Chapter 57

  The walls of Thulegard behind us cast long shadows on the frozen ground, and before us stretched a vast, empty expanse — the Ice Wastes. White, gray, silent. Only the crunch of snow under our boots broke the stillness.

  Reyn stood calmly beside me, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The wind tugged at his robe, but as always, he seemed completely unaffected. I, on the other hand… was confused. Maybe even a little angry.

  “So… that’s the whole plan? Luck?” I asked, my eyes still fixed on the desolate expanse ahead.

  I had listened to him. Taken mental notes. Gone through it all. And every point followed the same basic principle: hope. No strategy. No map. No contact. No secret path, no spell, no recall stone, no damn safety net. Just — luck.

  I counted the steps again in my head, half to convince myself I hadn’t missed something, half out of spite:

  ? We were supposed to be lucky enough that the Veil would let us through — because I was a Paladin. Some kind of magical reaction to the Order’s emblem, a sense that I’d be “recognized.” Hope number one.

  ? We were supposed to be lucky enough not to freeze or get eaten out there. And the way he said it, it didn’t even sound exaggerated.

  ? We were supposed to be lucky enough to even find the rebels — in a region where two steps sideways could make you vanish into a white nothing.

  ? We were supposed to be lucky enough to defeat them — though I had no idea how many they were, how they fought, or what exactly they even wanted.

  And finally, point five: a sincerely meant, but utterly unhelpful, “Good luck” from Reyn himself — who, by the way, had never made it through the Veil.

  I found myself wondering again why Vin had made it through. And apparently, so had ordinary people, elves, defectors… But the Lord of Storm and Shadow hadn’t? According to Reyn, there were rumors about a teleportation network, a relic, maybe a secret route. All vague. All hearsay. And again: nothing certain.

  Reyn looked at me, nodded calmly, and his voice was as composed as ever: “That’s it.”

  Nothing more.

  He turned to Arik, who had stood a few paces behind us the whole time. The wind had laid a frosty layer across his cheeks, but the look in his amber eyes was resolute — a little nervous perhaps, but firm.

  “Ashblood,” Reyn began in a formal tone I rarely heard from him, “it is an honor that a citizen volunteers for such a dangerous journey.” He even gave a slight bow, which visibly confused Arik. “Naturally, your family will be looked after in your absence.”

  Then he raised a finger, almost like a teacher offering one last piece of advice: “But like my friend here, you must understand — you owe nothing.”

  Arik nodded slowly, his right fist resting against his chest, a silent gesture of loyalty.

  “I understand… but I couldn’t bear it if something happened to the elven woman, and I hadn’t even tried to help.”

  His tone was calm, almost clinical, but I felt there was more beneath it. Maybe gratitude. Maybe guilt. Maybe just the desire to be part of something bigger than himself.

  We said nothing more. Each of us stared out into the endless white that stretched before us like a blank page. The sky was gray, heavy with snow-laden clouds. Nothing moved on the horizon — no bird, no tree, no light. Only cold, wind, and snow.

  And so we stood there, our little group — Maira, arms crossed, ready for whatever might come; Arik, looking unusually serious; me, thinking too much; and Reyn, watching us like a man sending his gambling friend into battle.

  The gates of Thulegard closed behind us with a dull thud.

  Before us lay the coldest place in the North.

  And we were ready to uncover its secrets.

  -

  Reyn remained motionless for a moment as the heavy city gate of Thulegard slowly closed behind him. The wind had died down, and the fog swallowed the three silhouettes of Luken, Maira, and Arik until not even their outlines were visible. Only silence remained – a silence that felt almost reverent.

  He smiled. Not mockingly, not arrogantly – more like someone watching a carefully laid plan finally set into motion.

  Yes, Luken was more than a pawn in this game. The paladin trusted him. Not just because of the faint, nearly imperceptible influence Reyn held over his mind – subtle, like a shadow threading through thoughts – but because of something more genuine. A budding friendship. Or at least a connection. One strong enough that Luken hadn’t questioned a single word Reyn had said.

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  Not the claim that the rebels were dangerous. Not Rurik’s warning – disgusting as the man might be, his instincts were sharp.

  Not even the fact that Vin had left of her own free will had caused Luken to hesitate.

  Reyn closed his eyes for a moment. The world grew still. No wind. No sound. Only the certainty that everything was unfolding as it should.

  Then he opened his eyes, murmured a flowing incantation in an ancient tongue – no grand gesture, no lightshow. Just a shimmering tear in the air, barely visible to ordinary eyes. One step through it, and the world shifted.

  He now stood within a vast underground complex.

  The cave housing this facility was of natural origin – an ancient chamber deep beneath the ice ridges of the North. The ceiling arched high above in jagged curves, dark gray, lined with countless crystals that glinted like frozen stars. A cold haze hung still in the air, but it wasn’t frost – it was energy. Mana. Power. The walls seemed to breathe.

  The floor was made of deep red stone – Tharnite. A rare mineral wrapped in myth. Some claimed it was the crusted blood of fallen gods. Others simply called it “flame stone” because of its reddish shimmer, which seemed to move if stared at too long. To Reyn, it was one thing above all: a perfect conductor. For energy. For rituals. For what was to come.

  The chamber was far from empty. On the contrary – it was structured, planned, precise.

  Glowing lines stretched across the floor in symmetrical patterns – rune paths, pulsing with flowing mana. Each line was etched perfectly into the Tharnite, every rune taken from ancient sources and carefully adapted. Not a single mark out of place. Not one symbol wrong.

  The walls were reinforced with Refugium ore – a bluish-gray, living stone that absorbed magic if it spiraled out of control. Inset in thin panels, it resembled a shimmering cage. No room for chance. No tolerance for error.

  But the center... was a masterpiece.

  A massive mechanism rose from the middle of the chamber – like a blooming metal tree.

  Dozens of concentric rings hovered around each other, slowly rotating, made from black glass, gold filaments, and a material known only as Nullite – an element that absorbed mana everywhere... except here.

  At the core of the floating apparatus: a semi-transparent crystal, as tall as a person, yet empty. For now.

  It vibrated in sync with the runes, as if awaiting its first breath.

  Surrounding it stood dozens, perhaps hundreds of figures.

  Not living beings. Not anymore. These were bodies – humanoid forms with gray, inert skin, naked, expressionless. Former rebels. Villagers. Fanatics. Dead… and yet in motion.

  Reyn hadn’t destroyed or sacrificed their souls – no. He had extracted them. Preserved them. Another time, they might still be needed. But their bodies now served a new purpose:

  They worked. On machines, scrolls, amplifiers. One polished a rune staff, another held a prism steady in the beam of a light orb. Each was part of the system. Part of Reyn’s order.

  He walked slowly through the facility, every step echoing softly, yet never loud.

  He felt... at home.

  And soon, very soon, Phase One would be complete. Luken would find the rebels. Crush the last resistance.

  And then…

  Then the world would understand what unity truly meant.

  Whether the paladin would still stand by his side?

  That was a question for later.

  -

  The air trembled with sickness. Every breath was a feast for bacteria, a dance of spores, a kiss of putrid moisture. And Erebos drank it in like nectar.

  He stood on the highest balcony of his palace – a grotesque cathedral of smoldering flesh, encrusted bone, and rusted metal, rising from the furrowed, suppurating ground of the Lower Realms like a rotting tooth from scarred flesh. Everywhere, the world pulsed – walls breathed, window hollows twitched like open wounds, and mucous membranes stretched in organic arches across the ceiling, alive but without awareness.

  Erebos briefly closed his eyes and let his gaze wander – across his realm, his “garden landscape,” as he cynically called it.

  A valley of growths sprawled below, dotted with swollen boils from which green mist leaked, slimy lakes full of larvae, and rot vents constantly spewing black clouds into the yellowish sky. Mushroom forests loomed on the horizon – fungal in shape, but never truly plant-like. Their trunks were made of interwoven, rotted spinal columns, their caps swelling with each gust of wind like diseased lungs.

  Among it all moved figures. Infected. Damned. Servants. Half-existent creatures, their bodies fused with the ground, with tools, with other beings. They lived in agony, but they did not complain. They were his. And they had forgotten it was ever different.

  Erebos inhaled deeply and finally spoke, his voice rasping, harsh, yet piercing:

  “That Reyn… he’s a madman.”

  The words hung briefly in the air before silence spread, unnatural and complete. No croaking, no dripping, no whispering from the walls. Only the dull rumble of an approaching thought.

  Then metal grated.

  Another figure stepped slowly onto the balcony, accompanied by a sound like bones splintering underwater.

  Ulthanox.

  Death itself. Or at least its mirror in the Lower Realms.

  A being of flawless structure and terrifying simplicity.

  His face was hidden behind a mask – a gold-trimmed skull with red, glowing eyes radiating ravenous intelligence.

  His chest was made of black, matte metal, shaped like an open ribcage, yet alive – with each breath, the ribs shifted slightly, as if drawing in air, energy, or souls.

  His arms emerged from a cloak that seemed made of pure shadow – tattered at the edges, yet indestructible. Every step he took darkened the floor beneath him.

  In his right hand he held a scythe – simple, yet infinitely deadly.

  The blade: forged from Nightsplinter steel, a weapon that could cut light itself, and effortlessly cleave through matter, ideas, or memories. Its shaft was inscribed with ancient runes, long forgotten – even by gods.

  “That description applies to you as well,” Ulthanox said in a tone so gentle it was more terrifying than any threat.

  Erebos didn’t flinch. He was used to Ulthanox’s manner – that constant calm that lay over everything he said like grave soil.

  Yet he didn’t look away, still staring out over his diseased domain.

  “I mean it, Ulthanox…”

  His voice softened. “Something is stirring. I… feel it. In the fibers of this world. In the breaths of mortals. In their illnesses, their dreams. Their doubts.”

  “And?” Ulthanox stepped closer, his gaze merciless.

  “What will you do, Plaguefather? Rise again into the world? Possess another servant and whisper your sickness through her lips?”

  He tilted his head slightly. “You know how dangerous that was.”

  Erebos said nothing. Then slowly nodded.

  “I know. I wish… we didn’t have to.”

  A moment of silence.

  Then Ulthanox lifted his scythe slightly, resting it on the ground, his gaze now also turning to the desolate view.

  He spoke softly, yet with undeniable authority:

  “We must not disrupt the balance. Not yet. The others are already watching. The Council hasn’t gathered – but it is wary. But if he truly breaks the Veil… then it will be too late.”

  Erebos closed his eyes.

  And within him, the plagues began to fester.