Celeste spun to face Nallensen fully, her rage barely contained. “You told us you didn’t know where the artifact came from.”

  Nallensen let out a tired sigh, brushing dust from his coat as if this conversation was nothing more than an inconvenience. “I said I didn’t know but that was more in the sense that I never asked,” he corrected. “It was more of a don’t ask, don’t tell situation.”

  Celeste stared at him, incredulous. “You—” Her voice caught, her hands clenching at her sides. “You suspected Tarrus and you still used it?”

  Nallensen tilted his head, his expression utterly unapologetic. “It was an incredible artifact. Too useful to discard over the possibility of an inconvenient benefactor.” His crimson eyes flicked toward the shimmering barrier trapping them in.

  Celeste took a step closer, the fury rolling off her in waves. “Do you even realise what you’ve done?” Her voice was sharp, her words cutting. “If you had told us sooner, if you had just let us close the gate, we could have stopped this before it started!”

  Nallensen met her gaze, his expression unreadable, the usual amusement in his features dulled. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “But we are far past that point now.”

  Celeste exhaled sharply, forcing herself to calm down. She turned slightly, looking toward the fortress, then the barrier, then back to Nallensen. One last question.

  Her voice was quieter this time, but just as serious.

  “Can you take him?”

  The air around them grew still.

  Nallensen didn’t answer immediately. He turned his gaze toward the distant sky, where the first unnatural flickers of chaotic energy began to shimmer on the horizon.

  Then, he looked back at Celeste. His noble poise remained, his expression calm and composed. But for the first time since they had met him, Roland saw something else beneath the surface.

  Doubt.

  Slowly, deliberately, Nallensen shook his head.

  “No,” he said simply. “I cannot.”

  Nallensen let out a quiet breath before turning to Roland, his crimson gaze settling on him with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. “Come here, young man,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “I’m going to teach you how to untie these souls.”

  Roland hesitated. “Why?”

  Nallensen gave a tired smile. “Because you’ll need as many divine gifts as possible for what’s about to happen.”

  Roland frowned, unsure what to make of that statement. He glanced toward Celeste, who had stopped her pacing just long enough to sigh and mutter, “Divine payments.”

  Understanding clicked. Roland nodded and stepped forward.

  Nallensen studied him for a moment before continuing. “The key to unlocking the souls is understanding how they were bound in the first place,” he explained. “It’s not some dark necromantic ritual—it’s pure divine energy, carefully woven around them, keeping them anchored.” His expression darkened slightly. “Mortana’s gift was meant to ease souls into the cycle, but power like that can be turned in many directions.”

  Roland let that sink in before finally asking, “So how do I undo it?”

  Nallensen extended his hand, fingers shifting slightly as a faint glow pulsed at his fingertips. “Use your soul touch and feel for the knots in the soul’s tether—where the divine energy tightens and refuses to let go. Unravel it, strand by strand.”

  It was easier said than done.

  At first, Roland struggled. His use of soul touch was inexperienced and delicate work like this was foreign to him. He could see the tethers in the first soul, the intricate weave of energy keeping it trapped, but untangling them was another matter entirely.

  But then, he felt it. A thread pulled loose, like undoing the first knot in a tangled rope. The soul shuddered, then slipped free, he recited the prayer and the soul vanished back into the cycle.

  A flicker of warmth passed through him. Faint but noticeable.

  His first divine payment.

  He moved on to the next. Then the next. The work was slow, and each soul only earned him a small amount, but by the tenth one, he could feel the difference. His body felt lighter, his mind sharper, as if some unseen force was subtly reinforcing him.

  Meanwhile, Celeste paced the grounds, her frustration growing with each step. She kept glancing at the fortress, at the artifact’s barrier, then at the sky where Tarrus’ chaos-filled presence loomed ever closer. She was thinking, but for once, she didn’t seem to like any of her thoughts.

  Roland could hear her muttering to herself, half-formed plans discarded as quickly as they came.

  The air shifted. Not like when Nallensen had released his aura—this was different. Subtle at first, but soon undeniable. It was as if the very air itself had turned against them, becoming something that couldn’t be trusted, something that no longer belonged in this world. Roland knew it had become chaos filled.

  Then, He or it appeared.

  A body, or at least something resembling one—floating, shifting, made entirely of smoke. It had no solid form, no defined edges, yet somehow, Roland could feel its presence, stronger than any physical being he had ever encountered.

  This was Tarrus.

  Roland had never heard much about the Chaosborn, and now he understood why. It wasn’t that no one spoke of them. It was that they couldn’t. Because how do you explain something like this? Who would believe you?

  Tarrus hovered before them, its form constantly shifting, never the same shape twice. Then, it spoke—or maybe it didn’t. The sound resonated through the air, vibrating unnaturally, as if the words weren’t coming from any one place but from everywhere at once.

  “Oh, Nally, nally Naaaaallensen.”

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  The floating figure of smoke twisted, its form coiling into something almost human before unravelling again. Its voice was light, mocking, filled with the kind of amusement that didn’t quite reach its core.

  “Why do you waver, hmm?” Tarrus drifted forward, circling Nallensen like a predator that had already won the hunt. “You were so close. So close to breaking the great, stupid wheel! And now? You hesitate? Now, of all times?”

  Nallensen stood firm, but Roland could see the flicker of something uneasy beneath his mask of composure.

  Tarrus grinned, though it had no mouth to do so.

  “Ahhh, I see it now,” it cooed, its smoky tendrils brushing against the air like unravelling threads. “Something changed. Something got into that clever little head of yours.” It snapped—though the sound came from nowhere. “Oh! I know! It was them, wasn’t it?”

  snapped toward Roland and Celeste, its entire body twisting toward them so suddenly that Roland’s stomach dropped.

  “Did they whisper little doubts in your ear, Nallensen? Did they make you feel something inconvenient, hmm? Remorse? Guilt?” Tarrus gasped dramatically, clutching at its nonexistent chest. “Oh, say it isn’t so! Say the great, brilliant Nallensen hasn’t been burdened by a conscience!”

  Celeste’s hand twitched toward her daggers, but she didn’t move. She wasn’t stupid.

  Tarrus’ form glitched, flickering between towering and small, between solid and vapour, before finally settling into something that vaguely resembled a nobleman’s silhouette.

  Tarrus drifted closer, his form shifting like a slow-moving storm, folding in on itself in unnatural patterns. Though it had no face, no mouth, the words still came from everywhere at once, curling around Nallensen like a noose.

  “Have you forgotten, old friend?” the voice purred, thick with mock sympathy. “Have you forgotten what the gods stole from you?”

  Nallensen’s expression remained unreadable, but Roland felt the shift in the air, saw the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly at his sides.

  “They took them from you,” Tarrus continued, weaving around him, his presence pressing in like an unwanted embrace. “One by one. Forty-seven partners, forty-seven graves. The best of them—your brightest, your strongest, your dearest.” His voice dropped lower, curling like smoke. “And they left you behind.”

  Roland saw it then.

  Not anger. Not defiance.

  Pain.

  “They could have given them more time,” Tarrus murmured, his voice turning almost gentle. “But they didn’t. Because they won’t. They refuse to share what they hoard, and you know it. They let them grow old. Let them wither. Let them die, over and over again.”

  The air between them stilled, heavy with something unspoken.

  “You know why you must do this,” Tarrus whispered. “Because if you don’t… then nothing ever changes.”

  Nallensen did not answer.

  Celeste stepped forward, her voice cutting through the thick, unnatural air. “What are you even doing here, Tarrus?”

  Tarrus barely acknowledged her, his smoky form shifting as he tilted his head, muttering to himself in that same light, mocking tone. “An army… yes, yes, that’s what I need.” He twirled lazily in the air, stretching his ever-changing limbs. “And Worldborn, ohhh, they breed like flies! So many of them, so short-lived, so desperate to cling to their little lives.” His tone had changed since only a few seconds ago. Roland didn’t know what to think of this thing.

  Roland’s grip on his sword tightened, but he forced himself to stay still.

  Tarrus snapped his fingers—a meaningless gesture, but the air shook with it. “The problem, of course,” he mused, “is that my lovely little amulets require my… personal touch.” His voice shifted, deepened, flickering between silk and smoke. “A proper puppetmaster must control his puppets, after all.”

  Then, the grin in his voice sharpened.

  “But you, dear Nallensen,” Tarrus turned to face him, his shapeless form pulsing, “you’ve made a breakthrough.”

  Nallensen’s hands clenched, but he remained silent.

  Tarrus continued, weaving through the air as if he were dancing. “You’ve cracked something I couldn’t. A way to anchor souls, to keep them trapped—to make them move without needing me to pull the strings myself.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper, though it still came from everywhere at once.

  “With your knowledge, I don’t have to be a puppetmaster anymore…”

  The air shivered.

  “I can be a god. I can dethrone those that Edward couldn’t”

  And then, for the first time, Nallensen’s mask cracked.

  Roland saw the flicker of hesitation in his eyes—the war inside him, the pull of ego, of curiosity, of possibility.

  That was when Todd broke the stalemate.

  “Father!”

  The call shattered whatever hold Tarrus had been building.

  Todd took a step forward, his voice raw, desperate. “Don’t let him get into your head! Celeste is right—this is against the natural order!” His breath was uneven, but he didn’t stop.

  “Would Mother want this?” he demanded. “Would she want you to turn the dead into things, into tools?” His fists clenched, his words shaking with emotion. “You were furious before—furious that our friends were forced to fight, even after death. Would you do that to an entire world?”

  Nallensen flinched.

  A barely noticeable reaction—but Tarrus noticed.

  The Chaosborn froze, his shifting form going unnaturally still. Then, slowly, so very slowly, his head tilted toward Todd.

  “Oh,” Tarrus cooed, his voice curling with delight. “Now that’s interesting.”

  Tarrus’ form shifted, stretching unnaturally as his voice curled through the air like silk wrapped around a blade.

  “A crossbreed,” he mused, the word rolling off his tongue like something both fascinating and disgusting. His shifting form drifted forward, smoky tendrils curling lazily through the air.

  “Don’t see many of you, and for good reason.”

  His voice slithered, slipping between tones, too fluid to sound truly human. There was mockery in it, but also something else—curiosity, as though Todd was some rare specimen Tarrus was deciding whether to dissect or admire.

  “Children of two worlds,” he continued, his presence thickening, warping the space around him like reality itself was bending in discomfort. “But you don’t really belong to either, do you?”

  Roland could feel the gaze settle on Todd, analysing, tearing through him with unseen strings of power.

  Tarrus’ voice softened, almost gentle—almost sympathetic.

  “Must be awfully lonely.”

  Todd’s breath hitched, but he held his ground. He didn’t speak, didn’t rise to the taunt, but Roland could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fists clenched at his sides.

  Tarrus chuckled, the sound vibrating through the very air, making the ground feel unsteady beneath them.

  “Oh,” he sighed, tilting his head, his featureless form shifting as if watching Todd from every angle at once. “I see it now.”

  Then, the air changed.

  Where before it had been playful, filled with mocking amusement, something sharp and deadly entered Tarrus’ voice.

  “No more distractions,” he purred. “I need that clever little mind of yours, Nallensen, and your research won’t finish itself.” His presence contracted like a coiled snake, then lunged toward Todd in a blur of motion.

  The attack came without warning—pure chaos, a surge of shifting energy ripping through the air like a spear.

  And then—Nallensen was there.

  Faster than Roland had ever seen anyon move, faster than a man of his bearing should be able to, Nallensen intercepted the attack, his own divine power flaring outward in a blast of raw force. The impact sent cracks of golden light tearing through the ground, divine energy and chaos colliding in a violent, screeching clash.

  Roland barely managed to keep his footing as the shockwave rippled outward, sending dirt and shattered stone whirling into the air.

  Tarrus’ attack dissipated, the force of Nallensen’s power severing it before it could reach Todd.

  For a moment, everything was still.

  Then, Tarrus let out a low, amused hum.

  “Oh, how predictable.” His smoky form recoiled, reforming with ease, as though the attack had meant nothing to him. “You always did have a soft spot for your little pets, didn’t you?”

  Roland didn’t miss the brief flicker in Nallensen’s expression—the momentary shift of something complicated beneath his noble composure. But he didn’t respond.

  It didn’t matter. Tarrus was already moving on.

  The fortress gates groaned.

  Roland’s head snapped toward the sound just in time to see the massive stone doors begin to yawn open, their ancient hinges screeching under the strain. Cold air billowed out from within, thick with the stench of death—but not of decay. This wasn’t the scent of rotting corpses. It was something worse.

  From the darkness beyond the gates, figures began to emerge.

  Roland’s breath caught.

  They were massive, taller than any human, their twisted forms stitched together from things that did not belong. Some had multiple arms, others elongated spines, their flesh an unnatural patchwork of stolen bodies and Veil-born corruption. Their eyes—if they had eyes—burned with ghostly, hollow light, their very presence warping the air around them.

  These weren’t Nallensen’s creations. These weren’t resurrected knights or tortured souls bound to bodies.

  These were something else entirely.

  Tarrus spread his arms wide, his shifting form practically buzzing with delight.

  “Just a few puppets I brought back from the Veil,” he purred. “Thought I’d share.”

  The first of the undead charged.

  And the battlefield erupted into chaos.