The word struck Elise like a hammer. “Demon?” she echoed. So the boy hadn’t been lying.

  “Finn didn’t tell you?” Veronica tilted her head, casual despite the chaos. “It’s a long story. More importantly, how is Claire? Is she safe?”

  Before Elise could answer, another cultist broke into a run, rushing toward them. Veronica lifted her hand, but before she could release the spell, a nearby man with a pitchfork came from the corner of a building and thrust forward, driving it into the cultist’s chest. The robed figure screamed, collapsed, and lay groaning.

  They died seconds later.

  The man was a miner, middle-aged, face streaked with soot and sweat. He wrenched his pitchfork free and glanced at them. “You two alright?”

  Veronica lowered her hand, smiling. “We’re fine. Thanks.”

  He nodded once and sprinted back toward the fighting.

  Elise drew a steadying breath. “Claire is fine. She was taken during the Viscount’s meeting, but she had a protection artifact. She escaped and made it back to town. For now, she’s safe.”

  Veronica’s shoulders eased, just a little. Her eyes softened before sharpening again. “Good. As long as she’s safe and we drive these cultists back, this will all end.”

  Her gaze swept across the square. Dozens of clashes still raged. Guards held their lines, but the townsfolk—brave yet clumsy—were swinging picks and spears against presumably trained mercenaries. Nolhan was cutting them down quickly, but it wasn’t enough. There was only so much one man could do.

  The longer this dragged on, the more innocent blood would spill.

  [Mana: 72/560 MU]

  “This’ll be the last bit of mana I have tonight,” she muttered under her breath. “I can’t risk burning out my mana core anymore.”

  Even now, Veronica could feel the cracks on her cores. Her mana was leaking, and her regeneration had taken a heavy hit.

  Elise’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide and confused.

  Of course she would be.

  A mage’s last resort, the act of straining their core to the limit, forcing out as much mana as possible. A near-suicidal move.

  Yet here Veronica was—talking about it so casually, like she had just done it. For now, explaining could wait.

  Veronica’s hands lifted before her chest, fingers curling inward as though cradling an unseen orb. Energy sparked instantly between her palms, bright and crackling, threads of raw light weaving together. A shimmering ball of electricity swelled, arcs of violet-white lightning lashing between her fingers.

  Two wings unfurled behind her right hand, glowing faint against the night.

  Elise froze beside her, eyes wide. “Wait—you… weren’t you just a Tier-1 mage?”

  Veronica smirked, though her eyes stayed fixed ahead. “Ah, yeah. I was. I advanced a few days ago.”

  Before Elise could say more, the spell reached its peak.

  Veronica thrust her hands forward, releasing the gathered power.

  The orb detonated into a streak of lightning that cut through the square like a spear. It struck the nearest cultist square in the chest—then branched, splitting and arcing outward.

  A Tier-2 Path of Ruin spell: Shock. A simple bolt of electricity that shot forward. It could scorch something or electrify and stun a target. It was mostly non-lethal. However, combined with the Path of Tempests discipline, it turned into something else.

  Chain Lightning.

  Bolts leapt from body to body, snaking across metal blades and dark robes. Cultists convulsed as current tore through them, muscles locking, weapons rattling in white-knuckled grips. One strike branched into two, then into three, then a fourth—until nearly a dozen robed figures were lit in brilliant connecting arcs, their screams mingling with a loud buzz.

  Most Tier-2 spells or below weren’t lethal in most cases. Everything was about how you applied it. Of course, fire-based spells could burn someone alive, or someone like Elise could crush someone’s head with a slab of earth. But otherwise, spells rarely carried lethal power, save for the Path of Ruin discipline that Veronica followed.

  She focused on chaining as many targets as possible instead of concentrating on firepower. She didn’t need to be the one to kill them.

  For several precious seconds, the cultists froze, paralyzed where they stood, unable to lift blades, bows, or bottles. And in those few seconds, the guards and citizens of Greystone struck back.

  Guards surged forward, swords driving true toward their necks, quickly and easily. Miners brought pickaxes down on skulls with murderous weight. A farmer with a wooden hunting spear skewered a cultist through the ribs while the man was still twitching. The line that had been faltering a moment ago roared back into motion, driving the stunned cultists to the ground.

  Veronica exhaled, shoulders sagging.

  Her mana cores were dry now. At the very least, Sage’s shield upgrade still worked, re-purposing ambient mana to protect her from attacks. Veronica could also try recycling the same ambient mana to perform a couple of Tier-1 spells. But it would be like attempting to fill a cup with water using a fork. The rest of the battle now relied on Nolhan, Elise, and Greystone’s own forces.

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  “That should help a bit,” she said at last.

  Elise simply stared at her.

  How is she already able to use a Tier-2 spell, despite advancing only a “couple of days ago”?

  A few hours past midnight, Greystone lay quiet once more.

  The battle had raged from dusk deep into the night. Steel clashed against steel, flames scorched the cobblestones, and the cries of the dying echoed across the square until the cultists’ will finally broke. Some fought to the end. Others dropped their weapons once blades were struck from their hands. The rest scattered into the forest.

  Seventy cultists lay dead in the streets. Twenty more were dragged away in chains. A little over ten fled into the wilds, hunted even now by reinforced patrols of guards and militia.

  But victory had come at a cost.

  Nearly eighty townsfolk were also slain, their bodies lined in silent rows beneath hastily thrown cloths. Thirteen were trained guards. Sixteen were registered militia. The rest were shopkeepers, miners, farmers—ordinary people who had fought with whatever they could hold. Seven children under the age of eight had perished as well.

  The square still reeked of ash and blood. The air was also filled with the scent of washed smoke, houses that have long since been doused of fire.

  Medics worked tirelessly beneath a canvas tent beside the barracks, lantern light casting long shadows over the wounded. Knives and arrows had torn many open. Others bore hideous burns or acid scars from alchemical fire hurled in glass flasks. Over two hundred were injured. Some would recover. Others would not.

  Veronica had walked through the tent once. She could offer nothing more than her gaze. She knew no true healing spells—only a single Tier-6 magic she had learned for herself, too costly and too specialized to use in her current state. The Path of Ruin had never been meant for mending.

  For these people, she could do nothing. Their fate rested with Greystone’s healers—and chance.

  The town had been warned beforehand; many escaped dying miserable deaths in their sleep. Still, there were a significant number who had perished. It was a tragedy. There was no doubt about that. Yet without Veronica, Elise, Nolhan, Finn’s warnings, and the stubborn bravery of Greystone’s people, the toll would have been far worse.

  Later, at the Baron’s estate, a discussion about the night’s events was about to begin.

  The chamber doors creaked open one final time.

  Steward Hadrian stepped inside, his face drawn with fatigue but his back still straight. His coat was dusted with ash, his graying hair matted to his forehead with sweat, though his eyes held the same steady focus as always.

  “Hadrian,” Baron Welterman said with a nod.

  “My lord,” the steward replied, his tone flat with exhaustion.

  Viscount Leopold leaned forward slightly. “Tell me—how is Claire?”

  Hadrian turned to him. “Lady Claire sustained only minor bruising in her escape, my lord. She was seen to by the town doctors immediately. She is currently under the protection of Captain Luthen at the barracks. He has placed her in his personal care.”

  Leopold exhaled, relief flickering across his scarred features. “Good. It was wise of my wife to buy her that ring. I thought it a waste of coin—but I was mistaken.”

  He glanced down at his own wounds, a ring glinting on his finger. “Thanks to my artifact, I did not succumb when those masked assailants struck.” He looked to Welterman. “The regeneration field that activated also seemed to serve you well.”

  Welterman nodded. “Indeed. You have my thanks. Without it, I might have bled out—or suffered far worse.”

  Hadrian crossed the chamber, taking his place along the wall opposite Nolhan, hands folded neatly as he waited.

  Leopold’s gaze swept the room—over Hadrian, Elise, Welterman—before finally settling on Veronica, who had stood silent throughout.

  “Now that everybody is here…”

  The room fell still.

  Leopold’s tone deepened, heavy with authority. “The attack on Greystone is over, but its shadow will not vanish so easily. Nearly seventy cultists dead, with roughly two dozen in chains. A few stragglers escaped into the forest. And yet, in return, eighty of Greystone’s own are slain. Guards. Miners. Farmers. A bitter toll for a single night.”

  No one responded.

  Leopold’s gaze settled on Welterman, sharp and unyielding. “Ordinarily, I would demand an explanation. Your barony. Your town. Such an infestation could be blamed on poor vigilance—or negligence. It would be tempting to lay the matter wholly at your feet.”

  Welterman’s brow creased, though he did not rise to the bait.

  “But…” Leopold’s voice dropped, tight with restrained fury. “It is not so simple. Among the cultists’ corpses and those dragged away in chains, I recognized one of my own. A servant of House Ronswick. A man I had trusted.”

  The words fell like a stone into the chamber. Elise stiffened, her usual calm fracturing into sharp surprise. Only Veronica and Welterman remained unmoved.

  Leopold’s eyes darkened. “According to that man, it was my own servants who suggested Claire as the sacrifice. Because of the quality of her blood she shares with my wife. They claimed she was the perfect offering. A sacrifice… for the summoning of a demon.”

  His gaze swept the room. “They call themselves the Ashen Covenant.”

  A faint murmur rippled through the chamber. Even Welterman’s composure wavered, his lips thinning.

  Leopold continued, contempt edging his words. “A cabal of fanatics who believe demons are not to be feared, but worshipped. They summon them, bind themselves to them, hoping to harness their power—to enrich themselves at the cost of everything else.” His jaw tensed. “And now, they dared to make my daughter their pawn.”

  “Baron… if I may,” Hadrian asked.

  Welterman inclined his head.

  “For weeks,” the steward continued, “I have received complaints from townsfolk. Family members vanishing. Neighbors gone without a word. I had hoped they were desertions—miners seeking better pay, drunks wandering off and failing to return. Old Thom, in particular, was insistent. He swore dark figures were slipping into the woods at night. I ordered patrols, but they found nothing. It turned out many were already in our ranks, both guards and citizens alike, all working to suppress the narrative and evidence.”

  He clasped his hands tighter, shame weighing his voice. “I underestimated the scale.”

  Welterman’s expression darkened, though his tone remained smooth. “I, too, heard the rumors. But with no sightings and no evidence from the guards I trusted, what measures could be taken? I cannot root out shadows with nothing to strike.”

  He spread his hands slightly. “And yet, with so many missing townsfolk among their ranks—and even several drawn from House Ronswick itself—their concealment was extraordinary. Consider their access to artifacts and supplies. To plan so carefully, to sustain themselves in secret, and then strike at my very home—undetected—marks them as no mere rabble.”

  Veronica’s brows knit faintly. She knew what he was doing.

  It was deft. By pointing to the Ronswick servants and the cult’s hidden reach, Welterman shifted the weight upward. If even the viscount’s household could be infiltrated, how could a baron be expected to fare better? It was an indirect thrust—a way to share or deflect blame.

  She sighed inwardly. Now wasn’t the time for finger-pointing—not when demons were the true enemy. If they turned inward, they’d all burn the same.

  Veronica raised her palm slightly to get the Viscount’s attention.

  He looked over at her. “Yes?”

  Her eyes went flat, her voice just as even. “I know about the Ashen Covenant.”

  Several people in the room stiffened. Viscount Leopold among them. “What?”

  All attention turned to her.

  Good.

  With the Viscount here, it was the perfect opportunity to raise her standing. Greystone was just a small town—there was only so much she could accomplish here. But if she impressed the Viscount… she could use him as a stepping stone. Advancing in power was one thing. Advancing in status was another.

  It was time to act like a noble and shamelessly boast, laying down her achievements, and cement her importance.

  Veronica nodded. “I know about them. Their goals. And most importantly—who their leader is.”

  discord!

  Path of Sculpting and the Path of Focus

  Path of Sculpting and the Path of Focus specialize in precise manipulation. Rather than reshaping large areas, their magic is particular, focusing on small portions at a time, but scrutinizing each change in design. On a broad scale, these mages excel at intricate design and construction, and can often be found assisting in making intricate trinkets or decorations. For these mages, matter becomes a weapon. Anything that is, can become. The further these mages go, the more they can reshape matter into what they like. Rumor has it that mages who reach the 10th tier following these paths, can replicate alchemy's number one principle: equivalent exchange. To be able to change one thing, into another.

  Of the records in history that speak of the 10th-Tier, this combination of paths is one of the two ever referenced in famous theory.