Through unmarked trails and fragmented memories, Anneliese led Cestmir’s exiles through the endless northern winter, their tracks swallowed by fresh snowfall. The plateau teemed with elk and other wildlife—signs of untouched wilderness—until the desolation gave way to human refuge.

  Encircled by a sprawling shantytown of refugees and wanderers, the Temple of the Last loomed atop a cone-shaped ridge, its silhouette blurred against the dreary plateau sky.

  As the exiles passed the flimsy dirt-mound fence, familiar faces emerged from the crowd. The former red-haired leader of Keesh stirred a massive cauldron, surrounded by shivering souls desperate for warmth. Nearby, gypsies huddled in their wagons, listening as the old wizard Zizrum spun tales. Her face shifted seamlessly between the soft features of a rabbit and the fierce visage of a lion, enthralling the children with stories of distant lands and daring deeds that, if only for a moment, lifted them from their hardships.

  At the steps of the temple ridge, a crowd of battle-worn pagans and disillusioned cross-worshippers gathered, hanging on the fiery words of the burnt-faced Verivix. His vengeful cries stoked rebellion.

  “Look around! We may be few,” he shouted, “but this fight is not ours alone. From the steppes to the fjords, they’ve heard our call. And the battle mages—oh, the battle mages—have awoken! Boy or man, this is your fight!”

  The crowd erupted, voices roaring in defiant chants of “Hoorah!” and “Death to the one true serpent!” Verivix’s words dragged even the hesitant from despair.

  Verivix’s words pulled even the hesitant from their despair. Watching from a distance, Cestmir and his soldiers felt an irresistible pull as the crowd swelled—some clutching heirlooms, others staring ahead with haunted eyes, torn between their pasts and an uncertain future.

  “Please don’t,” Anneliese whispered, tugging at Cestmir’s sleeve. Her hood was drawn low, as if to shield herself from the growing frenzy. Her words were swallowed by the roaring crowd as it surged forward, sweeping her aside.

  “We are weak and tired,” Cestmir called, his voice cutting through the din. “But give us a couple of days, and you’ll have fifteen of Vasier’s finest.”

  Silence fell over the crowd. Then, like sparks catching dry tinder, murmurs spread—whispers of reverence, of awe, as if a long-lost king had returned.

  A lifetime spent as an afterthought to greater men, Cestmir had known only the quiet praise of thankless diligence. Yet now, with a few simple words, he had become a pillar of legitimacy. His presence alone swayed the undecided, tipping them toward Verivix’s cause.

  Then, from the far side of the gathering, a burst of green light split the air.

  All eyes turned.

  Bjarke stood beside a coffin-shaped chest, its lid propped open by his bare, callused foot, revealing the eerie radiance of his legendary battle-axe. His right hand clenched the wagon beside him, knuckles white. His left arm—withered, useless—hung limp at his side, a grotesque contrast to the myths that once defined him.

  His voice was barely a growl. “You, coward.” The word slithered through the air, venomous and quiet. Bjarke’s lifeless eyes locked onto Verivix. “Backstabber.”

  The crowd, as if guided by some unseen instinct, parted between them.

  Verivix tilted his head, lips curling into something that might have been a smile if not for the sharp edge beneath it. “Bjarke,” he said, his tone light, almost amused. “Where have you been? A little worse for wear, I see. Strange, how the weakest link always snaps first.”

  Bjarke’s lips barely moved. “Fools believe lies,” he murmured. “Verivix’s virtue cloaks hate. He cares only himself—disappears when need most.”

  The amusement in Verivix’s expression curdled into something darker. “Funny,” he chuckled. “Considering you were the one who deserted us.”

  He flicked his hand. His goons moved instantly, seizing the heavy chest and restraining Bjarke with ease.

  “You betrayed your own cause,” Verivix sneered, striding forward, dagger in hand. “For what?” His eyes gleamed with vengeful delight.

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  The crowd held its breath, caught between hope and disbelief.

  Bjarke didn’t resist. Even as Verivix traced the dagger’s tip against his chest, he remained still, his only response a slow lift of the chin—a silent dare.

  Then, amid the tension, Bjarke’s gaze caught a flicker of movement.

  Anneliese.

  The sight made Verivix’s henchmen stir, but before they could act, the hooded girl slipped into the crowd and vanished.

  For Anneliese, the moment cracked something deep inside her. A torrent of fear surged forth. In her mind’s eye, a hundred twisted heads of Lascivious leered at her, their faces grotesquely turned backward. His all-too-familiar voice slithered into her thoughts.

  “There he is. The root of all your despair—the liar and the thief.”

  Memories of betrayal rushed in, drowning her in white-hot hatred. Her hands went numb. Her vision blurred. The urge to lash out burned in her bones—

  Then—

  A steadying touch.

  Weddle.

  “A wizard is more than magic,” he said calmly. “They are hope against chaos, champions of their people. And though we are no wizards, we are needed nonetheless.”

  The demon within her recoiled at his presence. The storm inside her stilled. Anneliese took a breath and let clarity return. Her form flickered—transient, ghost-like—as she shifted between realms, slipping through the crowd as if she were mist. Treading a direct path before Verivix. Untouched.

  “Don’t you dare,” she said. Her hood fell back, revealing eyes glowing a smoky white.

  Verivix’s false smile curled wider. “Hmm. Aren’t we lucky,” he sneered.

  “You know what he is,” Anneliese said. “And what killing him would achieve.”

  One of Verivix’s goons lunged at her from behind, blade flashing.

  A mistake.

  The sword passed harmlessly through her spectral form. Before he could react, Anneliese teleported him away—to the pagan stronghold and back in an instant. He reappeared mid-stride, momentum lost, stumbling to Verivix’s feet.

  Verivix smirked as he reached into his pouch, fingers sifting through fine grains of enchanted sand. Slowly, he let them slip through his fingers. Blue flames ignited, twisting and writhing like living things. Their glow flickered over Anneliese’s form—Revealing the demon within.

  “Ah,” Verivix said, his voice thick with glee. “Just as I thought. The petulant child, bound to the malevolent hand of Lascivious.”

  He turned, addressing the crowd. “Behold—the demon slayer and the demon.”

  The silence was electric.

  “That’s enough, Verivix,” Cestmir said, stepping forward. “We’ll fight, but not each other.”

  Verivix held his gaze for a moment, then sighed theatrically. “Yes, you’re right.”

  He sheathed his blade and extended a hand toward Bjarke, his smile dripping with false reconciliation.

  Bjarke shrugged off the gesture, reclaimed his chest, and dragged it across the frostbitten ground. The lid remained slightly ajar, revealing the axe’s faint green glow.

  Shadowed by Verivix’s goons, Bjarke made his way toward a secluded spot among the caravans, where a lone figure hunched in silence.

  “You’re in Bjarke’s spot,” the warrior growled.

  The words fell flat against deaf ears. Gideon barely noticed him—until the shifting figures behind Bjarke drew his attention to the twisted, ogre-like man looming above him.

  “Oh, sorry,” Gideon said, his sharp, high-pitched voice breaking the silence as he shuffled aside awkwardly. His gaze caught on the green glow emanating from Bjarke’s chest. A faint tingling pulsed through his eardrums, and between them, something unseen—something unnatural—pulled at the chest, as if the axe itself recognized him.

  Bjarke hesitated, his usual grimace softening as he studied the solitary figure before him. Dim strands of light coiled faintly around him, a presence only the warrior seemed to notice.

  “You are?” Bjarke asked.

  “No one of mention,” Gideon murmured.

  For a moment, Bjarke saw something in him—no pride, no ambition, just quiet humility.

  “No,” Bjarke muttered. “You liar. Good man lie.” His gaze narrowed. “Truth escapes you, but the lie—it does not stain.”

  He motioned for Gideon to follow. “Come, I show truth. And you truth see.”

  In the privacy of the secluded camp, Bjarke flipped open the chest. Green light bled into the darkness. The axe’s pull was immediate, testing Gideon, as if searching for something hidden within him.

  Gideon’s senses sharpened—sounds long forgotten returned, clearer than ever. The crackle of distant torches. The shifting of boots in the dirt. The rhythmic, steady pulse of his own breath.

  “You are a stranger to this world,” Bjarke said, watching him. “But no more.”

  He lifted the weapon from its resting place and offered it to Gideon.

  Gideon stared, stunned. His hands closed around the handle, both out of politeness and reverence. It didn’t feel real. Its weightlessness defied its massive size. The shaft hummed faintly, a vibration that slowed time itself, as though he had stepped beyond the reach of ordinary existence.

  Bjarke nodded. “Blade is tool,” he said. “Its purpose tied to no man.”

  Gideon swallowed hard. “It’s... remarkable.”

  “It is.” Bjarke studied him for a long moment. “And it tells me one day, you’ll be good man. Slay Bjarke demon, he no slay himself.”

  Gideon frowned. “What demon?”

  Bjarke gripped the axe head and guided its edge to his chest. He held it there, steady, until the ambiguity drained from Gideon’s face.

  “Bjarke demon.”

  It left Gideon speechless, engulfed in a world of sound that reminded him he was not alone—that their meeting was no mere chance. Between his hands, destiny spoke—not as a command, but as an unshakable truth, vast and inescapable.

  A sensation Bjarke knew too well.

  “One day,” he murmured, “great evil must end. Blade will call. And you answer.”

  He stepped back, leaving Gideon alone with the axe. Its aura seeped into his skin, into his very being. Fear gripped him as his fingers tightened around the hilt—unprepared for the quiet promise that had, so suddenly, been thrust upon him.