“No,” I whisper. “You don’t get to take him.”

  The Living Scripture ignites, golden text unfurling from my skin like awakened serpents, their glow fluid and purposeful. The Decrees react instantly, sensing the unnatural grip that still clings to Luke.

  I press my fingers to the El-Rah symbol, the gate between realms. I don’t rip. I don’t shatter.

  I rewrite.

  The air vibrates. The solidified black mass trembles, fractures spiderwebbing across its surface like it’s rejecting the command. But I push harder, my voice like a blade.

  “You will release him. He does not belong to you.”

  The moment the Decree leaves my lips, the golden script lashes forward—searing lines of living law embedding into the wall like molten roots, threading deep, hunting its core. The black mass convulses violently, shrieking in silence as cracks of holy light spiderweb through its foundation.

  The Living Scripture doesn’t burn. It unravels.

  Each line peels back the corruption layer by layer, not with heat, but with truth—rewriting the structure beneath the darkness, breaking apart the lie it was built on.

  With a final pulse, Luke drops through, gasping, dazed, freed.

  The Decrees coil back to me like vines returning home, disappearing beneath my skin.

  Behind me, someone breathes out a wordless sound - part reverence, part disbelief. Even the black halts mid-slither, recoiling like it knows it’s already been condemned.

  No one speaks.

  No one dares.

  Silence falls.

  Alec is already at Luke’s side, turning him gently, checking for breath. He’s alive. Unconscious, but breathing.

  Samantha staggers toward them, her face pale, her steps shaky. She drops to her knees beside Luke and places trembling hands over his chest, whispering words too soft to catch.

  But her energy’s gone. She’s given too much.

  Her hands falter.

  Samuel is there before she collapses, steady and quiet. He gently catches her arm, nudging her aside.

  “I’ve got this, Sam,” he murmurs, his voice carrying calm like a tide. “Rest.”

  She nods once, barely able to stay upright, and leans back against a nearby root.

  Samuel lowers his hands over Luke, whispering a low, ancient prayer. A soft glow spreads from his fingertips, pure and unwavering. The black smudges on Luke’s aura fade, and his shallow breaths deepen.

  The healing takes, slow but sure.

  Luke was barely hanging on.

  But now… he has a chance.

  Relief punches through my chest, then flickers out. We’re not done.

  If Luke barely made it out…

  Then where the hell is Eric?

  I push to my feet, legs trembling, my strength flickering like a dying flame. “We need to move,” I rasp. “Luke’s safe, but we don’t have time. We need to find Eric—now.”

  Alec nods, already lifting Luke onto his back. The others fall into motion, no questions asked.

  Just the name …Eric … and the space between us grows tighter, warmer. My team closes ranks instinctively, our shared fear knitting us closer. Alec pulls me into a brief, grounding hug.

  “Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “Eric’s one of the best. The devil himself would run if he heard what just happened to Luke.”

  I nod, his words a momentary balm against the fear coiling in my gut.

  We push on.

  A hundred meters ahead, the path dips into a clearing. Samantha stiffens beside me, her breath hitching.

  “I saw movement,” she whispers, pointing toward the right.

  My stomach twists. Please… let it be him.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Without a word, we slide down the incline at full speed, feet pounding across uneven earth.

  And then …

  There. In the heart of the clearing.

  Eric.

  Fighting like the battlefield owes him something.

  His team is engaged, bruised, and ragged. Luke’s absence has carved a hole in their defense. Their second prayer warrior, Campbell, is crouched behind the others, drained but still standing. Eric, Leila, and Bruce, their deliverance front, are holding the line, and driving back a mass of morphing black goo now shifting into grotesque humanoid forms.

  The abyss is learning.

  We’re running out of time.

  I break forward, breath tearing through my throat. “Sams, get ready to send support the second we hit the line!”

  Samantha nods, gathering the last threads of her strength.

  Alec flares beside me, his aura brighter than I’ve ever seen it, blinding white braided with an eerie, electric blue. Warform.

  He sets Luke gently at Samuel’s feet. “Watch him for me, yeah?”

  And then he’s gone, lunging into the fray, unleashing a shockwave that tears the battlefield open. Shadow-creatures vaporize mid-charge, and dimensional rips echo through the trees like thunder caught in glass.

  The black recoils, shrieking as it slithers back.

  But I don’t stop.

  I reach Eric, crashing into him without grace, arms flung tight around his chest. He smells like blood, sweat, and something familiar that hits me harder than I expect.

  He’s alive.

  The Sams surge into place, pouring energy into Eric’s weakened team. No one else is falling today. Not on our watch.

  Eric gently pulls back, his storm-gray eyes locking onto mine, and something shifts in his expression.

  He doesn’t know what happened.

  But he sees it on my face.

  The strain. The guilt. The absence.

  His smile falters, not from fear, but recognition.

  And then his gaze sweeps the space around us, counting, tracking…

  He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. Just holds my gaze.

  And then he smiles, charming, despite the horror around us, and brushes a damp tendril of hair from my face before pulling me into him again, fierce and protective.

  But then he speaks, and his words steal the air from my lungs.

  “I don’t see Jamey.”

  My body goes still, stiffens like the words themselves hit bone.

  I shake my head once, slowly. The lump in my throat threatens to break free, but I force the words out anyway.

  “He was taken.”

  My voice cracks.

  “A demonic entity dragged him into this hellhole during a house clearing. We tried to stop it. We didn’t.”

  We haven’t found him.

  Not yet.

  Eric doesn’t ask for more. He doesn’t need to. He just pulls me closer, anchoring me in case I fall apart.

  He knows I only let myself be this vulnerable with him… or maybe Alec.

  I pull back slightly, managing a small, uneven smile as our eyes lock. “But we saved Luke.”

  Eric's gaze sharpens. He scans the clearing again, and this time, he sees it. His eyes land on the motionless body near Samuel, still and pale but unmistakably breathing.

  He starts to move toward them, until behind us, Samantha staggers.

  Samuel catches her just before she hits the ground, lowering her beside Luke. We’re all running on borrowed time.

  Eric loops an arm over my shoulder, centering me. His voice is low, worn.

  “We were trying to break through the veil. But you still need to find Jamey. What’s the play?”

  Crouching down before Luke, he checks his pulse and nods with relief.

  I swallow thickly.

  There’s only one move left.

  I close my eyes. Breathe deep.

  The Living Scripture stirs, words flowing across my skin like molten lines of destiny. They rearrange themselves with intention, ancient language forming an order I don’t command, but answer.

  I raise my right hand, palm facing upward.

  The Key of Thah’mir ignites, its glow pulsing like a heartbeat pressed against my skin. Not warm. Not cold. Just... alive.

  I press my left index finger to its center and swipe outward.

  The Decree answers.

  Gold spills into the air in delicate spirals, twisting like divine vines across the unseen plane. Not aimless, never that. The writing moves with purpose. It seeks. It hunts.

  The Earth doesn’t resist. The threads dive downward, slipping through stone, root, and bone as if reality itself has no authority here.

  Then …

  A flicker.

  A pull.

  A snap-tight jolt.

  Something’s grabbed it.

  Or more accurately, something doesn’t want to let it go.

  My Living Scripture snags, not because it’s unsure, but because whatever it’s found is trying desperately to remain hidden.

  But what it sees, I feel. And what I feel is Jamey.

  Jamey isn’t just lost.

  He’s shackled. Cloaked. Buried in something designed to keep us blind.

  Pfft. As if you can hide from the Living Scripture.

  A surge runs through me as the Ayt-Oor symbol flares into existence, just above my collarbone. It crawls upward in fluid golden motion, settling just beneath my hairline, searing like fire kissed by intent.

  The Pathfinder. The Revealer.

  The decree doesn’t knock.

  It parts the veil.

  I press my fingers to the glowing Ayt-Oor mark.

  The golden thread tightens, thickening, becoming more than a tether. It becomes a bridge.

  It pushes deeper, carving through unseen layers of reality, threading through veils not meant to be pierced. I feel it winding forward, searching, yearning, until suddenly...

  It shifts.

  The thread pulses.

  Once, twice, then it starts to tremble, syncing with a heartbeat that isn't mine.

  Jamey's.

  I feel his fear like cold water in my lungs. His pain slithers through the golden script, bleeding into me, every echo of despair, every silent scream swallowed by whatever’s holding him.

  He's not just bound.

  He’s breaking.

  But so am I.

  It’s not enough.

  The El-Rah symbol sears itself into place across my lower lip, branding the last threshold between silence and power.

  The command rips from me, not in English. Not in thought.

  In a tongue older than existence.

  The air obeys.

  A deafening crack shatters the realm.

  The world lurches.

  Golden script flares violently, slicing through dimensions like fragile paper caught in a hurricane. Each Decree on my skin ignites, words burning white-hot before detonating outward in bursts of divine fury.

  I feel myself unravelling, spirit first, then flesh.

  Pain floods my veins, raw and electric. Blood floods my mouth. The taste is sharp, metallic, sacred.

  My vision flickers. I can’t see the others. Can’t hear them.

  I’m coming undone, thread by thread, soul by soul.

  If I have to sacrifice myself to bring Jamey back…

  So be it.

  The rift groans open, split wide by my demand.

  A shadow shifts within the tear.

  Jamey stumbles forward, barely conscious, body wrecked, spirit frayed—but he’s here.

  He’s here.

  Relief slams into me, breath catching in my throat.

  But the rift doesn’t close.

  Because something else steps through.

  Chapter 4 has arrived.