Chapter 65

  After a long, uncomfortable minute of silence, during which I had to actively suppress the fighting urge still burning in me, she finally lifted her head. Her empty, blue eyes fixed on me, as if searching for something inside me she hadn’t seen before. There was no seething hatred in them anymore—only a sort of evaluating gaze. And to be honest, that made me more nervous than her previous attacks ever had.

  “I wasn't made to trust anyone,” she said at last.

  Her voice wasn’t the icy roar from earlier. It was deeper now—something harder to define. She stepped closer, and I felt my fingers tighten instinctively around the grip of my sword. It wasn’t a conscious reaction—just my body responding to something this large, this alien, getting near.

  Gravor whispered in my ear—quiet, sharp, like a friend who knows exactly which button to push.

  “Told you—they only feel hate.”

  He didn’t say it as a neutral statement. He said it in a way that made my neck prickle. A subtle push to get angry again. I clenched my jaw and forced myself not to leap forward.

  But then the Ice Stomper stopped. No strike. No stomping. She just looked at me.

  “However... you're different.”

  That almost sounded like an admission. She began to circle me. Slowly. With heavy, deliberate steps that echoed through the cave. I didn’t turn with her—I stayed still and let her do it. From the outside, it probably looked like an execution: a monster circling its prey. But inside... inside I felt the hostility begin to fade from the air. It was still cold, still tense, but now—now there was curiosity.

  Once she had made a full circle around me, she stopped beside me and spoke again. Her voice was deeper, almost surprised.

  “You are not one of those I was taught to see as enemies.”

  I tilted my head, involuntarily. A little unsure. A little curious. And—if I’m honest—a little euphoric at this unexpected turn.

  “Wait... then why did you fight me?” I asked cautiously. Not accusing—genuinely curious.

  She straightened a bit, almost regally, and answered with a kind of strictness—but not harshness. More like someone explaining a rule to a child.

  “I fight anyone who enters this domain with a drawn blade and without words.”

  Then she stomped one of her massive fists on the ground. Not an attack—just a punctuation mark. The sound rattled my bones, and I flinched slightly—not out of fear, but as an instinctive response to so much raw power.

  “That is my duty. It is how I was made.”

  Her tone wasn’t angry. Not defiant. It was almost instructional. An explanation—not a threat. Like a guardian laying out her nature to an uninvited guest.

  And I stood there, my sword half-lowered, not quite sure whether I had just won a battle—or stumbled into an entirely different kind of negotiation.

  I cleared my throat—quietly, just enough to make room for my uncertainty without showing it too openly. I chose my words carefully, like a fragile spell that might shatter at the slightest wrong note.

  “Well then,” I began slowly, but with a bit more poise in my voice, “if we no longer see each other as enemies, then I propose a deal.”

  She said nothing. No growling, no refusal, no excited stomping. But she remained silent. And I kept talking, hoping that this silence… was favorable.

  “You let my friends and me pass—we just want to get through these caves. In return… I promise to stand by your side, should anyone come who poses a threat. To whatever it is you're protecting.”

  The Ice Stomper lifted her head slightly. Not a clear nod, but something between respect and agreement. One of those movements where you hope it doesn’t mean, I’m about to eat you.

  Then she spoke—calm, clear, with a voice that hovered somewhere between majestic and ancient.

  “Then take this.”

  A small section of the ice floor cracked open right in front of me. I flinched slightly, only inwardly—the sound reminded me of shattering bones. A smooth little pedestal of dark, frost-covered wood rose from the ground—and on it rested a crystal orb. About the size of a fist. Pale blue. Pulsing. Alive.

  I frowned slightly—something I instantly regretted. Somehow—no idea how—the motion caused a grinding rub between my scales and brow plates that sent a sharp jolt of pain through my head. I clenched my teeth. Under the helmet, of course. No way was I letting a mythical ice being see me get rattled by a frown.

  The guardian—yes, that’s what I called her now in my head—made a slight movement with her arm. A wordless gesture encouraging me to take the orb. But I didn’t pick it up immediately. Not before getting an inner nod from Gravor.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “Any demonic explosions or insane soul contracts you want to tell me about later?”

  He was silent for a moment. Or thinking. To this day I don’t know which I would’ve preferred.

  “The orb itself won’t harm you,” he said eventually. “It’s… a beacon. A signal. It can call you when it needs you.”

  I exhaled inwardly. Okay. Good. Not bad.

  But—of course—Gravor wouldn’t be Gravor if he didn’t add a follow-up.

  “However…,” he added, mildly smug, “...it will create a mental connection. A small one. Not deep. But still.”

  I squinted. “How not deep are we talking?”

  “As long as you don’t have more than three, you’ll be fine. Probably.”

  Probably. That word was more dangerous than the orb itself.

  I frowned for the second time that day. More pain. And a new thought.

  “Wait. If this is the third connection… who’s the second?”

  Gravor went quiet. Then I could feel him grin to himself—that quiet kind of sadism you don’t use a weapon for, just a crooked smirk.

  “Later. Once you finish this… interesting negotiation.”

  Of course. Later. Always later.

  I looked back at the crystal orb. It glowed. And me?

  I reached out my hand.

  As soon as my claws touched it, a tingling sensation ran through me. Not intense. No pain. More like the aftershock of a failed lightning spell—a brief twitch of the nerves, and then it was gone. Just like that, I held it in my hand. This small, almost unimpressive marble. Cool. Smooth. Completely still. No vibration. No flicker. No mental impulse, no whisper in my mind, no echo from other realms. The mental connection Gravor had mentioned… was nowhere to be felt. Maybe it was so subtle I’d only notice it over time. Or maybe it was just there. Deep in the background. Silent.

  I slowly turned the orb in my claws, watching the faint bluish light that pulsed at its center—like a slowly breathing heart. Then I looked up at the Guardian.

  She hadn’t moved. Still proud. Still watchful. And now… calm.

  She spoke first.

  “When I require your aid, Paladin, this orb will emit a signal. You will return here. Immediately.”

  Her voice was clear. Not a threat. No hesitation. More like a law of nature she was calmly informing me of.

  I nodded. Not overly, not submissively. Just a simple, respectful nod. For now, at least, we were allies.

  Then she raised her fist and pointed to the passage on the left side of the cave. The one that led deeper. The path we needed.

  “I now grant you safe passage through these halls, Paladin.”

  That word again. Paladin. Not mocking. Not ironic. She meant it. And somehow, it felt… odd. Like she surprised even herself by calling me that.

  That’s when I heard footsteps. Maira appeared around the corner first, arms crossed, a look on her face somewhere between “finally” and “is there at least something left to fight?” Right behind her—much shakier on his feet—came Arik. His face was pale, which was quite a feat for someone made of ash. He looked like a storm had hurled him through every realm in existence. His eyes widened when he saw me—my wings, my claws, the sword in my hand—then the Guardian. Then me again.

  I raised a calming hand, and he nodded quickly—so quickly it looked like a muscle spasm. I waited until we were all together, gave the Guardian one last look, and inclined my head slightly. No grand words. No epic farewell. Just the essentials.

  Then we turned and walked into the now open passage. I let go of the demon form. The scales slowly vanished, the claws retracted, the wings shrank, and the sword reverted to its original—albeit slightly… warped—form. My body exhaled. Or my spirit did. Or both.

  I thought it was over.

  Then—of course—Gravor spoke again. Casually. As if he’d just been sipping tea while I negotiated with an ice monster.

  “This second connection…” he began softly. Too softly. That dangerously calm whisper he used when things were about to get interesting. “...comes from someone you trust a little too much.”

  I stopped walking.

  Just briefly. No dramatic movement. But inside, something clenched.

  I thought of Maira. Of Arik. Of Vin.

  And then I thought of Reyn.

  “Gravor…” I said cautiously, “who…?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Of course not.

  -

  The Voidroom was silent—not the kind of silence that comes from emptiness, but the silence of a perfectly ordered library. Every thread, every line had its place. Streams of silver-white light glimmered through the endless space, forming grid structures, patterns, nodes.

  Some threads were thick and ancient, layered with memory and power. Others were thin, barely there, like traces of a breath. In the midst of this psychic web floated Reyn, surrounded by his own will, focused like a watchmaker before a celestial mechanism.

  He had been here for hours. Not physically—his body sat in meditation, motionless—but mentally. In this room, he could see everything connected to him. Threads to goals, threads to tools, threads to spirits of past and future. And one of those threads led to Luken.

  Reyn modulated. Tested. Reshaped. With the patience of a master and the cold precision of an alchemist.

  But ever since Luken had entered those cursed caves, the flow had been disrupted. The line trembled. Too strong at times, too faint at others. Emotions rebounded—some unreadable, some alien. Forces began to interfere—forces not his own. And then, without warning, the third connection appeared.

  It didn’t arrive with noise or light. No flicker, no tear in the pattern. It was simply there. Delicate, almost invisible. But to Reyn—undeniable. The line stretched from Luken, weak but active. No illusion. No reflection. A real connection. And foreign.

  Reyn did not freeze. But his gaze narrowed, and within the structure of the Voidroom, certain threads subtly recoiled, like servants giving their ruler space.

  This new connection was... awake. Not demonic. Not magical in the conventional sense. More… instinctual. Like an old root suddenly breaking through the ground. Duty. Oath. Protection. The imprint of a being that had bound itself—without words. Without ritual.

  To… Luken’s patron? His master? Monster? Symbiont? Or… friend?

  The thread to Luken pulsed. Not rhythmically. Wildly. Like a beast torn between choices. And Reyn could feel it. The effect of his impulses was weakening. Resistance was growing. What once had been a smooth surface was now a rippling lake.

  This new connection—faint but present—was interfering with his work. Every precise emotion he sent was losing clarity. Being intercepted. Or distorted. It was like a spell disrupted by a foreign aura. And that… he could not tolerate.

  Reyn’s thoughts were razor-sharp, never rushed. He analyzed the new line. Probed it carefully. No traditional protective magic. No divine imprint. But the bond was real. And that made it dangerous. It was voluntary. Deep. And damn unstable.

  He couldn’t destroy it. Not without risk. A cut at that depth would hurt Luken. And worse: Luken would notice. The Paladin wasn’t stupid. And his symbiont—that shadow, that beast within him—would sense the manipulation. Reyn couldn’t risk that. Not now. Not when Luken was beginning to truly unleash his power.

  So he adapted his strategy. No more direct impulses. Instead: resonance. Feedback. He synchronized more deeply with Luken’s line. No longer just observing—he tuned into his emotions. Waited for natural fluctuations to amplify. Anger? A subtle push downward. Distrust? An echo, barely perceptible, but enough to let a doubt linger. He wouldn’t force them. He would let them dance.

  And he would lead.