The corridor beneath Wolfsbane Keep was cold, even colder than before.

  The summoned party made their way silently through the rune-warded halls, the magical etchings on the stone glowing with faint gold. The weight of what had just occurred in the training grounds still lingered. Sparks of pride, fear, and unresolved questions clung to each step. Byronard walked at the front, flanked by Raphael and Gabriel. Wyatt, Cassian, Uriel, Flint, and the rest of the Royal Guard followed behind, their expressions sober.

  They descended deep below, into a place rarely visited and even more rarely spoken of.

  The prison beneath Wolfsbane was unlike any other. Forged in the earliest days of the kingdom, its very walls were laced with binding runes etched in languages long forgotten by men. This was where the Circle of Lust—Lilith—was now held, locked within a sphere of magic that pulsed with Divine energy.

  And there, standing just outside the final ward, was Lord Rykard Wintertomb.

  His pale hair seemed to glow against the gloom, his hand resting lightly on a large, worn tome pressed against his hip. His usually calm features were hardened with contemplation, though there was something else in his eyes—an intensity born of recent truths.

  Byronard approached, voice low and direct. “Rykard. What did she say?”

  Rykard turned slowly, his eyes scanning each face before settling on Byronard’s. “Plenty,” he said. “And very little at the same time. But enough to disturb me.”

  He nodded toward the sealed cell. Within, Lilith sat motionless. Her beauty was no less dangerous, even bound in enchanted chains and pressed beneath unbreakable runes. She watched them. Smiling.

  “She spoke in riddles,” Rykard continued, “as expected. But there were fragments of honesty woven between her temptations. I believe… she wanted me to hear some of it.”

  Raphael narrowed his eyes. “Why would she willingly share anything?”

  “Because,” Rykard said grimly, “Lilith fears something.”

  That gave them pause.

  “She spoke of a ‘Second Cycle.’ A phase of the Nine Circles’ plan that hasn’t begun yet—but will. The First Circle, Limbo, was merely a key. A test. One to see if we were still too divided to resist them. She referred to him as ‘the Forgotten Gatekeeper,’ whose fall allows the next Circle to move freely.”

  “And who is that?” asked Wyatt.

  “Circle of Gluttony,” Rykard replied. “Their name is Voraxx. She didn’t say where he is, but she hinted that he’s already begun corrupting the lower provinces—places where memory is weak and despair is ripe.”

  Flint crossed his arms. “Then we’ve got to move fast.”

  “There’s more,” Rykard said, and his tone deepened.

  “She also knew about the Vessels. She mentioned the Stranger’s and the Warrior’s—said they were ‘not yet broken in,’ her words. She doesn’t know their identities either, but it confirms something critical: the Circles are actively searching for the Vessels. And worse—”

  He looked toward Byronard, then Wyatt.

  “They have one of their own. A Vessel of Hell. Not a corrupted mortal—but someone chosen by the opposing side. A True Antithesis to the Divine.”

  Silence fell.

  Gabriel’s smirk faded. Raphael’s cane clicked once on the stone.

  Uriel spoke quietly. “You’re saying… the Nine Circles have their own version of Wyatt?”

  “Yes,” Rykard nodded. “A Vessel born not of life or purpose, but destruction.”

  Byronard let out a slow breath. “That changes everything.”

  “It does,” Rykard agreed. “And Lilith said one last thing before I left. Something she repeated twice: ‘He will wear no crown, and still command kings. He will spill no blood, and still unmake a nation.’”

  They all turned toward Flint, instinctively.

  Flint frowned. “Why are you all looking at me?”

  “No reason,” Byronard said quickly, dismissing it with a wave. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

  Flint narrowed his eyes but let it go.

  Byronard turned to face the group. “We regroup at dawn. Rykard, prepare a list of provinces where the corruption might be spreading. Raphael, Gabriel—begin contacting the outposts. If Gluttony is already moving, we can’t afford to wait.”

  He looked over the group—his students, his fellow warriors.

  “And if they truly have a Vessel of Hell… then we’ve only just begun to understand the scale of what’s coming.”

  ***

  The weeks that followed were a blur of steel, sweat, and study.

  Sir Byronard’s new training regime for the Royal Guard and the Seven had taken firm root within the keep. Courtyards once quiet after nightfall now echoed with clashing swords and shouted instructions. Soldiers sparred tirelessly, incorporating refined magic techniques, Aura bursts, and weapon mastery. Each member of the Seven trained with newfound urgency, driven by the haunting memory of the First Circle's overwhelming power.

  Byronard oversaw the drills personally, often paired beside Raphael and Gabriel. While Raphael emphasized healing, formation tactics, and survival, Gabriel focused on reflex, precision, and magical bursts—lessons that often ended with recruits lying stunned from her teleporting jabs.

  Amidst the relentless routine, Byronard received a sealed missive, marked with the golden sigil of Michael.

  “News from the voyage,” he said aloud, breaking the seal with a sharp motion.

  The letter detailed Michael’s current heading toward Azane. He wrote of treacherous storms and still, strangely calm waters. There were no signs of conflict, and no contact with Azanean forces yet. But the silence was beginning to unnerve even him.

  When Byronard asked Gabriel days later whether there had been any casualties or concerning updates, she frowned.

  “Nothing, and that’s what worries me. Weeks without word? Not even a skirmish?” she muttered.

  Then, it came.

  Late one night, as the stars cast their cold light across the keep, the sound of bells tore through the silence. The alarm rang like thunder.

  Byronard rushed to the battlements, followed closely by Wyatt, Cassian, Flint, Uriel, and the Royal Guard. Together, they looked down to the fields beyond.

  A long procession of figures approached, carrying torches and bearing the marks of travel and injury. Blood stained their cloaks. Their limbs trembled from exhaustion. At the front of the group, an elf with long silver and gold hair and piercing silver eyes stumbled, collapsed, and fell to one knee at the gate.

  “Open the gates!” Byronard bellowed. “Now!”

  The gate creaked open, and the Royal Guard surged forward to help. Raphael was already at the fore, barking commands and organizing triage stations for the wounded elves.

  Cassian knelt beside the collapsed leader. “She’s barely conscious…”

  Raphael was quick with his magic, and the elf gasped to life, clutching Cassian’s hand as her vision refocused.

  “Mistveil… is burning…”

  The name struck them all like a dagger.

  “Who are you?” Byronard demanded, kneeling beside her.

  She took a moment before answering, her voice dry and cracked.

  “Anarór?… daughter of Ithilien.”

  Wyatt’s heart dropped. “That’s… Ithilien’s daughter? Godric told me about her.”

  Anarór? slowly sat up with Raphael’s help, her tone more stable now. “We were surrounded… from all sides. They came with fire and rage. My father… he bargained for our escape.”

  “Bargained?” Byronard asked grimly.

  She nodded. “He stayed behind. Azrael and Chamuel as well. They would not leave him. They’re still there. Holding the line.”

  Panic overtook the Seven. Raphael’s calm demeanor dropped, and Gabriel’s fists clenched at her sides.

  “We have to go,” Flint said immediately. “We can’t leave them behind.”

  Byronard didn’t hesitate. “We’ll send a regiment. You’ll lead it, Flint. Wyatt, go with him.”

  Wyatt nodded firmly.

  “I’ll come as well,” Anarór? insisted, rising to her feet, even as the magic still worked through her veins. “I will not let my father fight alone.”

  Byronard hesitated. But one look at her resolve, so reminiscent of Ithilien himself, made him relent. “Very well. But you’ll follow orders. Raphael, make sure she’s strong enough before they leave.”

  Raphael nodded. “I’ll prepare her personally.”

  Byronard turned to the group. “Ready yourselves. Mistveil Forest is under siege—and we don’t leave our own behind.”

  Weeks had passed since Ithilien had ordered the evacuation. His personal guard and a good number of soldiers remained to hold the front, along with Chamuel and Azrael. The forest grew silent. Not by absence of sound—but by the devouring of it.

  The Circle of Gluttony, Voraxx lumbered forward, his breath ragged, as bellows dragged through rot. His tongue slithered out from the vertical maw that split his bloated face in two, writhing lazily in the air as he sniffed the battlefield. Blue-blooded bodies, still twitching, began to dissolve into sludge as his presence neared.

  “Azrael…Chamuel,” he gurgled, voice slopping with wet syllables, “the fabled Scythe and the Fist… ah, how your names still tickle the meat of memory. And Ithilien… the last golden star of dying Mistveil.” His arms stretched unnaturally, fingers distending into clawed, dribbling hooks.

  “It warms my cold heart,” Voraxx crooned, “that you remember the Circles.”

  King Ithilien stepped forward, Stargazer pulsing in his grasp. “You were banished. Lost to time. Your master chained beneath the Nine Seals. You should not exist.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Voraxx’s many-jointed head rolled back with laughter, every gurgle echoing with hunger. “Oh, but Men are forgetful little gods. They made a pact, Ithilien. They gave something in exchange. And I, in turn, ate the nothing that remained.”

  Chamuel frowned. “A pact with who?”

  Voraxx’s smile turned wider than his face should allow.

  “Your kind.”

  Azrael stepped beside Ithilien, her scythe brimming with unspent death. “Then we’ll undo that mistake. The three of us will handle you.”

  “Ithilien!” a captain called from behind. “We’ve cleared the southeast pass!”

  “Good,” the king said firmly. “Evacuate the wounded. Let the trees bear witness to our stand.”

  But before any of them could move, the shadows behind Voraxx shimmered—then split.

  A second figure stepped forward, her golden heels clicking softly on the charred forest floor. She was radiant, draped in layers of coin-threaded silk. Her skin shimmered like polished metal, and from beneath her golden hood, gemstones wept like tears from cracks in her cheeks. Her eyes were obsidian, hollow and endless.

  “Tsk,” she said, voice laced with mocking sweetness. “Voraxx, how rude. Hoarding the fun for yourself?”

  Ithilien’s jaw tightened. “Tessarith.”

  “The Gilded Thorn,” she purred, bowing with an exaggerated curtsy. “It’s been too long, Your Radiance.”

  Azrael stepped between her and the king. “Two Circles?”

  Tessarith straightened and clasped her hands delicately. “We were tasked not to return to our Master in shame. The Nameless failed, Lilith is lost…” Her black eyes narrowed. “We shall not join them.”

  Chamuel’s voice was steady. “Then you’ll die here.”

  Tessarith’s smile fractured her face like cracked porcelain. “Bold. But misplaced.”

  Voraxx roared and surged forward, his mouth opening wider than logic should allow—revealing writhing tongues and churning maws within. Behind him, creatures of bone and flesh clawed out of the ground, their ribcages gaping as if starving.

  Tessarith flicked her fingers, and coins from her sleeves spun into the air like razors, shaping themselves into golden constructs—golems with emerald eyes and weapons made of twisted luxury.

  The battlefield shifted. The scent of greed and hunger blanketed Mistveil like a sickness.

  Azrael raised her scythe. “Then let us show them why we were sent here.”

  The battle erupted like a storm tearing through silk.

  Voraxx lunged first, his massive form moving with terrifying speed. Every stomp left behind a crater, and as he roared, the trees around him withered into ash. Azrael dashed to intercept, her scythe spinning in an arc that shimmered with soulfire. The blade carved through the space between them—but Voraxx’s vertical maw twisted open, and swallowed the attack.

  “Delicious,” he crooned, his voice a grinding chorus of hungers. “Do it again.”

  Azrael leapt back, now cautious. “He’s eating mana,” she warned.

  Meanwhile, Tessarith stood calmly in the chaos, her hands dancing like a conductor. Her golden constructs moved with unnatural elegance, their jewel-eyed visages blank and inhuman. She raised a hand and touched the ground—spires of gold erupted like molten roots, attempting to trap Chamuel and Ithilien in gilded vines.

  Chamuel responded with brute force, smashing the golden growths apart with his fists, his body glowing faintly from his inner enchantments. He pushed forward through the wreckage, golden fragments clinging to his skin. “I’ll clear her!” he roared.

  “No,” Ithilien said firmly. “You aid Azrael—I’ll handle the Gilded One.”

  He dashed toward Tessarith, Stargazer glinting with celestial energy. She grinned.

  “A king chooses me?” she said, stepping back. “How flattering.”

  Ithilien didn’t answer—his blade did. He moved with the grace of the forest winds, his blade singing through the air. Tessarith’s fingers flicked, turning coins into mirrors, shields, then spears. They clashed in a spectacle of wealth and will, gold clashing against starlight. Her constructs animated mid-air, defending her from each strike, but Ithilien carved through them like prophecy through fate.

  Azrael and Chamuel moved in tandem. Chamuel charged low, body glowing with reinforcing glyphs, fists crashing against Voraxx’s legs like meteor strikes. The hulking demon staggered, snarling.

  Azrael seized the moment—she vanished and reappeared behind him, her scythe glowing with violet energy. She swung it upward, the arc of death itself aimed to sever bone from soul.

  Voraxx twisted. His torso cracked open, revealing another mouth inside his chest—rows of teeth and tongues, which caught the scythe mid-swing. With a hideous sound, the flesh clenched, holding the blade in place.

  Azrael’s eyes widened. “What—?”

  “I devour death itself,” Voraxx hissed, and the scythe began to dissolve into black tar.

  “Let go!” Chamuel shouted, landing a brutal punch to the side of Voraxx’s neck. The force sent ripples across his malformed body, enough for Azrael to wrench her scythe free, the blade now smoldering and melted in places.

  “Thank you,” she muttered, falling back beside Chamuel. “We need to end this fast.”

  “We’re barely scratching him.”

  Voraxx grinned, blood and bile dripping from his dozen mouths. “And I’ve only begun to feast.”

  On the far side, Tessarith drew a single golden dagger. She tapped the blade gently against her palm, and it began to hum.

  “You know, Ithilien,” she said as their blades locked again, “you’re rather impressive for a relic.”

  “Then let this relic send you back to the pit.”

  With a flourish, he activated Stargazer. The blade glowed with the light of distant constellations—each strike painting arcs of stars through the air. Tessarith’s constructs fell in chunks, unable to keep pace.

  But Tessarith, ever the hoarder, had one final play.

  “You love them, don’t you?” she whispered, her voice sinking into his mind. “Your people. Your forest. Your precious daughter.”

  Ithilien faltered just a breath.

  Tessarith’s hand reached forward and touched his chest.

  In an instant, a spreading pattern of golden cracks formed on his armor—turning it to gold from the inside out.

  “Your heart,” she whispered, “is just another thing to covet.”

  Before the transformation could finish, Ithilien stabbed through his own side, breaking the spell. Blood poured from the wound, but the gold halted. He swung upward with a howl of fury, nearly decapitating Tessarith, who spun back and vanished in a shimmer of coins.

  Back with Azrael and Chamuel, Voraxx suddenly pulled in a deep breath—the air bent toward him, and with it, magic itself. All glyphs and enchantments in the area began to shudder, weakening.

  “He’s draining the battlefield,” Azrael shouted.

  Chamuel dropped to a knee. “I can’t keep my boosts up!”

  Azrael raised her broken scythe, grimacing. “Then we do what we can.”

  Voraxx opened all his maws. “You taste of resolve,” he said hungrily. “Let me savor your end.”

  The world had begun to fracture.

  Chamuel was slammed into the side of a stone pillar, golden vines locking his limbs as Tessarith sent jagged coin-bursts raining down. Azrael, bleeding from her side, hurled her broken scythe into a charging wraith to buy them seconds—but seconds were all they had left.

  Voraxx was growing—his limbs distorting, his body bulging with stolen power, the air rippling from the sheer weight of his hunger. And Tessarith, now cracked and fuming, channeled fury through every graceful, deadly motion.

  “Ithilien!” Azrael shouted, reaching toward the elven king.

  He stood before them—armor cracked, robes torn, one leg visibly shaking—but his grip on Stargazer never wavered. His eyes, silver and ancient, shimmered like twin moons under eclipse.

  Then came the words:

  “Retreat.”

  Azrael’s breath caught. “What?”

  He didn’t turn. “You two must leave. Now. There will be… no assurance of your safety where I intend to go.”

  “No.” Azrael shook her head, stepping forward. “We fight together. We’ve bought time, we can—”

  Chamuel grabbed her by the arm. His normally calm face was filled with anguish, but his grip was resolute.

  “Sister,” he said gently, “look at him. He’s already decided.”

  Azrael’s eyes widened, and finally, she saw it—the quiet peace in the king’s stance, the way his fingers slowly traced the hilt of Stargazer as if saying goodbye. The stillness before the storm.

  Chamuel tugged her back, dragging her toward the surviving elf refugees. “Trust him. Have faith.”

  “King Ithilien!!” she screamed, even as the forest blurred behind her tears.

  Tessarith clicked her tongue. “A shame. I wanted all three as trophies.”

  Voraxx laughed, a grotesque noise like splitting bark and grinding bones. “One morsel left? Then let’s feast.”

  But Ithilien finally looked up—and his voice cut across the ruined glade.

  “Enough.”

  He took a step forward.

  “My entire life,” he said softly, “I have healed. I have restored. I have woven illusions to protect my people and mended the bodies of my enemies alike.”

  He looked to Tessarith. “Even when your sister—Araphne—murdered my beloved... I held back. It was her wish that no more blood be spilled.”

  Then he closed his eyes, and breathed in.

  “But... forgive me, my love. Forgive me, my daughter. Forgive me... my son.”

  With that final word, the very mana around Ithilien shifted.

  A howling surge erupted from within him—an aura of emerald flame and starlit mist expanding from his body in all directions. Trees bent outward as the energy exploded. The forest itself responded, branches glowing, vines thrumming like harp strings.

  Tessarith staggered back. “What is this—?”

  Voraxx lunged, devouring the surge of mana eagerly—but then choked.

  He staggered, his grotesque body convulsing. Green light coursed through his swollen gut like acid, and suddenly—

  Voraxx vomited.

  A river of black sludge and shattered illusions poured from him, his limbs twitching, his mouths screaming.

  “W-what did you feed me?!”

  Ithilien stepped forward, aura burning with solemn fury.

  “You speak of hunger,” he said. “Of devouring. Of consumption without understanding.”

  His voice cracked like thunder.

  “But true Restoration comes with mastery of decay. True Illusion walks hand-in-hand with truth.”

  He pointed Stargazer forward. “I reversed the current. What you took… was not healing, but poison. And what you thought false, was made real.”

  Voraxx roared, all mouths open. Tessarith screamed in rage and summoned a golden serpent of blades and gems.

  “You dare mock us with alchemy and wordplay?!” she snarled.

  “Not mockery,” Ithilien whispered. “A reckoning.”

  Voraxx’s devouring aura clashed with Ithilien’s forest-born might, mana ripping apart the ground as spectral trees bloomed and withered within seconds. Tessarith launched constructs and curses alike, only to watch them dissolve in the king’s presence.

  Ithilien became like a living star in a green sky—cutting through demons with Stargazer, redirecting mana with a flick of his wrist, weaving poison and light into a radiant blade.

  Voraxx charged again—only to be impaled by roots that burst from the very earth, gorged on his own hunger. Tessarith moved to strike—only for her own gold to reject her, falling uselessly as illusions bent to Ithilien’s will.

  It was not a fair fight.

  It was a message.

  The storm had passed—but only barely.

  Voraxx, the Maw Below, slouched forward, heaving, his grotesque form leaking bile and green-tinged ichor from his countless orifices. Beside him, Tessarith the Gilded Thorn knelt on one knee, golden cracks spidering across her porcelain skin as her summoned riches lay crumbled and useless in the mud.

  Across from them, King Ithilien stood alone, bathed in fading emerald light.

  His chest rose and fell with each strained breath, and the once-brilliant radiance of his Aura now flickered like a candle against the wind. Stargazer trembled in his grip. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth.

  He took a step forward—and the Circles flinched.

  “You will not pass,” Ithilien said, voice like cracked marble.

  Voraxx snarled. Tessarith remained still, staring him down with loathing and reluctant respect. For a breathless moment, the glade froze.

  Then Ithilien’s knees buckled.

  He staggered, coughing—hard—and blood sprayed from his lips. His aura pulsed once more, then began to sputter, receding around him like retreating waves. Still, he planted Stargazer into the ground and forced himself upright.

  In that instant, a voice broke through the smoke.

  “Father.”

  Not young. Not panicked.

  It was calm. Ancient.

  An elven figure emerged through the fading mana, long hair silver as moonlight, his eyes mirroring Ithilien’s. Regal, poised, but with a blade in hand—a dagger with a godswood hilt, older than most trees in the forest.

  Ióm?.

  “I thought I told you to leave with your sister,” Ithilien rasped, one knee finally giving. “This place… isn’t for you…”

  Ióm?, the firstborn twin, a millennia-old warrior and sage, knelt beside him with serene composure. “It is, father. I needed to see you… one last time.”

  The king reached for him, relief flickering across his face.

  And then—

  A wet sound.

  Schhhk.

  Ithilien’s entire body jolted.

  He looked down in horror.

  The godswood dagger was buried deep in his chest, angled cruelly toward the heart.

  His lips parted as blood began to pour. “...You…?”

  Ióm? didn’t flinch. His grip was firm.

  Behind them, both Circles began to laugh.

  “So!” Tessarith mocked, rising slowly. “The heir returns to claim his inheritance.”

  “The meal devours the hand that feeds,” Voraxx slurred, grinning. “Delicious.”

  Ithilien’s voice broke, more from sorrow than pain. “You stood beside me for ages… centuries of peace… why…?”

  “NO!!”

  An anguished scream pierced the clearing.

  Anarór?.

  Ióm?’s eyes shimmered once—but no words came. Instead, he let go of the blade, stepped back into the swirling mist, and, after looking at his twin, vanished in a flash of golden mana, followed by the Circles.

  She surged forward, cloak streaming behind her, face twisted in heartbreak. Flint, Wyatt, and the Royal Guard followed close behind, fighting through what remained of the siege’s outer ring.

  She dropped to her knees beside her father.

  “No—no, stay with me,” she begged, pressing her hand to the bleeding wound. “Don’t you leave me, too…”

  Ithilien’s hand found hers. He could no longer lift it, but his fingers closed weakly around hers.

  “Ahh... my dear daughter,” he whispered. “I am sorry if I failed you...”

  His breath caught. The pain was too deep.

  “I wish I had more time to give you. But I’ve given all I have...”

  Tears streamed down Anarór?’s face.

  “You still have me,” she said. “Please… just hold on…”

  The king smiled weakly. “Then… let me die proud. Knowing you’re still fighting for them. Be their light...”

  He coughed violently, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. The Aura flickered once more—then faded completely.

  “Tell your mother… I kept the promise…”

  "Find your happiness..."

  His hand fell limp.

  The forest fell still.

  Stargazer, its blade dulled by grief, sank slightly into the soil.

  A golden glow lit the clearing as Raphael emerged, his hands already glowing with healing mana.

  “I can try,” he murmured, already beginning to cast. “There’s still life…”

  But Byronard caught his wrist.

  “No.”

  Raphael’s head snapped toward him.

  “I can do it. If I push my limit, I might—”

  Byronard’s eyes were grave.

  “His mana pool is too deep. You’d drown trying to reach it. He’s gone.”

  Raphael froze. The glow faded.

  All around them, soldiers sheathed their blades. Royal guards and elves alike bowed their heads. The final light of Mistveil had dimmed.

  And in Anarór?’s arms lay her father, the last king of Mistveil Forest.

  Betrayed.

  Fallen.

  And remembered.