He steps through into the sanctum. The dome above opens wide, carved with constellations. Golden stars glimmer weakly in cracked stone, fractured but still burning. At the centre, the pedestal waits, its crystal cradle empty. The Starfire is gone.

  Vaeron stops cold, the breath catching in his throat. No.

  The High Priestess rises from the shadows, tall and unbent, robes flowing unnaturally, her silver-streaked braid hanging around the hood. Her staff burns with light in her grip. “You are too late, Vaeron,” she says.

  His eyes narrow. “Where is it?”

  She gives no answer. Her staff strikes stone. Light bursts outward, gold and blinding. The shockwave throws the Supplicants back. Their bodies blister as radiance tears the shadow from their skin. One drops to its knees, smoking. Another staggers, limbs cracking, but still it rises.

  Vaeron lunges through the blaze. His black blade meets the ward-runes she carves in the air. Light bursts against the steel with every clash. She fights well. He gives her that.

  “You defile this ground with every step,” she cries, her staff blazing as she drives the creatures back. “This place is consecrated. Its fire is sacred. You are not worthy to breathe its air.”

  Vaeron meets her glare. His blade drinks in the light spilling from her wards. “Sanctity means nothing to me,” he says. “My master commands. That is all.” What else is there but obedience?

  He tears a sigil from the air, black and hooked, laced with corrupted fire. It slams into her ward and shatters. Fragments scatter across the marble, burning like glass. She stands her ground. The runes around her staff flare brighter. Good. Let her waste her strength.

  Her magic swells again, heavy, ancient, drawn from stone, memory, and faith. The air thickens as she pours it out. A Supplicant leaps forward and takes the force full in the chest. The scream splits the chamber as its body tears apart, bone and shadow blown to dust. Vaeron barely glances at it.

  He presses harder, blade meeting spell with hunger. The weapon drinks her light as fast as she can summon it, the steel burning with stolen brilliance. Her breath grows short, but still she stands, the wards she weaves glowing like suns against the dark. Admirable. Futile.

  Light and shadow crash together, bucking to a rhythm hard and fast. Neither gives ground. Cracks spread across the chamber. She is not trying to win, she is buying time. He sees it too late. Fury floods his chest. “Where is it,” he snarls. “What have you done with the Starfire?”

  She answers with silence. Her wards flare again, but the light frays. Each spell comes slower. The chamber trembles as she draws on what is already gone, running on faith alone. Pathetic.

  She turns to strike another Supplicant, her staff flaring as she hurls it back in a surge of gold. The creature reels, smoke rising from its skin. She is too slow to recover. Her hand shakes as she raises her guard.

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  Vaeron moves in. He cuts a sigil through the air, black lines burning with a hunger that tears at the sanctum itself. The runes bend as it latches onto her ward. For a heartbeat, her shield roars brighter, gold straining against the dark. Then the sigil snaps the first of her runes. The barrier cracks like glass under a hammer.

  Her defences shatter.

  He drives in. The blade howls, black steel charged with stolen light. It cuts through her ribs, lifting her from her stance. Her breath leaves in one soundless gasp. He feels her power shudder, falter, die.

  Her staff skitters across the marble. Light drains from its runes, sparks dying on the floor. She is forced to her knees, eyes locked on him, fury still burning even as her magic fades to nothing.

  She sags against the blade. Vaeron wrenches the weapon free and catches her shoulder before she drops. Her blood runs hot over his palm, the power fading but not gone. So much potential, wasted on piety.

  He murmurs a spell, pulling at her Soul Fire in strips. Faint now, broken, but it will have to do. Green light threads through his eyes as the fragments burn their way in. The blood on his hand glows, runes coiling up his arm. The power fills him, but it is not enough. It never is.

  The chamber twists. Shadows bleed in, blurred and half-formed. The High Priestess’s dying sight washes over him. He sees the shape of a girl slip through a wall, the Starfire bright at her chest as she vanishes through a door. The image wavers like smoke, but it is enough. He lets the body fall. The glow drains from his eyes. He stares at the wall where the vision fled. “She took it,” he whispers. “A girl, and one who can hold the Starfire and live?”

  Soldiers enter, armour spattered in blood from the fighting outside. “A girl has taken the Starfire,” he says, voice sharp. “She slipped away while the High Priestess kept us busy.”

  They wait, voidblades dark at their sides. “Search the temple first,” he orders. “Leave nothing unturned. Then spread into the city. Every cellar, every corner, every sewer. She does not leave Highmarrow. If she resists, break her legs and drag her back here. If she hides, burn those who shield her.”

  A nod and they move out.

  He stands, staring at where the Starfire should be. One Supplicant is ash. The other lingers at the edge of the sanctum, still, unblinking. It waits, patient as stone. He wonders if it envies the dead.

  Vaeron crouches beside the fallen High Priestess and dips his fingers into the blood pooling at her side. He lifts them to his tongue. Bitter. Strong even now. Her fire burned deep. Not enough. It never is. The corruption hungers always, and is never satisfied.

  The sight of her still face tightens his chest. She bought the girl time. Stole the prize from his grasp. Power within reach, gone. His jaw locks. Fury breaks loose. He stamps her head once. Twice. Bone cracks wet under his boot. Blood spreads across the marble. He strikes again and again until the face is pulp, his breath tearing in short bursts. He does not stop until there is nothing left but ruin. Rage breaking free.

  The Supplicant does not move. It watches and waits. Unmoving and uncaring.

  At last, he turns away, chest heaving, and crosses to the pedestal. His palm presses against the empty cradle. Cold. Lifeless. The Starfire was here. He was close. So close.

  Rage boils hotter than the magic still crackling in the air. Theron promised him power, but promises mean nothing if he returns with empty hands. The Starfire is the key. He knows what failure brings. The thought of Theron’s wrath cuts colder than any blade.

  He stares at the cradle, the weight of it settling on him like a curse. With the Starfire, the Dark King will not only rule, he will spread like plague. Vaeron has seen what his master’s sorcery does: cities to ash, souls torn screaming from flesh, kingdoms broken and bound in chains of fire. And he will be the hand that brings it.

  Above, the constellations flicker. One by one, the stars go out.