Chapter 67: Unstable Grounds

  The chamber felt hollow without it. Its departure left a strange stillness in the air, a lingering pulse of something vast and shifting. But it wasn’t just its absence that unsettled them. It was the unknown of what it was becoming.

  Thorne stood with his arms crossed, gaze fixed on the entrance where it had vanished. His usual easy demeanor was absent.

  “That wasn’t just a walk,” he muttered.

  Aelith leaned against the stone wall, arms folded. “No,” she agreed. “It wasn’t.”

  Caelum, standing rigidly beside them, exhaled through his nose. “It needed something. Something it couldn’t get here.”

  Silence.

  They all knew what it was. Magic. A dense reserve of it. The kind that didn’t exist on the surface.

  “It’s pushing itself,” Thorne said, shaking his head. “It’s like it’s… expanding.”

  Aelith narrowed her eyes. “And what does that mean?”

  Thorne hesitated. He wasn’t sure.

  A wet, grating sound filled the chamber.

  Frid.

  Hunched over, shaking, his fingers dug into the raw, exposed flesh of his face. Blood seeped freely, dripping onto the stone below. His nails—what was left of them—scraped against torn skin, peeling, clawing, desperate.

  “No, no, no,” he whispered. His breath came in sharp, uneven bursts. “It left. Agatha, you saw, didn’t you?”

  His bloodied fingers twitched, his eyes darting to something—someone—that wasn’t there.

  “I told it… we had to stay together. We had to stay.” His voice cracked into a jagged laugh. “But it left. Just like they always do.”

  His nails dug deeper. More blood.

  “Frid,” Aelith said sharply.

  No response.

  His breathing hitched. His muttering turned to a frantic, fevered mess.

  “Frid.” Aelith’s voice came again, firm, but not unkind.

  Still nothing.

  Caelum took a half-step forward, looking ready to intervene, but Thorne stopped him with a glance.

  “Don’t.”

  Caelum scowled. “He’s tearing himself apart.”

  “He’ll do worse if you force him out of it.”

  The tension between them was thick, but before anything more could be said—

  A presence slammed into the chamber.

  The air shifted.

  Heavy boots on stone.

  A pulse of magic.

  Antru.

  The High Grandmaster Mage stood at the entrance, breath uneven, shoulders rising and falling as though he had moved faster than he should have. His robes, woven with intricate embroidery, were slightly disheveled. His old, bark-like skin cracked at the edges as he frowned, deep lines forming in the wooden texture of his face.

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  His gaze swept the room—sharp, searching.

  “What happened?”

  His voice was low, but it carried weight. It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.

  His eyes locked onto Aelith, Thorne, and Caelum.

  Not Frid.

  Not even a glance.

  “What was that?” Antru’s voice pressed into them. “I felt something unnatural. Where is it?”

  Aelith pushed off the wall. “It left.”

  Antru’s eyes narrowed. “Left? Where?”

  “The ocean,” Thorne answered.

  Antru’s expression darkened. “And you let it?”

  Aelith’s jaw clenched. “You think we could have stopped it?”

  Antru’s lips pressed into a thin line. Before he could speak again, frustration bled into the air.

  A dense, crushing wave of energy rolled from him.

  It was unintentional. Uncontrolled.

  But it was suffocating.

  The raw surge of a High Grandmaster Mage’s magic. Heavy. Ancient. A force so deep-rooted in his very being that it cracked through his skin like an overgrown tree splitting stone.

  The pressure hit like a wall.

  Aelith stiffened. Thorne’s fingers twitched at his sides. Caelum swallowed hard.

  Their bodies recognized the instinct to react—to prepare, to defend—but their minds knew better. This wasn’t an attack. It was Antru’s frustration manifesting in pure, undiluted force.

  Aelith was the first to recover, her voice cutting through the weight. “Control yourself.”

  Antru blinked. The pressure lessened.

  For a moment, the silence stretched, then he let out a slow breath, his wooden-like skin creaking with the movement.

  Caelum rolled his shoulders, exhaling sharply. “Shit.”

  Thorne shook out his hands, muttering under his breath. “Right. Forgot how that felt.”

  Antru ignored them, his expression unreadable. “This could change everything,” he said, quieter this time.

  Aelith crossed her arms. “That depends. What exactly do you think is changing?”

  Antru didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flickered to the chamber’s entrance—the last place it had stood before vanishing into the abyss.

  “We need to prepare,” he murmured.

  Thorne raised a brow. “For what?”

  Antru’s old, bark-like fingers curled into a loose fist.

  “For whatever happens when it comes back.”

  The weight of Antru’s words lingered in the chamber, settling into the cracks of uncertainty that had already taken root.

  Thorne exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, that’s comforting.”

  Aelith shot him a sidelong glance. “If you’re waiting for reassurance, you won’t get it from him.”

  Antru didn’t even acknowledge them. His gaze remained locked on the entrance, his wooden-like fingers flexing, deep in thought. There was a starkness in his presence now, something cold and analytical. He had always been like that—ruthless in knowledge, pragmatic in application. But this time, the unfamiliar element unnerved even him.

  Caelum’s fingers tapped absently against his thigh before he spoke. “Let’s be clear on one thing: whatever it is becoming, it started here. Right in front of us.” His voice was measured, but there was a sharpness beneath it. “And none of us understand it.”

  Aelith’s lips pressed into a thin line. She hated to admit it, but he was right. They had seen it shift, evolve, draw in something unseen. And now it was gone, out in the depths of the ocean, feeding on something beyond their comprehension.

  And when it returned?

  She exhaled slowly. “We need to think ahead.”

  Antru finally spoke, his voice low. “Thinking ahead is useless without knowledge.” His bark-like skin cracked slightly as he moved, eyes dark. “And right now, we have none.”

  Caelum narrowed his eyes. “Then what do you suggest?”

  Antru’s gaze flickered toward him. “That depends. How far are you willing to go for answers?”

  The way he said it made something in Caelum’s stomach tighten.

  Aelith caught the implication first. Her arms crossed. “If you’re talking about using the Archives, that’s a mistake.”

  Thorne’s head tilted. “Why?”

  She let out a quiet breath, keeping her voice level. “Because if it was meant to be recorded, we wouldn’t be standing here grasping at straws.”

  The weight of her words sank in.

  Magic had existed for countless generations, studied, mastered, cataloged. If there were no records of this—if even Antru, a High Grandmaster Mage, had no knowledge—then what did that mean?

  Antru’s expression darkened. “The Archives are still our best chance.”

  “And if they hold nothing?” Aelith pressed.

  “Then we dig deeper.”

  Silence.

  A sudden laugh broke the tension. Thorne smirked, arms behind his head. “You lot really know how to make things complicated.”

  Caelum shot him an unimpressed look. “You have a better idea?”

  “Actually, yeah.” He stretched, cracking his neck. “We stop treating this like a disaster waiting to happen and start thinking like it does.”

  Aelith’s eyes narrowed. “And how exactly do you know how it thinks?”

  Thorne grinned. “I don’t.” His smile faded slightly. “But I do know one thing—it doesn’t fear us.”

  The words settled between them like a stone dropped in still water.

  It didn’t fear them. Not once. Not even for a second.

  That was what unnerved them the most.