The arena holds its breath. Every eye in the stands is fixed on the figure in gleaming white and silver, his scarf billowing like a banner of light against the golden sand. The crowd's earlier roars have been swallowed whole by a silence so thick you could cut it with a blade—nobles whisper to one another, common folk crane their necks, and even the mind-controlled guards at the arena's edge stand frozen, their red eyes flickering with confusion.
Ethan lowers his flute from his lips, the last note still vibrating in the air like a living thing. He turns his head slightly, his gaze finding Hythesion where he lies half-buried in sand beside Geth and Akmenos. A small, apologetic smile touches his lips.
"Sorry I was late," he says, his voice carrying clear across the quiet arena. "Had to call home first."
FLASHBACK – TWO HOURS EARLIER
The dungeon door hangs open, iron lock snapped clean in two. The straw pallet is messy, the wooden stool overturned. Ethan sits on the cold stone floor, his flute at the other side of his cell as he stares at it—polished wood catching the torchlight, golden inlays of musical notes glowing softly under his gaze.
For a full minute, he doesn't move. The sounds of Hythesion and the others escaping fade into silence down the corridor. He runs a finger along the flute's carved edge, tracing the intricate symbol of the Celestial Council that spirals around its length.
"People who bear the mark of Gannurim are wicked. That's it. Period."
His own words echo in his head, sharp and bitter. He thinks of Maitara's trembling confession, the fear and exhaustion in her eyes as she spoke of fighting the Chaos Lord's voice every single night. He thinks of how quickly he'd judged her—how easily he'd let centuries of Council doctrine blind him to the truth standing right in front of him.
Slowly, he stands. He grabs the flute and start to lift it to his lips and blows a single, soft note—a sound like wind through crystal, pure and clear. The music wraps around him like water, and his form shimmers, then vanishes entirely into invisibility.
He slips out of the cell and moves through the castle like a ghost. In the shadows of the grand corridor, he watches as Glynlie leads Hythesion, Maitara, Geth, and Akmenos toward the servant's passage—her movements careful, her eyes darting to make sure no guards are watching. He sees the moment Ser Larry emerges from the gallery above, sees the mind-controlled knights flood the hall, sees the box with the pendant disappear into Larry's cloak.
He follows as they're dragged to the King's Court, staying hidden in corners and behind tapestries. He watches Hythesion stand tall and demand the Law of Retribution, his voice ringing with courage even as iron cuffs bind his wrists. He sees Larry's face twist with fury and pride as he accepts the challenge.
But it's in the throne room that everything changes.
Ethan presses himself against the wall beside a stained-glass window, invisible as he watches Glynlie being brought before the King. Larry stands close to the throne, his hand resting on the armrest as he whispers something low and sharp. He then saw something unsharp, Ser Larry is carrying something that conjurs a red smoke around Glynlie's head. Her eyes go wide for a second—fear and confusion flashing across her face—then glaze over, glowing with that same unnatural red light as the guards.
Ethan's hand tightens on his flute. He knows now that this isn't just about an artifact or power—it's about something far older, far more dangerous. But he doesn't know what kind of item was it.
He slips out of the throne room and climbs the winding stone stairs to the castle roof. The afternoon sun beats down on the slate tiles, and in the distance, he can see the arena beginning to fill with spectators. He pulls a small, polished sending stone from his pocket—its surface etched with the same silver symbol as his scarf.
He presses it to his chest and speaks, his voice low and urgent.
"Sorry took me so long to call," he says, magic carrying his words across leagues of land and sky. "But we have a cursed artifact on a loose... yup, code black."
A moment later, a deep, steady voice crackles back through the stone—familiar, calm, and heavy with authority.
"What do you need?"
Ethan looks out over the castle walls, at the kingdom spreading below like a tapestry of green and gold. He thinks of Maitara's trembling hands, Hythesion's unwavering courage, Geth and Akmenos standing by their friend even when all hope seemed lost. He thinks of the mark on Larry's arm—and the one hidden under Maitara's sleeve.
"Everything," he replies firmly.
BACK TO THE PRESENT
Ethan turns his gaze from Hythesion to the dais where Ser Larry stands frozen, his face pale as chalk. The musician takes a slow, deliberate step forward, his scarf billowing out behind him like a banner of light.
"Ser Larry de Dios," he calls out, his voice carrying across the arena without need for enchantment. "Cool name. It's good that you gathered all of these people." He pauses, letting his eyes sweep over the sea of confused faces below. "I am Ethan Songweaver—Council Knight of the Celestial Temple. And I'm here to arrest your 'beloved' Ser Larry for possession and use of a cursed artifact. As every kingdom in the realm knows, such magic is forbidden by law."
He fixes Larry with a stare sharp enough to cut steel. "Don't try to resist now."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd—waves of confusion and doubt as people lean toward one another, whispering questions. "Council Knight?" "Cursed artifact?" "Is this true?"
Larry recovers quickly, his face twisting into a mask of righteous fury as he raises his voice to boom over the whispers: "People of Neverwinter! Don't listen to such lies! This man is one of the prisoners—just another criminal trying to trick you into letting them escape justice!" He glares at Ethan, his voice dropping to a venomous hiss. "And you know full well that impersonating a Council Knight is punishable by—"
WHOOSH.
Ethan raises his hand upwards and point to the sky, a column of brilliant silver and gold light shoots from his finger, exploding high above the arena into a massive, three-dimensional symbol—towers and spires woven together with constellations that seem to rotate and glow with life. Every person in the crowd knows it instantly: the Seal of the Celestial Council, a magic so ancient and pure that no one alive can duplicate it.
The symbol hangs in the air like a second sun, casting warm light over every face in the arena.
"Oh sorry—you were saying?" Ethan says, his voice light but carrying an edge of steel.
Behind him, Geth pushes to his feet with a roar of excitement, his swords flashing in the celestial glow. Akmenos pumps his fist in the air, laughing loud enough to be heard across the sand. Hythesion feels a surge of strength flow through him as he stands fully upright, his eyes bright with new hope. Even Maitara, still perched on the bench, lets out a cry of relief and joy.
The crowd falls silent again—but this time, the tension is different. It crackles with possibility, with the sudden realization that everything they thought they knew might be wrong.
Larry's face contorts with rage, his hand flying to his belt where the pendant lies hidden. Larry's face twists into a snarl, his composure shattering completely. He rips a staff from beneath his velvet cloak—black as obsidian, crowned with a carved wolf's head that seems to snarl and bare its teeth. Red smoke curls from its jaws, thick and acrid, wrapping around his arm.
"I have had enough of you wretched scums!" he roars, then slamming the staff into the ground. The impact sends shockwaves through the dais, cracking the stone beneath his feet.
"Knights of Neverwinter! Protect your city! Protect your General!"
At his command, every guard in the arena—from the ones lining the walls to those standing at the exits—turns as one. A hundred armored figures pour into the sand, their boots thundering in perfect unison. Their eyes glow with a searing red light, brighter than ever before, and their movements are cold, mechanical, devoid of any trace of humanity.
Glynlie moves without hesitation, snatching both her old steel sword and the glowing black blade from where they'd fallen in the sand. The red light in her eyes blazes like wildfire, and she falls into a low stance, ready to charge.
"KILL THEM ALL!" Larry screams, raising the wolf-headed staff high. The red smoke billows out in thick waves, rolling across the arena floor like a river of shadow.
Panic erupts instantly. The crowd—nobles and common folk alike—scrambles for the exits, shoving and tripping over one another as they flee the acrid smoke and the sight of their mind-controlled guards turning on the very people they swore to protect. Children cry out, merchants drop their wares, and the grand stands empty in a chaotic flood of bodies racing for safety.
Larry doesn't wait for the chaos to settle. He grabs King Tronan by the arm—his grip tight as iron—and begins dragging the rigid monarch backward toward the arena's northern hallway, his eyes fixed on the castle beyond. The wolf-headed staff in his free hand leaves a trail of red smoke in the air as he moves, and the mind-controlled knights part for him without a sound.
In the arena, the hundred mind-controlled guards have closed ranks, forming a tight circle around the four warriors. Their armor gleams darkly in the fading light, their red eyes fixed on their targets. Every breath is synchronized, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap.
Ethan shifts his weight, his flute already rising to his lips. "So… strategist, any plans?"
Hythesion stares at him, stunned for a split second. "Wha?"
"Come on—you're Silverlake's strategist, aren't you?" Ethan presses, his eyes scanning the ring of guards closing in. "We're outnumbered ten to one here."
"Yeah sir Hyth, what are we going to do?" Geth adds, his swords already drawn and held at the ready. The scaled warrior's muscles are tensed, but there's a spark of determination in his eyes.
"No more than a hundred I see," Akmenos grunts, cracking his knuckles so loud it cuts through the quiet. "But they look tough as hell—armor thick enough to stop a punch, and those eyes… they ain't human no more."
"I can deal with the knights," Ethan says, his fingers already dancing over the flute's keys. "But their General is bad news. I can feel it in the mana around her—even with my celestial magic, I don't think I can beat her one-on-one."
Hythesion's gaze drifts to Glynlie, standing motionless a few feet away—her swords held loosely at her sides, but every line of her body screaming with contained power. "If only I can make her wear the Anubis bracelet," he says, his voice tight with frustration.
"It can stop the mind control?" Akmenos asks, his brow furrowed in focus.
"Yes," Hythesion confirms. "But it only works once—and I have to put it on her myself."
"So let's just figure out how to help the King later then," Geth says, shifting into a low stance as the first row of guards begins to advance. "First things first—survive this."
"Your plans, strategist…" Ethan prompts, his flute already beginning to hum with power.
Hythesion's eyes scan the circle, taking in every detail—the way the guards are positioned, the gaps between them, the way their red eyes all follow the same movement. He thinks back to every battle plan he's ever written, every formation he's ever studied.
"Focus on the knights—make them unconscious, don't kill them," he commands, his voice steady now, clear with purpose. "Give me a way through to Glynlie. If I can reach her, I can break the control."
"Basic—but effective," Ethan smirks, then brings his flute to his lips. He plays a sharp, clear note that rings out like a bell tolling for battle. A wave of pure force magic ripples outward, slamming into the first row of guards and sending them sprawling backward in a tangle of steel and sand.
"Let's go!" Akmenos roars, launching forward in a low dash. He covers ten feet in two strides, then spins into a powerful roundhouse kick that connects with a guard's chest plate—CRACK—sending the armored figure crashing into three others behind him. He follows up with a fast jab to another guard's helmet, then a sweeping kick that takes out two more legs from under them.
"Right!" Geth charges to the opposite side, his twin swords singing through the air. He swings both blades in a wide, horizontal arc—WHOOSH—creating a gust of wind strong enough to knock back a half-dozen guards at once. He ducks under a wild swing from one knight, spins, and brings his swords down in a cross-shaped slash that strikes the guard's armor with a shower of sparks, sending them stumbling back. He follows with a quick series of thrusts and slashes, each movement precise, each strike aimed at non-lethal points—shoulders, knees, the joints of their armor where the magic holding them weakens just enough to let him push through.
Hythesion doesn't hesitate. The moment Ethan's force wave sends the front line sprawling, he breaks into a dead run across the sand, his boots kicking up golden clouds as he races toward Glynlie. She turns to face him instantly, her twin swords raised high—one steel, one black fire.
She slashes downward in a brutal arc aimed at his head. Hythesion drops low, sliding under the blade so close he can feel its heat singe his hair. He pops up behind her in a fluid motion, his hands already glowing with bright yellow mana.
"TRENDILL!" he shouts, launching a bolt of crackling energy straight at her back. The magic strikes true, sending her stumbling forward a step—but she recovers in an instant, spinning with her black sword extended in a vicious backslash that whistles past his ear.
Hythesion dives to the side, rolling through the sand before springing to his feet. He closes the distance in a single leap, grabbing her armored forearm with one hand while his other moves fast as lightning—sliding the Anubis Bracelet onto her wrist with a soft click.
The moment the metal touches her skin, a blinding flash of blue light erupts from the bracelet. A shockwave of raw power ripples outward, slamming into every guard in the arena and sending them flying backward. Even Ethan, Geth, and Akmenos are forced to brace themselves against the force as the sand whips around them in a swirling vortex. When the light finally fades, silence falls heavy over the arena—every knight lies still on the ground, unmoving.
All eyes turn to Glynlie. She's on her knees now, her head bowed low, both swords lying discarded in the sand beside her.
"Glynlie?" Hythesion calls out softly, taking a slow step forward. His heart hammers against his ribs—this is it, the moment he's been fighting for.
She doesn't move. Then, slowly, she lifts her head—and his blood runs cold.
The red glow in her eyes hasn't faded. If anything, it burns brighter than before. Before he can react, she lunges forward with a snarl, drawing a hidden dagger from her boot and slashing at his throat. Hythesion dives backward, rolling through the sand until he crashes into Geth and Akmenos, who've rushed to his side.
She stands fully upright now, her armor gleaming under the sun, the Anubis Bracelet hanging uselessly from her wrist. The mind control holds fast.
"Well that didn't work," Ethan mutters, his flute already raised as he watches more guards begin to stir and push themselves up from the sand, their red eyes fixed on the group once more.
Hythesion stands frozen, his mouth dry as dust. He'd been so sure—every text he'd read, every lesson he'd learned said the Anubis Bracelet could break any mind magic. But here she stands, still lost to Larry's control, with dozens of guards rising beside her like puppets on strings.
"What now, Sir Hyth?" Geth asks, his swords raised again as the knights begin to close in once more.
Hythesion can't speak. A cold, sharp fear he hasn't felt in years claws its way up his throat—tight, suffocating, making it hard to breathe. All his plans, all his confidence… it was built on the belief that the bracelet would save them. Now, with that hope shattered, he stares at the advancing guards and the woman he once loved, and for the first time since this began—he doesn't know what to do.
The arena holds its breath again—but this time, the silence is heavy with dread.
The heavy doors of the throne room swing shut behind Larry and the still-limp King Tronan, the sound echoing off vaulted stone ceilings. Larry shoves the monarch roughly into his golden throne—Tronan slumps forward, his silver-glazed eyes staring blankly at the floor—before turning his attention to the wooden box clutched in his hand.
He fumbles with the latch, his gloved fingers trembling with greed and urgency. Click—the catch releases, but when he lifts the lid, it slams shut again with a violent SNAP. He tries once more, gritting his teeth as he pours mana into his hands—red smoke curling from his fingertips—but the box remains sealed tight.
"Open, you cursed thing!" he snarls, slamming it against the arm of the throne. The wood holds firm, not even a scratch marring its surface. He raises his staff, letting red light flood from its wolf-head crown—but when he touches it to the box, the smoke recoils as if burned. Frustration twists his face into a snarl. "Why won't you—!"
"Well you look frustrated, aren't you."
The voice is calm, steady—and entirely unexpected. Larry spins around to find Maitara standing in the doorway, her small frame silhouetted against the fading light from the corridor. She's no longer the scared dwarf girl from the arena—her back is straight, her shoulders squared, and a quiet strength radiates from her every movement.
"You… you're one of those scums!" Larry roars, his face flushing crimson. "Because of you, you've ruined my plan—my chance to make Neverwinter great again!"
"Ruined?" Maitara steps into the throne room, her boots making no sound on the marble floor. "No. You brought ruin to yourself! As she chuckles trying to insult him.
"How dare you—!"
"You know nothing about power!" Larry said, raising his staff high. Red smoke billows from its jaws, coiling around his arm like living snakes. "You're just a child playing with forces you can't possibly understand!"
Maitara stops a few feet from him, her eyes fixed on the mark pulsing darkly under his sleeve. "Forces I can't understand?" she says quietly. Then she pulls back her own sleeve, revealing the jagged purple sigil of Gannurim etched into her skin. It glows softly, not with malice—but with a calm, steady light.
"You—you bear his mark?" Larry's voice cracks, his grip on the staff loosening for a split second. Confusion wars with fear in his eyes as he stares at her arm.
"That's not all." Maitara takes another step forward, a small, confident smile touching her lips. "I can also talk to him."
Larry stares at her, his mouth hanging open. For a moment, he can't speak—all his carefully laid plans, all his lies, suddenly feel paper-thin in the face of this revelation.
"You're lying," he whispers finally, but even he can hear the doubt in his own voice. "No one can speak to Gannurim—not truly. Not without being consumed."
"Try me." Maitara takes one last step forward, her eyes locked on his.Before he can respond, she reaches out and places her hand on his forehead. The moment her skin touches his, the purple glow from her mark explodes outward in a wave of light that wraps around him like water. Larry tries to pull back, to shout, but his voice dies in his throat as his vision blurs and fades to black.
In an instant, he's surrounded by nothingness—endless, suffocating black that swallows every sound, every thought.
Larry stumbles through the endless black, his hands outstretched as if to push through walls that aren't there. The silence presses in on him like water in a deep well—until a sound cuts through it: a single, slow breath, so loud it rumbles like thunder across the void.
Chills race down his spine, cold enough to freeze the blood in his veins. He spins in place, his heart hammering against his ribs, but sees nothing but darkness stretching on forever.
"Speak, Ser Larry of Avantris. What do you need of me?"
The voice is deep as bedrock, heavy as mountain stone. Larry's legs go weak beneath him.
"Who are you?" he whispers, his voice cracking.
"How insulting." The words echo all around him, seeming to come from every direction at once. "You wish to speak with me, yet you do not know who I am…"
The mark on his arm erupts in searing pain—hotter than any fire, sharper than any blade. He falls to his knees with a cry, clutching his forearm as the black sigil blazes like a brand. In that moment, he understands.
"Oh Lord Gannurim!" he gasps, bowing his head to the invisible ground. "I apologize for being late to recognize you—forgive your humble servant!"
"Speak your purpose, or be silent forever."
Larry lifts his head, his face twisted with desperation and greed. "My Lord—I wish to carry your power! I will be your most loyal follower, your greatest Warlock! With your strength flowing through me, I will rule the world in your name—crush all who oppose you, build a kingdom worthy of your glory!"
There is a long pause—so long Larry begins to wonder if he has been cast aside entirely. Then Gannurim speaks again, his voice final and absolute:
"No."
Larry stares up into the darkness, his mouth agape. "But my Lord—I have sacrificed everything! I have prepared for this moment for ten years—"
"I have already… chosen."
Before Larry can scream his protest, the void shatters like glass. He's hurled back into his own body with such force he staggers, nearly falling to the marble floor of the throne room.
Maitara stands before him, her hand still extended from where she'd touched his forehead. She lifts his collar with two fingers—as if he were nothing more than a stray dog—and shoves him backward. He crashes into the arm of the throne, gasping for breath.
"Is this the power you wanted?" she laughs, but there's no warmth in it—only cold, sharp purpose.
Larry looks up at her, and his blood runs cold. Purple chaos magic swirls around her hands—dark tendrils of power that twist and writhe like living things, crackling with energy only a true Warlock of Gannurim could command.
"He will never choose someone weak like you, Larry," she says, walking slowly toward him. Her mark glows bright purple, matching the magic dancing at her fingertips. "I'll be the one who releases him—and you almost ruined my plan with your pathetic greed."
She stops directly in front of him, leaning down so her face is just inches from his. She places a single finger on his forehead, and purple light floods his vision.
"Entallias Garrum."
The words ring out like a bell tolling in the throne room. Larry's eyes widen, then roll back in his head as they begin to glow with the same brilliant purple hue. When he looks up again, all trace of his former arrogance is gone—his gaze is empty, obedient.
"I can't let you kill the Elf," Maitara continues, her voice low and steady. "Not yet." She whispers, "Now you will follow everything I say."
Larry nods slowly, his body rigid with compliance. "Yes… my lady."