Asil, Abby, and Lucia stood silently at the threshold of the towering gate. The iron bars had parted, revealing a swirling vortex of shifting shadows beyond. The air around them crackled with arcane energy, the very atmosphere vibrating with ancient, unknowable power.

  Abby and Asil locked eyes. Both wore grim, determined expressions—but Asil saw the fear flicker behind the teen’s gaze. It wasn’t cowardice. It was awareness. Awareness that what they were stepping into was beyond anything they’d faced before.

  Lucia, in contrast, stood ready—muscles taut beneath her black fur, tail low and steady. Her bright eyes scanned the shadows, alert and focused. She looked to Asil, ears twitching, awaiting the signal.

  A soft whine escaped the wolf, and without breaking her gaze from the portal, Asil reached down to scratch gently behind her ears. “We’ve got this,” she whispered—not for Lucia, but for all of them.

  Asil took Abby’s hand. Their fingers laced tightly.

  “Together,” Asil said.

  Abby nodded. “To the end.”

  With one shared breath, the two women stepped forward, Lucia padding close behind.

  The moment they crossed the threshold, the world changed.

  Meanwhile, at Fort Hajill, Gideon made his way through the stone halls, winding toward the mess hall. The early morning sun filtered through narrow windows, casting slashes of golden light onto the walls.

  As he rounded a corner, he nearly collided with a small figure.

  “Whoa there,” he said, stepping back.

  Serena stood blinking up at him, her expression curious. Her eyes weren't on his face, but slightly higher.

  “Why are your ears pointy?” she asked bluntly and honestly, only an eight-year-old could.

  Gideon chuckled and crouched down to her level. “Because I’m from the elf race,” he said, smiling warmly.

  “Ohhh,” she said thoughtfully. “Yeah, we learned about elbes from Lady Geraldine.”

  “Elves, sweetie,” Gideon corrected gently. “E-L-V-E-S.”

  Serena repeated it slowly, exaggerating the letter ‘V.’ “El-ves.”

  Before he could affirm her progress, her attention shifted. “And what are those?” she asked, pointing above his head.

  Gideon blinked. “My hair?” he guessed.

  “Nooo,” Serena giggled. “That!” She waved her hand in the air over his head.

  Perplexed, Gideon followed her gaze, though he saw nothing. Serena, however, was transfixed. Her bright eyes tracked something invisible to his perception—thin, writhing strands of energy that pulsed and shimmered just above him.

  She reached up with her left hand and mimed, grabbing one of them, her fingers curling into a tiny fist. Then, standing on tiptoe, she raised her right hand and grasped something else. Her concentration deepened.

  Gideon felt a peculiar tug, like a breeze had caught at his scalp, but from the inside. A jolt passed through him when she brought her fists together—sharp, electric, but not painful. It was as if something inside him clicked into place.

  He straightened abruptly, careful not to bump the child. A strange, pleasant heat bloomed in his chest.

  “There,” Serena said with a satisfied grin. She crossed her arms. “That’s better.”

  Gideon blinked, dazed. “What… did you just do?”

  The girl shrugged playfully and skipped past him without answering, already chasing something else that had caught her attention.

  Still rattled, Gideon made his way back to his quarters. He shared the room with another recruit, though it was empty now. He sat on the edge of the bed—and before he could even process what had happened, his eyes fluttered shut.

  He fell into a trance.

  His breath slowed. Magic stirred deep within him, long dormant. Something inside had changed.

  Serena, he realized dimly, hadn’t just seen something.

  She had activated it.

  Asil, Abby, and Lucia stood still at the edge of the massive open gates. Beyond the threshold, a swirling fog of shadows obscured their vision. It clung to them like smoke—thick, choking, and cold. The two women might have thought they’d been separated if not for their clasped hands.

  Lucia brushed against Asil’s leg, her earlier whine rising into a soft growl. The wolf was tense, fur bristling, and ears flat. Asil reached down, brushing a hand over Lucia’s head in silent reassurance.

  Then, slowly, the shadow fog began to thin.

  At first, only the trio became visible—dark silhouettes against the gloom. Then, like a curtain being pulled back, the world around them revealed itself.

  They stood at the center of a circular and vast colosseum, at least two broad football fields. Towering stone bleachers rose in all directions—layer upon layer—forming a jagged bowl of cracked marble and ruined stone. The entire arena bore the scars of violent destruction: giant fissures split the seating, crumbled columns lay scattered like bones, and soot-black scorch marks marred the field.

  "What is this place?" Abby whispered, eyes scanning the silent ruin.

  Asil didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze was fixed on a partially collapsed wall near the arena’s edge—the wall that once separated combatants from the spectators. Upon it, ten scorched letters burned defiantly into the stone:

  JAQOVHARTS

  Abby followed her gaze. "You think Jack did this?"

  "Knowing my husband?" Asil replied, her voice a mixture of pride and sorrow. "If he couldn’t move the heavens to find me... he’d raise hell."

  Instinct kicked in. Though they hadn’t realized it, their hands had parted, and their weapons were already drawn. Battle readiness was second nature now. Lucia crouched low, hackles raised, tail stiff. The wolf’s eyes darted across the ruined arena.

  They lowered their guard slightly, believing the area had already been cleared.

  That was when the woman appeared.

  From behind them, a figure emerged out of nothing—silent, effortless. Lucia lunged with a furious growl, but mid-leap was caught by an unseen force and hurled aside like a rag doll.

  "Lucia!" Asil spun, sword raised. But as she moved to strike, her limbs froze.

  So did Abby.

  A cold, silken whisper drifted through the air. "I apologize for your... pet."

  Though the woman—pale, robed in shadows—stood twenty paces away, her voice sounded as if she was right beside them, her breath curling at their ears.

  With a casual wave of her hand, the invisible bonds that held them shattered. Both women stumbled slightly as they regained control of their bodies. Lucia, dazed but alive, limped back toward them.

  Asil gripped her weapon tighter but did not strike. Abby stood at her side, blades raised.

  “What happened here?” Asil asked, gesturing to the destruction around them.

  “Yes,” the sorceress replied simply.

  Asil’s eyes narrowed. “Well?”

  “The Dark Wizard,” came the reply.

  Asil's breath hitched. “Did Jack face him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gods damn it, witch,” Asil snapped, restraining herself from charging. “Give me more than one word.”

  The woman’s expression remained unreadable. "The Dark Wizard defeated Jack."

  The words hit like a hammer.

  Asil took a step back. "You’re lying."

  “Child,” the sorceress whispered, and for a moment, there was something almost... maternal in her tone. Not pity. Something deeper. Something older.

  Asil’s sword fell from her grip as she dropped to her knees. Tears rolled down her cheeks as the weight of those words crushed her spirit.

  Abby rushed to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She stared daggers at the sorceress.

  The pale woman turned her face, avoiding Abby’s eyes—as if shamed by the raw pain she had caused.

  Then Abby remembered something—the phrasing.

  “You said ‘defeated’... does that mean Jack is still alive?”

  A long pause.

  “He lives,” the sorceress said finally.

  Hope bloomed in Asil’s eyes. Abby helped her to her feet and returned her sword.

  “Where is he?” Asil asked, voice raw.

  “Captured,” was the flat reply.

  “We’re not getting anything out of this witch,” Asil muttered to Abby.

  “Should we move on?” Abby asked.

  “You need to seeee,” the sorceress interrupted, her voice now sing-song and strange.

  Two shadowy figures stepped forward from behind her. They were twisted, wraith-like—barely distinguishable as humanoid. Abby and Asil recognized them instantly.

  “The same ones from before,” Abby growled. “The ones that tried to trick us.”

  Lucia growled again, licking her lips in anticipation.

  “Do not fear,” the sorceress said softly. “They will not harm you.”

  “Fear?” Abby scoffed. “Last I checked, I beat their asses.”

  The imps took a hesitant step back, only continuing forward when the sorceress beckoned them.

  “I need them to show you,” she said.

  “Show us what?” Asil asked.

  “What happened,” the woman replied.

  Asil turned to Abby. “I saw what they can do. They showed me things—visions. It felt real. Like I was back home with Jack.”

  “Can we trust her?” Abby asked.

  “No. But I don’t think we have a choice. My journal can’t identify her. Not even her level.”

  “Maybe she needs us to agree to something first. You know… like soul consent,” Abby said dryly.

  A laugh—quiet and almost genuine—escaped the sorceress.

  “No, child,” she said.

  Asil took a deep breath. “How about I go alone, and if anything looks wrong, you pull me out.”

  “It has to be both,” the sorceress said immediately.

  Abby looked to the ground, torn.

  “It’s your call,” Asil said softly. “But this might be the only way to find out what happened to Jack. And… your family.”

  Abby clenched her jaw. “Fine.”

  Both women sheathed their weapons and turned to the sorceress.

  “How do we do this?” Asil asked.

  The two shadow beings advanced, their movements jagged and unnatural, like corrupted stop-motion.

  Lucia growled and stepped in front of her companions.

  “Let them,” the sorceress whispered.

  Asil knelt and gently calmed Lucia with a hand to her muzzle.

  “It’s okay. Stay with us.”

  The imps reached them, shadows elongating as they touched the two women.

  Darkness washed over their vision.

  And the memories began.

  Veronica woke up surrounded by towering trees, their thick canopies blocking out most of the sunlight. The distant sound of hooves pounding earth, mingled with the clang of metal on metal, echoed faintly through the air. Birds scattered above her with alarmed chirps.

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  Groggy, she blinked against the filtered light and looked down at herself—her breath caught in her throat. Gone were the clothes she’d worn to the beta test facility. In their place, she now wore a tattered linen shirt and a threadbare skirt that barely reached her knees. Her feet were strapped into crude sandals, worn thin.

  “Ew,” she muttered, brushing at the dirt and leaves clinging to her. “What the hell is this?”

  She stood on shaky legs and took in her surroundings. The forest was thick and unfamiliar, the air scented with damp moss and something faintly metallic.

  “Those stupid nerds drugged me,” she snapped, more angry than afraid. “This is some messed up LARPing crap.”

  But as she checked herself more thoroughly—no bruises, no wounds—she felt a small wave of relief. At least she didn’t seem harmed. Dazed, confused, but unharmed.

  Drawing a breath, she turned toward the noise of clashing metal.

  The moment she stepped around the first tree, something lunged.

  A dark blur launched from the shadows, tackling her hard to the forest floor. The breath left her lungs in a gasp as she stared up into a face—if it could be called that—twisted and monstrous. The creature’s features shifted grotesquely as if even the laws of form refused to settle.

  It grinned, a mouth far too wide for its head, revealing jagged fangs. One long arm rose, claws glinting like obsidian blades, ready to slice.

  Just before it struck—

  The creature’s head separated from its body in a spray of dark ichor, tumbling to the ground.

  Its body collapsed onto her with a thud, and she screamed as the weight pinned her down. The last thing she saw before the world went black was a tall figure in gleaming armor, wielding a sword longer than she was tall.

  She woke to the sound of hushed voices and distant groans.

  The scent of smoke, herbs, and blood filled her nose.

  Her eyes fluttered open to see a stone ceiling. Turning her head, she glimpsed a large chamber filled with cots, some occupied by moaning figures. Robed women moved among them, tending to wounds and whispering prayers.

  This is a dream, she thought. It has to be.

  But as the fog lifted from her mind, reality slammed into her.

  She tried to sit up, but pain exploded at the back of her skull. She gasped and collapsed back onto the cot, stars dancing in her vision.

  “Rest, lass,” came a soft, accented voice beside her.

  A young woman crouched beside the cot, eyes kind, hands gentle.

  “You took a nasty knock to the head. Try not to move too much.”

  Veronica opened her mouth to argue, but her body refused. Another pulse of pain forced her back into the pillow.

  “There, there,” the woman said gently, brushing strands of hair from Veronica’s face. Her hand moved to the teen’s brow, then down to rest lightly over her heart. Humming softly, she began to sing—an old tune in a language Veronica didn’t recognize.

  What is this, some kind of fantasy hospice care?

  Before she could protest, a soothing wave washed over her, the sharp pain dulled into a soft throb.

  “What… what did you do?” Veronica asked, expecting another spike of agony—but it didn’t come.

  “I did what I could, lass,” the woman replied with a faint smile. “My mana’s nearly gone. Too many wounded.”

  Mana? Veronica stared. Am I going insane?

  But before she could form another thought, sleep pulled her back down—this time, warm and peaceful.

  Weeks passed.

  Veronica, once reluctant and cynical, became a vital part of the infirmary. The healer who had saved her—Sonya—quickly became a friend and mentor.

  The truth came out in fragments. Veronica had arrived in the middle of a full-scale battle between the combined races of this strange world and the demon horde. The fortress she had been brought to was one of the last lines of defense—and it was barely holding.

  She might have laughed if it hadn’t been so horrifying. Demons. Magic. Sword-wielding paladins and spellcasting clerics. She would’ve called it the worst D&D campaign ever if not for the fact that she’d seen a demon rip a man in half. Or watched Sonya reattach a limb with nothing more than a song and glowing hands.

  And no one—not a soul—had seen or heard of Abby. Or her family.

  Every day, more wounded came in. Burned, broken, poisoned. The healers did their best, working to the edge of exhaustion. Some collapsed mid-prayer. Others sobbed quietly in corners when they lost another life.

  There were too many losses.

  Veronica watched it all and slowly numbed herself, not out of callousness but necessity. She helped where she could—cleaning wounds, applying poultices, fetching water.

  And then she saved someone.

  A man had stopped breathing. Without thinking, she acted. She performed CPR—something she’d learned during a babysitting course back home. Chest compressions. Mouth-to-mouth.

  He lived.

  The healers stared at her like she’d just raised the dead.

  From that moment, they called her apprentice. Sonya taught her the healing chants the use of salves and tinctures. They shared their knowledge with her, and she returned the favor with every scrap of medical training she could remember.

  She never stopped thinking about her family. About Abby. About home. But those thoughts lived in the corner of her mind now, saved for the nights when she cried herself to sleep.

  Each day, the crying happened less. But the ache remained.

  In time, Veronica no longer felt like a stranger.

  She felt like someone who had survived.

  And someone who still had more to do.

  One day, Veronica was approached by Mysma, the High Priestess of the fort—a tall, elegant woman with silver-streaked hair and eyes that shimmered like moonlight. Mysma had been observing Veronica closely, sensing something stirring within her—a dormant spark, a potential connection to the Source.

  Veronica had learned that the Source was the wellspring of mana—an ancient, mystical force that magic-users tapped into. Not everyone could access it. Once a common gift among the races of Aerothane, it had become rare. The Demon God had seen to that, targeting Source-touched individuals first in his campaign of eradication.

  But something in Veronica defied the odds.

  Under Mysma’s tutelage, Veronica began training in the art of healing magic. She took to it immediately, to her surprise—and everyone else’s. Despite having never touched a gaming controller or studied fantasy magic systems, she absorbed the lessons like they were already written in her soul.

  A new world opened before her.

  She progressed rapidly. Her mana pool, already vast, expanded with each day. She healed with a touch, soothed pain with her voice, and even began experimenting with protective wards. The healers in the infirmary quickly leaned on her, and her name began to spread beyond the fort.

  Soon, whispers turned into rumors: a new high sorceress had emerged.

  Yet, even Veronica had limits. As more and more wounded were carried into the infirmary, even her stamina waned. There were days when her hands shook with exhaustion and her voice cracked from chanting. Still, she pressed on. The wounded needed her.

  But the tide of battle was turning—and not in their favor.

  Reports from the field grew grim. The scattered armies of the five races were being pushed back. Squadrons went silent. Commanders vanished. Every day, fewer troops arrived at the gates. And the ones who did were barely breathing.

  The fort, once just a healing outpost, had become a final refuge.

  The skeleton garrison would never hold without the main armies to shield them.

  Veronica knew this. She saw it in the faces of the scouts and in the eyes of Sonya, who now leaned on Veronica as much as Veronica had once leaned on her.

  But she didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

  Something was growing inside her—more than mana, more than healing magic. She could feel her connection to the Source deepening. She had become more than a healer. She was something else now, something more.

  But she didn’t tell anyone. Not yet. It felt... selfish. A distraction. She focused instead on tending wounds and bringing comfort.

  Then, one day, Veronica felt something during a rare lull in the chaos.

  She had just finished bandaging a soldier’s broken ribs—choosing not to use magic, reserving her power for the dying—when a strange pull tugged at her chest.

  She turned her head, drawn like a compass needle. Her steps led her to the nearest window. Peering through the arched opening, she saw a group of soldiers arriving with stretchers.

  Nothing out of the ordinary. Until—

  One of the bodies.

  He was barely alive, almost skeletal. Burned, broken, and twisted. But Veronica felt his aura like a whisper across her soul—a spark buried deep within the shell.

  Without hesitation, she ran.

  She burst through the gates just as the stretcher was being carried past. A soldier moved to throw a rough canvas over the body.

  “It’s too late for that one,” he said flatly.

  “No,” Veronica snapped, eyes fixed on the figure. “I can feel his spark. He’s not gone yet.”

  The soldier frowned. “Even if he’s alive, what you’d need to do for him—it would take everything. And for what? A chance? We’ve got dozens still breathing. They need your magic.” He gestured to the others being carried inside.

  Veronica didn’t even glance at him.

  “I said he’s not gone.”

  She knelt beside the man, touching his heart and forehead. The energy thrummed beneath her skin, and she began to chant.

  The soldier reached out to stop her—then realized who she was. His hand jerked back too late.

  Veronica didn’t even blink. An unseen force flung him across the courtyard, landing with a grunt.

  Now furious, Veronica drew deeply from the Source. Her chant grew louder, fiercer. Mana flowed from her in waves.

  The man’s wounds began to close—slowly at first, then faster as her power poured into him. Around them, the air shimmered. Even nearby soldiers with lesser wounds began to stir, their injuries healing from the residual overflow.

  “I didn’t know,” the stunned soldier mumbled to Sonya, who had arrived just in time to see the display. “I swear I didn’t know it was her.”

  But Veronica barely heard him. Her focus narrowed. Her mana reserves drained faster than ever, but she didn’t care.

  She knew this aura.

  As the man’s face began to mend—features stitching together, bones aligning—recognition dawned.

  It was him. It was Mike. Abby’s brother.

  Though his face altered like hers, she knew. She knew in her bones.

  But his spark—so slight—was fading.

  “No,” she whispered.

  The body was whole now, but the light inside was gone.

  “No!” she screamed.

  Tears streaked her face. Rage, grief, and desperation surged in her. She reached into the air, and seized the last flicker of light only she could see—a floating ember drifting skyward.

  With a guttural cry, she slammed it back into his chest.

  A shockwave blasted outward, rattling the gates and sending dust swirling in a storm.

  And then Veronica collapsed.

  Veronica awoke again in the infirmary, the familiar scent of herbs and burning incense filling her lungs. Her entire body felt like stone—heavy, leaden, but intact. Sonya was at her side, her fingers laced tightly with Veronica’s.

  Blinking past the haze, Veronica mustered what little strength she had, her hand tightening around her friend’s arm.

  “Is he…?” she whispered, voice dry and cracking.

  Sonya pressed a gentle finger to her lips. “He lives,” she said with a solemn smile. “Thanks to you. They all do.”

  She gestured around the room.

  Veronica’s gaze swept across the infirmary. Dozens of beds were empty or occupied by recovering patients laughing, talking, and eating. Even the healers, once exhausted husks, moved with newfound energy.

  Apparently, she had been unconscious for three days. The spell she cast to save Mike hadn’t just revived him. It had sent a surge of healing through every living soul in the fortress. Bruises vanished. Broken bones knitted silently back together. Even the most minor scratches were wiped away as if the very air had turned into a balm.

  But the cost…

  She rose that evening, her body still aching from the drain, and made her way to Mike’s bedside. He looked different, of course. Just as she did, it had changed them when they entered this world. Their hair, their faces, even their ages. Both now appeared to be in their early twenties. Veronica’s once-blonde hair had deepened to a rich auburn. Mike’s brown hair had turned a sleek jet black.

  He stared up at her, unfamiliar eyes searching hers.

  “I don’t… know you,” he said softly.

  Veronica knelt beside him. “No. But I know you.”

  As the memories came rushing back—the days they spent together before the world fell apart—recognition sparked.

  “Veronica?” he asked.

  She nodded tears in her eyes.

  He wept ,too, quietly, his hand reaching out to hers.

  Over the following months, Mike and Veronica became inseparable. He told her of how he had been found, not far from where she had woken. A small squadron of soldiers had rescued him. Though dazed and lost, he had quickly picked up the art of combat. It came to him as naturally as healing had to her.

  He became a champion among them, cutting down demons with fluid grace and brutal efficiency. But over time, he had watched that makeshift family be torn apart. From one hundred, they had dwindled to five. In a final act of defiance, he had charged into a fire demon’s lair to save the last of his brothers. Only he and two others had survived, his body left broken in the process.

  He was brought to the fort, not for salvation—but for a hero’s burial.

  Instead, he found her.

  Together, they brought hope to the dying remnants of the kingdom. Veronica healed. Mike protected. And in each other, they found solace—laughter in the dark, comfort in the pain, love amid the ruins.

  Then came the king.

  A small contingent arrived one dusky morning, carrying a wounded man cloaked in royal garb. Veronica tended to him without question, her hands guided by instinct, not titles. But the man’s aura was immense—bright, fiery, commanding.

  He was Viktor Viktus, the King of Aerothane. His kingdom had fallen. Only a few forts remained—tiny flickers of light standing between the world and oblivion.

  When he recovered, he brought news.

  The High Wizard Gondel had a plan. A final ritual. One that required the strongest of the Source-bound: the remaining High Wizards, High Priestesses, and High Sorceresses. They were to gather at Mount Pagal and cast a powerful spell to sever the connection to the Source.

  It's a desperate gambit.

  Mysma volunteered immediately and departed. But when Veronica learned the truth—that this spell would likely kill those who cast it and sever all Source magic forever—she hesitated.

  Her choice was evident in her heart.

  She stayed.

  Not because she feared death. But because she feared losing Mike. Again.

  Instead, she began crafting a different spell. Something ancient. Something dangerous. She called upon the Shadow Realm, twisting its veil around the fort like a shroud. Her intention was pure: to protect what remained from the coming severance.

  The spell worked.

  Too well.

  The fort became invisible to the outside world, untouched by the Source’s disconnect. But the barrier between realms had been torn.

  Creatures of shadow flooded in.

  Mike died defending the king and the civilians. He fought until his last breath, buying enough time for others to escape. The rest were captured and pulled into the shadow beyond.

  And Veronica—

  Veronica remained.

  The Shadow Realm claimed her. The spell she cast bound her soul to its depths. Now, if she were ever to leave, her body would perish.

  She learned, over time, that Gondel’s ritual had succeeded. The Source was sealed. The Demon King locked deep within the Shadow Realm. His armies shattered.

  But the price had been unimaginable.

  And Veronica had made her choice.

  Now, she wanders the dark—a phantom of light within a world of shadow.

  Forever paying the cost for the ones she loved.

  Asil and Abby awoke with a violent gasp, the weight of the shared vision still clinging to their minds like a second skin. The ruined colosseum returned into focus—its towering cracked walls, its scattered rubble—and the crushing silence.

  But something was wrong.

  Asil’s breath caught. Abby was no longer beside her. Instead, two towering figures loomed above the teen—monstrous beings with ashen-gray skin and glowing runes carved into their flesh. Their eyes were hollow pits of shadow, and long, cruel noses dominated their faces. Seven feet tall, sinewy, and brutal, they had subdued Abby with ease while she still reeled from the vision and the grief of what she’d just witnessed.

  “No!” Asil shouted, instinctively reaching for her sword.

  Her hand met air.

  Before she could react, she felt the iron grip of massive hands seize her from behind. Another creature had her. She twisted, kicked, and struggled, but her strength was nothing compared to theirs. Her body was bound before she could blink, her limbs secured with cold, heavy chains that burned against her skin.

  “Abby!” she cried out, watching her friend slump limply in the creatures’ grasp. The girl’s eyes were wide and empty, her lips trembling with silent shock. The knowledge of her brother’s fate had crushed something inside her.

  Asil scanned the arena, panic rising. “Lucia!”

  Moments later, the wolf appeared, dragged by three more creatures. Her fur bristled with fury, and her jaws snapped at the chains holding her back. The growls coming from her throat were more beast than companion—feral, vengeful, desperate.

  And then, Asil saw her.

  The sorceress was standing at the edge of the field, wrapped in the same ominous shadows they’d just traveled through.

  Veronica.

  No longer whispering, no longer veiled in riddles, she stood still—expression unreadable. Her crimson hair billowed in a wind that didn’t touch anyone else, her eyes glowing faintly with power.

  “You lied to us!” Asil screamed, struggling against the iron that held her. “You showed us that—that—to break us!”

  Abby moaned softly, eyes brimming but unfocused.

  Veronica’s gaze flicked between them. There was something human in her face for the first time—regret.

  “I am sorry,” she said quietly. Her voice echoed unnaturally across the ruined Colosseum.

  Asil’s eyes narrowed, fury burning hotter than her fear. “You don’t get to be sorry!”

  Veronica said nothing more.

  The creatures dragged the two women and the chained wolf toward the far end of the arena, where a black gate shimmered like oil in water. As they passed beneath its arch, the world seemed to tighten—light dimmed, sound warped, and the air tasted of ash.

  Bound. Stripped. Betrayed.

  The gate swallowed them whole.

  And behind them, Veronica stood alone—haunted by her past and by the choice she had just made.