Garruk stared at Varric with a barely contained fury, his fingers curling tighter around his hammer until the leather grip creaked beneath the strain.
"Because we are Emberforge Guild," he growled, voice rough with rage. "Our guild has sworn loyalty to Kharzal since the beginning. Do not spit on the King's Line, Varric. The Tazrik bastards have challenged Kharzal's authority openly—and you, as guildmaster, would drag us into ruin with this deal."
Varric listened with an expression of mild interest, his grin unbothered by Garruk's fury.
"We'll see," he replied easily.
He lifted one shoulder in a shrug.
"And it wasn't solely my decision. As a responsible guildmaster, I held a vote."
Lirien's eyes narrowed, her voice cutting through the chamber like a drawn blade.
"In other words, you—no, your guild—sold out one of your own subordinates for coin."
Disgust laced every syllable.
Varric didn't flinch.
"Profit outweighs sentiment," he said calmly. "Always has. Always will."
His gaze slid back to her, sharp and knowing.
"And you know that as well as I do."
"And the attempt on Garruk's life?" Eryndor asked quietly.
Varric sighed, theatrical and false.
"A regrettable necessity. He refused to stand aside."
"You sent them to have me killed," Garruk snarled. "My own brothers."
His body trembled—not from fear, but from rage barely held in check.
"They agreed," Varric replied lightly. "A democratic process, remember?"
Then he added, almost cheerfully,
"To be precise, they volunteered. You forced their hand, my friend. Honor does not feed families."
He turned his gaze toward Eryndor, the grin on his face sharpening into something openly malicious.
"And now you and your two companions have walked straight into my hands. Convenient."
Eryndor exhaled slowly.
"Well," he said, "glad we saved you the trouble of hunting us."
"Indeed." Varric raised the shard slightly. Its glow intensified, casting sharp, angular light across the chamber walls. The reflection crawled over Eryndor's skin like a warning spark.
"You won't leave this place alive. The Tazrik delegation will arrive soon, and I intend to present them with exactly what they paid for."
Eryndor tilted his head.
"A murderous dwarf and a glowing rock?"
Varric smirked.
"No. A glowing rock… and the dead fools who tried to steal it."
"Oh my," Eryndor chuckled. "What a sly and vicious plan."
He met Varric's gaze—calm, steady, unshaken.
Silence thickened.
Around them, guild weapons shifted in tightening grips. Lirien's fingers closed fully around her sword hilt. Garruk adjusted his stance, fists curled tightly around his hammer.
"Well then," Eryndor said softly, smiling,
"Seems we're at one of those moments where things will not go according the plan."
The air inside the Maw Gate chamber stank of rust, ash, and something older—like breath exhaled by the mountain itself.
Eryndor felt the scripture beneath his skin flicker again, a faint pulse that wasn't entirely his. From the moment Varric lifted the relic—a jagged iron shard veined with ember-gold—Eryndor had felt it. The flicker became a tug, subtle but undeniable, tightening beneath his skin like a whisper traced along the golden script etched into his flesh.
Still, his expression remained calm. Steady.
"Well then," Varric said, his grin thin as a knife's edge. "Shall we begin?"
Eryndor tilted his head.
"Before we start killing each other, Varric, just a bit of curiosity on my part."
Varric's eyebrow twitched.
"What?"
"I mean, you could've stabbed us the moment we walked in," Eryndor said, gesturing vaguely around the chamber. "But this whole dramatic reveal? Is it necessary?"
Garruk muttered, "He does talk too much."
Lirien's lips curved faintly.
"Insecurity. Overcompensation."
Eryndor nodded.
"Ah. That checks out."
"Enough!" Varric snarled.
His composure finally cracked. Dense mana surged outward, the pressure of a Mortal Lord's realm slamming into the chamber like an invisible weight. The air compressed, squeezing around Eryndor, intent on forcing him to kneel, yet He didn't.
He stood straight, shoulders relaxed, wearing a small—almost apologetic—smile.
Varric stared at him, eyes narrowing.
"Kill them," he commanded.
Steel rang.
The guild soldiers surged forward as one.
Eryndor moved first.
A spear lunged toward his chest. He twisted aside, his fist slamming into the shaft mid-thrust. The scripture flared beneath his skin, golden lines burning bright as a shockwave rippled outward. The spear shattered into splinters.
The attacker barely had time to gasp before Eryndor's leg snapped out, sending him crashing into the chamber wall with bone-cracking force.
To his right, Garruk met a charging axeman head-on. Hammer collided with axe in a thunderous boom that echoed through the stone hall. Sparks erupted. The axeman flew backward, breath tearing from his lungs. Garruk roared and followed through, swinging again and smashing the dwarf hard into the wall, where he collapsed unmoving.
Lirien stepped into the melee like a shadow gaining form.
Her blade slid free with a whisper. Darkness answered her call.
Shadows climbed her legs, coiling up her spine like living smoke. One heartbeat she was behind Eryndor—then she blurred, reappearing beside the nearest guildsman. Her sword carved a clean crescent through his pauldron.
The strike was silent. Only the sharp hiss of shadow followed her blade.
Another attacker lunged for her. She pivoted, shadows flaring at her heel and propelling her sideways with unnatural speed. Steel met steel for a brief instant—then the darkness swallowed the impact, letting her slip inside his guard. Her blade slid beneath his ribs.
Two more charged from behind.
The shadows she had shed earlier rose from the floor, snaring their ankles like spectral chains, slowing their momentum. Lirien didn't spare them a glance.
The chamber erupted into chaos.
Steel on steel. Sparks. Shouted curses. The low, resonant thrum of ancient forges stirring as if the mountain itself remembered violence.
Varric watched from the center, holding the lockbox close, waiting.
Amid the chaos, Eryndor felt it again.
Not just saw it—felt it.
The relic's pulse aligned with his scripture, the resonance sharp and precise, like a key grinding against a half-matched lock.
He ignored it.
For now.
He dashed forward, a blur of gold and shadow, weaving through the battlefield. Weapons glanced off his gauntlet as he caught and deflected strikes, his movements brutal and efficient. He slammed enemies aside with overwhelming force, each blow enhanced by the scripture burning beneath his skin.
Guildmen fell—one after another.
But not fast enough.
Eryndor saw it clearly. They were still outnumbered. Severely. And he couldn't afford to use his strongest techniques—not here, not yet. If he overextended, he'd drain his mana completely and collapse, becoming a liability instead of an asset.
The math was tightening around them.
They needed something decisive.
His gaze swept the chamber.
Then his mind clicked and an idea sparked.
The stupid, reckless yet absolutely his favourite kind.