The day of the negotiations, Helen received a message from her people in Achilles, reporting on the city's state in her absence. The parchment was neat, the words chosen carefully, but as she read them on the walk, her lips thinned.
On the surface, everything looked good—orderly markets, lowered crime, donations flowing into the war effort—but something about the contents of the report made her frown.
"What is it?" Ithan asked, keeping pace beside her.
Helen folded the message with a sharp motion. "We'll discuss it after. For now, keep your head clear."
The Jaguar Claw unit moved in formation, Alaric among them, their boots striking the stone street in steady rhythm. The city loomed ahead, its avenues alive with color and noise.
And then Ithan froze.
It had been days since he had walked the streets of Ravenmarch. First, the Eagle Parade, then the hunt, then his collapse into fever and visions. He had not seen the city since everything had changed.
Now, as he stepped out into the open, he saw it.
Banners hung from balconies, stitched hastily with his likeness—white flame woven in thread of pale gold. Carved effigies stood at corners, crude wooden sculptures already surrounded by offerings of fruit, coins, and flowers. Children darted between stalls, wearing masks painted with streaks of white across their cheeks, shouting "Ashborn!" in voices bright with play.
Everywhere he looked, eyes turned toward him. Not with suspicion, nor with fear, but with awe. Men raised their cups. Women whispered and bowed their heads. Some knelt outright, hands clasped as if before an idol.
The word carried on the wind, repeated again and again like a chant.
Hero.
Ithan's throat tightened. His stomach turned. His body—scarred, burdened, curseborn—felt heavier with every pair of eyes that lingered on him. He had fought to survive. He had killed because he had to. Larson was dead. Volos was ash. And yet here the city was, painting him in colors he did not deserve.
"Seems like the Imperium is trying to keep you in their good grace," Helen said.
Ithan's hands curled into fists. Hero. The word tasted bitter. The same word Anipather hungered for. The same word his mother once spoke of with warmth in her voice. And now it was being thrust upon him like a mask he could not tear off.
The crowd pressed in as they walked, calling his name, reaching out to touch his sleeve. He wanted to recoil, but Nicodemus and Andreas closed ranks around him, shielding him as best they could. Still, the eyes followed, bright and burning with expectation.
Helen glanced sidelong at him, reading the storm on his face. She sighed as she signaled for them to keep going. Ithan's eyes flicked over the faces crowding the streets—faces lit with hope, awe, and that unbearable weight of expectation. A weight he wanted no part of.
He followed the others to the carriage waiting at the end of the avenue. The Jaguar Claw men cleared a path, but the press of the crowd was still thick, their voices rising in a swell of cheers and prayers.
For some reason, the closer he drew to the carriage, the more the cheers grated against him. Every chant of Ashborn clawed at his ears like iron against stone. His chest tightened. They didn't see him. Not truly. They saw a mask, a symbol, a lie the Imperium had painted over their eyes.
Helen climbed in first, her expression unreadable, though he noticed her glance at him lingered longer than usual. Alaric and the other Claws filed in after.
Ithan hesitated at the step, the roar of the crowd still at his back. For a heartbeat, he thought of Volos—the charred ruins, the sound of the villagers' slaughter. No one had raised banners for those dead. No one had whispered hero when Larson fell.
His jaw clenched. He pulled himself into the carriage, the door shutting out the noise. For a moment, the silence inside felt heavier than the crowd outside. Helen tapped the wall, signaling the driver. The carriage lurched forward, wheels grinding against cobblestone.
Helen pulled the report back out, the parchment crinkling as her eyes ran across the lines again. Her lips pressed into a thin line, the corner twitching as if she was chewing on something bitter. For a moment, her gaze wasn't in the carriage at all but far away, as though the words had carried her out of the room.
Ithan noticed. Anything to distract him from the circus outside was welcome. "What is it?" he asked.
Helen didn't answer right away. She folded the parchment neatly, buying herself a heartbeat, then sighed. "It seems Achilles is doing very well without us."
Nicodemus looked up from where he and Andreas sat pressed shoulder to shoulder. The two of them had that unspoken ease Ithan had never known—movements that mirrored each other, small touches passed without thought. "So they managed to hold off the Dionian raids?" Nico asked.
Helen's fingers drummed against the rolled parchment before sliding it into her pocket. "Actually… it seems there haven't been any raids. Not for some time now."
Andreas frowned, her arms crossing over her chest. "What do you mean? Those bastards live to climb our walls. It's their favorite sport."
Helen only shook her head.
Ithan leaned back, his jaw tightening. "It means something's changed. Either they've found something better to kill, or something worse has forced their hand." His mind pulled him back to the night Garrick had fallen, the Dionian warrior who had stood before him like a storm given flesh. That raid had broken the pattern, happening outside their seasonal rhythm. He hadn't realized it then, but now the memory gnawed at him.
The carriage rocked as they passed over uneven stone. The silence between them grew heavy.
Finally, Helen exhaled and forced a wry smile. "We'll put it to bed until we're back in Achilles. For now, our focus is on the negotiations, then on Diana. Whatever new horror the Dionians are plotting…" she leaned back, eyes narrowing, "…we'll deal with it after."
The carriage rattled on. But Ithan couldn't shake the image of Garrick's killer, the look in that man's eyes before he retreated, leaving Ithan alive. And he wondered—if the Dionians were quiet now, what were they gathering their strength for?
The carriage rattled on, the rhythm of wheels grinding against stone giving way to the crunch of earth and gravel as they left Ravenmarch's paved streets behind. The air grew colder, sharper, carrying with it the faint metallic tang of ash.
Nicodemus and Andreas had grown quiet, leaning into each other, eyes fixed on the drawn curtains. Alaric rested one hand on his sword, gaze far away, as if already rehearsing every possible treachery that might unfold. Helen, ever composed, tapped her fingers against her knee in a slow, thoughtful rhythm.
Ithan sat in silence, his chest tightening with every turn of the wheels. He knew where they were headed before the carriage slowed. He could feel it—like the air itself carried memory.
The horses snorted uneasily as they reached the edge of the Ashen Field. Outside, the world shifted. The soil darkened to a scorched gray, brittle grass crunching under hooves. Columns of stone jutted like broken teeth from the earth, remnants of some ancient cataclysm. The outer fringe stretched vast and desolate, the land scarred, still haunted by whispers of fire and ruin.
And there—just beyond—the place where the hunt for the lance had ended. Ithan could almost see it again: the clash of lightning and flame, the taste of blood, the weight of the lance pressing on his shoulders.
The carriage ground to a halt.
"Of course they'd choose here," Alaric muttered, voice low, bitter.
Helen opened the door, letting in a gust of chill wind that smelled faintly of sulfur. "They want to remind us what's at stake," she said, her cloak snapping in the air as she stepped down onto the blackened soil.
Ithan followed, boots crunching against the ash-strewn ground. His eyes swept the gathering ahead: banners of the Imperium staked into the earth, Praetor Lucious' soldiers standing in rigid lines. Aristocrats and envoys clustered under silk-canopied pavilions, their fine robes a jarring contrast to the wasteland around them.
Closer to the center, a long table had been set up—symbols of both the Imperium and the Jaguar Claw carved into its surface. But beyond the show of civility, the Ashen Field loomed like a hungry maw, its broken horizon reminding all present that no deal struck here would be free of blood.
Ithan's jaw clenched. The people in the city might have started calling him hero, but here—here was where he had almost died, where the truth of his curseborn blood had nearly consumed him. And now, it was the chosen stage for diplomacy.
Helen's eyes flicked toward him briefly, as if gauging his thoughts, before she moved forward with the steady stride of a commander.
"Stay sharp," she said under her breath. "Negotiations this close to the ash are never about words alone."
The Jaguar Claw stepped out in formation, the sound of their boots crunching over ash answering the Imperium's polished ranks. Though fewer in number, their presence carried weight—scarred veterans, each bearing the marks of hunts survived and fields crossed. Alaric walked at the front, chin lifted, every inch the soldier.
Ithan scanned the scene as they moved toward the pavilion. He could feel it—the eyes on him. Not the adoring stares of the city, but the measuring, weighing looks of predators deciding whether he was prey or rival. Aristocrats in silks whispered behind fans, soldiers shifted uneasily as if standing too near him carried danger, and further off, Ithan caught sight of familiar figures.
Anipather stood rigid, armored in his captain's finery, though the bitterness in his eyes betrayed how much he loathed this charade. Beside him lingered Anastomus, half-in shadow, his grin stretched too wide, dagger dancing over his fingers like an extension of his madness. Even from here, Ithan could feel his gaze—hungry, delighted, as though he alone knew how this game would end.
Then, at the table, Praetor Lucious Varro himself. Regal in his bearing, robes embroidered with the mark of the Iron March. His eyes, cold and calculating, followed Helen's approach with the measured patience of a viper.
Helen's stride never faltered. She gestured, and the Jaguar Claw fell into their positions, spreading to form a protective half-circle around their leaders. Ithan ended up near the front, across from Anipather. The man's eyes narrowed at him, a silent war raging in the space between them.
The wind carried ash across the field, settling on silks, armor, and skin alike. The reminder was clear—no matter how polished the banners, this was still the Ashen Field, a place where the dead whispered in the cracks of the earth.
Helen's voice was calm, carrying without effort as she spoke to her men. "Hold your ground. No sudden moves. Remember—words are weapons here as sharp as any blade."
Alaric nodded, his hand brushing the pommel of his sword but leaving it sheathed. Nicodemus shifted, feathers of his Crow mystery faintly stirring against his cloak. Andreas leaned closer to him, murmuring something soft, but her eyes never left the Imperium's soldiers.
Ithan let out a slow breath. His heart pounded—not from fear of battle, but from the storm of expectation pressing in. The Imperium saw him as a tool. The city hailed him as a hero. Ithan saw himself as none of those. He clenched his fists at his sides. I am none of those things. I am myself.
The call of a horn split the tension. A herald stepped forward, voice ringing out.
"By order of the Imperium, negotiations shall commence. All parties step forward."
Helen moved first, her cloak sweeping behind her. She gave Ithan a small nod, one that said: Come, stand in the fire with me.
The horn's cry died into the wind, its echo swallowed by the jagged spires of stone that marked the Ashen Field's fringe. The two sides advanced toward the long oaken table at the center. Dust stirred underfoot, drifting like pale smoke, while the earth beneath carried that faint, acrid scent of old fire that never quite left this place.
The pavilion canopy sagged under the weight of banners—Imperial crimson stitched with gold eagles on one side, the black jaguar's claw on the other. The sight was jarring: symbols of wealth and power standing against a backdrop of ash and ruin. Soldiers and mercenaries alike ringed the perimeter, hands close to weapons, eyes sharp.
Ithan took his place just behind Helen, the ash crunching under his boots. Across from him, Anipather stood with his jaw clenched, his glare fixed on Ithan with unspoken venom. Further down, Anastomus leaned lazily against a post, that dagger spinning over his knuckles. His grin was carved too wide, his eyes glittering with the kind of anticipation that had nothing to do with diplomacy.
At the center, Praetor Lucious Varro sat like a judge presiding over trial. His posture was perfect, every movement deliberate, his silken robes pristine despite the dust. His gaze moved over Helen, then settled on Ithan, cool and assessing.
Silence pressed in. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Helen placed her hand on the table, her cloak shifting as she squared herself before the Praetor. "We are here under truce," she said evenly. "Let us speak plainly, without pretense."
Lucious inclined his head, lips curling faintly. "Plainly, then." His eyes flicked once more toward Ithan before returning to Helen. "The relic. Stormheart. It belongs to the Imperium. Hand it over, and your company will be rewarded generously. Land. Coin. Titles. A seat at the Senate's table, perhaps."
The words rolled out smooth as honey, but his tone made it clear: this was not an offer, but an expectation.
Helen's expression didn't shift, though her fingers tapped once against the wood before stilling. "The relic is bound. To strip it from its bearer would be to break the very laws of Mysteries themselves. And if you attempt it, the consequences will not fall on us alone—but on the Imperium itself."
Lucious leaned back, folding his hands before him. "Bound or not, the Imperium claims all relics discovered within its lands. You know this."
"And yet," Helen countered, her eyes narrowing, "your hunters failed to claim it. It was won by my man. Won fairly, by right of the hunt."
Anipather's fist slammed the table, rattling the goblets. "He is no man—he is curseborn filth!"
Ithan's eyes snapped to him, the air around his body humming faintly. For an instant, the ash at his feet stirred as though responding to his pulse.
Helen didn't look away from the Praetor. "Careful, Captain. You speak of the one who holds the relic you seek. Without him, your guild would have nothing to show but corpses."
Lucious raised a hand, silencing Anipather with a glance. His expression never changed, but his eyes gleamed with thinly veiled contempt. "This talk of rights and hunts is irrelevant. The relic will serve the Imperium. The only question, Helen, is whether you will walk away as our partners…" His gaze flicked toward Ithan once more, a predator's measure. "…or as traitors."
The ash-laden wind picked up, rattling the banners and filling the silence that followed.
Helen's jaw tightened, but she didn't answer immediately. She glanced back at Ithan—just for a second, a silent question in her eyes.
Would he stand against the weight of an empire, or would he bow to it?
The silence stretched, heavy as iron.
Helen held her ground, her fingers still resting against the table, but her eyes flicked once more to Ithan. He felt the weight of her trust there, but also the unspoken warning: choose carefully.
Ithan stepped forward before she could speak. The ash shifted beneath his boots as he moved to the edge of the table, across from Praetor Lucious himself. The murmurs of Imperium envoys swelled at his brazenness, and Anipather's eyes burned with disbelief.
"I'll speak," Ithan said. His voice carried low but firm, cutting through the wind. "Because it's me you want, isn't it? Not her. Not the Jaguar Claw. Me."
Lucious' eyes narrowed faintly, studying him. "Go on."
Ithan let his hand rest on the table's surface. He kept his expression neutral, though his heart pounded hard enough to shake his chest. "You want Stormheart. Fine. You can have it. I'll give it to you—unbound."
The table erupted. Aristocrats gasped, soldiers muttered, and Anipather barked out a laugh of triumph, though it carried too much eagerness to hide his disbelief. Even Anastomus' dagger stilled for a heartbeat, his grin faltering before twisting into something sharper.
Helen smiled at the aristocrat's reaction. To them, they couldn't understand why Ithan was willing to relieve himself of such a powerful weapon. Something they would never do if they had it.
Lucious raised a hand, and the noise died. "Unbound, you say?" His voice was careful, controlled. "That would mean—"
"It means," Ithan interrupted, "I'll call it out, here, before you. Hand it over willingly. No bond, no fight, no blood. Yours to wield. But…" His eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. "In exchange, you release Lyra and Doran. Alive. Whole. Untouched."
The name struck like flint. Murmurs broke out again among the Imperium's side. Even Anipather's grin faltered, his brow furrowing.
Praetor Lucious leaned back in his chair, folding his hands. "So. That's your price." His eyes bored into Ithan's, cold as winter steel. "Two lives. For a relic of the gods."
"Not just two lives," Ithan said, his voice hard. "A promise kept. Larson's dying words." His throat tightened, but he forced the words through. "You give me them, and I'll give you what you came for."
Lucious was silent for a long moment, considering. His brother wanted him to accept the deal. Even bring the Curseborn to their side. The ash-laden wind hissed across the table, carrying the sound of fluttering banners. His gaze flicked briefly to Anipather, then to Anastomus, then back to Ithan. It seems he really valued those children's lives.
At last, he spoke. "You have spirit, curseborn. Dangerous spirit. But perhaps we can bend that to the Imperium's service." He smiled thinly. "Very well. We will consider your terms. But you will prove your sincerity."
"How?" Ithan asked.
Lucious's hand lifted slightly, and from the Imperium's side, a figure stepped forward. Cloaked, head bowed, the chains around their wrists gleamed in the light. A boy. A voice cracked the silence, hoarse but familiar.
"Ithan…?"
Doran.
Ithan's chest seized. His fists tightened against the table.
Lucious' smile deepened by a fraction. "A taste of good faith. You will see the other once you deliver."
Ithan's eyes swept over the cloaked figure as the soldiers dragged him forward. The hood hid the face, but the broad-shouldered frame gave it away. Too tall, too solid for his age—Doran. Ithan's chest tightened, a breath catching in his throat. Months of imagining this moment, of fearing they were already dead, and now one of them stood only a few paces away.
He lifted his chin toward Lucious, eyes hard. Then, with a sharp breath, he reached inward.
Stormheart answered.
The air trembled as the Lance erupted into existence in his grip, golden fissures of light racing across its haft like molten veins. Thunder rumbled faintly overhead, the sound so low it seemed to vibrate through the bones of everyone present. The weapon's stormlight dimmed to a steady glow, alive but contained, as if even it sensed the gravity of this moment.
A hush fell over the pavilion. Imperial envoys leaned forward, their eyes widening. Soldiers shifted, clutching weapons a little tighter. Even Anipather's mask of control cracked, his lips parting as he stared at the relic that should have been his.
Ithan held Stormheart upright for all to see, its tip glinting with captured lightning. Then, deliberately, he lowered it and placed it flat on the table. The wood hissed faintly where it touched, as if scorched by its presence.
"Bring out Lyra," Ithan said, his voice steady, though his knuckles whitened as he released the haft. "Then I will unbind the lance from myself."
Lucious' smile was thin, sharp. He snapped his fingers.
A second cloaked figure was ushered forward by the soldiers. Smaller, slighter, head bowed.
"Let me see their face," Ithan demanded, his tone cutting through the murmurs of the crowd.
The soldiers hesitated, glancing toward the Praetor. Lucious gave a subtle nod.
The hoods were pulled back.
Doran squinted in the ashlight, bruises dark along his jaw but alive, standing. Beside him, Lyra blinked rapidly as the light hit her, her face pale, her frame thinner than he remembered—but unmistakably her.
For the first time in months, Ithan saw them. His breath left him in a shudder.
Lyra's wide eyes darted across the field until they locked on him. And in that instant, everything else—the ash, the soldiers, the relic, the Imperium's looming shadow—fell away.
Doran's eyes, swollen from weeks of strain, widened when they found Ithan. His lips parted like he wanted to shout his name, but the weight of soldiers at his side silenced him. Lyra, thinner than he remembered, clutched her chains as though they were the only thing keeping her upright. Her gaze flicked wildly across the table, past Helen, past Alaric, and past the Imperiums.
Her breath hitched audibly. "...Ithan," she whispered, barely a sound, but the syllables carried across the stillness like a prayer.
Ithan's gut twisted. Every part of him wanted to move—wanted to rush across the space, tear down their bonds, and shield them both behind him. He wanted to speak, to tell them they were safe now, that he had come through for Larson's promise.
But he didn't.
He held himself still, his expression locked in the same grim mask he'd worn since stepping into this farce of diplomacy. His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting his palms, and only a faint tremor in his jaw betrayed the storm inside him.
Helen's eyes flicked toward him, catching the restraint, but she said nothing.
Ithan's voice came low and deliberate. "You see them now. You have your proof. The relic is yours."
He turned to the table. Stormheart still lay across it, its faint glow pulsing like a heartbeat. He pressed his palm against the haft, and for a moment, resistance met him—an echo of storm and fire unwilling to let go. The bond tugged at his core, demanding he refuse.
"I release you," Ithan said under his breath. The words were heavy, not just sound but intent, an unbinding carried on willpower. The golden cracks of light along the lance's shaft flared once, then dimmed, their brilliance snuffing out.
The storm above broke with a hollow roll of thunder, then fell silent.
The link snapped.
Ithan stepped back, leaving the relic on the table. Its power still thrummed faintly in the air, but no longer tied to him. No longer his.
Gasps rippled through the Imperium's envoys. Anipather's eyes went wide with naked hunger, his hand twitching toward the lance before discipline yanked it back. Lucious' smile deepened, satisfaction etched across his face.
And through it all, Ithan kept his expression grim, never letting his eyes linger on Lyra or Doran again. If he let himself soften for even a heartbeat, he knew he'd shatter the mask—and with it, everything he had gambled for their freedom.
The soldiers dragged Doran and Lyra forward, chains clinking in the ashen air. Their faces were gaunt, but alive. Lyra's hair was tangled, her lips cracked, yet her eyes burned as soon as they found him. Doran—larger, his frame hardened by weeks of captivity—stumbled but straightened, refusing to look weak.
Ithan's throat tightened. For a heartbeat, the mask almost slipped. He wanted to run to them, to tear the chains apart with his bare hands. Instead, he stood still, jaw locked, forcing his expression into stone.
An Imperium magus stepped forward at Lucious' gesture. Cloaked in dark crimson, silver runes etched into his wrists, the man lifted his hands over the weapon. His voice spilled in low chants, syllables dripping like molten iron.
Stormheart quivered beneath the spell. Light flared, then steadied. A ripple spread across the lance, faint as breath—and then faded into stillness.
The magus' eyes widened. He bent closer, muttered another incantation, drew sigils in the air with smoke and fire. Each time, the relic hummed politely, then lay quiet, unresisting.
Finally, the magus looked up. "It is unbound," he announced. "Free."
A murmur surged through the Imperium's side, relief mixing with hunger. Lucious' smile deepened.
"Very well," he said. He flicked his fingers. The soldiers shoved Doran and Lyra forward. They stumbled once, then bolted the rest of the distance, chains clattering as they fell into Ithan's arms.
Lyra clutched at him, burying her face in his chest, her breath hitching with a sob. Doran wrapped his arms tight around his waist, his voice breaking: "Ithan…"
For the first time in months, he held them. The warmth of their bodies, the tremble of their shoulders, the smell of sweat and dirt and life—he drank it in, clinging to the proof that they had survived.
His mask cracked. For a fleeting moment, his eyes closed, his face softening as he pressed them tighter to him. Larson, I kept my promise.
Then he exhaled sharply, jaw tightening once more. He eased them back, guiding them toward Nicodemus and Andreas. The Crow-shadowed Mystique and his partner stepped forward without a word, shielding Lyra and Doran behind their cloaks, weapons half-drawn.
Ithan turned back to the table.
Stormheart still lay there, inert, its glow dim, its storm silent. The Imperium envoys leaned in, hungry. Anipather's lips curled in triumph. Anastomus grinned like a man watching the opening act of a tragedy. Lucious lifted his hand toward the magus, ready to claim.
Ithan raised his hand.
A spark leapt across the ash. Stormheart shuddered, golden cracks flaring like veins of molten fire. Thunder cracked overhead, so loud it rattled the pavilion poles. The relic trembled, then shot from the table, spinning through the air before slamming into Ithan's outstretched palm.
The storm reignited. Lightning cascaded down the haft, white fire spilling into the ground around him, scorching the ash into glass.
Gasps erupted. The magus staggered back, his runes sputtering. "No—it's not possible!"
Lucious's composurewas shattered for the first time, his eyes flashing with fury. "He deceived us!"
Ithan leveled the lance, the storm roaring in his veins. His voice cut through the chaos, cold and steady, every word a blade.
"You thought Prometheus only gave mankind fire. But he gave us cunning too." He swept Stormheart in a wide arc, lightning chasing its edge, the glow casting him in stark, terrible silhouette. "The lance was never yours to take."
The ash swirled violently around him, thunder rolling as if the Field itself bore witness.
And in that moment, the Imperium realized the truth: the Ashborn had tricked them at their own game.
The moment Stormheart leapt back into Ithan's hand, the pavilion erupted.
Praetor Lucious rose to his feet, fury cutting through his practiced composure. "Seize him! Seize the relic!"
Anipather's sword sang free of its scabbard, his voice raw with hunger. "At last! Kill the curseborn—!"
Soldiers surged forward, steel scraping, banners whipping in the ashen wind. The magus raised his hands, runes blazing, preparing to bind Stormheart with chains of light.
But then—
Helen moved. She raised her hand. A pulse rippled outward, silent but irresistible, like a shockwave in the marrow of every man on the field. It washed over soldiers, magi, and nobles alike—and then the fear struck.
Swords clattered to the ground as men's hands shook uncontrollably. Shields dropped. Voices cracked into whimpers or died entirely in their throats. Eyes went wide, bodies locked in place as if their limbs were chained by invisible shackles.
Terror.
Raw, suffocating, inescapable terror.
Even Lucious staggered back, his knuckles white on the table as though he were clinging to it to keep from collapsing. The magus fell to one knee, sweat pouring down his temples as he gasped like a drowning man.
Anipather's teeth ground together, his body trembling violently, rage burning in his eyes even as fear rooted his feet in the ash. Anastomus only laughed—high, manic, a predator savoring the taste of its own fear—but even he did not move.
Shapes flickered behind Helen, pale and jagged, like broken reflections in black glass. Phantom figures writhed at the edge of sight, their whispers brushing against the ears of every man present. Phobos.
Ithan steadied himself, gripping Stormheart tighter. He felt it, too, though dulled—as if Helen spared her own from the full force. Not pain, not paralysis, but a presence pressing down on him. Heavy. Inescapable.
And then he understood.
Her mystery was complete. That was why it carried such weight. Why its truth struck deeper than blade or fire. He could feel it in his bones, in the resonance itself—Helen stood at the final stage. Alethiea.
Her mystery is fear itself…
The thought burned through him, sharp and certain. The way the Imperium forces cowered and froze, the whispers clawing at their minds—it was all proof.
Helen's eyes glowed faintly as she swept her gaze across the Imperium's ranks. "This negotiation is finished," she said, her voice low, commanding. "You will not move unless I will it. You will not breathe unless I allow it. Do you understand?"
No one answered. They couldn't. The silence was full of shallow, shuddering breaths.
Ithan's stormlight crackled brighter at his side, the thunder answering Helen's revelation. Together, they stood—fear and fire—and the Imperium forces dared not take another step.