Riven returned to Arthur as the camp continued to burn behind them.
Arthur stood with Taren near a hastily drawn layout carved into the dirt—markers placed with precision, lines intersecting at sharp angles. They were mid-discussion when Riven approached.
Arthur looked up first. "You're alive."
Riven smirked faintly. "Disappointed?"
Taren's eyes flicked over him once, assessing. "You're bleeding."
Riven shrugged it off and glanced at the markings. "Looks like you two were busy."
Arthur frowned. "This was Taren's idea."
Riven gave Taren a sharp look, then stepped closer and struck both of them lightly on the back with his fist.
"Impressive," he said. "Both of you."
Arthur huffed. "Save it."
Riven's expression shifted. The humor drained out of it.
"…How did you know we were captured?"
Taren smiled.
"Before you left," he said, "I marked you."
Riven's eyes narrowed.
"Tracking Arcana," Taren continued. "Low output. Buried beneath ambient mana. It doesn't alert detection fields."
Arthur turned sharply.
"You never told me you could do that."
Taren shrugged.
"You didn't ask."
He knelt and tapped the dirt map.
"Once I pinpointed your location, I cross-referenced Division Two's rotation patterns. Their camp relies on layered sightlines and staggered response units."
Riven crouched beside him.
"Meaning?"
"Meaning," Taren said evenly, "if you break the angles, their formation collapses."
Arthur frowned. "You're saying—"
"Yes," Taren replied. "Their defenses look complex. They're not. They're predictable."
Riven let out a slow breath, impressed.
"With tactics like that," he said, "I'm glad you're on our side."
Taren's lips twitched.
Riven straightened.
"Where are Julius and Dante?"
Arthur's jaw tightened. "After flattening Division Two's outer squads… they went looking for Division One."
Riven laughed—low, sharp.
"Those idiots."
Taren stood. "Division One isn't careless."
Riven grinned. "Neither are they."
He turned to leave, then paused.
"…Lysara?"
Arthur answered immediately. "Still unconscious. She'll recover."
Riven released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"…Good," he muttered.
Then he smirked.
"At least Modred won't kill me."
Arthur blinked. "What?"
Riven was already walking away.
"He's fighting Marcel," he added over his shoulder. "You might want to hurry."
Arthur stiffened.
Riven was gone.
The clearing was silent.
The ground was cratered. Trees leaned at broken angles, bark scorched black. Mana still distorted the air.
Marcel stood where he had been before.
Modred didn't draw his blades.
He moved.
The distance vanished.
His fist slammed into Marcel's face.
Bone cracked. Blood sprayed sideways.
Before Marcel could rise, another punch followed—then another. Modred's fists came down in a savage rhythm, each blow heavy, precise, aimed to break rather than impress.
Marcel was driven off the stone.
A knee struck his stomach.
An elbow crushed into his jaw.
Modred didn't give him space. He stayed close, relentless, pummeling him with raw force, boots digging into the ground as he drove Marcel back step by step.
Blood ran freely now.
Marcel spat red onto the dirt.
His eyes lifted.
"Enough."
Dark Arcana surged.
The ground buckled as Marcel wrenched his greatsword free from the soil. Shadow wrapped around the blade, thick and oppressive, the air bending under its weight.
Modred finally drew his weapons.
Twin swords slid into his hands in one smooth motion.
They clashed.
The impact sent a shockwave through the clearing.
Steel screamed. Sparks burst. Fire licked along Modred's blades as pyromancy ignited—tight, controlled, burning hot but restrained.
Marcel pressed forward.
His greatsword came down in brutal arcs, each swing meant to crush, not cut. Modred slipped between them, blades flashing, carving lines across Marcel's arms and torso, fire searing flesh where steel bit deep.
Darkness swallowed the flames.
Marcel adapted.
A feint.
Then—
The sword pierced through Modred's side.
The impact drove the air from his lungs.
Before he could react, Marcel was already there.
A punch slammed into Modred's face.
Another crushed into his ribs.
Then another.
And another.
Each blow landed with brutal precision, smashing through his guard, driving him into the ground.
Modred tried to rise.
Marcel didn't let him.
The sword struck again—through the shoulder this time—pinning him down.
Fists followed.
A fist crushed Modred's face. Another slammed into his ribs. Then his chest. Then his throat. Each strike drove his consciousness further into darkness, his swords slipping from numb fingers.
He collapsed.
Marcel stood over him for a moment, breathing steady, blood dripping from his chin.
Then he turned away.
Returned to the stone, he once was and sat looking at Modred with an arrogant smile.
Modred's vision faded.
Modred did not lose himself all at once.
The world thinned first.
Sound dulled, as if distance had been poured between him and everything else. Pain faded last—not easing, not healing—simply becoming irrelevant. His thoughts slowed, stretched, then began slipping past each other.
Then there was no ground beneath his feet.
Not falling.
Just… absence of resistance.
The sensation was subtle. Like stepping forward and discovering the step never existed.
His body stopped responding long before his mind did. Breath became an idea rather than an action. Time fractured—seconds losing shape, sequence dissolving into something immeasurable.
A suspended state where nothing advanced and nothing ended.
Modred became aware of space without orientation. No up. No down. His body was present only as weight, pressure, tension in the blood. He could not tell whether his eyes were open—but he could see.
Darkness, layered and immense.
It gave off no warmth, no glow. Dense, folded flame—dark upon dark—compressing inward endlessly, as if refusing to spread. It existed by force of will alone.
At its center stood a throne.
Rough. Unadorned. Ancient in the way scars are ancient.
And seated upon it—
A figure.
He was simply there, as if the space had been shaped around him rather than the other way around.
Long dark hair hung loose. His posture was careless, one arm resting against the throne's edge, fingers relaxed. His eyes were red—dull, steady, unblinking.
They fixed on Modred.
The silence was not dramatic. It was invasive. It pressed against Modred's thoughts, flattening them, testing for resistance.
Then the figure spoke.
"Well," the figure said,
"Looks like you finally ran out of strength, kid."