Before his very eyes, the shadows peeled away—coiling back like smoke—and there he was: Philip.

  His face emerged from the dark, those same gleaming yellow eyes—the ones that had haunted River’s thoughts ever since the night Philip had turned on them. River moved before he even registered the motion. His essence surged, containing their essence pushing against it to create hardened barriers; a cloak of essence. Beside him, Iska rushed forward, her blade flashing in the low light. Together, they charged Philip, while behind them, the others fought desperately to hold back the advancing shadow spawn.

  But then River saw it.

  Runes. Glowing faintly beneath Philip’s feet, carved into the very stone of the chamber. This wasn’t just an ambush. It was a ritual. Not a fight they needed to win—just one they needed to endure. River’s heart dropped. He channeled more essence, lashing it forward in a sharp wave—stone and light wrapped in fury. He would need to kill these fanatics before the ritual activated.

  Philip just laughed. He cracked a wide, unsettling smile and swatted the magic aside with one hand, as if brushing away cobwebs. Before he could form a single thought, he heard it—a wet gurgle beside him, like someone drowning, he turned. Iska stood frozen, eyes wide in shock, staring down at the gaping hole in her abdomen. Shadows flickered like smoke from the wound, curling around her as if proud of their work. She collapsed to her knees, still upright for a moment, but no sound escaped her lips. Just a faint exhale—her last.

  River didn’t think.

  Didn’t blink.

  He just burned.

  The rage welled in his throat as his gaze locked onto Philip’s smiling face.

  “Too slow,” Philip said, chuckling.

  “You’re next.”

  Then, with a sudden surge of energy, the runes beneath them flared to life—glowing violently, encircling the remaining delvers in a jagged web of light. They were trapped. The shadows around them began to chant in voices that weren’t human—harsh, grating, scraping at his skull like claws on glass. River dropped to his knees. His body convulsed.

  It felt like his very soul was being ripped apart, essence forced from every cell and pulled into the ritual. A scream rang in his mind—a raw, animal cry—only to realize it wasn’t just in his head.

  He was screaming. With each passing second, his strength ebbed—the cold seeped deeper, leaching warmth from every limb. He could barely think. Barely breathe. And then… something shifted. The runes dimmed—not gone, just… satisfied. As if they had taken what they needed. River collapsed against the hard, freezing stone, his thoughts a chaotic blur.

  What had just happened? And then, the earth cracked. A deep, subterranean groan echoed from beneath them — as if something ancient had stirred, finally released from its prison. But River couldn’t focus on that.

  He couldn’t focus on anything.

  The pain was all-consuming—until he did the only thing he could.

  Searching inside himself, he reached for the bond.

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  The thought of the egg in darkness—silent, peaceful and warm—it held the promise of something better. It served as a distraction.

  Desperate, he threw himself into it, pouring everything he had into the tether between himself and the egg he’d protected, feared, and longed for.

  And it responded. Heat surged through the connection. The pain dulled. The world faded.

  And then—a crack.

  Followed by a pulse. Then a whisper of presence.

  It had hatched.

  In that instant, the agony evaporated. His body snapped back into place, overflowing with new strength — not just his own, but shared. Whatever had just awakened from the egg wasn’t just bonded to him—it was pouring essence into him, strengthening him. A conduit. A tether. A lifeline. Their magic flowed together—seamless, alive— and for the first time since the ritual began, River could breathe again.

  He opened his eyes. And the world shifted. He was no longer just River. He was... something more. Part of a greater whole. His soul burned—but not with pain. It was bright, clean, powerful. He stood, eyes locked on the shadows, essence coursing through him like fire made flesh. He raised his hands, and called. The magic came without shape; a blast of pure essence exploded from him, ripping through the air before he could even will it into form. It slammed into Philip with a heavy thud, knocking him back—but instead of pain, he laughed. The sound was low, gleeful, and wrong. It sent a shiver down River’s spine.

  Then, one by one, the other shadows began to vanish— melting into the night like smoke pulled away by wind.

  Suddenly, it was just Philip. Before River could react, Philip was there—standing inches from River’s face, too close, too fast, his yellow eyes gleaming in the dark. He smiled. “You’re too late,” he said. “The gate is open.” Then he vanished, swallowed by the night before River could move. And just like that, they were alone in the dark again.

  River scrambled forward, searching the place where the shadows had vanished, desperate for any sign—any proof that they’d been real.

  He dropped to his knees, the dense fog curling low and making it hard to see the ground beneath him.

  His hands brushed over stone, grit, and debris—then caught on something.

  A handle. Leather-wrapped. His fingers followed its shape — until they reached something strange. Smooth, cool... but not solid. Like mist pretending to be metal. He lifted it slowly. A dagger. Cold and weightless—its blade seemingly forged from shadow itself, flickering like mist in the dim light. River stared at it for a moment, the black blade shimmering faintly in the fog. Then, wordlessly, he tucked it into his robes and rose. Like a token—the only proof they hadn’t completely failed. No one spoke. That said enough. They were down a member—and everyone could sense it.

  Not what River had wanted. Not what any of them had wanted. After a moment of silence, a senior delver spoke. “What was that?” River didn’t have the strength to answer. His throat felt raw, his body drained. “Don’t know,” he muttered, and left it at that. All he wanted now was to get back to Varosha—back to the warmth of his bonded creature, even if he already knew what it was. But he couldn’t leave Iska behind. And he couldn’t leave the two other fallen delvers, either. He raised a hand and signaled Albert.

  Together, they gently lifted Iska’s body. She wasn’t heavy, but the trek back would be long—and they were tired. Not just physically, but deeply, down to their very bones.

  The others took turns carrying those who were unable to move on their own. No one complained. When they finally reached the gates of Varosha, the bells rang out as they always did, signaling their return. It felt wrong. They hadn’t succeeded.

  Not really.

  River’s eyes scanned the gathered crowd. Most faces lit up in celebration—until they saw what the delvers carried.

  Bodies.

  Dead, wrapped in silence, hoisted above their heads like fallen banners.

  Smiles faded. Whispers spread. Kamir pushed through the crowd, his expression sharp—all business, but something flickered beneath his exterior.

  “What happened?”

  River opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come.

  He just shook his head, eyes hollow, unable to explain it.