Tanner crouched low beneath the cover of tangled underbrush, his breath shallow, his heartbeat a steady drum in his ears. The coarse branches of the bush pricked against his skin, but he did not dare move. Movement meant noise, and noise meant attention. And attention from his master was the st thing he wanted. His fingers twitching as visions of the near future pulsed at the edges of his mind. His breath came slow, controlled—too much excitement, too much stress, and the Sight would slip from his grasp entirely. Even now, fragmented possibilities flickered before him: blood on stone, a spear piercing darkness, a hand reaching for salvation only to grasp nothing but air.

  Faraun stood at the heart of the battlefield, his presence an unshaken pilr of dominance amidst the chaos. The elf’s lips curled in amusement as he wove his spells, his fingers twisting through the air with an elegance only the Arcane Elves could possess. The necrotic barrier shimmered around him, an impregnable dome of sickly green energy, each pulse of its surface exuding raw malice. The man—the warrior with the spear—had crashed against it like a storm-driven wave against stone, only to find himself repelled, each attack sliding uselessly off the elven magic.

  Tanner’s stomach twisted. He had seen this before—seen how Faraun toyed with those who opposed him. The elf was enjoying himself, savoring the dance of death, prolonging the struggle for his own amusement.

  And yet, the man kept coming.

  Tanner’s fingers twitched at his side, his instincts screaming at him to intervene. But he knew better. To act openly was to invite punishment. The colr around his neck was proof enough of that—an unbroken circle of bck metal, carved with runes of binding. Its touch was cool against his skin, deceptively smooth. He knew its magic well. The colr around his throat hummed with cold energy, its power suppressing his magic, limiting his Sight to fractured glimpses rather than the clear, flowing streams of fate he would otherwise command. His restrictions were only lifted when his master needed his Sight for something. The colr’s also magic ensured he could not act against his master, not without agony searing through every nerve like molten iron. It did not, however, make him blind.

  The moment he stepped out of line, it would seize him. It would burn. It would break him. And Faraun would watch, impassive as ever.

  But Tanner was a Seer, and Seers were not meant to act directly.

  He saw the warrior caught. Faraun had conjured tendrils of necromantic flesh from the broken earth, the rotting appendages slithering up to ensnare his limbs, holding him in pce like a fly in a spider’s web. The human struggled, his muscles straining, veins bulging against his skin as he fought for purchase. The spear in his grip trembled, its point still aimed at Faraun, but the necromancer had already moved beyond him. Faraun was patient, meticulous. He would py with his prey before delivering the final strike.

  Tanner had seen it before—how his master worked. The elf did not simply kill. He dissected. He learned. He ensured that his victories were not merely acts of violence but lessons. Faraun never left a foe to chance; he studied, observed, adapted. And now, he was learning Jack’s limits.

  But Tanner had seen something else.

  A path. A way that just might lead to the freedom he so longed for.

  His gaze flickered across the battlefield, taking in every detail. The monstrous corpse-thing, the Colossus, writhed and shed, a shifting mountain of stolen flesh. The Scraeling woman chanted frantically, her staff glowing with blue fire as she hurled spell after spell into the creature’s rotting mass. It recoiled, momentarily shriveling where her magic struck, but the damage was never enough. The goblin darted between the Colossus’s limbs, his poisoned dagger slicing through tendrils of necrotic sinew. Each strike sent shivers of death racing through whatever corpse he struck, but the abomination did not falter. It simply reformed, an ever-shifting nightmare that did not recognize defeat.

  And the wolves—the beast with eyes like molten gold and blue furred companion—fought alongside them. Their fangs found purchase in rotting flesh, their movements fluid, relentless. But the Colossus did not care. It did not bleed. It did not weaken.

  The Aguirs had made it well. He knew Faraun had been given the ring by one of his seniors in House Aguir though he did not know which one. It had been meant to be used to secure the Dungeon, which he supposed Faraun was doing.

  Tanner swallowed hard. He could not fight. He could not defy his master. But he could see. And if he saw the right thing—if he nudged fate in the right direction—perhaps the scales might tip against Faraun without Tanner ever lifting a hand.

  His eyes fluttered shut, and the world shifted.

  It was like stepping out of his own body, his mind stretching beyond time and space. The battlefield became a web of possibilities, threads of fate spinning outward in infinite directions. He saw the man with the spear summon a burst of new strength as he activated a Skill. His spear—useless against the necrotic flesh of the Colossus—would be far more effective against the brittle, rotten tendrils binding him. He would drive its point into the ground, using the leverage to push himself backward, breaking free of the worst of the entanglement. One arm would still be bound, but it would be enough.

  In his vision, Tanner saw the warrior lunge forward , saw the precise angle of his charge, saw the way Faraun would sidestep at the st possible moment, unleashing another volley of necrotic energy. The man would be too slow to react. The next bst Tanner crouched low beneath the cover of tangled underbrush, his breath shallow, his heartbeat a steady drum in his ears. The coarse branches of the bush pricked against his skin, but he did not dare move. Movement meant noise, and noise meant attention. And attention from his master was the st thing he wanted. His fingers twitching as visions of the near future pulsed at the edges of his mind. His breath came slow, controlled—too much excitement, too much stress, and the Sight would slip from his grasp entirely. Even now, fragmented possibilities flickered before him: blood on stone, a spear piercing darkness, a hand reaching for salvation only to grasp nothing but air.

  Faraun stood at the heart of the battlefield, his presence an unshaken pilr of dominance amidst the chaos. The elf’s lips curled in amusement as he wove his spells, his fingers twisting through the air with an elegance only the Arcane Elves could possess. The necrotic barrier shimmered around him, an impregnable dome of sickly green energy, each pulse of its surface exuding raw malice. The man—the warrior with the spear—had crashed against it like a storm-driven wave against stone, only to find himself repelled, each attack sliding uselessly off the elven magic.

  Tanner’s stomach twisted. He had seen this before—seen how Faraun toyed with those who opposed him. The elf was enjoying himself, savoring the dance of death, prolonging the struggle for his own amusement.

  And yet, the man kept coming.

  Tanner’s fingers twitched at his side, his instincts screaming at him to intervene. But he knew better. To act openly was to invite punishment. The colr around his neck was proof enough of that—an unbroken circle of bck metal, carved with runes of binding. Its touch was cool against his skin, deceptively smooth. He knew its magic well. The colr around his throat hummed with cold energy, its power suppressing his magic, limiting his Sight to fractured glimpses rather than the clear, flowing streams of fate he would otherwise command. His restrictions were only lifted when his master needed his Sight for something. The colr’s also magic ensured he could not act against his master, not without agony searing through every nerve like molten iron. It did not, however, make him blind.

  The moment he stepped out of line, it would seize him. It would burn. It would break him. And Faraun would watch, impassive as ever.

  But Tanner was a Seer, and Seers were not meant to act directly.

  He saw the warrior caught. Faraun had conjured tendrils of necromantic flesh from the broken earth, the rotting appendages slithering up to ensnare his limbs, holding him in pce like a fly in a spider’s web. The human struggled, his muscles straining, veins bulging against his skin as he fought for purchase. The spear in his grip trembled, its point still aimed at Faraun, but the necromancer had already moved beyond him. Faraun was patient, meticulous. He would py with his prey before delivering the final strike.

  Tanner had seen it before—how his master worked. The elf did not simply kill. He dissected. He learned. He ensured that his victories were not merely acts of violence but lessons. Faraun never left a foe to chance; he studied, observed, adapted. And now, he was learning Jack’s limits.

  But Tanner had seen something else.

  A path. A way that just might lead to the freedom he so longed for.

  His gaze flickered across the battlefield, taking in every detail. The monstrous corpse-thing, the Colossus, writhed and shed, a shifting mountain of stolen flesh. The Scraeling woman chanted frantically, her staff glowing with blue fire as she hurled spell after spell into the creature’s rotting mass. It recoiled, momentarily shriveling where her magic struck, but the damage was never enough. The goblin darted between the Colossus’s limbs, his poisoned dagger slicing through tendrils of necrotic sinew. Each strike sent shivers of death racing through whatever corpse he struck, but the abomination did not falter. It simply reformed, an ever-shifting nightmare that did not recognize defeat.

  And the wolves—the beast with eyes like molten gold and blue furred companion—fought alongside them. Their fangs found purchase in rotting flesh, their movements fluid, relentless. But the Colossus did not care. It did not bleed. It did not weaken.

  The Aguirs had made it well. He knew Faraun had been given the ring by one of his seniors in House Aguir though he did not know which one. It had been meant to be used to secure the Dungeon, which he supposed Faraun was doing.

  Tanner swallowed hard. He could not fight. He could not defy his master. But he could see. And if he saw the right thing—if he nudged fate in the right direction—perhaps the scales might tip against Faraun without Tanner ever lifting a hand.

  His eyes fluttered shut, and the world shifted.

  It was like stepping out of his own body, his mind stretching beyond time and space. The battlefield became a web of possibilities, threads of fate spinning outward in infinite directions. He saw the man with the spear summon a burst of new strength as he activated a Skill. His spear—useless against the necrotic flesh of the Colossus—would be far more effective against the brittle, rotten tendrils binding him. He would drive its point into the ground, using the leverage to push himself backward, breaking free of the worst of the entanglement. One arm would still be bound, but it would be enough.

  In his vision, Tanner saw the warrior lunge forward , saw the precise angle of his charge, saw the way Faraun would sidestep at the st possible moment, unleashing another volley of necrotic energy. The man would be too slow to react. The next bst would hit him square in the chest, and it would be over.

  Unless…

  Tanner’s lips parted, though no words escaped. He did not need to speak for the weave of fate to shift. He simply needed to choose.

  The thread bent. The man’s footing adjusted—so subtly it was imperceptible to all but Tanner. And just like that, the future changed.

  Faraun cast his spell, the air around him thrumming with raw, untamed power. Green energy crackled between his fingers, illuminating the sharp angles of his face with an eerie glow. With a precise flick of his wrist, the spell leaped from his outstretched hand, a streak of emerald lightning tearing through the air toward its intended target—straight for the warrior’s heart.

  For an instant, it seemed inevitable, a death blow hurtling toward flesh and bone with unerring precision. But at the st possible moment, the warrior twisted. It was not a dodge born of foresight, nor of any conscious reaction—rather, it was as though his body itself had recoiled from the attack on pure instinct, guided by something beyond thought. The lethal bolt missed its mark by the width of a hair.

  Instead of piercing his chest, the energy seared past him, brushing against the fabric of his tunic, scorching the reinforced leather, and sending a whisper of smoke curling into the night air. His armor groaned under the heat, a thin red line of burned cloth marking where the spell had almost found purchase. But almost was not enough. He still stood.

  Across the battlefield, Faraun’s confident smirk flickered—barely, but enough to be noticed.

  Tanner let out a slow, silent breath. It was a small thing. A single second, a fraction of a step. But a battle was made of moments like these. And as long as Faraun did not suspect—

  Pain.

  Tanner’s vision snapped back into his body as fire nced through his skull. His colr burned against his throat, the runes fring red-hot. He bit down on his lip to keep from crying out, his hands digging into the dirt. He had pushed too far. His interference had been noticed—not by Faraun, but by the magic that bound him.

  He gasped for air, his vision swimming. He could feel the colr’s magic crawling through his veins, seeking to punish him further. He had to stop. He had to stop now, before it crushed him entirely.

  But the battle was not over.

  The man pressed forward, his spear fshing, forcing Faraun to stay on the defensive. The goblin and the Scraeling fought like demons against the Colossus, buying time that could mean the difference between life and death.

  And Tanner could still see.

  His fingers curled into fists. He could not be caught again. He could not afford another misstep. But there were ways to push fate without breaking it.

  His gaze darted toward the battlefield, calcuting. The Colossus was shifting, its weight tilting, its limbs overextending in one particur direction. If someone struck now—

  Tanner closed his eyes, nudging the thread.

  The goblin leaped.

  His dagger, wreathed in insidious poison, sank into an exposed stretch of necrotic sinew at just the right angle. The Colossus recoiled, its bance faltering. Its movements, so fluid before, hesitated for the briefest moment.

  And the wolves took advantage of it.

  The rger beast lunged, his jaws locking onto a critical tendon of withered muscle. His smaller companion followed suit, their combined weight dragging the creature down.

  The Colossus shuddered, its towering form momentarily colpsing in on itself.

  It was not defeated. But it was wounded. And wounds led to opportunity.

  Tanner slumped back, his head pounding, his breath ragged. He had done all he could without exposing himself further. He had nudged fate along its course, but he was still bound, still powerless in all the ways that mattered.

  He could only hope it would be enough.