Anneliese found little solace in her partial victory over Verivix. She had stalled his recruitment efforts, yes, but what did that matter against Cestmir’s relentless resolve to join the resistance? Once again, she felt cursed—destined to lose everyone she dared to care for.

  At the base of the temple stairs, Weddle waited. The friar leaned heavily on his father’s old walking stick, his faded robes barely stirring in the icy wind. He observed the crowd with patient eyes, his magical inclinations sensing their intent. Would they rally to the resistance, or cling to the fragile hope that the church’s crusade would falter before reaching Keesh?

  “You’re about to apologize, aren’t you?” Weddle said as Anneliese approached.

  “Bjarke’s wolf died trying to save them… It was all for nothing.”

  “She didn’t die in vain,” Weddle said quietly, brushing dirt from the step beside him to make room.

  Anneliese sank down beside him, the damp stone offering no comfort. “Yes, she did. Lascivious had to take over because I was useless.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” Weddle’s gaze lifted to the mist-shrouded heights of the temple. “You might not feel it now, but her light shines brighter than the void gnawing at your chest. It’s the difference between the girl I met in Rekinvale and the one who stood against Verivix. Things happen for a reason. You just need faith.”

  Anneliese shook her head, her breath frosting in the frigid air. “Faith. I’m more lost than ever.”

  “Lost,” Weddle grunted, shifting his weight as his damaged legs trembled. “Aren’t we all?” He pushed himself upright with effort, leaning on his walking stick. “Suppose I should get out of your way.”

  “Why?” Anneliese frowned.

  “Oh, I don’t do stairs—not on my best day. And you have somewhere to be.”

  Behind her, the staircase shimmered faintly, a hypnotic pulse of magic urging her upward. She stared at the steep incline, dread knotting in her stomach. Her legs ached, and the thought of food and warmth tempted her to stay.

  Her fingers brushed the sack of sacred sands at her side, its meager weight a cruel reminder of Cestmir and the frozen river—the price of every step taken by those who sacrificed comfort for conviction.

  Following Weddle’s advice, she forced the numbness from her limbs and began the climb into the mist-shrouded heights. The stairs shimmered beneath her feet, their rippling magic weaving a path that felt unnervingly preordained. The dense fog swallowed her surroundings, offering no hint of how much farther she had to go. The air grew heavy, thick in her lungs, as though she were wading through unseen currents.

  She tried to summon her wizard state, desperate for relief.

  Nothing.

  The magic refused to ignite, leaving her stranded—powerless, uncertain if she had crossed into another realm.

  The thought clung to her as she pressed on. The fog thickened, closing in from all sides, reducing her world to the faint glow of the steps beneath her feet. Each one demanded her full focus, forcing her to shut out the despair snapping at her heels.

  Her mind drifted back to her first encounter with Lascivious and the abyss—how the blindingly obvious had misled her, guiding her down the wrong path. It wasn’t until she’d let go, surrendering her preconceptions, that she had opened herself fully to the magical potential buried deep within.

  She exhaled and shifted her focus.

  Ignoring the hypnotic ripples of the stairwell, she came to notice the faint, diffused glow along the cliff face. Reaching out blindly, her fingers brushed against a hidden ledge, concealed by the dense fog. Carefully, she followed it—the narrow path winding away from the well-lit stairs. Shuffling sideways through the mist, each step cautious, scraping the trail to avoid loose rock and uncertain footing.

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  At last, she emerged before the fire-lit entrance of the temple’s sanctum. A doorway of shadow and flame, beckoning her forward. The room was circular, its floor split into two ovals. The elevated one cradled an infinity fountain, its waters bubbling with bursts of blue fire. Reeds floated in the pool, framing the unconscious figure of a young man whose face stirred something in Anneliese’s memory.

  Passing between a quartet of cracked, rune-carved pillars, she approached cautiously.

  “Weddle said you’d come,” a voice called from behind the fountain.

  Ravenna stepped into view, her lips and eyes painted black, white smoke curling from her wizard state. In one hand, she held a vial of glowing essence, which she placed onto the bed of reeds beside the young man.

  “Did he say why?” Anneliese asked, glancing uneasily at the pillars. The air between them felt alive, charged with invisible force.

  “Weddle thinks it’s better when people figure that out for themselves.”

  “And how does that usually go?”

  Ravenna smirked, unscrewing a vial of crimson liquid. “Mostly disappointment.”

  She poured its glowing contents onto a small, blue-flamed stone and set it gently on the young man’s chest. The fire flickered and receded, triggering a sudden jolt in his body. His limbs twitched, caught between waking and dreaming.

  “Who is he?” Anneliese asked.

  “Another troubled soul.” Ravenna dabbed his forehead with a cloth, her fingers moving deftly as she whispered foreign words meant to ease his unconscious mind.

  Anneliese stared, her heart sinking. “Kulum.”

  The name escaped her lips before she could stop it.

  Then—movement. A flicker in the fountain’s waters. Lascivious’s visage watching her through the ripples. She stumbled back, nearly losing her footing—only for an unseen force to pull her forward again.

  “He was the chosen one,” Ravenna said, stroking Kulum’s shaved head with a mix of affection and regret. “Coble’s apprentice. His heir. A champion of Pragian. A conqueror of the ancients. But against all advice…”

  “I took his place.” Anneliese’s voice wavered. The weight of guilt settled heavily on her shoulders. “Coble chose me.”

  “Burtrew foresaw it, but Coble had no regard for convention,” Ravenna said. “Now, because of his hubris, we stand on the brink of magic’s extinction. All that remains is to salvage what we can before the end consumes us.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time,” said Lascivious.

  He emerged from one of the pillars, his body shaped as a towering golem of stone. Though his feet remained fused to the base, his carved face moved with an eerie semblance of life.

  “Since the dawn of magic, humanity has waged endless wars—against the ancients, against our own demons. And always, the burden falls to wizards like me,” Lascivious said.

  Crumbling stone carved a jagged smile across his cheek. “But as you’ve likely realized, our record is far from flawless.”

  “A corrupted church and an unchecked ministry of battle mages have displaced wizardry,” Ravenna added. “Leaving only Lascivious and this failed prodigy to defend our cause.”

  “We still have Bjarke, Weddle, and—”

  Ravenna snapped her fingers.

  The remaining pillars shifted, crumbling into golems—each reflecting Lascivious at different stages of his life. Youthful arrogance. Battle-worn resolve. Hollow-eyed degeneration.

  “None of them are fit to bear the title of wizard—especially you,” she said, her eyes locking onto Anneliese. “Unless you embrace your true calling and become one with—”

  “I will not trade one evil for another—especially not him.”

  As the words left her lips, the golems collapsed back into shattered pillars. From the broken fragments, spirits stirred. They swarmed her like a sudden gale, shrieking and restless, their force knocking her backward. She slammed into the lower pillars, the impact sending cracks spider webbing outward. The stone groaned, then fractured—disintegrating into statues.

  Statues of her.

  To her far side stood a sculpture of her younger self, brimming with defiance and unshakable clarity. Closer to her, two statues bore the weight of middle-aged doubt and hesitation.

  And the nearest one, to her dismay, featured an older version of herself—hunched and witch-like, with wild, paranoid eyes. Its trembling hands clutched at unseen fears, desperate to grasp something that had long since slipped away.

  “The spirits tell the same story, over and over,” Ravenna murmured. “Human suffering. The slow, inevitable realization that our better angels cannot save us—or worse, that they never existed at all. Disappointment leads to anger. Consciences harden. Our demons take root. As with Lascivious, so it is with all of us.”

  She extended a hand to Anneliese, who remained slumped against the fractured pillars, dazed.

  Anneliese’s eyes lingered on the youngest golem—the fearless version of herself, so much freer than the woman she had become.

  “You don’t know what you’re looking at,” she said, finding her feet and brushing herself off. With a sharp motion, she shoved aside the timid limbs of the older golem that seemed to reach for her.

  Ravenna crossed her arms. The smoke around her eyes faded, leaving only dry condescension, as if the entire encounter had been a waste of her time. “I see an ungrateful girl who came here without questions and will leave with answers.”

  Without another word, they turned away from each other—Ravenna retreating to the upper platform, Anneliese stepping toward the ridgeline stairway.

  Both vanished into their respective paths, leaving the broken chamber behind.