Magda slipped into the shadows, her arcana folding the darkness around her just long enough to cross the open passageway before retreating into cover. Releasing the hold on her magic left her momentarily lightheaded, the energy drain taking longer to shake off than she would have liked.

  She moved with patient precision, weaving between pillars, staying just ahead of the wandering gazes of demon grunts. Each step was measured, her presence a whisper against the stone as she covered the vast chamber, navigating hundreds of yards and countless enemies without a single misstep. By the time she reached the balcony overlooking the summoning ring, the physical exertion was an afterthought; the real strain came from the nerves and tension wound tight in her chest.

  Below, the ritual pulsed with an unnatural rhythm, magic twisting in thick, sluggish tides. Arcane energy bled into the air, its flux a grotesque mixture of corrupted mana, death energy, and something else, something that scraped against her senses with a warning even she couldn’t ignore. The stone floor bore jagged, shifting sigils, their lines writhing like worms. Black fire flickered at the edges, feeding on some unseen and unseeable source. At the centre, a figure hovered, phasing in and out of existence, suspended within the tangle of dark magic. Warlocks encircled the ritual, their chants a maddening symphony, some whispering, others shrieking, layer upon layer of intent woven into the unstable vortex. Whatever they were summoning, whatever force they sought to call forth, every fibre of Magda’s being screamed that it could not be allowed to finish.

  She knew Aaron would bring the raw force needed to disrupt the ritual. All she had to do was wait. Hidden at this second nexus point, she would watch for the rebounded energies, her arcana acting only as a guide, a nudge to direct and focus the backlash where it would do the most damage.

  And so she waited, her mind drifting back to the calling, the convocation that had changed everything.

  She hadn’t been surprised when the angel came. It had been a confirmation rather than a revelation, the natural conclusion to over a decade of curiosity, then research, then obsession. An obsession that had driven her to do things she was not proud of. An obsession that had ultimately saved her realm.

  She had expected the convocation to be little more than a curiosity, a fleeting distraction before she returned to her single-minded studies. She had never believed in the celestials' mission nor in their chosen cause of action. Only systemic change, the restructuring of reality itself, could halt the tide of darkness consuming all worlds.

  And then he came.

  A man with dark, short but curly hair, a chubby nose offset by a gentle smile, and eyes so warm she was instantly convinced they had once known each other. When she had been presented with the marble containing her condensed knowledge, a theory she had speculated upon but never spoken aloud, her expectations had shattered. Since then, she had stepped into a whirlwind of intrigue and violence, and she had never looked back.

  ‘Butterflies, be still,’ she thought, feeling an embarrassingly youthful flutter in her stomach. ‘That look… if I could bottle and sell it, I’d be the wealthiest woman on Vaelmyrith.’

  She knew the feeling wasn’t love, not even lust. More the intoxicating feeling of being loved, the rare spark of finding someone who might truly understand her. But dangerous feelings had to be tempered, redirected before they took root. She had seen the way he looked at the elf and her at him, and instead of jealousy, she felt… relief. A quiet fear whispered that she wasn’t worthy of that gaze, that she could only ever be a lesser reflection of the woman he had known. A deeper fear lingered, that his attention, once returned, could become another obsession, one neither of them could afford.

  Yet, despite it all, it had given her something precious. Something to cling to, even as the end of all things loomed.

  Hope.

  A distant explosion pulled her back to the present. Her violet eyes flickered, seeing beyond the mundane, into the shifting tides of magic. From thirty yards away, she could still influence the ritual. The ripple came, a surge of displaced energy coursing back through the invisible threads binding the summoning. With a flick of a finger, she redirected it, guiding the force towards the opposing ritual nexus. The dark void shimmered, shook but did not break.

  “Drat.” She whispered. Had she miscalculated? Misjudged the energy? Or had she misunderstood the ritual entirely? She wondered what was happening on the other side.

  Then she felt it.

  Another surge, stronger, heavier, driven by overwhelming force. Aaron had struck again. This time, he hadn’t held back. Magda grinned, exhaling in satisfaction as she flicked her fingers once more, her arcana catching the wave of power and redirecting it to where it was needed most.

  The reaction was immediate, however, her satisfaction was short-lived. The ritual collapsed upon itself, the void imploding before rebounding with catastrophic force. The nearest warlocks were the first to go, their bodies exploding, crushed by the very power they had summoned. A shockwave followed, vaporising the summoning ring, the remaining warlocks, demons, and half of the antechamber in an instant.

  Magda barely had time to curse before the balcony beneath her feet gave way.

  “Cover me,” Aaron ordered as he dived into the ritual chamber, greatsword held high in Ox guard. Tendrils of dark magic lashed towards him. Rather than dodging and leaving the saintesses exposed, he slashed downward, severing the first strand before two more wrapped around him.

  Some of the tendrils where reflected before they could reach him, a green fire flung from behind him, likely the saintess of thorns. However, most were not.

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  The magic sank beneath his skin, scorching through his veins. His blood boiled. He screamed.

  Pain overwhelmed him, driving him to one knee. The Montante fell, its tip clattering against stone. A fourth and fifth tendril coiled around his limbs, tightening their grip. Blood streamed freely from his eyes and nose as darkness crept into his vision.

  Then, cold.

  A cooling sensation surged through his shoulder, spreading outward. Wherever it passed, dark mana hissed and dissolved, leaving behind blistered skin that quickly healed.

  Seven demonic warlocks against one saintess, Aaron’s body a battlefield caught between clashing magics. Seven became six as a bolt from Debryn’s crossbow pierced a distracted warlock’s heart.

  Aaron roared, steam rising from beneath his armour.

  His half-kneeling form turned into a low stance, his greatsword rising as if to guard against the fel magics channelling through the air. Sword Intent shimmered along his blade, his muscles twitching and burning, his voice burning as he fought for breath.

  He lunged, one step, two steps, and then he leaped, his jump fighting the twisting dark magics coiling around him. He fell delivering a diagonal strike. His sword cut through dark magic, through space, through the warlock standing behind wards meant to protect it.

  Its body fell apart, uneven pieces of flesh and viscera scattering as Aaron pressed forward. More dark magic seared his skin, clashing with the residual magic Cassandra had poured into him. The warlocks’ eyes widened as Aaron severed the nearest one’s head in a clean motion, gripping the headless corpse as a shield to absorb incoming spells.

  Another warlock raised a dagger in a desperate attempt to parry. Aaron let them, stepping back before lunging again. His sword’s tip easily surpassed the warlock’s skill, puncturing arm, throat, chest, and groin in rapid succession.

  Three bolts fired from behind. Four warlocks became two.

  The survivors turned to flee. Aaron was faster. With a lunge, his blade pierced the back of one warlock, the force of impact driving the body forward in a convulsing spasm. He sidestepped, twisting the embedded sword free in a single, fluid motion before ripping it into a rising diagonal arc. The steel bit deep into the final warlock, severing an arm before carving through ribs, lodging in the chest with a dull crunch. Blood poured from the half-bisected corpse as Aaron planted a boot against its twitching form, wrenching his blade free and letting the body crumple to the ground.

  He turned towards the Saintess of Space.

  She had seen everything with wide eyes despite the strain of the ongoing ritual. Suspended by threads of dark magic, she hovered two feet above the ground, her form flickering as if she wasn’t fully in reality. A piercing halo shimmered above her head, different than any he had seen before. Meanwhile, the object hovering between her hands solidified, or at least became more… corporeal, a cube of some description, though it still made Aaron’s eyes hurt to look at.

  Sword Intent pulsed along his blade as he swung, aiming for the thick, oily mass of dark magic anchoring her in place. His greatsword cleaved into the web of corruption, then stopped.

  The impact drained him. His energy bled away, sucked into the miasma. His sword arm burned. The darkness surged into him, sapping his strength, his weakness forcing him to his knees.

  With a desperate effort, Aaron wrenched his blade free, stumbling as dizziness overtook him. His vision blurred, and he found himself sprawled on the floor.

  His sword smoked, its surface pitted and worn, the custom-engineered blade unlikely to survive much longer after mereminutes of battle.

  He forced himself upright, ignoring the pleading gaze of the woman still trapped in the ritual. Debryn’s bolts whistled past, barely slowing the wave of reinforcements crashing through the doorway.

  Aaron pressed the hilt of his sword to his forehead as if in prayer. A dull grey glow flickered along the blade, not light, but something else, something deeper, something only those who understood the blade’s truth could perceive.

  Sword Intent flared once more, sharp and deliberate. Mind, body, soul, and steel aligned.

  Aaron pictured the cut. He visualised his blade not merely slicing through air, but severing the very concept of the magic holding the Saintess captive. He stepped forward, exhaled, and struck.

  A second golden radiance joined the grey.

  His sword’s arc traced through air, magic, and reality itself, shattering the dark tendrils in an instant.

  For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

  Then, the ritual collapsed.

  The magic snapped taut, twisting violently before a final wave of energy rebounded from somewhere distant, merging with his strike. The chamber flared white, a pulse of power breaking the spell in a concusive wave.

  “Is he alive?”

  “He lives.”

  “I could use a hand, I can’t hold them for long!”

  “We need you, Mr Heuber” Cassandra’s voice cut through the haze. Her voice was laced with fear and urgency beneath its usual steel.

  Aaron’s body ached. His skull pounded. The world tilted as he forced himself to focus. Two faces hovered above him, one familiar, Cassandra, her hands still faintly glowing from the healing spell. The other, unfamiliar.

  The Saintess of Space stared down at him, wide blue eyes sharp with curiosity and panic. Her voice, distinctly American, West Coast, if he had to guess.

  “Well, shit. He’s alive.”

  “Not dead yet,” Aaron grunted, sitting up, shaking off the lingering dizziness. The cooling relief of Cassandra’s magic mixed with the steadying pulse of Sleipnir’s Heart, dulling the worst of his injuries. “Thank you, Cassandra.” She stepped back, her fingers twisting together in restless worry.

  Debryn stood at the doorway, using the entrance as a natural choke point. Her crossbow was long abandoned, her poisoned claws now the weapon of choice as she wove between hammer swings and mace strikes with liquid ferocity, carving deep wounds into every demon that strayed too close.

  Aaron looked down at the weapon still clutched in his hand, or rather, what remained of it. His greatsword was shattered, only a foot of the blade left. He exhaled sharply and stored the broken remains in his Ring of Holding.

  “Hey, knight guy, uh, you... err, are a guy under that mask, right?” The Saintess of Space spoke again, her voice edged with nervous energy. “We could really use some help.”

  Aaron shifted his focus, retrieving the last three fragmentation grenades and a flashbang from his supplies. Had he known he would be given a Ring of Holding and more than an hour to gather modern weapons, he would have prepared properly. As it was, it made no sense not to use what little he had left when the situation demanded it. As he strode to the door, he pulled the pins before tossing the explosives. The grenades skittered low, bouncing between the feet of the demons swarming beyond the doorway.

  He reached Debryn just as the first demon reacted to the metallic objects at their feet. Before they could sound an alarm, he grabbed her and yanked them both back behind the wall.

  The explosions ripped through the corridor. A concussive wave sent dust and debris billowing into the room, followed by a wet thud as a demon’s mangled body crashed through the door. The blast had turned bodies into mist and sent limbs and viscera scattering in every direction.

  Debryn yelped, glaring at Aaron even as she recovered. “Next time, a little warning?”

  Aaron exhaled, rolling his shoulders and unsheathing his short swords.