Akasha gasped. Her eyes flew open.

  For a moment, she didn’t move. The heaviness of what she’d seen still clung to her ribs like vines. She looked around to get her bearings. She was still in Elena's tent.

  Across from her, Elena stirred. Her eyes blinked open slowly, unfocused—then widened all at once, as if the past had returned in a single blow. Her mouth opened in a soundless gasp before it broke into a harrowing wail.

  "My babies... I’m so sorry... Mommy’s so sorry..."

  She curled in on herself, pulling her knees to her chest, rocking gently. The words came again and again, breaking against the fabric of the tent like waves against stone.

  Akasha sat frozen. She had seen the memory Astraxian forced her to reclaim. It wasn’t madness. It was grief, ancient and bottomless. She stood up slowly, legs trembling, and glanced at Thorne.

  He was hovering nearby, eyes wide, mouth opening and closing like a man drowning in too many thoughts.

  Akasha nodded toward the door. "She needs time."

  The wind stirred softly, brushing through the tents like a whisper afraid to interrupt. A crow called in the distance, the sound brittle in the still air. Dust spiraled in lazy circles at their feet, as if even the world held its breath.

  Thorne followed her outside, casting one last look at Elena before the tent flap fell closed behind them.

  "What the fuck happened in there?" he asked, voice low and tense.

  Akasha didn’t meet his eyes. Her gaze lingered on the shifting canvas of the tent, watching the way it billowed faintly. A heartbeat passed. “How long was I gone?”

  He frowned. "About an hour. Why? Akasha, what did you see? Why is she like this?"

  She paused, breathing deep. "The being was there. When I entered her mind, he was already reshaping it. I tried to intervene, but his control... it’s beyond anything I’ve ever seen."

  She gave him the outline—the unmaking, the memory, the pain—but she left out the conversation. That was for her alone.

  Thorne narrowed his eyes. "And he just let you go?"

  "He said he had something else to take care of. And vanished."

  Thorne turned to the massive gate that led into the temple. "If he can do that while multitasking from inside a temple, what's stopping him from crushing every mind out here? We need to evacuate."

  Akasha looked around at the camp. She saw the soldiers, the scribes, the young initiates. "Yeah... you're right. We should st—"

  A ripple cut through the air behind them.

  The sky folded, and a portal opened, twisting the light around it. From its mouth, three figures emerged.

  The first was a woman—red hair, pale as bone, with black claws instead of fingers. Her horns curved skyward from her brow, and her eyes shimmered white and red with pitch-black irises. She hovered just above the ground, smiling as if arriving at a festival.

  The second, a tall man—dark-haired, lean, wrapped in sliding shadows that clung to his body like vipers. His mouth was still, unreadable—but his eyes tracked everything like a blade waiting to be drawn. A serpent-shaped shadow hissed from his cheek, coiled into his very flesh. An axe sat across his back—massive and dark, its edge humming faintly with a deep, guttural resonance like something half-asleep and hungry. The blade was etched with spiraling patterns that pulsed in sync with his heartbeat, and the metal seemed to drink in light rather than reflect it.

  The third was shorter, quiet. His features were finely sculpted—sharp jaw, high cheekbones, eyes like polished obsidian set in a face that seemed too still. He radiated a kind of cold intellect, like a man who had read the final chapter of every story and found them all wanting. If you stared too long, the edges of his form jittered, flickering like a poorly drawn outline struggling to stay real. He looked bored—his fingers stained with ink, as if pulled from a book just moments before, interrupted mid-thought and still carrying the mark of some arcane insight.

  Thorne gave them a nod. "Lysara. Maerros. Varek."

  Lysara vanished in a blur and reappeared in front of him, wrapping him in a too-tight hug.

  "Thorne! Darling, look at you! Gods, it’s been forever. What, four years? You haven’t aged a day."

  She turned to Akasha, arms lifting for another hug—but paused as Akasha raised a single brow.

  Lysara smirked. "Akasha! You look as cold and marvelous as ever. What have you been up to?"

  "Errands," Akasha muttered. "The usual. You?"

  "Reading. Practicing. Dying of boredom," Lysara sighed. "But not for long. That’s about to change, isn’t it? You wouldn’t have called us here unless it was serious. So where is he? The one you wrote about—the Entity? Come on, Thorne, let us in on the fun."

  Maerros stepped forward, a slow grin crawling across his face. A gust rolled through the clearing, rustling cloaks and kicking embers from the fire into the dusk. He didn’t seem to notice.

  "Yes, where is he? The being that made mighty Thorne and the legendary Dreamweaver piss themselves?"

  Akasha laughed once. Her wings snapped open, glowing faintly. The air shifted.

  Thorne stepped back. His feet dug faint grooves in the dirt. The fire behind him flickered, as if retreating too.

  And then—

  Varek blinked into existence between them. One moment, empty air. The next, he was there, space rippling from his arrival, arms outstretched in calm warning.

  "Enough," he said. His voice sliced through the camp like a blade drawn in stillness. "This is not the time for childlike behavior, Maerros. Save your edge for something that actually matters."

  Maerros tensed. His hand touched his axe. Then, slowly, he exhaled and backed off.

  "Apologies," he said with mock grace.

  The fire crackled in the uneasy silence. Shadows twisted at the edges of the clearing, as if listening.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Thorne rubbed the back of his neck. "He's inside the temple. We don’t know when he’ll come out. What we do know is that he has powerful mind-affecting abilities. Me and Akasha were discussing evacuation when you arrived."

  "How strong are we talking?" Varek asked.

  "Because if all of us are here, I’m guessing stronger than Akasha."

  Akasha crossed her arms. "He doesn’t need to touch you to get inside your thoughts—he can reach in, just barely, from afar. But if he does make contact… it's like opening the door and letting him walk straight through. And he tends not to leave quietly."

  Thorne hesitated, then spoke, more measured this time. "He can kill us. Not in the ways we were taught to guard against—not with fire or decapitation. He breaks the rules we thought were absolute."

  Varek's brow furrowed slightly, and even Maerros tilted his head, the humor fading from his expression. For a moment, there was only the sound of wind through the camp—quiet, uncertain, as if the world itself was digesting the claim.

  "What do you mean, 'break the rules'?" Lysara asked, her tone still playful but with a hint of steel beneath. "You’re saying he can bypass our regenerative abilities?"

  Maerros laughed—then froze when no one joined him.

  "That’s not possible," he said flatly.

  "It is," Thorne said. "Akasha believes he functions as a kind of counter-force. He doesn’t obey our divine rules. He can kill Shahriyars like mortals. Rip out your heart, snap your spine. That kind of thing."

  Varek closed his eyes. Tilted his head to the fractured sky. Sighed. "I’ll start the evacuation," he said, and walked off toward the camp.

  It took approximately an hour or so before Varek organized everyone and sent them to the nearest city through a portal.

  Akasha and the others sat in a half-circle around a fire, the air around them still thick with tension. Varek approached—but he wasn’t alone.

  Akasha’s eyes widened in disbelief. She rose to her feet. "What are you doing here? Why didn’t you leave?"

  Standing beside Varek was Elena. She looked like a shadow of her former self—hair disheveled, attire torn and dusty, and an ancient rune faintly glowing on her brow.

  She took a step forward, her movements slow, deliberate—as if unsure whether her body still belonged to her. The others watched in a thick silence, something between tension and disbelief shimmering in the air.

  She met Akasha’s gaze with hollow eyes. Her voice, when it came, was flat and detached.

  "Where would I go? I don’t have a home anymore. And besides—"

  Her knees bent. She sat down among them, arms loose at her sides, like a puppet whose strings had simply let go.

  "—I need to ask him something."

  Akasha stared at her for a moment, at a loss for words. Then she sighed. Tired. "Do whatever you like."

  The others had watched the exchange in silence until Varek finally spoke.

  "The rune on her brow... it’s old. Older than the Death Realm. It’s written in the same language as the temple carvings. I can’t read it. But if this being marked her with that..."

  He ran a hand through his hair, eyes flicking toward the gate.

  "It means he’s ancient. Probably one of, if not the oldest, creatures in the world. And that means he’s more powerful than we feared. This won’t be simple."

  Lysara made a sound, part sigh, part groan. "But how long do we have to wait? Maybe we should go in instead?"

  Varek shook his head. "We don't know what he's been doing in there. He could’ve reshaped the entire temple or set traps. We fight him on our terms—more space, more control. We have the numbers."

  Maerros frowned. "Or maybe we stop waiting and take the initiative. Hit him first. Stop whatever nightmare he is cooking in there."

  A breeze curled through the camp, tugging gently at cloaks and scattering a few brittle leaves across the firelit circle. The shadows at the edge of the clearing seemed to pause—listening.

  Akasha gave him a steady look. "He’d sense us long before we reached the gate. There’s no surprising a being like him. I say we wait."

  Maerros’ jaw tightened. "So, what? We sit here and hope he strolls out when he’s good and ready?" The shadows slithering across his skin began to ripple faster, their motion no longer smooth, but restless—like something pacing under the surface. His fingers curled around the handle of his axe. "We should be doing something. Sitting still like this—it’s asking to be hunted."

  "Maerros," Lysara said with a velvet lilt, not even looking at him. "If your shadow twitches any harder, it might charge off looking for blood on its own."

  She glanced at him, voice calm but edged with iron. "Sit down."

  Maerros’ mouth twisted. He opened it, a retort already forming—sharp, venom-laced, ready to cut—

  —but he never got the chance to speak.

  The air shifted. A cold breeze drifted in from the direction of the temple.

  The ancient structure groaned—a deep, resonant sound, like the breath of a titan stirring beneath stone. Its massive doors began to part, slow and deliberate, as if the temple itself were waking from a thousand-year slumber.

  The ash that had blanketed its steps rose gently into the air, caught in the cold breeze, drifting outward like a soft exhale from the bones of the dead.

  Everyone stood.

  Lysara floated into the air, the space around her warping slightly—except not with heat, but with a strange absence. The air near her shimmered like fractured glass, as if reality itself resisted her presence. Sound dulled. Light faded near her skin. Even the fire's glow dimmed slightly as it touched her outline. Where she hovered, the world seemed uncertain—negated.

  Varek opened two portals and reached in—when he withdrew his hands, he held twin sabers. Their dark sheaths unadorned—but something about the weight of them drew the eye, like a silence that demanded to be heard.

  Akasha lifted a few meters into the air, wings spreading wide.

  Thorne’s body shifted—his form cracking and warping into a massive white wolf with crimson eyes that reflected death.

  Elena stood as well, her eyes hollow, locked on the temple.

  They moved apart, spacing themselves without a word.

  Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Footsteps echoed softly.

  A figure stepped through the open doors.

  He had golden hair, and eyes like miniature suns—bright enough to burn. A thin black line ran from beneath his left eye to his cheek.

  He walked calmly, hands clasped behind his back, wearing a faint smile. His gaze moved across the gathered warriors, studying them with the ease of someone greeting old friends.

  The world seemed to hold its breath. The air felt thinner now, brittle. Astraxian’s eyes passed over them without hurry, but when they landed on Elena, they lingered. Something flickered in his gaze—regret, or recognition, or something worse. But it was gone as fast as it came. His gaze moved back to the others.

  "A perfect little formation," he said, voice smooth as still water. "You look like a prophecy come to life."

  He paused, letting the silence breathe.

  "Or a funeral waiting to happen."

  No one answered.

  No one moved.

  The wind stilled. Even the fire seemed to shrink, its crackle swallowed by the silence.

  They stood like statues—wings spread, weapons drawn, hearts held tight in ribcages.

  And then—quietly, impossibly—

  Elena took a step.

  At first, it was subtle. Just a shift in weight. A quiet footfall.

  Then another.

  Heads turned.

  Varek’s hand tightened on his sword.

  Thorne growled low in his throat.

  Akasha’s wings twitched.

  Lysara blinked, surprised.

  "Elena—" Akasha called, sharp now. "What are you doing?"

  But Elena didn’t answer.

  She walked with calm, vacant purpose.

  Her gaze fixed on Astraxian like he was the only real thing in the world.

  Astraxian’s smile faded.

  His hands dropped to his sides.

  He stood as still as a statue.

  He didn’t move. Not at first. But something in his eyes shifted—barely. Not warmth. Not sorrow. Just a flicker, like a memory brushing against the present.

  She stopped just in front of him.

  Her hands rose—slowly, carefully—and clutched the front of his coat.

  Her voice broke when it came.

  "Please. Make me forget. Either make me forget… or kill me. Just end this. I can’t take it anymore."

  Astraxian looked at her for a long moment.

  Then, gently, he reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers hovered for a second longer than necessary—then dropped.

  His voice was quiet. Almost tired.

  "You have no idea how many times I wished I could do the same," he said quietly. "Just... erase it all. Just forget.

  "But forgetting won’t bring them back.

  "And right now... you’re one of the only people left who remembers them."

  She began to cry—silently at first. But the sobs came quick and sharp, ripped from somewhere deep and broken. She clung tighter to his coat, fists trembling.

  "I know," she whispered. "Gods I know and I'm sorry. But it’s too much. I can’t live like this. I won’t."

  Astraxian looked down at her for a long moment.

  Then, without a word, he pulled her into an embrace.

  It lasted only a heartbeat.

  Then he gently pushed her back—just enough to meet her eyes.

  "Okay," he said softly. "You don’t have to remember. I’ll remember them for you."

  He raised a hand and touched her forehead.

  She went limp.

  He caught her before she could fall, cradling her like something fragile. Then he knelt and laid her gently on the ground, her face calm as if in a peaceful sleep.

  He lingered there a moment longer. Then, slowly, he rose and looked up at the gathered warriors, his face unreadable.

  "Well… shall we begin?"