"You're late."
The words rolled through the cavern like a slow wave, the robed shaman's voice heavy with contempt. The green fire crackled higher, throwing monstrous shadows across the walls.
Eliakim's chains stirred at his wrist. The sigils on his bracelet blazed white-hot—then something deep within it shifted. The first shadow he had ever captured in the Guild Hall, the one that had resisted every attempt to break it, snapped free of its bindings.
"No—" Eliakim staggered as the chain links jerked violently toward the ritual circle, the trapped shadow tearing itself out in a plume of black smoke. It spiraled through the air and slammed into the shaman's chest.
The reaction was instant.
The robed figure's body arched, the green fire around him roaring into a column. Shadows across the cavern floor rippled like water in a storm. From every tunnel, fissure, and crack, the creatures they had fought for hours surged inward—only to dissolve into black streams that coiled into the shaman's outstretched hands.
Above, far away yet close in their minds, Skyling's voice pressed into Eliakim's thoughts. The shadows… they're leaving.
On the surface, the battlefield shifted. The Guild adventurers, bloodied and gasping, saw the shadow tide recede, giving them a sudden and much-needed reprieve. The oppressive weight in the streets lifted, replaced by an uneasy quiet.
Skyling hovered over the central square, her wings catching the last embers of the retreating fight. Eliakim felt the change before he saw it—heat, light, and a gathering of power that wasn't his.
When she landed, flames burst from her feathers, not in wild surges but in controlled, radiant arcs. Her form shimmered, feathers lengthening into sleek, ember-edged plumes. Gold bled into her crimson and orange, her tail fanning out into streaming ribbons of fire. She was still Skyling, but now she bore the grace and majesty of a phoenix.
Her mental voice was calmer, clearer than ever. I am ready.
Below, the shaman finished his gathering. His robe hung loose around a body now threaded with veins of black fire, his mask gleaming with unnatural light. The smoke that had formed beasts now shaped itself into a living armor of claws, horns, and snarling faces across his frame.
"Do you see, little hunters?" His voice carried like a tide against stone. "This city breathes because I allow it to."
Eliakim's chains lashed forward, sparking against the shaman's armored shadows. Gideon roared, surging in with his 10% lycan strength, striking with both axes in a flurry meant to break bones and shred flesh. Ezra unleashed a storm of magic—wild arcs of lightning and molten shards—but the shaman's dark shield devoured the blows.
Nathaniel's rose-stem whip struck again and again, the thorned coils wrapping around one of the shaman's arms and tearing through the shadow plating beneath. The shaman staggered—but only to grab the whip with his free hand, shadow thorns sprouting and trying to crawl up toward Nathaniel's wrist.
The cavern became a vortex of violence.
Skyling dove into the tunnels, fire spilling in concentrated lances. Her flames didn't burn the stone—they burned the magic itself, ripping chunks of the shaman's armor away in searing bursts. The group fought in a relentless rhythm, each strike coordinated without words, minds linked by survival and purpose.
But the shaman did not break.
With a single stomp, he sent a pulse through the floor that cracked the cavern in all directions, throwing them apart. Gideon slammed into a wall hard enough to leave a crater. Ezra's barrier shattered under a rain of shadow spears. Nathaniel rolled, blood on his cheek, whip drawn tight around his forearm to keep from losing it.
Eliakim's chains recoiled, scorched from contact with the shaman's core magic. His breathing came ragged. We can't hold him… not yet.
Skyling's fire dimmed just slightly, a sign that even her newfound strength had limits.
The shaman spread his arms wide, the four green-flame altars surging higher. The air thickened, pulling at their bodies as if trying to drag their very souls toward the circle.
"Greyspire's heart will beat for me alone," he intoned, his voice swelling to fill the cavern.
Eliakim pushed himself up, blood running down his jaw, chains poised for another strike. Gideon growled, axes ready. Ezra raised her staff, her magic flaring despite the tremor in her hands. Nathaniel's whip uncoiled, the thorns gleaming. Skyling's eyes burned gold.
They were not beaten yet—but the weight of the shaman's magic pressed down like the promise of a collapsing sky.
And then the ground beneath them began to fall away.