Agatha crossed the dungeon's boundary as if stepping from one thought into another.
Behind her, the domain did not protest.
There was no resistance, no tightening of authority, no sense of power withdrawing in reluctance or resentment. The dungeon did not feel her departure as loss. It registered it as a change in state, nothing more. Processes adjusted. Surveillance narrowed inward. Peripheral threat thresholds were lowered and then rebalanced. Defensive priorities recalculated along cleaner, more efficient lines.
Seth's will folded back upon itself, precise and silent, like a blade returning to its sheath.
Ahead of her, the world waited.
She emerged into open fog, her boots pressing into soil permanently darkened by saturation. The ground here had not seen true dryness in months. Moisture clung to everything—stone, bark, cloth, skin—carrying with it the faint residue of mana exhaust and particulate enchantment, a byproduct of sustained domain influence bleeding outward.
Visibility was poor.
But not to her.
Agatha's perception slid through the haze effortlessly, parting layers of interference as one might peel translucent veils from a mirror. The fog was not natural; it carried structure, intent, regulation. Its density varied in deliberate gradients, responding to movement, sound, and magical output. To mundane eyes, it was blindness. To hers, it was architecture.
She took three more steps forward.
To her left and right, the plateau revealed itself.
The construction site dominated the elevated ground, sprawling outward in a controlled radius that respected invisible boundaries. The cathedral tomb was no longer an abstract plan or a projection in Seth's systems.
It existed.
Construction automatons moved in tireless procession through the fog, their metallic frames intermittently revealed as the mist thinned and thickened around them. Their designs were utilitarian rather than aesthetic—angular limbs, reinforced joints, segmented torsos etched with layered runic arrays—but there was an undeniable rhythm to their motion.
Some carried slabs of blackened stone heavier than siege blocks, lifting them with casual precision. Others hovered in place, articulated arms unfolding and refolding as they carved channels into pillars with almost reverent accuracy. Each incision followed geometries that defied conventional architecture: angles that discouraged harmonic resonance, curves that redirected metaphysical stress, planes that resisted divine alignment.
Sparks of violet and cobalt flared briefly as sigils were etched, then dimmed once alignment was confirmed. Rune-locks clicked softly as components engaged, anchoring enchantments not to a single point, but to an interdependent lattice that spanned the entire structure.
There was no noise.
No shouted commands. No clang of metal on stone. No voices raised in labor or coordination.
Only the soft, continuous hum of synchronized work and the occasional, precise click of mechanisms finalizing a step in a process that did not require oversight.
Agatha walked through it all without slowing.
The automatons adjusted subtly as she passed. Load-bearing units shifted their paths by fractions of a degree to maintain optimal distribution. Carving units paused for exactly one breath before resuming, their internal calculations rethreading around her presence. Hover units rose slightly, granting clearance without being instructed.
They did not acknowledge her as authority.
They recognized her as familiar.
The structure itself rose like a deliberate challenge to the sky. Arched supports curved inward, framing a central nave that had not yet been sealed. The incomplete dome above formed a skeletal crown—stone ribs reaching upward, not in supplication, but in assertion. When complete, it would enclose something far more dangerous than remains.
A tomb, yes.
But not for the dead.
Agatha slowed for half a breath as she passed the edge of the central nave, her gaze flicking upward. She noted the progress automatically. Load distribution remained within tolerance. Sigil resonance was stable. Foundation wards held firm against subsurface mana drift.
Anti-divine geometries were already partially active.
She turned away.
The cathedral was not her destination.
She entered the deeper fog.
With each step, the mist thickened. Sound dulled. Even the ambient hum of the construction faded, swallowed by layered dampening fields embedded into the fog itself. The world narrowed until distance lost meaning and direction became relative.
She felt them before she saw them.
Two intrusions, moving with intent rather than caution.
They were close—closer than the outer sentries should have allowed.
That alone told her enough.
These were not wanderers. Not opportunists. Not beasts drawn by curiosity or hunger. They moved with practiced confidence, clearing the fog rather than avoiding it, asserting presence rather than concealing it.
Prepared.
One radiated warped ritual magic—layered, uneven, stitched together through sacrifice, patronage, and repetition rather than refinement. The power clung to him like residue, old and overused, reinforced by charms and totems that substituted volume for elegance.
The other was grounded. Dense. His presence pressed against the fog with physical certainty, honed by survival rather than doctrine. There was little magic clinging to him, but what little there was sat tightly coiled, restrained, efficient.
Agatha adjusted her trajectory by a few degrees.
Aid, she sent calmly.
The response came immediately, unburdened by urgency.
They have bypassed canine perimeter. No dungeon breach.
Understood.
Seth's instruction echoed in her memory, as concise now as it had been when delivered.
Intercept. Outside. No breach.
That was all.
She did not need more.
Bash walked at the front, his wooden staff held loosely in one hand. The skull mounted at its head swayed gently with each step, empty eye sockets glowing faintly green. It had once belonged to a priest—long since hollowed, cleansed, and repurposed. Totems and charms rattled softly against Bash's bone armor, each one etched with symbols older than the kingdoms whose borders they now crossed unseen.
He struck the staff against the ground.
Dark green energy pulsed outward, bleeding into soil and air alike. The fog ahead recoiled violently, thinning into a rough corridor that stretched forward some fifty meters. Visibility returned in a ragged tunnel, its edges uneven, walls of mist pressing inward like something restrained.
"Annoying place," Bash muttered. "This fog isn't natural."
Fur walked beside him, broad shoulders bare despite the chill. Leather straps crossed his chest, securing nothing but habit. His two-handed axe rested across his back, its weight familiar, reassuring. In one hand, he carried a rectangular box—thirty by ten inches, its surface a dull greenish metal etched with faint lines that pulsed irregularly, as if reacting to stimuli no one had yet identified.
"It's controlled," Fur said. His nose twitched as he inhaled deeply. "Layered. Someone is maintaining it."
Bash snorted. "Of course they are. That's how infestations work."
He gestured ahead with his staff. "You see this? No guards. No patrols. Just fog and beasts. That's early-stage secrecy. Someone doesn't want attention yet."
Fur grunted. "Or someone doesn't need guards."
Bash waved the comment aside. "Every organization needs secrecy at first. We did. Remember the eastern border kingdoms?"
Fur's lips curled faintly. "I remember the fires."
"Exactly." Bash's voice warmed with pride. "How long did it take them to realize we'd rooted ourselves into their supply chains? By the time their clergy noticed discrepancies in tithe records, half their sanctuaries were already dependent on our reagents."
He struck the staff again, refreshing the corridor. "We didn't conquer them. We supported them. Healed their sick. Blessed their crops. Replaced their shortages."
"And cursed their rivals," Fur added.
"And cursed their rivals," Bash agreed cheerfully. "By the time anyone suspected infestation, their trade routes were bound to our sigils and their nobles were whispering our names in private prayers."
They advanced slowly.
"Our handlers want this mapped," Bash continued. "Quietly. No guild reports. No divine flags. Just confirmation."
"And if it's dangerous?" Fur asked.
Bash shrugged. "Then we decide whether to cut it out… or cultivate it."
Fur's ears twitched. He slowed.
Bash noticed instantly. "What?"
Fur raised an arm, halting him. His gaze fixed ahead, pupils narrowing. "Someone's coming."
Bash frowned. "You sure?"
"Yes." Fur sniffed the air again, sharper this time. "Not beasts. Not fog. A person."
Bash opened his mouth—
And the fog parted.
A figure emerged at the far end of the corridor.
A woman.
She walked calmly, unhurried, her steps soundless on damp earth. Dark robes flowed around her form, untouched by moisture, the fog bending subtly away rather than clinging. A staff floated beside her, not held, its runes glowing with restrained violet light.
She stopped precisely at the edge of Bash's influence.
Her voice carried clearly.
"It would be preferable if you stopped your advance and retreated."
Bash stared for a heartbeat—then laughed.
"You've got nerve," he called. "Standing alone like that."
Fur did not laugh.
Every instinct he had screamed.
Agatha studied them openly now.
The shaman first. Shorter. Masked. Saturated in borrowed power. His magic was loud, inelegant, stitched together through deals and degradation. Effective in volume. Unstable in confrontation.
The beastkin second. Taller. Controlled. His magic was minimal, but his presence was dense, compressed by experience. This was a survivor. One who had learned when to advance and when to endure.
"Turn back," Agatha said evenly. "You are not permitted further passage."
Bash stepped forward. "Not obliged to tell us why?"
"No."
"Convenient." He struck his staff again, clearing more fog. "We're going through."
"You will go around," Agatha replied, "or you will leave."
Fur leaned closer to Bash. "She's not bluffing."
Bash rolled his shoulders. "You say that every time."
"This one—"
"I know," Bash cut in. His tone sharpened. "But if she's who I think she is…"
Agatha watched them quietly as they spoke.
Bash looked back at her. "You resemble someone."
"I'm not interested in guessing games."
"Agatha," he said. "The Grand Witch."
The fog stirred.
Agatha's expression did not change. "You are mistaken."
Bash grinned. "Of course you'd deny it."
Fur's voice dropped. "If it is her… why here?"
Bash's eyes gleamed. "That's what I want to know."
Fur did not take his eyes off the woman as he leaned closer to Bash.
The fog pressed in again as Bash's corridor thinned, the green-lit walls trembling faintly at the edges. Whatever force governed the mist did not resist them outright—but it did not yield easily either. Fur felt it brushing against his skin like damp fingers, testing, learning. That alone made the hair along his spine rise.
"She's not normal," Fur murmured. His voice was low enough that even the fog would have struggled to carry it. "If she's who you think she is… we don't improvise."
Bash snorted softly, skull staff tilting as the charms along his armor rattled. "You're nervous."
"I'm alive," Fur replied flatly.
Bash glanced at him sidelong, one eye visible through the slits of his bone mask. It glimmered with amusement. "Relax. Legends grow teeth when people stop biting back. Agatha's been hunted before."
"Not like this," Fur said.
He shifted his weight subtly, angling himself so his body shielded the green metal box from the woman's line of sight. The thing pulsed once, faintly, then stilled. Fur didn't like that. He trusted objects that behaved predictably. This one never had.
"She's alone," Bash continued. "No circle. No coven. No visible anchors. If she really is the Grand Witch, she's either desperate or arrogant."
Fur's ears twitched. "Or confident."
Bash chuckled. "Same thing."
Fur inhaled slowly through his nose. The scent of the fog was wrong—filtered, layered, stripped of randomness. Someone had engineered this place the way others engineered cities or fortresses. That alone told him the woman ahead was not the true threat.
"Listen to me," Fur said quietly. "If she's Agatha, she's not just a bounty. She's leverage. We take her together. Bind fast. Extract clean. No posturing."
Bash's smile widened beneath the mask. "Capture her?"
"Yes."
Bash shook his head, amused. "No."
Fur finally looked at him.
"No?" he repeated.
"I've waited years for this," Bash said. His voice warmed, swelling with something close to reverence. "You know what bringing her in alive would mean? Not just credits. Not just favor. Recognition. Promotion. A seat closer to the inner structure."
"That's exactly why we do it clean," Fur said. "We're not here for glory. We're here because handlers gave us a directive."
Bash waved a dismissive hand. "The directive was reconnaissance. Confirmation. If this is her, that changes parameters."
"Only if we survive," Fur replied.
Bash's staff scraped lightly against stone as he leaned on it. "You worry too much."
"I worry enough," Fur said. "This fog alone should tell you we're already behind the curve. And she didn't flinch when you named her."
Bash's grin sharpened. "Because she's proud."
"Because she's prepared."
Bash straightened. "Either way, I'm handling her."
Fur's jaw tightened. "We work together or we don't work at all."
Silence stretched between them, thick as the fog.
Bash finally turned, fully facing him now. "You don't trust me?"
"I trust you to want more than the mission," Fur said evenly. "And that gets people killed."
Bash laughed softly. "Says the one who always survives."
"Because I know when to end things quickly."
Bash tapped the skull atop his staff. Its hollow sockets flared brighter for a heartbeat. "If I strike her down myself, it's a statement. A narrative. Handlers love narratives."
Fur stepped closer, his voice dropping to a growl. "And if she turns you inside out while you're building one?"
Bash's laughter faded.
They both knew Fur wasn't exaggerating.
Fur continued, measured now. "We're on assignment. Failure is not an option. If she's Agatha, then dragging this out helps no one. We neutralize, bind, extract. Fast."
Bash studied him for a long moment. The fog swirled around their legs, restless.
Finally, he sighed theatrically. "Fine."
Fur didn't relax.
"I'll fight her," Bash said. "I want to test the legend."
"And me?"
"You stay out of it," Bash replied. "Unless things escalate."
Fur narrowed his eyes. "Define escalate."
Bash's grin returned. "If I'm bleeding. If she starts bending reality. If my charms burn out."
"And until then?"
"You watch," Bash said. "And when you interfere, you do it properly."
Fur exhaled through his nose. "Sneak attack."
"From her blind spot," Bash agreed. "I want her focused on me."
Fur shook his head. "You're only agreeing because you want the promotion."
Bash didn't deny it. He just smiled wider. "Everyone wants something."
Fur turned away.
He moved back through the fog without another word, boots silent on wet soil. He found a tree just outside the thinned corridor—its trunk thick, bark slick with moisture. He vaulted up easily, settling onto a broad branch where his weight barely disturbed the leaves.
From here, he could see everything.
Bash stood alone now, staff planted, posture loose but ready. The fog curled around him like a stage curtain drawn back just enough for the audience to watch.
Fur rested one hand on the green box beside him. It pulsed again, faint and uneasy.
His instincts screamed.
Not fear.
Not panic.
Warning.
Whatever this woman was, this was not a hunt.
It was a boundary test.
Fur stayed still, muscles coiled, breath slow, eyes locked on Bash as he finally stepped forward and made his move.
And deep down, Fur already knew—
If escalation came, it would come fast.
He straightened. "We'll take you in. Bounty or not—you're valuable."
Agatha smiled faintly. "Boastful. Cocky."
Her gaze hardened. "Is that confidence—or foolishness?"
Bash slammed his staff into the ground, green energy flaring. "You underestimate me, I serve as a subordinate of a great Lord that'll leave you shaking in the boots."
The air thickened.
Agatha's smile vanished.
"Arrogant fool."
Behind them, Fur tightened his grip on the green box. The metal pulsed once—unbidden. His instincts screamed louder than ever as he took a step back toward a tree, eyes never leaving the woman who had not moved once.
The fog closed in.
And the world held its breath.