Of the native races, only the terie, the icthimer, and the scorps endure. Each survives by clinging to what remains of their ancient strengths: the terie’s resilience, the icthimer’s mastery of the sea, and the scorps’ terrible unity.
— Catalog of the Civilized Coast, Eadwulf
The atmosphere in the room shifted, a sharp knock reverberating through the chamber like a thunderclap. Folmon’s hand hovered over the iron contraption, his murmured incantation cutting off as the object dissolved back into straw with a faint wisp of purple smoke. He let it fall to the floor, the ordinary fragment blending seamlessly into the modest furnishings. His eyes darted to Halaema, the two exchanging a silent look of urgency that seemed to pass volumes in an instant.
Halaema rose to answer the knock, but the trembling doorknob froze her mid-step. The vibrations intensified, rattling in a way that suggested whoever stood beyond was moments from forcing their way inside.
The monotonous yet guttural voice of a GOLEM cut through the air, heavy and unrelenting. “Primelaw violation detected. Awaiting confirmation.”
“That damned horn,” Folmon hissed, his frustration cracking through the surface of his otherwise composed demeanor. His gaze snapped to me, his expression a volatile mix of suspicion and fear. “Ivolith, tell me you haven’t brought them upon us.”
“Take a breath, Folmon,” Halaema said, her voice steady but taut, as though she were holding something far greater at bay. She positioned herself near the doorframe, her hand hovering protectively. “He’s been under our watch this entire time. It couldn’t have been him.”
The knocking intensified, each blow hammering against the door like the heartbeat of the encroaching threat. Then, abruptly, it stopped. The silence that followed was far more suffocating.
“First, Second, and Third Primelaw violations confirmed,” the GOLEM’s mechanical verdict fell like a death knell, its tone devoid of mercy.
Folmon turned sharply to me, his face pale, the control he fought to maintain beginning to fracture. “Second?” His voice trembled slightly. “Are you certain?”
Halaema’s composure finally cracked, her words spilling out in a rare note of alarm. “How did they detect Elreak?”
“Initiating siege,” the GOLEM declared. The cold finality of the words sent a chill rippling through the room.
“Elreak is a yanthi?” I blurted, the realization striking me even as the words left my mouth. Folmon’s grim nod was answer enough, sending a jolt through me.
My thoughts churned, the weight of the moment crashing against me. The traveler’s words had led me here, yet now doubt bled into my certainty. Had the ethereal being misinterpreted the archives when it read the events of this time? Or was this exactly what it had foreseen? A thought struck me, cold and sharp: perhaps I wasn’t meant to prevent this timeline but to ignite it. A catalyst, not a savior. If that were true, then my presence here wasn’t an intervention—it was a spark thrown onto kindling already prepared.
The doorknob twisted violently before the door swung open, crashing against the wall with enough force to make the hinges groan. Elidyr and Elreak stood in the threshold, battered and bloodied, their expressions grim but resolute. Without a word, they motioned for us to follow.
We stepped into the corridor, and my gaze was immediately drawn to the two lifeless forms sprawled on the stone floor. I crouched instinctively, my focus narrowing as I examined the strange creatures before me.
Their bodies were thin to the point of emaciation, their ashen skin pulled taut over wiry frames that suggested speed over strength. Their smooth, hairless heads jutted forward, elongated jaws lined with sharp yellowed fangs. Whisker-like protrusions extended from their snouts, perhaps for sensory purposes. Dark, viscous liquid pooled beneath their bodies, rippling faintly as though still disturbed by their collapse.
It was their clothing, though, that captured my attention. Form-fitting black garb covered their skeletal forms, the fabric segmented like armor yet designed for flexibility. The design was utilitarian—tools for stealth, not protection. These weren’t mindless predators; they were something else. Assassins.
The realization settled uneasily within me. The lack of obvious injuries, the predatory build, and the deliberate clothing all pointed to a single conclusion: these creatures worked for the empire. They weren’t here to overwhelm; they were here to destabilize, to weaken their prey before the real muscle arrived.
“What are they?” I asked finally, though the answer felt less like a question and more like a demand.
Elidyr’s gaze flicked briefly to Elreak before returning to me. He hesitated just long enough for the moment to feel wrong, his voice carrying a strained precision that only added to my unease. “They were est,” he said, the words clipped and deliberate. “They tried to breach the room, but we stopped them.”
The pride in his tone sounded hollow, rehearsed, like someone playing a role. I couldn’t place it, but there was something about the way he spoke, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet mine, that left me certain he was holding something back.
“They were est,” I repeated internally, testing the word like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit. Whatever secret Elidyr was guarding, he wasn’t about to share it now.
“We cannot linger,” Elreak interjected, his voice sharp and commanding. The urgency in his tone was real, snapping me out of my spiraling thoughts. “There may be more.”
As if summoned by his words, the cold, mechanical voice of a GOLEM boomed from outside. “Initiating battering ram.”
The walls of the monastery trembled under the impact, each blow resonating through the corridor like the drumbeat of an approaching storm. Vibrations rippled beneath our feet, the stone seeming to groan in protest under the relentless assault.
“Elidyr,” Folmon hissed, his voice sharp with urgency. Elidyr stepped forward immediately, his movements precise, almost too assured, as he positioned himself at the forefront of our group. Folmon and Halaema followed close behind, their postures tense, while I fell into step just behind them. Elreak, ever vigilant, brought up the rear, his eyes constantly scanning the shadows, his hand hovering near his weapon.
The corridor opened into the main chamber, and the weight of the space pressed down on me like a physical force. The air was thick with an oppressive stillness, broken only by the faint rustle of fabric and murmured prayers. Towering above us was an effigy of the mage-god Thywenor, its jade-adorned ears glinting faintly in the dim light. Below, initiates knelt in tight clusters, their whispers a fragile plea for deliverance that barely rose above the hum of dread. The scent of candle wax mingled with the metallic tang of fear, a reminder that sanctuary offered no guarantees.
“Thywenor, hear us,” one initiate murmured, her voice trembling. “Shield us, guide us…” Her prayer was cut short by the GOLEM’s voice, slicing through the air like the crack of a whip.
“Intrusion detected. Initiating activation sequence for pulse weapon.”
The words sent a chill through me. A weapon. The GOLEMs weren’t just breaking down doors—they were preparing to annihilate.
At the far end of the chamber, my eyes locked on a wall that seemed at odds with the rest of the room. Its surface was rough, uneven, like a scar left behind by something hastily concealed. Elidyr and Elreak moved quickly to flank it, their weapons drawn, their stances braced for whatever might come.
Folmon stepped forward, his movements deliberate but weighted with urgency. He rested a hand against the disfigured stone, his posture rigid, as though the wall itself might crumble beneath his touch. The tension in his shoulders and the way his head tilted ever so slightly gave the impression of someone deep in thought—or calculation.
The GOLEM’s tone escalated, its voice sharp and mechanical. “Pulse weapon charged. Initiating attack.”
A piercing wail tore through the chamber, rising to an unbearable pitch before three beams of searing red light erupted from the walls. The energy carved through the monastery’s interior, the effigy of Thywenor taking the brunt of the assault. Its jade-adorned ears shattered, and the mage-god’s head disintegrated in an instant, the explosion scattering molten fragments across the chamber.
The shockwave hit like a hammer, driving the air from my lungs as walls buckled and splintered. Cracks raced through the stone floor beneath us, jagged and merciless, while the screams of the wounded rose in a panicked chorus. Debris rained down in a choking cloud, and the coppery scent of blood mingled with the acrid stench of scorched stone.
“Primelaw enforcement in progress,” the GOLEM intoned, its cold detachment chilling. “Commencing summary executions.”
Folmon twisted toward us, his movements quick, deliberate, his face pale but resolute. “We need to move—now.”
Around us, chaos reigned. The shattered remains of the effigy lay scattered across the floor, mingling with the broken forms of initiates caught in the blast. My gaze flicked to the crimson spray on Folmon’s back—a visceral reminder of the carnage. Everywhere, the weight of destruction bore down, every second a countdown to annihilation.
Halaema’s voice cut through the din, steady despite the strain in her features. She pointed toward the irregular wall, urgency bleeding into her every word. “There’s no time to waste. Folmon, is the passage still viable?”
Folmon nodded, his hands moving urgently across the wall’s uneven surface, searching for something unseen. “Stay close,” he said, his voice low but commanding.
Behind us, the chamber groaned under the strain of the GOLEM’s assault. Dust and debris rained down as Folmon’s fingers finally found their mark. A faint shimmer of purple light flickered across the wall, and, in an instant, the stone transformed into a gleaming metallic door. The air seemed to hold its breath as Halaema stepped forward, gripping the handle and pulling it open to reveal a hidden passage.
The corridor beyond was narrow and dark, its rugged walls glistening faintly in the dim torchlight. Shadows danced erratically as the flames flickered, casting the space in restless movement.
“Summary executions concluded,” the GOLEM’s voice echoed through the air, cold and unrelenting. “Five individuals remain unaccounted for.”
The sound sent a shiver through me. Every step we took seemed magnified, every breath a reminder of the danger clawing its way closer. Folmon lingered at the doorway, his hand pressing against the metallic surface. The purple shimmer returned, and the door melted back into the wall, its edges sealing flawlessly until no trace of the passage remained.
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The tension snapped like a taut string suddenly cut. The oppressive weight that had loomed over us dissolved, replaced by the blessed quiet of the corridor. Folmon turned without a word, his movements resolute as he led us deeper into the passage.
The rest of us followed in a tight line—Elreak close behind the alchemist, his sharp gaze lingering at every shadow, and Elidyr taking up the rear.
“Leave the students, Folmon,” Elidyr urged, his voice firm but measured, though a note of urgency bled through. “Our priority must be to escape this place.”
“My students are just beyond,” Folmon replied without breaking stride, his tone carrying a quiet resolve that left no room for argument. “To forsake them is to forsake myself.”
Halaema, her voice tight but determined, added quickly, “There’s a door at the rear of the antechamber. If we reach it—”
Folmon rounded a corner, and his steps faltered. Torchlight glinted off the tip of a blade, its edge polished and lethal, catching the flicker of flames. The corridor seemed to contract around us, every shadow deepening as a voice emerged from the darkness, sharp and cold.
“Stop right there, Folmon.”
Elreak moved before the words had fully landed, his spear lowering as he stepped forward, his stance brimming with readiness. His sharp gaze fixed on the unseen speaker, his body poised to strike.
“Don’t,” the voice cut in, calm but laced with menace. “I could end your life before your dog even blinks. Drop the spear.”
Folmon’s hand came down onto Elreak’s weapon, the gesture deliberate and firm. The command was unspoken but absolute. Elreak hesitated, his knuckles whitening around the shaft of the spear before he let it drop. The clatter of metal against stone echoed through the corridor, unnervingly loud in the tense silence.
A figure stepped into the torchlight, his posture rigid and his presence commanding. His face, sharp and disciplined, radiated an air of authority, but the menace was unmistakable—a controlled and dangerous energy simmering beneath the surface.
“Baerbald,” Folmon murmured, disbelief and dismay mingling in his voice. The name fell heavily in the confined space, carrying with it a weight that seemed to root us in place. “What drives you to this end?”
Baerbald’s expression remained unreadable, though his smirk hinted at self-satisfaction. His voice rang through the corridor, clipped and condescending. “The emperor has known of your treason for some time, Folmon. Did you really think you could outsmart the empire? A man of your... limited foresight?” His gaze slid lazily to Elidyr, his tone taking on a theatrical edge. “Isn’t that right, Elidyr?”
Time slowed as I turned, my instincts screaming that something was wrong. Elidyr’s spear, once an extension of his defense, was now pointed squarely at my chest. His face, twisted into a sneer, sent a sharp jolt through me.
“The stench of betrayal is unmistakable in this lot,” Elidyr said, his voice low and venomous. His words dripped with contempt, each one deliberate and cutting. “The Viceroy was right to enlist the Arm. To think you hid this anomaly from the empire.” He jabbed the spear toward me, his eyes glinting with a dangerous satisfaction. “Nothing escapes the emperor’s vigilance.”
I couldn’t move. The spear’s point might as well have been holding me in place, but it wasn’t fear alone that rooted me. It was the betrayal, the realization sinking in with crushing weight.
Folmon’s face turned ashen, his eyes wide and unblinking. His shoulders slumped as though the strength that carried him all this way had been drained in an instant. “You…” he began, his voice breaking under the weight of his disbelief. “You betrayed us?” The question hung in the air, fragile and desperate.
Elidyr’s laugh was short and biting. “Betrayed you?” he echoed, the word twisting in his mouth. “I upheld justice. You, Folmon, are the traitor here. You abandoned the empire’s will for this... this transmutation.”
Halaema stepped forward, her voice trembling with restraint as she tried to cut through the tension. “Elidyr,” she said, steady but insistent, “do you really believe the empire will reward you for this? You’re nothing more than a pawn in their game.”
Elidyr’s sneer deepened, his eyes narrowing. “A pawn who knows his place,” he hissed. “Unlike the rest of you.”
The GOLEM’s voice boomed suddenly, echoing through the corridor with mechanical precision. “Structural anomaly detected. Initiating siege procedures.”
The grinding of metal reverberated through the air, a sound that set my teeth on edge. The GOLEMs had found the passage—Folmon’s carefully hidden sanctuary—and deemed it an unacceptable deviation.
“Reinforcements dispatched,” the GOLEM intoned, its words cold and merciless.
Baerbald’s gaze flicked toward the unseen threat, but his confidence didn’t waver. Instead, he stepped forward, his movements deliberate, his smirk widening. “The empire is here, Folmon,” he said, his tone bordering on self-congratulation. “Your little game is over. There’s no escape, but I imagine you already knew that. Perhaps you were waiting for my arrival to make it official.”
He extended a hand, his condescending gesture as much a command as his words. “Come forward, Folmon,” he said, his voice dripping with mock politeness. “And bring your companions along. It would be rude to leave them behind, wouldn’t it?”
The antechamber was a tableau of horror. Blood streaked across the floor in wide arcs, pooling in dark, viscous patches around broken bodies. The metallic tang of it clung to the air, thick and suffocating. My foot caught on something, and I stumbled, glancing down to see a thiwen sprawled beneath me. His tattered shirt clung to him, soaked with blood that traced the jagged wounds peppering his torso.
The cut across his neck stopped me cold. It was deep, almost severing his head, and his tongue—grotesquely swollen—protruded from his gaping mouth, darkened with blackened goo. One eye hung loose, swaying on its stalk with each shift in the air, while the other stared upward, hollow and accusing. The sheer brutality should have turned my stomach, but I locked the bile down, forcing myself to focus.
My gaze swept the chamber with the practiced detachment of a seasoned investigator. There were too many bodies to count at a glance, each one bearing signs of extreme violence. Broken limbs jutted at unnatural angles. Shredded skin revealed muscle and bone. The placement of the corpses suggested chaos—panic. They hadn’t been positioned but left where they fell, their deaths messy, brutal, and utterly unrestrained.
“I apologize for the state of affairs,” Baerbald’s voice broke through the suffocating silence, his tone eerily casual. He gestured broadly at the carnage as though it were little more than an inconvenience. His stout frame and portly belly, straining against his shirt, made him look comically out of place against such a gruesome backdrop. “I’ve been making some changes,” he remarked lightly, as though discussing interior design. “How do you find the new atmosphere?”
“What kind of monster are you?” Halaema demanded, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury. Her gaze darted between the bodies, her horror plain on her face. “Why would you commit such a heinous act against these scholars?”
“They were a threat,” Baerbald replied, his indifference chilling. “Giantridge must be purged of its dangers.”
My eyes moved sharply to him, scrutinizing every twitch, every inflection. His words were calculated, his casual tone a mask. He wanted us unsettled—off balance.
Elreak knelt beside one of the bodies, his sharp eyes narrowing as he examined the wounds. His expression darkened, his voice low and grim. “These engorged tongues—this is est blood poison. It’s unmistakable.”
Baerbald’s lips curled into a thin smile, his smirk deepening as he gestured with mockery. “Astute observation, yanthi,” he said, his words dripping with false praise.
Yanthi. The word hit me like a shockwave, reverberating through every guarded part of myself. He’s like me. In an empire that hunts hybrids with relentless cruelty, where even whispers of our existence are snuffed out with executions, finding another yanthi was unthinkable. My mind reeled, flooded with questions. How had he survived? What had kept him hidden for so long? And why hadn’t I seen it before?
The realization carried a weight unlike anything I’d felt in years. For so long, I thought I was alone. Now, here was Elreak, standing just feet away, a quiet confirmation that I wasn’t the last.
Raising his voice, Baerbald turned to the shadows that seemed to writhe at the edges of the room. “Come forth.”
From the darkness, three figures emerged. They moved with an unnatural, almost animalistic grace, their pale, hairless skin pulled taut over wiry frames. Their mouths hung open, dripping with strings of viscous saliva, and jagged yellow teeth gleamed as the dim light caught them. Their obsidian-black eyes locked onto us, unblinking and full of hunger.
A guttural snarl rippled from their throats, low and primal, sending a ripple of unease through the room. The est weren’t just predators—they were predators with purpose.
“Which among them is the yanthi?” one of the est hissed, its voice a guttural mockery of speech. Its black eyes gleamed with savage glee. “I want to rip out his heart and feed it to him.”
Another est snapped its head toward him, snarling in irritation, a sound more animal than human. The two exchanged low growls before the second est turned its attention back to us. “And they must bear witness,” it rasped, its voice reverent, as though the slaughter were part of some twisted ritual.
“Enough,” Baerbald interjected, his voice calm yet razor-sharp, slicing through the growing menace in the room. “There’s no need for theatrics. Your… enthusiasm is noted.” The est grinned in unison, their obsidian eyes unblinking as they locked on us.
“As the Hovnsgard dictates,” one of the est snarled, its voice low and reverent.
“Hovnsgard?” Folmon snapped, his head jerking toward Baerbald. His voice carried a mix of disbelief and contempt. “You expect me to believe you have ties to the Hovnsgard?” His gaze swept Baerbald with thinly veiled disdain. “You don’t exactly fit the description.”
Baerbald chuckled, the sound low and unsettling. “Appearances can be deceiving, alchemist. The Hovnsgard’s will extends farther than you could ever imagine.”
Folmon’s retort came sharp and fast. “And yet here you are, groveling in the empire’s dirt, trying to pass off est rabble as strength. Is this the reach of your vaunted Hovnsgard?”
The words barely had time to settle before one of the est stiffened, a guttural growl rising in its throat. Baerbald’s brow arched slightly, his composure flickering for just a moment as the creature stepped forward, its jagged teeth bared.
“My chief is strong,” the est growled, its voice low and full of menace. “Vraxthis will be ours, westfolk. We will no longer bow to your kind.”
Baerbald’s smirk returned, slow and deliberate. “Ah, Vraxthis,” he said, his tone mocking but measured. “An impressive fortress. Though it seems your chief has forgotten it serves the empire’s will, not yours.”
The defiant est bristled, its claws flexing as though ready to strike—but Baerbald moved first.
Without warning, Baerbald spun and drove his blade into the creature’s chest. The est’s eyes widened in shock, its claws scrabbling weakly at the blade as a gurgling snarl escaped its throat. The other est shrank back, lowering their heads, their defiance evaporating as their companion crumpled to the floor.
Black, viscous blood oozed from the wound, pooling around the lifeless form as Baerbald withdrew his sword with a sickening squelch. “Treason is treason,” he said coldly, his voice as sharp as the weapon in his hand. Holding the blade up, he examined the black liquid coating its surface. “Do you know what est blood does on contact with other races?”
“It burns,” Elreak said evenly, though his jaw tightened. His tone was measured, but there was no mistaking the tension in his stance.
“Correct!” Baerbald replied, his words filled with a chilling enthusiasm. He turned suddenly, pointing the tip of the bloodied blade at Elreak. “Now, remove your shirt.”
Elreak hesitated for only a fraction of a second, his eyes locking onto Baerbald’s. Then, with deliberate precision, he untucked the fabric and began unbuttoning his shirt.
I couldn’t stop staring. His movements were unhurried, careful, and as the fabric fell away, the flickering torchlight cast sharp shadows over his chest and shoulders. Sweat clung to his skin in a fine sheen, highlighting the defined contours of muscle honed by years of battle. My gaze lingered on the curve of his collarbone, the tension in his arms as he let the shirt drop to the floor.
There was something magnetic about him—a quiet intensity in the way he stood, as though daring Baerbald to make good on his threats. I should have looked away. I should have been analyzing Baerbald’s next move, scanning for weaknesses. But I couldn’t.
Our eyes met briefly, and for a moment, I felt unmoored. There was no fear in Elreak’s expression, only a calm, steady resolve that seemed to cut through the chaos around us. He gave the faintest nod, a gesture of reassurance—or defiance—and I felt my chest tighten. Whatever this was, I couldn’t put words to it.
“Much better,” Baerbald said with unsettling satisfaction, his gaze roving over Elreak with the intensity of a predator. The tip of his sword hovered inches from Elreak’s chest, its bloodied surface gleaming in the torchlight. He turned to the remaining est, his voice dripping with mockery. “Tell me—where should I thrust the blade?”
One of the est snarled, its jagged teeth bared, while the other answered with a sinister grin. “Our blood burns most fiercely from the chest,” it rasped. “The harder the heart beats, the deeper the fire cuts.”
Baerbald’s smirk widened, the tip of his sword hovering closer to Elreak’s chest. “A poetic end, wouldn’t you agree?” he said, his voice dripping with mockery. He raised the blade higher, the torchlight catching the viscous black blood still clinging to its edge.
The moment stretched unbearably, the tension in the room coiling tighter with every passing second. Elreak didn’t flinch. His body was tense, poised, but his gaze was steady, fixed on Baerbald with a quiet defiance that burned brighter than any words could.
And then I moved.
It wasn’t a decision—it was instinct. A primal surge of determination ignited in my chest, my body acting before my mind could catch up. My feet hit the ground with purpose, every step driving me forward.
The est reacted instantly, one of them hurling a dagger in my direction. The blade whistled through the air, but its aim wavered, the throw hurried and unbalanced. Baerbald, sensing the movement, pivoted with startling speed. His blade shifted, the point now angled to strike me instead of Elreak.
I didn’t stop.
The collision was brutal, the blade finding its mark with an unforgiving thrust. Cold steel tore into my abdomen, and the searing pain that followed radiated outward, consuming every nerve. Time slowed, the weight of the sword pinning me in place as my knees buckled.
The room wavered, edges smearing into indistinct shapes. The hisses of the est were distant now, drowned beneath the ragged thrum of my pulse. I caught Elreak’s gaze—his sharp intake of breath, the flicker of something raw in his eyes—but even that began to slip away, fading into the haze that crept into my vision, as if lost in a sea of gray.
