The shaman's claws scraped against Eliakim's chains, sparks flashing in the darkness as their strength collided. His voice was no longer words—it was the growl of an animal and the whisper of something ancient and cold, layered together like two voices trying to occupy the same skull.
Gideon's dual blades moved faster than breath, slicing and parrying in a storm of steel. His katana rang out in a long, sweeping cut that split a guardian's knee; his shorter blade was a flicker of silver lightning, stabbing deep into the soft core beneath.
Skyling's firestorm boiled the air, her phoenix-like form darting through the cavern with blinding speed. Her wings spread wide, each beat sending shockwaves of heat that blistered the shadows clinging to the walls.
Ezra forced her mana to obey, hands trembling as she channeled a concentrated beam of violet energy that cut straight through one of the shaman's summoned beasts. Nathaniel's rose-stem whip lashed out, the thorned coils wrapping around another guardian's throat, sawing through the shadow-matter until the creature dissolved into mist.
Still, the shaman grew stronger—each second drawing more of the shadows from Greyspire into himself. His body stretched taller, hunched muscles swelling beneath torn robes, and those horns of black crystal spiraled higher, gouging the cavern ceiling.
Now! Eliakim's thought burned in Gideon's mind.
The hunter leapt forward, chains whipping in a wide arc. One slammed into the shaman's arm, the other into his leg, locking them in place.
Gideon was already there. His katana cut low, severing the shaman's knee in a single, perfect stroke. The shorter blade flashed next, slashing through the other leg before the creature could pivot.
The shaman roared—an inhuman sound that rattled the stones.
Skyling dove, her talons catching the chains, adding her weight to Eliakim's pull. The shaman's torso twisted, off-balance—right into the path of Ezra's mana beam.
It punched straight through his chest.
Nathaniel's whip snapped forward, wrapping around one of the horns. He yanked hard, jerking the shaman's head down—just in time for Gideon to drive both blades in a cross-cut through his throat.
The shaman's form spasmed, shadows pouring from the wound like black steam. The ritual circle dimmed. The guardians dissolved.
Then, without warning, the shaman's entire cloak of darkness shivered and burst—vanishing into thin air.
What remained was not a horned demon.
It was a man.
Broad-shouldered, muscular, wearing dented steel greaves and a battered breastplate over a dark-green tank tunic. His eyes were glassy and red-rimmed, the whites threaded with black veins. He collapsed to his knees, gasping, looking from face to face with confusion and horror.
"Where… where am I?" he croaked.
Eliakim's chains still hung from his limbs. Gideon stepped closer, blades ready. "Who are you?"
The man swallowed hard. "My name's Darion Vale. I'm… a freeblade tank. Hired sword." His voice cracked, shame lacing each word. "I was traveling the Emberroot Plains two weeks ago—alone. Storm hit. I saw… something. A black shape. Thought it was a dying horse. Then it moved—straight into me. I—" He stopped, trembling. "I woke up here."
Nathaniel's eyes narrowed. "You've been a puppet ever since."
The sound of bootsteps echoed as the guild adventurers poured into the chamber, some limping, others carrying the wounded. Behind them came two priests from Greyspire's Grand Chapel, their robes trailing white smoke from the censers they carried.
The priests wasted no time, laying hands on the group, their golden light knitting torn flesh and restoring breath. Eliakim felt the ache in his shoulders and ribs fade; Gideon's cuts closed to thin scars. Even Skyling's scorched feathers regrew in molten streams.
Darion, too, was healed—though the moment the light touched him, he collapsed entirely, the fight drained from his body.
Eliakim stepped back as the priests clasped thick silver cuffs around the man's wrists—runes crawling over the metal like living things. These were null-binders, forged to strip away every trace of magic, divine or cursed.
"You'll be taken to the Greyspire prison," one of the priests said firmly. "Until the High Inquisitors decide your fate."
Darion didn't resist as they hauled him to his feet. His eyes stayed on the ground, his voice barely more than a whisper. "If I hurt anyone… I'm sorry."
As they led him away, the chamber fell silent except for the distant drip of water.
Eliakim looked at the fading ritual circle, its black stains burned into the stone. One possessed man nearly tore the city apart.
Skyling's thoughts brushed his mind, calm but edged with unease. Then what could many do?
The hunter didn't answer. He just watched the darkness vanish into the tunnels and wondered if this was truly the end—or only the first of something worse.