The full light of the twin moons poured over Maarath, bright as false dawn. Reflected by the snow, it washed the fortress and fields in pale silver, announcing the first night of a new month. For the first time in twenty‑one years, true silence lay over Maarath's territory.
Inside the fortress, Ren lay unconscious on the cold stone of the great hall, surrounded by enemies. Men slumped against pillars and walls, bruised and bleeding, their armor dented by his fists. Orrin sat on the floor, chest heaving, staring at the little monster collapsed in front of him. The longer he looked, the clearer one thought became: they had to finish the boy now.
He pushed himself up, drew a dagger, and stepped over Ren. "Well fought, kid," he muttered, raising the blade.
The moment his hand moved, the entire fortress shuddered. Stone groaned. Dust fell from the ceiling. Orrin froze, then grabbed Ren by the collar and ran, his men stumbling after him in shock, up toward the wall. They reached the upper walkway first, peering out over the battlements.
"Boss… come look at this," one of them called.
Orrin tossed Ren to a nearby man, who caught the limp body and slung him over his shoulder. Then Orrin stepped to the parapet and saw it—a chimera horde, the largest he had ever witnessed, racing in a vast spiral around the fortress. More and more poured out of the forest, black shapes against white snow, encircling stone and steel like a tightening noose. For a heartbeat he wondered if this was the end.
His gaze slid back to Ren. A thought, ugly and desperate, crept in: throw the kid, run the other way.
"Bring that kid here," Orrin snapped.
They dragged Ren forward until he stood in the line of sight of the circling beasts.
Silence.
Orrin blinked. The roar of the horde vanished from his ears. He turned his head. Every chimera had stopped. The whole ring of monsters had frozen, facing the fortress, their heads lifted toward Ren. The men around him gaped, not yet understanding, but Orrin felt the wrongness in his bones—he was the only one who truly noticed the pattern.
Minutes crawled past. No one moved, on wall or snow. Every man on the battlements held his breath, bodies rigid, minds screaming not to draw attention. The only movement was at the edge of the forest.
There, far beyond the lesser beasts, Orrin saw it: a towering chimera, black as night, its eyes burning blue. It stood half‑veiled by trees, larger than any chimera he knew, simply watching. His fear spiked so clearly it felt like another presence inside his skull. But the behemoth did not charge. It did not howl. It just stood and stared.
Slowly, as if afraid to startle the world, Orrin lifted Ren off the man's shoulder and knelt, laying the boy carefully at his own feet.
The chimera ring broke into sound. A wave of howls rolled over the walls as they turned and began to withdraw, one after another, slipping back into the forest. Only the black giant lingered, eyes locked on Orrin. For a long moment, it watched him over Ren's body. Then it, too, faded into the trees.
Voices burst out at once behind him—"What was that?" "Why did they stop?" "Did they see something?"—a dozen frightened questions crashing together. Orrin didn't answer. He just stared down at Ren.
"Chain him in the vault," he said at last, voice flat. "Chain him down until we figure out what to do with him."
Orrin—now Lord Adrian to anyone who mattered—stood before the fireplace, watching flames chew through stacked logs. The glow painted the stone walls and picked out fresh lines at the corners of his eyes. The moons outside were the same as that night, but the hall felt smaller now.
"Lord Adrian, we searched the fortress and the village. He's nowhere to be found," Marcus said as he stepped into the room, helm under his arm.
"Cut the acting, Marcus. No one's watching," the lord replied without turning.
"Then we shouldn't be here either," Marcus shot back, dropping the stiffness from his voice. "Orrin, we should be escaping, or hunting them down before that kid spills everything. We can't just sit and wait." He set the helmet aside, tension written in the lines of his jaw.
Orrin didn't look away from the fire. "They'll come here," he said. "I still have unfinished business with someone."
The last word had barely left his mouth when a deep boom rolled through the stone. The floor trembled. Dust shook free from the ceiling. A heartbeat later, the danger horn wailed across the fortress.
"Go with the knights. I'll get ready," the lord said, shrugging off his coat and reaching for his gear.
Marcus snatched up his helmet again and rushed out, already shouting for men as the alarm continued to echo through Maarath.
The courtyard was choked with what was left of a sturdy gate—splintered planks and twisted iron scattered across the snow. Guards rushed in, trying to form ranks, spears leveled, with bowmen massing behind them. Every one of them shook as Bjorn charged straight at them, a hammer in his hands almost as tall as they were.
Arrows flew. Spears thrust forward in a jagged line.
Bjorn slid his grip to the center of the haft and swung the head in a tight arc, knocking the arrows aside in a clatter of wood and iron. Then he loosened his hold, letting the hammer's weight slide down, caught the end of the handle, and turned his whole body in a single spinning swing. A dozen spearheads snapped like dry twigs.
He jumped, brought the hammer up, and as he fell he flooded it with Akrion, compressing the energy into the face of the weapon. The impact when it struck the ground shook the entire courtyard. Stone cracked, a crater bloomed under his feet, and the shockwave blasted the guards off theirs. Men flew back, armor ringing, bodies thrown clear.
Ren could only stare, following Shin toward the underfort door with the wide‑eyed awe of a student watching a master at work.
Peter snapped his hand through the air and pulled a coil of rope out of nothing, as if he kept a world of objects waiting just beyond sight. He tossed it to Bjorn. More footsteps thundered—knights came pouring down the inner stairs, Marcus at their head.
"Stop right there!" Marcus shouted.
Bjorn ignored him, looping the rope around unconscious guards, knotting them by twos and threes and dragging them across the courtyard toward the outer edge, clearing the ground for whatever was coming next.
"I said stop!" Marcus roared.
Lili, Peter, and Jonathan stepped into the ruined gate's shadow and into the courtyard proper. Marcus planted himself in front of them, five knights forming a line at his back.
"Well, I'm going to enjoy beating the shit out of you," Marcus said, pointing his sword at Peter.
Peter didn't flinch. He just stared back, unreadable. Jonathan poked his arm while lifting his stringless bow.
Peter, as usual, swept his hand through empty air and pulled a quiver of arrows into existence. Jonathan touched his index finger, pinched a glowing thread of light from it, and set it across the bow as a string. He slung the quiver over his shoulder and nodded once. "Ready."
Peter turned to Lili. "Your turn."
"Enough of this play!" Marcus bellowed, charging with his men.
Lili stepped forward, raised both arms, and unleashed a sea of flame. Fire roared out, washing over the charging line. The knights skidded to a halt and raised their shields, Marcus yelling, "Akrion cover!" as red energy wrapped their armor. They locked in place, bracing against the inferno.
Jonathan loosed five arrows in quick succession. Each bolt of light‑tipped wood slammed into a shield, punching clean through all but Marcus's. He felt the difference and glanced at his own shield, teeth clenched.
The flames died away. The shields glowed red‑hot, each one pierced by an arrow shaft, except the one in front of Marcus.
Jonathan lifted his shooting hand and spread his fingers. Threads of light unspooled from his fingertips, each one attached to an arrow buried in a shield. For a heartbeat, everything was still—then the lines snapped taut and reeled backward. The shields tore free, ripped from the knights' grips and dragged toward Jonathan.
His arm had not moved. The threads were pulling on their own, spinning back into the edges of his fingers like invisible wheels.
In a blink, the knights were left bare‑chested behind their armor, Akrion still flickering around them but no steel between them and what was coming. Marcus stared, confused and suddenly wary, clinging to his own shield and sword.
Shin and Ren ran through the underfort, boots hammering stone, neither wasting breath on words. The air grew colder as they climbed the last stairs. They emerged into the great hall and found the lord already waiting, seated on his chair above the steps like a king on a smaller throne, looking down at them with an easy smile.
"You came of your own accord," he said.
Shin stepped forward. "I, Shin of the Southern Wind, on behalf of the Duke, order you to surrender for the act of Desecration—a crime against humanity. You will be executed for it."
The lord laughed. "Against humanity? I did what I had to do to survive."
His gaze slid to Ren, who stared back without recognition. "I see you don't recognize me," he said, chuckling. "Of course you don't."
"Enough," Shin said sharply. "Drop the illusions."
Ren blinked, confusion flickering across his face. This was all new to him—Akrion, Aspects, illusions. None of it fit anything he understood.
"All right, all right." The lord raised a hand in front of his face and flicked it upward.
Lord Adrian's features peeled away like smoke. Underneath was Orrin. Ren watched it happen, eyes wide—the face he remembered, the smile he hated, sliding into view where another had been. Logic cracked. Rage rushed in.
"You…" His voice shook. He took a step to charge.
Shin's arm shot out, blocking his chest without looking up. Shin's head dipped, eyes narrowing. "I said enough, Lucius." He lifted his gaze.
Orrin's eyes widened. The laughter died on his lips. He dropped his chin into one hand, then slid it up over his face again. When it passed, it was yet another visage—long hair, burned scars across the forehead and jaw, a stranger that somehow wasn't.
"When did you know?" he asked quietly.
"The moment we first met," Shin replied. "Your illusions are perfect. Your imitation of their habits is perfect. But feelings, emotions? No."
"I'm pretty sure they were convincing," Lucius said.
"For someone who's never felt those emotions, I don't think so," Shin answered.
"You always say that," Lucius sighed. "It makes me even angrier." A thin smile tugged at his lips.
Shin's temper flared. "But to commit Desecration on women and children—that, I will not tolerate."
Lucius laughed. "What did you think, that I starved alone? You're unbearably naïve. Why don't you ask your confused little friend there how it tasted?" He nodded toward Ren.
Shin's eyes flicked to Ren, shocked.
"What do you think those supplies were?" Lucius went on, drawing a dagger. He ran his hand along the blade. The metal blurred, shifted, and became a red‑skinned apple in his palm. "Convincing, isn't it?"
Ren stared at the fruit. Memory snapped into place—the faint copper smell he ignored, the meat that never quite smelled like any animal he knew. His stomach lurched. He dropped to his knees and vomited. The mess splashed over his hands… and turned, in a blink, into blood.
"Ren, are you okay?" Shin asked, stepping toward him.
"It's not my blood," Ren said through his teeth. "It's his doing."
"I know. But are you all right?" Shin pressed.
"Yes." Ren forced himself to breathe. "I didn't eat any of it. That's why I'm this weak now."
Shin grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet.
They turned—and the great hall had changed. Wooden carts stood in rows, overflowing with human remains: limbs, torsos, severed heads, blood spilling over the sides, pooling and running in dark streams across the floor. Ren looked down. Blood lapped at his boots.
He stepped back, terror creeping up his spine.
Lucius walked forward. "What's wrong, Ren? Didn't you spend the whole winter dragging these carts? And you say you didn't eat any of it? Why don't you have a taste?" He snatched a child's severed arm from a cart and tossed it. It struck Ren's head and tumbled at his feet. Ren stared at it, frozen.
Lucius was suddenly beside him.
Ren swung on instinct, putting everything he had into the punch. Lucius caught his fist on his forearm and closed his fingers around it, grinning, leaning in to taunt him.
Blood began to rise from the cracks in the stone, seeping upward rather than down. It climbed past Ren's ankles, to his knees, thick and warm. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, echoing through his skull. Lucius's voice crawled through the noise.
"You're weak. Why didn't you save them? Coward. You watched. You did nothing."
The accusation snapped, sharp—and then pain exploded along Ren's jaw as Shin's fist cracked into his face.
The illusion shattered.
Ren blinked. His own fist was stopped against Shin's scabbard, the jade‑green handle of the sheathed sword jammed under his knuckles. Shin's hand clamped around his wrist. At Ren's feet lay not an arm, but a tipped‑over drinking mug, ale slowly leaking out across the stone.
Ren realized he swung at Shin, not Lucius. He staggered back as Shin released his hand.
Lucius watched from the steps, smiling.