The heat of the sandy desert square was oppressive, the sun beating down on his metallic plates with unrelenting force. Rova sat beneath its weight, his back aching against the burning sand. It was a constant now, a reminder of the hellish place he had been forced to stay. His thoughts burned hotter than the desert itself, a steady churn of resentment, anger, and frustration.

  Kael had stolen everything from him.

  Kael, the strategist.

  The name echoed through his mind like a curse. A joke, a mockery of everything Rova had worked for. The victory in the Gauntlet, the attention, the recognition for whatever he did for Vor. Kael had taken it all, wrapped it up and paraded it around like it was his right.

  What had I gotten? An experiment. Nothing but the remnants of Avaris’s failed plans. A shell of what I once was, Rova thought bitterly, his hands clenched into fists, tight with the familiar rage that had become his constant companion.

  The very universe itself had conspired to place Kael on a pedestal while Rova remained buried in this forsaken square. The heat only made his resentment worse. Every minute in this desert, surrounded by the remnants of his own broken ambitions, felt like an eternity.

  Rova’s eyes flicked around his square, surveying his minions. There was something strangely comforting in the sight of the spiders, their bodies covered with red patterns that could easily be mistaken for blood. Their legs skittered across the sand, their fangs filled with venom.

  There were also the Boneless, those grotesque, gelatinous horrors that sloshed across the ground. They were once humans, risen again through the power of necromancy. Their bodies hung in a disjointed and unsettling form. Flesh and skin, thick and heavy, hung loosely like a perverse mockery of life.

  They were weak and slow, their limbs not as quick as those of true undead. The sight of them only reminded Rova of how far away he was from the power he had once dreamed of.

  But that was a minor setback—one that could be corrected. Time was on Rova's side, and when the time was right, Kael would fall. He had to be patient, play the long game, and wait for the right moment.

  But just as his thoughts began to settle into a pattern of calculated scheming, his orb flared, and a familiar presence cut through his musings.

  The face that appeared on his orb was unmistakable. Zibbit, the overseer, the giant imp with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

  “My, my, looks hot out there,” Zibbit's voice rang out. “I don’t think we’ve met, Rova.”

  Rova’s pulse quickened, and for a moment, his body tensed, the metal plates in his head buzzing with discomfort. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected Zibbit to show up.

  “What are you doing here?” Rova demanded, the sudden intrusion startling him. His mind was still turning over the plans, still calculating the next steps. A visit from Zibbit, of all things, was unexpected.

  Zibbit chuckled, the sound almost mocking, as if he were amused by Rova’s surprise. “Is that how you greet the overseer, Rova?”

  “Is this about what happened in the Marketplace?” Rova asked. Zibbit had been watching, he had to have been. And now he was here for punishment.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” Zibbit said, clearly dismissing the question with a wave of his hand. “It’s normal for Masters to fight. Don’t worry about it.”

  Rova breathed a sigh of relief, his tension easing slightly. Zibbit had no intention of interfering with his plans, not now. He could still breathe, still plot in the shadows, wait for his chance.

  But Zibbit wasn’t done. His face turned serious, his tone shifting as he spoke again, his words weighing heavier in the air. “Well, Avaris is dead,” Zibbit said, his voice now carrying a tinge of something unsettling, but his words were matter-of-fact. “But some of his stuff was still with the conclave. I’m here to give you the inventory Avaris left behind.”

  Avaris’s things? That monster of a Master had been a master of manipulation, a strategist in his own right, and everything he had collected in his time was bound to be valuable.

  Rova leaned in slightly, his interest piqued. His hands clenched at his side, the metal plates in his head glowing faintly as his thoughts shifted. What could Zibbit be offering him? Was this a gift? Or was it another bargain?

  "Is that normal for you to give their inventory away?" Rova asked.

  Zibbit’s laughter echoed in Rova’s mind, the imp’s smile widening with that familiar sense of mischief. "No," Zibbit replied, his tone a mockery of seriousness, "but I’ve got a feeling you can do great things. Greater than… Kael."

  "Greater than Kael?" he repeated under his breath, his words sharp. Anger simmered beneath the surface—Kael, that strategist, the one who had stolen everything from him. The one who sat on top, basking in his newly earned glory.

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” Rova muttered. "All I need is a boost."

  Zibbit smiled, a slow, calculated expression that suggested there was something more to the offer than just Avaris’s inventory.

  “The inventory also contains the last of Avaris’s personal trinkets, his notes, his arcane secrets. Maybe the clue to all his experiments too. Do your worst," Zibbit’s voice echoed before his face disappeared from the orb.

  Rova didn’t answer. His mind raced, thinking of all the secrets Avaris had hoarded. And he knew one thing for sure:

  This was his chance. This was his path back to power, back to the life he had once dreamt.

  ******

  The dust rose from the dirt road as Terrance walked toward Newvale, the heavy shield resting at his side, the weight of it a familiar comfort. His armor was worn from years of service, but it still held its strength, as it had seen countless battles and stood between his people and their enemies. He could feel the heat of the sun on his back, but he didn’t mind. The weight of the day was something he had grown used to.

  But then, something shifted in the air.

  A sudden tingling sensation that ran up his spine. His senses, honed over years of training, caught the change almost instantly. It was almost too late to react before he felt a sword swipe from behind him.

  The blow came fast.

  But his instincts kicked in. With a swift movement, his shield raised just in time, the sword clanging off the metal surface with a loud crash, sending a shockwave of force through his arm. The impact nearly knocked him off balance, but his stance held firm, his knees slightly bent to absorb the shock. The power behind the strike was unmistakable. Only one man had that kind of strength with a basic sword—no magic, no artifacts, just sheer force and skill.

  Terrance’s eyes narrowed, his hand gripping the edge of his shield, the familiar weight grounding him. He knew immediately who had attacked him.

  “Sir Darion,” he muttered under his breath, his voice rough with the weight of recognition.

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  He turned his head, and there he was.

  Sir Darion, the older knight, in his shining armor, his hair as white as snow, the sharp lines of his face set in a grim expression. There was no joy in the attack, no friendly challenge in his eyes.

  Darion raised his sword again.

  Terrance gripped his own sword, but before he could even fully unsheath it, Darion moved.

  Advancing Step.

  In an instant, Darion closed the distance between them, his movements a blur. Terrance had always talked about the difference between reaction and anticipation, and in that moment, Terrance felt the truth of it.

  He didn’t have time to think. Darion was already upon him, and it was too late to do anything. Except block.

  Terrance didn’t even see it. He could only feel the shock of it as the tip of Darion's sword clashed against his shield. The impact was so violent that it knocked him back, his feet sliding across the ground in a struggle to keep his balance.

  Terrance fought to steady himself, his shield pressed hard against the ground, the metal groaning. His breath came in ragged bursts, but Darion was already moving again.

  "What is going on?" Terrance managed, his voice strained.

  Darion’s expression was unreadable.

  Split Strike.

  Darion’s sword came down with a downward slash. Terrance’s instincts screamed at him, and he raised his shield to deflect the strike. But something was wrong.

  The slash didn’t feel right. It was too slow, too deliberate.

  Terrance saw the blade swung into his shield. Yet, the sword didn’t make contact. Instead, in a flash, Darion’s blade had shifted.

  The tip of the sword making an unexpected horizontal strike aimed at Terrance’s legs. He jumped back, his heart leaping in his chest as he barely avoided the strike. The blade whistled past his legs, a mere inch away from slicing through his armor.

  Afterimages, Terrance thought to himself. It swung so fast Darion had created afterimages.

  Terrance blocked yet another strike from Darion’s sword, the weight of the copper blade slamming against his shield. His arms were tiring, the shield growing heavier with each impact, but he couldn’t afford to waver.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Terrance yelled, his voice hoarse, trying to catch his breath, trying to make sense of everything.

  “You seem to have your wits,” Darion replied. “So why did you send that letter?”

  Terrance blinked, taken aback. He had no idea what Darion was referring to, no memory of any letter. Nothing that could have caused the older knight to act this way. His mind couldn’t process it all fast enough as Darion’s sword swung again, dangerously close, narrowly missing his neck.

  “What letter?” Terrance shouted back. He was confused, defensive and desperate to understand what was happening.

  “The letter about Avaris and his forces marching to Golden City,” Darion said. “The letter you sent to King Kaden saying they were coming.”

  That didn’t make sense.

  “I never sent any letter to Golden City,” Terrance said.

  Terrance lowered his shield just a fraction, but Darion’s blade came down with deadly precision, the sword heading straight for Terrance’s neck. The sword came closer, closer, and for a brief moment, Terrance thought his end had come.

  But it stopped.

  Just before it touched his skin, the sword halted, its edge hovering inches from his neck.

  “Well, someone sent a letter saying it’s from you.” His voice was a low growl. “I believed it. And that cost us Golden City.”

  “Golden City?” Terrance repeated. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “The reserves of Golden City march out of the city to defend against that ‘attack’,” Darion continued. “Leaving the city defenseless. And that’s when Vor attacked. 27 million died that day."

  The finality of the statement sent a shockwave through Terrance’s chest, his breath catching in his throat.

  27 million. The number was unbelievable. A million tops. That was the most Terrance had seen killed. Until now.

  "Wha—?" Terrance said.

  Darion sheathed his sword with a sharp motion, the clinking of metal the only sound in the space between them.

  "This," Darion said as he pulled something from within his armor.

  A letter.

  He thrust it into Terrance's hands, the parchment crinkling in his fingers. As Terrance looked at the scrawl, something in his stomach twisted.

  This wasn’t his writing. Not even close.

  "This… isn’t my writing." Terrance's voice was barely above a whisper.

  “If this isn’t yours, then who sent it?”

  Terrance stood frozen, his mind struggling to connect the dots. He hadn’t sent this letter. He hadn’t even seen it before, yet here it was. In his name.

  “I have no idea.”

  The words didn’t seem to sit right on his tongue. The mystery gnawed at him—who was behind this? And why had they used his name to send such a dangerous message?

  "Who indeed," Darion repeated.

  Who wrote it wasn’t the only question. They had to know him. Known about Avaris. And gained access to Golden City’s defenses, its leadership and the movement of its forces.

  Before he could fully process the question, his attention snapped back to Darion.

  “Golden City…” Terrance asked quietly, his voice hoarse. “How did they die?”

  “It started similar to Vor’s tactics over the past year. A straight war in the Golden Fields. Then, he deviated from his usual tactics. He used Oculothraxes to drop Skara onto Golden City undefended.”

  Terrance listened closely, his heart heavy.

  “That caused almost four million deaths. But we thought we were in control. But then poison… In the water. The citizens hiding in the vaults drank the water and died almost instantly.”

  Terrance opened his mouth to say something, but the words didn’t come. He just couldn’t seem to find the right thing to say in the face of such devastation.

  Darion continued, “The citizens were reincarnated, but now they’re terrified. Thinking about leaving Golden City, away from Vor. It was brutal.”

  “That’s worrying,” Terrance said. “The change in tactics, the behavior of his minions.”

  Terrance hesitated. His mind flickered back to when Lyanna told him about Highhaven.

  "Did you see any wisps?" he asked, the question coming out almost before he had fully processed it.

  Darion blinked at him, clearly surprised by the question. His hand tightened around his sword for a brief moment, his gaze narrowing as he considered the query. Then, as if the answer had come to him in a flash, he nodded slightly.

  “I noticed a small glimpse of a will-o-wisp,” Darrion answered. “What is the importance of that?”

  Terrance stood still, his mind racing. His thoughts snapped back to the letter. The poison, the Oculothrax, the Skaras—everything had seemed too coordinated, too deliberate. And the wisps were becoming a pattern.

  He had brought his concerns to Darion before, and had been laughed at. Dismissed. But now, things were different. There was no denying it.

  “The Master in the letter. Avaris,” he began. “He attacked Highhaven weeks ago. The Guardian of Highhaven… she said wisps were involved too.”

  Darion’s expression didn’t change. His eyes narrowed as Terrance spoke, but he didn’t say a word.

  Terrance pressed on, his mind now fully locked onto the theory on what was happening.

  “Another Master,” Terrance continued, “here in Newvale likes to use wisps too. There might be a link between these incidents. The massacre on Golden City, Avaris’s attack on Highhaven, and the wisps... it’s too much of a coincidence.”

  Darion spoke, his voice low but edged with irritation. “And you didn’t think to bring this up earlier?”

  The words were like a slap, and Terrance flinched, the sting of them sharper than Darion’s strikes earlier.

  He took a deep breath, holding onto the calm that he had carefully crafted over the years. “I spoke up about this weeks ago,” Terrance said, his voice controlled. “The Introductory Master with eleven slimes after a week.”

  Darion’s expression changed, the brief flicker of surprise crossing his face before it was replaced with focus. “That Master?”

  “Yes, that Master,” Terrance said. “He’s crafty. Unlike any other Master I’ve seen. Doesn’t play by the rules. The poison in the water? That sounds like something he would do. A carefully placed message disguised as an attack. He’s trying to undermine us all.”

  Darion stood there, silent for a long moment, his gaze piercing as he looked at Terrance. And in that silence, Terrance could feel the weight of his own realization pressing down on him.

  “This… This could be the second coming.. Of the Dread Architect,” Terrance said.

  Darion spoke, but it wasn’t what Terrance had expected.

  “I apologize,” Darion said, his voice quiet but sincere. His words were unexpected, and there was a flicker of guilt in his eyes that Terrance had never seen before. “I should have taken you seriously the first time.”

  Darion turned then to leave, his heavy steps echoing in the quiet space. He didn’t look back as he began walking toward the horizon.

  “Darion... Sir Darion, what is the plan?” Terrance called out.

  “I’ll do my worst.”

  ******