My dreams that night crashed in like angry waves. Vile and terrible creatures crawled in my periphery. The ground—a battlefield soaked in blood, undiluted by the falling rain—was littered with warped corpses. They jutted from the mud like a forest of rotting bone. Mist clung around the field, slowly swirling, and finally sweeping toward me as if to reclaim my bones too.

  The dream transitioned, a dark forest infected with Fell corruption. Trees oozed glowing ichor, plants bared fangs like a thousand needles, an acrid smell worse than death permeated the air. Hollow cries in the darkness. My body turned on its own, August… his face and body warped into something unrecognizable, unnatural. He trudged toward me, eyes hollowed out and replaced with luminescent green liquid, spilling down his cheeks like a poisoned river.

  His blade moved too fast. My head fell from my shoulders.

  A cold sweat beaded my brow as my eyes shot open. The dream felt too real… like a waking premonition rather than a sleeping delusion.

  I pushed myself up, glancing to the window where a murky day was just taking its first steps. Overcast. Depressed.

  I agreed.

  Today would be day two of Elledor’s stay with us. My patience was already gone. Replaced now by unease. A strange sensation swam in my gut, uncomfortable and nauseating. The risk of losing Lyria was still fresh on my mind, in fact, never stronger. But alongside it, an impending sense of dread distracted me, pulling my focus astray.

  When I exited my room, eyes distant, I hardly noticed Elledor exiting his as well. As he walked past me with his usual smirk, I offered a reflexive nod.

  The morning passed in a haze I couldn’t shake. I moved through it like a ghost—lost, distant. On one side, the impending threat consumed me, on the other, Lyria’s pending loss gripped my heart.

  I think Lyria noticed it too. My distant yet polite head-nods to her, and even Elledor. My silence, my scarcity. When Elledor asked me to leave so he could speak with Lyria privately for a moment about her plans for the day, I complied, standing with little hesitation. No sarcastic comment, no glance to Lyria, just… quiet indifference.

  Was it truly because of my dreams? The Fell? The King of Death...?

  Or was it simply what I saw last night that broke my spirit so?

  * * *

  Lyria wasn’t sure why she felt more tired now than she had after the Tilver’s Crossing quest.

  Physically, she was fine. Her hangover had faded. Her wounds had long since healed. And yet... a tension clung to her like an invisible thread, tugging at her with every polite word, every practiced smile.

  Prince Elledor was polite. Immaculate. Generous. And somehow exhausting.

  That morning, he had joined them again for breakfast, dressed in a more modest tunic of navy and silver, but still managing to look like a knight carved from myth. He spoke easily with Kaela, charmed Mary at the guild the day before, and even offered Bront a rare Elven tonic for headaches.

  Everyone seemed taken with him—except Selene, whose answers stayed brief, and Yukon, who barely spoke at all.

  They didn’t argue. There were no outbursts. Yukon had, in fact, been nothing but respectful.

  But that’s what unsettled her most.

  She knew Yukon well enough to recognize when he was holding something back. His eyes never lingered on Elledor, but they never quite relaxed either. His smile, when he used it, was polite... restrained. There was a quietness to him that made her stomach twist.

  He hadn’t spoken to her much since that first morning.

  The day’s plan was straightforward: the group would split into pairs to handle minor errands.

  Selene and Bront went to check in with the guild for any news regarding the Fell. Kaela had dragged Elledor off to the blacksmith’s row, determined to show him “how real adventurers maintain their equipment.”

  Lyria found herself walking with Yukon, the two of them heading toward the upper market for magical reagents and scroll parchments.

  The walk was quiet for a while, but not uncomfortable.

  Until it was.

  “You’ve been quiet,” Lyria finally said, breaking the silence as they passed beneath a vine-draped archway.

  Yukon looked up, mildly surprised. “Sorry. Just… thinking.”

  “You do that a lot lately,” she said softly, watching his expression.

  He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he studied a row of crystal vials hanging in a merchant's stall before replying, “It’s been a long couple of weeks.”

  Lyria nodded, unsure of what she was hoping he’d say instead.

  They continued browsing, the faint hum of magical wards in the air, the scent of polished aetherwood and burning sage thick around them. Eventually, she reached for a sealed scroll etched with stasis glyphs.

  “I’ve been meaning to experiment with more stunning spells,” she said, holding it up. “Could pair well with those explosive arrows of yours…”

  Yukon nodded, the tension in his shoulders easing, replaced by a more thoughtful expression. “Smart—though a bit devilish coming from you, isn’t it…? Freezing an enemy in place only to blow them to pieces,” he teased lightly.

  The moment passed easily. Familiar. She smiled to herself—until a voice pulled her back.

  “Well chosen,” came Elledor’s smooth voice as he and Kaela appeared around the corner. “You always were a talented caster, Lyria. I remember your first incantation at court—you froze the entire rose garden.”

  Lyria stiffened slightly, her smile dimming.

  Yukon’s eyes flicked briefly between them. If he felt anything, he buried it well.

  “I didn’t know you practiced ice magic,” Yukon said calmly.

  Lyria hesitated. “I… used to. When I was younger.”

  Elledor laughed, the sound light and noble. “Ah yes, and then she shocked everyone by choosing to pursue adventuring instead. A tragic loss for the arcane academies.”

  Kaela elbowed him playfully. “Sounds like she made the right call to me.”

  The conversation drifted on, but Lyria felt herself slowly pulling inward.

  That night, after dinner, Yukon retired early without another word.

  Elledor, meanwhile, asked to take a walk with her under the stars.

  She agreed, if only because saying no would’ve meant explaining why.

  And when she returned—long after the moon had risen—she found herself lingering in the hallway outside Yukon’s room. Her hand hovered near the door. Then fell.

  She turned away, feeling like she had missed a step that might never come again.

  * * *

  I stayed awake for a long while that night, huddled next to the dim light of a barely flickering lantern. Bront’s snoring shook the room as usual.

  The strokes of my quill came slow and deliberate. The yellowed parchment crinkled lightly beneath my steadying fist. I wrote and wrote, and just kept writing. It had been weeks since I’d left home, since I’d last spoken to my father, who up until now, had always been a constant in my life. I needed him now, his wisdom, his advice. I tried to keep my letter brief and concise. I wanted to reassure him of my safety, warn him of the Fell, and request his knowledge, but there was only so much I could express in writing. Of course, I had to hold back a bit… I couldn’t go and worry my father just because things got complicated. No. I just needed to know what he would do, how he would fix everything, as he always had.

  [Dear Father,

  I hope you’re faring well, and are having luck in your hunts. Careful of the horned bears, I know how ravenous they are this time of year.

  Before you start worrying, don’t. I am doing well. I’ve found a party and already stepped into my role as an adventurer, and aside from some slight blunders, I am certain you would be proud of the path I’ve tread. Though there has been a particularly worrying development. Are you familiar with the Fell? I thought it was just a folktale myself, but unfortunately that’s not the case, it’s real. Very real. I’ve even fought against their sorcerers and Fellborn minions. Their presence is slowly building, please ensure that you look after yourself. If anything appears suspicious, it might very well be.

  There is another matter as well. I’m at risk of losing one of my party members… Not from disease or injury, but to their own past. She is a half-elf you see, and a prince from her kingdom has suddenly appeared, insisting on taking her home. He has no regard for who she is now, how hard she worked to get here, or the people around her that don’t want to see her leave… I feel like she is slipping away and I don’t know what to do. I can’t very well challenge a prince, but for some reason, I can’t seem to let her go either. I can see in her eyes that she doesn’t want to go with him, but she isn’t refusing either… Father. What do I do…?

  –Yukon]

  I sealed the letter with red wax, spilling some on myself in the process—but I barely felt the burn. Memories flickered behind my eyes. My father always knew what to say. Even when we lost my mother, he never gave in to the darkness. He was always there for me—guiding me, training me. Picking me up when I lost my footing. Comforting me even as I sobbed from the guilt of my first hunt.

  I placed the letter gently on the bedside table, letting it rest beside me as I finally settled in for sleep. Writing it had two immediate effects.

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  First, I realized the numbness and detachment I’d felt all day hadn’t come on suddenly—it had been building for a long time. The nightmares, no doubt brought on by stress, were just dreams. Not reality. Not yet, anyway. As for the rest… I’d let that damn prince get into my head. He knows that to get Lyria, he has to cut me out—and I let him. Tomorrow would be the third day of his visit, and I hadn’t done a thing to make sure Lyria stayed. That had to change.

  Second, I felt ashamed. Ashamed of my lack of resolve. Ashamed that I wanted my father to fix this for me. Ashamed of my fear. His advice, if it came in time, would be invaluable—and I’m not too proud as to not accept it. But I couldn’t wait around for someone else to act.

  My friend needed me.

  And I needed her.

  I awoke just before morning. Not with the usual lethargy I’d become accustomed to lately, but with a fire burning in my chest. I quietly pulled my things together, stowed the letter, and strapped on my gear. My bow hung across my back familiarly, but my belt felt heavier than usual—it now supported not one, but two short swords. The blade I’d pulled from the assassin at Tilver’s Crossing hung to my right, and the one I’d taken from the crypt, its edge a touch longer, rested at my left.

  I crept out of Falcon’s Flight just before first light and made my way straight to the postman’s quarters.

  The raven tower stood beside the Common Post building. I entered without hesitation.

  Inside, a half-asleep attendant blinked at the sight of me. I handed him the sealed letter and three gold coins—more than double the standard fee.

  “Direct flight to Duskwood Village,” I said. “It has to reach before sundown.”

  He raised an eyebrow but nodded, tucking the letter into a leather capsule. I watched the red raven launch into the waking sky, its wings cutting across the lightening clouds until it vanished from view.

  I exhaled slowly. That part was done.

  The city was beginning to stir as I wandered its quieter veins—alleys veined with moss and shadow, old stone walls draped in ivy like tired cloaks. I kept my head low. I couldn’t risk drawing attention. Not with what I was planning.

  I needed space. Isolation. Somewhere the wolves could emerge—somewhere I wouldn’t be caught half-possessed and glowing like a cursed star.

  But where...?

  Eventually, I crossed a bridge spanning a shallow canal, and beneath it, I noticed a sewer tunnel—arched and wide enough to walk through, likely for maintenance. My face soured at the thought, but I didn’t have a better idea. Carefully, I dropped down onto the slanted stone embankment and crept into the tunnel like a shadow.

  Grates above let in enough light for me to find my way, streaming down into the damp corridor like rays of liquid silver. Before long, I came to an open chamber, though it was quite dim.

  The chamber was round and quiet, save for the distant drip of water echoing off the stone walls. Rusted tools and broken crates lay scattered in one corner—remnants of some old maintenance effort. I stepped cautiously into the space, noting the faint chalk lines on the walls. Sigils. Faded. Long forgotten.

  I reached for Lunae’s power, channeling it only into my eyes, which began glowing a pale blue. Just enough to see.

  That’s when I noticed a small inconsistency. Along the far wall, part of the stonework seemed... different. Older. Cracked not from wear, but from something pushing out, as if the wall had fractured from the inside. A thin draft flowed from the crack, strangely cold, yet tinged with a scent I couldn’t place—like ozone after a lightning strike.

  I stepped closer. Ran my fingers along the jagged seam.

  There was a hollow behind it.

  With a quick glance back toward the tunnel to ensure I was still alone, I drew my short sword and wedged it between the stones, pressing my weight into it until a portion of the wall crumbled inward. Dust swirled into the chamber, but through it, I saw a narrow passage yawning open. The air pouring from it was cool and dry.

  I slipped inside.

  The tunnel curved downward, rough-hewn and veined with glittering rock. It twisted once, then opened into a wide grotto—silent, untouched, and breathtaking.

  Crystal.

  The entire chamber shimmered in pale blue and purple light, cast by jagged crystal spires that jutted from the ground and ceiling like the ribs of some ancient, buried beast. They pulsed faintly, as if breathing in rhythm with the world. Shallow pools of water mirrored the glow, casting dancing reflections across the walls. It was like stepping into a dream.

  This… this would do.

  I dropped my pack, drew a slow breath, and stepped into the center of the cave.

  “All right,” I murmured, unfastening my tunic, revealing the mark carved into my chest. “Let’s begin.”

  I closed my eyes, focusing inward. I felt the simultaneous chill and burn—their twin presences stirring in my chest. I visualized their forms taking shape, and with a dull tug from within, their energy poured free, twisting into the facades of white and black, light and dark.

  Lunae and Tenebrae sat before me, their pale blue and crimson eyes studying me in silence.

  I took a breath to steady myself, then met their gaze.

  “Lunae. Tenebrae. I need to learn how to wield your power,” I said, voice low but sure. “As I am now, I’m too weak to protect the people I care about. Too weak to stand against the Fell forces I know are coming. Please... teach me.”

  I bowed deeply before them.

  For a long moment, they said nothing.

  Then, to my surprise, Tenebrae spoke first.

  “You waste our power,” he growled, voice sharp and low. “You treat it like a tool—let it flow freely, as if the source is endless.”

  I winced. His words stung.

  But... maybe he was right. Maybe I had been treating them like tools.

  I opened my mouth to respond when Lunae’s voice cut in—calm, but firm.

  “What Tenebrae says is true. But do not misunderstand,” she said. “As we’ve told you before, our power is yours to use, so long as we reside within you. Yet we are not passive. We too have a will of our own.”

  Her pale gaze narrowed slightly.

  “I’m sure you’ve felt it—our anger, our warnings, our trepidation. We are not simple weapons to be drawn and sheathed. But that does not mean you cannot wield us.”

  As she spoke, Tenebrae stood and began circling me slowly, his gaze locked on mine.

  I nodded. What she said made sense. Their will—the fury I’d felt when Lyria was taken, the silent warning in the crypt... these weren’t just powers. They were sentient beings. Deities.

  And I had to respect them as such.

  They let the silence stretch as I turned Tenebrae’s earlier words over in my mind. One phrase echoed louder than the rest:

  “As if the source is endless…”

  My head snapped up.

  “Is there a limit to how much power I can channel?” I asked. “Beyond just what my body can take?”

  “A limit? To our power?” Tenebrae scoffed, a deep, snarling laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I winced.

  “Of course we have our limits,” Lunae said, gentler. “But you won’t reach them. Not as you are now.”

  She tilted her head slightly.

  “But are you not curious? Why your body burns after even brief use of our strength?”

  I nodded slowly. The gears in my mind turned.

  “I–I am…” I stuttered. “Until now I’ve just accepted it. But why? Why does it drain me so quickly?”

  “Because you are wasteful,” Tenebrae snapped, stopping just beside me. “You lack control.”

  Lunae’s voice followed, smoother.

  “In order to channel our power through you, a catalyst is required. That catalyst… is your body. Your stamina. The energy within your muscles, your blood, even your bones. What Tenebrae calls waste is the power you draw without purpose. You reach for too much, too fast. And so a portion of it radiates off of you—unused, unshaped.”

  I exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of their words settle into my bones.

  They were right.

  I had been reckless. Desperate. Every time I’d drawn their power, it was like drowning in a flood—surging forward with no direction, no control. I'd called it instinct. But really, it had been panic.

  “I understand,” I said quietly. “Then teach me control. Help me focus it. I don’t care if it takes hours or days… I’ll do what it takes. I can’t keep fighting blind.”

  Tenebrae’s crimson eyes flared with something like approval.

  “Very well,” he growled. “Then begin.”

  I took a slow breath, steadying my nerves as the stillness settled again.

  Control.

  Not strength. Not rage. Control.

  I lowered myself into a kneel on the cold stone, closed my eyes, and focused inward.

  The mark on my chest pulsed once—subtle, but deliberate.

  "Let’s start small."

  I reached for Lunae first, picturing the spectral white wolf in moonlit ruins. Her pale blue eyes, calm and calculating.

  Her power answered like a whisper down my spine. My chest rose with a cold breath as my eyes began to glow faintly blue. The first stage. My pulse sharpened, my ears caught even the tiniest droplets of condensation falling off crystalline spires, and the faintest shimmer of her energy began to hum around my skin.

  I stood, moving slowly. Purposefully.

  Tenebrae’s voice came, not aloud, but deep in my mind.

  “Too slow. Unleash it, see just how much you waste when you’re desperate.”

  I scowled. Not now.

  Still channeling Lunae, I focused inward, imagining the energy becoming self contained, circling within me rather than steaming off. I felt the energy pooling and focused it to a point. A flicker of blue mist gathered around my palm. The temperature dropped.

  I willed it tighter, smaller—focused.

  I reached down, placing my hand onto the cool stone floor. A burst of frost cracked across the surface of the rock, leaving its surface iced over in a radius about the size of a dinner plate.

  I exhaled sharply, winded already. But it hadn’t exploded outward. It hadn’t spiraled out of control. That was progress.

  I closed my hand into a fist, letting the power slip away. My eyes dimmed.

  Now Tenebrae.

  His presence wasn’t subtle. It surged, violent and ready, like fire behind a locked gate. I hesitated—then opened it a crack.

  Crimson light burst into my vision as his energy took hold. My limbs pulsed, faster and hotter than before. My reflexes sharpened, heart pounding like a war drum.

  I took off into a sprint through the cavern, leaping from stone to stone, testing my agility. My body felt weightless—but I knew the fatigue would come. It always did.

  “Control it,” I growled to myself. “Rein it in.”

  Tenebrae appeared alongside me, running at my pace, and for the briefest moment I felt as if I could see his energy. It swirled furiously within him, but it was focused, deliberate. I tried to imitate his energy flow myself.

  When I stopped, claws had just barely pushed from my fingertips. My breathing was rapid, but not labored.

  I looked down at my hands. No visible aura. Barely any leaking energy. Just crimson eyes, and control.

  "Better."

  Minutes passed. Then an hour.

  I rotated between them—Lunae for her stability, Tenebrae for power. I dared to push my limits briefly, channeling what I now classified as a—second tier transformation—under Lunae’s influence. I let the faint blue energy build within me, glowing lightly around my skin, and watched the frost curl off of me. My fingertips split into claws, fangs pushed at my gums, my body felt weightless, powerful. It wasn’t perfect, but I could feel that it was more contained.

  I didn’t push beyond that. Not yet.

  Eventually, I slumped to a knee, sweat beading on my brow, breath ragged. The glow in my eyes flickered out as both wolves withdrew once more into the mark on my chest. My body ached, but I had taken a huge step forward. In total, over the last hour, I had channelled their power for about 15 minutes, albeit off and on.

  "You’ve taken a step," Lunae murmured, her voice quiet as a breeze.

  "But steps don’t win wars," Tenebrae added, though with less venom than before.

  I gave a small, tired smile. “Then I’ll keep walking.”

  The silence that followed felt... approving.

  I stood once more, collected my gear, and gave the cave one final glance. Crystals still pulsed faintly in the shadows. That soft, bluish glow reminded me of Lunae’s eyes.

  A secret place. A place of vindication.

  I climbed back toward the sewer tunnel, muscles sore but spirits higher than they'd been in days.

  Whatever waited at Falcon’s Flight, whatever Elledor intended… I would face it head-on.

  Just wait Lyria—

  —I’m coming.