Aldric crossed his arms, jaw tight.
"We should just kill them and get it over with," he said coldly. "They're a waste of time."
The two cultists did not react. They remained standing. Waiting.
Draven did not answer Aldric. Instead—he lifted one finger slightly.
"You."
The taller cultist moved instantly. No hesitation. No glance at his companion. He stepped forward quickly, then dropped to one knee before Draven, bowing his head.
"My lord."
Draven looked down at him. His expression was calm. Too calm.
"You both understand the ritual," Draven said. "The summoning."
"Yes," the cultist answered without pause. "We studied the circle design, the anchor inscriptions, the sacrifice thresholds—"
"Can you perform it?" Draven asked.
A slight pause. A faint flicker of tension passed through the kneeling man's aura.
"My lord… in our current state… that is impossible."
The air seemed to thin.
"Explain."
"We lack the necessary offerings. The correct spatial breach point has already sealed. To summon another named entity would require—"
Draven moved.
There was no visible buildup. No flare of mana. No warning.
His hand shot forward. Fingers closed around the cultist's skull.
And in a single, violent motion—he twisted.
A wet crack split the air. Bone snapped. Flesh tore. The head separated from the body in one brutal strike.
Blood erupted outward in a hot spray, splattering across Draven's arm, across the fractured stone beneath them.
The headless body remained kneeling for half a second—then collapsed forward heavily.
Silence. Absolute silence.
Elenya made a small, confused sound.
Vaelith's grip on the children tightened slightly—but she did not speak.
Aldric's eyes widened faintly. Even he had not expected that.
Draven stood there, holding the severed head by the hair. Blood dripped steadily from the torn spine.
His crimson eyes shifted slowly toward the remaining cultist.
"You were saying," Draven said calmly.
The second cultist trembled—but did not flee.
Instead—he moved. Fast. Too fast for a kneeling man who had just watched his companion be torn apart.
He lunged forward—robe flaring, mana rising sharply around him.
Aldric's eyes flickered as he simply watched.
Lyriana shifted her stance. Vaelith turned slightly, shielding the children.
Draven did not move. He didn't even blink. His crimson eyes remained steady.
Inside, he measured.
Third circle. Unstable breathing. Mana channels. Reckless. Predictable.
His finger lifted slightly. Just slightly. A minute shift of intent—enough to end it.
The cultist closed the distance in seconds—then—dropped. Fully. Flat to the ground at Draven's feet. Forehead pressed into blood-soaked stone.
"My lord!"
The sudden halt sent a faint ripple through the air.
Aldric paused mid-step. "…What?"
The cultist's voice shook—but not with panic. With desperation.
"Forgive the offense! I dared approach only to demonstrate submission!"
Draven's raised finger remained suspended for a moment longer. Then lowered. He looked down at the prostrated figure.
Aldric's eyes narrowed as he watched, disbelief and exasperation twisting his features.
"I thought he was going to risk it all," Aldric muttered, voice low, "to avenge his fellow cultist… even at the cost of his own life. But they're all bastards."
The remaining cultist lifted his head slightly, voice steady despite the blood and ruin around them.
"Why would I do something that stupid?" he asked. "We don't even know each other. If I had been killed… it would have been because the Lord wished it."
Aldric let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "There it is—that damn fanaticism. That obsession they call devotion."
Draven spat blood onto the fractured stone beneath him, crimson droplets mixing with the dust and shards of the battlefield. He wiped his mouth, then straightened slightly, the weight of his presence pressing down on everyone.
"Enough with the bullshit," he said, voice cold and final. "I am not looking for a damn savant. I already have three of them. If you cannot summon the thing… then you are of no use to me."
The air seemed to still around his words, heavy with authority, as the remaining cultist's body stiffened, the finality of Draven's judgment pressing down like stone.
Aldric's jaw tightened, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Brat… who the hell is your savant?" he muttered under his breath, incredulous.
The cultist's voice was calm, almost reverent, as he replied, "I'm not useless, my lord. I'm… useful. I can help you acquire another."
Aldric blinked sharply. "Acquire another? What do you mean?"
The cultist hesitated just a moment, then continued, "I cannot summon one myself…
But—"
The cultist lowered his head further, voice steady despite the tension around him.
"I can lead you, my lord… to where our other mages reside," he said carefully. "With their aid, we could summon another—an even greater entity. All… as long as you wish it, of course."
Draven's crimson gaze did not waver. His expression remained cold, unreadable.
"And where is that?" he asked softly, voice carrying easily across the shattered clearing.
Aldric snorted under his breath, muttering to himself, "He's not really going to listen to this bastard, is he?"
Draven didn't even glance at him. His attention was fixed solely on the kneeling cultist.
The cultist straightened slightly, swallowing once before answering.
"They are located in **Dresvalle**, my lord… in the kingdom of **Eryndor**."
The name hung in the air.
Draven's eyes flickered briefly at the mention, but his voice remained measured. "Dresvalle… Eryndor. Alright."
Aldric's teeth ground together. "…You're actually going to go with this?" he muttered, disbelief lacing every word.
Draven said nothing. He simply folded his hands behind his back, gaze fixed ahead, already calculating, already planning.
The cultist remained kneeling, knowing that in the silence that followed, his words had been weighed—and that the lord's decision was inevitable.