Helto’s body sailed through the air in a limp arc, tumbling over the heads of the two panthers still lying obediently by the campfire. The great cats watched him pass with detached curiosity before he crashed against a thick tree trunk with a final loud thud. He slid to the base and did not move.

  Lucon exhaled through his nose, lowering his still-glowing hand. His lazy smile still in place as the golden shimmer that clung to his skin began to fade. Inside, he felt hollowed out. The sparse sparkling motes of holy energy within him was dwindling to nothing.

  He wanted to ask for more.

  He reached into his coat, pulling out the cracked devotional token. He felt the sharp edges of the fracture and thought better of it. Pushing his luck with a clearly annoyed goddess seemed like a spectacularly bad idea, even for him.

  He tucked the token away and began a leisurely stroll toward the tree line where Helto had fallen.

  He passed between the panthers. Both beasts lifted their heads, nostrils flaring as they caught his scent. Lucon didn’t break stride.

  “As you were,” he said mildly.

  The panthers blinked once, exchanged a low rumble between them, then settled back down by the fire, watching him pass.

  He was only a few steps beyond when a burst of movement came from behind.

  The fallen tent beside the panthers ripped open in a spray of canvas and dirt.

  Skhav erupted from it like a launched arrow. His eyes glowed the color of cerulean light. Blue claws had formed along his hands and feet, each talon burning with energy. His teeth gleamed too, sharp and luminous, his entire body shrouded in one glowing cerulean shroud.

  So this is what Helto meant, Lucon thought with interest. The barbarian doesn't just use Mana like Aura for defense. He shapes it into weapons.

  [Mana Beast Form]

  "Give me back my Taming Whistles!" Skhav snarled.

  [Untamed Mauling]

  He lunged, a blue blur of slashing claws.

  The Flow shifted, rippling around Lucon with shifting currents of sensations. The world told him everything—the angle of Skhav’s shoulders, the twitch of his claws, the precise second his weight shifted to strike.

  Lucon simply moved.

  Each claw slash met empty air. The blue light hissed past him in harmless swings as he stepped aside, ducked, leaned back, pivoted—all with an almost lazy inevitability.

  When Skhav overextended, Lucon’s fist drove forward into his gut. The impact was solid, reverberating through his body. The barbarian doubled over with a choked gasp, spittle spraying past his Mana-sharpened teeth.

  [Flash Strike]

  Lucon didn’t let him recover. His second strike came up, golden light flaring briefly—a fist to the side of the head. The barbarian’s eyes trembled.

  The glowing Mana claws and fangs evaporated, scattering like dandelion petals.

  Lucon understood the change. Mana was the art of creation, channeled and shaped by the mind. A dazed mind couldn't hold the complex forms. For all their power, a mage's greatest weakness was the concentration their magic required.

  Lucon caught Skhav by the collar before he collapsed entirely, keeping him upright.

  The barbarian blinked sluggishly, vision unfocused.

  “You…” he breathed.

  But Lucon wasn’t looking at him.

  His gaze had drifted over his own shoulder, the Flow tugging at his awareness. He felt it—the rippling disturbance behind him, the awakening pulse of Aura.

  Helto.

  The man was stirring.

  Lucon tightened his grip on Skhav’s collar and half-dragged, half-guided the barbarian to a certain position, shifting his body so that Helto’s line of sight would be partially blocked.

  He then shifted his heel slightly and kicked a small stone backward with the back of his boot. It sailed in a clean arc over the panthers’ heads. Their eyes followed it as it plunked down directly onto Helto’s forehead with a thock.

  The man groaned faintly, hand rising to rub the spot as his eyes fluttered open.

  Lucon didn’t turn around. His voice carried clearly across the clearing.

  “So,” he said loudly, “you’re willing to work for me, Skhav?”

  Through the Flow, he saw Helto stir further. The man’s eyes cracked open, focusing on the sound. He caught a glimpse of Lucon and Skhav standing close together, seeming to be deep in conversation some distance away. In an instant, Helto’s survival instincts took over. He closed his eyes and went perfectly still, feigning unconsciousness to listen.

  Lucon’s mouth quirked in a knowing smile.

  Skhav, still dazed, could only stare at Lucon in bleary confusion. Lucon gave him a conspiratorial wink.

  He pretended Skhav had spoken. "That's good that you chose my side," Lucon answered, his tone magnanimous. "But I need substantial information to trust you." He paused for a few breaths, letting the silence hang.

  Skhav’s strength was returning—his shoulders tensing, mouth opening to speak.

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

  “I didn’t—”

  Lucon’s hand moved faster. He caught the man’s throat and squeezed—not hard enough to crush, but firm enough to silence. The barbarian choked out a muffled grunt, eyes widening.

  Lucon nodded as if listening to a lengthy confession. "Oh, so it is a guild in Teleris that is trying to take my Mana Crystals. That is good information, Skhav." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a more theatrical whisper just as loud as he was speaking. “Is it the Black Union who runs the black market that are behind this?”

  No reaction from either men.

  Lucon frowned thoughtfully, then continued, his tone light and speculative. “Hmm. Or maybe…one of the merchant guilds?”

  Through the Flow, he felt it—Helto’s body tightening, a small shift in the rhythm of Aura through his limbs.

  Bingo.

  Lucon’s mind flipped through names and connections, threading together half-remembered rumors. One guild in particular surfaced—known not for corruption but for influence, and for its long-standing friendship with his father.

  “The Western Trade Alliance, perhaps?” he prompted casually.

  The effect was immediate. Even without the Flow’s input, Lucon caught the signs. Skhav’s eyes darted away. And Helto, for all his acting, became as taut as a bowstring.

  Lucon smiled faintly, his tone bright with mock realization. “So it is them! I can’t believe they would turn on my father in such a way!”

  Then, softer—too soft for Helto to hear, but with genuine sentiment—he murmured, “It truly is a shame.”

  Memories flickered in his mind—his father at his desk, giving away wealth, favor, and kindness to those who would one day repay him with malice and greed. The Merchant Hero—too generous for his own good.

  He slipped back into character, voice rising loud and clear once more. “You’re right, Skhav. We should kill the rest of these men. We can’t have word getting back to Teleris, now can we?”

  Skhav thrashed violently against Lucon’s grip.

  But it was already too late.

  [Bull’s Charge]

  Helto burst from his feigned slumber, crashing through the thicket in the opposite direction, red Aura blazing. The ground tore beneath his feet as he fled, branches snapping in his wake.

  He cast one last glance over his shoulder—a flash of betrayal in his eyes—before vanishing into the dark woods.

  Skhav saw it. Saw the conviction in Helto’s eyes, the absolute belief that the barbarian had sold them out to save his own skin.

  The fight drained from him. His eyes widened—not with pain, but with the dawning, horrifying realization of what had just happened.

  He had been framed. Perfectly.

  He flinched as the bandits that were still breathing suddenly jumped from where they were and scattered in every direction. A few threw the same look of contempt backward at him. The feeling was strong enough that they didn’t even notice Lucon strangling him.

  “They’re getting away, Skhav!” Lucon cried out as if he were about to give chase. “We have to kill them all before they report back! Don’t let a single one of them live. I used to be a monk but now is not the time for mercy!”

  Skhav stared at Lucon as if he’d grown devil horns and spoke with a forked tongue.

  The Flow moved around Lucon like invisible rivers—currents rippling through the air, whispering the shape of motion and intent. Yet he could feel its edges now, the limits of his awareness. The further it stretched, the thinner it became.

  Beyond a certain point, the presences of the fleeing bandits—and their Vice Leader—slipped away into nothing. Out of reach.

  He let out a quiet breath and released his grip on Skhav’s throat. The barbarian crumpled to the ground, coughing violently.

  “You devil,” Skhav rasped, between gasps. “Heartland demon!”

  Lucon didn’t answer. His steps carried him toward the panthers instead. Their sleek forms shimmered in the Flow, not jagged or dissonant like humans, but smooth and instinctive—creatures in harmony with the world rather than opposed to it.

  He never thought he would envy such creatures.

  His hand slipped into his coat and withdrew the pair of Taming Whistles—the carved Mana Crystals still faintly glimmering blue.

  A low, resonant purr filled his ears as the great cats stirred, drawn by the power of the tools.

  A surge of hostile intent bled into the Flow from behind him.

  “Do you think,” Lucon said conversationally, running a hand down one of the panther’s muscled flanks without looking back, “if we fought again, it would go differently?”

  The intent vanished.

  Skhav deflated, the fight draining out of him as his eyes remained locked on the whistles. "Those are mine."

  “I have an offer for you,” Lucon said.

  “After what you pulled?” Skhav hissed, his voice low and furious. “I’d rather have my mind caged like those beasts.”

  Lucon threw a glance over his shoulder. "What do you think I'm trying to do to you?"

  Skhav stilled for moment. His glare then burned, but he didn’t move.

  Lucon pocketed the whistles and strode back toward him. "By our talk earlier, I can tell you're in need of money. Work for me, and I'll give you thirty percent of the profits."

  The number made Skhav twitch. His lips curled, but the greed that flashed across his eyes was unmistakable. Still, he spat to the side. “Go choke on your gold. I refuse.”

  “Then you’re free to go,” Lucon replied lightly, gesturing with a hand toward the forest.

  That caught him off guard. Skhav blinked, uncertainty creeping into his scowl.

  “I won’t be giving the whistles back,” Lucon added, brushing dust off his coat.

  The barbarian frowned, pushing himself to his feet and dusting his tattered clothing.

  “I’ve met demons more human than you,” he muttered, turning to leave.

  Lucon watched him without expression until Skhav neared the edge of the clearing. Then his voice came drifting through the air.

  “Heading back to Teleris?”

  Skhav stiffened, not turning around. “Why are you still bothering me? I go where I want!”

  Lucon shrugged. "I'm just worried you'll be hunted down and killed by those who hired you."

  Skhav stopped mid-step.

  “I betrayed no one,” he said, his voice quieter now.

  “That’s not what they’ll think,” Lucon replied. “You won’t make it past the barony’s edge before you’re dead.” His gaze drifted to the spot on Skhav's neck, hidden by the collar, where he knew the brand lay. "And there's no going back to the Abandoned Verge, is there?"

  Skhav stood motionless, the last of his defiance fading away.

  Lucon continued, tone matter-of-fact. “You need Mana Crystals to grow, don’t you? To refine your art. The Wilderwood’s rich with them—more than enough for both of us. Work for me, and you’ll be safe in my territory. You’ll have resources. Freedom, when it’s done.”

  Skhav finally turned. Weariness and caution took over his brown eyes.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “Three years,” Lucon said. “After that, you can walk away.”

  The barbarian looked out toward the forest—the sun beginning to start its descent back down to the horizon. His jaw tightened.

  Then, slowly, he nodded.

  “You won’t regret it,” Lucon said, a faint, knowing smile on his lips. “The barony is about to change.”

  Skhav merely grunted, his expression one of grim resignation rather than excitement. He was a prisoner of circumstance, not an eager partner.

  Satisfied for now, Lucon turned his attention to the silent woods.

  “Hilda!” he called out. “You can come out! I just recruited a valuable farmer!”

  Silence.

  Skhav looked around, his brow furrowed in confusion.

  A moment later, Hilda emerged from the deep shadows between two ancient oaks. Her face was pale, her expression unreadable as her gaze flickered from Lucon to Skhav and back again.

  “This,” Lucon said, gesturing between them with a lazy flick of his hand, “isn’t what Banner Wave means. It means run to safety.”

  Hilda’s composure broke for a moment, a flicker of deep sadness in her eyes.

  “I couldn’t,” she whispered. “I couldn’t abandon you, Master.”

  “I almost died, Hilda,” Lucon stated, his voice flat and factual. “I could have used your magic.”

  Her shoulders hunched inward. She looked away, clutching her arm, the air around her folding inward like a wilted flower. In the Flow, Lucon could feel it—the deep, silent refusal to speak, a wall of guilt and refusal both.

  He was about to say something more when Hilda suddenly froze. Her eyes widened, all thought vanishing from her face as she stared upward.

  Her voice was breathless. “What…is that?”

  Lucon and Skhav turned.

  A figure was descending from the heavens, drifting down as lightly as a feather. A man of impossible beauty, with features so perfect they seemed carved from marble. His hair was the color of polished silver, flowing like a river of mercury. And circling his head, fractured and sputtering with a dim, golden light, was a broken halo.

  It was the Celestari. Herephyn.