Dareth and Volhcard rushed up the church steps. Pushing the doors open, they were met with the sight of discarded clothing scattered across the floor.
As they approached the bundles of fabric, they found only dust within them—the lingering residue of the Dornumir Staff's immense power.
"How is this possible? Who could have stolen the Dornumir Staff?" Volhcard asked, sifting through the garments in disbelief.
Dareth's attention shifted toward the basement door, which stood ajar. He glanced back at Volhcard, his expression composed but strained.
"My dear boy, I am afraid I cannot allow you—or anyone else—to remain in the church for now. For the time being, I will give you instructions on how to control the power awakening within you," he said as he guided Volhcard outside.
Placing his hands firmly on the dwarf's shoulders, he looked into his eyes.
"You must not follow me, nor speak of this to anyone. Not even Fraye. Do you understand?"
"But—" Volhcard's words faltered beneath his master's stern gaze.
He nodded slowly. Dareth's grip loosened before he released him.
"Go now. Stay with Fraye for the time being. I have other matters to settle," Dareth said, descending the steps and heading toward the palace.
Volhcard hurried in the opposite direction, toward Fraye's estate.
Hours passed. The moon hung high when Dareth walked through one of the palace's many corridors.
Moonlight filtered through tall windows, curtains swaying gently in the night breeze. The air carried a faint, pleasant scent, one Dareth would have appreciated under different circumstances.
Instead, unease churned within him. Fear. Revulsion. Anger. His grip on his staff tightened as his gaze scanned for the slightest irregularity.
Whispers slithered through the shadows lining the hall. Something was waiting.
A sudden rush of air cut through the silence.
Before the attacker could strike, Dareth drove the base of his staff into their stomach. He pivoted and spoke in ancient Dwarvish.
Mana spiraled along the staff, bursting outward as compressed shards of air that pierced the cloaked assailant's throat. The body collapsed instantly.
"There is no point in sending assassins to silence me, Tholdir. Perhaps—"
A bolt of lightning tore through the hallway, cutting him off mid-sentence.
Dareth stepped aside just in time, though the heat of the strike grazed him.
From around the corner emerged Tholdir, his face cold and devoid of emotion. In his hand rested an eight-inch wand carved from the corpse of an Ent, its core formed from the preserved heart of a Lightning Wyvern.
"And where is your staff?" Dareth asked, a faint hint of mockery in his tone. "Did you discard it, or offer it to your master?"
Tholdir's eyes narrowed. Without replying, he traced a pattern in the air with his wand. Mana gathered at its tip, condensing before erupting into a vortex of flames that shaped itself into a dragon's head.
The blazing construct surged forward, heat distorting the air in its wake.
Dareth lifted his staff with both hands. A concentrated beam of lightning shot forth, cleaving the fiery dragon in half. In the same motion, he spun the staff and unleashed a volley of compressed air projectiles.
Each one was deflected by the precise, fluid movements of Tholdir's wand.
"So is this why you follow him like a dog?" asked Dareth, chuckling in the process. "The use of magic, yet you're pure blooded dwarf. You're a disgrace to your own kind, forcefully changing your body for what? Power?"
The words hung in the air. Tholdir stayed silent for moment, grinding his teeth before retaliating with a barrage of lightning bolts.
Dareth avoided them with measured steps, advancing steadily. Tholdir spun his wand once more, and the temperature plummeted. The air sharpened, winds howling through the corridor.
Dareth felt the strain in his bones as windows slammed shut. Frost spread rapidly across curtains, walls, and ceiling.
If he were capable of it, he might have smiled.
The cold was soon overwhelmed by a surge of heat as flames roared to life around them. Tholdir countered immediately, extinguishing the blaze and restoring the freezing chill. Once more, Dareth answered with rising heat.
The clash became a relentless exchange, a contest of endurance.
Dareth continued forward without pause, closing the distance step by step.
Tholdir retreated as much as he could, heart pounding, sweat gathering along his brow despite the violent shifts in temperature.
Tholdir spun his wand, sending a powerful gust of wind surging forward. Dareth countered instantly. With a sharp swing of his staff, he split the gale apart and quickened his pace.
Charging toward Tholdir, he rotated the staff and brought it down against the marble floor. Roots burst outward from the stone, followed by a surge of lightning. Tholdir dismantled the lightning with a casual flick of his wand.
The roots coiled and wrapped around Tholdir's legs, lifting him high into the air. Before Dareth could press the advantage, he paused in surprise at the fluid precision of Tholdir's movements.
His motions were almost liquid, swift as wind, unfolding in a seamless, practiced rhythm. When he struck both roots with his wand, flames erupted and reduced them to ash.
Tholdir landed lightly, pivoted, and unleashed a storm of magic. Bolts of lightning, spheres of fire, and compressed blasts of wind tore through the corridor.
The assault was relentless. Several spells ripped through Dareth's robes, cracking portions of his ribs and even his skull. Pain flared through him, sharp and jarring, but it did little to slow him. He had endured worse countless times before. What once would have been crippling agony was now little more than an irritation.
At last, Tholdir spoke, his voice carrying both disdain and curiosity.
"Why? Why do you insist on stopping me? You could have turned a blind eye. And even if you defeat me, what will the people think? What will the council say?"
Dareth answered without hesitation.
"It's quite simple. I intend to clear the path for Volhcard to gain full control within a week. After that, I will show Aldir who truly deserves the title of greatest mage in Relisquae."
The response caught Tholdir off guard. It was not about duty or protection of the kingdom. It was selfish. Though helping Volhcard master the power of Atlas in a week was admirable, the true motivation lay in Dareth's desire to surpass Aldir, to be acknowledged as stronger than the so-called mad mage.
A faint, amused smile tugged at Tholdir's lips.
He rotated his wand in a smooth circle. Water gathered from the air, spiraling into existence before him.
With a sharp thrust, he launched it forward. The water froze midair, splitting into five jagged shards of ice.
Before Dareth could respond, frost crept along his bony fingers. A piercing chill spread through his frame. The shards struck his chest, splintering bone as he dropped to one knee.
Despite the blow, he retaliated at once. Raising his staff skyward, he summoned roaring flames that coiled around him in twisting ribbons. The intense heat melted stone, scorched curtains, and blackened the ceiling. The air grew suffocating.
Tholdir coughed violently, each breath scraping against his lungs. He covered his mouth with one hand while keeping the other ready to cast.
Dareth let out a harsh laugh and lunged forward, driving the staff into Tholdir's face. The impact shattered the older mage's jaw and cheekbones.
Tholdir tumbled back, rolling across the floor as Dareth rushed forward. Dareth struck him again. Blood streamed from his nose, mouth, and eyes as he collapsed.
"You… bastard…" Tholdir rasped, struggling to rise.
As he tried to stand once more. Dareth swung the staff like a golf club into his chest. And like a gold ball, Tholdir flew into a wall, crashing into it.
"Go on. Heal yourself," Dareth taunted, his voice simmering with contempt. "I will show you who the superior mage truly is."
Flying towards him with the use of the wind. Dareth struck him once more, this time across the torso.
Spinning his staff, Dareth summoned a gentle yellow radiance. Holy energy flowed outward, enveloping Tholdir and mending his shattered jaw and cheekbones. Flesh reformed. Bone knit itself together.
The moment the wounds closed, Dareth resumed his assault.
Blow after blow rained down. Each strike broke bone and tore flesh, and each injury was immediately restored by the lingering holy light. The cycle continued mercilessly—damage followed by healing, only to be undone again.
He was a mess of broken bones, tattered clothing merging into his damaged flesh. Red stained his entire body, as he continued to struggle.
Rasping as he clawed at Dareth's robes.
"...The council..." was all Tholdir could manage to say.
"The council will hear none of this," Dareth said calmly as he crouched beside the battered mage. "They will be told only that I have been appointed Head."
He leaned closer.
"And before you attempt to argue otherwise, know this: the thought of your death brings relief to every councilman and woman. Not a single soul wishes to see you again. The Council has been a farce for four hundred years. Pathetic. All of them. Including you."
He rose to his feet and lifted his staff.
Tholdir weakly raised his mangled head. Blood filled his mouth as he tried to speak, fury burning in his eyes. He could not even summon the strength to curse Dareth aloud.
The final strike came down upon his skull.
Mana reinforced the blow. Bone cracked apart, splitting like a crushed melon. Blood pooled across the marble floor, staining the hem of Dareth's robes.
He felt nothing. No guilt. No hatred.
Only satisfaction.
Eight days before the accusation, Dareth stood before the High Council throne. After exhausting days of persuasion and manipulation, he had secured his position.
For now, he could rest.
Soon, he would continue his plan to ensure Volhcard mastered the power of Atlas within a single week.
As for Tholdir's remains, they had been reduced to ash. His heart now formed part of the core within Dareth's staff.
Such an illustrious seat, Dareth mused, yet occupied by only four individuals in a thousand years.
He turned and exited the council chamber.
At Fraye's manor, Volhcard sat in silence, studying his staff. His fingers traced its surface as his thoughts churned.
"What has you so tense?" Fraye asked, pulling him from his thoughts.
"Ah, it's just…" He hesitated, glancing at her. "I wonder if I can truly master magic. If I can contain the power within me."
Fraye giggled softly and sat beside him, examining the staff.
"I think you can. Didn't you say that with enough time, and with the guidance of the Almighty Glorious Life, you could accomplish anything?" she said, wrapping her arms around his right arm.
Her reassurance should have eased him, yet the unease in his chest deepened. Still, he concealed it.
He smiled back at her and tightened his grip on the staff, feigning confidence.
"You're right. I did say that. There's no need to worry when the Almighty Glorious Life watches over us, and you're by my side," he replied, taking her hand.
Then, in a fleeting instant, he saw it.
A vision of her screaming at him.
He recoiled, breath ragged and frantic.
Clutching his chest, he stared at Fraye. She rose as well, concern written across her face, hands clasped tightly together.
For a moment, fear flickered in her eyes before she steadied herself and approached him. His hands trembled.
"It's alright, Volh. Tell me what happened," she said gently, taking his shaking hands into hers and stroking them in comfort.
He swallowed hard, forcing his breathing to slow. Gradually, his pulse steadied.
"A vision," he said quietly, sitting down again. "A terrible one. It was about—"
He stopped.
He could not say it. Could not confess that she had been screaming at him, not because of some crime or monster, but because of him.
He shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall while she continued holding his hands.
At last, he spoke.
"It was about me," he said, forcing a smile.
"Harnessing the power. Controlling it completely."
Fraye brightened, missing the lie. Volhcard's expression held both worry and a strained kind of hope.
"That's wonderful, Volhcard. A far better vision than the others you've had," she said, releasing his hands as she stood.
"Did it show when? Did you see a date?" she asked.
Volhcard rose and picked up his staff, studying it before responding.
"No. Nothing specific. But at least it's something," he answered, walking toward the door. Before opening it, he glanced back at her.
"I'm going to train for a while. I should also speak with Master about it."
Fraye nodded.
He stepped out of the room.
The moment he left, Madame Gretel entered. Her expression was calm, but in her hands she carried a letter smeared with blood.