Chapter 53

  ?Luken, we need to talk!“

  Gravor’s voice suddenly echoed through my head—a deep, rushing sound that slid between my thoughts like burning parchment. I had just been drifting into sleep. That moment between waking and dreaming, where everything floats.

  I flinched slightly. My body still lay still in bed, blanket pulled to my chest, but my mind was already gone.

  The room was empty. No soft breathing, no murmurs, not even the sound of someone shifting in their sleep. And somehow it felt eerie.

  In recent weeks I’d grown used to sleeping around others. Whether by the campfire, on dirty mats in small huts, or crammed into cold inn rooms with barely enough space for a few beds. I had even once shared camp with slaves—just for a night, but that memory stuck to me like dust to metal. But that’s another story.

  Eventually I fell fully asleep, but no black void awaited me, no warm dream, no creeping memory.

  Instead—

  A jolt.

  A pull that didn’t hurt, just felt… strange.

  The room stretched. My mind slid through it like thick liquid. And then: pop.

  I stood there fully armored—from shoulder guard to boots, only the helmet missing—and looked around. I wasn’t on a battlefield. Nor in an arena. No.

  I was in a living room. But not just any living room. It was… absurdly luxurious.

  The floor beneath my feet was made of flawless, shimmering marble in a soft gold-white, gleaming like freshly polished glass. Every step echoed like walking through a temple.

  The sofa—or rather, the sofas—looked stolen from a royal estate: velvet cushions in deep midnight blue, embroidered with golden thread and ancient rune-like patterns. The backrests curved, almost throne-like, and the fabric was unmistakably Tirros cloth. Priceless material, worn or displayed only by the highest of circles.

  In the center: a glass table. Sharp edges, completely transparent, its surface so smooth and shiny it looked like water. On it: a small steaming teapot, a cup—and a golden spoon engraved with floral patterns.

  Above it hovered a massive chandelier, glimmering with crystal, casting light though no candles were in sight. No magic hum, no aura—it simply was.

  The ceiling above me was held by six pillars, each at least three meters tall, ivory white, artfully twisted, engraved with delicate spiral patterns.

  And the walls…

  They were a museum of my past.

  In golden, perfectly lit oil paintings hung scenes from my life:

  – The fight against the half-giant, where I struck the axe from his hand.

  – Me, arm outstretched, unleashing a blinding light that sent an entire band of robbers staggering.

  – The silent embrace of an old friend after a lost battle.

  – Maira, Vin, Reyn—faces, moments, frozen in time, painted with a precision that made me tremble inside.

  And then—I finally looked at the sofa.

  There he was. Gravor.

  And I didn’t know whether to laugh, scream, or just leave the room.

  In his ugly, lanky demon form—about my height, but twice as stretched—he was lounging comfortably in the cushions, one leg crossed over the other.

  His gray skin flickered as if lava pulsed beneath the surface. His horns curved back like dark branches. Two small flames smoldered in his eye sockets. He wore—for all that is holy—a fine purple robe over his burning skin. Apparently silk.

  And what was he doing? Drinking tea. Contentedly. With a slurp far too refined for such a monster. In his other hand, he held a book. Not just any book.

  “Calming Spells for Beginners and Adepts – From Gentle Winds to the Dream of Mist.”

  An old book from my childhood that I had once read during a restless night out of boredom. Gravor was in my memory. And he was reading it. With reading glasses.

  “Sit down, Paladin,” he said without looking up.

  “We need to talk.”

  Even though a hundred questions rushed through my head at that moment—loud, tangled, circling like startled crows—I slowly sat down on the velvet-covered sofa across from Gravor. It creaked slightly under my weight, my armor was heavy, cold, completely out of place in this surreal environment.

  Still: I sat. I studied him closely.

  His body was gaunt, thin like a dried-up branch, but beneath the ashen tone of his skin, there was a constant glow, as if molten lava flowed just under the surface. His horns curved sideways, dark and glossy, and on his bony hands were still the traces of ancient marks—like carved runes.

  This was only the second time I had seen Gravor in his true form. The first time he had cast me out of my own body. I had been a spectator, trapped inside myself, as he took control and turned me into a raging storm—in the duel against Simon.

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  That moment, when my own will had vanished, replaced by a demonic whisper. I had sworn then: never again.

  I cleared my throat, forcing myself to remain calm.

  "I guess this is my mindscape?"

  I finally asked, glancing around again—all the gold-framed memories, the soft flicker of the chandelier, the scent of tea and old paper.

  Gravor closed the book in his clawed hands. A soft puff sounded—then it vanished in a black, steamy cloud, as if it had never been there. With exaggerated sluggishness, he straightened up, held the cup to his lips with two fingers, and slowly drank the last sip.

  He grinned. Of course he grinned.

  "Yes, this is it. Your neat little mindscape. After the fight with Gunnar and all the chaos at the ‘White Ox’, I made myself comfortable here."

  I looked away briefly, but the images came anyway. Images of the Crytomancer.

  Gunnar throwing himself in front of me—shielding me from Ygrath's deadly beam of light. A moment I still couldn’t forget. A man who had fought for the wrong side. Who had killed. A man who had, in the end, still sacrificed himself. From villain to hero, in a single step, frozen in a moment of glittering ice and eternal silence.

  “Luken.”

  Gravor’s voice brought me back. Not cutting. Not mocking. Calm. Almost... gentle.

  I blinked. He continued speaking, quiet but with emphasis: “Tell me, Luken. What’s your plan?”

  I frowned.

  “My plan?” I repeated slowly.

  Gravor nodded slightly, folding his hands in front of him. His next question sounded almost like a teacher who knew more than the student.

  “For the future. What’s your goal, your path? You’ve been hunting Zarkhural for ten years—the dragon who destroyed your life before the Order.”

  I felt my shoulders tense. My fingers curled slightly into fists.

  “Are you trying to stir my anger?” I asked coolly.

  He raised a hand in a calming gesture, his voice steady.

  “No. I’m a greedy bastard, yes. I lie, I manipulate. But this time... I’m serious.”

  He leaned forward slightly.

  “You came to Thulegard because the city lord holds information. Your contact led you down this path a year ago.” I didn’t respond right away. I just nodded silently.

  Gravor sighed. The air around him shimmered briefly, distorted by heat.

  Then, in a calm voice: “But now you’ve met Reyn.”

  As he spoke, a new cup of tea appeared before him, as if by magic. The steam rose in elegant curls.

  “And you’re starting to stray from your path.”

  I was quiet for a moment. Then I leaned back, looked him directly in the eye.

  “You say that as if my path is set in stone.”

  Gravor raised an eyebrow—if his demonic forehead allowed it.

  “Wasn’t it? Ten years of burning vengeance. Ten years of determination. And now...? Now you’re sitting with a stranger over beer, a man who does things you can’t explain, and you’re thinking about other paths.”

  I clenched my teeth.

  “I’m not thinking about anything. I... I’m just being cautious.” Gravor laughed softly. Not maliciously. More knowingly.

  “Of course. Cautious. Tell me, Paladin—cautious of what?”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t know myself. Or maybe I did. Of what I might feel. Of a new goal that had nothing to do with Zarkhural. Of the thought that maybe... I could move on. Gravor took a sip of his tea.

  “This isn’t about demons. Not about Zarkhural. It’s about you.”

  I closed my eyes. Just for a heartbeat. Then opened them again. The air in the mindscape had grown still, as if it had been waiting for my decision.

  “I’ll stay. In Thulegard.”

  My voice was calm, but firm.

  I slowly stood. My armor clinked softly.

  “My path of vengeance ends here.”

  That last sentence echoed like a verdict through the room—not just meant for myself, but for him too. For Gravor. For everything I had been.

  Then—almost gently—the world of light and marble began to fade. The room stretched, dissolved into stardust, and I finally sank into sleep. Deep and clear, without images.

  –

  Gravor remained.

  The mindscape no longer held golden-framed paintings or glittering chandeliers. Now, there was only emptiness. Pure, dull darkness, broken only by a single red circle beneath his feet. His body seemed even more alien in this void—too thin, too long, carved from shadow and ember.

  He smiled. But it wasn’t a victor’s smile. It was the smile of a loser. Because even though there was no reason to, the corner of his mouth curled upward.

  Reyn.

  That damned, strange, inscrutable human. He was destroying everything. Not with a dagger, not with fire or a curse—but with a smile. With patience. With listening.

  He had changed Luken. Changed!

  Gravor could feel it in every fiber. The darkness in Luken was fading.

  That sweet, seething, all-consuming rage—it was vanishing. The vengeance that had driven him for ten years like a burning heart of iron—was becoming a distant memory.

  And Zarkhural, once a feared name, was now just an echo.

  What remained... was a happy Luken. A Luken who no longer needed hatred. A Luken who no longer needed demons. A true paladin.

  Gravor felt it: the bond between them was weakening. Like an unused muscle. Like a rope starting to come undone. The symbiosis was crumbling—slowly, but inevitably.

  And if it continued this way, he’d fall back. Be banished. Condemned to inertia. Just a whisper again.

  He growled, his claws trembling with suppressed fury.

  Then he began to pace in circles, his talons leaving glowing trails on the red circle.

  “I raised the wrong paladin…” he muttered to himself.

  “And now he wants to be real.”

  But then he stopped. His eyes cleared.

  If the source of rage had dried up, he needed to find a new one. Something stronger than memory. Something that would throw Luken back into the fire. Something that would force him to turn to Gravor once more.

  “Then I’ll search myself,” he hissed.

  He stretched out both arms, his hands morphing into swirling black veils.

  Though physically trapped in Luken’s mind, he could—through half-sleep, dreams, fleeting moments—peek into the shadows.

  And now he did.

  With a jolt, his perception extended outward like black mist, spreading across Thulegard.

  He flew over rooftops, alleys, through windows. He saw marketplaces where tired vendors packed up their goods, their breath fogging in the cold night air.

  He saw elven children staying up past bedtime, throwing pillows at each other while their parents slept.

  In taverns, drunks stumbled past one another, laughing. A barkeeper smashed a guest’s face on the counter for refusing to pay—just another night.

  And then Gravor turned away.

  He had accidentally found Rurik—in a pose he couldn’t bear to witness any longer.

  “Ugh…” An honest sound of disgust escaped him. “What is that guy…?”

  He flew on. Ever forward.

  A swirl of voices, impressions, memories.

  Then the scream. Not loud—but pure. Shrill.

  A scream broken in time. A scream that would never end, for it had been silenced mid-birth.

  Gravor froze. Then raced toward it. Faster. Faster.

  And finally—he saw it.

  A window. Crooked and broken, in one of the slums.

  He slipped through—and there it was:

  A black figure stood in the room, wrapped head to toe in dark cloth, face hidden beneath a veil.

  On its hands: executioner’s gloves—thick, gray skin with seams like scars across the fingers. And before this figure—only a shadow.

  A human, no maybe a dragonkin. Barely distinguishable.

  Just the outline, scorched into the wall. As if vaporized.

  Gravor wanted to move, fly, act—

  but then the figure crouched. Pulled two small bodies from under the bed. Dragonkin children. Trembling. Eyes wide and wet with tears.

  The black figure leaned down. And then—it began to sing a lullaby.

  Soft and melodic.

  And the children stopped crying. They relaxed and leaned against the stranger’s body.

  They fell asleep. In the next moment—the figure was gone. No sound, no shadow remained. Only silence.

  Gravor stood still for a moment.

  Then he grinned. Not falsely. Not forced. A real grin.

  “Found the enemy,” he whispered.

  “And Luken will hate him.”