Kassyn leaned forward slightly, voice calm, almost instructive.

  “Left on its own, the corruption is slow, people grow more violent, suspicious, they have problems forming coherent thoughts. But when a trigger is applied, the corruption within them blooms. Their soul changes and the shape follows… They become something else, and in doing so, they lose themselves”

  Brann’s thoughts lurched back to the pit, to bone and blood and the grotesque parody of a stag:

  “You cannot mean,” he said slowly “That thing in the forest, the creature in the pit, it was a changed soul…”

  Kassyn’s eyes gleamed:

  “You fought it?” He looked Brann up and down, taking in the blood soaked clothes, the lingering stench. “Of course you did. How was it? Glorious, I imagine.”

  “Glorious,” Brann spat. “Are you mad? The thing was an abomination, a twisting of this world unlike anything I have ever seen.”

  “Yes,” Kassyn said softly “That was the point. I wish to twist this world, as you say, until it finally bares its truths.”

  Brann’s blade trembled, frost glistening along its edge

  “This ends here. I will kill you, return to Velmire’s Reach, alert the army, and stop that transport.”

  Kassyn broke into laughter, openly, the sound ringing too loud in the tent

  “That transport was the last one. And it was bound for Lutharel. There were countless others before it. The kingdom is already saturated. Even Vireth Tal eats from our stores.”

  Brann felt the words strike like blows…

  “It is far too late,” Kassyn continued. “Almost everyone is touched now.”

  “Then I will stop you from triggering it,” Brann said. “And I will find a way to cleanse them after.”

  He raised his sword to strike.

  The world exploded sideways.

  With impossible strength, Kassyn shoved the desk forward. Wood slammed into Brann, hurling him across the tent. He crashed into the far wall, canvas snapping taut behind him as the desk skidded and splintered nearby.

  Kassyn rose to his feet, posture relaxed, eyes burning with something fierce and ancient

  “Did you truly believe it would be that simple,” he said. “The things I have seen, you cannot imagine even in your worst nightmares. You don’t even know what it is that you want to stop.”

  He stepped closer, boots crunching over scattered debris

  “I have peeled back some of the layers of this world. Not reality, but illusion. And beneath it all, I found the thread.”

  Brann pushed himself upright, breath ragged.

  “The thread the gods use to bind their creations,” Kassyn went on, voice rising with quiet fervor. “A living strand of thought and reason, stretched through existence itself. Worlds are not built with stone and soil. They are woven and held together by intent. By constant pressure”

  He spread his hands

  “I learned how to pull it. To fray it. To tie new knots”

  His smile returned, sharp and exultant

  “And once you understand the thread, Brann, corruption is not a weapon. It is a tool used to shape”

  The tent seemed smaller then, the air heavier, as if Kassyn’s words had weight of their own.

  Brann forced himself upright in a single sharp motion, instinct screaming that his time was spent. The torn canvas, the shattered desk, the echoes of violence, all of it would draw guards in moments. He had what he came for. Now he needed distance, trees, darkness.

  He turned and sprinted for the back of the tent, blade ready to carve a path if he had to.

  He never reached it.

  Kassyn moved faster than he should have. A fist like iron crashed into Brann’s jaw, snapping his head aside and sending sparks across his vision.

  “Where do you think you’re going,” Kassyn said calmly. “Did you not come here with a purpose? Were you not here to kill me?”

  Brann staggered, dropped to one knee, then forced himself steady again, teeth clenched

  “I have all I need,” he said. “Enough to stop this madness, I’m sure”

  Kassyn tilted his head, studying him.

  “Do you? You believe you can unravel a design years in the making?

  The kingdom lies stale, its air unmoving, its people taught to breathe softly. Do not mistake that stillness for weakness. It is a shield, raised by intent. Those who do not make noise, who do not shine too brightly, do not draw the gaze of the true monsters that walk this world.

  But I was not born for silence.

  I will reshape this land, stone by stone and soul by soul. I will harden it until its name alone makes kings falter and armies hesitate. Let the monsters take notice then. Let them come. When they speak of this kingdom, it will be in lowered voices, and with fear close to their hearts.”

  Brann raised his guard, every sense stretched thin. Time was slipping through his fingers. Guards would be here soon. Kassyn’s words echoed, and with them, a thought clicked into place.

  The tunnels…

  Why the tunnels?

  If the crystals came from the mines, they could have been brought straight to this camp. Quietly. Safely. No grand undertaking. No massive underground network spanning the kingdom. The tunnels made no sense if transport was the goal.

  Unless transport was not the point after all.

  “I know you are lying to me, hiding the truth” Brann said slowly. “About the tunnels. About the crystals. But that is fine. I will uncover it myself. Right now I have people to warn”

  Kassyn’s smile returned, thin and knowing

  “Friends,” he said softly “Friends will only bring you pain now. You still do not see the whole picture.”

  Brann narrowed his eyes

  “Spare me.”

  Kassyn laughed, low and genuine.

  “They had to eat, did they not…your friends. I would wager at least some of them are already touched. Perhaps all of them”

  The words struck harder than the blow before.

  “And you,” Kassyn continued, voice almost kind. “You ate as well. The corruption may not bloom the same way in one bound to druid power, but do not mistake that for immunity. You will feel it. Subtle changes. Nasty side effects”

  Brann froze.

  The forest, the camp, the danger, all fell away for a heartbeat as realization took hold. He had been moving too fast, thinking too narrowly. He had cataloged threats, planned responses, measured distances.

  He had never stopped to consider himself.

  Or Lysa.

  Or Riven.

  Or anyone who had shared a table, a meal, a loaf of bread.

  His breath slowed, not from fear, but from the crushing weight of implication. Kassyn watched him closely, eyes alight, savoring the moment.

  That hesitation might yet cost Brann everything.

  “It is all settling into place now, is it not. The only question left in that mind of yours is whether you were spared, or whether you are already touched.” Kassyn tilted his head. “We can test that. In fact, I insist.”

  He drew a small vial from inside his coat. The liquid within was black, not like ink but like shadow made fluid, swallowing the light around it

  “Drink and find out” Kassyn said.

  For a heartbeat Brann hesitated.

  Part of him wanted to know. To feel it. To understand what had already been done to him, what might be crawling through Lysa’s veins, through Riven’s blood. The thought sickened him.

  Then clarity snapped back into place.

  “Never”

  Kassyn chuckled softly

  “I thought you might say that.”

  In one smooth motion he drew a dagger from his boot and dipped its blade into the vial. The metal drank the darkness greedily

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “Then we do this the hard way. I can’t have a spy out there spreading precious information”

  Kassyn struck.

  Brann barely twisted aside in time. The dagger hissed past his cheek, close enough that the air burned. Kassyn was faster than before, far faster than any man should be. Brann gave ground, heart pounding, mind racing. He needed space. He needed an opening.

  He needed his training.

  Brann shifted his stance, changing from two hands on the sword to one, parrying Kassyn’s blows with tight economical movements. With his free hand, unseen, he began to gather cold. Not a slow shaping, not a careful weave. He compressed it, forced it inward, sharper, denser, faster.

  Kassyn noticed the change, eyes narrowing

  “What are you scheming now?”

  “Tell me about the tunnels,” Brann insisted, breath steady despite the strain, “and perhaps I will answer.”

  Kassyn laughed and delivered another slash that Brann evaded

  “I will not speak of the tunnels. But I will tell you something about the mine, if you can call it that.”

  Brann deflected another strike, ice biting along his knuckles

  “What do you mean?”

  “We did not dig it,” Kassyn said, almost casually. “It was always there. We merely expanded it. The things that dwell beneath the earth, in its belly, are the key to everything, old things. It is unfortunate how much effort it takes to understand them.”

  Brann felt a chill that had nothing to do with his magic

  “What is buried there?”

  Kassyn:

  “Information…Old tales and perhaps treasures beyond your wildest dreams”

  He tore off his leather glove and raised his hand. Upon his finger sat a golden ring with a blue gem, worked with the image of a griffin. It seemed to drink the firelight, old and heavy with presence.

  “This,” Kassyn said, reverent, “was the true prize. Buried in the depths it became the key to all my research. It draws power straight from the weave in subtle ways. It even changed me over time, showing me things.”

  Brann’s breath caught. He knew that ring. Not from rumor. From memory

  “One of the rings,” he said quietly. “You actually found one of them.”

  Kassyn froze in that instant, his eyes fixed on Brann.

  The smile slid from his face, replaced by something sharp and wary

  “One of them,” he repeated. “What do you mean, one?”

  Brann met his gaze, cold and steady

  “You don’t know,” he said. “It seems the tables have turned.”

  Kassyn’s voice hardened

  “Do not toy with me, boy. How many are there? How do you know about them?”

  The last thread of Brann’s spell snapped into place. Cold surged through his veins like a living thing, roaring to be released, it was something he toyed with during his training but he never managed to fully control it.

  “Nine,” Brann said.

  Kassyn’s eyes widened, and Brann released the spell.

  The tent exploded outward in a white roar of frost and pressure. Ice tore through fabric and wood alike, a sudden brutal wave that stole breath and balance. Brann hurled himself backward into the blast, letting it carry him, trusting the cold to shield him as it always had.

  He burst through the torn canvas and into the night, rolling hard across the frozen ground as shouts erupted behind him. The camp erupted into chaos, but Brann was already moving, sprinting for the treeline as horns began to sound.

  Behind him, Kassyn’s scream of fury cut through the noise.

  Brann did not look back.

  Nine rings lost to time.

  Creation buried beneath the earth.

  And a kingdom that refused to change already poisoned.

  The race had begun, and for the first time, Kassyn was no longer the only one who knew the game.

  Brann vaulted the wooden fence and ran straight for the forest.

  Only then was he able to get his bearings and realize the cruel twist of fate. Kassyn’s tent lay on the far side of the camp from where he had first entered. His horse waited beyond the trees to the South, and between him and that escape stretched two bad choices. The open field, bathed in moonlight, where he would stand naked and clear to any bow. Or the forest edge, where soldiers were already pouring in with lamps and steel, certain he would try to vanish among the trees.

  He slowed for a single breath and looked back.

  The camp was in chaos. Shouts echoed. Lantern light bobbed and split as soldiers swarmed into the forest like fire ants spilling from a broken nest. Not a single squad rushed the front gate.

  They were sure he would go for the cover of the forest.

  Could it truly be that simple?

  Brann made his choice then, crazy but effective.

  He drew deep on his power, not shaping ice this time, but turning it inward, hardening muscle, sharpening breath and stride, just as Torvil had taught him in the quiet days of training. Then he burst from the treeline and ran.

  The wind tore at his cloak as he crossed the field, legs driving with inhuman force. Behind him the sounds of soldiers faded instead of growing. Orders were shouted, but none were aimed at him. His gamble was working.

  He reached the front gate and dropped low, sliding towards it, heart hammering. He stayed crouched there for several heartbeats, listening.

  Nothing.

  Only the wind, and distant confusion far behind him.

  Luck, then… Real luck.

  He rose, drew one steadying breath, and sprinted again, this time toward the forest that hid his horse. The dark line of trees rushed closer with every stride. A few more steps…just a few more.

  He passed the first tree and simultaneous felt both relieved and pain.

  Pain in his right leg…

  Brann cried out despite himself as something tore through his calf. He stumbled but did not fall, throwing himself behind the nearest trunk. Blood steamed faintly against the snow. The arrow had not lodged. It had sliced deep and passed through.

  He peered back toward the camp.

  Kassyn stood on the wooden wall, dark against the torchlight his red cape fluttering in the night wind, watching him with infuriating calm.

  The bastard had known, he lured him into a trap by sending his men into the forest and leaving him no other path.

  Too late to stop him thought.

  Brann pushed himself upright, jaw clenched, and started limping toward his goal, every step burning. He would reach the horse. He would ride and heal. Westmere still had time.

  Kassyn’s voice carried across the field, clear and sharp.

  “Good luck, Brann. You’ll need it.”

  The words struck colder than the arrow.

  Realization clawed its way into Brann’s mind.

  The blade.

  The vial.

  The corruption.

  He looked down, heart pounding, and searched the snow where the arrow had struck.

  Black…

  The stain in the snow was not entirely red.

  “No,” he whispered.

  His time had begun to run the moment the arrow touched him.

  Brann turned and ran, pain screaming through his leg, breath ragged, every instinct screaming that he had to reach Westmere before whatever now flowed in his blood decided to wake.

  The forest swallowed him as he fled for his horse, and behind him Kassyn’s laughter carried on the wind, soft and certain.

  The wound was already knitting shut by the time Brann reached the horse. He swung into the saddle without ceremony and drove the steed hard toward Westmere, hooves pounding frozen ground as moonlight slid away behind him.

  The journey would take days. Even at speed, he would need to rest the horse, make camp, eat. There was no escaping that. For now, though, he felt whole. The gash in his leg had sealed, the blood had stopped, and strength still answered his call.

  By the time the sun touched the horizon, he was certain he was not being followed. No sounds behind him, no shapes on distant ridges. He eased the pace, letting the horse breathe, its flanks heaving as steam rose into the cold air. He would push a little farther, than make camp once the sun was at its peak.

  At first, nothing felt wrong.

  Except the anger…

  It simmered beneath his skin, hot and restless. Hatred for Kassyn. For the unseen hands that supported him. Dark thoughts crept in, unbidden, vivid and cruel. What he would do if he ever had them helpless before him. How long he would make them suffer. He tried to push the thoughts aside, but they clung like thorns.

  Brann slowed and dismounted. He scooped up a handful of snow and pressed it to his face.

  The cold shocked him back to himself.

  He drew a sharp breath and realized that his skin was burning.

  Not just his face but his chest and his limbs. Heat pulsed through him in waves, unnatural and insistent. Fever…

  “So it begins,” he murmured.

  Wishful thinking, on his part…the arrow had done its work.

  He mounted again and rode on, jaw set, forcing his thoughts into order. Panic would help no one. He needed clarity.

  The scale of it all was staggering. Tunnels beneath the kingdom filled with crystals, the corruption and its delivery method, the rings and the mine. Years of planning…Kassyn had not done this for chaos alone, he wanted dominion over everything.

  Why kill your people?

  Why infect and change them?

  What purpose did it serve in his grand plan?

  The image of the stag creature rose in his mind, unbidden. How it had fed. How it had rebuilt itself using bodies as fuel.

  Fuel of course, same as the bodies in the cursed grove that were nailed to the trees tortured and changed. Torvil had said back then that it was a breaking of the soul, some corrupt ritual for power and control. The forbidden paths…power drawn from souls into artifacts crafted to hold essence beyond what flesh could bear.

  Brann’s breath caught.

  People were not the goal.

  They were the resource.

  But what artifact could hold a million souls?

  And what could such power be meant to awaken.

  The crystals in the tunnels came to mind, then fell away. No. Those already held raw power. That was not it.

  Something else…

  Something vast that eluded him.

  One truth sharpened into certainty.

  They were not merely corrupting bodies.

  They were preparing souls.

  Breaking them. Twisting them. Rendering them usable.

  He urged the horse onward, fever burning, mind racing.

  Whatever Kassyn was building did not end with Westmere, it coiled around the kingdom, around its capital and the mines, like a serpent suffocating it’s pray.

  Westmere was only the spark.