Elysian stepped into the Matriarch’s home, his gaze sweeping across the dimly lit interior. It was as unremarkable as the exterior—at least, at first glance. The hut’s size, though modest, still caught him off guard. It felt strange how quickly he’d begun to adapt to the towering scale of troll architecture. But with everything weighing on him—his life, his people’s survival—he didn’t have the luxury to linger on details.

  At first, the interior appeared ordinary, almost humble. Dried plants and herbs hung from the wooden walls, their faint, earthy scents mixing with something sharper, more potent. Flowers, twisted roots, and preserved animal parts floated in jars that glinted faintly in the low light. The arrangement spoke of practicality, a space belonging to an apothecary or herbalist. Yet this was no ordinary collection. Power radiated from the objects, subtle but oppressive, seeping into the air. Each item seemed to hum with a purpose Elysian couldn’t fathom. The energy crawled under his skin, tugging at his senses. His vision blurred for a moment, and he blinked hard to steady himself.

  ‘Focus.’

  It took everything in him to remain upright, to project an air of composure. He clenched his jaw, his will the only thing keeping him from faltering.

  At the center of it all sat Thaldruna, the Matriarch of Clan Draekthar. She looked entirely at ease, perched on a worn wooden chair. Her hands worked methodically with a mortar and pestle, grinding herbs and petals into a fine paste. She didn’t so much as glance in his direction, her focus fixed entirely on her task.

  If her calm demeanor was meant to unnerve him, it was working.

  Elysian lingered near the doorway, his legs trembling faintly under the weight of the room’s oppressive energy. His earlier encounter with Halda had already left him shaken, and now the combined strain of his mounting problems and the suffocating aura of this place began to press down on him. The dried air caught in his throat. His pulse thundered in his ears.

  ‘She’s testing me.’

  The realization was like a spark, igniting his determination. She wanted him to squirm, to falter under the weight of her silence and the room’s power. And maybe, if he stood there long enough, he would. But Elysian refused to play along.

  With deliberate calm, he exhaled loudly and lowered himself onto the floor, crossing his legs as he settled into a resting position. He leaned back slightly, letting his shoulders relax, even as his insides churned. If she wanted him to feel small, to break under her presence, he’d do the opposite.

  For a moment, the only sound was the slow, rhythmic scrape of stone against stone. Then, without pause in her work, Thaldruna smiled. A small, knowing thing that curled at the edges of her lips before growing into something wider, sharper. She turned to him, her gaze locking onto his, measuring his defiance like one might a blade’s sharpness.

  "You don’t look well," she mused, voice rich with amusement. Her pestle ground down in a slow, deliberate motion. "You should take better care of yourself. Health is fragile at your age, you know. Growth depends on it."

  Elysian let out a steady breath, his fingers flexing against his knee. "Thank you for your concern, Old One." His tone carried the weight of his restraint, but his eyes spoke the rest—frustration barely leashed beneath his calm exterior. "I’ve never felt so welcome in my life. Your hospitality is truly beyond compare."

  Thaldruna chuckled, deep and throaty. “Don’t be like that. You rootless have grown soft in your towers. Why not be like the Durin-Dar—or what you call wilderman? They are of your blood, yet they remain true to their nature. Hard, like your ancestors once were.”

  Elysian snorted. "You’re right. They are true to our nature, closer to our ancestors—savages, one and all." The moment the words left his lips, he knew he’d misstepped.

  Thaldruna’s grin widened. A trap, and he’d walked straight into it. “Savages, really?” She laughed now, her amusement ringing through the hut. "And you, rootless—how are you any different?"

  Elysian clenched his jaw. He had no answer. Because he knew. Cities, empires—they were built on blood just the same. The only difference was the veneer of civility, the illusion of purpose. His silence was all the Matriarch needed.

  She leaned forward slightly, the movement slow, deliberate. “You are different, I suppose. You’re worse.” The words settled heavy in the air, pressing into the boy’s ribs like a hand tightening around his lungs. “The Durin-Dar wage war for pride, for honor, for something greater than themselves.” Her voice was calm, almost thoughtful. “But you—your kind—wage war for greed. You consume without end, devouring all that is good, leaving only rot in your wake.”

  Elysian exhaled sharply through his nose, but he said nothing.

  ‘How do I counter that?’

  Every word was true. Nobles, kings, the great and powerful—his people were insatiable. Everything they touched either burned, crumbled, or twisted into something vile. Yet still, they draped themselves in silk and gold, called themselves enlightened, proclaimed their nobility.

  ‘Behind the mask, only decay.’

  Thaldruna watched him in silence, the weight of it pressing in like a thick, unbroken fog.

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  Elysian held her gaze, refusing to shift, refusing to yield. She was right—he knew it, and she knew he knew it—but that didn’t mean he would surrender. He couldn’t afford to. Not when she would use any sign of weakness against him. Not when his people’s fate might hinge on this moment.

  The seconds stretched.

  Then, finally, he exhaled and spoke. "I'm sure you didn't summon me just to debate whose people are more depraved." His tone was even, steady—acknowledging the loss without conceding the battle. "Why don’t we stop the games and get to the point? We both have our hands full—you, with what just happened at the trial."

  He saw it—the flicker in her expression, the brief waver of her smile before it steadied, though dimmer than before. A crack, however small.

  "And me," he continued, "with the fate of my people."

  Thaldruna hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. Then, with ease, she set the mortar down on the table, shifting her full attention to him. "Very well. If you wish to get to the point, so be it."

  Elysian leaned forward slightly, watching her closely. "I still don’t know what you want. I can’t wrap my head around it." He paused, tilting his head. "You’ve implied you want my knife, but you already know how that works. It only changes hands if I die."

  Elysian let the words settle between them, waiting for a correction that never came. She only watched him, silent. "And yet," he pressed on, "not only did you save my life, you stopped the complete invasion of Grimwatch." His voice sharpened, his stare matching hers now. "No matter how I turn it over in my mind, your actions make no sense. No pattern. No logic."

  Thaldruna's lips curled at the edges, amusement returning like a shadow slipping back into place.

  Elysian narrowed his eyes. "Then again... perhaps it's only because I'm too young to understand. You are ancient, after all." He let the words hang, letting the jab sink in. "Your intentions are likely buried under so many layers even you might have forgotten them."

  Thaldruna laughed—genuine this time, not the measured, predatory amusement from before. When the sound faded, she regarded him again, something in her gaze subtly altered. "I'm starting to like you, child." She grinned, sharp fangs bared. It should have been terrifying, but there was no lurking hunger behind it this time. No sense that she was waiting to devour him whole. If anything, her expression had softened—less the hidden predator, more the amused elder watching a cub that had finally learned to bare its teeth. "And you're not wrong," she continued. "I could have killed you easily and taken the soulforged for myself. You were reckless, waving it around when you had no power to protect it."

  ‘I know.’

  Elysian exhaled, gaze dropping for just a moment. "I thought I was alone." His voice came softer, almost a mutter. Then, a sigh. "Who would’ve thought someone was watching me in the middle of the forest, while I was already drowning in beasts? It was either use it… or die."

  Thaldruna chuckled. "You're right. You had no choice. You were weak. And unlucky. Seems fate has a particular fondness for making you suffer."

  "Yeah, tell me about it." Elysian huffed, shaking his head. "She must love watching me squirm."

  Thaldruna smirked but said nothing.

  A beat of silence passed before Elysian pressed on. "So, why didn’t you take it? Don’t tell me you weren’t interested. I was told soulforged are rare—even for someone like you, who I imagine has more priceless treasures than you know what to do with."

  Her smile didn’t waver. "Oh, I was interested."

  ‘Was.’

  Elysian caught onto it instantly, his brow lifting. "Was?"

  "Yes. Was." Thaldruna sighed, drumming her fingers against the wooden table. "Extremely interested."

  He narrowed his eyes. "I feel a but coming."

  Thaldruna chuckled, low and knowing. “You’re right. There is a—but.” She let the silence stretch, savoring it at his expense. Elysian felt his patience fraying, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface, but he held his tongue. Then, she spoke. “You bear the mark of a rather notable entity from the Abyss—”

  ‘Mark? What is she talking about?’

  His mind jumped to the Eye of Sacraeon, but that didn’t make sense. Eye was like BloodShade—a soulforged, bound to an artifact. If not them—

  The realization slammed into him. His breath caught. Thaldruna laughed the moment she saw the understanding dawn in his eyes. “Ah. There it is.”

  ‘She’s talking about the Mark of the Chosen.’

  * * * *

  Mark of the Chosen

  Rating: Rare

  Type: Passive

  Requirement: BloodShade, Xipilcoatl’s Chosen

  Description:The mark of Xipilcoatl brands you as one of its chosen, a symbol of your connection to an Ancient One.

  This sigil grants you the authority as a Greater Terror, giving access to restricted areas and resources of the Abyssal Realm.

  Also, Lesser Abominations are subservient to your will.

  Effect: Grants Abyssal Authority [Greater].

  * * * *

  Elysian sat in silence, rereading the description, feeling the weight of its implications settle over him.

  Across from him, Thaldruna waited, unhurried.

  ‘So this is why she hesitated.’

  He exhaled slowly.

  ‘Xipilcoatl’s influence is enough to make her wary—even with the soulforged at stake. I never expected the mark to affect someone like her… it only mentioned controlling lesser abominations.’

  The door creaked. Halda entered, carrying two cups of steaming liquid—one large enough for a giant, the other sized for a mere human. She set Thaldruna’s drink on the table, then placed Elysian’s on the floor beside him. She lingered for a moment, watching him, eyes sharp with curiosity. He barely noticed. A glance to Thaldruna—who seemed wholly absorbed in her drink—was all the answer she needed. With a quiet sigh, she turned and slipped back out.

  Elysian’s fingers curled around the cup, but his mind was still turning.

  ‘Of course. Even if Thaldruna is powerful, even if the soulforged is valuable enough to spark a war… an Old One—practically one of the terrifying gods from the Abyss—isn’t something even she can just ignore.’

  Slowly, a smile crept onto the noble’s face.

  Thaldruna met his gaze, mirroring his expression, her grin edged with something sharp. In that moment, they saw each other differently—two players, recognizing a worthy opponent across the board.

  Elysian lifted the cup beside him and took a sip—only to choke, sputtering as his face twisted in sheer disgust. “What in the hell—? Are you trying to poison me? Why is it so bitter?”

  Thaldruna only chuckled, savoring her drink, utterly unbothered.

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