The first strike never came.
For a moment an unbearable, breathless moment the three of them stood in the sanctuary's core, suspended in memory and horror. Auren, Kaelen, and the thing that wore Sareth's face.
The Vesperborn tilted its head.
The mask caught the ambient gold of the ley-heart, gleaming bone-white, untouched by age or flame. But the voice beneath was unmistakable.
"Still trembling, Kaelen?"
Kaelen froze.
The tone calm, smooth, laced with the same mock-affection that Sareth had used during sparring drills when they were boys curdled his stomach.
"That's not him," Auren said quietly. "It can't be."
The Vesperborn took one step forward. The warded floor didn't resist him it cracked. Not violently, but like something ancient recognizing something wrong. The glyphs flickered.
Kaelen drew his curved blade.
His stance shifted: right foot back, shoulders turned, blade low, elbow tucked. A duelist's opening a memory of the training halls deep in the old sanctum before it had turned to rot.
"Ready?" he murmured.
"Together," Auren said.
They moved.
Kaelen struck first fast, low, and fluid. He surged forward like a wave breaking stone, blade flashing upward toward the Vesperborn's ribs.
The creature didn't dodge. It stepped through the strike.
Kaelen's blade should have sliced cleanly. Instead, it passed through robes that bent without tearing. He felt resistance like pushing through smoke, or bloodied silk.
Then he was thrown. Not by a hand, but by force.
The Vesperborn hadn't moved its arm. But a ripple of heat slammed into Kaelen's chest, flinging him backwards into the sanctuary wall.
Stone cracked. Dust rained.
Auren didn't pause.
He rushed forward, arm raised, fingers burning with Wyrd-signs. He hadn't trained like Kaelen his power was not in blades, but binding.
He struck the air.
Sigils erupted mid-flight six-pointed chains of gold and white, spiraling toward the Vesperborn's limbs.
They snapped shut.
The Vesperborn froze.
For half a second, silence.
Then the sigils burned away.
Not shattered. Purged.
Auren's eyes widened. His lips moved.
"He's not resisting. He's… uncasting."
The Vesperborn stepped through the golden dust, robes dragging ash across the floor. It moved with no weight, no sound.
"You never listened, Auren," it said.
Then it raised its hand and sigils bloomed across the air. Not cast by voice or gesture, but etched into existence. Sanctum glyphs: twisted, weaponized, perverted forms of old Wyrd-script.
They formed a wheel, spinning slowly. With every turn, heat coiled tighter around the chamber.
Auren shouted, "Kaelen-!"
Too late.
The wheel struck.
A pulse of fire, white-hot, spread outward in a perfect ring.
Kaelen lunged forward, throwing a short dagger into the glyph just as it flared. The metal was devoured mid-air but it disrupted the sequence. The ring fractured.
Auren dove, dragging Kaelen to the floor. Fire licked overhead.
"He's toying with us," Kaelen spat.
The Vesperborn watched them impassively.
Then, he drew his weapon.
It wasn't a sword. Not exactly. It was a **shard **a length of sanctified crystal, jagged, glowing from within, its edge like obsidian dreaming of fire.
He didn't swing.
He pointed.
The crystal hummed.
Kaelen felt his heartbeat hitch. The blade wasn't sharp because of its edge. It was sharp because it cut through meaning. It sheared the Wyrd itself.
"Back me up," Kaelen muttered.
He surged left, blade low, spinning into a feint.
The Vesperborn's shard came down Kaelen dodged, sliding beneath the strike.
Auren raised both arms and shouted a binding word—this time old, older than the Wyrd itself. A rune that drained light instead of conjuring it.
Darkness fell for an instant.
And in that black they struck together.
Kaelen slashed from behind. Auren surged forward, palm glowing, and pressed it to the Vesperborn's chest.
For a moment just one they felt resistance. The glyphs on the Vesperborn's chest shivered.
Then
They were flung apart. Harder this time. Kaelen tasted blood.
The Vesperborn stood alone, robes untouched, crystal blade humming.
"Still weak," he whispered.
His mask turned toward Auren.
"You mourned me. I remember. You held my hand. You wept."
Auren trembled. "You're not Sareth."
"No."
The mask tilted.
"Sareth was kind."
Then the glyphs above the Vesperborn's shoulders ignited and began to multiply.
Kaelen rose, blood in his mouth.
"He's done playing."
Auren didn't answer.
Because behind the Vesperborn, the ley-heart had begun to crack.
And beneath their feet… the floor started to breathe.