The air inside House Darrow's council chamber was thick with candle smoke and tension. Seated across from Raymond and Ethan were three individuals, cloaked in deep blue and silver—the robes of the royal academy. Mages.

  Raymond had never liked dealing with them.

  Magic had always felt... unnatural to him. He understood it well enough—the careful shaping of Aether into spells, the weaving of runes into incantations—but he had never been able to use it himself.

  He had tried, once.

  In another life, a younger, desperate version of himself had sought power through spellcraft. But no matter how he studied, no matter how much Aether he absorbed, the magic had never come. His soul refused it.

  Because his Soul String was different.

  Where most weavers could split their thread, bending portions of it into magic while keeping their essence intact, Raymond's soul had been whole—unyielding. A rigid force, suited only for strength and endurance, not manipulation.

  And so, he had chosen the sword.

  The decision had shaped his life. A swordsman with a soul too stubborn for magic, yet too aware of its power to ignore it.

  And now, he sat before three mages, their gazes heavy with scrutiny.

  Lord Darrow steepled his fingers. "House Valner is consolidating power. Their connections to the Academy are deeper than I realized. If they intend to strike again, they will not do so with swords alone."

  Raymond's jaw tightened. That meant Aether casters—battle mages trained in arcane warfare. His victory over Dorian had been a political blow. A magical counterattack was inevitable.

  The eldest of the mages, a woman with piercing grey eyes, spoke first. "Sir Raymond, it is rare to see a Soul Weaver who has not pursued magic."

  Raymond exhaled slowly. "I never had the choice."

  Her gaze flickered with curiosity. "Oh? And why is that?"

  He met her stare evenly. "Because my soul is too strong."

  A hush settled over the room.

  The younger mage, a scholar-type with ink-stained fingers, scoffed. "That makes no sense. The greater the soul, the more intricate its weaving should be—"

  "Not always," the elder woman cut in. Her voice carried a weight of authority. "A soul like his—one that does not bend, does not split—would be more suited for endurance, not refinement. He cannot form spells because his Aether does not scatter."

  Raymond inclined his head. "Exactly."

  The scholar frowned, as if offended by the logic of it. But the eldest mage simply nodded. "Then I take it your strength is in fortification."

  Raymond's fingers brushed against the hilt of his sword. "And destruction."

  Her lips curled slightly. "Good. Because you'll need both."

  Raymond had expected a confrontation, but he had not expected it to come so soon.

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  The attack happened that very night.

  The mages had left, the meeting adjourned, and Raymond had retired to the estate's guest chambers. Sleep never came easily, but exhaustion had finally pulled at his limbs. He was just beginning to drift when—

  A chill ran through his spine.

  Not from cold. From something else.

  Ah…

  The whisper.

  It had been some time since he had last heard it.

  You bleed, little knight. Wounds upon wounds, cycle upon cycle.

  Raymond's pulse quickened. The voice was deep, layered, as if it spoke from beneath a thousand echoes. Nyxthid.

  The Wretched Maw. The prisoner beneath reality.

  Raymond exhaled slowly, forcing the unease from his mind. I don't need you.

  A chuckle. You always say that. And yet…

  Raymond opened his eyes. The shadows in the room had deepened.

  Something was wrong.

  Then he heard it—the soft slide of a blade being drawn.

  He rolled from the bed just as a dagger stabbed into the mattress where his throat had been.

  The assassin moved fast.

  Raymond had no time to draw his sword—only to react.

  He threw himself forward, slamming into the attacker. The assassin barely stumbled before twisting mid-motion, catching Raymond's wrist. The dagger came toward his side—Raymond caught the arm, twisting.

  A sickening pop.

  The assassin barely flinched. Aether reinforcement.

  Raymond gritted his teeth. Valner's mages.

  He prepared to counter—but then the air shifted.

  The assassin's Aether flared.

  Magic.

  Raymond barely had time to register the shift before the assassin muttered something beneath his breath, and the air ignited.

  Fire exploded from the assassin's free hand, an unnatural, writhing stream that lashed toward Raymond's face.

  Raymond reacted instinctively.

  He dove low, rolling beneath the wave of flame just as it scorched the bed behind him, sending burning embers into the air. The assassin followed through without hesitation—dagger flipping, a second spell forming in his free hand.

  Raymond recognized the signs.

  Static charge.

  A lightning rune was forming at the assassin's fingertips—a crackling, unstable spell meant to paralyze.

  Raymond was already moving.

  He lunged.

  The assassin had expected hesitation. He had not expected an immediate counter.

  Raymond's shoulder slammed into his chest, disrupting the spell mid-cast. Sparks flickered, then died as the assassin stumbled back. Raymond pressed forward, gripping the assassin's wrist.

  A quick, brutal twist.

  Snap.

  The dagger fell from limp fingers.

  The assassin tried to pull back, but Raymond was already moving.

  One step forward. A sharp, upward elbow strike to the jaw.

  Bone cracked.

  The assassin reeled.

  Raymond didn't hesitate.

  His free hand caught the assassin's head and drove it down—

  Knee. Contact. Skull.

  The impact shook the room.

  The assassin went limp before he hit the floor.

  Raymond stood still for a moment, breathing heavily.

  The room was filled with the acrid stench of burnt fabric. The mattress still smoldered, embers dying as they lost their fuel. A perfect reminder of the fight.

  His ribs burned with every breath. The assassin had been fast. A second slower, and he would've been dead.

  The curse stirred in his mind.

  That was close.

  Raymond didn't respond.

  Nyxthid's voice purred through his thoughts. Perhaps next time, you should rely on me sooner.

  Raymond's hands clenched. No.

  A quiet chuckle. Then see how long your mortal limits last.

  The presence receded.

  Raymond exhaled, rubbing his temples. Damn thing.

  He turned to the assassin's corpse. The flaming spell had been unexpected. House Valner wasn't just using warriors—they were sending casters.

  And that meant Raymond needed to move faster.

  The item he sought—it could not wait any longer.

  He turned as Ethan burst into the room, sword in hand. His eyes flicked to the assassin's corpse, then the charred remains of the bed.

  "That," Ethan said slowly, "is not a normal fight scene."

  Raymond wiped blood from his knuckles. "No. It isn't."

  Ethan sheathed his sword. "Guessing we leave first thing in the morning?"

  Raymond met his gaze.

  "We leave now."