The ninth-level warrior gritted his teeth, adjusting his grip on his axe. "Your arrogance knows no bounds, demons. You might pretend otherwise, but the World barrier still affects you. I can see it in your movements, your suppressed power. Even with a hero and an apostle on your side, you’re nothing but a grindstone for me to amuse myself with."

It was? Fyren appeared different from how I’d ever seen him, but I hadn’t noticed anything off in the few seconds before we split at the Cathedral. I studied him, my lips pursing as I found a slight irregularity in his aura. It flared constantly around him, a veil of white flames that held no heat. Almost, and perhaps it was just a coincidence, but it reminded me of the aura of the Ice Spirit in Enusia. Power leaked from his soul, burning off like eroding sand in a windstorm.

The realization placed a pit in my stomach. They were holding their own against him, but that wouldn’t last. There was no way Fyren could sustain that kind of loss for long.

The warrior swung his axe, positioning himself such that Fyren had to block it head-on. The blow sent the demon flying. He passed right through me, and I shifted back, chasing after him.

Fyren slammed through the outer wall, bringing down beneath the feet of a small team of Fatesworn. They reacted instantly, controlling their descent through the rockslide of rubble. One, a warrior with a broadsword and buckler, slid along a length of stonework, swinging with a low shout. he released a wave of mana that sliced a boulder right before it hit the ground. As the two halves exploded, the shower of dust parted to reveal Fyren struggling to one knee, a long cut across his chest.

"Are you alright, Milord?" the soldier asked, offering him a hand.

Fyren looked at it, and his lip curled around an oversized fang. Even kneeling, he was still taller than the soldier, but he took it, and the soldier hovered a foot or two in the air, using an extremely clumsy version of a flying art to help him up. The other members of the team surrounded them, fighting off a squad of church soldiers that tried to push through the breach and flank the rest of the Fatesworn.

"My thanks," Fyren said, touching his chest. Blood ran down his claw, and he frowned. "Damn it, some sort of anti-regeneration art." He looked down at the soldier. "What’s the situation?"

"We’ve managed to draw most of their army here on Commander Bethiv’s orders, and our scouts confirmed our task force made it inside. Any news of the Lady?"

He shook his head, his tail lashing. "Nothing. This damnable barrier is cutting off her mark. I can’t feel a thing."

"Fyren," I whispered, floating up to him, level with his eyes. I reached out, tentatively touching my cheek. As my finger brushed his molten scale, a shock of cold ran through me. I shivered violently, my hand darting back. That wasn’t supposed to happen. I was just a soul form drifting between the fabric of fate. How could there be any sort of...reaction with the real world?

I looked back at Fyren, only to find him frozen in place, his tail still. A shiver ran down my back. Surely, he hadn’t...

Again, I touched him, and my soul ignited. Fyren’s gaze snapped toward me.

It wasn’t possible. He shouldn’t be able to even see my soul, not like Connor or the God of Magic had. Even Verity’s soul form could touch mine. How could anything? I was outside of fate!

Our souls resonated, the Primordial Mark activating. It formed a conduit that seethed with unfamiliar power. I screamed and tried to jerk away, but it was too late. A bridge formed, and everything in my mind poured through it, drawn like water over the edge of a waterfall. Fighting through the fort, the second shard, and ultimately, the searing lance of light. In return, my mind filled with...darkness. Not the blackness of the night sky, or the despair of utter hopelessness, but...nothing. A void so deep that just looking into it hollowed my heart and soul, a cold so bitter that I yearned for the comforting chill of winter.

It was too much, a single heartbeat stretched out forever. Beyond forever.

Somehow, mustering all my will, I ripped my hand away. I drifted away from him, clutching my hand to my chest, curled up around it. Violent shivers wracked me uncontrollably. I couldn’t think of anything past that yawning darkness. A night without hope, happiness, warmth. A night without stars.

Never had I felt such hopelessness, such despair. I wanted to cry, but tears didn’t belong here. Nothing that belonged, belonged here.

Fate disintegrated. Fyren broke apart, followed by the soldiers, the rubble, and then the world. I screamed as pain reentered my existence, and my body grew heavy again, taking on substance. It grew worse as the magma caverns appeared again, blurred by tears and the pale starbursts seared into my pupils.

And yet, I embraced the pain, breathing in the scent of my own blood and scorched flesh. Sensations so powerful and overwhelming that they managed to fill some of the hollowness. I grasped at my chest, clutching the gold ring in both hands. The last one I hadn’t been able to find.

"Luke..." I sobbed.

"You’re still conscious?" Lusha asked, bending over me curiously. "That’s...interesting. That means you actually have a chance. But I’m afraid I got ahead of myself before. I can’t take you to the Throne, not without leaving the shard unprotected. You really shouldn’t have hurt Zenith so badly. He’ll never recover in time to take over."

I squeezed my eyes shut, shutting out her rambling. All ninth-level mages were the same. It was so annoying. Did any of them take anything seriously?

The cavern shook again, this time more violently than before. Chunks of obsidian rained from the ceiling, splashing into rivers of molten magma. Lusha paused, glancing up, and her brow furrowed.

Gritting my teeth, I focused against the pain, which had begun to lose its comfort. I drew my mana into my soul, compressing it over and over, but refusing to let any of it leak. She would notice if I tried to cast a spell, even soulcast. But I only needed a thread.

I called my aura to me, willing the flickering stars closer, smothering me in a thin veil. The pain was growing unbearable, radiating from my side as the sunpurge slowly consumed more of my flesh. I could feel it upon the fringes of my soul.

"Please," I whispered, finally letting the mana out, directing it into the ring clutched to my bosom. "Luke, save me."

I waited for a shaky breath as the trail of mana faded, but the ring remained quiet. My heart sank, and I lowered my head, whimpering as the sunpurge touched my ribs. Every beat of my heart burned.

"Farewell, Oracle. I wish you better luck in your next life," Lusha said.

She raised her wand, and several magic circles appeared. A simple third-level spell that wouldn’t even manage to pierce an Aegis. How humiliating.

The surge of mana caused me to stiffen, my breath catching in my throat. That aura...it took me a second to realize it wasn’t coming from her spell, but my ring. Evidently, Lusha was just as caught off-guard, because she lowered her wand, staring down in confusion. Her spell flickered and died, forgotten as my ring rose out of my trembling fingers, it floated until it tugged at my neck, a few inches over my chest. Its golden luster darkened as shadows erupted from the runes, twisting out in a maelstrom of dark magic. Lusha cursed and jumped back, readying a ward, but the tendrils wove together, forming a magic circle in the air. It flashed as it resolved, and when the darkness receded, Luke stood in its place.

He was panting and covered in countless small cuts that streaked his flesh with blood.

"Luke..." I gasped, letting out a sob.

My voice was too faint for him to hear, and my body crumpled on the ground behind him. He looked around in confusion, and his eyes quickly focused on Lusha.

"Where is Xiviyah?" he asked, advancing a step, uncaring for her ninth-level aura.

"Apostle." Lusha’s eyes narrowed. She waved her wand, firing a seventh-level Sunbeam at him, but Luke swung his sword, deflecting it into the wall.

"I won’t ask again. What did you do with her?" he demanded, advancing toward her.

Lusha clenched her jaw, deepening her wrinkles. She offered several more spells as a response, but Luke was too close, too quick. He wove between the incoming magic, narrowing the distance between them with a speed my weary eyes couldn’t follow. Before she could raise her wand again, his sword crashed against her wards. They flickered, a single hairline crack spiderwebbing across their surface.

"Weak," Luke spat, slashing three more times. The cracks widened, shockwaves rippling across the room. I winced as they shook me, but Adaptive Resistance was fully functioning again, having required only a few seconds’ reprieve to diffuse the excess mana in its channels.

Lusha retreated, but even at a ninth level, her physique was nothing compared to Luke’s. She tried casting more spells, but he barely had to dodge them, easily circling her while attacking her wards. Her efforts grew more and more desperate as one shattered, and then another.

"Damn it," she hissed, diverting her mana from attacks to the defense. "How could you come here? This place was warded against spatial magic! You’ll regret forcing me this far!"

She shoved her hand in her robe, withdrawing a dagger with a ruby gem in the pommel. Luke flicked it away with his blade, but as it struck the ground, it released an enormous amount of mana, causing the cavern to shudder.

"Serve me, Slave of the Blood Pact. Slay this demonkin filth!"