Kallus slid a hand beneath the collar of his cuirass and drew out a strip of beaten bronze, no larger than a dagger's hilt. It was etched with thin spirals that shimmered faintly against the ashlight, the lines bending and twisting as though alive. He tapped it once against the trident's shaft, and the markings flared, sending a ripple of pale light across his skin before fading to a steady glow.
"That's the ward," he said, holding it up so Ithan could see. "Keeps the worst of the Field out of your lungs and marrow. The Magus Order calls it a binding ward—threads of Hephaestus' forge bound into bronze." He sniffed the air again, grinning despite himself. "Smells foul as a corpse pit, but it won't rot me from the inside, not while this thing hums."
Ithan blinked, tightening his grip on the spear. "The captain gave me nothing."
The trident dipped slightly in Kallus' hands as he looked over. For a moment his expression was unreadable, then he let out a low grunt. "Maybe she thinks you don't need it."
"What do you mean?"
Kallus's grin thinned into something more serious. "You're Curseborn, Ithan. The Field that poisons men… it's the same blood in your veins. Maybe Helen figured you're already steeped in it. Maybe the corruption can't bite what's already been claimed."
The words sank heavy into the ash-silence. Ithan felt the truth of them stir against his skin, like the Field itself was listening. Since stepping into the outer core, the strange clarity in him had only grown stronger. No ward pulsed against his chest, no bronze charm burned light into his skin—and yet the oppressive weight that should have gnawed at him only sharpened his senses, steadied his steps.
A part of him recoiled at it. Another part—darker, quieter—welcomed it.
Kallus shoved the bronze strip back beneath his armor and gave a shrug. "Doesn't matter. What does matter is that you don't crumple on me in the middle core. If Helen's right, then you're immune. If she's wrong—" He jabbed the trident into the ash, sparks flying. "—then I drag your corpse back to the stands and collect the Captain's apology."
Ithan almost smirked, but the mist curling up from the middle core stole the humor from his lips. The air was thick with it, coiling like smoke from a forge, carrying that same iron-blood tang that made his skin prickle. He took one steady breath, feeling that strange pulse within him answer, rising to meet it.
"I won't fall," he said quietly. "Not here. Not before Atticus."
Kallus rolled his shoulders, eyes narrowing into the haze. "Then let's see if the Field agrees."
Together, they stepped forward, the last traces of the outer core vanishing behind them as the middle core swallowed them whole.
The middle core was nothing like the outer.
The ground broke apart into jagged ridges and valleys, the stone blackened to a glassy sheen that reflected their movements in warped, fractured images. Fissures split the land like old wounds, glowing faintly with molten veins, their heat rising in waves that made the air shimmer. The mist no longer drifted softly across the ground—it coiled upward in choking plumes, rising from vents in the earth like the Field itself was exhaling.
Scattered across the landscape lay remnants of battles long past. Shields half-buried in ash, swords snapped in two, skeletal remains twisted into unnatural poses as if clawing their way out of the earth. Each relic whispered a silent warning: men had walked here before, and few had walked back.
Kallus spat into the dust, his trident humming faintly as if reacting to the corruption around them. "I can see why most companies don't last an hour in this place. You feel it, don't you? The Field's pressing in."
Ithan nodded, though for him the pressure was different. Not a weight dragging him down, but something pressing into his bones, sharp and alive. Every sound carried clearer. Every step felt anchored. He couldn't decide if the Field was trying to break him… or embrace him.
A sound broke the silence—low, guttural, like stone grinding against stone. Then another, echoing from the ridges ahead. The mist shifted, pulling back just enough to reveal movement.
Shapes emerged—larger than the goblin-like Daimons of the fringes, these were things born of the Field's heart. Hulking forms, their spines jagged with obsidian growths, their arms elongated into blades of living stone. Their eyes burned white, pupil-less, each one locking onto the intruders with predatory hunger.
"Greater Daimons," Kallus muttered, setting his stance. His grin was there, but it didn't reach his eyes. "This'll be messy."
Three of them dropped from a ridge with a thunderous crash, the impact shaking the ash loose in choking clouds. Another stalked along the fissure's edge, its blade-arm dragging sparks from the glassy stone. Their shrieks split the air, a chorus that rattled through the marrow.
Ithan spun his spear once, planting his heel against the ground. "Save your mystery," he said. "We don't know how many more wait deeper in."
Kallus smirked, trident spinning in his grip. "Just skill, then? Good. Let's remind them why hunters don't walk alone."
The first Daimon lunged, its stone-arm cleaving down with crushing force. Ithan slid aside, ash scattering beneath his boots, and drove the spearpoint through its burning eye. The beast convulsed, black ichor spilling hot across the ground as it collapsed.
The second swung low, trying to sweep his legs, but Kallus stepped into the strike, catching the arm on the prongs of his trident. With a roar, he twisted and drove the creature back, slamming it into the stone before crushing its skull beneath his boot.
The third came fast, climbing onto the ridge and leaping down with a shriek. Ithan rolled forward, spear dragging sparks across the glassy stone, and came up behind it. His strike split its spine, the weapon biting deep, but the beast thrashed violently, claws scraping across his shoulder before it toppled dead.
The last one circled, slower, more cautious. It lowered itself onto all fours, obsidian plates scraping as it began to prowl, the mist curling around it like a cloak. Its eyes glowed brighter, as if recognizing them as prey worth its full strength.
Kallus stepped forward, but Ithan raised a hand. His breath was steady, spear angled low, senses sharpened to a razor's edge.
"I'll take this one."
The Daimon shrieked and charged, claws tearing furrows in the stone. Ithan moved to meet it, ash curling in his wake, his spearpoint gleaming like the first spark of fire in a dead land.
The Greater Daimon shrieked, its obsidian plates rattling like armor as it lunged. The ground shuddered beneath its weight, claws tearing sparks from the glassy stone.
Ithan braced, spear angled low, his stance coiled like a spring. At the last instant, he sidestepped, driving the butt of the spear into the Daimon's knee joint. The impact cracked like a snapped boulder. The beast howled, stumbling forward.
But it recovered too quickly. Its stone-arm whipped around, slicing a gouge through the air. Ithan ducked, the strike hissing just above his head, and rolled to the side, ash clinging to his sweat-damp skin. He thrust for its ribs, but the spear glanced off obsidian plating, leaving only a shallow cut.
The Daimon spun, its other arm crashing down in a hammering blow. Ithan twisted aside, the strike missing his skull by inches and shattering the ground where he'd stood. Splinters of black stone peppered his cheek.
He drew a sharp breath, adjusting his grip. Stop aiming for the armor. He shifted his focus, reading the creature's movements, its rhythm. Every monster had one.
The Daimon lunged again, blade-arm raised for a cleaving strike. This time Ithan didn't dodge. He stepped into the swing, spear haft snapping up to catch the strike just beneath its arc. The clash jolted his arms, but the leverage redirected the blow past his body.
In that instant, its throat was open. Ithan pivoted, the spearhead darting forward like a serpent's fang, and drove the steel through the soft tissue just below its jaw. Hot ichor burst across his forearm.
The Daimon shrieked, thrashing wildly, its obsidian plates scraping sparks against the ground. It lifted him bodily as he clung to the spear, its claws raking blindly across his torso. One caught his shoulder, tearing flesh, but he gritted his teeth and twisted the weapon deeper, severing the shriek into a wet gurgle.
With a final roar, Ithan planted a boot against its chest, wrenched the spear free, and thrust upward through the creature's eye. The point burst out the back of its skull in a spray of black flame and smoke.
The Daimon shuddered, convulsed once, and collapsed.
Ithan staggered back, chest heaving, ichor dripping from his weapon. His shoulder burned where the claw had caught him, but his stance remained steady, his eyes still sharp. The Field's oppressive air pressed in, yet he felt strangely clear—as if each fight honed him rather than wore him down.
Kallus gave a low whistle, planting the trident's butt against the stone. "Well, Ashborn," he said with a grin, "you fight cleaner without your fire than most Mystics do with it."
Ithan wiped the ichor from his spear, gaze fixed on the dark horizon where the middle core stretched deeper. His jaw tightened. "Save the praise. We're not done. Atticus is still ahead."
The mist stirred with unseen movement, and the pulse of the Stormheart throbbed faintly through the stone, drawing them onward.
The ash settled around the Daimon's corpse, curling in smoky wisps as silence reclaimed the middle core. But beneath that silence, something else stirred—a steady rhythm, faint but unrelenting, like the beat of a colossal heart buried in the earth. Each throb rippled through the stone underfoot, tugging them forward.
They followed it deeper.
Atticus's trail was not hard to find. Corpses littered their path—Daimons split apart with brutal precision, cleaved in half or smashed to pulp. Black ichor streaked the rocks, still steaming. Shattered obsidian spines lay scattered like broken blades. Wherever he passed, the Field looked savaged, as though even the land recoiled from his greatsword's weight.
Kallus knelt by a carcass, pressing his palm into a fresh wound. The ichor still burned with faint heat. "Not long ago. He's ahead of us."
Ithan said nothing, but his grip on the spear tightened until his knuckles whitened. Every corpse was a reminder. Not of Daimons fallen, but of the man who had felled them—the wall of muscle and steel who had stood between Lyra, Doran, and freedom. Each step made the weight in his chest heavier, his breath sharper.
The terrain grew stranger as they pressed on. The fissures widened, glowing brighter, their molten light casting eerie shadows across the mist. The air itself changed—no longer just heavy with ash and heat, but charged, humming faintly, as if every breath drew sparks into their lungs.
Then came the thunder.
A deep crack split the sky, rolling across the core like a god's voice. A flash followed, searing bright, and lightning slammed into the black earth ahead with a sound that rattled the marrow. Stone shattered, a jagged crater smoking where the bolt struck.
The closer they drew, the more frequent it became. Bolts lanced from the sky in relentless rhythm, each one leaving the world trembling. The ash underfoot seemed to quiver with each impact, as if the Field itself was convulsing.
They crested a ridge, and the Stormheart's domain stretched before them.
The land here was no longer dead ash but a living storm. The ground was scorched black, glassy veins spider-webbing across the surface from countless strikes. Forks of lightning writhed through the sky like serpents, descending in unending fury, their aftershocks echoing with deafening thunder. Mist boiled in the light, swirling in unnatural currents.
And at the center—half-shrouded by stormclouds—pulsed a colossal crystal, jagged and luminous, its core beating with blinding radiance. The Stormheart. Each pulse sent arcs of lightning snapping across the landscape, raw power that clawed at everything within reach.
Kallus shielded his eyes, awe flashing in his grin. "Well… there's our prize." His trident hummed louder, resonating with the storm as though eager to taste its power.
Ithan barely looked at it. His eyes were on the field leading up to the relic.
More Daimon corpses lay strewn across the scorched earth, torn apart in savage strokes. And among them, massive footprints, deep and deliberate, marching straight toward the Stormheart.
"Atticus," Ithan muttered. His voice was low, but it carried, steady with hate and hunger.
Lightning tore the sky again, throwing long shadows across the land. For a heartbeat, Ithan thought he saw a figure moving in the distance, broad-shouldered and unshaken by the storm, striding toward the crystal as though it belonged to him.
Kallus followed his gaze, eyes narrowing. "Looks like we're not the only hunters who made it this far." He twirled his trident, sparks dancing along its prongs. "Question is, Ashborn—do we let him take it, or do we rip it out of his hands?"
Ithan's answer came quickly, burning in his throat. "I'll take his hands first."
The storm roared above them, lightning striking so close the air split with heat. Ahead, the trail of destruction led straight into the storm's heart—where Atticus waited.
The storm raged, unrelenting. Bolts lanced down in jagged succession, each strike turning stone to glass, each roar of thunder rattling through bone. The Stormheart's pulse was almost deafening here, beating like the rhythm of a monstrous drum.
Ithan and Kallus crouched on the ridge, peering across the scorched basin. They weren't alone.
From the misted edges, other champions emerged—companies who had braved the middle core, battered but still clinging to purpose. Their banners were torn, their armor blackened, but desperation drove them forward. Some moved in tight groups, shields raised against the storm; others strode with the bravado of men who believed the relic already theirs.
The Field punished them for their arrogance.
A lightning bolt cracked down without warning, striking a cluster of mercenaries mid-charge. The flash blinded, the thunder deafened, and when the smoke cleared, only charred husks remained, their armor fused to flesh, mouths frozen in silent screams.
Another group pressed forward, blades raised, chanting prayers as they ran. The ground beneath them shuddered, split open, and from the fissures clawed a pack of Greater Daimons, their obsidian forms glowing with stormlight. The hunters never had a chance. The first was gutted in a spray of black ichor; the second was lifted into the air and torn apart piece by piece, his screams drowned beneath the thunder.
Ithan's jaw clenched, his fingers tightening on the spear. Each death was a reminder—this was not a game, no parade spectacle. This was slaughter, and the Field reveled in it.
Kallus growled low in his throat. "Damn fools. Charging in without sense." He spat into the ash, though his grip on the trident whitened.
Further across the basin, the northerners in wolf pelts rallied, roaring as they braced against a storm of Daimons. Their leader swung his greatsword in arcs that split creatures in two, his men howling beside him. For a moment, it looked like they might hold. But then lightning struck, slamming into their formation, exploding stone and flesh alike. When the glare faded, only the leader remained—blackened, staggering—before a Daimon's claws tore him open from neck to navel. His body fell smoking at the Stormheart's edge.
The lone mystic reappeared, cloak shredded, staff glowing with unstable power. He lifted it skyward, chanting desperately, trying to bend the storm to his will. For a heartbeat, the lightning seemed to pause. His face lit with triumph—before three bolts struck at once, splitting him into ash and bone fragments. His scream echoed, then was gone.
One by one, the champions fell. Some were devoured, others burned alive, others shattered beneath claws or stone. The basin became a graveyard, painted with ichor, blood, and ash. The storm didn't relent; if anything, it seemed to grow stronger, feeding on each death.
Ithan and Kallus watched in grim silence.
Kallus exhaled, his grin gone, replaced by something harder. "Looks like it's just us and him now."
Ithan's eyes never left the trail of destruction leading to the Stormheart. Lightning flared again, and for the briefest instant, a silhouette appeared through the storm—a towering figure striding unbowed through chaos, his greatsword resting across his shoulders.
Atticus.
Ithan's breath sharpened. All the thunder in the world couldn't drown the sound of his own heartbeat.
The ridge trembled beneath their boots as thunder cracked overhead, lightning tearing the sky wide open. Below, the basin glowed like a wound in the world. The Stormheart pulsed at its center, a jagged mountain of crystal rising from the earth, arcs of raw energy leaping from its facets to sear the air. At its base, an opening gaped—dark, vast, waiting like the mouth of some slumbering god.
Ithan drew a steadying breath, the charged air burning his throat. The hairs on his arms prickled, each inhalation sharp with the tang of ozone. "We'll have to move fast. The storm won't give us time to think."
Kallus spun the trident once, sparks snapping across its prongs. His grin was grim, teeth flashing like a wolf's. "Then let's see which one of us the lightning favors."
They began their descent.
The slope was treacherous, the stone slick from melted glass. Every step sent loose shards skittering into the basin. Lightning slammed down nearby, exploding rock into shrapnel, showers of fire and ash pelting their armor. The roar of thunder shook the marrow in their bones.
A bolt struck close enough that the air split with heat, hurling Ithan sideways. He braced with his spear, catching his balance as the ground smoked beneath him. Kallus grabbed his arm, yanking him upright.
"Eyes up, Ashborn!" he barked over the storm. "The Field's not finished testing us yet."
The Daimons proved him right. From fissures along the slope crawled more of the obsidian beasts, their spines glowing with stormlight. They came snarling on all fours, claws sparking as they raked stone.
"Go through them!" Ithan shouted.
They hit like a hammer and spike. Kallus's trident drove one back in a burst of sparks, splitting its chest and pinning it to the rock before ripping free. Ithan's spear darted like a serpent, piercing through the eye of another mid-leap, dragging it down into the ash.
But for every Daimon that fell, another crawled from the fissures. The storm raged harder, bolts slamming the slope as if the very sky sought to bury them.
Still they pressed forward. Side by side, their movements sharpened into rhythm—spear thrust and trident sweep, shieldless but unyielding, cutting a path through monsters and storm alike. Blood and ichor stained the slope, steaming in the charged air.
Finally, with a last push, they broke free of the horde, stumbling onto the basin floor. The world here was a crucible—lightning constant, thunder endless, the very ground trembling beneath the Stormheart's pulse. The crystal mountain towered above, jagged and luminous, arcs of raw energy leaping from facet to facet.
At its base yawned an opening: a vast, dark arch where the crystal split, wide enough for a dozen men to walk abreast. Power rolled out from it in waves, the storm itself seeming to funnel toward its depths.
Ithan wiped ichor from his spear, chest heaving. His eyes fixed on the entrance, and for a moment, he could swear he saw shadows flicker within—shadows shaped like a man carrying a greatsword.
Kallus spat into the ash, trident humming in his grip. "Well," he muttered, voice hard, "looks like the storm wants us to step inside."
Ithan said nothing. The storm howled above them, lightning splitting the air as though heralding the confrontation to come. Together, they stepped toward the crystal mountain, into the maw of the Stormheart.