Chapter 27

  Ever since we had become prisoners of the blizzard, we—and the other guests—could only guess when morning began and when night fell. The storm outside blurred all lines of time and routine. So, two days after our encounter with the Crytomancers, we spent the entire day seated at the bar in the common room. No one said much. From time to time, a few of the other stranded guests came down from their rooms to warm themselves by the fire, grab a drink, or shuffle cards with weary hands. Sometimes we got odd looks for how focused we were—for the tension written across our faces—but no one asked questions. No one interrupted.

  As what we assumed to be evening settled in, the common room filled with the familiar mix of Dealers, mercenaries, and the blizzard-weary. Laughter echoed, mugs clinked, fire crackled. An hour later, they were gone. All of them. Whether to bed or some card game in another room. And only we remained—us, and Markus.

  Vin and I stood in the far left corner of the room, half in shadow, cloaked in caution. It was the position we had chosen in case Maira’s invisibility veil failed to hold up against a scrying spell. I briefly wondered if Erebos had helped her cast it. The thought alone made something twist in my gut, but I pushed it aside. I had made peace with that part of our lives.

  She wasn’t the wicked sorceress I had once imagined—no sinister witch from children’s horror stories who whispered curses in the dark. No, Maira was a priestess who had lost everything in a firestorm of war and chaos. Now she wanted nothing more than a sanctuary. And she was hunted, condemned, only because her faith was seen as wrong.

  What a beautiful world we lived in.

  But that wasn’t tonight’s concern.

  Simon and Maira were hidden at the stairwell, just behind the thick wooden railing. Vin and I prepared in silence—hand resting on sword, breath steady, eyes sharp. Any moment now.

  Then, at last, Simon gave the signal.

  Markus rose with that familiar arrogance—his noble posture, the kind he only put on when we were watching—and stepped deliberately into the center of the trap. The cage. The bait.

  How poetic.

  We waited.

  And waited.

  And kept waiting.

  Then—at last—a sound. A low, rising rush, like distant waves crashing through the snow. Vin’s hands lit up with an eerie green glow, her eyes narrowed in focus. Simon muttered a string of arcane syllables under his breath, his fingers tracing glowing sigils in the air. Maira raised her staff, holding it like a divine weapon, arms outstretched, as though she were about to fire a beam of pure judgment.

  I reached for my sword. My posture stiffened. My heartbeat slowed. My mind sharpened. I was ready—more than ready.

  Ready to break free from this frozen prison.

  Ready to bring down the Crytomancers.

  Ready to resume the hunt.

  Markus’ typical arrogance—his theatrical posture, his smug composure—vanished instantly. Because it got colder. Not just a chill in the air. Not the kind of cold we’d endured for days. No—this was something ancient. This was mountain-peak, soul-biting cold. The kind of cold found only deep in the north, on the highest summits of the Frostclaw Range. I saw frost snake its way across the wooden floorboards, spreading like veins. For a brief, ironic moment, I hoped the mana cage was insulated. Maybe it could give Markus some warmth. Maybe.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Then the wind returned.

  A whistle, faint at first—then sharper, wilder. It pierced the wood and stone like the scream of a banshee. It wasn’t just the wind. It was the blizzard, as if the storm outside had grown tired of knocking and decided to force its way in.

  And then—of course—I heard his voice.

  That damned voice.

  “Oh, now this is getting interesting,” said Gravor, that ever-smirking parasite in my mind.

  I rolled my eyes beneath my helmet. “Gravor, we agreed. No more talking. If you’re just here for snarky commentary, then disappear!”

  “Perish the thought,” he replied in a tone of faux innocence. “I just came to warn you, because things are about to go BOOM.”

  My stomach dropped. “Wait, what?!”

  He chuckled gleefully. “Explosion in 3… 2… 1…”

  “Everyone, get down!” I shouted—but I was too late.

  A soundless pressure rippled through the room, followed by an ear-splitting crack. The world turned blinding white. A violent burst of wind and frost engulfed everything—floor, walls, ceiling. Snow and shattered mana particles erupted like a magical avalanche, swallowing the room whole. I could feel myself being thrown off balance, my back slamming against something unyielding. The air was gone. Sight was gone. All that remained was white. A swirling, roaring white void.

  -

  I woke up.

  Not in a bed. Not even in the inn. But on... a lake?

  Yes. I awoke lying on the flat, glassy surface of a frozen lake—but somehow, not a lake. I stood slowly, cautiously, boots skidding slightly across the slick ice. I had to focus to keep my balance. All around me stretched frozen ground, as if the world had been flattened into nothing but this white expanse. In the distance, far beyond the horizon, I thought I saw snow-covered peaks—sharp, jagged teeth of some forgotten mountain range.

  My breath caught.

  Did we fail? Is this… the new world?

  My thoughts spiraled. Where was the inn? Where were the others? Where was anything?

  And then, like a whisper curling up from the back of my skull, I felt it. A stir in my thoughts. A grin I couldn’t see—but felt.

  “Gravor? Is that you?”

  A moment of mock silence, and then his voice returned—drenched in melodrama.

  “I thought you didn’t want to talk to me anymore.”

  He even feigned a pout, his tone exaggeratedly hurt.

  Then, naturally, he burst out laughing. “Kidding, obviously.”

  “Hilarious,” I muttered, my voice echoing in this strange half-space.

  But the panic returned fast, clawing at my chest like a tightening chain. “Where are we? Is this real? Is it over? Did we—”

  Gravor cut me off with a snort of amusement. “Whoa, calm down. Fear? Not my favorite flavor. Little too salty.”

  I tried to focus, tried to anchor myself in something, anything. But I couldn’t feel my body—not like normal. My fingers didn’t move. My breath left no vapor. It was like existing inside a thought. I asked him again, more cautiously this time:

  “Where… is this?”

  “A blend,” he replied. “Not quite real, not quite dream. Think of it as a simulation. A test. An echo of a possible future, stitched into the fabric of your soul.”

  “My soul?” I echoed.

  “That thing you're walking around in? That’s not your body, my dear Luken. That’s your self. Your soul, raw and unfiltered.”

  Silence stretched between us.

  Then I asked the question that had been clawing at me since he first started talking again:

  “Why are you explaining all this so willingly? And how the hell do you know all this?”

  And there it was again. That insufferable smile. I didn’t see it—but I felt it, pressing into the edges of my thoughts like a vice.

  “Oh, Luken…” he cooed with wicked satisfaction. “You still know so very little about me.”

  And then the ice beneath my feet cracked—just a little.

  “How do I get out of here? What can I do?” I asked through gritted teeth, my voice echoing slightly in the endless frozen void. I hated being this helpless. I hated being reliant on a creature like him—an eternal grinning jester who fed off my rage and treated everything like a game. But right now, I had no other choice.

  Gravor responded with his usual smug tone.

  “Well, someone’s essentially laying siege to your mind. Twisting it. Warping it. The best option, obviously, is to kill whoever’s doing it—but in your current state that’s, let’s say, a teensy bit unfea—wait. Oh.”

  He stopped. Abruptly.

  I tensed. “What?”

  A pause, then his voice came quieter.

  “Your tormentor is arriving.”

  A chill—colder than the ice I stood on—slid down my spine.

  “You mean the one attacking my mind? The one controlling this?”

  “Where is he?!”

  Gravor didn’t answer right away. When he did, his tone had lost all its usual glee.

  “I don’t know who it is. But I can feel it. Someone… someone’s soul is entering this space. Right now.”

  My hands clenched into fists.

  “Why? Why would they come in here?”

  For the first time since I had met him—if one could call this meeting—Gravor didn’t laugh. Didn’t grin. His voice became steady. Cold.

  “To kill your soul, Luken.”

  Just as he said it, the sky above me—if it could even be called a sky—cracked.

  A jagged line of darkness split the horizon.

  And something stepped through.