“You have such interesting futures ahead of you.”

As quickly as they had appeared, both sisters vanished back into the shadows, leaving behind only the dissipating remnants of the red mist and two unconscious heroes who had just become pawns in a game far more dangerous than the Dark Radin spirits they had come to hunt.

From his position on the opposite ridge, Taeryn could only watch in horror as his friends disappeared, carried away by forces he couldn’t fight and enemies he was only beginning to understand.

They didn’t see the sisters who took them, as the red mist covered the place where Baren and Rena had been.

–

Darian’s voice echoed across the rocky terrain as he called out desperately for the missing heroes.

“Raelana!” “Taeryn!” “Baren!”

But only the malevolent whispers of the Dark Radin spirits answered him, their forms sliding through shadows that seemed deeper than they should be in the fading afternoon light.

As he moved towards them, he found Taeryn and Raelana.

But he couldn’t see Baren and Rena.

“Where are the other two?”

“They’re gone,” he said grimly.

“I can’t find them anywhere. I searched for them, but they aren’t present in the place we saw them. There is red mist in the place where I saw them.”

“The Crimson Sleep,” Raelana breathed, her face pale with recognition.

“An alchemical compound used by slavers and worse. They’ll be unconscious for hours, completely vulnerable.”

Darian’s jaw clenched as he processed this information.

“Then we track them down and—”

A howl cut through the air—closer than before and answered by a dozen others from different directions. The Dark Radin spirits were regrouping, their pack-hunting instincts driving them to pursue the remaining prey.

“We can’t search for them with those things hunting us,” Taeryn said, his practical nature warring with his desire to rescue his friends.

“We need to survive first, then plan a rescue.”

Another chorus of howls, even closer this time.

The spirits were coordinating their approach, using their supernatural speed to surround their quarry.

“West,” Darian decided, his tactical mind calculating their best chance of escape.

“The terrain opens up that way—less cover for ambush, and we might find settlement or other soldiers to aid us.”

They ran through the twisted landscape, the Dark Radin spirits pursuing with relentless hunger. Each backward glance showed more of the creatures joining the chase, their six-legged forms moving with fluid grace across terrain that would have challenged mountain goats.

The pursuit continued for hours, driving them ever westward through increasingly unfamiliar territory.

By nightfall, they had left the corrupted woodlands behind, emerging into rolling plains that stretched toward distant mountains.

Only then did the spirits abandon their chase, perhaps unwilling to venture too far from their shadowed domain.

Exhausted and heartsick, the three survivors made camp in a shallow depression that provided some shelter from the wind.

But sleep came fitfully, haunted by images of their captured friends and the knowledge that with each passing hour, rescue became less likely.

***

Far to the west, where the empire’s borders dissolved into untamed wilderness, lay a region known as the Verdant Emera Reaches—a vast jungle that had remained largely untouched by the war’s devastation.

Hidden within this vast greenness was a settlement that existed outside the normal flow of imperial politics and conflict.

The Ki’thara Tribe had dwelt in these jungles for countless generations, their culture shaped by reverence for the natural world and the goddess who had once saved them from ancient evils.

At the heart of their village stood the Shrine of Aethyra—a structure that seemed to grow from the jungle floor itself, its rounded walls covered in living vines and luminous moss.

The shrine rose like a perfect sphere from the forest floor, its surface marked only by the broad stone steps that led to the main entrance.

These steps, worn smooth by centuries of pilgrimage, ascended to a great chamber where the statue of Aethyra stood in eternal vigil—a figure of serene beauty carved from white stone that seemed to glow with its own inner light.

But the tribe’s reverence for their goddess was based on incomplete knowledge.

Only the eldest among them remembered the true history—that beneath the shrine lay secrets far older and more dangerous than their simple faith suggested.

Deep underground, accessed through passages known only to the shrine’s keepers, lay a vault of ancient construction.

The chamber was perfectly square, its walls inscribed with symbols that predated the empire itself.

And there, suspended in the exact center of the room by forces that defied explanation, hung two artifacts that pulsed with barely contained power.

The first was a sword unlike any forged in the current age.

Its blade seemed to drink in light, creating a darkness so complete it hurt to look upon.

The metal—if metal it was—bore the workmanship of the Umbrathi, the Shadow Witches whose dark arts had once threatened to consume the world before their sudden disappearance.

Beside it hung a crown of similar construction, its twisted spires seeming to reach toward something beyond the physical realm.

Both artifacts thrummed with malevolent energy, waiting for hands capable of wielding the power they contained.

For generations, they had remained undisturbed, protected by the tribe’s reverence and the secrecy of the shrine’s keepers.

But that protection was about to be tested.

Through the jungle, moving with the kind of purposeful determination that brooked no obstacles, came a column of robed figures.

Their red skull insignia marked them as members of the Blaedred Skull Sect—fanatics who served powers that civilization had tried to forget.

The leader of the column raised his staff, its tip crowned with the same red skull that adorned their robes.

“The Instruments of Ending are here,” he announced to his followers.

“After so many centuries, we shall reclaim what our masters created.”

The Ki’thara warriors who emerged to challenge them were brave, skilled, and utterly unprepared for the forces they faced.

The battle that followed was less a fight than a massacre, though the tribesmen sold their lives dearly in defense of their sacred shrine.

As the sun set over the jungle canopy, the Blaedred Skull Sect stood victorious among the ruins of a civilization that had endured for millennia.

Soon, the ancient vault would be opened, and the weapons of the Umbrathi would taste blood once more.

***

Meanwhile, in a bustling city far to the southwest, two figures walked through streets that seemed untouched by the war’s devastation.

The woman stood nearly six feet tall, her athletic frame moving with predatory grace despite her simple, travel-worn clothes. Her dark hair hung loose around shoulders that spoke to years of physical conditioning, and her green eyes held depths that promised both beauty and violence in equal measure.

Odessa—though that was only one of many names she had worn over the centuries—moved through the crowd like a shark through smaller fish.

People instinctively moved aside without quite knowing why, some primitive part of their minds recognizing a predator that walked among them.

It was then that he appeared beside her, materializing from the crowd as if he had always been there.

The Lord Sin of Pride, Draelusa, cut a striking figure despite his human appearance—tall and elegant, with the kind of classical features that artists spent lifetimes trying to capture. His clothes were perfectly tailored, his golden hair styled with casual perfection, and his smile held the kind of confidence that came from millennia of getting exactly what he wanted.

“My dear Magdalyna,” he said, using her real, true name, “how refreshing to see you among the mortals again. Still playing at being human, I see.”

Odessa—Magdalyna—didn’t slow her pace and didn’t acknowledge his presence beyond a slight tightening of her jaw.

“I told you to stay away from me, Draelusa. My business is my own.”

“Ah, but your business has become so interesting lately,” the embodiment of Pride continued, his voice carrying the kind of smooth charm that had seduced emperors and toppled kingdoms.

“A young man with wings, ancient bloodlines, and powers that shouldn’t exist in this age. Surely you can understand my… curiosity.”

“Curiosity killed more than cats,” Magdalyna replied, her voice carrying undertones that made nearby mortals unconsciously quicken their pace.

“And I’m still angry about our last encounter. Push me now, and I’ll rip your head off and use it as a decoration.”

Draelusa’s laughter was like silver bells, beautiful and completely without warmth.

“Such delightful threats. But surely after all these centuries, we can discuss our mutual interests like civilized beings?”

Magdalyna stopped walking so suddenly that Draelusa took several steps before realizing she was no longer beside him.

When he turned back, her green eyes were blazing with an inner fire that made the air around her shimmer with heat.

“Let me be perfectly clear,” she said, her voice carrying across the street despite its low tone.

“I was frustrated and angry before you came. And right now, that anger is focused on you.”

The mortals around them began to flee without quite knowing why, some animal instinct recognizing that they were witnessing something far beyond their understanding.

Market stalls emptied, children were snatched up by terrified parents, and even the city’s ever-present beggars found urgent business elsewhere.

“What I do with the boy is my concern,” Magdalyna continued, her form beginning to blur at the edges as her true nature pushed against the mortal shell she wore.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep