Chapter 61

  The sound of the morning bell rang.

  Francis didn't stop at Glitvall's tent this time. He knew the timing, knew the route, knew the cost of entry. The chained door waited at the heart of the structure, and whatever secret it hid was worth more than any tactical discussion could offer.

  He made the journey north with his mind fixed on that door. The heavy iron chains, the magical locks pulsing with cold light, the way even the guards seemed to give it a wide berth. Something was behind those chains. Something the enemy considered worth protecting above all else.

  Francis intended to find out what.

  ***

  He killed the Wolverkin and crossed the bridge, timing his movements to the detection sweeps he'd memorized. The ice corridors passed in a blur of combat and careful navigation, Reavers dying to quick strikes when he couldn't avoid them.

  Then came the killing field.

  Two hundred yards of open ice, no cover, guards watching from the walls. Francis had learned there was no clean way across. Every attempt meant arrows, meant alerting the defenders, meant the robed figure knowing he was coming. The only question was how much damage he'd take before reaching the gate.

  He waited at the edge of the ice corridors, counting. The detection sweep would come soon, and when it did, the robed figure would be focused on the magic, its attention turned inward. The guards on the walls would feel it too, that wave of cold washing over them. A moment of distraction.

  The sweep came. Francis felt it test his resistance, felt the robed figure's awareness brush against him. But he was already running, sprinting across the open ground while the guards were still orienting to the magic.

  He made it a hundred yards before the first arrows flew. One caught his shoulder, another his thigh. Francis ignored the pain and kept running, closing the distance as more shafts hissed past him. A third arrow punched through his side, scraping against ribs, and he felt his regeneration surge in response.

  [ Blade Tempest ]

  He hit the gate guards at full speed, six strikes carving through the two who moved to block him. Francis shouldered past their falling bodies and through the gate, arrows still chasing him as he plunged into the structure's interior.

  The temple-like corridors blurred past as he ran. He'd memorized the route now, knew exactly which turns to take, which chambers to pass. The circular room with the chained door was straight ahead.

  Six guards waited inside, arranged around the raised platform at the room's center. Francis didn't slow. He crashed into their formation with his sword already moving, using momentum and aggression to compensate for his wounds.

  [ Power Strike ]

  The blow carved through one guard's defenses and opened a path toward the door. Francis took a hammer blow to his already-wounded side as he pushed through, felt something crack inside him, and kept moving.

  The chained door loomed ahead. Francis grabbed the nearest chain and pulled with all his strength.

  Nothing. The chain didn't budge, didn't even flex under his grip. Francis drew his sword and swung at the links, putting everything behind the blow.

  Steel met iron with a sound like a thunderclap. Sparks flew, cold blue light flared from the chain, and Francis felt the impact reverberate up his arm hard enough to make his teeth ache. When he looked at the chain, it was unmarked. Not a scratch, not a dent, nothing.

  Magical protection. The chains aren't just physical barriers.

  Cold erupted behind him as the robed figure entered the chamber. Francis tried one more desperate strike against the chains, then turned to face his death.

  The creature's magic washed over him, freezing him in place. Guards closed in, and axes fell.

  The world went black.

  ***

  The sound of the morning bell rang.

  Brute force wasn't going to work. The chains were protected by magic stronger than anything Francis could break through with steel. If he wanted to open that door, he needed to understand how it was meant to be opened.

  He made the journey again. Killed the Wolverkin, crossed the bridge, cleared the Reavers. When he reached the killing field, he waited for the detection sweep and ran during that moment of distraction, taking arrows as the price of entry.

  This time, when he reached the circular chamber, he didn't go straight for the door. Instead, he fought toward it at an angle, positioning himself where he could see the locks clearly while the guards pressed their attack.

  The locks weren't ordinary mechanisms. They looked like crystalline formations, growths of ice that had formed around key points in the chains. Each one pulsed with cold light, and Francis could feel magic pressing against his resistance even from ten feet away.

  There was a depression in the largest formation. A keyhole of sorts, shaped for something specific.

  A hammer caught Francis in the back, driving him to his knees. He rolled with the impact, came up swinging, and killed the guard who'd struck him. But the robed figure was already entering the chamber, frost gathering around its hands.

  Francis used his last seconds to study the locks, memorizing their arrangement, the pattern of the chains, the way the magic pulsed through the crystalline formations. Then the cold claimed him, and the world went black.

  ***

  The sound of the morning bell rang.

  A keyhole meant a key. Someone had to be able to open that door. Francis needed to find out who and how.

  He made the journey faster this time, pushing himself harder, reaching the structure with more of his strength intact. The sprint across the killing field cost him two arrows instead of three, and he burst through the gate with enough momentum to kill three guards before they could properly respond.

  But instead of heading straight for the circular chamber, Francis turned down a side corridor. He'd seen other rooms during his previous attempts, glimpsed through doorways as he ran. Supplies, weapons, and the map room with the hooded figures. If there was a key, it had to be somewhere in this structure.

  He had maybe two minutes before the robed figure found him. Francis moved quickly, checking chambers, looking for anything that might match the crystalline keyhole he'd memorized.

  The map room held hooded figures who scattered at his approach, leaving their charts and markers behind. Francis killed one that moved too slowly and scanned the room. Maps of territories he didn't recognize, notations in languages he couldn't read, but no key.

  He moved to the next chamber. Weapons. Racks of axes and hammers, strange implements he didn't recognize. No key.

  The robed figure's magic was building somewhere behind him. Francis could feel it, that pressure against his senses that warned of imminent attack. He had seconds left.

  He pushed into one more chamber and found himself in what looked like a personal quarters. Sparse furnishings, a sleeping pallet, and on a small table beside it, something that glinted with cold light.

  A crystal. Shaped like a key, made of the same material as the locks on the chained door. It pulsed with that familiar blue-white glow.

  Francis grabbed it just as the robed figure's magic crashed into him from behind. Ice formed on his body, freezing him mid-motion, the crystal key clutched in his fist.

  The robed figure entered the chamber, and Francis saw its glowing eyes fix on the key in his hand. Something shifted in its expression. Concern, maybe. Or anger.

  It raised a hand, and the ice around Francis tightened, crushing, killing.

  The world went black.

  ***

  The sound of the morning bell rang.

  Francis knew where the key was now. But knowing and reaching were different things. The robed figure had responded too quickly, had frozen him before he could escape with the crystal. If he wanted to use that key, he'd have to deal with the guardian first.

  Which meant fighting it directly.

  He made the journey with his mind focused on the battle ahead. Every previous encounter with the robed figure had been on its terms, with its magic already building, with guards supporting it. This time would be different.

  Francis killed the Wolverkin and pushed through the ice corridors at a brutal pace. When he reached the killing field, he didn't wait for the detection sweep. He just ran, accepting the arrows, receiving the damage, trading wounds for speed.

  Four arrows hit him before he reached the gate. Francis burst through with blood running down his armor and crashed into the structure's interior without slowing.

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  The robed figure was in the circular chamber, same as always, standing before the chained door like a sentinel. Its glowing eyes tracked Francis as he entered, and frost began gathering around its hands.

  Francis didn't give it time to cast. He charged straight at the creature, closing the distance before its magic could fully form.

  [ Quick Attack ]

  His sword slashed toward the robed figure's chest. The creature twisted aside with surprising speed, and Francis's blade only carved through the edge of its robes, opening a shallow cut across its torso. Pale blue blood welled from the wound.

  It bleeds. Good.

  The robed figure retaliated with a lance of ice that hurtled toward Francis's chest. He dodged left, felt the projectile frost his armor as it passed, and pressed his attack.

  [ Power Strike ]

  The blow was meant for the creature's neck. But the robed figure raised its hand and caught Francis's sword on a barrier of solid ice that materialized from nothing. The impact jarred his arm, sent vibrations through his whole body, and left his blade embedded in ice that was already spreading toward his hands.

  Francis released his sword and dove backward as the ice barrier exploded outward in a spray of razor-sharp fragments. Several sliced through his armor, opening cuts across his chest and arms. His regeneration surged, golden threads knitting flesh, but the damage slowed him.

  The robed figure pressed its advantage. It raised both hands, and the chamber's temperature plummeted. Ice formed on the floor, the walls, and the ceiling. Francis felt it crawling up his legs, trying to root him in place.

  He pushed back with his Magic Resistance, cracking the ice on his legs, and grabbed a fallen guard's axe from the floor. The fight became a desperate exchange, Francis attacking with the heavy weapon while the robed figure responded with lances of ice, waves of cold, and barriers that Francis had to smash through to reach his enemy.

  But he was learning. The creature was powerful, but it was slower than him. When it raised its hands to cast, there was a moment of vulnerability, a window where it couldn't defend itself.

  Francis watched for that window, waited for the creature to begin another spell, and struck.

  The axe bit deep into the robed figure's shoulder, pale blue blood spraying across Francis's face. The creature screamed, a sound like cracking glaciers, and its spell dissolved. Francis struck again, driving the wounded creature back toward the wall.

  Then the robed figure did something unexpected.

  It fell to one knee, and the temperature dropped so fast that Francis's breath crystallized in his lungs. The creature was drawing power from somewhere, from the structure itself, channeling magic on a scale that made everything before seem like nothing.

  The wave of cold that erupted was absolute. Francis's resistance shattered against it like glass. Ice formed on his skin, his blood, his heart. He felt everything freeze, everything stop.

  His last sight was the robed figure rising to its feet, wounded but alive, its glowing eyes fixed on him with something that might have been respect.

  The world went black.

  ***

  The sound of the morning bell rang.

  Francis lay still for a moment, processing what he'd learned.

  The robed figure was powerful, so much stronger than anything he'd fought before. Its magic could overwhelm his resistance if it drew enough power from the structure. But it was also slower than him, vulnerable when casting, and when he'd wounded it badly enough, it had resorted to that desperate channeling technique.

  He couldn't kill it. Not yet. But he didn't need to kill it. He just needed to get past it, to reach the door and whatever lay beyond.

  And when it channeled, when it drew power from the structure itself, maybe other things drew power too. The locks on the door. The magical protection on the chains.

  It was a gamble. But Francis had died enough times to know that gambles were sometimes the only path forward.

  He dressed and headed north.

  The journey was faster now, his path optimized through dozens of attempts. He killed what he needed to, avoided what he could, and reached the structure with most of his strength intact. The sprint across the killing field cost him three arrows, but he'd learned to angle his approach to protect his vitals.

  Francis burst into the structure and made straight for the circular chamber. The robed figure was waiting, same as always, frost gathering around its hands.

  This time, Francis knew exactly what to do.

  [ Blade Tempest ]

  Six strikes crashed against the robed figure's hastily formed ice barrier. Cracks spiderwebbed across its surface. Francis followed with a Power Strike that shattered the barrier entirely and sent the creature stumbling backward.

  He pressed the attack relentlessly, not giving the robed figure time to recover. His sword found flesh twice, carving wounds across its chest and arm. Pale blue blood splattered across the floor.

  The creature was wounded now, badly wounded, its movements becoming desperate. Francis saw the moment when it realized it couldn't win this exchange, saw it begin to fall to one knee.

  The channeling technique. It was going to draw power from the structure.

  Francis didn't try to stop it. Instead, he turned and ran for the chained door.

  Guards moved to intercept him, but there were only four, and Francis had momentum. He killed the first with a Quick Attack, dodged the second's hammer, and shouldered past the third hard enough to send it sprawling.

  The chained door was right there, those crystalline locks pulsing with cold light. Francis watched as the robed figure channeled, drawing power from the structure, and the locks flickered. Their light dimmed. The chains didn't fall away, but they loosened, just slightly, just enough that there was a gap between them and the door frame.

  He didn't hesitate. Francis drove his shoulder against the door, forcing himself through the gap in the chains. Metal scraped against armor, links caught on his sword belt and tore it away, but he was through, stumbling into the darkness beyond.

  The chamber on the other side was smaller than he'd expected. A single room, maybe twenty feet across, with walls of dark stone that seemed to absorb the faint light filtering through from behind him. The air was different here, colder, heavier, filled with a pressure that made Francis's ears ache.

  And in the center of the room, seated on a throne of black ice, was something that made Francis stop in his tracks.

  It had been a beastkin once. Francis could see that, in its basic shape, the humanoid form, the suggestion of fur beneath the robes it wore. But whatever it was now, it had gone far beyond anything natural.

  Its skin was grey and withered, pulled tight over bones that seemed too prominent, too sharp. Its eyes were milky white, filmed over with something that looked like cataracts but pulsed with an inner light. Its hands were skeletal, fingers too long, joints bent at angles that shouldn't have been possible.

  And it was decaying. Francis could see it, could smell it, the rot that was slowly consuming this creature from within. Patches of fur had fallen away, revealing grey flesh beneath. One ear was missing entirely. The corner of its mouth had rotted away, revealing black, crumbling teeth.

  What is this thing? It's dying. It's been dying for a long time. But it's still here, still sitting on that throne, still being protected by everything outside.

  The creature's head turned toward Francis, those milky eyes focusing on him with an intelligence that belied its decayed state. Its mouth moved, dry and cracking, speaking words in a language Francis didn't understand.

  Then it switched to the common tongue.

  "Another one," it said, its voice like dead leaves scraping stone. "Another one who should not be. We felt you. All of us. Every reset, every death that was not death. We felt you."

  Francis raised his sword, but his arms felt heavy, his movements sluggish. The pressure in the room was increasing, pressing against him from all sides.

  "You killed our brother in the south," the creature continued. "Took what was his. Made it yours." Those milky eyes seemed to see right through him. "Now you come for me. For what I carry."

  The creature rose from its throne, and Francis saw how frail it truly was. Its body was failing, barely held together by whatever power sustained it. Each movement seemed to cost it something vital.

  "But you are too late," it said. "Too slow. The guardian draws power, and I draw with it. This loop ends now."

  Cold erupted from the creature, cold beyond anything Francis had felt before. This wasn't frost, ice, or winter. This was the cold of the void, the absence of all heat, all life, all existence.

  Francis tried to move, tried to strike, tried to do something. But his body was already frozen, already dying.

  The last thing he saw was the decayed creature settling back onto its throne, those milky eyes watching him with something that might have been satisfaction.

  The world went black.

  ***

  The sound of the morning bell rang.

  Francis sat up in bed, his heart pounding, his mind racing with what he'd seen and heard.

  The creature behind the door. The decayed beastkin on the throne of black ice. It had spoken to him, had known about him, had felt every reset and death across the timelines.

  We felt you. All of us.

  All of us. There were more of them. More creatures like the one he'd killed in the south, more things that could feel the loops, that could remember across timelines.

  You killed our brother in the south. Took what was his. Made it yours.

  Brother. The thing Francis had killed and absorbed. It had been one of them. Part of a network, creatures spread across the different kingdoms, feeling every reset and coordinating their responses.

  That was how they'd been adapting to him. That was how they'd known to send Elites designed to counter his tactics. The northern creature had felt Francis's deaths, had known something was wrong when there were no reports from the south, had begun preparing for an enemy it didn't fully understand.

  And now it knew exactly what he was.

  Francis looked across the room at Michael, getting dressed, still unaware of the war being fought across timelines.

  That thing is what I need to kill. That's how I end this.

  Francis dressed and headed for the door. He knew where the creature was. He knew how to reach it. Now he just needed to figure out how to destroy something that could reset time when it died.

  Simple enough to describe. Probably impossible to execute.

  But Francis had done impossible things before. And he had all the time in the world to try.

  The creature on the throne waited at the heart of the enemy's stronghold, ancient and decaying and powerful.

  And Francis intended to destroy it.