Chapter 19

  “This is Markus. Markus Varnedor. Innkeeper of the White Ox and... Ice Wraith.”

  His voice echoed across the link—directly into our minds. It wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight that pressed against my chest like a stone.

  The moment he spoke that name—Varnedor—the air in the room changed.

  I froze.

  My breath hitched, and for a second, I thought I’d misheard him. Varnedor? No. That wasn’t possible. That name… it didn’t just sting—it burned.

  I wasn’t alone in the reaction.

  Vin’s head snapped toward Markus, her green-glowing fingers twitching with rage. Her eyes widened, then narrowed into slits of raw fury. If a gaze could kill, he’d be ash.

  Maira’s entire expression twisted into something unrecognizable—a violent, contorted grin of sheer bloodlust. For a moment, I wasn’t sure if it was her or something darker behind her eyes.

  Simon didn’t move. He sat completely still, but the muscle in his jaw ticked ever so slightly. His expression was blank, cold—but there was something lurking beneath it. A silent, simmering storm. A debt that demanded payment.

  And me?

  I almost stood up.

  Every fiber of my body screamed to draw my sword and end him right there. Not out of fear. Not even out of anger. But because the name Varnedor carried memories I’d tried to bury deep beneath steel and vows.

  But I didn’t move.

  Not now.

  Later—when this was over, and the storm of other enemies passed—there would be time. But right now, we had a larger threat to face.

  Our enemy was already listening.

  And sure enough, the Crytomancer responded swiftly—his voice still in our heads, deeper this time, sharper. There was no mistaking it.

  “That is not possible,” the voice hissed. “You should have no knowledge. None.”

  There was confusion in his tone. Panic? No… not quite. But something close. Something cracked in his perfect control. Markus knowing of the transformation—it wasn’t part of their plan. It wasn’t meant to happen.

  The Crytomancer’s voice sharpened. Controlled now, but tense.

  “How do you know of the change?”

  Markus didn’t hesitate.

  “I felt it. Both times.”

  His voice was steady—but only just. “It was like... like my entire body froze in an instant. A sheet of ice wrapping itself around my skin. Cold so deep I couldn’t scream. Couldn’t breathe.”

  His next words came slower. Thicker.

  “And I know...” his voice cracked, “I know I killed my son.”

  Even across a magical link, the tremor in his voice was unmistakable. His thoughts shook like leaves in a storm, vulnerable and raw. His grief spilled into the circle like black ink into water.

  None of us dared say a word. We just listened—as the silence after those words stretched longer and longer.

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  The Crytomancer did not immediately reply.

  After a long, uncomfortable pause, the Crytomancer finally responded. But his tone had shifted—no longer unsure, no longer probing. Now, it was sharp as iron, drenched in authority and contempt.

  "What do you want?" he spat, the words ringing inside our skulls like hammer-blows on steel. "Do you expect us to free you for the filthy scrap of life you have left?"

  There was no subtlety in his hatred. It boiled out of him like black fire—raw, overwhelming, and personal.

  And despite the danger, despite everything that had brought us to this point... I couldn’t help but find it a little poetic. A Crytomancer spitting fury at a Varnedor—a name I had spent years trying not to curse aloud. Now that same Varnedor was shackled, his soul bound and twisted. A slave.

  Bitter… and sweet.

  This wasn’t just control. This wasn’t pragmatism. No, it was vengeance. That much was clear now. The Crytomancers weren’t simply puppeteers—they were executioners, and Markus was their sentence. They wanted to burn down everything he loved, everything he’d ever touched.

  But why summon a nightmare? I wondered.

  Why unleash something —a creature powerful enough to threaten entire regions—just to torment one man?

  Markus didn’t flinch. His next words came with surprising steadiness. He didn’t stammer. He didn’t plead. He declared:

  "No. Quite the opposite."

  His voice grew firm, unshakable. "I want to undo the death of my son. Even if it means offering my soul in exchange."

  It was bold. Too bold, maybe. He’d laid the offer bare too fast—too directly. But it had an effect.

  The Crytomancer’s reaction was immediate. A ripple of surprise flashed through the link, subtle but unmistakable. For a heartbeat, the connection trembled. He hadn’t expected that.

  Then came silence again—this one different. Tense. Calculating. As if minds were now working in the dark, behind invisible veils, weighing the cost of a bargain they never meant to make.

  And then, unexpectedly, a new voice echoed in our heads.

  Quieter. More measured. More composed.

  "We have considered your request."

  A pause.

  "And it would be... a pleasure to see you sacrificed on the altar in two days' time."

  The voice caught itself.

  We froze.

  Everyone in the circle went completely still. Even Markus blinked, lips parting slightly.

  The Crytomancer had slipped.

  They didn’t know what we already knew—that a ritual was coming, that the altar existed, that they planned to offer him up as a vessel of suffering.

  But now they’d confirmed it. And that tiny mistake—those few too-honest words—might have just changed everything.

  Maira raised an eyebrow. Vin pressed her lips together, fighting a grin. Simon didn’t even smile—but I saw a flicker of cold satisfaction in his eyes.

  We had them.

  And they had no idea.

  It took a moment before the Crytomancers responded again. Their voices, once full of fire and venom, now came across more hesitant—brief, clipped, almost wary.

  "Two days. In the common room. Then we will finish this matter."

  And just like that, the connection vanished.

  The silence that followed felt unnatural—almost deafening. A strange, hot pressure bloomed behind my eyes, then faded into a dull ache. My skin prickled with cold sweat. The severing of the link left behind a kind of… mental echo. Like someone had slammed a door shut in a pitch-black corridor, and you were still standing there, alone.

  Vin didn’t take it as well. She swayed where she sat, shoulders dipping. I slid over beside her instinctively, reaching out—but before I could touch her, she blinked and straightened up again, forcing a weak but functional breath into her lungs.

  “I’m fine,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone else.

  Maira and Simon, by contrast, looked like they hadn’t been affected at all. Calm, composed—too composed, in Simon’s case. No expression betrayed what he might be thinking. That in itself made me nervous.

  The whole room understood the same unspoken truth at once:

  The connection was gone. The telepathic conversation was over.

  We began to rise from the cold wooden floor of Markus’s room, joints popping, limbs stiff. The air in the room felt heavier now, but not in a hopeless way. There was weight, yes—but it was the weight of purpose. We had what we needed.

  We had received personal confirmation from the Crytomancers.

  We had shaken their confidence.

  We knew the exact time of the ritual.

  And we had a chance to strike back.

  Still, we weren’t done.

  Not by a long shot.

  Markus, still flushed from the intensity of the conversation, looked up at us with wide, hopeful eyes. He even smiled—an uncertain, childlike thing. “Did I… did I do well?” he asked. His voice held a note of something like pride. “Did I say everything right?”

  Simon stepped forward.

  His answer came quiet, controlled, and laced with something sharp beneath the surface.

  “You did everything right.”

  Then he took another step.

  Deliberate. Heavy.

  Vin tensed beside me. Maira narrowed her eyes. I straightened without realizing it, one hand drifting toward the hilt at my belt.

  Simon’s voice dropped low, nearly a growl.

  “But now we need to talk about something else… Markus Varnedor.”

  He spat the surname like it was poison on his tongue. Acidic. Accusatory.

  And then he said it.

  “Dragon-breeder.”