gathered at a street corner, drunk on cheap ale. Caldrith, drunk on triumph, laughed with them though he had not heard their jest. They stared at him as one might stare at a lunatic, yet he only laughed louder, teeth flashing white.
"Mine," he whispered to himself. "All mine. Twelve hundred points. Not three hundred. Not scraps. The whole feast."
And he was right. If shared, each of them would have claimed only three hundred—enough to extend life by centuries, to reverse age, to swell with power beyond kings. But twelve hundred? Twelve hundred was apotheosis. With it, he would outlive empires, outlast dynasties, become a terror whispered in centuries yet unborn.
He laughed again, drawing glances from strangers who muttered about madmen.
***
By dusk he had found a tavern, its timbered walls glowing with firelight, its windows spilling warmth into the cool streets. He flung coins upon the counter, silver enough to buy him a night's worth of revelry. Ale flowed, frothing and bitter, and he drank as though to drown himself. Each swallow burned sweet. Each mug made his victory taste greater.
He laughed with strangers, slapped backs, cheered to toasts he did not hear. They laughed at him in return, not with him, whispering that he was a fool, a lunatic who had lost his wits. He did not care. He was beyond them. A god had died, and he alone carried its essence.
Night deepened. His stomach swam with ale, his cheeks burned, his laughter cracked. He stumbled toward the serving maid, a plump woman with tired eyes. "A room," he slurred. "A bed for the night, a bed for a week. A bed for a month if you'll have me."
She eyed the heavy purse he dropped into her hand and nodded quickly. "Upstairs. First door on the right."
Caldrith swayed up the steps, gripping the railing. His body staggered like a man near collapse, but a thin strand of magic kept him upright, holding his limbs steady enough to reach the door. Inside, the chamber was simple—bed, table, chair—but to him it might as well have been a palace. He threw himself onto the mattress face-first, still laughing softly.
"Victory," he murmured into the straw-stuffed pillow. "Victory."
Then, laughter answered him.
It was not his own.
Caldrith bolted upright. His head spun with drink, but his violet eyes sharpened. He looked around, breath catching in his throat.
They were there.
Veynar stood by the shuttered window, fingers stroking his string of bones. Maelric leaned against the door, arms crossed, scarred face twisted in a grin that was anything but mirth. Sarthain stood at the bed's foot, his onyx mask gleaming in the candlelight, whispering chuckles seeping from beneath it.
Caldrith's blood turned to ice. He clutched the vessel instinctively. "How—how did you—"
Veynar laughed, low and hissing. "You thought yourself cleverest. In truth, you were dumbest. You walked with a sun under your cloak, thinking no one would see its light."
Maelric's grin widened. "We tracked it. The raw energy is not yours. It belonged to Aurelthas, and through him it belonged to us all. It sings to us, traitor. Loud as a beacon."
Sarthain whispered, his words soft as a blade sliding between ribs. "Had you consumed it the moment you fled, perhaps you would have stood above us. Perhaps you would have crushed us here. Instead, you drank ale. You laughed with strangers. You wallowed in pride like a pig in mud. And now you will die for it."
Caldrith staggered to his feet, clutching the vessel to his chest. His eyes darted between them, wild, desperate. "No—you can't. I—I earned this! I held the vessel. I captured him. I carried it! It's mine!"
Maelric drew his rune-carved blade, the stone edge humming with hunger. "And soon it will be ours."
He tried to summon magic. His hands glowed with violet fire, his lips shaping words to tear stone and sunder flesh. Yet his body betrayed him. The drink weighed heavy, his limbs sluggish, his thoughts muddled. The magic sputtered, wild and uncontrolled.
Veynar darted forward, his serpent's speed uncanny. He lashed out with a string of bones, wrapping it around Caldrith's wrist. A hiss of power snapped through the contact, severing his spell.
Maelric struck next, his blade crashing down. It met Caldrith's shoulder, not slicing, but shattering. Bones snapped like twigs, and Caldrith screamed, staggering backward.
Sarthain whispered words too faint to catch, and invisible force clenched around Caldrith's legs. They snapped as though crushed in a giant's fist, bone splinters jutting through skin. His scream turned to a gurgle, blood spilling from his lips.
He tried to cry for help, but the sound never left his throat. Veynar's hand clamped over his mouth, and Maelric's blade struck again—this time shattering ribs. Each blow broke him further, reducing him from man to meat.
The last sound he made was not a scream but a whimper, muffled beneath Veynar's hand. Then silence.
The vessel rolled from his grasp, clattering to the floor. The glow within pulsed, unbroken, unspent.
Maelric stooped and lifted it, holding it aloft. "At last," he breathed. "At last it is ours."
The three gathered around it, their eyes reflecting gold. They did not speak of sharing. They did not argue. They knew. If one held it, betrayal would rise again.
"Now," Veynar hissed. "Now we claim it."
He opened the vessel, and the light spilled forth. The miniature sun rose into the air, blazing brighter, brighter, until the chamber was a cathedral of gold. The mages raised their hands, their mouths spilling ancient syllables.
The sphere quivered—and then split.
Three fragments broke free, each glowing like molten amber. They drifted to the waiting mages, hovering just before their chests.
As one, they opened their mouths. As one, they swallowed the light.
It burned down their throats like fire. It seared into their bellies, into their marrow, into their souls. They convulsed, gasping, clawing at their own flesh. Their eyes blazed from within, their veins lit like rivers of molten gold.
The tavern itself trembled. Patrons downstairs fell silent, staring at the ceiling as dust rained down. Horses in the street screamed and bolted.
Then, the three mages straightened, glowing from the inside out. Their laughter filled the chamber, echoing like the cries of devils crowned.
[System Notice: Raw System Energy absorbed. 400 Points each.]
Their power surged. Their lives stretched long before them, centuries unrolling like banners. Their youth renewed, their magic swollen, their hearts untouchable.
Caldrith lay broken at their feet, eyes glassy, blood soaking the straw mattress. His betrayal had bought him nothing. Their betrayal had bought them eternity.
The tavern shook with their laughter, and outside, the city seemed suddenly smaller, weaker, dimmer before the radiance that leaked through the chamber shutters.
The age of gods had faltered. The age of thieves had begun.