My room felt smaller that evening.

  A lone candle flickered on the nightstand beside my bed, casting a warm glow against the oaken walls. A gentle breeze brushed across the window, the night beyond made the room feel secluded, safe. I pulled my blanket up higher, right up to my chin. My eyes wandered to the doorway, hanging slightly ajar.

  “Dad…?” I muttered, as his shadow passed in the hallway.

  He paused, rested a hand on the door frame, and looked in.

  “Yes?”

  I looked back down, my feet fidgeting beneath the blankets.

  “I–I miss Mom…” My voice came out soft, almost a whisper.

  I watched as my father’s face fell. His sigh made my stomach twist, and my eyes followed as he stepped slowly into my room, taking a seat at the end of my bed.

  “Sorry…” I muttered. Even as a kid, I knew—he missed her too.

  “It’s alright, son. Don’t start worrying about your old man just yet.” He turned to me, offering his usual smile, tired, but honest, and warm enough to melt away my worries.

  “...Why did she do it…?” I asked softly. Though I already knew the answer, hearing it from him always made me feel better. “Why did she put herself in the way?”

  My father smiled and took a big breath.

  “Because your mother was strong—stronger than me, stronger than you. She was the toughest there was,” he said, his smile widened as he continued. “She made her choice that day, because she loved us, she loved you, Yukon. She loved you so much, no risk—no consequence was too much. And now, her spirit lives on with us, giving us a fraction of her strength too.”

  I smiled, but my eyes welled anyway.

  My father turned back to face me directly. “One day, Yukon, you will be just like her. Strong, stronger even.”

  My misty eyes widened with wonder.

  “...Will I be able to save the people I love too…?” I asked, my voice gaining confidence.

  He chuckled and patted my leg. “Every last one of them, my boy. Every last one.”

  The night sky stretched endlessly overhead, broken clouds drifting beneath a bloody moon. Coalescing energy lanced upward in jagged streaks, making the heavens themselves look cracked.

  Grahamut let out a deafening wail as the corrupted god pushed back against Murasa’s divine energy, the fissures in its stone hide pulsing an ever-deepening red.

  My hand flew to my quiver as I stood behind the paladin.

  “Alright, Tenebrae—let’s show him what we’ve got,” I whispered.

  As I drew the arrow, black and crimson light coiled from the mark on my chest, snaking down my arm like smoke, twirling around my fingers before finally sheathing the arrow in Tenebrae’s raw energy. I focused, concentrating the power. The world seemed to dull around me—sounds muted, flying debris slowing. Just as it felt my bow might splinter in my hands, I released.

  It howled into Grahamut’s chest, bursting into a ball of red and black flame that drew a low, shifting bellow from the monster and made it stagger. Murasa took the opportunity to pause, collecting his energy, eyes flicking to me in approval before turning to the desperate scene in the graveyard and the town beyond.

  His gaze fell upon the rest of his party members—Haizen, already running to our side. Celeste, battling back the Witch with the recovering Ron and Selene. Barton, still aiding Kaela and Margo.

  “Haizen!” Murasa barked, voice cutting through the chaos. “Go with Barton and fall back to Night’s Reach. Back up the other adventurers and soldiers before we lose the town completely.”

  Haizen hesitated, his twinblade gleaming under the fractured sky. “You can’t be serious—Murasa, that thing’s bad news, you'll be torn apart alone!”

  “I’m never alone,” Murasa answered, planting his maul of metal and gemstone into the cracked earth. A flare of golden light rippled outward from him like a holy tide, halting Grahamut’s advance. “This thing was summoned under my watch. I’ll see it brought down under my hand.”

  Haizen cursed under his breath, but reluctantly turned, running back to retrieve Barton and reinforce the defence of Night’s Reach.

  Murasa’s gauntleted hand caught my shoulder, firm and steady. “Celeste is still fighting that Witch with your friends—if she’s the one who summoned this creature, she’s the key. Tell Celeste I’m ordering her back to town—I’m entrusting the Witch’s defeat to you… We will finish this ourselves.”

  His words fell with such finality that I almost couldn’t doubt them, even as the night fell apart around us.

  Grahamut groaned against his holy restraints, Murasa’s draconic brow furrowing in effort.

  My throat tightened. I wanted to argue—but Murasa’s eyes left no room for it.

  “…Understood.”

  He gave a small, approving nod, then raised his maul again, drawing in holy light until the symbol of Aurelia burned across his breastplate. A shimmering crown of gold ignited above his horned head.

  “Now go, Ranger. Leave the god to me.”

  A sharp whistle cut through the air—Kaela’s voice—from the far side of the graveyard. I turned to see her heading towards me, leaving Margo to herd the last of the villagers through a breach in the eastern fence. Parts of Night’s Reach burned beyond the eastern palisades, the sky above it bleeding with Fell light.

  “Yukon!” Kaela shouted, sweat streaking her cheek as she caught up to me. “If you’re gonna play hero, make it quick!”

  I allowed myself a quick, humorless grin. “When am I not?”

  Her laugh was short and breathless, drowned by the sound of another explosion in the distance.

  I adjusted my quiver, raised my bow, and turned toward the shattered monument where Selene, Ron and Celeste contested the Witch. Behind me, Murasa’s voice thundered one last prayer to the gods—his words swallowed by the roar of Grahamut as divine and corrupt light collided once more.

  As Kaela and I picked our way toward the others, my mind raced. I needed to distract the Witch long enough for Celeste to disengage—but I couldn’t both hold her attention and relay Murasa’s orders.

  “Kaela!” I called over the chaos as we ran. “When we get there, I’m going to try something big—as soon as the Witch is distracted, tell Celeste that Murasa wants her back defending Night’s Reach!”

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  Kaela nodded, her golden eyes burning with determination—an unusual display from her. Our pace quickened.

  Ahead, deep violet and red magical energy clashed violently with teal and gold. A flash like lightning cut through the chaos—Selene, pressing for an opening. A bastion of holy light shimmered amid the spell-storm—Ron, muttering healing incantations, his tome glowing in hand.

  “Lunae, I need something big,” I whispered, nocking an arrow that immediately flared with Lun’s icy blue light.

  Kaela and I split around a toppled gravestone, flanking the battle. Lunae’s energy surged through my legs; frost spread beneath each stride as I sprinted ahead, every step leaving the grass brittle and pale.

  The Witch hovered above the carnage, her form suspended in a spiral of her own magic. She was in reach.

  I drew back—Lunae’s power flooding my arms, lining my entire bow in spectral frostlight. The frame trembled under the strain, heavier than anything mortal should bear. My glowing eyes flicked to Kaela; she met my gaze, and we shared a nod.

  I took a slow, steadying breath.

  Calm.

  I fired.

  The arrow screamed through the night, a streak of frozen light so cold it turned the air itself to snow.

  The Witch’s head snapped unnaturally toward me. She chanted—an inhuman sound somewhere between a word and a weapon—and a honeycombed barrier of translucent crimson flared before her.

  The impact came with a sound like a glacier collapsing. A burst of white devoured the field, and when it cleared, a pillar of ice the size of a tower stood where the Witch had been, frosty mist still coiling upward in silent spirals.

  I dismissed Lunae’s power, panting, eyes locked on the frozen monolith.

  Kaela reached a wide-eyed Celeste, whose spell had faltered mid-cast. I watched her deliver Murasa’s message. Celeste nodded shakily, clearly stunned by what she’d just seen. Her gaze lingered on me before she cast her teleportation spell, vanishing in a burst of blue-green light.

  Kaela met my eyes again—we exchanged a wordless nod. It was up to us now.

  Ron stumbled up beside me, breath ragged, eyes wide with awe. Moments later Selene joined us, rapier humming faintly, her grin somewhere between thrill and disbelief.

  A low, hollow crack broke the silence.

  Every head turned. The pillar of ice shuddered, fractures spiderwebbing along its surface as violet light bled through the seams.

  We braced for the impact.

  Sylico trailed behind Lyria like a wet rag, barely lifting his feet. She grunted in frustration and hauled him toward the eastern palisade. A small procession of murky-faced townsfolk shuffled past the longhouse just before the adventurer camps, grim-faced soldiers shepherding them. This side of Night’s Reach was still safe—for now.

  The woods bordered the northern edge of town, and that’s where the invasion pressed hardest. On this side, beyond the eastern palisades, lay only the graveyard—a few hundred paces from the swamp, and then the Fellwood treeline. Lyria had to hope she wouldn’t meet anything else before she reached the others.

  At the eastern gate—left wide open—she could finally make out pieces of the battle for the graveyard. Far off, a colossal shape lumbered against a sliver of golden light. To the right, atop a small knoll, brilliant magics collided in a storm of color she couldn’t parse from this distance.

  As she planted her next step, she was almost yanked off her feet by a manic, trembling Sylico.

  “NO—!” he shrieked. “I WON’T GO! YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!”

  Lyria, frustrated, tugged back.

  “Shut it sorcerer—! You’re just as much to blame for this mess!” she huffed. “You’re coming with me to deal with this Witch, or I’ll burn you to cinders myself!”

  Her words didn’t feel like her own, but her desperation to get to her friends had muddled her patience. The graveyard loomed before them, and corrupt energy washed over her like a tide. All elves were more sensitive to mana, and as a half-elven mage, Lyria was finely tuned to the twisted currents ahead. She could even feel the distant flicker of power she’d come to associate with Lunae and Tenebrae, knotted somewhere deeper in the maelstrom.

  They pushed between leaning headstones and rotted crosses, the air thick with the iron-sweet tang of fresh blood and something older—rotting leaves and old prayers. Sylico’s mutterings carried into the night, his shoulders shaking with each step. Lyria kept him in tow, eyes skimming the fog for anything that moved.

  A wet scuff sounded to her left—too deliberate for the wind. She turned and saw it before Sylico did: a figure stood beside a grave, half-hidden by mist. At first she thought it was a villager that had been left behind, but its features were wrong—too angular, too sunken. When it turned its head, the moon cut across something that had once been a face and left only a ruin.

  Green ichor streamed from its eyes, milky and pupil-less. Nevertheless, they tracked Lyria with a slow, ravenous focus. Bits of ruined leather and a torn guild tabard clung to its shoulders—an adventurer’s crest hung at its waist, blackened and warped, but she could almost make out what it read. The sight landed in Lyria’s gut like a thrown stone.

  “A husk,” she whispered, her voice small. “One of the stolen—”

  Before Lyria could even take a breath it lurched forward, drawing a curved sword and moving with inhuman speed. Sylico yelped and pulled away from Lyria’s grasp, turning to run. Lyria cursed and cast a binding spell on Sylico’s ankles, causing him to tumble. As she looked forward, the husk was upon her, its skin beginning to glow red, muscles bulging, its mouth blackened as it yelled.

  Her staff came up just in time, but the corrupted adventurer’s strike rocked her arm down to her shoulder, sending pain through every tendon. She chanted once—fast, ancient moon-elven—and a pulse of lavender energy cascaded from her in all directions, pushing the husk back. It should have been thrown clear, but its Fell strength let it claw through the wave, screeching as steam rose from its skin.

  Sylico squirmed on the ground. “Lyria—! R-Release me at once!”

  “Unless you’re going to help, you’re staying there!” Lyria yelled back, keeping her eyes honed on the enemy.

  “I’ll help, I’ll help!” he pleaded.

  She didn’t have time to consider it as the husk suddenly exploded into motion. Sylico, seeing this, cursed under his breath and began muttering a counter-spell to Lyria’s binding incantation.

  Lyria’s next spell ignited the mist with silver-white threads of lunar light. They lanced toward the husk, scoring lines across its chest. It staggered—but didn’t stop. Each movement looked wrong, like a puppet tugged by too many strings.

  The husk lunged, and Lyria barely ducked under the blade’s sweep. One of the blue ribbons holding her hair snapped loose, the cut singing through the air inches from her head. She threw a hand out, conjuring a barrier, but it cracked under the next strike.

  Behind her, Syllico muttered the last syllable of his counter-spell. The bindings vanished.

  “Damn it—Syllico!” she snapped, turning just in time to see him scramble upright.

  He backed away, wild-eyed, and shouted, “I’ve no quarrel with you or that monster! I’m leaving this cursed place!”

  He turned and bolted into the fog.

  She extended a hand toward him, her concentration straining as her focus split. But there was no time.

  The husk’s sword slammed against Lyria’s barrier again, shattering it completely. She cried out as the force sent her sprawling to one knee. Her staff clattered beside her. The creature loomed close now, so close she could smell the rot in its breath, see the faint flicker of consciousness struggling behind its clouded eyes.

  Her gaze darted to the crest at its belt—

  and her heart stopped.

  It wasn’t just any adventurer’s mark. The emblem was half-burned but still legible enough to read the engraved initials.

  B.F.B.

  Blackfoot Band.

  Her mind reeled. Those were the adventurers that vanished in the Everdale woods—the same day Yukon ignored her party's dismissal and fought the Fell Shaman alongside them. The same day everything began.

  The husk screamed, its jaw splitting too wide, the sound hollow and wet. Lyria threw her staff up again, shouting a desperate incantation. Bright blue flame burst outward in a cone, tearing the fog apart and hurling the creature backward into a gravestone that cracked in two.

  At that same moment—far up on the knoll near the magical clash she’d sensed was taking place—a brilliant flash of white light tore through the darkness. As it faded, a massive spire of solid ice stood gleaming against the night sky, still steaming.

  Her jaw dropped. Her heart thundered.

  “Yukon…”

  She staggered up, gasping, the wind cold on her sweat-soaked skin. The creature twitched, then began to crawl again, dragging itself through the mud.

  Lyria’s voice trembled as she whispered, “Forgive me.”

  But before she could cast her spell, the Fell husk shuddered—and without warning, it threw a set of bolas straight at her ankles, the cords whistling low through the air. Too quick, too low for her to react—skirting the ground with lethal precision.

  The move was far too intelligent to be the work of a mindless husk. The Fellborn weren’t just puppets—they were utilizing the very skills these turned adventurers had spent their lives mastering…

  The bolas wrapped painfully around her legs, jerking her off balance. She fell hard, the breath torn from her lungs.

  Her eyes widened just in time to see the thing’s horrible shadow closing over her—its curved blade arcing down toward the base of her neck with blinding speed.