The man introduced himself simply.
"Manglaan," he said with a courteous bow that felt too heavy for a casual greeting. "And this is Zellerick."
The name hit Zelaine like distant thunder—old war reports, legends whispered in the dark.
Zellerick, the old man beside him, didn't bow. Hands clasped behind his back, he stood like a relic of a forgotten age—armor worn but spotless, eyes sharp and unyielding.
Atiya's gaze sharpened, but there was no hesitation in his voice.
"Why help us?"
Manglaan's smile was small but genuine. "Because you made it to the heart of the mansion. That's no accident. Anyone who walks out alive deserves to be heard."
Zelaine stepped forward, cutting through the air like a blade.
"You didn't answer. Did you take part in the sacrifices?"
Zellerick's voice was low, heavy with history. "No. We helped tear down the family behind them. With Ivansia. Long ago."
Zelaine's thornvine threads twitched, restless.
Atiya's mind raced, but his stance was steady, almost daring.
They're stronger than her. Stronger than both of us—
Even at our best.
Even before the lair.
Zellerick's gaze locked onto Atiya, piercing. After a beat, he said quietly, "You have no Sigil."
Atiya hadn't thought about his Sigil in weeks. Not because he was hiding it—because he didn't need it. Not until now.
Atiya blinked, mouth opening, but no words came—not because he was caught off guard, but because he didn't care who knew.
How does he know?
Only a handful had ever noticed: his father, sister, Kael, Crept, Zelaine. Most scanners missed it.
Zelaine's threads flared faintly, voice low and sharp. "That's not something strangers should know."
Zellerick's smile was cold. "Sigils are loud if you know how to listen."
He turned to her. "Yours is distorted. Thornvine, right? It's fraying."
Zelaine's throat tightened. No denial.
Because she knew.
Since the lair, her threads had faltered—slower turns, spikes refusing to bloom. Even her power had stumbled in that nightmare.
But vulnerability? Not here. Not now.
She snapped, "None of your concern."
Zellerick nodded, as if she'd agreed.
Manglaan stepped forward. "There's another survivor. The boy outside."
Atiya's eyes flashed. "Elim?"
Zelaine spun sharply. "So I wasn't crazy. I saw him—fighting Nongban, for a second. Then I thought I was losing it."
Manglaan's nod was solemn. "He's alive. Barely. Found unconscious outside the mansion's outer wards. Unresponsive."
Atiya clenched his fists, voice low but fierce. "Is he... gonna make it?"
Zellerick cut in. "Stable. For now. But in a coma. No telling when—or if—he'll wake."
Zelaine's eyes narrowed. "And what? You expect us to just follow you?"
Manglaan's calm was unshakable. "I offer shelter. Nothing more. Until your friend wakes or you find another way home. Leave whenever you want."
Zellerick's gaze was unreadable. "I've studied Sigils most of my life. Yours intrigue me. His,"—he looked at Atiya—"confuses me. Maybe I can help."
Atiya grinned, a spark of challenge in his eyes. "You want to study me? Good luck. I'm not exactly a textbook case."
Zelaine crossed her arms, threads curling protectively. "We don't know you. Don't trust you. And we're done being 'studied.'"
Manglaan said nothing.
Zellerick's voice was steady. "Trust isn't needed. Just a roof. And time."
Silence stretched.
Then Zelaine's voice dropped, almost a whisper. "...I can't fix this alone. Not in time. Not before it gets worse."
Atiya glanced at her, then down at his hands—steady, unafraid.
No sigil. No path. No roadmap.
Just Yai.
Just fire.
They stood at the mouth of something ancient and monstrous—and barely escaped.
They needed more than survival.
They needed strength.
And this—whatever it was—might be the only way forward.
At least for now.
---
The sky outside rippled with faint auroras.
A cold front had rolled over Ellejort, and with it came silence — not natural silence, but the kind that followed something being torn out of the air.
Henriech sat alone in the command room of the lead ship.
The warships under his charge, sleek and black as obsidian knives, hovered quietly in staggered formation above the frozen terrain. No insignia. No national ties. Just matte hulls that devoured the light around them — predators waiting to descend.
The door slid open.
Carl entered, his coat damp from the snow, dark hair tied back neatly. His eyes were sharp, as always — too sharp for someone pretending to be calm.
Henriech didn't rise. "Already leaving?"
> "Private escort. I'll move ahead," Carl said, brushing off a trace of frost. "The Book must reach Lord Astradar before the others close in."
Henriech's gaze drifted, unmoving.
The room buzzed faintly with engine hum and low light.
> "You killed Markarov for it," he said. "You understand what that means?"
Carl said nothing.
> "That book wasn't just sealed," Henriech continued. "It was hidden. Markarov bled to keep it that way. And now it's bleeding back."
Carl's jaw tightened. "It's our responsibility to carry it forward. You've seen what's coming."
> "I've felt what's coming," Henriech muttered. "Responsibility is a fragile shield when you're being hunted by gods."
And then—
ALERT.
A pulse surged through the room.
Soft at first — then violent.
The lights flickered. Terminals rebooted. Systems screamed in silence.
> "Commander!" came a voice through the intercom. "Unidentified presence above our lead vessel. No propulsion. No energy trails. It just—appeared!"
Carl and Henriech moved to the screen.
What they saw turned their blood cold.
---
A mechanical orb, floating directly above the command ship.
It had no clear propulsion, no sound. Just a slow, graceful presence.
From its sides extended wings — luminous, feather-like, composed of refracted particles and alloy filaments. Not machine-made, not wholly divine. Somewhere in between.
Its surface gleamed faintly, pulsing with patterns too complex to decipher. Symbols. Codes.
And at the center — a single eye.
It rotated. Slowly. Watching.
And then, it spoke.
The voice wasn't transmitted through any speaker. It simply was.
> "Book of Voyages: Detected. Custodian Host: Unauthorized. Correction Initiated."
Carl stumbled a step back.
Henriech muttered under his breath.
> "The Eye of the Presence..."
Then the wings flared open.
Above the orb, a halo manifested — shimmering through hues of crimson and silver, gold and void-black. It hovered for a moment like a judge's gavel poised mid-air.
And dropped.
---
Detonation.
No sound.
Just a pressure.
And then light.
The ship beneath the orb didn't burn — it ceased.
Every system went dead. The vessel crumpled into itself, swallowed by a radiance that did not forgive.
No explosion. No debris.
Just absence.
And the Eye — still floating — turned slowly toward the next nearest ship.
---
The Eye moved again.
There was no urgency to its flight — just an eerie, divine precision. It glided toward the next ship in its path like a predator following scentless instinct.
Then: annihilation.
A burst of concentrated radiance, shaped like a beam but too silent for fire, too cold for plasma, lanced through the void. The vessel never had a chance. Its hull folded inward, light collapsed, and then — gone.
No flame. No explosion.
Just void.
And the Eye, unbothered, turned its gaze to the next.
Again.
Again.
One after another, the ships fell. Some tried to raise shields. Others fired futile bursts into space, hoping perhaps it would slow it, deter it, confuse it.
But the Eye was not a beast. Not a god. Not even a machine in the conventional sense. It was a presence — the Presence.
It made no mistakes.
It simply did not destroy the ship carrying the Book.
Its logic was clear, if cruel. If the Book of Voyages was its target, then destroying its container was not an option. All others, however—passengers, escorts, support units—were expendable. Or worse: irrelevant.
The surrounding escort ships — those sleek, matte vessels that had descended upon Ellejort with silent confidence — now lit up like dying stars, one after another, consumed in flashes of muted devastation. The void around the fleet became a graveyard of fading sparks.
Inside the last few ships that still hovered, panic had finally taken root.
---
Henriech stood in the core command chamber, watching the feed go black. Ship after ship vanished from the tactical display — not disabled, not compromised.
Erased.
The operator behind him stammered, voice choked.
> "S-Sir, the fourth wing is gone. Fifth too. We're… we're the last functional cluster outside the courier pod."
Carl said nothing. His fists were clenched, eyes fixed on the screen.
Basen, now pale, hissed through clenched teeth.
> "This thing isn't defending the Book. It's judging us. One by one."
Henriech muttered under his breath. "It spares the book's carrier only because it has to."
> "So what happens when it doesn't need us anymore?"
Nobody answered.
A low hum filled the room — not from within the ship, but from beyond.
Outside, in the dark sea of stars, the Eye hovered—wings folded back, its single iris dimming and refocusing.
It had not moved for thirty seconds.
And then, slowly, like a curtain being drawn open in silence, it turned.
Toward them.
Henriech's voice, suddenly sharp, cut through the silence.
> "We reroute all remaining energy to cloak and shields. Get that courier pod out of formation. I want the Book off this grid now."
The orb's halo flickered once, then twice—color cycling through gold, then red.
They only had seconds.
And they knew it.
---