As Cestmir strode through the palace halls, the doors that once welcomed him now stood closed. The walls pressed in, narrowing with each step, as if the very stones conspired to remind him of his fading influence. The church had tightened its grip on the kingdom’s veins, strangling the flow of information until only a trickle remained—filtered, censored, controlled. Even Queen Marguen’s hand had been severed from her own decrees, her royal seal supplanted by Davos’ crest, its red wax decorating every document.

  Yet not even Davos’ iron rule could contain the news of Pragian’s fall. It swept through the palace like wildfire, fanning partisan flames on both sides. For the old guard—those desperate to carve a middle path between the church’s dominance and Pragian’s vital stronghold—it was another ruinous blow. But worse still were the whispers, spreading like embers on the wind. Sir Tristan’s and Castell’s estates lay in ashes, razed in the name of faith. And now, that same rhetoric crept toward Cestmir, its sharp edge poised to sever what remained of his fragile standing.

  In the Vasierian barracks, Cestmir inspected the overcrowded jails, their cells bursting with those accused of opposing the church or deviating from Davos’ carefully curated orthodoxy. The truly criminal were few, their numbers drowned beneath a tide of political and religious prisoners—each name, each face, a testament to a kingdom consumed by tyranny.

  Loyalty, duty, and conscience warred within him as Cestmir’s gaze lingered on a scrap of parchment scribbled by a condemned priest. “Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind, that by testing you may discern the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.”

  The words burned in his thoughts, a spark that ignited months of secretive planning. Every risk had been calculated, every step taken in the shadows, every ally pushed to the limits of loyalty. Now, the day of reckoning had come.

  Beneath the palace, in the depths of the city’s catacombs, Cestmir stood among skull-lined walls—the silent witnesses of forgotten atrocities. The air hung thick with damp and decay, heavy with the weight of history and sacrifice. These tunnels, carved by centuries of labor and death, had become both his sanctuary and his staging ground.

  Refugees trickled in, their faces pale with desperation, their whispered thanks nearly swallowed by the shuffle of feet and the distant scurry of rats. They were the remnants of once-great houses, pawns caught in the gathering storm of rebellion. With no ships to bear them to safety, they placed their survival in the hands of Vasier’s most capable logistician.

  Yet the hard truth gnawed at Cestmir: every life he saved risked discovery. For every outcast spared, he imagined another grave—someone too entangled in the church’s web to escape.

  None weighed on him more than Gideon, the deaf priest. Marguen’s uncle had severed himself from the church’s lies, yet his promised escape remained just that—a promise, stifled beneath the suffocating grip of Vasier’s clergy. It was a fate Cestmir knew too well. To save Gideon was a calculated risk—one he was willing to take.

  But even as he plotted the priest’s rescue, one figure remained beyond his reach. Queen Marguen.

  For all his cunning, he could not save her. All he could do was shake the foundations and hope she saw the light through the cracks.

  The air in the catacombs grew colder as the next wave of refugees staggered in, their exhaustion evident in every step. Relief mingled with tension as they arrived, but Cestmir’s nerves tensed at the familiar, restless energy of Gideon’s constant jabbering. Sounds loud enough to make the ten feet of earth separating them from the sleeping city above feel dangerously thin.

  In the dim torchlight, alchemists worked feverishly, rolling barrels of Grecian incendiary into place along key escape routes. The acrid scent of oil and sulfur curled through the tunnels like serpents, biting at the nostrils. Cestmir’s eyes burned as he leaned in, whispering orders to his men. Even as he spoke, his mind raced ahead—to the next move, the next sacrifice, the inevitable escalation.

  With the twilight hours slipping away, Cestmir turned to the newly arrived rear guard, their faces streaked with grime. “What of the uprising?”

  A breathless soldier straightened. “In position, my lord. Awaiting your command. The night shields us… for now.”

  Cestmir nodded. “Then this is it. Godspeed.”

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  The soldier stepped forward, clasping Cestmir in a firm embrace. “I’ll meet you in the afterlife.”

  Cestmir allowed himself the ghost of a grin. “Live true, die old, my friend.”

  The camaraderie warmed the freezing tension—until the tunnel air shifted.

  A sour, metallic scent rolled through the passage, sharp as vinegar. Something unnatural rode the current, pressing against their lungs.

  Then, from the distant shadows, a figure emerged.

  It did not advance. It simply stood—a silhouette barely touched by the torchlight, its eyes glowing a deep, malevolent red. Unarmed. Barefoot. Deathly still, save for the sound of its breathing—slow, rhythmic, but beneath it, something was wrong. Something feral. Something barely restrained.

  A wave of dread swept through the group. No one spoke. No one moved. Even the torchlight flickered, as if recoiling from the thing’s presence.

  “They’re here!” the soldier shouted, shattering the silence. He shoved Cestmir toward the escape route. “Go! Now! We’ll hold them off!”

  The rear guard locked their shields, their formation a wall of discipline and defiance. Each man felt the weight of fear pressing against his ribs, but they held their ground, eyes fixed on the red-eyed specter ahead.

  Cestmir hesitated, his gut knotting. His eyes met the soldier’s—the same one who had embraced him moments before. Without a word, the man gave a resolute nod, then hurled his torch toward the stockpiled barrels.

  The flame struck. Sparks leapt—then fizzled into embers. No explosion. No fire. Nothing.

  Cestmir swore under his breath. No time to try again. With no other choice, he turned and ran. His legs, built for bracing rather than sprinting, carried him in an uneven, shuffling gait. Yet it was enough. He had just rounded the corner when a shockwave tore through the tunnel.

  His rear guardsmen became weightless—flung like ragdolls against the skull-lined walls. Bones cracked. Shields shattered. The air swirled with dust and the splintered remnants of what had once been men.

  Through the settling haze, the red-eyed being emerged. It strolled forward, unhurried, barefooted over the wreckage. Splinters and shards clawed at the stone but left no mark on its flesh. It stepped over the bodies with eerie calm, as if inevitability itself had taken form. Upon rounding the corner, its glowing gaze fixed on the scene ahead—a scrambling quartermaster, mere strides from the swirling glow of a purple miasma.

  Cestmir’s portal. His only escape.

  The creature tensed, muscles rippling beneath its pale skin in unnatural waves.

  Then, with terrifying speed—it lunged.

  But before it could close the distance, the barrels of incendiary ignited with an ear-splitting hiss. Flames tore through the catacombs, a wave of searing heat and chaos, consuming everything in its path.

  Cestmir dove to the ground as the blast rushed past him, flames licking at his heels. Smoke billowed in thick, suffocating plumes, blotting out the world in a veil of black haze. He stumbled toward the portal, its violet glow flickering faintly through the chaos. Through the roaring inferno, he caught a glimpse of the trailing figure.

  Its twin red glow piercing flames, smoke and the thick fabric lining that covered it’s eyes. Part human, part demon The blind monk moved with manic fury, its bare skin blackened but unscathed, the flames licking harmlessly at its form. Its feet planted wide on the scorched ground, arms outstretched like some corrupted parody of a priest’s blessing.

  The air around the creature warped, bending light into unnatural patterns. Reality rippled, folding into an unstable vortex that condensed into a sickly, discolored orb. It pulsed—wrong, menacing—as the monk pressed its hands together, the swirling energy compressed between two crackling plates of magic. Then, with a sharp pop, the orb burst free.

  The projectile spun wildly, defying the laws of motion as it hurtled toward its mark.

  Cestmir barely had time to react before it struck his back armor with a sickening thud. A violent jolt ripped through him, his limbs convulsing, his lungs locking in a breathless seizure of pain. A paralyzing wave surged along his spine, his vision flickering with streaks of violet light.

  Somewhere beyond the haze, a hand reached for him. It was Gideon.

  Calls of desperation drove Cestmir forward. He clawed at the ground, dragging his numbed body inch by inch until Gideon seized his arm and wrenched him through the portal.

  On the other side, Cestmir collapsed, gasping, his body wracked with the aftershocks of the attack. Behind him, the portal pulsed faintly, its pagan magic flickering in defiance.

  He turned—just in time to witness the red-eyed monk claw at the barrier, its fists pounding with feral intensity. Each strike grew wilder, more frenzied, knuckles buckling against the unseen force that repelled it. Yet the portal held, jolting the creature back with every frenzied blow.

  Then—beyond the monk, something worse emerged.

  From the inferno, a shifting, amorphous figure slithered into view. Its form flickered and warped, a mockery of shape—never whole, never still. Twin red eyes burned through the haze, mirroring the blind monk’s own.

  At its presence, the monk stilled, bowing his head in silent reverence, his frenzy fading into eerie submission.

  The creature did not acknowledge him. It had already found its prey. The ancient Id’s gaze locked onto Cestmir and his scattered exiles, its malice pressing against the air like an unspoken threat.

  Through the Blind Monk, Id spoke, its voice scraping like rusted iron. “Run. Hide. Die.”

  Cestmir’s chest tightened as the portal flickered—once, twice—before sealing shut with a final, resolute pulse of light. The catacombs, the fire, the monk, the figure—gone. But even in safety, he felt its gaze linger. Heavy. Inescapable. Branded into his mind like a curse.