Chapter 74

  “No,” said Ulthanox, his voice firm. No tremor, no doubt. The words stood in the air like a bastion.

  “Nothing will be too late.”

  Slowly, he raised the scythe. Its long shaft, made of black, porous material, looked almost alive. He pointed the blade toward the chained figure before him.

  “For this is your prison,” Ulthanox continued. “And these chains were not forged by mortal hands. They were woven from the fabric of creation. By my father. No magic, no curse, no will—not even that of a god—can break them. And certainly no power from Tirros.”

  A moment of silence followed. Heavy and tense, as if even the wind in this forgotten realm held its breath.

  The prisoner’s bonds creaked slightly, but held. His silhouette—barely discernible, a hulking shape clad in dark plate armor, broad-shouldered, with a presence that could silence even death itself—did not move.

  For the fraction of a heartbeat, Ulthanox believed his opponent had truly fallen silent. That perhaps his words had reached him.

  But then… laughter.

  Deep. Rumbling. Like thunder rolling through a chamber of bones.

  “You don’t believe that yourself, old friend,” the prisoner sneered, straightening slowly. “You want to believe it. You cling to that ancient hope like a fool spending his last coins on a miracle.”

  The black armor cracked and groaned as he stood upright, like ancient wood under strain. His hands, encased in gauntlets made from dragon scales, clenched into fists. Behind the visor of his helm, two lights glowed—cold blue, clear, piercing.

  “But you’ve seen it,” he went on, quieter now, his voice cutting deeper. “You know what my chosen one is preparing. You’ve felt it. In the runes. In the voices. In the fading of light above Thulegard.”

  Ulthanox said nothing. He only looked at him—like a warden who has kept watch for millennia, not because he must, but because words are beneath him.

  “Soon,” the player continued, “I will cast my gaze upon that world. I will not walk it yet. Not yet. But I will see. And he will be my eyes.”

  He savored the next words.

  “Reyn will see what I wish to see. He will feel what I wish to feel.”

  Then, softly—sweet and bitter all at once:

  “And when he is ready, it will be you who will want to erase his name from history... Brother.”

  Ulthanox’s voice struck like a thunderclap.

  “YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO CALL ME BROTHER!”

  The words echoed. Through walls. Through chains. Through realms. Every prisoner in the depths of the Lower Realms heard them—perhaps even those at the edge of existence itself.

  And yet… his stance remained composed. His black cloak drifted gently. The mask with golden teeth and deep crimson eyes betrayed no emotion. Not rage. Not sorrow. Only that endless, unyielding silence.

  “These times are over,” he said then, quieter. A fleeting murmur, almost to himself.

  The prisoner took half a step forward. His presence flooded the chamber like a dark tide. Then he raised his chin.

  “And yet… when they return, when the others join me… it won’t be the light they seek, but me.”

  He tilted his head slightly.

  “Will you be ready when that day comes? Will you be ready, brother?”

  A moment of silence. Then the faint echo of a mocking smile.

  And Ulthanox vanished into the black mist.

  -

  When I saw Vin—alive, free, unharmed—something in me flipped. No dramatic clatter. No blinding flash of light inside me. More like an old mechanism creaking back into motion—dusty, almost rusted. Slow, but irreversible. Suddenly, everything around me felt different. Not wrong, not right—just... different. The rebellion, Reyn, Thulegard. It wasn’t that my worldview collapsed in on itself. I had built it like a fortress, stone by stone. And I wasn’t one to let anyone shake that foundation easily. I still believed in the order Reyn was trying to preserve—and the thought that the rebels wanted to topple it still felt like a threat to the world’s balance. But something inside me... shifted.

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  I listened to Vin as she spoke. Her voice was as always: calm, steady, alive—but not without scars. She told me of the days she had spent here. Of conversations. Of life in the camp. Of the day-to-day reality among those who fought Reyn. She didn’t speak with hate. Not with burning conviction. She just spoke... honestly. And that’s what hit me. For the first time in what felt like a very long time—perhaps since arriving in Thulegard—I did something I had never fully allowed myself to do. I questioned. Not as a gut feeling. Not as a vague whisper in the back of my mind. No. It was a clear, conscious thought: What if I’m wrong? Not entirely. Not in everything. But just a little? And a little was more than I had expected.

  “Congratulations,” came the mocking voice in my head. “One soul bond less.” Gravor sounded amused—the voice of a demon who knew the man inside me better than I did. I could hear him grinning. “The bond to your perfect, golden king... just got a little weaker.” I scoffed quietly and responded in thought, as we sat down minutes later at a long table, joined by the leader of the rebellion. “You want me to betray him, don’t you?” – “I want nothing. I merely observe. And, let’s say... I enjoy the change. Feels good, doesn’t it? That your rage no longer belongs to some foreign power?” He was right. I felt it now, sitting in this hall. I felt calm. No bubbling anger beneath my skin. No poisoned thoughts. No restless visions of tearing these people apart. Just... a table. A fire. And two people I trusted.

  Reyn had fed my anger, my thoughts, my actions. Whether deliberately or not, I didn’t know for sure. But I had felt the break—somewhere between Vin’s embrace and her voice. A knot had snapped. Would I forgive him? I didn’t know. Would I make him pay for it? Even less. But this wasn’t a moment for final decisions. Not for vengeance. Not for alliances. And if the rebels thought I’d trust them blindly now, just because I no longer stood under Reyn’s shadow—they were sorely mistaken. An embrace, no matter how warm, doesn’t change my heart. Not completely. Not in a life like mine.

  What mattered now was that we were all here. Together. Unharmed. Maira, next to me, watched as always—alert, but calm. Vin sat to my left, one hand still resting on my shoulder, as if to reassure herself I wouldn’t vanish again. And then there was Arik—appearing to the right of the rebel leader like a dark wind, out of nowhere, as Ashbloods do. He, too, was safe. We were alive.

  The room was quiet. No sudden speeches. No plan. No loud welcome. Just the soft crackle of the fireplace, curling through the air like an old friend. Outside, the rebels’ voices—a child laughed, someone scraped metal over stone, a pot was being stirred. Life. Not war. Not yet. I looked around. Most eyes turned toward me in return—questioning. No one said it aloud, but everyone—everyone—was thinking the same thing. What now?

  Only one man seemed to have known the answer long before we had even walked through the gate. The man in the blue robe. He sat at the end of the table, calm, hands folded, as if he had seen all this before. Maybe he had. Maybe he was just very, very good at planning. Or maybe... he too was part of a game far greater than I could currently grasp.

  But I swore something to myself in that moment, sitting at the table with the others: I would understand it. And then I would decide. Not out of rage. Not out of duty. Not out of guilt. But because I chose to.

  -

  Gravor was celebrating. Not with drums, dancing, or skulls sacrificed to some cruel god—though that was undoubtedly still on his to-do list. No, this time he celebrated in his own very special way: with a bath. Yes. A bath. A technique almost unheard of in Tirros. Invented by some highly intellectual, slightly megalomaniac dwarves from the second continent. Something with hot steam, underground lava-heating systems, and scented soaps that allegedly improved memory. (Spoiler: they didn’t.) Gravor was delighted.

  Of course, he couldn’t create anything Luken hadn’t seen, heard, or dreamed of during puberty—but that was enough. More than enough. Because Gravor knew his host well. And Luken’s mind held far more dirty secrets than Luken himself would ever admit. Like the Wolve Howler. An inn. Or a brothel. Or a tavern with very friendly extras—depending on who you asked. That’s where Luken had met Rurik. And where he’d... seen things. And those memories? Crystal clear. Extremely convenient.

  Now Gravor lay in a spirit-bath. A wide, golden claw-foot tub. Steam floated over the surface like morning fog over the Misty Sea. The water smelled of lavender and a touch of ash—his own personal blend. Two candles flickered. Somewhere in the background, a lute played softly. You’d think a gangly, fire-skinned demon with black, cracked hide, leathery goat horns, clawed fingers, and a crocodile maw would be the last being you’d expect lounging in a bubble bath with his shoulders raised—but Gravor wasn’t a slave to expectations. Demons had rights too. Including the right to me-time.

  He stretched out. His knees poked too far out of the water. He slid them back in. It squeaked. “Ahhh…” he sighed. “Finally, sole sovereign once more over wrath, rage, and spontaneous murder-lust. Welcome back, my kingdom.” Then he lifted one hand, snapped his claws—woosh!—and she appeared beside him: the dryad from the Wolve Howler. Faintly transparent, just a trace of a memory, but detailed enough that even Luken would’ve recognized her in a dream. Skin like moss kissed by morning dew. Hair like braided branches. And that gaze... that gaze!

  “Stop staring,” she said, even though she wasn’t a real thought. Gravor shrugged. “I’m not staring. I’m appreciating.” She rolled her eyes and half-evaporated again. Gravor summoned a book instead. “99 Ways to Drive Your Paladin Insane” – Volume III. He leaned back, took a sip from a glass (mead? blood? lava juice? who knew?), and sank into pages that weren’t written but etched.

  And yet, even in all this indulgence, he remained watchful. Not because of enemies. Not attackers. Because of Luken. The problem with paladins was: you never knew when they’d come to their senses. Gravor needed Luken. Needed his rage. His disappointment. That growing grudge against Reyn. Only then could Gravor act. Influence. Guide.

  The last few weeks had been rough—wings, spells, divine insights, and a painfully stubborn willpower that had nearly knocked Gravor out of the armor. But now? Now the balance had been restored. The anger was back. The doubt in Reyn dripping like honey through a sieve. The closeness to the rebels... well, that would help. It wasn’t time yet. Luken didn’t trust enough. Didn’t hate enough. But he would. Definitely.

  Gravor smiled. Stupidly. Widely. Satisfied. He sank deeper into the bath—making sure his horns didn’t scrape the wall again—and whispered: “And don’t you dare need your wings right now, Luken... I just found the soap.”