The darkness in that hall was not a place.
It was substance.
Dense, unmoving, as if the world itself had forgotten to exist within it.
Nothing breathed.
Nothing pulsed.
Nothing lived.
Until two red eyes opened in the void—deep, still, burning like embers that never die.
Nothing else of the figure could be seen.
Only this: presence and will.
A voice rose without sound, as if torn from the darkness itself.
"White Viper."
The darkness shifted.
Not like wind.
Not like movement.
Like something remembering it could change shape.
A white mist bloomed from nothing, spreading like a cold sigh through the void.
It did not illuminate—only contrasted against the absolute black.
And within it, two white eyes opened, cold, ancient.
When the smoke folded back into its own shadow, the White Viper was there.
Her voice fell into the darkness like an inverted prayer.
"They soon saw what remained of the enemy host."
"The Reaper took his post."
"The Drakkoul wait."
"When the march reaches the wall… the ground will drink more blood than it can hold."
"The Fragments won't be required."
"Except for him… if he wills it."
The red eyes narrowed, predatory light stirring in the dark.
"Then speak."
"Why did you abandon your watch over the Reaper to stand before me?"
The white eyes remained still.
"I came to remind you of your promise."
A smile coiled through the darkness—cruel, silent, full of teeth unseen.
"You fear I'll break what I swore?"
Her eyes glinted, like ice cracking.
"Ancient pacts are fragile."
"Even more between creatures who survived time—and shaped it."
She said nothing—did not retreat.
That was when his voice sank deeper into shadow.
"And since you speak of fragility… answer me one thing."
Her white eyes flickered—and for the first time, wavered.
"Why did your tribe bring the gods into this age?"
Silence.
Heavy.
Absolute.
Ancient.
The white eyes did not falter.
Did not confirm.
Did not deny.
Only watched—like witnesses of eras no mortal mind could ever grasp.
The silence thickened, old enough to have weight.
When she finally spoke, her voice did not answer the question.
It answered the audacity.
It descended like a verdict:
"If you hold knowledge of that burden… then you know the weight of what you dare to ask."
The white eyes narrowed, cold, slicing.
"Do not forget: I can cast you into a place where even your flame will die."
She did not withdraw.
Did not advance.
Only declared—frostbound, absolute:
"Do not mistake my silence for weakness."
When she finished, the darkness seemed to tremble—not with fear,
but like something ancient remembering truths that should not be named.
A sound brushed the air, barely there.
Not laughter.
Not breath.
Something between.
The red eyes did not move, but what radiated from them was colder than any word.
"Promises do not weigh on me, Viper."
"I keep them… when the moment demands it."
Silence swallowed the line, as if the hall held still to listen.
"But you…"
the red eyes burned brighter, almost revelation held back
"…you fear more than the breaking of a vow."
The darkness folded upon itself.
"You fear what will wake when it is fulfilled."
"And you fear even more what your tribe hid… by bringing the gods back to this era."
Her white eyes tightened for the briefest heartbeat—small, imperceptible, but impossible to hide.
He saw it.
And smiled in the dark without a muscle visible.
"Ah… so that is what you wish to keep buried."
His voice turned to poisoned silk.
"Pacts that cannot bear the light."
"Names that cannot be spoken."
"Secrets sealed before the world had a name."
An ancient weight fell between them, dense, suffocating.
The Leader inclined the glint of his eyes, like studying a familiar toxin.
"Remember this:"
"If you wish to keep your flame lit… do not provoke mine."
"There exist places… where even your profane magic will be lost."
The darkness cloaked him like a mantle.
The White Viper did not answer.
Her white eyes closed, consumed by pale smoke that vanished without sound.
For a final moment, only the red remained—fixed, triumphant, silent.
Then it went out.
And the hall returned to nothing.
That nothing… breathed.
As if the darkness itself had poured through the fractures of the world.
And elsewhere—far from there, yet touched by the same shadow—the forest shuddered.
Dead leaves stirred without wind.
Branches groaned under an invisible weight.
And among twisted trunks, sometimes it had eyes.
Fragile, broken shadows walking between them.
Not spirits.
Not phantoms.
Soldiers.
Men reduced to the limit, bodies carved by exhaustion of flesh and mind.
Each step made of pain.
Each breath its own war.
The first pale light of dawn cut through the canopy as the host reached the forest's edge at last.
The world opened before them.
And there stood the Eastern Walls—immense, silent, raised like a tomb waiting for someone.
Brianna was the first to step beyond the treeline.
She lifted her hand, steady, signaling no one to cross.
The host halted.
Kaelir drew closer, gaze locked on the fortress.
"There is no barrier at all," he murmured, almost disbelieving.
Brianna said nothing.
The wind swept through, carrying a scent strange… metallic… old.
The soldiers—already at the brink—raised their heads as if the air itself bore an omen.
Kaelir hesitated at Brianna's side, senses sharpened, breath held.
"Shall we advance? This is certainly a—"
Brianna cut him off before the thought fully formed—not harshly, but with that cold precision she carried only when danger neared.
"—a risk unseen. I know."
The word had barely left her when the air changed.
It didn't cool.
It didn't warm.
It simply lived—as if a presence walked among them without sound, without bending leaves, but leaving a mark impossible to ignore.
Kaelir held his breath.
Brianna raised her face slowly, eyes fixing on the stone horizon ahead.
Atop the walls, a shadow moved.
And before anyone could discern its shape—a scream split the clearing.
"N-NO! NO! DON'T TOUCH ME! DON'T TO—!"
Ryden burst from the makeshift stretcher, body arching as if he'd been torn from a nightmare by his own hands.
The soldiers turned in unison.
Kaelir stepped back on instinct.
Brianna turned just enough to face him.
Ryden's eyes were open.
But not awake.
No focus.
No thought.
Only terror—raw, primal, devouring—the kind born when someone sees what should not exist.
He choked on his own breath, as if trying to spit out the silence suffocating him.
"NO!" the cry convulsed out of him. "Don't come near me!"
Karna stepped forward.
"Ryden, look at me. You're here. You're safe. Just breathe, breath—"
Ryden recoiled as if struck.
"NO!" again, same rupture of voice. "Don't touch me! He feels it when someone touches me… he… he—"
A dry snap cracked the air.
And in a blink, a green filament—fine as hair, fast as venom—crossed the distance and struck Ryden's temple.
The precision was merciless and silent.
Ryden collapsed instantly, body folding like someone had cut the tendons keeping him standing.
Karna spun, half his bow raised, expression collapsing from confusion into disbelief.
"Brianna." He needed no more than her name.
Reproach was all there—raw and unhidden.
She didn't blink.
"Don't look at me like that." Her voice was low, cold, purely practical. "He was breaking. And he would've drawn worse."
The field froze.
Only the nearest soldiers swallowed hard, unsure if they feared the shadow on the wall or the frost in her voice.
Karna clenched his jaw, but didn't argue.
He knelt, hand to Ryden's shoulder—not to wake him, but to ensure he still breathed.
Before he spoke, Ryden murmured—voice cracked, dragged between memory and unconsciousness:
"S… sir… Ka…rna…"
Karna froze.
Brianna turned slowly.
And watched Ryden as if a missing piece had finally shifted—no surprise, no emotion, only that analytical silence that always came before her decisions.
Wind threaded through the trees.
Karna kept his hand on Ryden's shoulder—steady, protective, and braced for anything.
"Ryden." His voice was low, controlled. "What happened to you?"
Ryden blinked slow, like a man rising from a place without light or air or direction.
His gaze drifted unfocused… then found Karna.
"I… don't remember." His breath trembled. "I… don't—"
Zeph approached quickly—though still hesitant, as if fear itself might shatter the boy again.
His face held relief so fierce it nearly cracked his restraint.
Karna remained closest, hand firm on Ryden's shoulder, studying every tremor, every breath.
"Ryden," his voice steady, quiet. "Before you fell… you said something felt you when they touched you."
"Who? What was it?"
His question held no fear.
Only precision—and a sharp thread of urgency.
Ryden's eyes shuddered.
For one moment—only one—he seemed to remember.
"It was a…" voice ragged, torn from deep within. "A shadow… inside the mist. I felt it… when it looked at me. As if—"
The sentence broke.
Ryden's hand flew to his temple as if a blade drove through his skull from the inside.
Pain hit so fast his body arched.
"Ah—!" The sound ripped out of him. "My… head…"
Karna held his arm, anchoring him.
Zeph moved closer.
Ryden fought for breath, fighting the throb trying to split him in half.
"I… I'm sorry." Words forced through trembling. "But the last thing I recall… was loosing the arrow. The creatures… the ones I felled…"
"After that—nothing."
The silence that followed was thick.
Too heavy.
Brianna turned toward him.
No anger.
No doubt.
Only analysis—cold, surgical, like someone assembling a puzzle while others see only chaos.
Her eyes narrowed by a fraction.
"Then tell me, Ryden…" her voice fell like thin ice. "How did you learn about the contamination?"
He opened his mouth to answer.
But Zeph cut in—not boldly, but with the raw instinct to shield someone who didn't understand his own fear.
"Your High—how—"
She didn't even shift her gaze.
She only raised a finger—one single gesture—and Zeph went still, as if the air around him had thickened.
"Zeph." Her voice fell on him at last. "When I asked, I was not asking you."
Zeph swallowed his reply and fell silent.
Ryden breathed in, fighting the tremor running through him.