STARBLOOD UNIVERSE

Roman Prokofiev

Flamelike

Thousand Brethren Book 1

An Action & Adventure Portal Progression Fantasy Series

Magic Dome Books

Flamelike

Thousand Brethren Book 1

Copyright © Roman Prokofiev 2025

Cover Art © Linni 2025

Art Editor: Vladimir Manyukhin

English translation copyright © Sofia Shcherbakova, Alex A. Ryans 2025

Published by Magic Dome Books, 2025

All Rights Reserved

ISBN: 978-80-7702-552-2

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the shop and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is entirely a work of fiction. Any correlation with real people or events is coincidental.

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Table of Contents:

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Interlude. The Exiles

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

About The Author

Prologue

MANY LEGENDS HAVE BEEN told of the Thousand Brethren.

Eternity speaks of a thousand demons, cruel shards of the sundered United, who received a chance at redemption, yet, in their pride, rejected it.

Of how they sought to seize a thousand Circles and cast down the rule of the Skythrone.

Of their fearsome faces and proud hearts, for the Thousand believed themselves the rightful rulers of Unity.

Of the deceitful words they used to bend entire Nations to their will, enslaving them to a twisted faith.

Of how they tore the nails from the bodies of Ascendants, stripping them of their immortality, branding them with unholy sigils, and turning them into obedient tools.

Of how they could take any shape yet always had an inhuman abomination lurking within.

Of how they gathered dark power, drawing the ancient foes of Eternity to their side and forging the most dreadful of alliances.

And of how they turned entire Circles into battlefields — and then, eternal graveyards.

The cowardly voice of Eternity proclaims that the Thousand followed the path of their fallen forebearer, forging a pact with the spawn of the Outer Beasts, the Great Worms, until at last, the patience of the Skythrone’s lords was spent.

A celestial host descended onto Unity, a force unseen since the Forgotten One had devoured the sun. One by one, the demons were struck down, their black legions scattered like the Ygg-Tree’s radiance burning through the hordes of Worms. Every secret of theirs was laid bare, their citadels and hidden Domains unearthed and razed. And those demons who survived the slaughter were shackled, stripped of name and power, and entombed in distant corners of Unity. They were not slain, for the shards of the fallen Enemy could never be allowed to reunite — even in death.

And thus, Unity entered a blessed age of peace.

So says Eternity.

But there are other legends, too. Those whispered by the scattered remnants of the people who once marched under the banners of the Thousand. Those that seep from ancient Domains, where the embers of their light still smolder. Those spoken in hushed voices by the Ascendants who secretly remain faithful to the shards of the United.

Such stories are told to those who dare to defy the tyranny of the Skythrone.

The legends of the Thousand Brethren claim that the Forgotten One, having foreseen what was to come, splintered himself into a thousand shards. Once housing the will and spirit of countless Ascendants, He became a Thousand faces, a Thousand warriors, a Thousand Brothers and Sisters, each preserving a fragment of His essence.

That was how He gave Unity a chance. That was how He achieved true immortality.

For the truth must never be forgotten.

No memory of the Forgotten One remains. His deeds and visage have been erased, stricken from reality itself, forgotten and forsaken. The voice of Eternity lies that it was done to prevent anyone from walking again the path that nearly doomed the great sphere. The legends of the Thousand tell a different tale: that the Great Rune of Oblivion was cast because Eternity, cowardly and deceitful, fears that Unity will learn the truth about who summoned the Outer Beasts and snuffed out the sun.

But those who once stood under their banners remember that great heroes walked among the Thousand. Those who returned to the path of Ascendance and touched the sky. Those who strode the rivers of time. Those who did not flinch before darkness and struck down the Great Worms. Those who lit the way and taught the wisdom of Ascension. Those who forged Items and Runes, the likes of which will never be made again. And those who filled Eternity with terror, daring to break into its very heart…

The Thousand knew the truth of Eternity’s crimes and sought to save Unity from the greed and folly of the Skythrone’s keepers. The Thousand wished to return the Ascendants to their ancient path, so that many might reach for the heavens once more. The Thousand stood for all the sentients of Unity, condemned by the lords of Eternity to be their slaves in life and beyond.

So say those who bear the secret marks of the Thousand Brethren.

The Brethren themselves are no more. Their names have been betrayed, slandered, and forgotten, their cities ruined, their knowledge and glory scattered like dust in the wind. They were defeated when Eternity’s golden host descended upon Unity — on this, all legends agree.

But did the Thousand truly lose?

Those who fought at their side and lived say that killing the Brethren was nearly impossible, for they were more than men, more than Ascendants. And when one of them fell, the others did not grieve. They only smiled and said that each death brought their final victory closer.

For when the last shard crosses the threshold of existence, He Who Is Forgotten shall be whole once more.

The United shall return to the world that birthed Him.

And then, neither Eternity’s celestial host nor its golden Runes could save it.

So say the legends of the Thousand Brethren.

Chapter 1

A NEW life.

Thousands of cycles ago, those like him were called the Twice-Born. They had changed bodies countless times; he couldn’t even remember how many he’d had before the latest one.

That new body suited him well. Large and powerful, infused with Starblood since birth, it had once belonged to an Ascendant who nearly reached the silver rank. Flesh of Unity’s flesh, even though half his genes were inherited from an Earther father.

Those genes could become a mighty weapon.

“Genes.” The White Devil chuckled — he had become somewhat like an Earther, too. Previously, he would have thought “blood,” but now their terminology, meager language, and pathetic morality were his constant companions. Life with Sigurd had left its mark: not only had the young human learned to be an Ascendant, but he, One of the Thousand, absorbed part of his humanity as well.

But now their paths had diverged.

Yes, the new body was good, despite the missing left hand. The White Devil was getting to know it, savoring it, testing its limits, just as one tests the temper, flexibility, and sharpness of a weapon before using it in real battle. The Serpent Canyon was perfect for that — a long winding gorge with nearly impassable rock walls. It was teeming with dangerous creatures, too: razor-toothed monitor lizards, blind crawlers, drakes nesting on stone ledges…

He greeted dawn on one such ledge, high above the ground. A small family of drakes had lived there before, outcasts unable to find place in the main colony. When the White Devil climbed up, he immediately snapped the neck of the boldest one, and the others fled, unwilling to challenge the bipedal intruder. Beasts had a keen sense for strength, far keener than many humans.

He sated his hunger by devouring the choicest parts of his kill. The pterosaur had no Starblood, but its meat was good enough to eat.

He was in no hurry, relishing every moment: climbing the cliffs with one hand, leaping over chasms, tearing through tough meat with his jaws. After thousands of cycles spent as a bodiless prisoner, it felt exhilarating. Yes, there was Sigurd, who had freed him, but he was a guest in the Earther’s body, not the master.

But this body was his alone. The nearly forgotten sensation of freedom and power was intoxicating. A hormonal storm, as Earthers would have put it. Scaling cliffs with one functional hand where most wouldn’t manage even with two was sheer madness, but the White Devil wasn’t exactly human. Yes, once, he had been conceived and born, climbing the ladder of Ascension to the top and merging into a United, but then… Can a fragment of a United, a vessel of His essence, still be called human?

One of the Thousand was far more than that. And then, after being reborn, he had touched the sky once more. This life was his third, and once again, he stood at the beginning of the great path.

The White Devil knew he could ascend a third time. Not, not that. He had to ascend a third time. His Brothers and Sisters were waiting.

Once, they had defied Eternity, whose cowardly wiles had ruined the great design of Unity’s creators. Once, they fought against the Skythrone — mind, spirit, and body, together and alone — until their names became a terrifying myth. Death could barely touch them, and even if it did, they met their end with joy and a smile on their lips, for each sacrifice brought closer the day when He would return to Unity, rebuilding himself from the shards of their souls.

But Eternity had unraveled their plan, and they lost. Most had escaped, dissolving beyond the boundaries of existence, but some yet lingered, still bound within Unity, trapped for thousands of cycles by Items and Spells. Others had lost their memories, living wretched lives under false identities. Some had hidden in secret Domains, changing their names and severing all guiding threads.

They had to gather again. Otherwise, the great purpose, the grand design of Unity’s creators, would never be fulfilled. Otherwise, all the sacrifices, the pain and tears of billions across the eons of the Dyson sphere’s existence, would be in vain. Otherwise, the very meaning of Ascension would be lost, as no new United would arise, and the old would never come back.

The Keepers of Eternity had decided to use others to create a new Source and then steal it for themselves. They had taken it once, and the Dyson sphere nearly drowned in Darkness. And when they lost it, the Temples of Eternity flung open their doors, handing out nails branded with the Skythrone’s seal, peddling their false promises of immortality.

But in those times, the United still walked among mortals. Now, He Who Fights was dead, and that meant Unity was doomed. The great citadel of Ascendants would fall, whether in ten cycles or a hundred. It didn’t truly matter when — time meant nothing for those who could glimpse the currents of the great river. Only Starblood mattered.

This world needed those who would save it. The Thousand Brethren. He was the first. He had found a body. And he would find the others.

Yes, the body was good… Its former owner had been hardened since childhood with herbs, potions, and food infused with Starblood. Aside from the Attributes, it possessed curious traits attainable only through such means and unique properties acquired from Ability Runes.

Tough as rubber, his dark skin wasn’t easily pierced, not even by the tip of a knife. Complete immunity to diseases and poisons, including Worm toxins. Unusually sharp eyesight, allowing him to navigate perfectly even at night. Thermoregulation, instant blood clotting, rapid healing. Powerful muscles swelling with dormant bestial strength. A slow, steady heartbeat taming the need for rest. The ability to go without air for extended periods. And that wasn’t everything...

For now, Mark Cassidy’s Attributes were a cage that stopped the White Devil from unfolding his wings. When the spirit departed, the wise Ascension recognized a new Ascendant by the stars in his body, for the skin of a dwarf could not stretch to fit the spirit of a giant. Mark had two silver stars in Body, two in Spirit — in Elemental Affinity and Mental Sensitivity, but his Mind was weak bronze. As a result, his thoughts were sluggish and tangled, forcing the White Devil to overcome the confusion with sheer willpower. His energy weave had been damaged by the loss of Stigmata, significantly slowing Starblood regeneration. That needed fixing. Six drops per treeday… He had restored three overnight and another two with the help of three spiritual nars, pushing the Blood through the channels of his new eo.

Six out of eleven drops of Starblood. That meant he had only one life to spare.

There were also seven Runes, two gold and five silver, none of which he could use right now.

The White Devil smiled. He could ask Sigurd for more Starblood, as a loan or a gift. But why? That was a perfect trial for an Ascendant. The first in his new Ascension.

So, what was the first priority?

Gain Starblood. Recover his lost hand and implant a new Stigmata, becoming an Ascendant in the eyes of lesser Nations. They needed to believe that the exiled son of the Earthfolk Riks had chosen his own path, seeking to reclaim the lost Glory. And then… he had the Runes and the means to open the path to two of his Brothers.

In the morning, as the golden silhouette of the Great Tree rose on the horizon, a faint, barely noticeable amber glow flickered above the mountains to the west. As he gazed at it, the White Devil smiled with Mark’s lips, accustoming himself to the new sensation. That was the first dawn of the new sprout: a great gift and a great trial for the Earthers. But they had their own road, and he had his. Perhaps, their paths would cross again, for they had no future without the Thousand, and the Thousand had none without the new True Ones, reborn in the Source…

But that was for later. For now, onward!

As the golden light scattered the night’s shadows, the White Devil climbed higher, striving to reach the canyon’s edge. The vegetation there meant life. And where there was life, there was Starblood.

Those lands were no longer considered Earthfolk property, the Serpent Canyon forming a natural border of the mountain freehold. Beyond it lay a vast, wild, and dangerous mountainous region inhabited by Stonefolk clans. Those barbaric tribes were fragmented and few in number, unwelcoming to outsiders. Despite their proximity, the Earthers rarely clashed or traded with them. Armed neutrality — that was how the latter would describe their relationship. The Stonefolk hadn’t taken kindly to the presence of a strong and numerous Nation nearby and immediately forbade the settlers from trespassing on their lands. Still, the White Devil had already noticed some of them mixing their blood with the Earthers and joining the strong freehold. In time, there would be more like them… especially under the new Skymark.

The Wild Hunt was a bad cycle for merchants and travelers, vulnerable settlements, and everyone who wished to live peaceful, ordinary lives. That sign would shake up Unity, disrupt the old ways, force the weak to seek the strong, and make the strong even stronger.

But for him, that sign was good. Many Starblooded creatures would wake up and start hunting, meaning he wouldn’t have to search long for worthy prey.

Above, the rocky slopes were covered in hardy mountain vegetation. The White Devil’s keen eyes picked out useful plants designed by the great Creator — crownleaf, sticky nut, stoneroot. Gathering whatever might come in handy, he moved forward, leaving the freehold behind. His course wasn’t random — the White Devil had seen the Circle’s map in Sigurd’s Atlas and heard the Ascendants’ conversations. He was heading toward the great lakes, home to creatures that possessed the Ability Runes he needed.

They would grant him a new hand and allow him to restore the disrupted flow of his eo. But to find and defeat them, he needed Starblood.

The Earthers didn’t leave the exile any weapons. His empty backpack held only a fire-starting kit, a plastic flask bearing the emblem of the sky ark, a rope, and some old rags — the clothes that had once belonged to Mark. There was also a Vox, a yellow coin sealed with a secret word used by the Earthers to exchange information and create a crude imitation of the Kel thought-field. Why had they left it to the exile? There was no Vox network beyond the freehold — what hidden message lay within?

That mystery was yet to be unraveled.

He immediately tore the fabric into thin strips and, breaking two barkwood branches, used the sticky nut to craft crude throwing spears. Their tips were claws taken from the joints of a drake’s wing: sharpened with stone, they formed deadly, if disposable, weapons.

He found his first prey a few hours later. It came rustling through the grass, and he instantly recognized those gray scaly bodies.

Usually, mountain monitor lizards were sluggish, lazy creatures that paid little attention to humans. But the Skymark had filled them with rage, and a brood of four, one of them Starblooded, attacked him on sight, thinking the biped easy prey.

They drove him onto a massive boulder. The lizards could climb rocks, but here, it was much easier to hold his ground. He kicked the first two down but lost his weapons: one spear shattered on impact, and the other, lodged in a gaping maw, was lost to the predator as it fell.

The massive leader, larger than the rest and marked by a sharp crest, came third. Its enormous claws scraped the stone, a forked black tongue looming between its fanged jaws.

Picking up a rock, the White Devil waited patiently for the beast’s head to appear above the edge. The moment it did, the boulder’s rim became an anvil, and the stone about the size of a human skull a hammer. Using Mark’s muscle memory, he struck a blow, splitting the lizard’s skull apart and sending its limp body down. Trash.

The White Devil hurled the bloodied rock, warding off the fourth creature, still unscathed. Then he leaped from the boulder, finishing off the remaining lizards.

Two drops of Starblood. And two Runes. A wooden Rune of Growth. A wooden Rune of Bloodsense. Useful for trackers, that Ability enhanced scent, allowing the user to detect and follow traces of blood across great distances. Pathetic garbage.

And yet, he felt an odd sense of satisfaction — he had just taken his first step.

Nine out of thirteen drops. The Growth immediately went into the wooden Meditation Skill unlocked the night before, becoming its third star. Bloodsense became the eighth Rune in his Slate and the first he had obtained on his own. The White Devil smirked. Those who once heard the Unseen claimed that the first Rune illuminated the entire path of Ascension. Was his road fated to be paved in blood?

Dinner was the tail of the Starblooded monitor roasted in embers. He rested in a small cave, and the night was peaceful, except for the hoarse cries of drakes fighting over carrion until dawn.

The morning of the second day, he encountered people. The capricorn gave them away — or rather its lamb, tethered to a stake driven into an empty stone clearing. The animal bleated pitifully, tugging helplessly at its leash, while the hunters had hidden in the dense bushes twenty steps away.

A weapon. He needed a weapon. And a bit of fresh knowledge, too — once, he had ruled this Circle and learned all its secrets, but much had changed over hundreds of cycles. Roads and winds, Nations and the habitats of Starblooded beasts — even the very face of Unity had shifted with the turning of seasons.

The White Devil knew how to move silently. He approached downwind while their eyes remained fixed on the clearing. They noticed him when he was less than ten steps away. One stood up from the bushes and immediately loosed an arrow at him, while the other stepped forward with a guttural cry, raising a heavy spear. A correct response — what else should a stranger who had creeped up on you in your hunting grounds be but an enemy?

He dodged the arrow with a sharp lunge forward, using the opponent as a shield against the next shot, and in the same instant, intercepted the thrust of the spear aimed directly at him. It was a clumsy thrust, and an instant later, the attacker, a shaggy-haired youth with wild locks, doubled over with a groan, struck in the stomach by the blunt end of his own shaft. Disarming him with one hand was difficult, but his one was worth more than the hapless hunter’s two.

The spear traveled to the White Devil, turned around on its axis with a whistle, and struck the temple of a black-haired girl who was drawing another arrow. She collapsed with a cry.

Metal gleamed in her companion’s hand. Breathing heavily, he charged with a furious roar, but he was too weak and slow to be a real threat. The White Devil easily caught and twisted his wrist, disarming him in an instant, and kicked his ankle, forcing him to hop on one foot. Then he sharply struck him with the stump of his arm, sending the man sprawling onto his back.

A moment later, he wrenched the bow from the girl’s grasp and carelessly tossed it aside. She screamed, not from pain, but from frustration and despair, and fell silent, freezing as the twin-pronged spear tip pressed against her throat.

“Do you want to live?” the White Devil asked in Common.

He could finally take a good look at the hapless hunters. They were Stonefolk, stocky, bronze-skinned, and yellow-eyed, with thick black hair. They were also very young: the boy’s chin was almost bare with hardly any fuzz, and the girl was adolescent, despite having technically reached womanhood. His eyes noted the clan tattoos on the right side of the neck, fur pants, and sleeveless drakehide vests.

There was no glory in besting children.

“Who you be? What you want?” the boy forced out, cautiously rubbing his wrist,

The White Devil smirked and lightly pressed the spear, just enough for a thin cut to bloom on the girl’s neck. She shrieked, clutching the crosspiece above the tip: it was a hunting spear meant for large game.

“Not kill her!” The boy flinched but shrank back immediately under his cold, merciless gaze.

“I asked you a question. Answer it, or I’ll kill her first. Then I’ll kill you too. Is this clear?”

“Pebble…” the girl breathed out, glancing sideways at her companion, “don’t…”

“Not kill us...” he said, giving her a reassuring nod. “We understand you.”

“How many of you are here? Where are the others?”

“No one here... Just we two. Not kill us, please...”

He wasn’t lying. The White Devil eased his grip, and the girl exhaled in relief. Her neck was bloody, but the cut wasn’t life-threatening.

“Which freehold are you from? How far is it?”

“Black Lizard Clan…” The tattoo had already told him that, but he wanted to test their honesty. “Half a treeday’s walk…”

According to the colonist guide compiled by the Earthers, three small Stonefolk clans lived in the mountain valleys east of the colony. The Lizards were the largest. They definitely weren’t lying — their settlement lay ten to twelve hours down the winding mountain trails.

“And what are you hunting here?” He glanced at the clearing and the miserable lamb. “Just the two of you, children?”

“Not your business, exile…” the boy spat out, glaring at him with hatred. “This be our clan’s land…”

It seemed he needed another lesson in manners. In an instant, White Devil spun the spear and rapped the shaft’s end against his forehead, lightly but painfully. With a cry, the rude boy toppled onto his back once more.

“Don’t hit him!” the girl pleaded, putting out her hands. “We... we are hunting drakes here! If Pebble kills one, he’ll earn a khazak and become a real hunter…”

“Pebble?” The White Devil smiled with the corners of his lips.

“Yes, he is Pebble. I am Grass-snake.”

Childhood names. His guess was correct. They weren’t real hunters, hence the boy’s clumsiness. Their people didn’t hunt alone or in pairs, which meant they had snuck off to prove themselves. Pebble’s motivation made sense, but the girl’s?

“Why are you here, Grass-snake?”

“I help Pebble. He’s been my kano since childhood. We wanted to offer each other gifts, but no one listened, so we…”

“Snake!” The boy spat blood, shouting in warning. “Why are you talking? Look at his arm! He’s an exile! He’ll kill us anyway!”

He switched to his own dialect, but the Ascendant understood him effortlessly — every local tongue was, to some extent, a derivative of the Common language.

“I don’t need your deaths,” he said, picking up the knife taken from Pebble. It was a decent weapon, old and sharp — a triangular shard of polished steelbug shell, its surface etched with the silhouette of a lizard, its horn handle wrapped in rough leather. It contained Starblood, and a Rune Master had imbued it with Sharpness. “I’ve already taken everything I need.”

“Give it back!” the boy shouted, clenching his fists in powerless rage. “Give it back! That’s my father’s tair…”

“Pebble…” Grass-snake warned him in a low voice. She suddenly reached under her clothes and pulled out a pendant on a cord, a tiny serpent skillfully carved from sunstone. She held it out in her palm.

“This is the most valuable thing I own… Take it. If you don’t need our lives, in the name of the Creator, please let us go…”

The pendant was no simple trinket — the work of an Ascendant, it held a drop of Starblood. It couldn’t do much, though, only light up upon touch, casting a beam into the darkness, or warn about the approach of Starblooded beasts. The White Devil hooked it with the tip of his spear, glanced at it, instantly assessed its worth, and tossed it carelessly into his pack.

Trash.

“All you have is already mine,” he smirked. “Your lives too. But I might exchange them for a small gift.”

“What do you want?” Grass-snake whispered.

“I’m a hunter too, my. I hunt beasts that have Starblood. Not trash-ranked, but bronze or silver. You must know where to find such creatures.”

The young hunters exchanged glances.

“Strong Starblooded beasts?” Pebble echoed, puzzled. “There aren’t many here. You’d have to go to the Long Caves or the Sundered Lands… But that’s far.”

“There are plenty of Starblooded fliers at the Beak,” the girl said, giving her companion a meaningful look. “They nest on the Isles. I’ve never seen them myself, but our Ascendants say their silver Riks lives there. The entire mountain range fears it!”

“It’s true, I saw it once,” the boy shuddered. “Huge! It’s older than I am!”

“Silver, you say?” The White Devil repeated, intrigued. “Show me where it lives.”

Chapter 2

“THIS IS SACRED GROUND of the Stonefolk, exile,” Grass-snake said quietly. “It takes three treedays to reach, but we know a shorter way… if you can climb the mountains.”

She eyed his missing hand with doubt, but the White Devil only smirked again.

“Show me the way, and I’ll return what’s yours and let you go alive, my. I might even reward you if the hunt goes well. But if you lead me into a trap… I’ll give you something else instead.”

He had to let the sacrificial lamb go — the Unseen must have smiled on it that day. After gathering their gear — a hidden bundle with a weighted net and a bolo, the tools for immobilizing drakes — Pebble and Grass-snake led the White Devil deeper into the Stonefolk lands. Trusting them would be foolish, but the Ascendant had no doubt he could easily put an end to any tricks or escape attempts.

The mountains don’t forgive mistakes or suffer fools. A single shove on a goat trail could send someone flying, or they could lead him to a place with no way out. That’s why the boy walked ahead and the girl behind, the three of them connected by a long thick rope — no running, no jumping, and any of them would take the others down with them. Or pull them up, if need be.

The White Devil kept a keen eye on his young guides. He knew the people of Unity — after thousands of cycles, the sentients hadn’t learned to walk on three legs, and their thoughts always flowed in the same narrow stream. Those two would run the moment he showed the slightest weakness. Fear was a poor leash, but the arrows he’d taken from the huntress were faster than any runner, and they knew it well. They hadn’t missed how he shot a dodo by pulling the bowstring with his teeth. And they also knew that an Ascendant, even a former one, was stronger, faster, and far sharper than any ordinary human.

Just as he’d suspected, they had their own paths: rocky trails invisible to an outsider where only mountain goats could pass, hidden climbs up sheer cliffs, cleverly concealed rope ladders, and double cables with metal-ring pulleys stretched over chasms in special spots. Pebble and Grass-snake navigated them effortlessly, having learned to traverse the mountains in childhood, but even with one hand, the White Devil matched them step for step. He caught one astonished look after another until the young mountaineers grew too tired of being surprised, realizing he was the teacher there, not them. Their eyes became different, too, full of respect and admiration. The girl stared at him as if she’d seen one of the United in the flesh.

“Do you know the mountains?” she asked when they stopped to rest in the evening.

“I’ve lived in many places.”

“You’re from the Earthfolk. I can’t believe someone can do that with one hand.”

“The hand isn’t what matters.”

“What matters, then?” Pebble asked eagerly.

“Spirit. And Starblood.”

The children — he saw them as such, though by the customs of their people, they were old enough to marry and have offspring — gradually relaxed, realizing the strange outcast had no intention of harming them. He knew their sense of honor wouldn’t allow them to ask about his exile or the loss of his hand, so he smoothly steered the conversation elsewhere and soon learned much about his unexpected guides.

Grass-snake and Pebble had run off to hunt because after returning from the great moot, the clan’s Flamin had forbidden those still bearing childhood names from leaving the clan’s settlements. This was due to the new Skymark and the rising aggression of animals, whose behavior had changed unpredictably. It also meant Pebble would have to bear his childhood name for another full cycle, as the Stonefolk tradition dictated that a boy had to single-handedly defeat a beast to be recognized as a man and a hunter. But how could he do that without leaving the freehold? The Riks had also declared that the Lizards would seek new alliances with their neighbors, and what bond was stronger than one sealed by blood? Grass-snake feared she might be offered as a wife to some outsider, never to see her home mountains or Pebble again, and her concerns weren’t unfounded.

Yes, the two clearly had deep feelings for each other. But children couldn’t exchange gifts, so Pebble decided to become a man without waiting for the clan’s permission, and Grass-snake went along — how could she not? They stole weapons and hunting gear and escaped on their first-ever independent hunt that ended in meeting the White Devil.

He also learned that Grass-snake couldn’t stand stonebugs, was afraid of nightmoths, and spoke three languages: Common, Stonefolk, Cavefolk, and a bit of Riverfolk. She also knew the runic alphabet and was an excellent archer. She was happy to practice her Common while speaking with the Ascendant and was clearly the more intelligent of the pair. She was their mind. Pebble, representing body and spirit, could eat stonebugs raw but struggled to express himself clearly, had a hot temper, and boasted excessive pride. His capture had thrown him into a sullen shock, and he remained silent, mostly glaring around and calculating escape routes.

Alas, Pebble’s chances were slim to none — there was no way he could overpower an Ascendant, even a former one. Watching the White Devil train with a spear in the morning, he suddenly asked, “Are you a warrior of your Nation?”

“Not only.”

“Are you doing this… so you don’t forget? Or to get used to one hand?”

Ascendants could restore Starblood in different ways. Those who relied on Spirit did so through Mental Sensitivity and what the Earthers called “meditation.” Those who honed Mind used abilities based on Will and Perception, and the adepts of Body leaned on Physionics and physical training. By pushing their bodies through exercise, they accelerated the circulation of their eo. Ideally, one was supposed to combine all three paths until reaching silver — by then, an Ascendant could restore over a hundred drops of Blood per treeday. He had nearly finished teaching that to Sigurd. But it required discipline, daily effort, and Skill growth across various Attributes.

“The hand isn’t what matters… Take a staff,” the White Devil ordered. “Follow my movements.”

By the end of the short training session, Pebble was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily, having learned the basic stance of the Iron Style, which was already a good start. And the Ascendant had restored his final drop of Starblood: thirteen out of thirteen.

Just as the children had claimed, the road turned out to be short and hidden — the last stretch had them descending a cliff with a long rope stretched over a misty chasm. Sliding along a metal ring was a risky endeavor, but the Stonefolk maintained the ancient pulleys, their mechanism refined by generations of sentients. The Earthers would have called such a route a “zipline,” but the locals had named it “wings,” as people soared from peak to peak like birds.

“We’re almost there,” Grass-snake said once she had caught her breath after five dizzying minutes of flight. “That peak — that’s the Beak.”

A massive cliff towered over the surroundings. It was shaped like a bird’s head with a flat ledge resembling a long open beak. Several drakes circled lazily around it, their shrill hoarse cries grating on the ears.

“We need to move quietly,” the girl warned. “This is their home.”

The closer they got to the Beak, the louder the cries became, merging into a continuous resounding roar. The trail led to the ledge, which contained signs of human activity: stakes driven into the rock like the teeth of a pterosaur’s maw. His keen eyes picked out a human skeleton bound to one of these “teeth,” gnawed so clean that only a ribcage wrapped in chains remained. The White Devil immediately understood the “sanctity” of this place, and Grass-snake reluctantly confirmed his guess.

“Yes, the Stonefolk clans leave those who deserve death here. Why stain our hands with unnecessary blood? The Flamin says the silver drake won’t harm our Nation as long as it is satisfied with the offerings.”

A feeding ground. Such things were common in Unity: people used their greatest weapon, their intelligence, to gain an advantage where strength alone wasn’t enough. No doubt the Stonefolk Ascendants had been luring in Starblooded drakes with captives, harvesting their Runes and training the strongest ones not to seek two-legged prey elsewhere at the same time. Or perhaps their Flamin was a Beastmaster who could speak with the fliers.

That was possible. But at the moment, it didn’t matter.

“Show me where the silver one lives,” the White Devil said.

Grass-snake and Pebble exchanged glances again.

“We’ll show you,” the boy answered. “The Isles below. You can see them from the very edge. It’s dangerous. You’ll have to crawl. There!”

He pointed at a distant mountain precipice fading into foggy haze. Reaching it wasn’t going to be easy: a swarm of fliers hovered in the air, and under the new sign, even armed people might provoke aggression. That was truly their domain, their cries plugging the ears. The travelers had to camouflage themselves in dense vegetation, then crawl for a long time between rocks, freezing still whenever a new winged shape loomed in the sky. Along the way, they spotted traces of rock karkhs, who came there to hunt young drakes. The path was treacherous, weaving through chains of cliffs and ledges, but when they finally reached their destination, the White Devil knew it was worth the effort.

Beyond the precipice opened a breathtaking sight. The Ascendant almost regretted that Sigurd was gone — sensing the wonder and awe of a young Earther at the untamed landscapes of Unity had been... nice. It was the feeling of someone admiring the beauty of your home.

That place was beautiful. The mountains retreated from the main ridge, lowering and transforming into an archipelago of separate islands with flat, seemingly sliced-off peaks. Vast colonies of drakes nested on those inaccessible plateaus, both large and small. The fliers crowded the rocky terraces and cliffside ledges, covering the mountainsides in wrinkles resembling ancient scars. Drakes of all ages were there, from newborns gaping their pink maws to towering horned elders bearing the marks of battle. Some were even alphas; his trained eye easily recognized the changes Starblood had bestowed upon the pterosaurs.

It seemed like a perfect feeding ground for them, as a massive lake sprawled far below, at the base of the Isles, shimmering with every shade of azure. Countless waterfalls tumbled from the mountains into its depths, fed by a river that vanished into one of the canyons.

A real hive. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of screeching wing-flapping drakes covered the cliffs, glided over the lake and riverbed, fought in midair, displayed themselves to mates, or lazily circled in search of prey. The White Devil watched them intently, memorizing every detail and most importantly, searching for the colony’s patriarch. That was the reason he had come there, after all.

Engrossed in his observation, he sensed something was wrong only when the rope binding him to his captives suddenly slackened. His gaze snapped to them just in time to see Grass-snake and Pebble, now ten steps away, standing up at the very edge of the cliff. Somehow, they had freed themselves. The boy shot him a defiant look, smacked himself on the rear for emphasis, and pushed off, leaping straight down! A heartbeat later, Grass-snake followed suit.

For a few endless seconds, he watched them fall, their bodies streamlined, their arms spread just right. Then they struck the lake’s surface with a fountain of droplets, vanishing into its depths. Slowly, they swam up, surfacing at last only to immediately head for the shore. Their dive had startled the flock, setting off a ripple of agitation among the fliers.

The White Devil nodded in approval — the children were bold. If they survived and became Ascendants, they might amount to something. As long as they weren’t killed by the drakes on their way back… or by anything else awakened by the Wild Hunt.

He had no intention of stopping or punishing them. They had honored their promise, leading him to the right place, and he would have done the same, freeing them and returning their belongings after the hunt. The only problem was that the Stonefolk children had assumed he’d use them as bait for the Starblooded drakes. That’s what their own kind would have done.

One end of the rope had been frayed against a sharp rock, the other gnawed through. The White Devil smiled. They had done it quickly and unnoticed. They could have escaped earlier but had clearly planned from the start to make their move at that spot. Must have been Grass-snake’s idea...

The drakes circled above the lake, shrieking in frustration, but the children swam well, surfacing only to snatch a breath, and soon reached the shore, vanishing into the blue-green necklace of dense vegetation surrounding the water. May the Unseen keep smiling on them...

A deep guttural roar drowned out the outraged cries of the lesser fliers. It rumbled through the cliffs, an echoing command that made all other voices seem like the pitiful yapping of wolfers before a goliath’s bellow. A fragment of a tower suddenly broke away from one of the Isles, transforming into a colossal winged figure.

Oh yes, it was the leader. The terror of the mountains, a legend, and the ruler of the archipelago. It was a monstrous drake the size of the helibird once flown by Sigurd, albeit its wingspan made it seem far larger. A massive bone crest adorned its head, its grasping talons curved like scimitars. Its hide gleamed with a ghostly silver sheen streaked with ominous crimson.

And it was silver-ranked.

The White Devil went completely still, pressing himself against the rock. Silver creatures could sense Starblooded prey, and they were bound to be even more dangerous under the sign of the Wild Hunt. The Watcher, as if agreeing with him, finally issued a silver mission.

Good, very good.

A massive shadow swept over the lake. The silver leader snatched up a drake that moved too slowly, biting it clean in half, made a lazy arc above the largest island, and finally landed. The space around it emptied at once. Then, spreading his wings wide, the patriarch trumpeted, as if summoning its army. The larger females, huddled between the rocks, answered with timid cries, and the males, especially the Starblooded ones, broke away one by one, diving for the shelter of the cliff ledges below.

The White Devil watched.

It was silver, but not old or strong. The only Element it possessed was probably air, and, undoubtedly, a lot of Blood and a couple of interesting Runes. Just what he needed... Nevertheless, better to take a closer look to understand what kind of Starblood abilities his future prey had.

But the White Devil never got the chance to carry out his plans. A few minutes later, familiar sounds reached his ears, coming from the underbrush surrounding the lake. The spot where Grass-snake and Pebble had disappeared.

Gunfire. Earth-made shooters. There were plenty of those in the freehold — Sigurd had called them the strange word “Suvorov.”

One shot. Another. Then three more, a short burst.

He knew who was firing even before the last echoes faded.

The Earthers from the freehold wouldn’t dare trespass into the Stonefolk territory, let alone locate the sacred ground. And the Stonefolk wouldn’t use Earth weapons near the Isles, disturbing the drakes, especially against their own kin. It had to be a former Stonefolk who knew that place, along with Earthers who didn’t give a damn about the rules. And they’d come for the same thing he had. Starblood.

He activated the Rune of Bloodsense and inhaled deeply. Yes.

Well, the Unseen rarely smiled twice!

The White Devil straightened at the cliff’s edge, tossed aside his backpack, stripped off the sling with his bow and arrows, and shrugged out of the upper half of his Earth-made jumpsuit. Gripping the spear in his only hand, he tucked Pebble’s knife into his belt.

Then, just like his recent unfortunate captives, he launched himself off the cliff’s edge, diving down like a swallow.

Interlude

The Exiles

THERE WERE TWO CAPTIVES, native savages, about sixteen years old. Ocarina had heard the struggle first, then watched with a smirk as Barke, Miro, and Sand dragged them out of the underbrush, soaked, disheveled, and furious. At first, they fought like hell. The girl calmed down after a few kicks and a warning shot, curling up on the ground in submission. The boy, however, fought to the bitter end and even managed to break Barke’s nose.

That was the last straw. Enraged, the exiles dragged him over to a thick rainkeeper tree.

“His hand!” Sand hissed. “Hold him still!”

A scream of pain followed as the native nailed the captive’s palm to the tree with a jagged bayonet knife, one of the items they had taken from their stash. Sand pressed down on the hilt, driving the blade deep to make sure the boy couldn’t free himself.

“That’s it! Try to squirm or scream, and I’ll get the other one too,” he warned, voice dripping with menace. He spoke his barbarian dialect, but Ocarina easily caught the meaning, having gotten quite good at the local languages after the years spent in Unity.

“Sandwyrm, aren’t these your kinfolk?” she taunted, watching him grab the girl by the hair and drag her to the tree.

“They’re Lizards,” Sand muttered, jabbing his finger in the tattoo on the captive’s neck. “I was from the Crawlers. We’re big enemies.”

“You promised us good hunting in this place,” Ocarina narrowed her eyes. “Didn’t think you meant people...”

“People rarely visit the Beak!”

“They have no weapons or anything else,” Barke reported after a quick search.

“Interesting,” Ocarina purred. “Maybe there are others nearby? Like, with weapons and stuff? Sandwyrm, they understand you, right? We should find out where these pretty things came from… and why they jumped.”

The interrogation didn’t take long — just a few well-placed kicks. The information they got was… very interesting.

“An Earthfolk. Big, black-haired. Used to be an Ascendant. Missing his left hand.” Ocarina smirked, looking over the gang sitting around. “Any guesses who that might be?”

After they had been cast out of the freehold, she ended up as their leader. Well, she was the most experienced Ascendant among them, after all: Mickey and Sand had only just gotten their nails, while Barke, Miro, and Varanasi were ordinary humans with no real chance of ever earning a silver wergild. Ocarina, on the other hand, was bronze, albeit weak, had plenty of raiding experience, and knew the world beyond the Earth colony. She also had a knack for putting men in their place when needed. Six was better than three. They could do more, not to mention knock out the teeth of anyone who dared to snarl at the exiles.

It was her spear now, her war party! Still, after hearing that Mark was close, a cold knot of unease twisted in her gut. From the grim expressions on the men’s faces, she could tell they felt the same. After what they’d told the freehold, pleading for mercy at their trial, there was no way he would be friendly toward his former allies. She knew him well — Flower Whisperer’s son was far more likely to seek revenge on traitors than come running back into her arms.

“Mark. Who else could it be?” Mickey muttered darkly. Mickey-Bear, as he was nicknamed for his solid build and thick body hair, was Randy’s brother. He had become her lover only last night, and Ocarina was counting on their partnership. But Mark’s sudden arrival threw everything in disarray, especially after she had emptied out their shared stash. Or rather, his stash. Damn it, she had only agreed to Sand’s idea because the native suggested hitting a secret place that the younger Cassidy would never find...

“Everyone gets that if he finds us, he’ll slit our throats, yeah?” Ocarina asked.

“He’s not an Ascendant anymore,” Sand grunted, narrowing his single eye.

“He’s missing a hand,” Mickey pointed out.

“And if these two aren’t lying, he’s got no real weapons,” Barke added, racking his Suvorov. “But we’ve got plenty...”

Ocarina glanced at the silver case with the Cosmo insignia, which they had pulled from the stash near the freehold just the day before. Inside were several brand-new assault rifles with bayonets, a compound bow — a copy of the one Cassidy used, smoke bombs, and nine smart grenades, real replicas from Helga’s arsenal: thermal, frag, and hollow-charge.

Once, she had helped Mark hide that case. The Earth weapons had been meant either for the Storm exiles or for a rainy day; she hadn’t asked. Thank God she hadn’t spilled anything during interrogations — her gut had told her it might come in handy! Exiles were thrown out with nothing, and in Unity, weapons meant survival. Maybe they were the most important thing — after Starblood.

“We have six people, all armed, and he’s alone and bare-handed. No Runes, no nothing... We need to find him and finish this,” Mickey voiced her own thoughts, catching the Ascendant’s gaze. “For Randy and in general. Just to be sure.”

“No!” Sand violently shook his head. “We can’t kill Mark!”

“Why’s that, Wyrm?” Ocarina asked.

“I was at the moot and kept my ears open. The Riverfolk want his blood. The Shadowfolk want his worm-ridden head... They might pay well if we hand him over!” Sand’s yellow eye gleamed greedily. “Silver is paid in silver...”

“Oh, so that’s what you’re getting at,” Ocarina murmured. “Are you suggesting we capture him?”

“He’s not an Ascendant anymore.” Sand smirked. “Why not? I can make sure he can walk... but not run.”

Ocarina had no doubts about the native’s skills. The idea hadn’t even crossed her mind at first, but the more she considered it, the more appealing it became. Mark was dangerous even without Runes — his body still retained its Skills — but he wouldn’t be much of a threat with a shot-out knee and, say, without the other hand. The rotten fishmen or the Shadowfolk were going to kill him anyway; the important part was delivering him alive, or half-dead, at least.

“What’s there to think about?” Miro, the largest of the bunch, spoke up. “That son of a bitch is the reason we got kicked out of the freehold! If they’ll pay a wergild for his hide, I’ll skin him myself!”

“We’ll climb up, track him down, and capture him,” Mickey suggested, glancing up at the mountain ledge and the massive rock formation shaped like a bird’s head. “Sand, is there a trail up there?”

“I’ll guide you,” the native grinned. Still, ever aware of who was in charge, he looked at Ocarina, waiting for her final word. Finally, the female Ascendant nodded.

“That’s the plan, boys. And, like, don’t go out of your way to take him alive. No need to take risks, got it? If it works out, great. If not, well, he can go straight to hell.”

“Perfect,” Mickey muttered through his teeth. “No point wasting time. Let’s get ready.”

“And what about them?” Varanasi, the youngest and most useless of the outcasts, pointed at the captives. The girl was trying to stop her companion’s bleeding, murmuring something under her breath, but Sand yanked her up by the hair, making her squeal, and dragged her closer.

“Kill them or sell them,” he said, studying her terrified face. “If we head to the Shadowfolk, selling’s better. Young thralls fetch a good price. This one’s ripe enough for love...”

He grabbed her, shoved his hands under her leather vest, and began groping her roughly, ignoring her shrieks. The exiles roared with laughter, and Barke, licking his lips, openly suggested, “Why don’t we find out if she’s really ripe?”

The men glanced at Ocarina, but she pointedly pressed herself against Mickey’s shoulder and gave them a brazen smirk.

“I don’t care! Do whatever you want with her, just don’t, like, mess up her looks. And not now, you’ll have plenty of time to play later. First, we deal with Mark!”

Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by a noise coming from the lake: a splash followed by a surge of droplets — something heavy had hit the surface. It looked a lot like the arrival of their unfortunate captives, and the exiles instantly turned toward the water. They were about fifty steps from the shore, in a secluded clearing well-hidden by vegetation, and though the leaves obscured their view, they all saw the large ripples spread across the lake.

“What the hell?” Mickey muttered, rising to his feet.

“Maybe… it’s Mark?” Varanasi ventured uncertainly. “He might have jumped from above too…”

“Quiet!” Ocarina snapped, pressing her fingers to her temples. “Shut up, all of you!”

Like the others, she’d been stripped of her Runes before exile, but Keen Hearing had long since become a Skill. When she focused, she could hear a mosquito buzzing a hundred steps away, and she strained to listen.

The screeches of drakes cluttered her perception, but Ocarina filtered them out like background noise. The rustling of reeds, the scuttle of a stone crab, the lapping of waves against the silty shore... And then, it was only water, water everywhere... and a dull, barely audible bubbling beneath the surface, bursts of air rising to the top. She’d heard this sound before and knew what it meant.

“There’s someone out there. Swimming underwater. Fast. Almost… at the shore,” she said, alarmed. “Weapons ready, boys!”

“Are you sure? I don’t see anything,” Barke said, staring intently at the lake’s surface. “Maybe he, uh, drowned?”

“Barke, Varanasi, go check it out!” Mickey ordered. “We’ll cover you!”

The exiles, now on edge, grabbed their weapons, and Ocarina rose from the rock. When splitting their findings, she had taken the bow instead of a Suvorov, unconsciously mimicking Mark, and now regretted it — her skill with it was poor. Cold needles danced in her gut. She knew and feared their former leader, feared him to the bone. Could it really be him?

The two ex-colonists moved toward the murky overgrown shore. Making noise was risky — too many drakes, including Starblooded, were circling nearby — so the other exiles held still, their eyes locked on the water.

Minutes passed. Nothing happened. How could anyone hold their breath for that long?!

“He drowned, I swear on my mother…” Mickey muttered.

“There!” Ocarina suddenly shouted, pointing far to the right, beyond where the scouts had gone.

But it was too late.

A figure burst from the water in a spray of droplets, moving fast. Something long and black flashed through the air, and Barke gasped, dropping his Suvorov, clutching at the shaft piercing his chest. Varanasi, standing right at the water’s edge, never even got off a shot, as the swift attacker used him as a shield. Just in time, too, because Mickey, Miro, and Sand opened fire, instantly riddling their own man with bullets.

Mark — and it was definitely him, Ocarina would have recognized him anywhere — caught the limp body and quickly moved toward the undergrowth, using the exile as cover. Flinging the corpse aside, he vanished into the dense foliage in a deft tumble.

“Where is he? Where’s this asshole, Rina?” Mickey yelled, frantically reloading his magazine.

The female Ascendant listened, but with the exiles spraying the greenery with gunfire, Mark’s steps were impossible to detect! Still, she pointed in a direction and immediately heard the answering staccato of return fire. Something made a wet squelch nearby, and horrified, she saw Mickey-Bear slump down as he turned to face her, bullet wounds blooming on his chest, shoulders, and forehead.

Shrieking, Ocarina dove behind the rocks — Mark had somehow gotten hold of Varanasi’s rifle. Miro must have realized that as well and flopped onto his belly, but it didn’t save him — on the open clearing, they were sitting ducks, and Murk’s next burst tore through him.

Only Sand remained. The native, his twin magazines empty, tried to swap in fresh ones — a three-second job — but Mark caught him mid-reload. Ocarina saw death charge out from the bushes, no longer armed with a Suvorov, only a gleaming knife, and for a fleeting second, she marveled at the sheer beauty of the warrior before her. He was a true god of war, moving with the grace and speed of a tiger and blazing his own path. Sand fumbled with his rifle, grabbed his bayonet, and charged with a battle cry, but Mark effortlessly sidestepped the attack, countering with a gut-to-chin slash. Blood sprayed so violently that it spattered Ocarina.

As they clashed, the perfect shot presented itself. Her back straight, she drew her bowstring — with the enemy five steps away, she was firing point-blank and couldn’t miss.

But then she saw his face up close. It was Mark, yet it was not. She couldn’t remember him moving like this, didn’t recognize his expression. The features, the eyes, the hair, the body — all of them looked familiar, but someone else was in the driver’s seat. Ocarina had seen a lot of shit and didn’t consider herself a coward, but this man, his chilling gaze, and his aura of a dangerous predator made her scream in terror. She dropped her weapon and raised her arms to shield herself, helpless against death.

The next second, he was upon her.

A crushing blow sent her sprawling, the world spinning wildly. Flat on her back, she watched the dancing colors and distant sounds. Someone — the thing wearing Mark’s skin — said something to the captive savages, and the girl responded in a tearful pleading voice.

He told them they still had work to do. Then everything went black.

When she came to, the sky was much darker — the treeday was ending. Her head throbbed, her left eye wouldn’t open, her body ached, and worst of all, she couldn’t move a muscle. The stench was awful, too: fresh blood and old rot.

She was upright, tied to something like a post, old bones scattered at its base. Her limbs twisted painfully behind her, legs bound tight. She could only turn her head.

Looking around, she nearly lost control of her bladder. Mickey-Bear was tied to a nearby stake, his bloodied face frozen in a slack-jawed grimace. Sand hung limply from another, arms pinned above his head by a bayonet, a vast pool of blood below. He looked completely and utterly dead. Gnawed human bones littered the ground, the cliff’s edge looming just a few steps away. Other stakes were protruding from it, human remains chained to them.

Overhead, drakes circled, their cries piercing the night, and it finally hit her: they were at the Beak, the mountain above that Sand had shown to them. This was where the locals sacrificed prisoners to the silver drake.

And that meant...

Ocarina thrashed wildly.

It was useless. Something clinked below her chin. Looking down, she glimpsed three smart grenades dangling from her throat like a necklace. Red, orange, and gray. A similar trio was tied to Sand’s chest. Turning her eyes to Micky, she saw a grenade jammed into the gaping mouth of her lover.

Shit. Shit. Shit!

Warmth trickled down her thighs, but she didn’t care anymore. She struggled madly, screaming in desperation.

“Scream louder, Ascendant!” a familiar voice said from the darkness behind her. “Come on! The louder you scream, the sooner it will hear you…”

Chapter 3

“SCREAM, ASCENDANT!” the White Devil repeated.

He watched the drakes circle the Beak. They were small hollow creatures, easy enough to drive away with a single shot from an Earth shooter. Pathetic scavengers. He was waiting for different prey — the kind that could sense Starblood.

The dead exiles were empty. Stripped of all Runes in the freehold, they possessed hardly any Blood — two out of three had emerged from the Temple of Eternity only recently. Still, the White Devil had gained twelve drops and four wooden Runes.

One blank, one Growth, the Skill of Earthfolk Language Proficiency, and Riding.

Garbage.

The fragments of their Slates expanded his own by two slots. He knew they were empty, too. The third one, though, the bronze Ascendant, might have something interesting. At the moment, she was screaming and writhing, struggling to loosen the bindings that tied her to the stake in the Beak’s maw.

The White Devil knew she wouldn’t succeed. He would have killed her as well, but a living bait infused with Starblood was far more useful than a corpse. Let her serve as another step in his Ascension before her own came to an end.

He felt no pity for the Earthers or the Unity native who had sided with them. He had known how it would end the moment he caught the scent of blood in the air. They would never present a silver wergild to the Earthfolk Riks, and that was for the best. Rot had to be cut out at the root, or it would consume even gold.

“We… we’ve done everything.” A shadow flickered behind him: Grass-snake, peering fearfully into the chasm formed by the Beak’s mouth. Pebble lingered behind her. “Everything you’ve ordered…”

“Good.” He didn’t turn around, busy attaching a fresh ammo grip to the Earth shooter. “Now go. Hide in the rocks. Don’t come out until I’m done hunting. I’ll call you.”

The clatter of hurried footsteps. The White Devil knew they wouldn’t flee now — the children of Unity learned their lessons quickly. The reason wasn’t even the massacre at the lake or his ability to track them by the scent of blood. It was pure hunter’s instinct. You don’t get to watch a silver beast get killed every day.

Many would have called him a madman. One arm missing, no strong Runes or Items, almost no Blood, yet he was challenging a creature that had terrorized the mountain frontier for years? Attempting what so many powerful Ascendants, raised in those lands and well-versed in the silver overlord’s ways, had never dared? Sigurd and his ilk would have called such a plan… far-fetched.

The White Devil thought differently. He had slain worse creatures before in weaker bodies. What he had now was weak as well, yet it was silver. He and his quarry were evenly matched. The winged king of the Isles was no old silver; it was still within reach of an experienced Ascendant who knew how to find an advantage.

The drakes shrieked and fought in the air near the Beak. Some darted into the rocky maw, trying to tear a piece from the fresh bait smelling of blood, and he had to swat them down with short bursts of fire. Finally, Starblooded creatures appeared: several alphas of the trash rank and one or two bronze. That was more like it! He readied himself; such creatures could possess traits worth claiming.

As long as he could kill them! Earth weapons worked well against trash, but flesh strengthened by Starblood was harder to pierce, and taking down a bronze with mere slivers of sharpened metal from a feeble shooter was no easy task. But even bronze beasts had weak spots…

When a large horned bronze with a metallic hue dive-bombed into the Beak’s maw, folding its wings and waddling toward the bait, the White Devil set aside his shooter and used a hook to pull back the bowstring of the Ascendant’s bow. Fingers would have been better, but a silver body was capable of feats beyond the dreams of ordinary men, and the Earth bow’s design allowed it to be drawn with almost no effort. The exiles’ supplies had included fire arrows, and one of them found its target in the drake’s gaping maw, turning its head into a fiery cloud. The blast sent the headless beast tumbling off the cliff and echoed throughout the stone throat of the Beak, a tunnel dug out by the Stonefolk to reach the feeding ground.

That place had a cunning design: a winding mountain trail led into a stone passage carved by rockmuncher saliva. It ended at the Beak’s open maw, in a rock grotto formed by two long overhanging ledges.

Before them, the passage widened into a small cavern reinforced with columns and spear-tree beams. The Stonefolk had used it to prepare prisoners for sacrifice and slaughter the captured drakes. The dark stains on the stone told the White Devil the grim history of this place. He could point to the ledges where hunters once stood with nets and hooks and to the alcoves where Ascendants lay in wait for prey. There were even slits carved into the rock to safely observe the “feeding.”

A wooden drake was the next creature that decided to snack on the Starblooded captive. It almost reached her, too, but One of the Thousand took four wide steps, pivoted for a strike, and his spear pierced the soft membrane of its wing. The beast screeched and turned to face the new threat just as the White Devil, mid-leap, slashed open its long throat with the blade taken from Pebble. Eternal Sharpness did not fail him. Two more strikes severed the head from the twitching, flailing body, and he carelessly tossed it at the feet of the bound Ascendant.

What was her name again... Ocarina? She wasn’t screaming anymore. Just whimpering and trembling, her teeth chattering despite the fact that not a single drake had touched her.

“Let me go! Please!”

“Say the shieldword.” He showed her the black bracelet on his wrist — the one he had ripped off of her.

“What?!”

“The password.” He recalled the Earther term. “Now.”

Her teeth chattered as she muttered a sequence of numbers. It worked on the first try, but the storage was empty. Or rather, filled with utterly useless junk.

“Now you’ll… let me go?”

“No,” he answered simply.

Grass-snake and Pebble had been just as terrified when the exiles had captured them. The Earth people’s imperfect language had the word “justice.” Sometimes, they interpreted it as the strong sparing the weak. The White Devil had other beliefs; he preferred words like “retribution” and “vengeance.” As for “mercy,” that word simply did not exist in his worldview.

The trash-grade drake had dropped a Rune of Growth, a Rune of Amplification, and a Rune of Gust of Wind. His Starblood pool reached thirty drops, netting him one death to spare. One of the Thousand smirked. The Unseen’s message was clear.

A familiar cry trumpeted in the distance, accompanied by the flapping of massive wings. The panicked shrieks of the drakes made it clear that the commotion at the Beak had finally drawn their master’s attention. Time was short. He stepped up to the female Ascendant, keying numbers into the timer of her smart-grenade necklace. One was enough to detonate all of them.

“What… are you doing?” Terror filled her pleading wide eyes. “Let me go! Please!”

Instead of answering, he did the same to the others.

Where are you, beast?

A massive shadow loomed in the twilight. Alpha specimens, wooden and bronze, scattered in a frenzy, gliding and ducking behind the rocky outcrops. They knew full well that their silver kin would happily snack on one of them before the main course.

The silver leader’s shriek reverberated through the cave in a deafening staccato. The heavy wingbeats grew closer, and the White Devil pressed himself against the broad ledge of stone. Judging by the sounds, the patriarch of the Isles had made a victory lap around the Beak, scattering rivals before him. Then the rock shuddered, and a sudden rush of wind burst into the cave, followed by rustling, flapping, and another scream, much closer this time. The female Ascendant’s thin wail was swallowed within it, like the cry of a drowning woman lost in a storm’s roar, transforming into a choking shriek of agony followed by other, less pleasant sounds.

Wet chomping. Slurping. The scratch of scales against stone. The beast had begun feasting on the prepared delicacy.

The White Devil patiently waited. He knew the silver leader wouldn’t leave before dealing with all three pillars. It needed a lot of food, and drakes were always greedy. Meanwhile, he kept his eyes on the Earther symbols flashing on the black bracelet. He knew what they meant — Sigurd had taught him well, despite never intending to do so. For instance, the White Devil knew how to set the detonator timer on smart grenades and start a countdown.

The time had come. Drawing his bow once more, he stepped out from behind his cover. With a single glance, he assessed the sacrificial ground before loosing a flaming arrow straight at the silver beast nestled upon the rock. It didn’t matter where it struck; at that rank, the creature had already grown a hide so thick and defensive abilities so strong that weak Earth weapons could hardly harm it. The goal was simple: to grab the drake’s attention and make it crave another soft, tasty biped, the one whose veins pulsed with glowing Starblood.

Up close, the patriarch looked even more terrifying. Enormous even with its wings folded, it barely fit beneath the towering stone dome. The pillars with bait were nearly stripped bare. As the drake opened its fanged maw to gulp down something quivering and red, the fire arrow exploded right in its moving throat. Maybe it would choke?

He should be so lucky. The worst-case scenario was that the silver leader would take off and flee the Beak, refusing to fight. But he knew the instincts of the winged ones well, and sure enough, the beast roared and unhinged its jaws, unleashing a howling storm charged with electricity. The air blast spiraled into the tunnel like a hurricane, knocking everything in its path. Sparks of blue lightning licked the stone walls. That was Thunder Breath, but the White Devil had expected it. The moment his arrow flew, he had already ducked back behind cover, letting the lethal gust pass him by. His skin and gear crackled faintly with the residual charge, and his hair and brows bristled as if electrified.

Yet it was nothing fatal. The moment the roar subsided, he struck again, peeking out just long enough to fire another explosive arrow into the creature’s face. This time, it struck an eye. The enraged drake bellowed, slithering further inside, forcing its entire bulk into the rock-walled grotto that formed the Beak’s gaping maw. It scraped forward, trying to peck the insolent attacker from behind his paltry cover. The foolish biped didn’t even realize that a silver drake’s beak could crush stone like a nut…

The White Devil had known that would happen. When the beast shattered his supposed refuge, he wasn’t there anymore. The next part was the hardest: surviving in the narrow throat of the tunnel with no cover from Thunder Breath. The drake pursued him, widening the passage as it went, shattering the brittle walls and support beams, its monstrous beak sparkling against the rock just inches away. One of the Thousand could see its furious blood-red eye gleaming in the darkness behind him.

At last, the numbers on the bracelet hit zero — the timing was correct, if a bit late. He rolled forward and gained speed, knowing exactly what was about to happen. There was no way to predict the exact outcome, but the White Devil understood one thing: he had to be as far away as possible, and he pushed his new body to its limits.

The first explosion rumbled deep within the silver beast. There would be seven in total — the exact number of the grenades he had fed it along with the bait: fragmentation, thermal, and hollow-charge. Two more were affixed to the supports holding up the beams that braced the tunnel’s ceiling where it met the rocky ledge of the Beak.

They all went off at once. A chain of detonations and the crashing collapse of rock drowned out the beast’s rasping, screeching, and frantic wingbeats. It struggled desperately to escape, but that only sped up its demise. The White Devil hurtled out of the tunnel at full speed, the blast wave chasing him, tumbling out in a storm of dust and shattered stone.

He had succeeded. Pressed against the rocks just outside, he felt the ground shudder. Then the Beak’s ceiling came crashing down, burying the beast beneath piles of stone and pinning it against the fanged pillars like a skewered carcass. It was a real gamble, but the moment he had seen the sacrificial cliff shaped like a drake’s head had sparked that idea, and he decided to bring it to life.

And it worked. The stone drake had devoured the silver one.

Within minutes, the noise had almost died down. One of the Thousand cautiously, very cautiously, peered into the passage that had once led to the place of sacrifice. The tunnel was half-collapsed, swirling with dust and acrid smoke, carrying the stench of burning flesh from within. Pushing forward, he was met with a remarkable sight: the silver beast’s head half-buried under the rubble. The lord of the Isles was still alive, barely stirring, its one surviving crimson eye darting around. Unable to move, pinned beneath the fallen stone jaw, nearly crushed, burned, and torn apart by the internal explosions, it nonetheless had survived.

With nothing left to fear, One of the Thousand approached, gazing into the dying giant’s crimson eye. The creature shuddered, tried to open its beak — long as a man’s body, lined with twin rows of jagged teeth — but all it managed was a feeble puff of smoke and a flickering tongue of flame.

Starblooded creatures existed so Ascendants could claim their Blood and powerful Runes through trials that tempered body, mind, and spirit. That was the essence of Ascension, and one silver had triumphed over the other.

The White Devil drew Pebble’s knife, which had already tasted the blood of fliers that day.

The silver Riks of the Isles granted him thirty-five drops of Starblood, a silver Rune of Growth, a silver Augmentation, a silver Evolution, and a Rune of Thundersquall.

He had expected a Rune of Element, Wind, Gust, or Flight, but alas, the Unseen had other ideas. So be it.

After taking the Blood and Runes, the White Devil left the cave and loudly called for Grass-snake and Pebble. The children had work to do, and so did he.

They finished by the time night had passed, and the Ygg-Tree shone golden light overhead. The rubble was partially cleared, and the silver beast yielded a precious core and fragments saturated with Starblood. A bloody Stigmata of the female Ascendant lay in One of the Thousand’s palm. The drake had consumed her Blood, but the remains of her Runes and Slate still glowed in its belly: a Growth, a Skill Rune of Keen Hearing, and a Skill Rune of Technical Expertise (Earth).

There was also the dead bronze pterosaur he found at the cliff base in daylight. It had only five drops of Starblood, but a bronze Growth, Amplification, and the Element of Air, as well as a bronze Rune of Wind — just the thing he had wanted from the silver leader.

The hunt was a great success, though it had taken its toll. Exhausted, the children and he slept through the rest of the treeday, having found a secluded spot nearby. The Beak no longer had an upper jaw, and the once-terrifying cliff looked entirely different. Pebble and Grass-snake occasionally cast bewildered glances at it and then him, only to quickly avert their eyes.

The pile of trophies collected from the exiles was growing, and he divided it into two parts, one big and one small. The latter contained a shooter and its hollow barrels stuffed with sharpened metal, a pair of knives, a compound bow with a quiver of arrows, and the cores and fragments harvested from the Starblooded drakes. Everything else, including the enormous head of the silver beast, lay in the first pile: Earth weapons, gear, and other loot stripped from the six exiles. At its top, the White Devil placed the spear and bow with arrows taken from the young hunters. Next to them, he set the children’s Starblooded Items: Pebble’s knife and Grass-snake’s amulet.

The couple, having grown quiet, huddled together, watching his preparations in silence and confusion. Pebble nursed his bandaged hand — the pain-blocking injection from the Earther medkit had begun to wear off by the evening.

“This is mine.” Looking at the children, he drew a line with the spear’s tip between the large and small piles, then set the spear in the larger one. “And this is yours. I release you in peace and return your belongings to you. Here’s a reward for your help in the hunt.”

He had no need for the Earther junk, save for the essentials, and even those, only temporarily. Sigurd’s kin relied too much on their pathetic technology, forgetting that the true weapons of an Ascendant were Runes and Starblood. In Unity and Eternity, nothing was stronger or more perfect.

He saw the children’s eyes. If they returned to their tribe with those valuables, along with the silver’s head as proof they hadn’t made up their story, Pebble would gain more than an adult name. That would mean gifts for Grass-snake and even a nail in his wrist when the time came to ride to the great moot.

“Just don’t lie,” he added, watching them. “Luck always walks hand in hand with truth.”

“We don’t deserve this…” Pebble muttered darkly, staring at the ground.

“And we can’t carry it all…” added the sharp-minded Grass-snake, prodding at the pile of trophies.

“You can.” He tossed a second storage bracelet onto the large pile — the one the Earthers had either failed or neglected to lock with a shieldword. “I’ll show you how. Your people will need it during the Wild Hunt. And tell your Ascendants to come take what’s left of the silver Riks. Its hide will make armor and shields no Earth weapon can pierce, and your Rune Masters will know what to do with its bones. This is my wergild for hunting on your lands. And tell them to not even think about following my trail!”

The boy and girl nodded vigorously. After what they had seen, the White Devil had no doubt Pebble and Grass-snake would do everything in their power to convince their tribe. And why chase him? He was letting their children go in peace — the children the exiles had nearly killed.

“Can you make it home on your own?”

“Of course. We know the mountains!” the boy replied.

“But can you walk with your injured hand, Pebble?” Grass-snake asked, concerned.

“My hand doesn’t matter.” The boy proudly lifted his shaggy head. As he looked at the White Devil, One of the Thousand saw no fear or hatred in his eyes — only admiration and gratitude. Unexpectedly, he picked up his knife from the pile, dropped to one knee as if before a Riks, and held it out to the Ascendant.

“We… owe you our lives. Take this, so when the time comes, I’ll repay my debt.”

“You’ve yet to earn an adult name for saan-kano,” the White Devil smirked, and the boy lowered his head again. But then, he continued, “Still, I’ll take the knife. It sits well in my hand.”

“Then…” Grass-snake suddenly knelt beside him, took the boy’s hand, and bowed her head as well. “We thank you. If not for you, we… By the Creator, Pebble and I — if we have children, we’ll name our firstborn after you. If you’ll allow it…”

The White Devil smirked again. He had heard those words a thousand times before, and to hear them again... He glanced at the fading glow of the Ygg-Tree. It was time to part ways. Both he and the children had roads to travel.

“Our people will ask who helped us, who defeated the silver Riks of the Isles and killed the six exiles,” Grass-snake spoke again. “No one will believe us without a name…”

She smiled softly and continued, “What name should we give them?”

“Tell them...” The White Devil hesitated for a moment, but he had to begin somewhere. Glory is never superfluous, and so he finished his phrase.

“Tell them it was Flamelike.”

Chapter 4

AFTER THE CHILDREN HAD LEFT, the White Devil once more climbed to the ruined summit of the Beak, where the rubble covered the silver drake’s carcass. They had cleared some of the debris to access the most valuable parts, but most of the Starblooded beast remained pinned beneath massive slabs of rock.

He saw a stunning view of the Isles teeming with drakes. The death of their patriarch didn’t seem to make an impression on them; some creatures had already begun picking at the exposed flesh beneath the stones. They had flown away for now, but he knew that some of them were Starblooded. The Stonefolk Ascendants wouldn’t arrive for a few more treedays, giving him time to hunt.

But first, he needed to sort out his trophies. One Growth had doubled his Slate’s capacity the night before, making it shine bronze, and it was nearly full. Twenty-four Runes.

Threading the drake’s torn-out teeth, each of them a minor fragment, onto a cord, he started with the wood.

Both Growths went into Meditation, raising it to five stars. He had already mastered the Earthfolk Language and Riding, but they might serve as currency for bartering with other Ascendants or the Watcher. Amplification enhanced the Gust of Wind, turning it into Lesser Whirlwind. The blank would have to wait until he gained Rune Mastery. The body’s previous owner lacked that Skill — his Flaminica mother had kept her secrets, using her son as a pliant tool. It was a common tale in Unity, where Rune Masters often saw themselves as an elite caste even among Ascendants.

Bronze. He put Growth into Perception, intending to maximize all bronze Attributes as soon as possible, as his body’s sluggish senses and weak mind constrained him, requiring constant exertion to overcome the physical barriers. His own Skills were gradually resurfacing, fusing with his new abode, but that demanded both time and countless ordeals. Only by proving his worth and reaching for former heights he could regain them, unlocking the stars once more. It was a grueling and agonizing process, but such was the price of Mark Cassidy’s silver body.

The bronze Keen Hearing and Technical Expertise might prove useful. However, he couldn’t afford to waste twenty-four drops; he’d have to set them aside until the hunt was over. Perhaps he could gather more Blood or find a way to reduce the cost.

That left Amplification, Element, and Wind. At present, that Spell seemed like a bronze copy of Lesser Whirlwind, but One of the Thousand knew that soon they would become two entirely different Runes, one a shield and another, if luck favored him, a powerful weapon. Amplification and Element would have to wait until he found a use for them.

At last, it was silver’s turn. Growth, Augmentation, Evolution.

The first was straightforward — he unlocked a star in Agility, a silver Dexterity Attribute. The reward was a Skill called “Flawless Accuracy,” allowing him to strike true with any weapon. Was it dormant or intrinsic to the body? At the moment, it didn’t matter.

He could have used Augmentation to increase the duration of Thundersquall to six moments. An excellent weapon, though not exactly what he wanted. But there was no rush.

Evolution, however, presented a dilemma. It could elevate any bronze Rune to silver rank, but he had yet to find the right application for it. His only Rune was Wind, but transforming it into Storm, Tempest, or Hurricane was pointless, at least for the time being.

His Slate was half-empty, retaining only the essential Runes. It was time to claim the Watcher’s reward for slaying the winged Riks. Ten Coins and ten points of Glory had already adorned his Ascension, but the silver Rune remained to be chosen.

Gazing at the silhouettes of drakes against the darkening sky, the White Devil briefly recalled Sigurd. He had tried to explain the secret of choosing Runes to the Yuwein, but the Earther had never truly grasped it. It was no simple feat to imagine the Watcher’s vault, stocked by thousands upon thousands of generations of Ascendants and holding an almost limitless array of Runes from countless lands and eras. The essence of the game against He Who Watches lay in knowing (or guessing) which type of Runes was worth picking in a given situation. That was easy to say, but the mission, its location, the timing, the element, the enemy, the method of victory, and even the number of participants all influenced what the Keeper of Unity offered as a reward. Sometimes, the right choice was Properties; in other cases, Abilities, Spells, or Items. You always had to consider what qualities the Rune might possess — and whether you had need of them.

So what did he have here? Mountains, flying creatures, the element of air. A victory won through ruthlessness and cunning. But he had fought alone, and the Watcher’s unseen gaze must have taken note of that. The Properties would likely contain an Elemental Rune or maybe even the coveted Stellar. Items would hold wind and lightning — useful, but there was a better option. Abilities... would be likely near-useless, and it was too early to think about silver Skills. Portals would lead to aerial realms and territories of flying Nations, while Domains were entirely unpredictable — though sometimes that was a blessing.

But the Creatures the Watcher might grant would be winged or elemental, tied to flight and the sky. And given that he always offered servitors with different abilities — scouts, seekers, porters, guards, workers, or fighters — that seemed immensely intriguing.

The White Devil picked a Creature, and when three silver Runes appeared before him, he realized it was the right choice.

Skychild

Cliff Karkh

Whitewing

The first was a newborn skywyrm soaring above the clouds: an unseen scout able to perceive every detail of what unfolded on the land and in the sky at any time of day or night.

The second, a feathered drake, a warrior and a hunter, could carry its master on its back. In the mountains, it was an indispensable ally, effortlessly crossing chasms and leaping across rocky ledges as skillfully as a mountain goat.

And the third...

Contains Whitewing, a drake capable of carrying one rider. Possesses powerful wings, allowing it to cover great distances, and a durable hide, making it an excellent companion for dangerous missions in the mountains and skies. Activate the Rune to ascertain its capabilities.

Flying Creatures weren’t uncommon, but few of them could be used as mounts, transporting sentients on their backs. However, the chance of obtaining one significantly increased when hunting the winged beasts of the aerial regions, which is why the White Devil chose a Creature instead of an Item. And the Unseen smiled upon him.

Of course, he chose Whitewing. That Rune granted him four hours of mobility, enough to carry him far, far away, granting access even to places unreachable to most Ascendants.

A wonderful acquisition. Augmentation found its purpose, cutting the cooldown between summons in half. Now he could fly for four hours every twelve, and in that time, a lot could be accomplished…

But he wasn’t planning to leave yet. There were still many Starblooded fliers left on the Isles, and thanks to his flying companion, they were all within his grasp. It was time for the local drakes to meet the Silver Riks’ heir.

Whitewing was four times smaller than the slain beast. It had an unusual pale coloring with bluish streaks, enormous translucent wings, and a long black beak. It looked… strange, and most of its kin cried out in alarm and turned away at the sight of a white drake soaring through the sky with a rider on its back.

Riding it wasn’t particularly comfortable, but he had saddled far stranger creatures before. Besides, the Rune’s creators had thought ahead, equipping the Creature with bony ridges along its neck that could serve as handholds. Earthers would have been baffled by the absence of a saddle and straps — after all, in their minds, any mount, even a flying one, required them — but true Ascendants had no need for such things. The White Devil knew he could keep his balance, and after a few silver stars, even dance on the White Devil’s back in mid-air.

But for now, he would hunt!

He caught several Starblooded beasts on the first treeday. It wasn’t exactly easy, but he knew their habits and weak points. The second day brought him three more. And on the third morning, as he soared over the Isles on Whitewing’s back, the mountain plateaus emptied in an instant, everyone fleeing in disgrace at the sight of the white drake to hide in the crevices and cliffs of the surrounding canyons. The fliers quickly understood that a new predator had risen.

And on the third day, the White Devil left. Not because he didn’t want to hunt down the hidden alphas in the canyons, but because Keen Hearing told him about the approach of a group of people, the kin of Grass-snake and Pebble, who were coming to confirm their story and collect the remains of the silver drake.

When he let the children go, he had counted on the Ascendants taking an interest in the tale about a strange exiled hunter stripped of his Stigmata. Why would someone incapable of absorbing Starblood hunt Starblooded beasts? Who was he, and how had he defeated a silver without Runes? Why had he even come there? The Stonefolk were bound to have many questions about Flamelike, and he would gain new Glory. His nature stood no risk of being exposed — the children hadn’t seen him absorb Runes and Starblood. They would think him a feral Ascendant desperately trying to regain power after losing his nail.

People don’t change. Let them think what they wanted.

Confronting the Stonefolk wasn’t part of his plan, and the hunt had lost its appeal anyway. Instead, he glided down into a canyon where a river flowed into the lake at the foot of the Isles, then flew upstream, following the winding course of the water.

Ninety drops of Starblood shone in his Attributes. He also had new Runes: blank, Growth, Augmentation, Reduction, and Amplification, some of which he put into other Runes and Skills. The bronze Reduction helped lower the cost of implanting Skills, netting him Keen Hearing and Technical Expertise (Earth) for half the Blood. It was worth it: his hearing could now pick up whispers from a hundred steps away, and his knowledge of construction and the art of operating Earth-designed mechanisms had reached six stars. The rest wasn’t even worth mentioning, just junk to be discarded at the first opportunity.

He had questioned Grass-snake and Pebble, learning where frostblooms grew in their lands, where thunderstone was mined, and where passion flowers could be found. The latter was his goal — another step in the first of his schemes.

Locating the guardian plants was easy from the air: their bright violet maw-like blossoms stood out vividly against the blue-green foliage, often surrounded by a clearing. The White Devil knew all too well how dangerous the grasping tendrils of those flowers were — the Kel had created the original frostblooms to guard their secrets. Those in front of him were their weak, degenerate descendants, yet they still posed a real threat, especially when imbued with Starblood.

He spent the third, fourth, and fifth days searching the riverside underbrush, canyon ledges, mountain forests, and sheer cliffs. The Stonefolk hunted those plants too, collecting Starblood, but Whitewing could take him to places others couldn’t reach, and Grass-snake and Pebble had told him where to look and where not to bother.

Passion flowers hated fire; even the Earther Yuwein had figured that out. The White Devil had run out of the flaming arrows for the Earth weapon but found a thunderstone and used it to make fiery powder, allowing him to ignite a flower from above without getting too close. By the end of the fifth day, alongside piles of trash, he had finally obtained the Rune he had wanted all along: a bronze Element of Poison.

He hunted by day, and not just plants. In the evenings, he rested in secluded spots, meditated, trained, or gathered useful herbs. Mountain streams and waterfalls invigorated his spirit and kept his body clean. The Earth bracelet effortlessly stored his simple possessions, and slowly, one by one, his old Skills filled the body’s stars.

Not just those of Body Mastery, Worldsense, and Elemental Affinity. There were others, mere echoes of what once was, but it was only the beginning. Animal Lore (Unity). Mineral Lore (Unity). Way of the Hunter and Way of the Ranger. Iron Style, Vine Style, Bull Style... He also tried to awaken the slumbering great Skills, carving Symbols and breaking down worthless Runes, yet all he achieved was unlocking Rune Dismantling: the first and simplest stage of Rune Mastery.

On the sixth day, he steered Whitewing upward to the snow-covered peaks. The Stonefolk called that place the Fingers, and thanks to Grass-snake’s description, the White Devil easily found it. A cluster of towering stone colossi indeed resembled a massive hand stretching toward the sky, its fingers crowned with icy claws.

Thanks to the wondrous craftsmanship of Unity’s creators, the mountain peaks were forever covered in snow and ice, feeding the streams, rivers, and cold winds that flowed downward. But nothing comes out of nowhere: these regions were known for their deposits of cryonite and the thriving populations of icewyrms, ice porcupines, and frostblooms. Without them, the cold would wane, and ice and snow would eventually melt. That was why the Watcher protected those creatures — every Ascendant knew better than to interfere with them, unless they wished to lose their Glory and head, as He Who Watches did not take kindly to those who defied his rules.

The White Devil thought differently from other Ascendants.

He circled the snowy cliffs. If he was going to spend a full day and night there, perhaps even more, the place had to be inaccessible to any intruders from below. Though those lands still belonged to the Stonefolk, they were claimed by a distant clan, the farthest from the Earthers.

He found a suitable perch on the icy ledges. A frigid wind howled through the air, and the frost bit into his skin with a thousand needles. One of the Thousand could ignore any hardship a body could endure, but the warm Earther suit was still useful. And the second one, layered over it, even more so.

Unlike the Earther territories, the cryonite on the top remained untouched, having grown into massive clusters that resembled towering spires or stone dwellings. Smaller crystalline branches sprouted from them like a young forest, forming a treacherous frozen labyrinth. Entering it was incredibly dangerous: up close, the mineral emanated an unbearable cold. Farther in, the Ascendant could hear the delicate chime of unseen bells and see the eerie blue glow of frostblooms. Dozens of those plants grew there right on the lofty cryonite cliffs. They were wooden and bronze, but if he ventured further, he might even find silver.

Slow-moving ice porcupines roamed those frozen gardens and the surrounding area, most of them of the lowest rank. But they were plentiful, far more than the White Devil had expected. Predators hunting for Starblood did not tread here, nor had humans discovered the path to that hidden trove.

A perfect hunting ground… or so he thought.

The first porcupine he slew earned him only a warning from the Watcher. The second cost him five points of Glory. That was… unusual, but tolerable — he had accumulated over thirty points already, ten from the silver mission and twenty more from the children who had spread word of his exploits among their tribe. However, it also meant that the place was of great importance to the keeper of Unity, who wasn’t going to allow unchecked hunting. He chose his third target carefully, spending a long time luring a large bronze porcupine to the plateau’s edge while deftly dodging the hail of cryonite quills.

He had guessed correctly, or rather knew what would happen. After the bronze creature was slain, the Watcher stripped him of another ten points of Glory and announced that if he continued, a bounty would be placed on Flamelike’s head. That was a serious warning. The White Devil had no intention of becoming prey to every nearby Ascendant and ended his hunt. There was no need to push further, anyway, as he had already gained what he sought: a second bronze blank and the Rune of Icy Needles.

Finding shelter on the frozen cliffs was another challenge, though during his aerial survey, he had already spotted a promising grotto nestled beneath a row of jagged ice fangs. However, reaching it and, more importantly, climbing up with only one functioning hand and no tools was another matter entirely. The Rune of Flutter helped: its power lightened his body, allowing him to leap and ascend with minimal effort. By the time the Ygg-Tree began to fade, the White Devil had secured a shelter for the night.

The small cavern had a balcony of translucent ice, and despite the chill outside, he didn’t feel cold. Fire crackled in a hearth fashioned from flat stones. The fiery powder ground from thunderstone burned hot and smokeless, sending waves of warmth across the shelter. The water in his kettle, infused with carefully gathered herbs, had already reached the boiling point. He took a few sips, feeling the heat spread through his veins: the simplest decoction restored two to three drops of Starblood and revitalized the body. Nearby, thick slabs of silver drake meat sizzled in their own fat, filling the grotto with an irresistible aroma. The White Devil had been eating the flesh of his slain foe for three treedays straight: Starblooded meat, especially of powerful creatures, contained traces of Starblood, however small. It had already added a few drops to his reserves. More importantly, it was richer and far more nourishing than ordinary fare. The people of Unity fed such meat to their chosen children destined to become Ascendants, strengthening them so that by the time they received their Nail, their bodies already flowed with Starblood.

Chewing the first piece, the Ascendant once again examined his Runes. He might have already gathered enough material for his first combination: not the strongest yet, merely bronze, but still capable of eliminating most enemies.

The Rune of Amplification merged with the Rune of Icy Needles. Normally, the Needles — three cryonite shards the length of a man’s finger — could travel ten to fifteen steps and inflict cold burns on the enemy. If luck favored the shooter, they could piece a vulnerable spot, but against an armored foe, they were useless. However, the Rune of Icy Daggers was far deadlier: a barrage of six razor-sharp fragments was much harder to deflect.

The next step was elemental enhancement. The Rune of Poison transformed the Icy Daggers into a lethal weapon that could poison and paralyze its target with a single cut. Better, but still not enough for a powerful foe.

It was time for the second part of the combination: the bronze Rune of Wind.

The first step was Amplification. His options were limited — Wall, Strike, or Whirlwind — and all of them fit, although Whirlwind was the worst option. Fate chose the middle ground: Strike. The Rune of Wind Strike created a powerful gust, a fist of air lashing out across an area.

The Element of Air was next. The White Devil didn’t particularly care which elemental effect would trigger: Lightning, Thunder, Flight, and Wind were all equally useful and only slightly altered his tactical approach. He got Lightning, and the Rune turned into the Rune of Sparkwind Strike, a weak imitation of Thundersquall.

Only one step remained before the combination was complete. It required a bronze Rune of Linking. That wasn’t a big problem, especially since his Slate was cluttered with useless junk.

With three hundred thirty-four drops of Blood in his pool, he had enough to summon a companion. It was time for a reunion.

Morwayne Kel’Thalas appeared with arms folded on her chest. She wore a black cloak, her black hair gleaming, her eyebrows curved in a proud arch. Her new reflection was stunning, and for a moment, the White Devil admired his Rune, overtaken by a surge of emotions.

But she... she looked scared. Her lips quivered, her expression shifted, and sparks of anger danced in her eyes. What could she think upon finding herself in an icy cave, facing an unfamiliar bare-chested black-haired man with a necklace of drake’s teeth and a piece of roasted meat on his knife? That she had been deceived? Betrayed? Sold to another master or taken by force?

“Calm yourself, Morwayne Kel’Thalas,” the White Devil said. “I am the one you swore an Oath in the Pool of Souls.”

“My lord?” the Spirit Conjurer asked uncertainly, studying his face. “Is it truly you?”

“It is. You and I gathered the shards of kiiras together, and you promised to show me the Barrow of Yantander. I am the one who granted the Three Lightning Bolts.”

“Then my lord… has also chosen to change his reflection? Taken another body? What happened to the old one?”

“It has a new master now.”

“A fine silver body…” The conjurer appraised his muscular torso. “But my lord would do well to restore his hand.”

“I will regain it soon.”

“Are we... in Unity?” She looked around but saw only stone and ice. “My lord?”

“Yes. But you’re asking too many questions,” he chuckled.

“Forgive me, my lord.” She pressed her fingers to her temples for a moment. “A new, living body…and emotions… I have yet to fully adjust.”

“Open your Slate,” he commanded, opening his own. “I want to see your Runes and Attributes.”

She obeyed, and her silver Slate connected with his bronze one, forming the shape of a woman lying on her side or, as Sigurd had always thought, an inverted hourglass. The White Devil examined her runic circle. It held five silver and six bronze Runes, none of which particularly interested him except for the Storage Rune, but it wasn’t worth taking. For now, the Earth bracelet was enough, and soon, he would acquire a Rune of his own.

The female Ascendant’s Skills and Attributes were more intriguing. He hadn’t had the chance to pay attention to them in Sigurd’s body, but it was time to perform a closer examination — they had a long journey ahead, after all.

Thirty-six silver stars — a mid-tier silver, those like her were called. Ten in Necrotism, eight each in Ritualism and Clarity, and six in Theurgy. The rest were scattered across various Attributes, likely to unlock important silver Skills. Forbidden Knowledge, Dark Rituals, Divination and Prophecy, Energy Drain, Bone Binding…She was a fully realized Spirit Conjurer with a well-balanced set of abilities. And she had what he needed most, too, having spent a hundred cycles in Eternity.

“Make two Skills for me, my,” said the White Devil, tossing a whole handful of his Runes into her Slate — two bronze blanks and all wooden and bronze trash. He didn’t need those Runes; they could barely improve his silver body. He kept only Flutter and Thunderbreak.

“Which ones, my lord?”

“Rune Artifaction and Starblood Control.”

“But they’ll only be bronze,” she warned. “The first step…”

That was the plan. It was easier than reawakening his own Skills from scratch, and he accepted the cost, nodding in response.

“I know, my. Does your Trade Mastery work in Unity? Check the connection with the Watcher’s vault.”

“Everything… is working, my lord,” Morwayne replied after a few seconds. “Do I need to buy something there?”

“Yes. Sell all that junk I gave you — you’ll get twenty Coins for it — and buy me a bronze Rune of Linking.”

Trading scraps for something equivalent to good silver… Moments later, Morwayne handed him the Rune he had requested along with two freshly forged Skill Runes. That act permanently consumed one of the creator’s Skill stars, but what was a bronze star compared to the luster of silver?

Artifact Creation and Starblood Sense.

He absorbed both Skills at once, ignoring the Starblood cost. It didn’t matter; his investment was going to pay off immediately. The White Devil removed the necklace of drake teeth and tested his Skills, extracting Starblood from the fragment. Just two drops... But he had a lot of teeth and only a single bronze star in each Skill.

“May I assist my lord?” Morwayne asked, watching him. The Ascendant shook his head — by sacrificing Blood, he was honing his craft, and right now, that was more important. The conjurer then turned her attention to her hands. Mesmerized, she stroked them and her face, studying herself in the icy reflection. Her rebirth — the restoration of her former body — had happened so recently that she had yet to grow accustomed to it, or even fully take it in.

He noticed the subtle movement of her nostrils and glanced over. The meat above the coals was beginning to char, and he handed her a skewer, continuing to drain the fragments. They could be turned into Symbols of Augmentation or Reduction, but right now, only Starblood mattered.

Morwayne carefully accepted his offering, inspected it, then devoured it with unexpected appetite. Watching her sink her teeth into the fragrant juicy flesh, he allowed himself a slight smile: how many cycles had it been since she last tasted or smelled anything? Twenty? Fifty?

“It’s… delicious,” the Ascendant murmured. “So strange… the sensations… the scents… It’s like being born anew, my lord. May I have more?”

He met her gaze, then flicked his eyes toward the meat in silent permission. She took another piece and turned away, as if to eat more delicately. Judging by her manners and bearing, Morwayne Kel’Thalas would have fit better in a grand banquet hall, but she didn’t refuse the simple meal either. Creature Runes didn’t feel hunger and had no bodily needs, yet in that regard, those trapped in Runes differed little from ordinary people. That was one of the reasons the ancient laws of the Kel forbade placing sentients inside Runes.

He finished with the fragments and carelessly tossed the empty teeth into the fire. Sixty-eight drops and two stars in each of his new Skills. His Starblood pool had reached a total of one hundred seventy-eight.

He shouldn’t linger with the Runes, either. Only one step remained: Linking. The White Devil fused the Runes of Sparkwind Strike and Poisoned Icy Daggers, creating his first combination. Just twenty-four drops of Blood, but…

A sudden hum filled the air as a gust of wind seared his face. Six Icy Daggers, gleaming with a green venomous charge, flew forward, covering twenty paces before slamming into the cave wall with a deafening crack, leaving behind a web of interwoven lightning bolts. The charge had transferred to them: Lightning loved Water, and the force of Wind Strike, which had carried and propelled them, was so great that a few bolts sunk into the stone, while others gnawed out craters the size of a man’s fist.

“My lord?” Morwayne asked hesitantly, involuntarily flinching. The display was impressive: a Rune like that would pierce a warrior in ordinary armor clean through. And those it didn’t pierce, it would scorch, stun, poison…

“Don’t worry, my.”

“May I ask my lord what we are to do next?” the conjurer said. “I swore to walk into flames… but I would like to know…”

“Our journey is only beginning, Ascendant,” he replied, speaking to Morwayne as an equal — he knew it pleased her. “First, I will reclaim my hand and embed a Stigmata within it…”

“Why, my lord?” Morwayne cried out. “Why shackle your soul with the chains of Eternity?”

“The nail holds no power over those like me. I need it so the Ascendants of Unity will recognize my Glory, while Eternity… will be unable to see me in the new reflection.”

“I understand, my lord,” the conjurer nodded. “I swear to keep this secret.”

“Next, I will take control of this Circle — only as much as I need to gain strength. You will aid me in this…”

“Yes, my lord. However I can.”

“And then, once my power is secured and the paths are open, I will begin gathering my siblings. And you will lead me to the Barrow of Yantander, my.”

“I will lead you, my lord,” Morwayne said, looking at him with strange reverence. “I will do everything to ruin Eternity. It… should not exist.”

“And we shall cast it down,” the White Devil said with absolute certainty. “But for now, best keep our tongues in their cages, Ascendant.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You have served enough for today.”

He opened his Slate, preparing to dismiss her, but Morwayne suddenly protested.

“Wait, my lord! I still have an entire hour. Don’t recall me yet!”

There was a hint of urgency in her voice.

“Why?” he asked.

“I just got my body back,” she smiled. “A living, beautiful, real body. And after so many cycles trapped as… My lord, let me stay a little longer. I want to feel life just a bit more…”

He looked at her, and she at him.

Then Morwayne moved her hands, pulling open and letting the black robe slip from her shoulders. There was nothing beneath it. Lightly stepping over the discarded garment, she smiled again, shaking her head so that black waves of hair rolled down her bare rune-tattooed shoulders.

“This robe reminds me of Eternity. It no longer… suits me. Might my lord gift me new clothing?”

“He might,” he said slowly. “But not now.”

His fingers brushed her face, tracing it from the delicate curve of her ear down the line of her cheekbone to her elegant chin. Then they glided over her long neck, collarbones, and the firm swell of her high breasts down to her flat stomach, where they circled the navel’s hollow filled with a shimmering green gem. Morwayne sighed and flinched, her eyes fluttering shut as his fingers traced the curve of her waist and the smooth skin of her thigh adorned with intricate rune-script. She was a beautiful halfblood. He felt her arousal and knew his own body answered that call with a searing force.

“You have a beautiful body.”

“Does my lord desire it?” she asked. Without waiting for an answer, she touched him in turn, and the yielding tremor beneath her fingers betrayed that she, too, was burning with passion, though she did her utmost to avoid showing it.

Well, so be it. Sigurd would have judged him for this, but the White Devil knew that love was a powerful weapon, and it was better to strengthen their pact that way. She needed it now, and so did he. There was nothing worse than a woman scorned, and if the conjurer burned with passion for him, she would be bound to him in both body and soul. It could lead to trouble, but not yet.

Morwayne was delicate, even cautious, as if savoring an unfamiliar dish, while he was insistent, even a touch rough. And yet, as they shared their pleasure, he noticed details that told him Kel’Thalas was well-versed in the arts of love — she had simply grown unaccustomed to men. But he knew how to melt the ice, and in the end, the pleasure was mutual. She became an ordinary woman, whispering breathless, incoherent words and raking her nails across his back.

When it was over, Morwayne whispered, “Thank you… my lord. I feel alive again.”

“And I thank you,” he replied.

“Our bodies… need indulgence from time to time.”

“How long since you’ve had a man?” he asked.

“My lord is better off not knowing.”

She rose, her time already running out. Gathering her robe, she gave him a questioning look.

“I’ll give you new clothing,” he said. “Next time.”

“The Kel’Thalas wear blue with silver, and that color suits me,” she smiled. “I’ll be waiting eagerly for your summons, my lord.”

She disappeared, becoming a Rune once more, and the White Devil felt an unexpected regret that it had happened there — by a fire inside a desolate cave, on the rumpled sleeping gear belonging to the exiles. Morwayne deserved better, as did all who would choose to stand under the banners of the Thousand Brethren again.

He would give them everything they were owed. And they, in turn, would give him whatever they wished.

A few hours later, when golden light shimmered beyond the icy balcony and the Rune of Whitewing became available for summoning, the White Devil resumed his journey.

His next destination was the Riverfolk lands. It was time to reclaim his hand.

Chapter 5

THE MOUNTAINS LAY behind him now. He passed through the domains of the Stonefolk and the Cavefolk, shielded from the Skymark by walls of jagged peaks and trenches of cliffs. There were dangers hidden within them as well, yet the summits still served as a shelter for their children — creatures roused by the Wild Hunt usually chose simpler paths.

He flew eastward, drifting ever farther from the Earth freehold along the streams, brooks, and rivulets coursing through the gorges. They merged into a river that grew broader and led from the mountain gates into the Riverfolk territory. He knew that tribe, one of the lesser races the Kel had shaped from their own blood. At the height of their power, the lords of Unity sought to master all realms of existence: the surface and its depths, the vast skies, the endless seas, the shores and depths of inner waterways, and for each domain, they created a Nation.

The Riverfolk were born on the edge between land and water. Children of two elements, they were unparalleled swimmers and divers capable of breathing both water and air, outracing fish and underwater animals. The banks of rivers and lakes were their natural habitat. The Riverfolk favored sunlit shallows, avoiding the dark depths, and unlike their elder kin, the Deepfolk, whom the Kel had granted fish tails and the fathomless chasms of the oceans of Unity, they could interbreed with other sentients.

In ages past, some of their Nation had served him, inhabiting the bright canals and submerged tiers of Esthé. Had any of them survived when Eternity’s wrath boiled the river? Had any managed to escape, to vanish like those now called the Shadowfolk? He had no way of knowing...

Far to the south, beyond the mountains, he saw the pale wastes of the Salt and a strip of the Shadowlands. Somewhere beyond lay the Pillar of Radiance, and past it, the dominions of the septs called Talons and Storms. His children awaited him there, needing to reconcile and reunite under a single banner, but it was too early to venture there.

First, he needed to reclaim his hand.

The riverlands were more dangerous, the White Devil knew that. It had beasts and natural perils of a different kind, but most of all, it was an open world, where the Wild Hunt roused ancient creatures and drove the young to thirst for blood ever fiercer. Only the season of Madness, when all beasts succumbed to Vaal, was more terrifying, but that was meant to cleanse the Circle of excess inhabitants, while the Wild Hunt merely forced the sentients to seek out new homes and paths.

The river was... tumultuous. On its surface, birds and mawteeth feasted on those who had succumbed to the Hunt, and the black shadows of nixies drifted over the shallows. Unusually active, they even crawled onto the sandbars, deftly maneuvering with their flippers. Even deadlier things lurked in the depths. The Ascendant knew the creatures there possessed the Runes he needed. But first, he had to find them, lure them out, and kill them.

When the time of his flight ran out, he walked, staying near the river’s course. It was no easy task — the wild thickets and deep channels forced him to wade or swim across. An enchidriodron lay in wait at one such crossing, taking a biped for easy prey. A coiled armored millenicarus seared him with venomous heat in a dark ravine.

But all of them were useless trash unworthy of his time and effort. Only the next day brought him a worthy prey. It was a huge bronze threehead, its gleaming hump and long necks darkly rising above the water in a secluded bay. The master of the territory, it didn’t flinch even when Poisonous Icy Daggers lacerated its massive body. For the first time, the White Devil tested his Rune combination in battle and found it satisfactory. There was no need for a second activation. As he had anticipated, the blow stunned and poisoned the Starblooded creature even despite its size, preventing it from either fleeing or closing in. Its fanged heads fell limp as paralyzing venom seized its blood. Only a final strike remained, and the Runes were his.

A bronze Growth and a bronze Evolution, plus a curious Skill Rune of Water Echo that allowed him to sense vibrations underwater and detect hidden objects and traps. It was useful, but not what he sought.

In the evening, he sifted through his Runes again. He upgraded Lesser Whirlwind to bronze Whirlwind, a defensive Rune, though he had yet to find a proper foundation for it. Then he augmented Flutter twice and Thunderbreak once, extending their duration.

Those Runes were weak. There was little to think about until all of his bronze Attributes were maxed out, but the White Devil already knew how he would shape his body. Many Ascendants believed their silver paths should progress in parallel and that Body, Spirit, and Mind should remain separate, for no mortal should dilute their focus. One of the Thousand thought otherwise.

Silver Attributes granted powerful Skills, and Skills, like Runes, could reinforce each other when used correctly. The same applied to Attributes, but that required too many silver stars.

He would walk the path of Manipulation, blending Agility and Might and wielding Primordiality reinforced by Energy to become nearly untouchable. But first, his Perception and Will must gleam silver. The Golden Circle of Eltanir had always been greedy for silver Runes, but there were other ways…

And then there were cores and fragments. Wood was pathetic trash fit only for dismantling, and the only use for bronze was crafting simple Symbols and Seals. The silver drake’s heart, on the other hand, could become a powerful Item. The hooked talons from its wing-joints were also a Starblooded material, but working with them required a silver artifactor with a wealth of strong Runes. The Skills Morwayne had granted him sufficed for basic crafting, but they needed refinement — and so, tearing through the trash-ranked cores, he claimed a few more stars for his new Skills.

The next day, he flew, walked, and swam once more, pushing off with a pole and balancing atop a drifting log, keenly peering into the opaque waters. But the creatures he needed never showed up.

He tested Thundersquall, unleashing it upon a swarm of nixies in the shallows. A few of them were Starblooded, emboldened enough to drag a long-legged elg straight from the watering hole. Thunder shattered the air for hundreds of steps around, waves crashing against the opposite shore. Countless stunned fish floated to the surface alongside the nixies.

Well, it was past time to break his meat diet.

In the evening, he reasoned he needed a guide, or at least someone who could point him toward the creatures he sought. On his own, he could search for a long time and achieve nothing. And spending nights in the canopies of trees, knocking down the persistent millenicaruses, was hardly enjoyable.

And so in the morning, the White Devil mounted Whitewing and quickly found a coastal village of Riverfolk.

The first settlement was abandoned. The people had left a few days prior, grabbing only the essentials. The long dock-house on high stilts was filled with household goods, granaries still held baskets of mollusks and shells, and seaweed hung to dry alongside bundles of cured fish. He procured a fine harpoon, ropes, and a net, taking them from the pier. The locals, a small clan of three or four families, had clearly fled the Wild Hunt. The threat must have been very close; they wouldn’t have left otherwise. But where were the enemies now, and what were they? Coastal nixies or rabid millenicaruses were hardly enough to scare the Riverfolk.

The second village, farther upstream, was also empty, but the third... Built on an island, it was the largest settlement along that tributary: large houses of fungal stone, long piers, plantations of arrowgrass and water mushrooms in the shallows, luminous stone lanterns on poles, and even a small hof under the shade of a light-tree. If the Riverfolk from the villages downstream had sought refuge, that was where they would go.

The White Devil sensed something was wrong even as he approached the settlement.

The scent of blood lingered in the air. Not fresh, spilled just recently, yet not old enough to have dried and cracked under the rays of the Great Tree. Most likely, it had been shed less than a treeday ago.

A battle had taken place there the night before. Actually, it was more like a massacre, judging by the gashes on doors, blood splatter and green streaks staining the sprite and fish murals on the walls, scorched Rune marks, and arrows with bone tips protruding from the ground and rooftops. The White Devil reconstructed the scene instantly. He had seen such things many, many times before.

The attackers had come out of the water from the direction of the piers. Most likely, they struck suddenly, at night, first eliminating the Riverfolk’s riding nixies — their splayed black bodies still floated next to the mooring posts. The nature of the wounds made it clear they had been inflicted by very sharp and possibly poisoned weapons, as the hungry river beasts left the corpses untouched.

Resistance had been mounted near the hof, where the main battle took place. Some buildings, including the shrine, burned down completely, the flames charring the lower branches of the light-tree. Several blackened human-like bodies lay inside, charred to the bone. More, perhaps around twenty, were scattered across the village, slashed apart by sharp implements or disfigured by acid burns. Most of them were adult Riverfolk males. The markings on their tattooed bodies revealed that they belonged to the Deadfish clan. Some of the slain were Ascendants, stripped of their Blood, Items, and Runes. Their enemies had shown no mercy yet had suffered losses as well — in one spot, the White Devil found frozen mucus trails, in another, he picked up a severed limb resembling a muscular human arm, only green, slick, covered in large scales, and bearing a sharp spiny bladelike ridge on the forearm.

As soon as he found it, the Watcher issued a mission:

Ascendant! The marked area contains a band of froggards, who pose a threat to the Nations of Unity. Destroy the following specimens: froggard, altered froggard, froggard shaman.

Reward: Glory

Reward: Starcoin

Reward: Rune (bronze)

Froggards! The White Devil knew those creatures. Like taurs, they were considered enemies of Unity: semi-intelligent reptilian beasts seemingly bred as a mockery of humankind. Entire hordes of them infested the flooded lower tiers in the hollow bones of Unity and the underground tunnels of the great Walls designed for water circulation. Encountering them in the Circle was rare. But now, in the season of the Wild Hunt...

That wasn’t surprising at all. What was strange, however, was that the froggards hadn’t simply raided the village in their usual way. They looted it methodically, gathering weapons, ransacking provisions, and picking through the belongings of the dead. Normally, they would have slaughtered everyone, including the children, yet the tracks told a different story. After breaking the resistance, they had taken captives and led them away.

That meant someone was leading them. Someone intelligent. Someone capable of giving orders.

Someone who could collect Runes and Starblood.

The White Devil didn’t think that a band of wild froggards, even under the command of a bronze shaman, could have wiped out an entire Riverfolk settlement, especially with at least several Ascendants among its defenders. No, something far more intriguing must have taken place there.

As he examined the bodies, he thought of Sigurd again. The Earther would have insisted on some burial ritual for the fallen and wouldn’t have rested until he had done it. But the White Devil knew wasting time on another Nation’s dead was pointless when the living could still be saved.

He activated Bloodsense, first enhancing it with another Amplification. Some of the captives were wounded, and even if they had left by the river, he would find them by the smell of their blood.

Crimson-scented currents filled the air. The froggards had traveled through the water for a while before emerging onto land — he found the spot where they had disembarked. From there, tracking them was easy. The creatures’ slimy residue clung to everything, their clawed footprints and webbed human-like feet marking the ground. Here and there, droplets of blood appeared until he found a mutilated body in the undergrowth. An elderly Riverfolk woman, she must have slowed them down too much, so they slashed her open from top to bottom with the razor-edged bone spines growing from their forearms and hands. Yet that didn’t help them gain much speed, with at least thirty prisoners and no fewer than two dozen froggards. By evening, he had caught up with them.

Keen Hearing detected them from afar. Perched on a massive rainkeeper and keeping a safe distance, the White Devil listened to the sounds of the enemy camp. Few would have remained indifferent to what they heard. The cries and wails of women. The hoarse voices of men. The guttural gurgling of the froggards.

The cruel games of the victors.

But thanks to them, he now knew what was happening. The froggards wouldn’t have forced themselves on women; they were another species entirely. They would have simply killed them on the spot, nothing more. The ones indulging in the helpless prey were humans, the ones who controlled the beasts. The White Devil had grasped that much just from the tracks. Froggards didn’t take captives in their raids: what use would they have for them? But now, after counting, he knew exactly who was behind it.

There were only five, two of them Ascendants. They spoke the Riverfolk dialect fluently, but with a thick sibilant edge. More than two dozen froggards, including two or three altered and a shaman, had formed a ring around the camp, which was set up on an islet between two streams. Normally, those creatures did not cooperate with humans, least of all during the Wild Hunt. But one of the Ascendants spoke their language. Not just spoke — commanded. That meant the entire band was under his control.

A Beastmaster? A Voicer? A Mentalist? A Puppeteer? A Dominator? The White Devil would love to take a look at his Runes.

They had sentries and a listener. What kind of raider would go on a hunt without the bare essentials? And when the night had fully fallen, the White Devil let them hear him. Soon, he heard them in return as a small group began pushing through the undergrowth, led by an altered froggard.

So they were fools. He would have sent a Rune or an invisible scout. Earther weapons would be enough for them.

A few bursts from the shooter rang out, loud and heavy. The White Devil did not spare ammunition, emptying the hollow grips — froggards needed more than humans to cross the boundary of existence. But even a weak Earther weapon was enough for ordinary creatures, and for the altered one, he had the Rune of Icy Daggers that instantly turned his opponent into a smoldering spark-laced heap of flesh. Trash.

The Ascendant knew full well that the shots would be heard. He recognized, felt, anticipated what would follow. There they were, springing to their feet, raising the alarm, seizing weapons, opening their Slates, activating their search and scouting Runes, running toward the source of the noise, trying to determine what was there, how many, and how the patrol had been killed. And then, through the eyes of their Creatures or perception Runes, they saw their enemy. Close. Motionless. Alone.

What now?

They were on a bare islet between two streams, with only a few trees and a pile of old rocks for cover. A perfect target for Earther weapons — weak, but stinging from a distance. What would they do?

To stir the enemy up, the White Devil fired another long unaimed burst straight through the undergrowth toward the stream, where the froggards were bubbling in the water. At such range, he was unlikely to kill anyone, but to wound, frighten, or provoke them? That was quite possible.

He had succeeded. A wave of froggards surged up, churning and hissing in alarm, moving toward him in a widening half-circle. Behind them came three humans, one of them an Ascendant. And two, just two, remained on the islet, hastily driving the captives behind the rocks.

Letting them come closer, having already glimpsed green figures flickering among the trees, One of the Thousand emptied one of the few remaining grips of his shooter, striking down the leading creatures at close range. Froggards usually moved on their hind legs like humans, but when running, they dropped to all fours, leaping in long bounds. Engaging them in melee was risky: their bodies were coated in sticky slime that instantly gummed up weapons, and their sharp spiked limbs were a lethal threat. He needed to cluster them, force them into a tight formation, and there was only one way to do that: make them surround him. The White Devil ran, snapping off short bursts as he went. His destination was the massive bulbous rainkeeper fungus where he had spent the entire evening watching the camp.

Instinct drove them to chase, and the closing half-circle tightened. The most dangerous of the froggard band was the shaman, and the White Devil immediately adjusted his course, catching a green flash with his peripheral vision. The creature was spitting out something like acidic bile, leaving scorched scars on the trees, but hitting an unpredictably zigzagging target was no easy feat. The pursuing Ascendant wielded something akin to Runes of Mist and Living Sprouts, trying to ensnare his darting prey. He also unleashed a battle Creature, but tricks like that wouldn’t shake the White Devil. The vines, he simply evaded. The blinding haze, he ignored, relying on his other senses. The Amplified Flutter let him ascend the rainkeeper in an instant, and from his Slate, he unleashed the necessary Runes.

The trunk was a sloped knotted bulb with several openings seeping water. The massive Millenicarus Hunter, his pursuers’ Creature, scrambled up the rough bark just seconds later. It was the first thing that came for him and the first to die. The Rune of Thunderbreak applied to one of his combat knives blasted its armored head segment apart.

The froggards lagged slightly behind but still leaped out of the darkness one after another with a hoarse croak. Covered in green slimy scales, with jagged blades on their forearms, they resembled a grotesque cross between a toad and a long-armed hunchback, making them all the more repulsive.

The White Devil didn’t wait for them all to arrive. The downpour before sunset became his ally, and so did the small pond forming around the water-seeping rainkeeper. He had chosen that spot deliberately, for in every puddle, in every droplet trembling on the leaves, in every trickling stream and every clawed footprint left in the sodden earth, lay hidden moisture.

Water. And Water loves Lightning.

Straightening atop the rainkeeper’s peak, the White Devil opened his Slate and cast a silver Rune straight into the path of the charging beasts.

Thundersquall!

A heavy clap of thunder hammered into the forest, sending a whirlwind of torn leaves, branches, soil, and water droplets skyward. The three-second squall bent the trunks, blowing and knocking down all the pursuers. The blue tendrils of lightning lanced through the air, charging every drop of water with crackling energy. The White Devil saw the serpentine bolts dance on the branches and leaves, flickering and crackling along the smoldering trunks, and didn’t wait, unleashing a Whirlwind to scatter the remnants of the charged moisture. Then, after a few seconds, he softly leaped down himself.

His attack was devastating. Most of the enemies were killed on the spot, while those who survived were thrown back, shocked and stunned. He shouldn’t give them a chance to recover. Drawing the knife gifted by Pebble, the Ascendant burst into their midst, mercilessly cutting down the staggering, writhing creatures on the ground. Of course, the residual lightning energy stung his body as well, but his high Elemental Affinity allowed him to endure the aftereffects, while for the froggards, that encounter was their last.

The altered were gone. The bronze shaman was still alive, gurgling blood and even managing to spit out another blob. He had to spend another Rune of Icy Daggers, pinning the fat smoking carcass to the ground. The largest of the group, he dropped three Runes: a Growth, Slimy Shroud, and Doublesight.

The humans turned out to be weaker. Two had died to the Squall instantly, despite being farther away (the water paved a path for his lightning), and the third, an Ascendant, was crushed by a fallen trunk, his legs broken. Still breathing, he was on the brink of death, unable to do anything, and the White Devil didn’t even waste a Rune to end his Ascension.

Three Runes — pathetic wood — and a Slate fragment.

Seeing that the fight was over and the rest of the enemies were far away, he lingered for a moment to retrieve the nail and examine the bodies. To those in the know, they could reveal much, and he had witnessed the moot, keeping his eyes open in Sigurd’s body.

The dead also belonged to the Riverfolk, but a different tribe from those bearing the signum of the Deadfish. Their skin was greenish and completely hairless, their eyes pale, and in addition to the webbing between their fingers, wavy fins adorned their forearms. The markings on their shoulders and necks told him they were from the Swampcave clan. He had seen those altered sentients at the moot. They dwelled in the tunnels next to the Great Wall, and their Riks looked more like a river beast than a man. The White Devil narrowed his eyes. Things were starting to make sense.

There were still prisoners and two enemies left on the island: an ordinary human and the Ascendant in charge of the group. He would have answers — and Runes. Better than those dropped from that rabble...

No longer hiding, he walked toward the island.

They were waiting. Through the thicket, he saw the glow of a Slate and a fiery flash. So, a Blazing Droplet.

It missed.

The second one threw a spear at him the moment the White Devil emerged from the brush. It was a good throw, proper and precise, and the spear was excellent: a harpoon with a honed barb gleaming with Starblood. Yet it wasn’t enough to kill One of the Thousand, even in that rotten body.

The White Devil caught the throw and instantly sent the harpoon back, impaling the man clean through. Doubling over, he slowly collapsed into the stream.

Only one remained: the Ascendant. The White Devil could already see his stocky figure and hairless head in the glow of the Eye of Eternity. A swamp-dweller, an aged altered, his jagged fins and growing ridge along his spine made him look more like a feral Ascendant.

He had seen him at the moot: a Thane of the Swampcave clan, Miraak Sharpfin, a strong bronze.

Sharpfin’s slate was open, a bronze symbol slowly transforming into a Blazing Droplet hovering above it.

But it wasn’t aimed at him. The droplet was pointed at a pit two steps away, the prisoners’ heads poking out of it.

“You!” the Ascendant yelled in a low raspy voice. “You came for them? I’ll burn them!”

“Do it!” the White Devil replied, continue to move forward. “I don’t need them.”

He was already close enough for the swamp-dweller to make him out. He too had been at the moot and recognized Cassidy’s son when he saw his hand.

“You?!” Sharpfin’s tone was tinged with surprise. “An exile? You aren’t even an Ascendant!”

He immediately turned the Rune and unleashed the Droplet at the White Devil.

The attack was almost point-blank, but it didn’t come out of the blue. One of the Thousand released a Whirlwind, altering the trajectory of the Droplet and making it easy to evade. They struck at the same time: the White Devil with a combination of Sparkwind Strike and Icy Daggers, his opponent with Aquatic Blade, a deadly Spell capable of slicing a person in two. He had to curl and slide over the grass, forcing his uncooperative body into motion with a painful crack to let the Blade pass overhead, buzzing as it sheared off a few strands of his long hair. In the next instant, the White Devil Fluttered across the stream and saw that Sharpfin was still alive, though knocked down by the crackling blasts of Daggers. A spectral veil outlined his body: the familiar Scales, which the local Ascendants harvested from the deadly mawteeth.

More than that, the enemy had managed to unleash another Rune, the most dangerous one of all. One of the Thousand felt his blood churn, heavy blows pounding against his temples and chest.

Dehydration.

He knew what it was. Such Spells were one of the deadliest, as they couldn’t be blocked with a shield or evaded. Dehydration drained all moisture out of its target, completely withering a living creature or an item. A lethal Rune — but like most of its kind, it had weaknesses. First, it required concentration and line of sight. If it was lost, the Rune would dissipate before it could finish the job. Second, Dehydration required time to work: twelve seconds for an equal-rank opponent, twice as long for a stronger one.

The Scales provided excellent protection against physical and energy-based attacks, but they could do nothing against certain other forces — and Sharpfin hadn’t expected a backstab. Whitewing appeared out of nowhere, seized him by the shoulders with its taloned grip, and instantly carried him up into the night sky.

Dehydration unraveled the moment he vanished. Listening to the swamp-dweller’s screams as he was lifted higher and higher, the White Devil counted the seconds. When he reached sixty, he gave the mental command, and Whitewing let go of its victim. With a growing howl, the screaming Ascendant plunged downward, crashing straight into the tip of a harpoon positioned on the ground.

The White Devil winced, wiping the blood from his face. What an unpleasant outcome: he had barely managed to pull his hand away from the shattered shaft and probably got a few splinters. But the reward was worth it: Starblood, Runes, and the Slate fragment from the dead Ascendant flowed into his Slate. A fine haul and an excellent test for his silver body.

The swamp-dwellers had driven the prisoners into a pit between the trees dug by the froggards. The White Devil approached cautiously, showing empty hands, and in the flickering light of the Skythrone, examined the people the Unseen had sent him.

A mass of Riverfolk huddled inside, their faces filled with fear and uncertainty as they looked at him. They didn’t know what to expect from the terrifying stranger. What had they seen? What did they grasp through the thunder and screams in the night?

There were no men in the pit; they had all been slaughtered in the village. Only women, adolescents, and children of both sexes remained. Pale and covered in blue-scaled tattoos, they belonged to the Deadfish tribe. Almost all of them were filthy, beaten, their hands tied behind their backs. Many were wounded, some unconscious. Twenty-eight people in total.

And he recognized some of them.

Chapter 6

LYING SLIGHTLY APART from the others, like a broken toy, was an Ascendant.

It was the girl who had twice stood in their way when the White Devil was in Sigurd’s body. The first time, she got the upper hand, but in their second duel, Sigurd emerged victorious, proving his truth to the Riverfolk. A weak bronze known in Ascension as Silver Trout.

Now she lay unconscious, bound, and white as chalk. There were no other Ascendants among the captives, which was good, as One of the Thousand had no desire to kill those people.

Who was he to them? A blood-splattered one-armed exile who had just slaughtered an entire band of froggards and half a spear of Swampcave warriors. Most of the enemies had died in the forest, and the captives heard only the gunfire and the thunderclap of his Squall. His duel with Sharpfin took place nearby, but it was too dark. Ordinary people couldn’t see Runes or Slates; they might not have understood how exactly he had killed the Ascendant.

Yes, it was unusual, but those stripped of their nail became feral Ascendants, retaining their combat skills and sometimes even the Starblood abilities infused into their body. Most importantly, he needed the Glory of someone who was more than just a man. Seeing the fear and the fragile hope in the eyes of those women and children, the White Devil finally understood what the Unseen was whispering to him.

He had taken his first step in the mountains. This was the second.

He spoke to them, for he knew the ancient dialect of their people, just as Mark Cassidy once had. The Riverfolk answered, at first with fear and distrust, but then louder, with many voices.

All the captives were from Deadfish, one of the strongest clans of the Riverlands. They lived in small settlements along a remote tributary. As One of the Thousand had suspected, they had abandoned their homes during the Wild Hunt for the stronghold called the River Petal, where the Deadfish Riks sent a spear. Their Ascendants planned to hunt down roving bands of froggards coming from the swamps. But everything went wrong when the Swampcave warriors joined the froggards.

The captives had no clue how that alliance had formed. The Swampcaves had always kept their distance, dwelling in the vast marshy lakes near the Great Walls and the ancient water caverns inside it. Other Riverfolk considered them dangerous brutes. Rumors claimed they consorted with froggards and even interbred with them, which was why their bodies seemed altered, and the inhabitants of the shores and the golden shallows never welcomed the swamp-dwellers. But now, under the banner of the Wild Hunt, the latter had clearly decided to take their revenge and settle the old scores.

The captives revealed that Sharpfin and his warriors weren’t alone, and neither was the slaughtered band of froggards. They had come to cleanse that tributary, while the rest of the swamp-dwellers led the froggards further, toward other Deadfish villages. Sharpfin had boasted that his clan would soon rule all the lands of the river tribes, and that their Riks, Black Threehead, would become the Riverfolk Konung. As for the captives, they were taking them to the swamp caves, first killing all men, young and old. Women and children made good thralls, and they would bear new children for the victors of the war.

There was nothing surprising about that: someone always tried to take advantage of the opportunity offered by the Wild Hunt. So, the Riks... Most likely, the Swampcave ruler had been the first to acquire a Rune capable of controlling the froggards and saw a great chance for his clan. The White Devil wondered what Rune that was.

Listening to their frantic accounts, he examined the female Ascendant. She was pale and cold as death yet kept breathing. Her battle wounds had clearly been healed with Runes, leaving only a broken ankle — or it might have been broken deliberately to keep her from escaping. But most importantly, coiled around her neck were several gleaming black rings of a living noose.

One of the Thousand had seen such things before. There were many ways to bind an Ascendant, stripping them of their ability to summon the Slate. Some methods clouded the mind, others disabled Runes, the third paralyzed the body, and others yet inflicted unbearable pain. Over countless cycles of conflict, Ascendants had devised a diverse array of Items, Runes, and Creatures designed to capture their own kind.

Silver Trout had a Black Creeper around her throat, a Creature Rune designed to lightly strangle the Ascendant, keeping them unconscious, and maintain a constant state of oblivion by injecting venom into their blood. Such Creatures could also kill on command, but their primary function was control and keeping the Starblooded prisoners subdued.

The Ascension of the Rune’s owner was over, but the Creature’s summoning period hadn’t expired yet. The White Devil knew what would happen next. When time ran out, the Creeper would revert back into a Rune, but instead of returning to its dead master’s shattered Slate, it would remain right where it was, becoming the prize of whoever was fortunate enough to claim the abandoned Rune first.

Removing the Creeper was dangerous. If disturbed, it would inject a lethal dose and attempt to strangle its victim to death. Killing it instantly without harming the Ascendant would be a challenge. If the attack on the village had happened last night, there wasn’t much time left to wait. And the White Devil already knew what price he would demand from the Ascendant and all those people for their salvation.

He freed several women from their bonds and ordered them to take care of the others, then gather the most essential supplies from the swamp-dweller camp and prepare to leave immediately. They were exhausted, but waiting meant only death, so they obeyed. While they worked, the Ascendant walked among the dead, pried out their nails, and collected anything that might be useful.

The Harpoon of Water’s Shadow was a bronze-ranked Item used in the attempt to kill him. It had a long translucent tip with a hook skillfully carved from the bones of a Starblooded mawtooth and imbued with Eternal Sharpness. Its main power resided in the shaft adorned with wavy patterns: the harpoon became invisible underwater, allowing the wielder to strike undetected. A chain or rope could be attached to the eyelet on the opposite end, enabling its retrieval after a throw.

Placed it into a Rune, infused with the Element of Flight, and amplified, it might become an excellent weapon. For now, the White Devil kept it firmly in his hand — he had always liked spears, ever since the old days.

Sticky Shield, a wooden item coated in froggard slime that made any weapon cling it to it like glue. Three khazaks made from polished mawtooth fangs. A necklace of black pearls that granted the ability to breathe in toxic vapors and poisonous air. A stone that purified water. A ring that summoned a useless swamp sprite. And other junk.

“Where… are we going, exile?” one of the women, the bravest among them, dared to ask. “Into the Earthfolk lands?”

The White Devil shook his head, leaning on his new weapon as he disparagingly surveyed his assembled group in the twilight: battered, wounded, and limping women and children. The first army of a shard of the One, former exarch of a golden Circle…

“I will take you to your people,” he finally said. “Do you know the way to the Dead Fish?”

They perked up, not expecting such mercy from the creepy exile. Immediately, before he could change his mind, they began discussing the route: along the riverbanks or the forest trails, by water or deep through the woods. Other bands of froggards likely roamed there, as did the creatures awakened by the Wild Hunt, so they wouldn’t stand a chance without him. Some eyed the one-armed warrior with doubt, but a visible proof of his prowess — the remains of Sharpfin impaled on a broken spear, the dead bodies of the swamp-dwellers, and the froggards scattered across the forest — made it clear that arguing wasn’t a good idea.

The Dead Fish, the main freehold of their clan, lay far to the north. It would be a long journey, even if they all could swim. But there was a shortcut, an Arrow located in an old sprite circle at the river bend. It led to a cliffside very close to the Dead Fish, though the swamp-dwellers knew that route as well. Still, the other options were worse or too slow, while they could reach the Arrow by the next treeday.

Hoisting the unconscious Ascendant on his shoulder, the White Devil ordered them to lead the way.

Oh, it was a hard journey. Not because the One of the Thousand was tired — he could run for another day with his burden — but because the people were weak: wounded, crippled, old. Some refused to walk, a few wanted to carry the loot stolen from the swamp-dwellers, and others constantly complained, while the rest were too noisy and kept falling down. Restoring order was easy, and he succeeded, but afterward, the children hid behind the adults at the sight of him, staring with wide, frightened eyes. And he had to protect them, too. He had given the women weapons taken from the swamp-dwellers, but they were of little use. Twice before noon, he had to fight, first putting down a rabid trash-ranked millenicarus and then defending the group from a pair of nixies in the shallows. He couldn’t use Runes, so he relied on his trophy weapons, and the bronze harpoon proved to be an excellent acquisition.

Along the way, while Trout was still unconscious, he examined the Runes taken from the Ascendants. The first one, who remained nameless, had dropped Growth, the Skill of Riverfolk Dialect, and Sticky Vines — wooden trash. Sharpfin proved wealthier: besides two Property Runes and the Skill of Swamp Lore, he yielded a silver Dehydration and a twice-augmented bronze Aquatic Blade.

The main prize, of course, lay in the two Slate fragments. The White Devil knew that, by the will of the Watcher who defied the greedy Eternity, they often retained Starcoins, Storages, Items, Creatures, and Sagas — things that shouldn’t vanish from Unity. But to extract them, he had to turn Rune Dismantling into Rune Mastery, or else the Unseen might mock him and scatter part of the loot. He had gathered a lot of useless junk during the night, so before the female Ascendant awoke, he made his Meditation and Rune Mastery shine with their first bronze stars.

Sharpfin’s fragment contained eleven Runes, but only one or two deserved attention. His companion had gifted him five, also nearly useless, though some would require closer study when time allowed.

By the end of the night, the Creeper on the female Ascendant’s neck was gone. Unfortunately, it happened while he was fighting, so the Creature simply became her Rune, merging into the body of Silver Trout. A shame; the Creeper would have been useful, but the White Devil knew how to acquire that Rune.

A couple of hours later, she recovered from the poison and regained consciousness. He knew the moment it happened, as her body tensed and shifted on his shoulder. Predicting her reaction was easy, so he effortlessly dropped her off, signaling the group to stop at the same time.

The female Ascendant hissed like an enraged cat upon seeing him: the dark-skinned exile likely seemed no better to her than the Swampcave clan. She tried to leap up, but her broken ankle betrayed her, and Trout collapsed with a cry of pain, then scrambled, choking on furious tears. Her Slate flashed when she frantically tried to attack or defend herself, barely grasping the situation. But her Items were lost in battle, most of her Runes had gone into cooldown, and her Starblood was probably depleted and not replenished yet.

A foolish, helpless bronze fish stranded ashore.

She shifted into a massive otter, but the transformation didn’t heal her injury, and the crippled enchidriodron twisted, trying to snap at the harpoon’s tip pressed against her throat. If he wanted to kill her, it would take no effort at all.

“I’m not your enemy!” the White Devil said, gripping the shaft with his only hand. “Calm down and look around, Ascendant!”

At last, she saw her kin, cautiously peering out from the bushes. They called out to her by name, and Trout shifted back into human form, replying in a weak pain-filled voice. The White Devil lowered the harpoon and stepped aside to let them speak, meaning they had no choice but to set camp in that spot.

“I don’t see you,” the Ascendant said softly after they had told her everything. “But I remember your name... You are Flamelike Mark.”

“But I can see you, bronze fish,” the White Devil replied, sitting down in front of her.

Small, sharp-featured, and gray-haired, she looked at him with deep suspicion, her pale blue eyes glowing with fear and disgust.

“Wormson, enemy of our People...” she spat out with a wheezing breath. “Did your people cast you out?”

Instead of answering, he silently showed her his severed arm.

“Depths...” Trout muttered. “The people murmur to me you’ve slaughtered all froggards and impaled Fin’s ass on a spike... How?!”

“I know how to fight.”

“I’ve heard that… but you’re not an Ascendant anymore! How did you defeat them all?”

“The bronze fish knows that the Earthers have powerful weapons,” he said, touching the stock of the shooter slung over his right shoulder. “They helped me.”

“Drizzle! The people heard thunder and saw Runes...”

“Fin and his Ascendants tried to kill me with Runes,” he admitted, “and the thunder came from a special Earther weapon, but I won’t tell you about it.”

“So you’re a great warrior, exile... Why did you come to the lands of my people?”

“I want my arm back,” he answered without hesitation. “And the nail, of course.”

“Is that why you came to help?”

“The Unseen pushed us together under this Skymark.”

“You don’t speak the way you used to, Flamelike,” Trout said, studying him closely. “And you don’t look the same… You… are completely different...”

“I’ve been through many trials. The bronze fish will also change after last night.”

“Your words have depth...” the girl said thoughtfully. Then she looked at him again. “And what now, exile? Are you leading us to the Dead Fish? Aren’t you afraid...”

She didn’t finish, but her meaning was clear: the grudge her Nation held against Mark Cassidy, who, in the last cycle, had killed several Riverfolk and interfered in the sacred duel of Ascendants. At the moot, the Deadfish Riks had been prepared to challenge him to a fiontar, but the matter had never been resolved.

“I will speak with your Riks.”

“You murmur like a Riks yourself,” she snorted. “Do you think Aurvak will reward you with a nail?”

“I think they won’t kill me right away if the bronze fish helps,” he replied, narrowing his eyes. “And I don’t need a reward, just a fair exchange.”

He removed two bloody Stigmata taken from the wrists of the swamp Ascendants out of his storage bracelet and poured them into his palm, then added a few more found on his corpses — the nails of Silver Trout’s fallen comrades. He had three more, belonging to the exiles, but she didn’t need to know about those.

“Give them to me.” Trout extended a slender hand, but he had already stashed them back into the storage bracelet.

“I’ll give them to the Riks. And the bronze fish will tell him I have them.”

“You took the nails from Fin and Crest,” Trout said, nervously licking her lips. “But depths below, their Runes must still be where you killed them. I have to retrieve them! My Items are there, and so are the Runes of our other Ascendants!”

“You’re free to go back and look for them if you want,” he smirked, glancing at her injured leg.

Silver Trout made a displeased face, acknowledging his point, and he extended his hands.

“Let me have a look.”

“At what?”

“Your leg. I know how to heal.”

She tried to protest, but he calmly took hold of her pale slender ankle, examining the injury. The fracture was closed and dangerous — if the bone wasn’t set properly, even healing Runes might leave the Ascendant permanently crippled. He told her as much and then, without warning and mercy, pressed her down into the grass and made the necessary adjustments in two precise motions.

Trout screamed and lost consciousness again. When she came to, he was already finishing the splint and wrapping her leg with an Earther bandage.

“That’s it?” she asked hoarsely, smearing tears across her dirt-streaked face. “Now I can walk on my own?”

“No. I’ll carry the heavy bronze fish.”

“No, exile! My people will help me...”

But none of the Riverfolk volunteered to carry Trout, and hopping on one leg, even with help, soon proved impossible. Before long, he was carrying her again, this time in his arms. She had no choice but to hold onto his neck.

As they walked, they spoke again, but he asked the questions, and she gave the answers.

“Why did the Swamp clan attack you?”

“The vile lokhi murmured one thing but sat in another pool!” Trout spat, hissing in pain when he leaped over rocks. “Black Threehead became the Riks of the stinking froggards, the ones that crawled out of the wells in their foul caves! Now he’s murmuring and drizzling that he’ll become the Riverfolk Konung. His spears and froggards came to our tributaries... Fin drizzled that even more were swimming toward the Golden Lake. And to the Cold Waters...”

“Are they strong enough?”

“How would I know, exile? But if this drizzle isn’t shallow, they’ll cut through our lands like a khazak through a fish pie...”

“How did Threehead tame the froggards?”

“He’s as fat as a froggard himself and knows how to murmur in the deep tongue. But I heard drizzle that...” She hesitated, as if uncertain whether to continue, and the White Devil gently encouraged her.

“The bronze fish endures pain well. But to make it easier, she should talk to me.”

“In the Dead Fish, there were murmurs about a silver threat in the Swampcave lands. It appeared right after the Skymark shifted. Maybe my Riks knows about it too. They murmured that a froggard lord crawled out of the depths. Maybe fat Threehead killed it and took its Rune? Or chose a silver gift that made him the froggard Riks?”

That was entirely possible. An Ascendant who first completed the Watcher’s mission could receive a rare Rune or reward. That made seeing the winner’s Slate all the more interesting. He started questioning Trout about the Swampcave people, their Ascendants, and their Riks. And when she grew tired of speaking, he smirked.

“Why did they kill your Ascendants but didn’t touch the bronze fish? And even healed her wounds, despite sealing her Slate...”

“I... was meant as a gift for their Riks,” Trout reluctantly admitted, slightly shivering and gripping his shoulders tighter. “Fin drizzled that Threehead was going to glow brighter. That he needed a third wife from the Riverfolk...”

“You’re not just any bronze fish, are you?” Her presence in the chieftain’s retinue at the moot and the delicate spirals of tattoos on her shoulders, back, and hips had long told him everything, but Mark Cassidy might not have known. “You’re related to the Deadfish Riks.”

“Depths,” Trout agreed reluctantly. “I’m the second daughter of his third son, Kern the Diver... And depths below, my blood could give Threehead power over the Deadfish...”

“If everyone standing above the bronze fish dies.”

She didn’t answer, nervously biting her lips. The White Devil saw the faint gill slits on her neck tremble, partially hidden by her tangled ashen hair. She was thinking about that, and she was very afraid.

“How did you kill Fin?” she asked him a little later. “The people murmur that before his death, he screamed like he was falling off a cliff. And someone saw a flying beast in the sky...”

“There was some drake flying around. As for Fin, I threw him high. And then caught him. On a spear.”

Trout let out a sharp, spiteful laugh — she liked that image.

“You tossed him to the height of a cliff? Without Runes?”

“Some Starblood abilities remain even after the nail is taken. I can throw people high. Do you want me to show you?” He made a motion as if he were about to toss her, and a genuinely frightened Trout clung to him with all her strength. Unexpectedly, he even felt a physical pull toward her — she was nearly bare, pressed against his chest, smelling of water, skin, and woman — but he forced himself to calm down. Yes, his Will still needed to be tempered to silver; the impulses of the body were too unpredictable.

“I’ve heard of something like that…” the Ascendant cautiously said once she realized he had been joking. “What other abilities do you still have?”

“Oh, a few,” the White Devil decided to tease her a little. “The strongest one is tied to women. Does the bronze fish really want to know?”

Trout snorted, or maybe stifled a giggle when he whispered a few words into her sharp ear half-hidden by tangled hair. It seemed he had managed to cheer her up. But he didn’t get a chance to continue. Abruptly, he stood up, and the party following him obediently halted.

Sounds. A splash. Indistinct gurgling. Slaps against the water.

“What is it, exile?” Trout asked in confusion. He freed one hand and silently touched the shell of his ear.

“You kept the listening skill?” she guessed. “And what do you hear?”

“Froggards.”

“They’re guarding the Arrow,” the Ascendant said. “We’re close. There’s a river bend up ahead...”

“Stay here. I’ll take a look...”

He attempted to carefully set her down in the grass, but Trout suddenly clung to his neck again.

“No! I’m coming with you, exile! I have Runes...”

“The bronze fish cannot walk.”

“Then you’ll carry me there!”

“The bronze fish is so heavy,” he grimaced. “Let her stay here and guard her people.”

He couldn’t hear any humans, and indeed, there weren’t any. There were froggards, though: six ordinary and one altered. The slime of these creatures dried in the open air under the light of the Great Tree, so they had, of course, submerged themselves in the water, leaving only the tops of their heads and their backsides sticking out above the surface. That place, a small tributary flowing into a larger one, had once served as a minor Kel Waysign, one of many that connected their roads. Jagged fragments of pillars and water-smoothed stones darkened in the shallows; the froggard patrol had set up camp right behind them. It was a convenient spot: if a large armed force passed through the Arrow, they could quickly dive into the depths, swim away, and warn others.

But here and now, the water worked against them. Sneaking up unnoticed, the White Devil struck again with a combination of Sparkwind Strike and Poisoned Icy Daggers. Not the Spikes he had once charged with Annihilation and Flight, but those two simple bronze Runes had the range of almost fifty steps, a scattering volley of Daggers piercing and poisoning the targets while spreading an electric charge across the entire area. And Water loved Lightning...

Only two survived his attack. One, though half-stunned, tried to dive into the depths, but the harpoon saved the day again. Too bad fetching its body required diving and swimming.

As soon as the last of the seven died, the Watcher sent him a bronze reward. That confirmed it: the group had belonged to the force led by Sharpfin. He sent them to guard the Arrow, and now the entire band was wiped out.

When he carried Trout into the Arrow, she eyed the torn froggard corpses floating near the stones with suspicion. But he knew they had made an impression on her, especially the speed with which he had dispatched them. At last, she fully bought into the prisoners’ tales. And the way she glanced up at him — questioning, reverent — was how one looked at the leader of their spear.

“Earth weapons,” One of the Thousand shrugged as he watched the people vanish into the flooded Arrow one by one. The other side was safe; he had already made sure of that.

And from there, the Dead Fish was already in sight.

Chapter 7

THE TIP OF THE ANCIENT ARROW rested on a cliff, towering over the slow currents of a wide river that collected all mountain streams. The golden silhouette of the Tree loomed closer in the sky, snow-capped mountains emerging on the horizon. The White Devil knew that beyond them lay the ruins of the ancient capital of the Circle. But the Deadfish stronghold was much closer, right in the river’s flow.

Its shattered ribs formed walls, its spine a roof, and its bony spikes watchtowers. A waterfall cascaded through the gap of its gaping maw as foamy swirls churned against the fins that dammed the current. Like a great island, the Dead Fish rose above the water’s surface, embraced on both sides by the river’s streams while the third passed through its body.

Yes, the largest Riverfolk freehold had been built within the skeleton of an enormous fish. As he stared at the man-made towers, walls, and structures clinging to the ancient bones, gates, colorful sails, and the nixies dancing beneath the sparkling waterfalls, the White Devil couldn’t help but smile.

Once, a long time ago, one golden mawtooth had grown so massive that the rivers and lakes could no longer sustain it, and the Watcher deemed the creature a threat. Such was the fate of many Starblooded beings that surpassed the boundary set by the Keeper of Unity. And so, an Ascendant came forth, slaying the colossal fish, taking its Blood and Runes, and leaving its body on a small island in the river. That Ascendant was him, but One of the Thousand had never imagined back then that the golden skeleton would become a fortress.

But there it lay now, and for generations, the Riverfolk had called the Dead Fish their home.

“You’re smiling strangely, outcast,” Silver Trout remarked, watching him. “What do you see there?”

The White Devil didn’t answer, only gesturing for the people to descend the cliff. The easiest way to reach the Dead Fish was by river, apparently patrolled by sentries on colorful spinebacks. A watchpost. There were an unusual number of Riverfolk, both on the surface and beneath, which meant the clan was aware of the danger that might come through the Arrow. Two riders immediately set off toward the freehold, cutting through the river’s surface. Spinebacks, spreading their fin-wings, leaped high above the water in long graceful arcs, then plunged beneath, vanishing with their riders. Those river steeds were fast; One of the Thousand knew that the Dead Fish would learn of their arrival soon. There was no time to waste.

The island freehold could only be reached by water, but the White Devil chose against descending. Leading the weary women and children to the rocky base of the cliff, he silently pointed his harpoon at a path carved through the riverside growth toward the shallows. There was even a makeshift dock: the Dead Fish occasionally received heavy cargo brought there on trimarans.

Carefully, so as not to disturb her wounded leg, he lowered Silver Trout on the sand behind the rocks. He thought she clung to his neck a moment longer than necessary. When she finally stood on the ground, she suddenly asked, a bit shy, “You carried me for so long. Tell me, exile...”

“What?”

“Am I really that heavy?”

He laughed, and she hesitantly smiled in return. The sentries had likely heard them, taking laughter for a good sign. Barking a few sharp orders to the gathered people, the White Devil pointed the tip of his harpoon at Silver Trout’s pale face.

“You… won’t let me go?” she exhaled, making no move to open her Slate.

“I’ll return the bronze fish to her Riks when he brings me the nail,” the White Devil smirked. “The people will deliver my words.”

The former captives, casting back nervous glances, waded into the shallows, disappearing into the waves. The White Devil wasn’t worried for the women and the children: for Riverfolk, swimming came as naturally as walking. They would reach the Dead Fish with ease. And if not, the sentries would help the weaker ones; it was their burden now. When the last woman vanished beneath the surface, he almost let out a breath of relief. Slaying ten Ascendants was easier than dealing with women’s squabbles…

“So you mean to trade me for the nail,” Silver Trout said, disappointed. “Dark currents…”

“The bronze fish is clever. If she avoids doing anything foolish, she’ll see her people soon.”

He wasn’t afraid of the female Ascendant, and she knew it. Silver Trout had Runes, of course, but so had Sharpfin, and they hadn’t saved him. The Creeper she had taken couldn’t be activated yet, and everything else she carried likely posed no threat. But most importantly, over the course of their journey, he had established a strong emotional connection with her, and the girl had no desire to turn the fearsome exile into an enemy. The revulsion in her eyes was gone, replaced by curiosity, an appraising interest, and a sliver of fear.

“I know my Riks, exile... You’re making a mistake playing games with him. What if Aurvak refuses you?”

It might be a mistake, but entering the Dead Fish was much more dangerous than staying here. Predicting the Riks’ decision wasn’t difficult — he had seen him at Floodwater and later at the great moot, but leaving the river fortress without spilling blood would be far harder than slipping back through the Arrow. The best scenario was speaking to the Riks away from the eyes of those who had lost their kin to Mark Cassidy. The White Devil knew that.

Sitting down on the other side, he calmly replied, “Then I’ll reclaim the nail another way. And the bronze fish will help me get my arm back.”

“What makes you think I’ll help you?” the Ascendant scoffed.

“Because I’ll help the bronze fish reclaim her Runes.”

He really could do that. Aside from a dozen Starcoins, Sharpfin’s Slate fragment contained many Runes: Lesser Wave, Purifying Stone, Millenicarus Hunter, Wanderer’s Pouch, Legion Blade, Fiery Hearth, Summon Rain, Wanderer’s Tent, Flowing Elixir, Deadfish Spear, and Returning Net. The last two were Item Runes taken from Silver Trout — the White Devil had seen them twice when she fought Sigurd.

“How?” Trout asked with interest, rubbing the bluish mark left by the Creeper on her slender neck. “Are you going to carry me back?”

“I’ll carry or toss you… There are several ways. But first, we wait for your Riks.”

“So you’re offering me a deal, exile? My help for yours?” Her eyes still burned with curiosity. “And how do you plan to get your arm back? Silver Runes won’t help you…”

He knew it was a difficult task. The body had already scarred over the wound, sealed off the damaged eo, and lost its fifth node. Even a golden Cure would be useless, for there was nothing to heal. After Sigurd had killed Mark, he revived the body with the gift of true Blood, but the hand was already gone, and the Blood remembered it.

Restoring the arm didn’t need healing. The body had to remember, awaken its dormant inner forces, and regrow the limb, just as some beasts regenerate lost limbs or tails. In his former body, drained by Eternity, he could have regrown it in mere moments. Earthers called that property Regeneration, but he needed its stronger, silver-ranked version. A rare Ability Rune...

“I need a lokhi,” he replied after a pause. “And you’ll help me find it.”

“A lokhi?” Silver Trout’s eyes widened. “Those creatures are rare… and wooden or bronze ones won’t give you the Rune you need. Our hunters sometimes kill them…”

“I know. I need a silver one.”

“You really do drizzle like a great warrior,” Silver Trout chuckled. “Know this, exile… When the new Skymark flared, a silver lokhi emerged from beneath the roots of the Cold Lake. And its waters bloomed with the blood of three Ascendant spears before that creature was dead. And there was a strong silver among them, clear as a babbling brook! Even if you find a silver lokhi, how are you going to kill it without an arm, without a nail, without powerful Runes? And if you don’t get a nail back, why’d you need its Rune?”

“This is why the bronze fish and I are waiting for the Riks,” the White Devil smirked. “And if the Unseen smiles upon me, I will get a nail.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then the bronze fish will never hear my name again. Maybe then she’ll tell me hers? I will remember her smooth, pretty scales…”

“You already know it,” Trout teased him with a sly smile.

“Not the Ascension one. The name your people call you. The name whispered by the one who holds you close…”

He knew that the people of Unity had two, sometimes three. names. The first, a childhood nickname, was given at birth and used until the coming-of-age ritual. The second, an adult name, was proudly carried for life. The third was taken only by Ascendants, spoken when the nail was driven into their skin. Sometimes, the adult name and the Ascension name were the same, and sometimes, they weren’t. The female Ascendant had taken the name of Silver Trout, but she also had another she didn’t wish to reveal.

“Why are you drizzling? Planning to offer me gifts?” Trout laughed, but he could see that she liked his attention, despite their current situation.

“Would the fish accept gifts from an exile? First, I need to get a nail...”

Chatting idly while waiting for the Riks, he mentally focused on the Watcher’s reward. The Wild Hunt, the froggard raid, the Riverlands... He had slain them swiftly, using powerful Runes and the water element. A Creature, a Skill, and a Spell were all good choices, but he had to consider what he had and what he needed.

Mark Cassidy, thanks to his conditioning, could hold his breath for a long time even underwater. His body retained that Skill. Still, he couldn’t compete with the amphibious Riverfolk or underwater beasts, as their short journey had made evident. The White Devil had hoped to gain the needed Skill or Ability from water creatures, but the Unseen decreed otherwise. So, he had to take matters into his own hands, and the best choice was a Skill!

Of course, his guess was correct. You didn’t have to be One of the Thousand to predict the Watcher’s reward.

Endurance of the Depths

Fish Sight

Underwater Breathing

All three bronze Skills were good. The first allowed him to withstand the weight of the water down below. The second granted vision even in murky, silted, or dark liquid. And the third let him breathe underwater, much like the Spell Sigurd had once found. The young Earther could have turned the Spell into a Skill — his Elemental Affinity was high enough — but One of the Thousand didn’t even need that, simply acquiring a new power that was invaluable in that region. Just like Keen Hearing and Sharp Sight, that Skill was activated by will or necessity, and now it was absorbed into his body.

The fragment of the second Ascendant’s Slate held five Runes: Hunter’s Mark, Hunter’s Mask, Misty Cloud, Morning Dew, and Spark Knife. The only one of interest was Hunter’s Mark, which accelerated the flow of Starblood, but its trash rank made it useless.

Expanded by the new fragments, his Slate was full of worthless junk. He needed to get rid of it at the first opportunity — none of that filth was worth a single good silver Rune. But his Glory was still too low to access the Watcher’s treasury... though that would change soon.

Watching it rise — one, three… five points — the White Devil realized that word of him had reached the Dead Fish. And if he wasn’t mistaken, the Riks would arrive shortly.

And so he did. First, they saw the small gates open in the foaming swirls, parting like the shell of a clam. Then came the river riders on spinebacks, soaring above the water. And finally, a monstrous turtle, an aquatic Creature with a group of people on its back, guarded on either side by Ascendants on enormous nixies.

Trout sneered, while the White Devil counted as they approached.

Two groups of three spineback riders. Another four mounted on nixies. Three on the turtle’s back. And three more hidden in the depths. Sixteen in total, four of them silver.

Manageable, if the negotiations took a bloody turn.

The mighty Riverfolk Riks wasn’t scared of an exile. His Ascendants remained in the shallows, while the swimmers waited in the depths. Only three stepped on the sandbar from the Creature’s shell: the Riks, his Bannerman, and the Flaminica. Effortlessly lifting the yelping Trout into his arms again, the White Devil emerged from behind the rocks and walked to meet them. He stopped ten steps away from the trio waiting at the water’s edge.

He had seen them before through Sigurd’s eyes. Scalelord Aurvak, a mighty old Ascendant covered in blue runic patterns, bored into him with a furrowed gaze, arms crossed over a chest as broad as a war shield. Ancient Kel Items —bracers of power, a mnemonic crown, a belt of invulnerability, and an implosive trident — gleamed with blue auras across his body. Eless Blueshell, his wife and Flaminica, was the Mistress of Waters, whose webbed hand could raise the river in a Great Wave or part it to let one walk on dry land. The last one was Fierce Mawtooth, a silver Bannerman, slayer of river beasts and Ascendants of enemy tribes. He was likely meant to kill Mark Cassidy at the moot, had the pathetic plan of the redheaded True One not fallen apart on the first day…

But today, he had a second chance.

“Depths below!” Aurvak was the first to break the silence, his voice clear, deep, and thunderous. His words probably reached even the ears of the spineback riders in the shallows. “So the murmurs are true — the exiled wormson came to the shores of the Dead Fish. Armless and nameless. I can’t see you, Flamelike Mark!”

“Then open your eyes wider, Riks,” the White Devil replied. “Have you brought me the nail?”

“It takes no small courage to drizzle words with us,” Aurvak narrowed his eyes, clearly restraining his anger. “Or no small foolishness… You ask about the nail? I want to ask the wormson about the blood left unpaid. Do you remember it, nameless exile?”

“I paid my people for that blood with my hand, my nail, and my name,” One of the Thousand answered, showing his stump. “And I paid the Riverfolk with the lives of those who returned to the Dead Fish today.”

“You returned our roe, depths!” the Scalelord conceded. “But not all of them. Give us back our fish, and I’ll decide your fate, exile!”

“Isn’t her life worth a mere nail?” the White Devil smiled.

“It’s not for you to set the price of nails,” the Flaminica suddenly said. “Return our fish before you murmur with the Riks. I want to hear her voice. The Riverfolk promise they won’t kill you…”

That could be taken two ways: “They won’t kill you here” or “They won’t kill you right away.” But he was done with games. The White Devil stepped forward, passing Trout into Mawtooth’s arms, and suddenly heard her whisper.

“My name is Miriss…”

Miriss — she was named after a sharp knife-like water plant. It was a good name and a good thing that she had finally revealed it, but now wasn’t the time to dwell on it. The turning point of the negotiations had come. Without Trout in his arms, the Riverfolk might decide there was no more need for chatter and, say, activate binding Runes to strip him of his freedom before deciding what to do with him…

But instead, they were suddenly enveloped by a Sphere of Silence.

He saw a Rune fly out from the Flaminica’s Slate, and green waves of healing pulsated through Silver Trout’s body. The girl started speaking, almost choking on her words, as Blueshell and Mawtooth listened, glancing at him, and even Aurvak seemed interested. They weren’t trying to kill him yet. The Unseen tipped the scales, and balance could still shift in his favor.

Then Aurvak dismissed the Sphere with an imperious wave and spoke up again.

“Listen to what I murmur, exile, and let all Riverfolk listen, for the words of the Riks are no mere drizzle! You owe us blood for blood, and your debt remains unpaid. But you returned our roe and our fish, and she murmurs that the exile slew our enemies. So the Riverfolk won’t kill you here and now, as befits an exiled wormson... Leave our lands and never return. My fish also murmurs that you hold my Ascendants’ nails. That would be a wise gift, so that my people won’t hunt you...”

The White Devil stretched out his hand, revealing five Stigmata, their surface stained brown. Something in his posture, his expression, and his gaze made Aurvak fall silent and listen.

“Five nails,” the White Devil said in a voice so ominous that both the Flaminica and the bannerman turned to him in surprise. “A priceless gift in times of war when the enemy is standing on your land. Each of these can be exchanged for a blank one, and I’m willing to add two more taken from your foes. I killed those Ascendants defending the Riverfolk, saving your little fish. I could have taken them to the Temple of Eternity myself, tearing an eighth from her. But instead, I come to the Riverfolk and offer an honest wergild for old blood. Do you want more gifts, Riks? You will have them, and more… But in return, I ask for a small gift: a single empty nail. And I swear by the Forgotten, I shall leave your lands.”

“There is no road to the Temple for worm-ridden exiles, even if they murmur like Rikses,” the Flaminica coldly replied, placing a calming hand on Aurvak’s shoulder, his face flushed with anger, ready to explode. “No one will exchange your nails. The Treefolk will simply kill you.”

“That’s why you came to us! Leave, exile, and drizzle no more!” Aurvak growled. “Your life is payment enough for our nails! Be glad you received as much!”

“The man who called himself my father already paid your price at the moot,” the White Devil smirked, already understanding that no words would change their decision without blood being spilled — at least a little, which had been his plan from the start. He could challenge one of their Ascendants to a fiontar, wagering the nails he had looted for a blank one and giving the Riverfolk a chance at revenge, but first, he needed to rile them up. “Do you want two payments for a single life? What would you demand for an empty nail?”

“That was the small gift! Small!!! Get out, and beware our wrath! I do not pay blood for blood! You murmur about an empty nail?! The only thing I’d trade for it is Black Threehead’s own!”

The Unseen smiled upon him again. The third step?

“You have spoken,” the White Devil stated impassively.

Then he opened his palm and casually tossed the nails holding the Riverfolk souls — all except for Sharpfin and Crest, for they were his by right of victory — on the sand at the Riks’ feet.

“These wretched nails are my small gift to your people,” One of the Thousand declared, gazing at them with mild disdain. “You have spoken, Riks, and your Ascendants have heard. I shall bring you Black Threehead’s nail.”

Chapter 8

AND WITH THOSE WORDS, One of the Thousand turned his back on them and headed to the cliffs and the path leading to the Arrow. As he climbed, he caught sight of the three Ascendants still standing in the shallows, watching him go. Thanks to Keen Hearing, their voices reached him.

“One-handed madman,” Fierce Mawtooth grumbled. “Pity you didn’t give him to me, Riks… Such insolence deserves punishment!”

“He is not as he was,” Eless Blueshell, the Flaminica, replied coolly, as befitted the wisest among them. “The exile murmurs as if a thousand demons swim in his wake.”

“What did you see in him?”

“Dark depths. He was stripped of his nail, yet Starblood is still churning within him.”

“A feral one? That’s how he killed the froggards and Fin?”

“He can hear what you’re murmuring,” Trout spoke up. “And my Riks... depths... you should know that Flamelike has gone after the nail.”

“This is drizzle, little fish. And if not, Swampcave Ascendants will take care of him soon enough. He won’t resurface.”

“But you have spoken, and the words of the Riks are no mere drizzle,” the Flaminica countered. “And if he does resurface…”

“He will not!” Aurvak snapped. “It’s been a long time since I’ve heard such mad oaths. The Forgotten will claim him soon enough.”

Yet there was a hint of approval in the old Ascendant’s tone, and the White Devil knew the reason. The Riks had felt the steel of his will, and so had the rest of them. That was why they were standing there, pathetic and lost, like children.

The White Devil did intend to bring them Black Threehead’s nail. When the Unseen grinned, laying out new steps for the trial, only a fool refused. There were faster, simpler ways to obtain Stigmata, but he needed more than just a wretched nail. He needed Glory, and he needed those people: all of them, without exception. When the time came, they must stand with him, body and soul. Some bonds were stronger than death and fear, stronger than passion and abundance, and One of the Thousand knew how to bind mortals with them.

And tearing a nail from a driver of the Wild Hunt’s beasts was a small price to pay.

The White Devil once again passed through the Arrow, returning to the distant tributaries. That was the place where Black Threehead had sent his raid and Fin had used to return to the swamp camp. His new trial would begin there as well. He had to learn where Threehead was, where he had set up his refuge or field camp, how many spears of Ascendants followed him, and how many froggards he had gathered in his bid to seize the Konung’s Title with blood. And that meant he needed someone who could tell him.

Ensuring that no one had followed him, he waited the required time before summoning Whitewing. The band of froggards sent to River Petal wasn’t the only one; there were other tributaries, other villages, and finding them from the air was the easiest.

One of the Thousand flew, skimming the treetops, soaring above the clouds, scanning the land with keen eyes, and gliding low over the water as he traced the twists of narrow channels. Luck smiled on him only the next day. Smoke trails revealed a small riverside settlement, well-hidden within the tangled aerial roots of cloudtrees, which at times formed impenetrable mazes along the banks.

The Black Threehead’s envoys had found the village and razed it, leaving behind nothing but charred ruins visible even from the air. The Riverfolk had fought desperately, taking many froggards with them, so the latter slaughtered them to the last. Their killers had defiled the bodies, covering the Deadfish tattoos with a circle filled with crossing lines, the mark of the Swampcave clan. The White Devil saw the freshly-branded corpses drifting downstream, nudged by hungry mawteeth, and realized the raiding party couldn’t have gone far.

He caught up to them quickly and struck at night, from above, after using his new Rune to summon a storm and drench the camp. Thundersquall followed up, scattering them with wind and dropping lightning bolts on everyone below. The White Devil heard no prisoners, and even if there were any, he no longer intended to save anyone. Most of the froggards and men died instantly — not that many were left, as the Riverfolk had put up a good fight. The lone Ascendant among them, a swamp-dwelling Heir, didn’t get a single chance, cleaved apart by the Aquatic Blade. The survivors fell to Sparkwind Strike and Poisoned Daggers.

That was easy.

The last of the swamp-dwellers, a sentry posted to guard the camp, had already been caught, bound, and held fast by the Millenicarus Hunter. Some of the new Runes had proved useful...

Then he spent a long time staring at the trembling face of the Swampcave youth. Not much older than Pebble, he already bore an adult name and a khazak made from the bone of a Starblooded mawtooth. Was it his first raid? Second? Not that it mattered. He would never become an Ascendant.

“I’ll be asking questions, and you’ll be answering,” the White Devil said, running the blade of the stolen knife along his captive’s cheek. “Understood?”

“Kill me, exile! I won’t say anything…”

One of the Thousand smirked coldly.

An hour later, the sentry’s body drifted down the channel, joining those he had earlier covered with bloody marks. And the White Devil had memorized the location of Black Threehead’s camp: who was there, how it was guarded, where the Riks’ tent stood, and who made up his retinue. The boy had resisted at first, then lied, then wept, but his tormentor knew how to separate truth from falsehood. He learned everything he needed.

At night, sheltered under Wanderer’s Tent that fended off millenicaruses and the ubiquitous nightmoths, One of the Thousand laid out a plan and checked if he had everything he needed. Waiting was not an option. Froggard bands were spreading wide across the Riverfolk lands, drawing their spears away while Black Threehead prepared to deal the decisive blow. Intercepting him on the road would be harder…

From the Ascendant’s Atlas and what he had read through Sigurd’s eyes in the colonist guide, the White Devil knew that the Riverfolk lands were home to four great clans.

Along the great river and its branches lived the Deadfish, their numbers vast. The lake to the northeast of them belonged to the Goldenlakes, and it was the warmest and largest body of water in the Circle. To the south, near the mountains, dwelled the bearers of the Coldwater mark. Finally, to the southeast, until the very Wall, stretched the endless marshes, growing ever deeper and darker. That was where the Swampcave warriors had come from, striking at the seams of the other clans’ lands to divide them. Black Threehead thought like a warlord: it was far easier to defeat them one by one than to face three united tribes. At the moment, as the wandering froggards tied down his enemies, he was clearly plotting to attack the Deadfish, the mightiest and most numerous clan. And his plan was sound — if the strongest clan bowed to him, the others might waver and accept his rule without a fight.

The Swampcave war camp, set on the border of the Riverlands, was already surrounded by thousands of froggards. Their ranks included everyone: run-of-the-mill grunts, shamans, spitters, needlers, hunters — all who had accepted Threehead as their Riks. Losing one, or even ten, raiding parties meant nothing to him, so hunting them down one by one was pointless. But people and Ascendants — he didn’t have many of those. More than half had gone to lead the raids, for froggards were too stupid and too cruel to act on their own. Threehead was waiting for his envoys to return, expending the “water meat,” as they called their allies, and bringing back the first batches of prisoners. He had mustered fifty combat spears, and only twenty remained in the camp by the time the raiding party was gone. Twelve hands of Ascendants had followed Threehead when his clan left the Swamp Caves, the sobbing boy said. But most of them were wood and bronze; only one gleamed silver.

By the ancient standards, the strength of the swamp-dwellers seemed laughable, yet underestimating them was unwise. No fewer than fifty Ascendants were always in the camp, along with four times as many ordinary warriors. But the true force of the Swampcaves, of course, was the froggards. If the sentry hadn’t exaggerated their numbers, the Deadfish warriors might simply drown in their viscous blood…

Having assessed the enemy’s strength, the White Devil turned to his own. The last Ascendant had gifted him only three Runes: a bronze Growth, Augmentation, and the worthless Skill of Fishing. His fragment held Black Blood, Hardening, Carnivorous Flower, Fisher’s Hook, Candle of the Depths, and another Wanderer’s Pouch. More junk, even if he raised their rank…

Then he examined his own Runes.

Gold, Living Chains and Rune Master, could always come into play.

Silver was Frozen Abyss, Key to Silver Castle, and Whitewing, but only Spirit Conjurer, Thundersquall, and Dehydration shone with the luster of battle.

Bronze — the linked combination of Wind and Daggers, Thunderbreak, Aquatic Blade, Whirlwind, and Millenicarus Hunter — might prove useful in combat. Summon Rain, Aquatic Echo, Wanderer’s Pouch, and Wanderer’s Tent were also worth keeping, while Returning Net and Fishing Spear could be traded for something better. However, Slimy Shroud, Doublesight, Swamp Lore, Legion Blade, Black Blood, Candle of the Depths, and the second Wanderer’s Pouch needed to be returned to the Watcher as soon as possible.

Wooden trash was especially abundant. He used a Transformation to turn Bloodsense into a Skill, and only Flutter and Misty Cloud had any semblance of value. The rest — Riverfolk Dialect, Hardening, Carnivorous Flower, Morning Dew, Fisher’s Hook, Sticky Vines, Lesser Wave, Purifying Stone, Fiery Hearth, Flowing Elixir, Hunter’s Mask, and Spark Knife — were worthless junk better broken down for Starblood or, preferably, exchanged for one Coin per Rune with the Watcher.

There were also Property Runes, wooden and bronze. He spent all of them, altering the properties of certain Runes and raising his Will to the tenth bronze star. Only a few blanks remained, useless without Symbols.

The Storage Runes of both Ascendants held loot taken from the ravaged settlements — things the Riverfolk considered valuable trophies. To him, they were nothing, but a few artifacts taken from the dead contained Starblood. Trash-ranked and mostly utilitarian in purpose, even they found a use that evening.

The only Item worth keeping was the harpoon. Eventually, it should be turned into a Rune, along with Pebble’s knife, as a memento of his first trial. The rest the White Devil mercilessly consumed, extracting Starblood from the altered matter with Rune Artifaction and Starblood Control. Essence cores cracked and crumbled into dust, while Items became nothing more than mundane objects. The khazaks of the fallen, necklaces, rings, minor artifacts imbued with Starblood, and the other trinkets Earthers might deem wondrous were absolutely useless to him. The only service they could provide was a few extra drops of Starblood.

By the time he had finished, his Attributes shone with six hundred and eighty drops. But only 371 of them were active, despite his daily regimen: exhausting the body with exercises, tempering the spirit with meditation, and sharpening the mind through sheer force of will. All that helped accelerate his flawed eo, but at best, he could restore only forty-five drops a day. A silver Ascendant at his peak could push that number far higher…

For now, that was his weakness.

His body had changed too, though only fifteen treedays had passed. The light of the Great Tree, water, and constant motion had leaned him out, while the Skills that replaced his dimmed stars had sculpted muscles in new, sometimes unexpected places. The Ascendant’s figure had grown sharper and more sinewy. Its previous owner had been quite burly, but he only unlocked six silver stars — a strong bronze. Now, his muscles looked vicious, like a predator’s, and his movements became swift and precise. Even his facial features were sharper: dark hair covered the lower half of his face, the shape of his lips was different, the arch of his brows changed, and, of course, his gaze seemed ever keener, like a blade pointed at an enemy’s heart.

To any Earther, that Ascendant would seem disturbing and dangerous, but Sigurd would’ve recognized him instantly, having seen that look in his own reflection.

The White Devil knew that was only the beginning. His spirit would consume Mark’s appearance, and the former host’s features would vanish without a trace in just a few cycles, if not sooner. That was a problem, because before that happened, he would have to exploit the advantage of his blood, blood that belonged to both the Earthers and the ancient line of the Shadowfolk lord, his previous incarnation.

The next morning, he flew to the main swamp-dweller camp. He knew well the direction and the landmarks, and Whitewing was swift, covering that distance in a single flight. One of the Thousand could have found the place where Threehead had dug in blindfolded: it was a large waystation once situated along a road that had been ancient even in the golden age of Esthé. Now the path was lost beneath the bogs, and the shattered Kel ruins at the top no longer resembled the proud crown of pillars with spectral caps and Waysigns. The Arrow had once led to the great Tower at the octagon border, where wondrous mechanisms forged by Artisan’s will kept the eternal cycle of water, clouds, and true fire flowing in the hollow bones of Unity. It seemed to still be working, since the Swamp Caves lay nearby.

Black Threehead had chosen well. The camp was close to a large river branch, an artery into the lands of the river clans. From the elevation, the view stretched for thousands upon thousands of steps, and the surrounding swamps teemed with froggards, who encircled the camp in an unbroken ring. The White Devil didn’t know what these creatures fed on, but he understood one thing all too well: whoever had gathered such a horde would have to send them into battle soon. Otherwise, they would devour him and all his pathetic warriors.

And he was strong, truly strong — the “water meat” counted many altered ones among their numbers, both wood and bronze. Some might even be silver, but One of the Thousand couldn’t say that for sure. Flying openly over the camp was far too risky, and the surroundings were patrolled both by Swampcave sentries and froggard packs prowling for prey. He only managed to glean the elevation, the ruins standing upon it, and the earthen ramparts hiding countless pavilions and tents.

There were only two ways in: through cunning or sheer audacity.

The White Devil was careful — disturbing Threehead too early wasn’t wise. He meticulously studied the approaches, watching and more importantly, listening. He learned that there were no swamp-dwellers in the camp, only people, three hundred or slightly more. There were prisoners too, but they were taken almost immediately across the Arrow into the Swamp Caves.

Good, very good.

The Watcher issued him several new missions. Most were simple, bronze and wood, meant to eliminate various types of froggards. The main one, however, was silver.

Ascendant!

Repel the froggard invasion, which poses an enormous threat to the Nations of Unity. Place. Destroy, scatter, or drive the froggards from the lands belonging to the sentients.

Destroy or return ??? to the Watcher

Reward: Glory

Reward: 25 Starblood drops

Reward: 25 Starcoins

Reward: Rune (silver)

The White Devil smiled. He had suspected something like that. Powerful creatures often emerged during the Wild Hunt season, or there were simply too many of them, and the Watcher tended to be generous with rewards. And, of course, One of the Thousand remembered that the Skymarks were merely a series of trials of Ascension. Everything happening in the Circles was by the will of the keeper of Unity, for idle prosperity was harmful to the sentients. To destroy or return ??? meant the end of the threat, for that unknown variable — a Rune, an Item, or a Creature — was the cause of the invasion.

Well then, that made the trial all the more interesting. Maybe it could become dangerous enough to awaken his Aspect on top of the Watcher’s gifts. That would be the greatest reward of all, and the thrill of a glorious battle left a pleasant tingle at that thought.

When the Ygg-Tree finally faded, the night took hold, and the swamp-dweller camp sank into slumber, the White Devil summoned his Runes.

Morwayne Kel’Thalas went first.

“My Ascendant,” he said, bowing his head to greet the cloaked figure. “I have need of you once more.”

“My lord.” The Spirit Conjurer returned a graceful bow. “I’m ready to follow your every command.”

“I will need your spirits tonight,” he said as he summoned his second Rune.

Azymandia Vizu Aran appeared on her knees and sobbing, just as she had left the world the last time. Then, still in the body of Sigurd, he had forced her to surrender her Domain Rune and cast her House’s relics into the corpse pit. That memory still brought him dark pleasure — the Vizu Aran had been traitors and enemies, and the golden Ascendant had atoned for only a sliver of her crimes...

“Get up, my,” he smirked, touching her chin with his harpoon’s tip. “We have little time and much to do.”

“You...” Azymandia fixed him with a probing gaze, but unlike the others, she understood immediately. “You’ve changed your reflection? Taken a new name, too...”

“Yes, my. Get up and open your Slate.”

She obeyed — Creatures couldn’t do otherwise — but while he examined her Runes, selecting the ones he needed, she whimpered and reproached him, crying like a petulant child.

“You... you tricked me. You said we’d be allies, and then… you took my Domain! I helped you, and you… you stole the treasures of Vizu Aran… My House will curse me, and the dark contractoriums will tear my soul apart. Just like they did to this neo...”

She jabbed a long finger at Morwayne, standing silently nearby, then suddenly grew wary as she noticed the shining white skin and silky waves of her hair.

“He gave you your true reflection back?” she asked bitterly. “By Eternity… My lord, why?! She was such an exquisite Rune, so tastefully crafted. Thorius had made her the queen of corpses.”

“I can turn the golden lady into such a queen if she’d like,” Morwayne said, looking straight at the White Devil. A blue-green glyph of Necrosis lit up on her index finger. “If my lord permits.”

“Aw, what a bold little Rune,” Azymandia sang mockingly. “Perhaps she needs a lesson? I do enjoy taming unruly tongues…”

“Enough. Both of you,” the White Devil ordered. “We have a battle ahead.”

“A battle?” Azymandia repeated with a flicker of fear, staring toward the distant marshland cloaked in twilight and crawling with thousands of froggards. “Where are we, even? Is this… Unity? What a dreadful place… and what a foul stench…”

He poured the bronze and wooden trash meant for trade into her Slate. The Watcher would pay thirty-four Starcoins for it. Then he ordered her to purchase two silver Runes of Cleansing — together with Morwayne’s previous earnings, his current stock was fifty-nine Coins. After that, he commanded her to unbind the Runes he wanted from her Slate: Galewings, which would grant him partial invulnerability to ranged weapons, and Silver Seeker’s Vial, one of the gems of her collection.

It was an ancient and powerful Item coveted by many Ascendants. Azymandia had augmented and empowered it, filling all three enhancement stars. Functioning like an Energy Rune, the Vial stored three silver charges, each capable of restoring a thousand drops, and it could be summoned twice a day.

Unfortunately, along with Binding, Cleansing had erased all other upgrades, leaving only a single charge and the standard duration. The Vial had to be recharged, and only a silver-grade artifactor could do that, but one was standing right there, sobbing with impotent rage. The issue of slow recovery was solved for the time being, at least until he accumulated over a thousand drops.

Only Starblood mattered. Good thing the young Earther hadn’t taken the Vial first.

“You took my Domain… my Constructor… now you’re taking my vial… drinking my Blood and my Runes…” Azymandia kept sniffling as she obeyed his orders. “You’re stealing my Glory, making me weaker… You’ll take everything from me, won’t you?”

“Enough, Azymandia!” One of the Thousand struck her with a sharp, stinging slap. “No more complaints. Your service has only just begun.”

He pressed the tip of the harpoon to the center of her chest, just enough for the point to draw pain as a reminder. He had no mercy in his heart for the wretched bitch who had spent years killing, tormenting, and turning weaker Ascendants into Runes.

“Or do I need to repeat our lesson?” the White Devil hissed. “Haven’t you learned it well enough, my?”

“No! No, my sky lord! Azymandia panicked, knowing he would never waste words. “Please, don’t… I understand now! I’ll be an obedient Rune…”

“All my oaths still stand. And if tonight you serve me well, I’ll reward you… in your former Domain, my,” he said, for fear must always be accompanied by promise. “And you will enjoy it.”

“My lord knows how to command his Rune,” the Kel lady licked her lips. “What would you have me do?”

“Listen carefully, my…”

Chapter 9

THEY CAME at night.

There was a risk the Creature Runes might be spotted, so Whitewing first circled high above the camp, drenched in the cruel light of the Skythrone. But there was no reaction — the swamp-dwellers were expecting enemies from the water, not the air. A hunting drake somewhere in the night sky wasn’t exactly rare in these parts...

Then, veiled by the scattered cover of clouds, Whitewing folded its wings and dove straight down. As they fell, the White Devil marked the landing site, knowing the listeners and watchers would soon raise the alarm, and calmly prepared his Runes.

A rocky sheared-off plateau, a ring of ruins near the Plumage of the ancient Arrow, and uneven rows of tents and pavilions — some runic and some ordinary — rushed toward him. The largest, a triple pavilion in the center by an earthen basin and poles marked with the signa of the Swamp Caves, belonged to the Riks. The Black Threehead was supposed to be there.

Time to welcome the guests.

The White Devil landed nearby. Before even touching the ground, he struck the Riks’ tent with a Thundersquall to blast it and its guards away, then swept the others with a Whirlwind and a Sparkwind Strike combined with Icy Daggers. It didn’t matter where his blows landed: figures were moving everywhere, and glimmering auras of Slates kept flashing from all directions.

They were slow, weak, stupid!

He vanished into a Misty Cloud to stop the swamp-dwellers from aiming as Galewings fluttered behind him, and the first thrust of the harpoon, imbued with Thunderbreak, tore the nearest target into pieces.

His Starblood was spent, but a charge from the Vial instantly restored the entire supply, and the released Aquatic Blade hissed as it cut through tents, cloth, armor, and human bodies.

The Swampcave warriors had one chance to stop him: by activating their Runes right at the start before he had landed and struck. Things would’ve gotten a bit more complicated then, but as it was, everything was straightforward. Their thrown weapons couldn’t harm him, deflected by Galewings’ gusts, and using a Rune to hit a target swiftly moving through the mist was almost impossible — even telling friend from foe was a challenge. As for close combat… there wasn’t a swamp-dweller alive who could beat One of the Thousand hand-to-hand.

Black Threehead’s men didn’t even understand what had happened at first. Where were the enemies, how many, where had they come from, and what were they supposed to do?! When Thundersquall leveled the chieftain’s tent and knocked over their signa, when sparking whirlwinds tore through the camp, when thick mist poured in and people began to scream and die inside it, panic swept the camp. Sure, they had a chance to regroup, form a circle, and eventually kill him — three hundred armed veterans with at least fifty Ascendants among them — but once his Runes came into play, the Unseen whispered to the Swampcave clan, “Not today.”

Azymandia and Morwayne arrived at the same time, right after the second Thundersquall. Using Levitation, they descended into different parts of the camp: Azymandia almost beside him, the Spirit Conjurer next to the Arrow. The Howling Pitcher appeared in her hands, and by the time she touched the ground, it had already released an inhuman shrieking wail, spitting out a swirl of enraged ghosts.

Morwayne’s main task was to block the Arrow so the enemy couldn’t use it to flee. From the very first seconds, it became clear the swamp-dwellers wanted nothing more than to get as far away from that place as possible. The spectral creatures formerly guarding Flex Thorius’ Domain burst out of the screaming pitcher, taking on twisted forms and viciously attacking the scattering soldiers as they surrounded the conjurer. Morwayne guided her pack with sharp, precise gestures, and the White Devil didn’t worry about her — besides the auras of Terror and Cold Scales, she was guarded by the skill and experience of two lifetimes in Unity and Eternity. She brought death without hesitation; he saw it with his own eyes when a massive swamp-dweller nearby was grazed by her Necrosis Rune and collapsed, screaming, into a half-rotted corpse.

Azymandia’s task was different: to unleash utter chaos in the camp and push the enemy away from Black Threehead’s tent, giving her master room to deal with the Riks alone. Floating above the ground in her Shifting Armor, the Kel lady unleashed her silver team in a fan-shaped spread: the Seer, the Cyclops, the Barbarian, the Dancer, the Gardener, and the Spectral Maidens leaped into the fray.

And the moment they appeared, the three hundred warriors and fifty Ascendants (already fewer — the White Devil knew it) ceased to matter. You could have as much trash and dull bronze as you wanted, but gold and strong silver trump that kind of wager with ease. Especially when led into combat by a shard of a United!

Oh, it was a glorious battle. The White Devil rejoiced, feeling his spirit and body sing at full strain as his hand and his Runes stripped the enemies of their lives amidst snapping bones, sputtering blood, and the shuddering of souls fleeing beyond the veil. The green-skinned altered were decent fighters by the standards of the Circle, but not against someone who had entered the battle-trance of the Storm Style created precisely for cutting through swarms of weaklings. The swamp-dwellers’ weapons were slow and pathetic. Even when they came to their senses, blew away the Misty Cloud, released their Creatures, and started activating Runes, they had no chance. He was suddenly struck by the sharp, joyful clarity of it all: he loved to kill almost as much as he loved to win, love, to rule, to decide, and to command. Many of the Thousand were the same — and that was why men sometimes feared them, too bright, too cruel, too powerful for the feeble human soul.

The shrill dreadful howl of the pitcher, the rumble of Spells, the roar of fire and thunder, and lightning strikes all tangled with the screams of the dying, breaking the silence over the camp apart and piercing the night sky. Startled froggards, bubbling in the swamps around the encampment, turned their bumpy heads toward the sound in confusion and began slithering out of the mire.

All around, tents and pavilions burned in waves of fire — the Seer, Azymandia’s strongest Rune, had unleashed a true inferno upon the swamp-dwellers. The Cyclops, stomping heavily, mowed down enemies with swings of his massive axe, while the Barbarian, having shifted into a savage warg, raged across the opposite flank, snuffing out pockets of scattered resistance. The Dancer moved with incredible fluid grace — even One of the Thousand found himself impressed — as she carved down the survivors. Her skill in battle clearly matched her lovemaking talents. The Spectral Maidens were busy as well, Aiho covering Azymandia’s back as Nitwit shielded the Gardener, who entangled enemies with plant Spells and healed wounded allies.

Despite the apparent chaos, their every action had a clear purpose: by spreading panic, they were forming a widening ring around the toppled pavilions where Black Threehead was supposed to be. The White Devil was clearing out swamp-dwellers at the approaches, trying to locate their Riks. Where was he? Still buried under that foul smoldering mound of furs, hides, and sticks his command tent had become? The White Devil struck the spot again with a Thundersquall and finished off whoever was still stirring under the scattered awnings with Sparkwind and Daggers. He drew their Blood and Runes, quickly examining the bodies. Three Ascendants, five ordinary men. Big, strong swamp-dwellers: powerful builds, prominent crests, wavy fins on forearms. But none of them were the Swampcave Riks.

And among the flickering silhouettes — fighting, burning, dying amid fire and smoke — the White Devil still couldn’t find him. Where was Threehead?!

He noticed Morwayne brilliantly doing her part: the slain were rising, moving in stiff broken steps, and joining the bloody carnival. She had activated Reanimation, turning them into her undead weapons. They were temporary and weak, but... An Ascendant with silver-ranked Necrotism was a creepily powerful spellcaster who could make your enemies serve you even in death. And a fantastic ally; good thing he had bound her to him.

As if sensing his thoughts, Morwayne suddenly appeared beside him.

“My lord!” she gasped. “Froggards!”

He understood instantly. A dark tide of froggards was rising from the swamps and crawling their way. He could hear them from every direction. In moments, the first wave would crest the slope, clamber over the earthen ramparts, and pour into the camp. And minutes later, there would be hundreds of them, making all their efforts futile!

Where was Black Threehead?!

Suddenly, it dawned upon him. If the froggards were coming, someone must be calling and guiding them. Someone inside the camp was capable of commanding the entire horde at once. Someone hiding in the chaos, too cunning to fight in the open...

The White Devil spun toward the earthen basin ten steps away. It had clearly been dug for the Riks’ amusement — Riverfolk didn’t like keeping their skin dry for long — and already had a couple of charred corpses floating on its surface. And at the bottom… at first, he thought it was just more dead thrown there by his Squall, but one of them was definitely alive... and very clever.

He struck the water with Wind and Daggers, creating a wave sparkling with lightning bolts, and grinned viciously at the glint of icy light in the depths. A defensive Rune, Cold or Mirror Scales... Black Threehead was there after all!

The Swampcave Riks emerged from the filthy water, flung ashore. He was indeed massive and bloated, with swollen fins and jagged crests that made him seem even larger. A true deepwater monster, more froggard than man — Black Threehead had clearly invested several silver stars into Transmutability, Might, and Dimension.

Silver versus silver. Perfect! Maybe that would finally give him the chance to awaken an Aspect.

The White Devil glimpsed the glow of Starblooded Items and a strange trident that resembled those used by the Deepfolk. A heartbeat later, the Riks lashed out with Lightning — and naturally, miscalculated. One of the Thousand quenched it with a countering Whirlwind and slid aside with Flutter, releasing Aquatic Blade mid-step.

He didn’t miss, but the bronze Rune failed to pierce his opponent’s defenses, partially deflected by a cloud of stinging drops. That was Mirror Scales, silver-ranked, just like Sigurd’s. The Riks was rapidly conjuring some sort of water barrier as he backed away, clearly hoping to hold out until the froggards arrived. Of course, he wasn’t going to get that chance: One of the Thousand struck him with Dehydration, draining moisture from the retreating foe. A silver Ascendant and a silver Rune — twelve seconds of concentration, and the fearsome Riks would turn into a withered husk...

Slam! A brutal lightning-fast attack knocked the White Devil ten steps back. A blow like that could kill, but he managed to sense an elusive motion, dodging it just enough, and Galewings created a counter-gust that softened the impact, allowing him to get off with bloody slashes across his left shoulder, ribs, and hip. But how had his opponent closed the distance so swiftly?

Another shadow! A massive fanged head slammed into the ground where he had just stood, its jaws snapping greedily. As he darted away with Flutter, the White Devil finally realized what had happened.

The Riks was gone, and in his place, thrashing in the muddy basin, was a massive abomination as tall as three men. The real Black Threehead was a fanged three-headed hydra completely unfazed by a point-blank blast of Sparkwind and Icy Daggers.

An Aspect! A hulking, bloated, nearly invulnerable silver Aspect that must have given Threehead his name. Feeling a savage thrill, the White Devil struck it with Thundersquall. As the stunned beast shook all three of its heads, he leaped onto its back with a tygrex’s pounce, slashing at one of the long necks with Aquatic Blade.

It didn’t work. The bronze Rune was too weak against a silver Aspect, and that creature could soak up punishment for a long while — that must have been Threehead’s plan all along, to buy time as he crawled toward the earthen rampart. Another minute, and his froggards would flood the camp, and the final winner would be a big question mark.

But no one had ever escaped the White Devil that easily. Clinging to the back of the Aspect, too close for its terrible jaws to reach, he hurled his harpoon at the fleeing Riks. Mirror Scales deflected it, naturally, but the laws of creation were still in effect. Thunderbreak applied to the harpoon did its job, and the swamp lord fell face-first into the dirt.

It was time to end the game. The first froggards were already scaling the camp’s defenses.

Living Chains unfurled in mid-air, coiling around the cunning Riks and yanking him skyward, his bloated form stretched out like a wheel. In two heartbeats, Mirror Scales cracked with a wet crunch, as silver was just as helpless against gold as bronze was against silver. Then the Chains bit deep into Black Threehead’s flesh, and he howled, screeched, and wailed, spraying everything around him with blood. It was true agony, and the White Devil winced, remembering how he had endured the same. But it didn’t last long. The Rune of Living Chains was designed to bind a golden or weakened celestial Ascendant. The Swampcave Riks was merely silver.

His body burst apart in a rain of torn limbs and pulp, several runic glyphs floating above the bloody mess. The roaring Aspect vanished too, dissipating into light and aether, and One of the Thousand, now standing by Threehead’s remains, quickly absorbed the Runes. Then he raised the Riks’ scaly hand cut off at the elbow, the nail still inside it. There was no time to linger — he could dismiss his Runes and leave. Whitewing still circled above the battle, waiting for its master’s command.

And then he froze. One of Black Threehead’s Runes was… different.

Extremely different.

Its glyph didn’t glow with the green of wood, the dark metal of bronze, the pale gleam of silver, or the bright blaze of gold. It wasn’t the squirming black filth of the Cursed Runes, either. It burned with a sinister crimson flame, the color of freshly spilled blood. But the moment the Rune touched his Slate, it transformed. Slowly, it changed its color and shimmered silver, adjusting to his rank.

Draconic Wand of Serpent’s Blood

Item Rune

Quality: Draconic (silver)

Activation: 48 Starblood drops

The wielder of this wand gains the ability to mentally dominate all froggards within direct line of sight. All enthralled creatures obey any command from the wielder or those designated by the wielder. The wand grants continuous absolute control even beyond visual range.

Warning: The Draconic Wand’s control is permanent, requiring no further activations.

Duration: no

Cooldown: no

A Draconic Rune. So they still existed…

Long ago, the White Devil had known much about the Draconic Runes. Their main property was the lack of Ascension rank: they grew with their owner, deriving their rank from their master’s. In the hands of a bronze Ascendant, they became bronze, in a golden one’s golden. And in the hands of a celestial…

For that reason, they were priceless. Moreover, Draconic Runes often possessed paradoxical powers, sidestepping the known rules and breaking all expectations. Some had no cooldown. Others lasted forever or required no Starblood to activate. They were the goal of every Ascendant’s hunt, every legend’s dream.

These Runes had once been forged by those like him. The great runesmiths, other fragments of the Forgotten, his Brothers and Sisters whose gift was unlike his own. It was said they created such things in a desperate attempt to reclaim what the Great Rune had stolen from them all — the memory of the forgotten United, their father erased from the history of the cosmos.

Nothing ever matched the power of those Runes. After the Source was lost, his siblings were the only ones who still managed to craft new forms and new laws for the Runes. And that was one of many reasons they were... gone.

The White Devil drew the wand from the Rune. It was a beautiful Item carved with intricate scenes of dragons battling serpents. A crystal shifting through every shade of green and gold gleamed at its tip. Holding it was like shaking the warm hand of a brother, one stretched from a time when they were still strong, still full of hope.

Undoubtedly, it was the very Item mentioned by the Watcher. The one that had to be destroyed or returned in order to halt the invasion. But…

The White Devil activated the wand. He looked toward the froggards on the rampart and gave a mental command: stop. They froze. Those behind them froze. Those still approaching froze. He could feel them all — and knew that, should he will it, they’d carry out any order.

Unthinkable power. Unthinkable temptation.

Meanwhile, seeing their chieftain fall, the remaining humans and Ascendants of the Swampcave tribe turned and fled, running from the phantoms and revenants, invincible silver warriors led by their golden invader. They scrambled and leaped over the ramparts, past the froggards locked in mental fog who paid them no mind. After a brief pause, the White Devil gave a sharp mental order, and the night split open with fresh soul-tearing screams. Thousands upon thousands of froggards beyond the camp now obeyed a new master.

No one was going to leave alive.

He called Azymandia. As she approached, splattered with fresh blood, her living hair, blue serpents spilling out from beneath her black helmet, dragged two lifeless strangled bodies in her wake.

“Did you like it, my?” Without asking, he lifted her visor and ran his fingers over her brow, cheeks, and lips, leaving bloody streaks across the Kel lady’s face. “You wanted to taste the real Unity, didn’t you? I gave you a chance.”

Oh, she loved it. Her eyes were gleaming, her breathing ragged.

“It’s... exciting,” Azymandia murmured, inhaling through her nose. “But now my hair’s going to smell like rotting fish...”

“You’ll wash it out, my. But look at this...”

“Aw,” Azymandia gasped. “It’s... incredible. A Draconic Rune, my lord? How could it be here, in this miserable hole?”

“It doesn’t matter, my. Can you dismantle it?”

“Dismantle it?!” Her eyes went wide, lips parted in shock — he managed to surprise her. “But… that’s insane, my sky lord! This is a treasure! It’s worth a thousand Starcoins!”

“In Eternity. Here, the Watcher will pay for it by its rank.”

“Yes, in Eternity... But my lord, it’s a really powerful Rune! Let me test what it can do at gold! You’ll have an army! You can’t waste a chance like this!”

She thought the same way as many others did, as Threehead had. Yes, a great temptation… especially since the crafty Watcher had imposed no penalty, as though inviting him to continue the Wild Hunt, just with a new king. After all, the froggards could be used. And at the gold rank, Serpent’s Blood would grant dominion over creatures far more dreadful and powerful…

But the White Devil remembered something else. The Thousand had never truly been one, never truly united, even though they walked toward a shared goal. Some Brethren had tried other paths, forging alliances that tarnished the rest of them. And that Rune that granted control over the enemies of Unity was born of a desperate attempt to raise an army of slaves and win at any cost. A great unbeatable horde… He remembered Circles that became wastelands, battlefields that turned to graveyards when such armies marched.

Could it be they had lost because they didn’t care about their methods?

Suddenly, the White Devil recalled Sigurd and their clash at the edge of the Black Maw when the Yuwein had stopped him from throwing that traitor girl into the chasm. She deserved to become Worm food, and the Earther was foolish, but there was something in his words... That was how the True had spoken, those who served Sentinel. Their foolish code also forbade them from interfering, condemning them to thousands of dissolutions and losing themselves in rebirth. Yet they had followed it for thousands of cycles, long before the Thousand came to be and continuing even now. Could they have been wiser?

No. He would not use that Rune.

“I wasn’t asking for advice on what to do with the Rune, my!” he said and gave her a light slap on the cheek, knowing full well how such treatment excited Azymandia. “I asked if my golden Rune Master could dismantle it. Answer me.”

“I don’t know. I might be gold... but I’ve never tried that. This is the work of... of the very... Are you sure, my lord?”

“Dismantle it immediately.”

“My lord should know,” she warned, biting her lips. “I’m not sure I can extract the Draconic Item without destroying the Seal. I don’t know if I can preserve the blank… or the Symbols, if they’re above my rank...”

“Do it, my! And call the Cyclops. We’ll need its Crushing Blow.”

Sensing his rising wrath, she accepted the Rune into her Slate and began the process. A few seconds of tense silence, and Azymandia exhaled in triumph.

“It worked! It worked, my lord! The Seal is broken, but the blank’s intact — and it’s Draconic! And the Symbols… I’ve never seen anything like them! And… I’ve gained a golden star!”

“Congratulations, my. Give me everything left after the dismantling.”

“What should I do with the Item, my lord? Will you take it too?”

He looked around. As soon as the wand… ceased to exist, they would have to leave that place immediately, as thousands of froggards would break free of his control. But that wasn’t the worst outcome — they would help cover their tracks.

“Have your servants quickly gather all the Blood, Runes, and Items from the fallen. Be ready to recall them. And place the Item here,” he pointed at a flat fragment of a pillar that could serve as an anvil.

The Draconic Wand, now just an Item, lay atop the rock. For a few moments, the White Devil stared at it.

“Rune of Entropy, my. And you, smash!”

Breaking an artifact of unknown grade, the masterpiece of celestial runesmiths, wasn’t simple. But golden Entropy and Crushing Blow did their work, even if the Cyclops also shattered the stone anvil.

And the moment it was done, the Watcher sent a silver reward, and the froggards stirred below, behind the ramparts. It was time to leave — they were almost done with the Swampcave tribe.

The White Devil tossed several pale fragments of the masterpiece into his Storage Rune, their surface faintly glimmering with Starblood.

“Today, you fought for me, my Ascendants, and I thank you,” he told his Runes, Morwayne and Azymandia. “Know this: when the time comes, I shall fight for you too. Each of you shall be rewarded, and I swear by the Thousand, you shall not be disappointed.”

“My lord,” Morwayne said, bowing her head, though a sly smile tugged at her lips. “Blue with silver...”

“I remember, my.”

“And I want a place with a bath, some wine, and a bed,” Azymandia declared. “And a runic anvil, so I can break down the Draconic Symbols...”

“You’ll have what you desire.”

Then they vanished, returning as Runes to his Slates. Whitewing took the White Devil and soared upward, high over the swamps and the savage froggards, leaving them free beneath the cold stare of the blue eye of Eternity.

He was flying toward the Dead Fish. It was time to return his nail.

And reclaim his Glory.

Chapter 10

APPROACHING THE DEAD FISH required subtlety — they couldn’t suspect a thing. He needed to wait a day or two, then return by the same path, through the flooded Arrow by the river. That’s exactly how long such a journey would last for a strong Ascendant without a Whitewing in their Slate. And the White Devil did just that, spending the entire next day over the border marshes.

He saw that the froggards gathered by Black Threehead were dispersing, crawling through the surrounding swamps. The hungry creatures had wiped out the remaining swamp-dwellers overnight. No longer controlled by anyone’s will, they claimed the ruined camp, tearing into the discarded corpses and devouring them. Soon, no one would be able to tell what had taken place there. Some of the froggards wandered through the Arrow, returning to the Swamp Caves. As for the swamp-dwellers, they barely had any warriors and Ascendants left.

The Swampcave clan was finished.

The war parties they had sent out likely tore their emissaries to pieces as well. They still roamed the borderlands, soon joined by the others, but those were just ordinary beasts of the Wild Hunt. The Riverfolk would deal with them on their own.

The White Devil had no intention of helping or saving anyone else. The Wild Hunt was a cycle where the weak died, and the strong became stronger. Why interfere in a natural process that only served the cause of Ascension? The sentients must overcome it themselves. Yes, billions would perish in Unity, but people were always dying and being born. And through these trials, many Ascendants would climb another step up the great stairway…

When nothing happens, Eternity comes.

He had no regrets about destroying the wand or refusing its power. Regret was pointless — what was done was done, and the Thousand had already walked that road once before, too. The Earther might have said, “You can’t step into the same river twice,” but the White Devil intended to avoid the river altogether. Savage might alone solved nothing, and they would never again be as powerful as in the age when the banners of the Forgotten One’s fragments were raised in a thousand Circles and hundreds of Domains…

And the Draconic Rune hadn’t been lost, anyway. The higher ranks of Rune Mastery unlocked the ability to not just break Runes but disassemble them into their original components. And to Azymandia’s credit, she had managed to preserve the shell, a Draconic-grade blank, and a handful of strange Symbols that still needed to be identified. He also had fragments of the wand — an unusual altered material for creating new Symbols or Seals — but that required a runic anvil, as neither his pathetic bronze nor even Azymandia’s gold were enough to unravel the draconic secrets.

But that was for later. Until the Riverfolk hadn’t forgotten about him, he wanted the nail.

On the second day, the White Devil heard the Deadfish hounds. Scouts, followed by Aurvak’s warriors, were cautiously moving along the rivers, killing stray froggards and other Wild Hunt beasts along the way. They had their hands full, allowing One of the Thousand to swiftly evade them, only encountering the rivermen next to the Arrow.

Luckily, the sentries recognized him. Word of the strange exile and Aurvak’s promise had clearly spread (Trout’s quick tongue might have had something to do with that), and the Glory he had gained over the past days was a clear indication of that. There was no fight. They escorted him to the Dead Fish with four warriors, and the convoy looked more like an honor guard. The Riverfolk were clearly wary of the fearsome exile and didn’t even bother to take his weapon or bracelet.

“I hear ripples that Flamelike tears froggards apart with his fins alone,” a young Ascendant leading the patrol said. “I hear murmurs that he left for the marshes to harpoon Black Threehead... Is this drizzle?”

“I’ve been to the marshes.”

“Last night, our listeners—”

“Take me to the Dead Fish, Ascendant,” he cut the scout off, pulling a withered clawed hand with a nail through its wrist from his Cryptor. “I bring gifts for your Riks…”

Rumors traveled faster than he did. As One of the Thousand entered the river stronghold, passing through the gates once shaped like a gaping maw, walking across platforms and bone bridges under the watch of tower sentries, crossing a maze of streets with homes assembled from ancient bones and walls made from aquatic plants, fungal stones, and white clay, and followed his escorts through winding corridors with ankle-deep water and intricate carvings on the walls, his Glory grew drop by drop. Pale and slender Riverfolk, their curious children and sharp-cheeked women adorned with pearls and shells, watched him, and Keen Hearing caught their whispers.

“Flamelike... Flamelike has returned... He’s going to the Riks...”

At last, they brought him to the main hall of the Dead Fish, a hof and a shrine at the same time, where the Riks received guests. This had once been the heart of the Dead Fish, its golden core, and even now, the intricate pattern of interwoven bones and sinews was still imprinted on its walls and arches. For the Riverfolk, that place was clearly sacred: murmuring veils of water, a patterned floor, glowing pearl lanterns, and a great altar of the Creator with a Starblooded crystal hovering above it. Ascendant guards with sparking tridents blocked the entrance but immediately parted their weapons as if receiving a silent command.

Scalelord Aurvak stepped forward, pushing aside the curtain of water with his broad shoulders and lowering himself into a throne carved from the shell of a massive mollusk. Despite the Riks’ fearsome appearance, the White Devil could see what churned inside him.

Distrust. Amazement. Fear.

Blueshell stood to his right and Fierce Mawtooth to the left. There was nobody else in the shrine, and the guards closed the doors.

“So you’ve returned to the Dead Fish, exile,” Aurvak said, staring at him from beneath his furrowed gray eyebrows. “You’ll drown here too, if you’ve come to murmur and drizzle…”

“I brought the Riks what he asked for.”

One of the Thousand carelessly tossed his trophy to the riverlord, who caught it mid-air. He studied the gift: a scaly webbed hand torn off at the elbow, with black claws and a shredded fin. Blueshell and Mawtooth leaned closer, and an extracted Stigmata dully glinted on Aurvak’s wide palm.

“Black Threehead…” the Riks said flatly and locked his gaze on the White Devil.

“Depths below, you weren’t drizzling, but... How, exile? How have you done what our bronze fish and silver mawteeth failed to do?”

“I’ll tell the Riks,” the White Devil smirked. “But first, he must do what he promised, for the words of the Scalelord are no mere drizzle!”

Fierce Mawtooth winced, baring his teeth.

“You murmur before the Riks, exile!” he growled. “No one will ripple if the wormson drowns without getting the nail...”

He stopped because the White Devil raised his hand, his palm filled with Stigmata crusted with dried blood. Those were the nails his Runes had torn from the dead Ascendant in the marsh camp.

“The Swampcave men didn’t want to give up their nails either,” he said. “But the Deadfish Riks is far wiser.”

Something in his tone made everyone in the room flinch. Fierce Mawtooth wanted to say something, but caught the White Devil’s gaze and fell silent, swallowing his words and deciding to keep his foolish thoughts to himself. He glanced at his Riks, as if seeking support.

But Aurvak, leaning on the back of his throne, was listening closely to what Eless Blueshell was whispering into his ear, his wife and the Flaminica of the Deadfish tribe. She spoke at length, stroking his shoulder and raising her eyes now and then, as though measuring the White Devil’s figure.

When she finished, the Riks loudly exhaled. “The Riks’ words are no drizzle!” he declared. “You’ve brought our enemy’s nail, and you’ll get what was promised, no matter how many might ripple... Come here, exile.”

He took two steps forward, and Eless extended a slender hand, a single Stigmata gleaming silver on her palm. She unfolded her fingers, webbed to the first knuckle, and the nail drifted through the air toward him. One of the Thousand caught it lazily, like swatting a fly, and carefully studied it: the Flaminica might be testing him, offering a forgery or a full nail. After all, only an Ascendant could tell the difference…

But no. Wisely, they had chosen against trying to play with fate. It was a blank Stigmata from the Temple of Eternity. Exactly what he needed.

“The nail’s yours, exile!” Aurvak said. “Though I’ve no idea what you want with it... And now, murmur to us about Threehead and the Swampcave tribe. It seems my fish heard noise in the marshes, and their Runes saw lights there at night...”

“Two nights ago, I was there. I took Black Threehead’s nail, his hand, and his life. I did the same to many of his Ascendants, too...”

“Alone? How? What happened there? My fish say there are more froggards in the marshes by the Arrow than fry in a mawtooth nest!”

I slipped into his camp by night,” the White Devil replied. “Earthfolk weapons helped me, creating fire, thunder, and lots of smoke. Don’t ask me about it, for it belongs to a Nation that is mine no longer. While the swamp-dwellers panicked in flames like witless children, I killed Threehead and those who protected him. He commanded all froggards there. With their Riks dead, they came into the camp and killed the rest of the Swampcaves.”

“All of Threehead’s people?!” Aurvak asked, disbelieving.

“Everyone who was there,” the White Devil confirmed. “I wasn’t counting. If your Ascendants hurry, they might still recover their Stigmata, Runes, and Starblood…”

“Depths below! And the froggards?”

“There are many, but they can’t hear Threehead anymore. They can’t hear anyone... Your Ascendants can handle them, Riks. Send them through the Arrow into the Swamp Caves. I think there are few warriors left there, but many women and children. Let the Deadfish reclaim all that was taken from them and deal with the Swampcaves as your law commands. This is my gift to the Deadfish.”

“The Deadfish hear you,” Aurvak replied darkly. “My fish are already close… they’ll swim there, and if your words are no drizzle… Oh, depths below… black depths! We should have cleansed the caves of murky water long ago...”

“What if the wormson is rippling, and the Deadfish walk into an ambush behind the Arrow?” Mawtooth argued.

“People of the Deadfish, I see you! And I say this: whoever next calls me a wormson shall answer to my spear,” the White Devil hissed. “Enough foolish words! Blood alone doesn’t make an Ascendant a worm...”

“You see us, but we don’t see you,” Eless Blueshell calmly countered. “You might be a strong warrior, Earthfolk, but you’re no Ascendant. Murmur to me, how are you going to drive the nail into your wrist? You cannot swim to the Temple of Eternity.”

She studied him closely, the wisest and sharpest of them all. With silver Attributes of Mind, Eless was the neck that turned the Riks’ head. The White Devil nodded and lifted the Stigmata with two fingers of his whole hand, holding it up for her to see.

“I was an Ascendant, Flaminica. And I know that driving another nail into your wrist is enough to regain your strength.”

“No, exile. Even if it’s your old Stigmata, you’ll have to swim to the Temple of Eternity and beg the priests for aid. And this is an empty nail that will begin your Ascension anew...”

“I’ve heard some Ascendants did it themselves. Their bodies already knew the Stigmata, and their souls left an imprint in the Halls of Waiting.”

“The Unseen merely smiled on those you murmur about. Only one in a thousand can withstand such pain! Do you wish for a slow death? Do you think others haven’t tried before you? It’s mere drizzle!” the female Ascendant replied coldly. “And if you don’t die while the nail roots itself in your veins, you’ll become a wretched madman.”

She gasped as the White Devil raised the stump of his left arm and abruptly drove the nail just below the elbow. Then he turned his arm to show the gleaming head of the nail to the Riks, the Flaminica, and the Bannerman.

One of the Thousand knew what was going to happen next. Like the True, reborn from the Source, he could control the nail, for his Blood was supreme. He could have done the same for Sigurd, but the young Earther had to visit the Temple of Eternity, or no one would believe him — and the White Devil didn’t know how the Stigmata would behave once his Blood left another’s body. That’s why they had procured a false Stigmata for the Earther, but for him, a shard of a United, a real one was enough. His Blood was stronger.

The ancient nails, forged for the heroes of the lesser races to set them upon the path of Ascension, were different. They could be placed anywhere along the body’s eo channels. They didn’t steal souls for the amusement of Eternity but preserved them for rebirth, making men akin to the True, or released them beyond the veil of existence. It was a reward, an honor, a mighty weapon passed from the old to the young.

But Eternity had chosen another path. It desired Starblood, Runes, and slaves for its vile games. So they added pain to their Stigmata — pain that killed outside the Coffins of Endless Sleep — because they wanted all Ascendants to leave their first imprint in the Halls of Waiting. The White Devil and the wise Flaminica knew how many times the Temples had tried to deceive the supplicants — out of need, greed, or under the threat of death. Countless Ascendants had tried to re-implant nails: their own, taken from others, or just blank. In every Domain, they ran experiments to learn whether the Temple and Endless Sleep could be bypassed.

Like the Flaminica, he knew that it was almost impossible. All lessers carried an inherent flaw seeded by the Kel, who had feared their creations might surpass them. The lessers couldn’t wield Runes or Starblood, lacking even a spark of eo, and the Stigmata took its place, weaving power through their flesh and allowing them to see, hold, and command Starblood. That’s why the implantation ritual was sacred: the pain of new eo channels sprouting throughout the body would kill any sentient, even one who would trick it with a potion, trance, or by feigning death.

But there were two exceptions. First, those stripped of Stigmata. They already possessed a grown eo and only needed to restore its apex. Yes, only one in a thousand could survive that pain with their mind intact, but it was possible.

And second, those born with eo or at least its seed. The Earthers. The precursors of the Kel. They, too, had no flaw. The White Devil hadn’t lied when he told Sigurd they could forge their own Ascendants — Earthers could even do it without Stigmata, because they were equal to the Kel, who came from their ancient blood. The Earthfolk genes were a mighty weapon. Eternity was open to them, and Ascension lay within their reach. They only needed to learn how to see Starblood…

Mark Cassidy, whose body he now inhabited, was half-Earther by birth. He used to bear a Stigmata. His eo was bronze with a faint but distinct weave. That meant he needed no Temple and no Coffin to reclaim a Stigmata.

The White Devil knew what was coming. The Stigmata stung him with a silver barb, but that pain was trivial. True agony came after with a wave of fire flooding his veins. He knew his skin flushed red and his whole body trembled, and those who could see him would witness a blue pulse coming from the nail along the threads of his eo. Soon, his eyes would flicker silver and azure, and his hair would flow as if stirred by an invisible wind.

He knew how to tame pain, but he had to endure. To show them. To show them…

A miracle.

It was harder than he had expected — the new body clung too tightly to his spirit. Pain pierced him, blinding and deafening, searing every cell, and for a heartbeat, he swayed.

“Help him, he’s about to fall!” he heard Eless cry.

But One of the Thousand didn’t fall, only dropping to one knee. Suppressing the throbbing pain and subduing his flesh with savage will, he pushed through the weakness and saw the spinning weave of his own essence. With his mind, he reached the nail pulsing in his forearm and seized control over it, bending it to his will, forcing it to serve his blood that already knew all of that and more.

When he raised his head and looked at the Riks, Flaminica, and Bannerman, they recoiled, for his eyes were glowing. Eless covered her face with his hands, and Mawtooth and Aurvak turned away, unable to bear the sight. They had thought he’d die before them, but he hadn’t. He survived the pain and bent the Stigmata to his will.

The White Devil rose to his feet. As he opened his Slate, their focused stares told him that the Riverfolk could see it, just as they saw his name chosen for Ascension, Title, and rank. The Riks stared, shaken and astonished. The Bannerman gasped in confusion. The Flaminica looked at him in horror. She was the only one of them all who was beginning to understand — because she could see and think.

A Sphere of Silence lit up. Eless was terrified, yet she was the first to speak up.

“Flamelike... I see you...”

“Flamelike!” Aurvak boomed, rising and giving him the sign warriors use to greet their equals. “I see your silver!”

“Flamelike,” Fierce Mawtooth bowed his head. “I see you, Ascendant.”

“By the Deadfish, this’ll stir the waters...” the Riks said heavily. “Oh, my silver fish... what do you see? How’s this possible? He… reclaimed his name… And his Glory is high.”

His Glory had indeed made him an Heir, but that was only the beginning. His Slate flashed silver. The White Devil felt the Aura of Trust, followed a mental touch from Blueshell: light, cautious, delicate. He let her look within, guiding her arm like a timid child’s, and sensed the Flaminica flinch and draw back after even a brief glimpse.

She exhaled deeply and covered her eyes with her palms. The White Devil slowly smiled. Sometimes, what lay inside a shard of a United burned like a pit of moving blades or a thousand fiery eyes in the dark. Yet it had to be done.

“Are you unwell, my little fish? What have you seen?”

“He’s... Earthfolk no longer,” the Flaminica said, and her voice trembled slightly. “His blood... has been awakened… He truly is flamelike… and burning.”

“My flame burns my enemies and warms my friends,” One of the Thousand said. “You saw it. You know. You understood.”

“What? What’s he rippling about?”

“Let Flamelike murmur for himself,” the Flaminica replied. “Before, only those who bore lightning bolts instead of nails could do such things...”

Abruptly, they fell silent, as if approaching a forbidden topic, and the White Devil gave a knowing grin again. He hadn’t come to the Deadfish by accident. He knew they remembered — even now, they still claimed the forbidden lands as their own. In the eyes, hair, and figure of Silver Trout, he saw echoes of those who once glided through the canals of his city. He saw the blue patterns on her skin and the symbols woven into the signum of her clan. To those in the know, they could tell a lot, as did the murals carved into the Dead Fish’s walls. Their ancestors had come from Esthé too, and the strength and knowledge granted there had made them the mightiest clan among the Riverfolk.

And now, the Flaminica saw more than a mad exiled Ascendant who had taken a Stigmata and survived. She saw a sign. She remembered how it once was. And she knew what was coming.

“I’ll speak, but only to your ears. My blood is half-Earthfolk. It is a gift and curse of those sent by the sky. Our sages know how to implant and tame the Stigmata. The other half is Shadowfolk, and the wise know my line descends from those born of the Lightningbearer...”

“Enough drizzle!” Blueshell warned. “We won’t ripple, Flamelike, and you should not murmur too much either. Our people remember the old ruins across the river.”

“I’ve been there, and I know. I trust the Deadfish wisdom. This is why I came to you with great gifts. In return, you’ll give me yours: accept me as an equal and keep my secrets. For now...”

“We hear your murmur,” Eless slowly replied. “We understand that the old blood has awakened. From now on, the Deadfish stand with you, Flamelike.”

She placed her hands again on Aurvak’s shoulders, and the Scalelord spoke up, never taking his gaze off him.

“You have no Nation, Flamelike. But the Deadfish could use a silver mawtooth. The Skymark ripples. Will you share water with us?”

He was given a great honor — an invitation to join the clan. Not every exile, especially with his reputation, received an opportunity like that. But the White Devil merely shook his head.

“No.”

“But why?”

“Your people already have a Riks,” he said, and Eless gave a pale smile, knowing it was no joke. A moment later, Aurvak burst into laughter, pounding his knee with a fist.

“By the Dead Fish, they’ll be rippling about this… So what else do you want from my people in exchange for secrets and gifts?”

“Sanctuary and free passage through your lands,” One of the Thousand answered. “And a guide. One who can help me find the silver lokhi.”

“You want your hand back?” Aurvak caught on instantly, running his fingers through his gray beard. “Hmm… Is that all?”

“No, Riks,” One of the Thousand smiled. “I also need a dress.”

“A dress?”

“Yes. Blue and silver.”

Chapter 11

THEY DIDN’T HAVE a suitable dress for Morwayne, but that was probably the only disappointment. Everything else was going remarkably well, as if the Unseen had stopped pulling black stones out of his pouch.

He spent some time in the Dead Fish, his body and spirit in need of rest. The Riverfolk had grown on him, and he wanted them to grow used to him in turn, to understand and accept him. Not as one of their own, but as a friend, an ally — someone who needn’t be met with a raised spear. For now, that would be enough, but with time, even wood grew into gold.

And so, he swam with them and hunted river beasts by their side, joined the river patrols, and laughed as he learned to stay upright on a slippery nixie’s back and dive on a swift spineback. He ate fish from the common pot, drank from the same fountain, sparred with young warriors and seasoned Ascendants, admired the chiseled figures of their women, and stroked the gray hair of their curious children. He could win the hearts of men and women alike — an ancient art known to all shards of the United, and people were drawn to him instinctively, for the spirit of a giant couldn’t be hidden even in a dwarf’s body.

There were some in the Dead Fish who weren’t pleased with the welcome given to the exile who had killed their friends last cycle, but no one dared challenge the silver Ascendant. His claiming of a nail hadn’t gone unnoticed, but the Riks, the Flaminica, and the Bannerman kept silent, bound by the secret, and the rest could only speculate. And with their whispers, a new legend was born: that of Flamelike, a one-armed exile who killed froggards with his bare hands and tore a nail from the Swampcave chieftain, driving it into his own arm, and didn’t die, for he was a descendant of ancient heroes of two great Nations...

And it was good, for his Glory rose with each passing day.

Aurvak sent a force to the Swamp Caves, but clearing out the roaming bands and pushing through the Arrow proved no easy feat, even for the Deadfish, the strongest of the Riverfolk clans. The White Devil didn’t go with them, but he helped defend the borders and hunted in place of the departed Ascendants. Believing his Slate empty and his Starblood weak, the Riverfolk handed him trash-ranked Starblooded beasts, and the White Devil took each with a grin and open hands. In the evening, he dismantled those Runes, for his Slate was full.

He had claimed many Runes and fragments from the swamp-dweller camp, and the dead Swampcave Ascendants had generously shared their Starblood. Over a thousand drops gleamed in his Attributes, and the Creature Runes that aided him in battle had also grown stronger. His trophies were many, although most were wooden and bronze junk only good for salvage, trade, or empowering other Ascendant Creatures. Still, a few silver Runes from the haul were especially noteworthy:

Healing Scales: a silver Spell, an excellent defensive Rune the Riverfolk Ascendants harvested from deadly Starblooded mawteeth. Its upgrade slots were full: Augmentation extended the duration to eight minutes, Amplification granted the effect of Mirror Reflection, and the lucky addition of Element of Life provided Regeneration. When used, the Rune not only shielded its wielder from physical attacks but also allowed them to start healing any received wounds. A second chance for any Ascendant... yet it hadn’t helped Black Threehead.

Aquatic Body: a silver Spell. It was a fascinating Rune that turned its owner into water for a few heartbeats to avoid a blow or slip through a crack no flesh could pass. One of the Thousand saw many uses for it, though activating it was fraught with danger. Water could become vapor or leak into a place of no return, resulting in a slow and agonizing death for the Ascendant.

Threehead’s Claw: a silver Item Rune with two upgrades: Amplification and Element of Death. Dropped from the Swampcave Riks, it was a curved single-edged blade crafted from the claw of a gigantic Starblooded beast. According to the description, it wasn’t simply strong and razor-sharp: the blade devoured light, cloaking its wielder in twilight. It was a powerful weapon, though the elemental augmentation had backfired: Death gave it the effect of Call, summoning the spirit of a monstrous threehead. Only an Ascendant capable of resisting Terror could handle a weapon bound to such a ghost. No wonder Black Threehead had never drawn it. The White Devil doubted he’d ever use it himself, but the Claw would make a fine gift for Morwayne. After the silver-blue dress, of course.

Silver Geyser: a silver Spell Rune that could summon a tall geyser of fresh drinking water with a healing effect in any location, even a desert or an ocean. It would be enough for an entire caravan. Its only Augmentation extended the effect to one hour. In certain situations, that Rune could be priceless.

Seeker’s Star: a silver Item Rune identical to the one Sigurd had won in the Temple of the First Step. An extremely useful artifact with three charges that increased Starblood regeneration tenfold for a full treeday.

Bogmaiden: a silver Creature Rune, a powerful aquatic transport capable of carrying an entire spear through thick sludge. Judging by the glyph, it looked like an elongated log with a bundle of trailing tentacles at the rear. Despite all his experience, One of the Thousand had never seen such a beast before.

There was more silver, too, useful Property Runes: three Growths, an Augmentation, Amplification, and Transformation. He used one to expand his Slate, though the fusion of fragments had already added many slots to his runic circle. With the other two, he unlocked the silver Attributes of Might and Perfection. The former granted him physical strength beyond anything a mortal could achieve, no matter how much they trained, and the latter kept the body human while enhancing its traits. There were other Attributes too, ones that changed the body entirely, turning an Ascendant into a beast or a titan and giving them a second heart or wings. But One of the Thousand had seen many walk that path, and people often turned away from them in fear.

The first silver Star of Might granted him the Skill of Indomitability, and a star of Perfection gave the Harmony of Forms, an ability that could’ve been quite useful in other circumstances. He already kept noticing the eyes of women on himself all the time: his father had blessed Mark Cassidy with a rugged masculine build, and his spirit lent him the sinister charisma of a predator. The women of the lesser races, and not just them, always looked to the alphas, for the desire to bear strong children was in their very nature.

He applied Augmentation to Whitewing, allowing it to serve him for eight hours, and put Amplification into Thundersquall, turning it into Thunderstorm. What remained was a silver Transformation capable of reshaping a Spell or Ability into a Skill, but for now, it would have to wait.

He had also picked up a great deal of bronze, enough to top up all Attributes and finally become a full-fledged silver. Yes, a weak one, with just seven Stars, but he was already ahead of Sigurd, and that was just the beginning of his path. Even in the Dead Fish, only a handful had more silver Stars.

Some bronze Runes were useful too, both for himself and his Runes.

Phantom Gaze: a bronze Spell Rune.

Wanderer’s Rope: a bronze Item Rune.

Floating Shield: a bronze Item Rune.

Ascendant’s Defender: a bronze Item Rune.

Scales: a bronze Spell Rune.

Speaking Stones: a bronze Item Rune.

Whirlpool: a bronze Spell Rune.

Wanderer’s Kettle: a bronze Item Rune.

Aquatic Wings: a bronze Spell Rune.

Freeze: a bronze Spell Rune.

Spectral Axes: a bronze Spell Rune.

Aquatic Veil: a bronze Spell Rune.

Lesser Cure: a bronze Spell Rune.

Aquatic Giant: a bronze Creature Rune.

Mawtooth Pack: a bronze Creature Rune.

There were also a few bronze Elements: Poison, Water, and Flight, one Recharge, and several Linkings. One Property was remarkable and very rare: Stellar, which granted a Rune an additional upgrade slot. As for regular Properties, he had more than he could ever need.

With them, the White Devil transformed and augmented several Runes, creating two new combinations. Empowered by the Element of Water, Whirlwind changed into Lesser Maelstrom. He linked it with the amplified and Flight-infused Spectral Axes, which became Flying Spectral Hatchets. Almost invisible within the spinning streams of water, the trio of blades spun by the Maelstrom could easily shred a whole crowd of trash-ranked enemies and even pose a threat to spectral entities. He could launch such combos every minute, both as a moving shield and a sword.

The second link started with Aquatic Veil, which created a thin film of water on the target surface. That Rune had many possible uses, but the White Devil decided to employ it for control, connecting it with Freeze. Two weak Runes formed a powerful combination, instantly producing a slick surface beneath or in front of enemies, which also synergized nicely with his thunder Runes. Two slots in both Runes remained empty, because the potential of that simplest of links was immense, but to fulfill it, he needed Runes he hadn’t found yet.

Aside from combat, the swamp-dwellers had three Runes meant for rest and entertainment. Thousand Tales was a tome and invisible storyteller, ready to recount a thousand ancient fables from lighthearted merry yarns to epics of celestial Ascendants. Rainbow Pool conjured a small bath with fluctuating color, temperature, and fragrance, while Lovers’ Flower was a beautiful tent-like plant whose closed bud created a mood perfect for a romantic rendezvous. The White Devil had no need for such things, but in some cases, they could be useful to maintain the morale of his Runes, companions, or guests.

There were also two bronze Portals — Forgotten Lake and Great Tower, and two bronze Sagas: Serpent’s Grave and Threehead’s Last Path. He watched them at once. The former revealed the location of a massive graveyard where Swampcave members had been casting the corpses of beasts and foes. Besides carrion-feeders, necrotic entities, and wandering revenants, it contained a great deal of altered trash-ranked materials, which didn’t interest him at all. The second, surprisingly, had nothing to do with the slain chieftain but told the story of the final battle of a great silver-ranked Starblooded threehead whose claws had apparently been used to craft the claw blade. That was more intriguing, since the beast dropped a silver core and fragments, though those treasures were likely long gone. Both secrets were stale, and One of the Thousand had no intention of following their trails.

As for the Portals... He knew nothing about the Forgotten Lake, but the Great Tower was a different story. Yet a journey there would be unpredictable, for the Towers were vast mechanisms connecting and dividing octagons. The one he would find might be dead, ruined by the Darkness, Worms, or the Wars of the Sundering, or partially or even fully functional. Either case required careful preparation. Even a bronze-grade trip could be perilous for a lone silver. Not that the White Devil doubted his strength — he simply knew the difference between bravery and madness.

Those were the only Runes whose fate the White Devil pondered. The rest were fit only for dismantling or sending to the Watcher’s treasury, but there was no need to rush that either.

And then there was the silver reward. One of the Thousand thought long and hard on what to request from the Watcher. The mission had been difficult, involving the Wild Hunt, aquatic beasts, and the destruction of Draconic Runes. He had completed it alone, slaying many through guile and Runes, and the Watcher’s scales would weigh that. Needing a good weapon, he considered an Item or a Spell. A Wild Hunt Creature from the swamps wouldn’t be a good choice, and neither would be anything else...

Yet the more he thought, the more his old memories insisted he was wrong. Items and Spells wouldn’t make him much stronger, even if the Unseen smiled upon him once again: a silver was a silver. That Circle was greedy even in a dangerous season, and he knew he’d have to seek silver elsewhere. Places where you could take several Runes in exchange for one...

One more thing kept gnawing at his soul. Despite passing several ordeals, he was yet to awaken an Aspect. Even his latest battle hadn’t helped, though the White Devil walked into it discarding caution.

He knew why. Those trials were too weak, too easy for him. He hadn’t faced death, hadn’t come to the brink of annihilation, hadn’t stared into its eyes — not even the kind that comes for the thrice-born. And thus his Aspect still slumbered, for it could only awaken in the moment of mortal danger — the kind Sigurd had faced in the Temple of the First Step.

An Aspect was better than an Item or Spell. It was something that remained with the Ascendant forever: their essence, reflection, a second self. The Aspect of the Master of Esthé was Woven Lightning, an entity of terrible power and beauty that surrounded him in the moments of splendor. His new Aspect would be very different, however — he could feel that. Which meant only one option remained.

A Domain. A silver Domain, the most dangerous game with the Unseen! But the higher the stakes, the greater the prize...

One of the Thousand chose the Domain... and sighed, looking at the three silver Runes.

The Watcher and the Unseen had decided to have a laugh at his expense!

House of the Chalice

Lighthouse by the Sea

Cursed Shrine

The first was a Key, and he knew that place and its mysterious master. It might have been one of the oldest Domains open to guests... but the House of the Chalice was a place of rest and trade, of conversations and deals, with no room for trials or war. Another time, the White Devil would’ve gladly entered it to see what shape the House had taken after thousands of cycles, what his eternal host looked like in the present, and who clinked cups at his tables. That time hadn’t come yet.

The second was a Treasure that he hadn’t heard about. He didn’t need it, anyway — it was only a Rune or two, and every Treasure was guarded by a silver keeper.

But the third Domain, the Cursed Shrine, was almost legendary. An old and well-known Arena, where thousands of Ascendants had lost their heads, each believing themselves the strongest.

Long ago, One of the Thousand had stood on its searing stones, listening to the ringing of demonic crystals and the echoing steps of his opponent. He remembered that fiery shrine, the bronze ifrits and the silver spirit who guarded the fire-breathing halls, their black walls and the crimson glow of magma flowing through the cracks.

An Arena was a deadly duel between two Ascendants, and only one could leave it alive. He would take everything the loser left — their nail, Blood, Runes, Items, and the fragment of their Slate — and that haul could exceed all expectations.

But the White Devil knew who fought in the Arena. Only those Ascendants who knew how to kill their own kind set foot there. Those who honed themselves, adapting their gear for such battles, their Slates holding combinations of Runes that could turn an enemy to ash with a single touch...

There were no rules in the Arena. One fighter’s Slate might hold many golden Runes, and their Attributes — though limited by the Domain’s rank — could be close to gold as well. One of the Thousand remembered that Unity was vast, and in other Circles, Ascendants dedicated themselves to the Arena, mastering every trick and secret of the duel.

Even he, a thrice-born True, would have a hard time against them.

He was only a weak silver, and his Runes were a far cry from those needed in a fiery dungeon. Even the spirits guarding the sanctuary would be tough enemies. A real Arena warrior would devour him like a mawtooth a wriggling fry...

The White Devil chose the Cursed Shrine and smiled darkly. A deadly trial was just what he needed.

There was one more thing — what the Earthers called a “nuance.” The Arena required two Ascendants of the same rank, and though Unity was vast, two weren’t always willing to fight at the same time. The first to use the Rune cast a challenge to all others and would only be transferred to the Domain when a second stepped forward. In the meantime — which could be minutes, hours, or days — the challenger had to be ready for the Translocation, or cancel the challenge and lose the Rune. Anyone with the same Arena Rune would learn that a challenge was issued and could instantly travel to the Domain.

The Rune was silent for now, no challenges having been made.

The White Devil wasn’t going to be the first to issue it; the Domain could pull him away in the middle of something. He decided to wait and see how often Arena challenges came through and respond if the time was right.

He didn’t regret his decision, because soon Ascendants sent to the Swamp Caves began returning to the Dead Fish. And one of the first he saw was Silver Trout.

He had heard she went off with the warriors and didn’t think of her since then, but the sight of the girl’s laughing face as she entered the room assigned to him made him smile.

“I see you, Flamelike,” she said, hugging him a little gentler and longer than one would a guest. “Are they drizzling that you took a nail?”

“They are not,” he confirmed. “Are you back already?”

“The Swampcave clan will not swim to the great moot!” Trout declared with a bloodthirsty grin. “Only froggards now breed in their stinking smooth caves!”

“Did any of them get away?”

“Some might have swum off. The smooth caves are long, deep, full of froggards and toxic smoke... But the Deadfish took everyone bearing nails, and all men taller than a water lily, too. Their spawn will now serve the Deadfish, and their treasures were split among our Ascendants. I ate two new stars myself, see?”

“I do,” he nodded, gazing at her slender thighs rippling with taut muscles. “Did you take many Runes?”

“Not many,” Silver Trout sighed. “And the bronze fish never found hers. There were almost no Runes or Blood at the spot you marked — probably eaten by the froggards… But many ripple that Flamelike can eat Runes without even seeing them... Is that drizzle?”

He shrugged mockingly, and Trout continued.

“Not just the Deadfish ripple about Flamelike. The bronze fish swam to the Cold Waters and murmured with their Ascendants about a new silver mawtooth... Is the mawtooth pleased with his Glory?”

“The bronze fish is clever,” he said with a smile. “But you didn’t visit the Cold Waters just for that, did you?”

“The Riks sent the fish as a messenger. I murmured with the Coldwater clan about the silver lokhi that owed the mawtooth a new fin. And they know where such a lokhi swims... The fish found the lokhi for the mawtooth.”

“She did,” the White Devil echoed. “Where?”

“In the Sunken Spires,” Silver Trout replied with a grin. “But the mawtooth can’t swim there alone. Pack up, Flamelike. Tomorrow, the bronze fish will show you the way.”

Chapter 12

IN TRUTH, THE WHITE DEVIL didn’t need a guide — the Ascendant Atlas and Whitewing could quickly carry him wherever he wanted, but he didn’t want to flaunt his Runes so openly before the Riverfolk. Yes, he had deliberately let the wise Flaminica glimpse his flame, knowing she’d convince the others, but in the eyes of most Deadfish, he had to remain just a strong warrior, a hero of two Nations whose star had begun to rise under the sign of the Wild Hunt. One of the Thousand knew that was only the beginning of a new legend that would spread across the Circle of Eltanir — but it should be told by those who had seen it with their own eyes.

And because of that, he was glad for Silver Trout’s company. He knew she had come not only by Aurvak’s will. She remembered how he had carried her, healed her, and spoken to her — remembered the strength of his arms and the scent of his skin. By the shine in her eyes and the way her hands moved, he realized he had come to her in dreams, and that was why the Ascendant had offered to help him herself.

That was good, too.

The roads of his new friends were rivers, big and small, and the lakes their plazas. River Creatures served them just as torros and caesars served the Grassfolk. Trout had a special Creature, a great Rainbow Spineback. The swamp-dwellers had damaged it back in the village, but the Deadfish returned the Rune to life, and now they rode together on its back, racing across the blue river’s surface.

“Flamelike carried a heavy fish, now the fish will carry him!” Trout laughed, introducing him to her companion. “He should hold tight, or he’ll hit the water…”

Spinebacks resembled giant fish with long wing-like pectoral fins. They could swim fast in the upper layers of the water, but when speed was needed, they switched to a truly strange way of moving, leaping from the water and gliding over it on their outstretched fins before diving back down with their riders to gain momentum for the next jump. Those wild bounding leaps allowed for impressive speed on river trails, and the Riverfolk had turned it into an art, constantly competing with one another.

Silver Trout seemed determined to impress him, and so the White Devil had to cling to her waist to avoid being thrown off during that gallop across two elements. An ordinary tribesman from another Nation who didn’t breathe both ways would never survive such a journey, but One of the Thousand already had the right Runes and even found joy in that crazy swim-flight. In fact, he wouldn’t have minded controlling the swift river mount himself and even studied the bronze Skill of Fish Riding that he had originally intended to send to the Watcher’s treasury.

“Flamelike didn’t fall even once,” Trout noted with laughter and surprise when they stopped for their midday meal. “But he held on so tight, he nearly peeled the scales off the bronze fish…”

His fingers left no marks on her skin — it wasn’t easy to bruise a bronze Ascendant, so the girl was just teasing him.

One of the Thousand replied, “Give me the spineback, and we’ll see if the fish can hold on…”

“Drizzle! Flamelike can’t do it. Only the Riverfolk know how to tame them!”

“Then give me the spineback, little fish, and see if I’m transparent. Or are you scared? Hold on tight — my scales aren’t slippery.”

Grinning slyly, the Ascendant gave him control over her Creature. She wanted to flaunt her skill at least a little, like a girl showing a guest her dresses and toys, but her hopes were futile.

Guiding a seven-foot spineback with the barbed needles of its dorsal fin was no easy task. The Riverfolk learned that art from childhood, frolicking and riding young spinebacks in the shallows, but he had a Skill — and the kind of experience only a fragment of a United could possess.

What could Trout possibly know of the great races along the main canal of Esthé, flags fluttering above the ribbon-draped arches of its bridges? Of the dozens of flying spinebacks ridden by champions tasked with crossing the city by soaring over its spans? Of the one who had watched from a floating platform, wreathed in a crown of lightning?

Yet he remembered. Starting slow, he steadily guided the spineback, absorbing experience and recalling the past with each second, faster and faster, until Trout herself had to grip his waist and lock her hands so the rushing water wouldn’t tear her away. They galloped forward, and One of the Thousand once again felt that wild elation awakening, the return of old, long-lost abilities in his new body.

When the Creature’s duration neared its end, his bronze Skill turned into the silver Water Gallop, which he had once mastered completely. Unable to resist, One of the Thousand made the spineback perform a high flip, sending the female Ascendant into genuine shock. Few could manage such a feat, even among the river clans.

“Where?! Where did you learn to tame a spineback?” Trout demanded as they stopped on a small island for the night. “Murky depths! You ride better than Sharktail!”

“I do many things better than others.”

“Even if you consumed the Skill… oh, depths below, from what trench did this silver mawtooth swim out?”

“Trenches like that are no place for bronze fish.”

“What if the fish’s scales gleam silver?”

“Then the mawtooth will tell her — if the fish still wants to listen…”

Fortunately, water sapped the strength even from Ascendants. Exhausted, Trout could only splash around in a shallow inlet while he resumed practicing with and without his spear. One of the Thousand was tired too, but he spared his body even less than others — why pity a tool? He subjected it to daily trials, recalling his lost Skills. Once, he had perfect ranks in the styles of Iron, Vine, Bull, and Storm. The sooner that mastery returned to him, the sooner he would complete the path he had chosen.

“Where does Flamelike get so much strength?” the girl asked, watching his martial dance. “Is the mawtooth forged from silver metal? Doesn’t his body want to eat, sleep, rest?”

“The body is merely a weapon of Ascension. Just like this spear. Your body rules your spirit: what it wants, the fish wants too. But that path is wrong. The spirit of an Ascendant must command the body and wield it like a warrior wields a spear.”

“I will remember these wise words,” Trout said thoughtfully. “Where did you learn that?”

“In places bronze fish never swim.”

“But will you teach me?”

“If the bronze fish wants to learn.”

“Just not today… today I want to sleep…” She yawned.

Worn out by travel, they fell asleep, using the Curtain of Silence and the Lair of Grass to hide from the sight of enemies. Trout was leading them along the great river, and the beasts of the Wild Hunt still lurked even there, though they couldn’t keep pace with the swift spineback.

That night, he woke from a sign of the Watcher. The Arena Rune in his Slate pulsed with a thrown challenge — the Domain had opened for another challenger. The White Devil simply watched. After a few minutes, it faded, indicating that someone had answered the challenge and started a duel, or the challenger forfeited, losing the Rune. Good… now he knew that Ascendants still came to the Arenas, and he would do the same when the time was right.

On the second day, he and Trout left the great river for narrow channels, and by evening, they began climbing upstream alongside mountain streams. According to the Ascendant’s Atlas, Trout was leading him north, toward the mountain range that had once shielded the towers of Esthé. The old mountain Arrow behind the Floodwater wasn’t far from there, and then there was the lake where Sigurd had found the golden Ygg-Tree seed and the White Devil’s own tomb.

Those lands belonged to the Goldenlakes, another Riverfolk clan living along the banks of warm waters blessed by Her Who Creates. Their alliance with the Deadfish gave the travelers the right of passage, so they swiftly crossed the border and reached the land of Round Lakes by nightfall. There, countless bodies of water shaped like perfect saucers dotted the marshy overgrowth with dangerous predators lurking inside: aquatic monitor lizards, kaas, and fowlcatchers that resembled massive croaking boulders.

But Trout knew their habits, and he heard danger from afar, allowing them to avoid encountering those beasts. They made a few surprising discoveries, too. In the clear water, he suddenly spotted k-na cores clinging to stones below and couldn’t resist retrieving one. Their tender white flesh was a delicacy among the Kel, even if that particular specimen was small in size. Where had the k-na come from in those parts? Could the remnants of those once bred in the fish gardens of his capital have survived and multiplied?

“Flamelike knows where good food swims…” Trout praised him. “Has he hunted here before?”

“No.” What about the fish?”

“The Round Lakes hold sorrowful gifts,” she said after a pause. “The Riverfolk sometimes come here to gather them…”

He knew what the female Ascendant meant. The mountains were already close, and beyond them lay Esthé. The Round Lakes were scars left by a golden Rune, Missiles or a Meteor Shower, that a Skyhawk had used to bombard his city. And here, it must have struck the fleeing residents, killing many. Perhaps the ancestors of the female Ascendant were among them, as were the others from the Deadfish, the Goldenlakes, and the Coldwaters... Or maybe the precursors of the Shadowfolk had fled along that road. That’s why Trout had mentioned sorrowful gifts: the Riverfolk came there seeking ancient Items once carried off by the survivors from the great city.

“Beyond the lakes lie the forbidden lands of your people, little fish,” he said. “Am I correct?”

“Flamelike sees depths,” she agreed. “The Sunken Spires are there. But I’ll guide the mawtooth, since the Riks murmurs that he’s not scared of forbidden lands.”

“Isn’t the trench too deep for the bronze fish?”

“Not if she wants silver scales,” Trout smirked. “The fish will guide the mawtooth, and he’ll reward her well when they catch the silver lokhi together...”

“Are the Sunken Spires far from here?” One of the Thousand asked, already guessing where she was leading him.

“Tomorrow, Flamelike will see them...”

And so he did. By mid-treeday, they stood before the Sunken Spires, looking from a cliff into the lake’s dark mirror-smooth surface occasionally broken by the green islets of ruined buildings.

He knew that place. Once, it was one of the outposts guarding the borders of Esthé. Slender towers of silver lior had risen from the mountain slopes amid waterfalls streaming down stone stairs and ornate arches of gold. The main spire had threatened the sky with a blade of true light, a mighty weapon that posed a threat even to Eternity’s Skyhawks.

Tar-na-Lior-Khoros — that was its name. In the poor tongue of Earth, it could be translated as the Warden of Silverfalls. Seven such Wardens protected Esthé, outlining the celestial dome of its domain, and along that very boundary, the wise Watcher had drawn a forbidden zone.

When the golden host of Eternity had arrived, they suffered losses, for Esthé was well-defended — but not against an enemy like that. All twelve towers, seven outer and five inner, that hurled blades of hardened light were mercilessly destroyed: ruined, annihilated, buried beneath the soil. In truth, One of the Thousand was surprised by what he saw. He had expected Eternity to do a more thorough job…

The wrath of the Skythrone’s warriors had been great. There were no towers left, no waterfalls that had given the fortress its name, and even the mountains themselves bore signs of ghastly scars. Where the outpost once stood lay a vast deep crater filled with water. Over hundreds of cycles, it had turned into a sacred lake nestled beneath the jagged peaks.

The White Devil let out a sad smile. The blows of golden Runes had snapped the Sword’s spire, shattering the surrounding towers, yet their dark silhouettes still loomed in the clear depths, and the broken tips of other buildings had become green islands. Memory cannot be erased completely, no matter how hard you try…

“You’re smiling strangely again, Flamelike,” the sharp-eyed Trout noted. “Have you been here before?”

“No. So there’s a silver lokhi living here?”

“That’s what the Goldenlakes say,” she replied. “But they don’t come here. It’s a bad place, old place... It used to guard a city of demons.”

“Then what does this lokhi hunt?”

“Anyone dumb enough not to see it for what it is,” the female Ascendant shrugged. “Fish, beasts, foolish humans. Someone saw Shadowfolk here. The Goldenlakes are at war with the Storm and the Skull septs...”

“If it’s a silver lokhi, it must have drunk plenty of Starblood,” the White Devil remarked. “Are there Starblooded animals nearby, or do powerful plants grow here?”

“These are forbidden lands,” Trout shrugged again. “But the Goldenlakes never murmured anything about Starblooded beasts or plants...”

One of the Thousand felt curiosity stir. Starblooded creatures needed to consume a great deal of Starblood to rise in rank. Usually, upon reaching bronze, they began to hunt their own kind and look for minerals, plants, and Ascendants. A lokhi couldn’t have grown in a lake without Starblood. There didn’t seem to be any underwater paths leading to places rich in Starblooded prey. The creature was either being fed deliberately, or there was a potent unnatural source somewhere nearby. And if his guess was correct...

“How are you going to hunt the lokhi, Flamelike?” Trout asked, curious.

“First, I’m going to find it,” the White Devil replied. “You can swim home, little fish.”

“Shallow water... The bronze fish will help the mawtooth, and he’ll gift her a silver scale,” Trout said, giving him a pointed smile. “They say the Unseen watches Flamelike more than others. The fish will thank the mawtooth if the hunt goes well.”

He narrowed his eyes, watching her. Perhaps the bronze Ascendant could be of use: silver beasts could sense Starblood. But he didn’t want to use her as bait, and he couldn’t guarantee Trout’s survival. He didn’t want to reveal the power of his Runes to her, either.

“Fine, little fish,” he told her, having decided at last. “But don’t ripple later — you’ve made your choice.”

They descended to the lake and set up camp in a hidden spot high behind the rocks. It offered a view of the water while letting them stay out of sight.

The cunning creatures called lokhi lived in the dark depths of lakes and ponds, becoming the symbol of trickery, malice, and deceit for the wise of Unity. Many believed they guarded ancient treasures hidden deep below, and sometimes, that was true. Their shapeshifting ability, used to lure prey, and incredible resilience — a single lokhi split apart was said to grow into two new ones — made them unpredictable and extremely dangerous. But those lucky souls who managed to slay a lokhi received a generous reward. The Runes dropped by those creatures often contained the Element of Flourishing or Regeneration, and their cores, glands, ectoplasm, and fragments were used to create powerful runic artifacts, potions, and pills. The White Devil was interested in only one Rune — the one that could regrow his missing arm. With it, he’d never have to worry about wounds or lost limbs again. A silver lokhi’s prize was far greater than silver Cure...

But first, he had to find it, see how old the silver was, and what Starblood powers it wielded. Only then, after figuring that out, could he decide how to kill it. One of the Thousand had no doubt he could defeat the lokhi, but only the Silent, ever adrift in the river of time, knew how it would happen and how long it would take.

The first evening passed quietly. Trout and One of the Thousand circled the shore, exploring the shallows and looking for spots where animals came to drink. That was where the lokhi might crawl out of its dark lair to lure prey. Searching for it in the dark weed-choked underwater ruins was pointless and extremely dangerous, especially since mawteeth seemed to live there, and those creatures were capable of stripping a careless swimmer to the bone in minutes. Silver Trout claimed to have the Fish Friendship Skill, which calmed them down, but the White Devil didn’t, and alone, the female Ascendant would be easy prey for the lord of the depths.

At night, close to dawn, she suddenly woke him up. Pressing a finger to her lips, she pointed to the lake’s blue sheen beneath the eye of Eternity and beckoned him to follow. Silently creeping through the brush, the Ascendants reached one of the spots they had marked the day before: a deep inlet with a gentle slope crisscrossed with animal tracks. There, belly-deep in the water, stood the dark silhouette of a young elg, as if it had come to drink.

But it wasn’t a real elg — any experienced hunter would instantly spot that. A calf wouldn’t step into water at night. It would move, drink, snort, twitch its neck… That creature was almost motionless, its eyes faintly glowing green. A bait set up by the lokhi.

The White Devil watched, using both his eyes and Phantom Gaze, but the lake water, laced with traces of scattered Starblood, shimmered like a shield of a thousand dust motes. He could only make out faint strands and threads stretching from the lure into the depths. So the lokhi was there... but he couldn’t tell its rank yet.

Patiently, they waited. The White Devil knew what would happen. A foolish predator, tempted by easy prey, would leap from the brush to snatch the elg… and get caught in an instant. The bait would turn into gripping tendrils, snaring the beast and dragging it into the deep, where it would be slowly strangled. Then the lokhi would come close, engulf the corpse, and dissolve it in its belly...

But the creature wasn’t coming, and something else happened. With a quiet splash, the elg calf vanished. And a minute later, much closer to the shore, a human figure slowly rose from the water.

It was a girl! Naked, with milky-white skin, she stood waist-deep, modestly covering her chest with her arms. Her face was hidden in the shadow, but her silhouette looked believable enough to fool an unwary traveler. One step into the water, even just to get a better look at the bathing maiden, and the lake monster would get its prey…

That was bad. The change of bait meant the lokhi had somehow sensed them, realizing that those waiting behind the edge of the overgrown weren’t animals but bipeds. The White Devil didn’t yet know how, exactly, but two could play this game. He drew the Wanderer’s Rope from his Slate — a sturdy, unbreakable Item that could prove useful in all kinds of situations — and used a builder’s knot to fasten it to the ring at the base of his harpoon’s shaft.

Then, giving Trout a signal to stay still, he straightened up and stepped out of the underbrush, walking toward the bait.

One step, two, three — it was a dangerous game, but there was no other way to hook a lokhi. The White Devil had no idea when the creature would decide he was close enough to strike or whether he’d have time to counter the attack. The Scales were supposed to protect him, and the other Runes would overpower the beast, but he couldn’t reveal them before the lokhi realized that the biped was a hunter rather than prey.

The girl didn’t move. She stood calmly in the water, and only the otherworldly gleam of her green eyes betrayed the truth that this was no maiden, but a shapeshifting creature. Just one of its hunting tendrils; the main monster lurked below, within reach, already stretching its other limbs toward the shore, ready to seize him. It could happen in an instant.

Another step. One more...

The lake’s edge was three steps away. Noticing a shift in the rhythm of the waves — a sure sign the lokhi had stirred, its tendrils already sliding through the silt at the bottom — One of the Thousand realized he couldn’t wait any longer. He hurled the Harpoon of Water’s Shadow at the bait, the Wanderer’s Rope unfurling behind it, and darted aside at the same moment, cloaking himself in Scales and unleashing the combat Runes.

His spear passed through the girl without resistance, and the surface exploded a heartbeat earlier than expected. A fountain of waterdrops erupted as a mass of thin tendrils burst out like a hand with a hundred serpents for fingers! Crashing onto the shore, they would’ve wrapped One of the Thousand in a writhing net if not for the Aquatic Blade, which slashed through them mid-flight. The next moment, the lake boiled under a Sparkwind and a flurry of Poisoned Daggers, followed by a Thunderstorm that crashed into the water like a fist, making a splash and spearing it with jagged blue lightning bolts. Shaking off the twitching remains of the tendrils, the White Devil sprang back from the water’s edge — the waves’ impact could easily knock him off his feet.

Thunderstorm raged for three full minutes, turning the lake into a seething cauldron. The spray even reached the underbrush where Trout was hiding as the wind tore leaves and branches from the trees. Reaching the Ascendant, the White Devil reeled in his harpoon by the rope and carefully examined the tip. He hadn’t missed, but the blade was clean, and not because the water had washed it. The creature had tricked them; the bait wasn’t the hunting limb he had expected to harpoon. That cunning lokhi...

Silver Trout stared at the Thunderstorm boiling over the lake. She had seen him cast the Runes, but all she asked was, “A silver? Will it... kill the lokhi?”

“No,” One of the Thousand replied curtly.

Yes, the creature had managed to retreat into the depths, and Thunderstorm couldn’t kill it in any case, only frighten or daze it. He needed other Runes for that. He inspected the tendrils severed by the Aquatic Blade, tossed ashore by the waves, and saw them dissolve into a slick of transparent goo. Ectoplasm — the odd Earther term borrowed from Sigurd resurfaced in his memory. That was the lokhi’s nature, and it couldn’t be killed with ordinary weapons or elemental attacks.

Once the lake’s turbulence had calmed down, they heard a sound — a loud splash — and saw a light far from shore, almost in the middle of the lake among the green islets of sunken towers. A cluster of tendrils burst through the churning water right there, clearly visible in the light of the celestial eye. At last, the lokhi revealed itself: an enormous translucent jellyfish glowing with pale green phosphorescence. A silver frame shimmered around the weave of its tendrils writhing on the surface. The creature had already regrown all it had lost, and that meant One of the Thousand had found what he was looking for.

The creature emitted a loud gurgling sound, and pale shadows spread across the surface. They were human silhouettes. In one of them, the White Devil saw himself, holding a harpoon; in another, Silver Trout; in the rest, unfamiliar Ascendants, both men and women. They ran across the water in a chain of dissolving lights, and eerie sounds spread across the Sunken Spires: screams, weeping, and moaning imitating human voices.

The lokhi was taunting them. The White Devil could see that Silver Trout was scared. The Ascendant’s face was twisted in fear. For her, born in the waters of Unity, those sounds were a death sentence pronounced by the lake’s master upon the hapless hunters.

But the White Devil only watched and listened, not missing a beat. Cunning, foresight, mind-sense, the ability to create illusions, enormous size, incorporeality… The Sunken Spires were home to a truly powerful silver.

And he already knew how to kill it.

Chapter 13

THERE WERE SEVERAL WAYS to kill a silver lokhi. The first and the most obvious involved using the golden Rune of Chains. Yet it was also the least reliable, requiring closing in and almost embracing the lokhi in the lake’s dark depths, which was dangerous enough on its own, while avoiding the deception of its phantoms.

The White Devil could overcome that obstacle, but he wasn’t sure the Rune of Chains would finish the creature off, even if it tore it to pieces. The lokhi could regrow a new body from any of them, and quickly. One of the Thousand had no means to stop that regeneration. He had planned to slow it down with poison — that’s why he had sought out the passion flower and assembled his first Rune combo — but after seeing the monster in the flesh, he realized that the bronze element wouldn’t work. The lokhi had already become incorporeal.

All other methods required capturing the creature and dragging it onto land. That’s how they were usually killed, unless one had some exceptionally powerful Runes on hand. Fighting a lurking lokhi in a black underwater pit was a fool’s errand, fit only for a madman with extra lives to spare.

The White Devil had those lives, but he didn’t intend to give the creature even one of them. Instead, gazing thoughtfully across the lake, he asked Trout a question.

“Are these waters deep, little fish? Can you reach the bottom?”

“Ten or twelve men tall, in the deepest place,” Trout replied with a squint. “More, maybe… But the fish won’t go down to check!”

The White Devil smirked.

“Then let the fish go to sleep,” he said. “In the morning, she’ll learn how we’re going to catch this lokhi.”

But Silver Trout couldn’t sleep. The lokhi kept gurgling and scaring them with illusions until dawn, and their camp was only fifty steps from the water. She feared the creature would crawl ashore and drag them away, but One of the Thousand told her to wake him up if the beast was mad enough to try and turned over, unwilling to waste precious hours that could be spent regaining strength. Closer to morning, half-asleep, he felt the Ascendant press up behind him and wrap her arms around his shoulders, as if seeking salvation from her fear. He didn’t push her away, just gently moved her small hand off his stomach when he woke up.

“Let the fish circle the whole lake,” he ordered when the golden rays of the Ygg-Tree danced across the water and Trout stirred under the light shining into her eyelids. “I want her to count the steps from our camp to that rock… then from the rock to where the shadow of the tower falls… and then…”

“But why?” she asked, confused, but he was adamant.

“Let the fish count the steps…”

Turning into a giant otter, Trout darted along the lakeshore, carefully avoiding the water’s edge. It was a silly precaution — a lokhi, even a silver one, wouldn’t hunt in daylight, sleeping in its lair somewhere below the ruined towers. In the light of day, the lake didn’t seem as menacing — or as large, as they learned when Trout had finished counting the steps.

“How does Flamelike plan to kill it?” she asked. “And how will the fish help him?”

Without answering, he drew lines in the sand with a stick, making calculations: the size of the lake, its depth, and the volume of water filling its basin. Then he opened his Slate and placed a bronze Rune of Augmentation into the Portal Rune, extending its duration to two treedays. The Portal that led to the Forgotten Lakes.

“The silver lokhi is clever and strong,” he said at last. “You and I won’t defeat it in the depths. We have to get it out of the water.”

“But how will we catch it and drag it out? You saw it yourself…”

“If we can’t pull the lokhi from the lake,” he said, “we’ll pull the lake from the lokhi.”

She stared at him in confusion, and the White Devil started spinning the Portal Rune on his finger.

“See? The little fish will dive and find the deepest spot. And I’ll open a Portal to let the water out.”

“Flamelike must be sparking!” the Ascendant laughed. “What is this drizzle? The lokhi will snatch both the fish and the mawtooth at the bottom, even if they open a Portal! Where would they escape the lokhi’s tentacles? The water will turn red with their blood!”

“The fish will dive into the Portal and hide there,” One of the Thousand replied. “I’ll give her a Rune so the lokhi doesn’t scratch her pretty scales.”

“Where did Flamelike get so many Runes?” Silver Trout asked suspiciously. “His Slate gleams with silver, but the Deadfish rippled that it held only shallow water. Did our Riks share his loot? Or did he trade the swamp-dweller nails for Runes?”

“Let the little fish stop rippling, and I won’t have to drizzle,” he smirked. “I have more Runes for her — but first, she must tell me what her Slate holds...”

The Slate and its contents were one of the greatest secrets of any Ascendant. Revealing them made their owner far easier to kill and rob. No one would ever share all their Runes, except perhaps with a close friend, for envy was a dangerous impetus.

Yet Trout just chuckled. “Nothing in this fish’s Slate can kill the lokhi... But I’ll murmur to the mawtooth what might be of use.”

Indeed, she showed him a few of her Runes. Some of them were handy, allowing her to swim faster and dive deeper, becoming almost invisible underwater and scaring off the piscine predators. She had lost her combat Items but probably performed far better in the water than he did and could find the deepest point much faster and easier.

“Darkwater!” Trout concluded, finally realizing what he had in mind. “Does the mawtooth know any fear at all? Or has he already swum into the Portal?”

“The bronze fish wants to shine with silver, doesn’t she?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “Ascension is only achieved through trials. This is just a Portal that will drain the lake. As for what’s beyond it, the fish and I will soon find out.”

“If the lokhi doesn’t catch us,” Silver Trout muttered grimly. “Depths below!”

But he could tell by the gleam in her eyes, the curve of her lips, and the movement of her fingers that she was already his. She would do what One of the Thousand asked, overcoming her fear. And if the young Ascendant survived that day, he would reward her well.

Because the White Devil really didn’t know what might await them beyond the Portal.

Portals could lead anywhere, from lifeless wastelands of the dark lands to the flooded labyrinths of the Underside. Celestial islands or deep horizons, the mouth of a volcano or the ocean floor — you could end up in any of those places. One thing united those Runes: after creating them, someone had bound them to a special location before losing or surrendering them to the Watcher. A Portal’s name often said a lot, too: the wise Ascension usually gave the Ascendants a hint to what awaited them after crossing.

He had taken two Portal Runes from the swamp-dwellers. While one of them, the Great Tower, sounded unpredictable, being a tower, the second, Forgotten Lakes, clearly implied the presence of water, meaning air and life. “Forgotten” meant a low chance of encountering other sentients and getting trapped. Of course, other dangers could lurk behind the Portal, but with its bronze rank, it was nothing One of the Thousand couldn’t handle.

He could take a gamble, using that Rune to trick the lokhi instead of its intended purpose. They would drain the lake and catch its master helpless, writhing in the mud... and see what had nourished it to silver rank, too.

There was no time to lose. Those creatures were sluggish and lazy during the day, so he handed Silver Trout a few Runes (bronze Scales, Whirlpool, and the Wanderer’s Rope), and as soon as the Great Tree lit up to its full golden strength, they entered the cool waters.

Silver Trout was still clearly scared. The dark depths of the Sunken Spires were deadly. Every human instinct screamed at her to stay away. But any sentient who set foot on the path of Ascension had to learn to master themselves and do what others couldn’t, what seemed unthinkable, for that was the trial of Ascendants. That was how you took the next step.

They dived, gliding above the soft layer of bottom silt. Silver Trout’s figure writhed like a snake, swiftly slipping ahead, and he activated Aquatic Wings to avoid falling behind the daughter of the Riverfolk. Invisible fins instantly propelled him forward, the water around filling with bubbles. The Underwater Breathing skill allowed him to stay submerged as long as he liked, following his dual-breathing partner, while Water Echo let him sense every vibration in the deep. For now, all was calm: just Silver Trout’s swirling trail and a few skittish fish darting past.

They sank deeper and deeper, the water growing murky and dark, the golden light no longer reaching them. It was getting colder, and One of the Thousand saw only the fading thread of Wanderer’s Rope that connected him to Silver Trout. She made a sharp turn, and he saw something vast and darker still ahead, realizing they’d reached one of the ruined towers.

Now they had to find its base and open the Portal at the deepest point. The White Devil had a good reason to bring Silver Trout along — navigating the dark murky depths would’ve been a hundred times harder without her talents. Sure, he could manage, but that would’ve taken much longer and posed a higher risk.

They spiraled downward along the algae-cloaked tower. Yawning holes kept looming in the walls, leading inside, but their time hadn’t come yet. One of the Thousand realized Silver Trout had misjudged the lake’s depth — it was no less than fifteen human heights. Good thing he had tripled the Portal’s duration.

The water shuddered. Once, twice, then again. Vibrations picked up by Water Echo told him something had stirred in the depths. Something large, disturbed by bold intruders. And it was heading their way!

That could only be the awakened lokhi. Trout felt it too. The rope between them suddenly went taut as she sped up in fear, and he glimpsed the glow of her Scales — she activated her defenses just in time, and so did he, because only a fool would gamble with the master of the Sunken Spires.

The bottom was close. They were nearly at the layer where shattered ruins rose from the sediment. All that remained was to find the deepest point among them, so the Portal would become a hole in the base of that vessel.

The Ascendants darted between black waves of algae and the fangs of stone ruins at a speed no ordinary diver could match. The crater created by the golden Runes was wide, its walls sloping upward from its center. Trout had a much better sense of the underwater terrain, and the White Devil fully trusted her skills, mimicking her sleek pirouettes with his own body.

The lokhi was already close! He felt it in the water’s vibration before seeing it with Phantom Gaze, a torpedo-shaped creature twisted like a tangle of writhing kelp. The monster was moving in, its grasping limbs extending — some spectral and some real — and One of the Thousand knew they had only seconds left. The lokhi was poised to strike!

But they had almost reached their destination, too. Trout suddenly plunged straight down, trying to hide among the ruins — it wouldn’t fool the lokhi, but the closer they got to the bottom, the better. He followed her lead, plunging into the waving strands of bottom vegetation and then into the thick soft silt that had blanketed the stony floor over hundreds of cycles.

More! More! More! At last, his hand hit something solid, and the White Devil mentally opened the Slate and activated the Portal. The glow of its oval lit up the depths, flashing just a step away, and he instantly felt the tug of Wanderer’s Rope.

The lokhi had grabbed the Ascendant! He saw several of its tentacles wrap around her like a hunting net, dragging the girl’s shimmering figure toward it as her Scales glimmered in defense. Others lashed in his direction, but they were phantom decoys, and One of the Thousand didn’t even flinch at the monster’s trick.

He had a choice: dismiss the Wanderer’s Rope, give the monster the bronze fish, and escape through the Portal while the lokhi was distracted. Or fight and take back its prey...

He chose the second. The Riverfolk might take offense at the loss of their daughter, even if he hadn’t forced the brave fish to swim into the depths. He struck with Aquatic Blade, slicing through the tentacles that held her, and almost at the same moment unleashed the Bogmaiden to distract the monster’s attention.

The sharp teeth of the bronze Rune were deadly both in water and on land: the blade severed the limbs binding Trout. And the silver Bogmaiden turned out to be the lokhi’s little sister, only armored and meant for underwater travel rather than combat. When she streaked past the creature, it reacted instantly, wrapping her in the rest of its tentacles and dragging her in.

Seizing the moment, the White Devil lunged forward on his Aquatic Wings and scooped up the floundering Trout, entangled in shreds of tentacles, promptly dragging her away toward the gleam of the nearby Portal. Behind them, in the churning vortex, the lokhi was mauling the Bogmaiden as they finally entered the shining doorway, bursting through on the other side into a roaring surge of water.

Tumbling, they fell out, from one lake into another, and instinctively swam up to the nearby mossy shore. Just in time, too, as black serpents of tentacles emerged from the watery fountain with the Portal in its center, blindly groping around. One of the Thousand hurled the Rune of Aquatic Blade at them, shearing them off at the stem, and the brazen lokhi hastily withdrew its snaring trap.

“Won’t it... dive in... after us?” Trout exhaled, climbing onto dry land with his help. She was breathing like a fish cast ashore, her body shaking with heavy tremors.

“A silver lokhi can’t pass through a bronze Portal,” the White Devil calmly replied, watching the severed tips dissolve into translucent slime. “It’s too big. But if I augmented the Rune, turning it into a Gate, the door would’ve let it in.”

A real waterfall was pouring out of the open doorway, as big as the Portal itself: churning water mixed with silt, fish, and bottom dwellers. In a spray-laden torrent, it crashed into the Forgotten Lake, where the Portal had brought them. The air was warm but not too damp, the ground lush with green moss, and a calm blue lake stretched all around them, its surface dotted with giant lily pads stirred by the sudden aquatic eruption.

He glanced around, and Trout echoed his movements, but there was no sign of hostile creatures or other threats. Just the shore, beautiful lakes, and nothing else… Could they have gotten lucky?

“The lokhi... it almost swallowed me!” the female Ascendant exclaimed, finally catching her breath. “When it grabbed me... By the Creator, I rippled I would drown!”

“But the fish is alive and didn’t even scratch a scale,” the White Devil said with a grin.

“I just looked into the eyes of the depths,” Trout muttered. “Good thing Flamelike was close.”

He said nothing — her rescue wasn’t something that needed words.

“The Unseen helped us… And do you really think you can drain the lake?” Trout asked, looking at the fountain-like Portal. “How long will that take?”

“A treeday, maybe more,” One of the Thousand said. “If the fish was right about the lake’s depth, even less.”

“Good thing the fish didn’t go measuring it for the mawtooth…”

“We’ll be spending the whole day and night here,” he said. “Let’s take a good look around.”

The Portal had brought them to a strange place. It was full of peaceful small lakes, their shores overgrown with emerald moss, and the plants and grass had an unfamiliar color and shape. Nothing like that grew in their Circle, and even the light was different, soft and greenish, coming from a distant shimmering star. They couldn’t make out the source of that light, either — the sky wasn’t clear, as if covered by a misty shroud.

“Even the water smells different,” the Ascendant muttered, sniffing cautiously. “And the air too… What kind of flower is that? Does Flamelike know where we are?”

He only knew it was another Circle of Life, maybe somewhere on the far side of the endless sphere of cosmos. Eltanir was a golden Tree, but the light here came from an emerald one, made by the Creator for a different kind of octagon. Local plants and animals looked odd, too. Such places could be extremely dangerous or completely safe, and they seemed to have stumbled upon the latter. One of the Thousand couldn’t see anyone except for insects and sharp-winged birds drifting through the clouds.

A quiet, peaceful, hidden place. They had disturbed its calm, bringing a roaring waterfall that threated to overflow one of the lakes. But there was no helping that — the Circle of Eltanir had chosen to share a piece of its life with its nameless sibling.

“Look,” Silver Trout whispered as they wandered farther, surveying the surroundings. “That’s a white lotus, right?”

“It is,” he agreed, spotting the huge snow-white bud floating on the next lake. “And those are lifeblooms...”

Starblood-containing plants growing along the shores of the Forgotten Lakes were the final proof that it was safe. Any Starblooded or human predators in the area would have destroyed the defenseless but useful flowers long ago, taking their Blood and Runes. Sure, most of them were trash-rank, but for many Ascendants, that only made them easy prey.

“Should we grab a few?” Trout’s eyes sparkled with a hunter’s excitement.

“If the Watcher doesn’t mind,” he replied with mild indifference — trash and weak bronze weren’t going to help him. On the other hand, one could never have too much Starblood.

White lotus was a special herb made by Her Who Creates to protect and heal streams from the foul venom of Worms. Sages among the sentients knew that the Watcher often protected the lotuses from the greedy and the foolish. Phantom sprites hovered in the air, guarding them, and the White Devil realized the lotuses were best left untouched. He also sensed that the lakebeds held deposits of altered matter — the source of the plants’ Starblood. But the lifeblooms of the Creator were meant for the sentients, and the United herself wouldn’t mind if they picked a few for their own needs…

They had time, so they began gathering Starblooded plants, circling the lakes one by one. Countless lifeblooms filled the shores, creating a zone of vigorous growth. They could be made into pills and healing elixirs, but most importantly, they contained Starblood. Each lifebloom yielded two or three drops and a wooden blank, but some dropped Runes such as Green Leaf, Healing, Animate Plants, and other junk.

Silver Trout harvested not only the buds and leaves but also the main, most precious fragment — the screaming root shared by that entire family of plants. It hid deep in the soil, exuding a foul stench that drove predators away and writhing in her hands like a living creature, but such tricks couldn’t frighten the eager Ascendant. Most Nations of Unity customarily left the lifeblooms’ roots in the ground, for those plants grew quickly and would bring new gifts, but they were in another Circle, an unfamiliar place, and Trout didn’t seem to care. A dried lifebloom root was a coveted prize.

The White Devil didn’t scold her — the Watcher wasn’t angry, and she had a mind of her own. He only took a couple of bronze blanks and two elemental Runes, leaving the rest to his companion. His Slate was nearly full of useless trash anyway...

Silver Trout attempted to pick a bronze lotus too — her people sometimes taunted the Watcher — but the keeper of Unity issued a first warning, and One of the Thousand signaled the Ascendant that it was time to end the herb hunt.

The lakes where the flowers bloomed were cold and as clear as crystal. A soothing aura of healing emanated from the lotus buds, which began to glow like giant lanterns as dusk fell.

They made camp on a mossy bank by one such lake, not too close yet not too far from the endless geyser bursting out of the Portal. The lake nearby had already overflowed, but fortunately, the land had a gentle slope, and the rising water found its way down through a network of rushing streams. Bewildered fish leaped and thrashed, filling the basin, and deft Trout quickly caught a pair of fat needlefish, gutted them, and skewered them over the summoned Fiery Hearth.

“The fish likes this place. Clean water, good smells, lots of Starblooded plants…” she purred, flipping the food and eyeing the contents of her Slate with greedy satisfaction. “Maybe the silver mawtooth knew what was behind this Portal before he dove inside?”

“There are many places behind Portals. Don’t your people travel through them?”

“Only the mad ones. And the Riverfolk never accept Portal Runes as a reward from the Watcher,” Silver Trout replied. “They rippled that the water behind many runs red with blood. Yet the murmurs that the Unseen looks over Flamelike must be right...”

He knew many Nations shunned Portals. They had their reasons: a lot of them were used as traps or served as entryways for enemies. Sentients had learned to take advantage of any Rune. But One of the Thousand also knew the Watcher’s treasury held a vast number of Portals lost by their owners thousands of cycles ago. Ascendants of various Circles had created them as paths home, to sacred places, or to hidden caches they visited in search of Blood or Runes. Like the Forgotten Lakes, which might lie in a Circle entirely devoid of sapient tribes or a location rendered otherwise inaccessible. There was no point in wandering why; Unity was vast and full of wonders, and even over his long lives, the shard of the United had countered only a fraction of them.

That Circle was different, as was the glow of the distant Tree, but the Eye of Eternity still shone above, piercing the misty twilight. Beneath its blue gaze, he spent the evening training with spear and knife and coaching the Ascendant, who had asked to join him. Later, he watched her splash in the lake, grumbling bitterly about her bruises. Sigurd had bested Trout without his help — the daughter of the Riverfolk needed to sharpen her combat Skills, for she was too soft for someone who wished to gleam silver. Well, as long as they had time, One of the Thousand gave her a few merciless lessons. His cruelty even brought her to tears, but when he stepped into the stream to wash his heated body before sleep, the daughter of the Riverfolk swam up to him without a trace of resentment in her eyes.

“Flamelike wasn’t drizzling when he said the Portal wouldn’t close?” she asked. “They murmured in the Deadfish that some Runes can shut the gates early…”

“Some might,” he grunted, diving under and then shaking out his long black hair, “but a lake-dwelling lokhi won’t have them.”

“And what if someone comes and finds the Portal?” she pressed.

“Then they’ll have to dive deep and beat the lokhi,” One of the Thousand smirked. “And if there’s an Ascendant out there who manages that and happens to carry such Runes in their Slate, the Unseen must truly wish for the fish to stay in this Circle with me.”

She giggled unexpectedly, as if the thought pleased her, then swam closer, watching him wash. In the dark, the female Ascendant’s eyes glowed with flecks of Starblood.

“If we stay here forever…” she murmured, nearly brushing against him, “what would Flamelike do then?”

“Create the Nation of the Forgotten Lakes,” he said. “A hundred cycles from now, they’ll rule this whole Circle.”

“Oh, but then Flamelike would need someone to bear his spawn,” Silver Trout smiled, drifting even closer. Her hands slid over his shoulders and neck, and strong legs wrapped around his hips beneath the surface. “And offer her silver gifts…”

She was clearly seeking love, pressing close and gliding her body against his, and One of the Thousand didn’t push the daughter of the Riverfolk away. She was beautiful, with the fierce, untamed beauty of her People, and her smooth body, half-covered in a pattern of fine fish scales, had desired him since their first meeting. That desire was mutual. The night was long, and the White Devil’s fingers traced her skin as Trout shivered in his arms, overwhelmed by masculine lust.

“It’s too early to talk gifts before the silver lokhi brings them,” he said, caressing the curves of her hips. “But the little fish doesn’t want gifts. She wants love.”

“They murmur the Earthfolk make love in a way unlike ours…” she whispered, spinning with him in the clear water. “Will Flamelike show me how?”

And he did. First, they danced the mating dance of her people in the lake water, and then, among the stones, on the soft mossy bank, and in the cozy nest of the Lair of Grass, beneath the Canopy of Silence that let no sounds of lovemaking escape. Silver Trout devoted herself to that art far more eagerly than she had to the spear and only fell asleep at the emerald dawn, completely spent.

While she slept, One of the Thousand noticed that the stream gushing from the Portal began to fade. That was expected. The lake on the other side had grown shallow, nearly drained while filling the Forgotten Lakes: the incoming waters had merged several lakes into one, flooding the nearby lands and forming the source of a new river flowing down into the unknown. A couple of hours later, the geyser had dwindled to three-quarters of the Portal’s height, and soon after, to a rapidly shrinking stream. One vessel had nearly finished pouring into the other, and only a shallow layer of murky black silt-stirred water remained in the lake of Sunken Spires.

The White Devil wasn’t in a rush — the basin had to be completely empty. It didn’t take long before the last of the water dribbled from the lower part of the Portal. Just in time, too, as Silver Trout awoke and stepped from her Lair of Grass with a triumphant smile.

Their nightly activities had given her confidence and strength. But the shard of the United saw something else in his companion: she had followed him, stayed with him, made love with him with a goal in mind, and she had received almost everything she wanted — except for silver.

He was ready to see if she could overcome that step.

The Ascendants prepared to return, activating their Slates, Scales, and combat Runes, and passed through the Portal, expecting the lokhi to be somewhere nearby, drawn in by the inevitable vortex. But the scene before them was completely startling.

The lake was gone. They were standing at the bottom of a crater covered in a viscous layer of sediment, blackened fragments of towers sticking out like rotten teeth among the other ruins, almost worn away. Piles of seaweed, massive puddles, and aquatic monitor lizards writhed in the sticky sludge, and opportunistic drakes had already started picking apart schools of fish. With raspy, disgruntled cries, they took to the air at the sight of humans — a clear proof the lokhi wasn’t anywhere near.

“By the Creator,” Silver Trout breathed out in shock. “Depths below... The Deadfish will ripple Flamelike drank the entire lake...”

They climbed onto the slick remnants of buildings to avoid sinking waist-deep in muck. The White Devil kept a sharp eye on the many puddles and pits still glittering with water — in the worst-case scenario, the cunning monster had made its lair in some underground tunnel with a flooded cavern. Digging it out from there would’ve been a challenge, but he had banked on the rocky terrain around the Sunken Spires preventing that. But everything turned out to be much simpler.

“There it is!” Trout shouted, pointing. “Ha! Flamelike! The lokhi has trapped itself!”

That was exactly what had happened.

The lake beast — perhaps fleeing the vortex, but more likely returning to its lair — had crawled into the ruined base of the central tower, the Spire of the Sword. The spire itself, snapped in several places, lay across the basin floor, but its bottom third had survived, and in the cracks of those seaweed-covered ruins squirmed a repulsive tangle of tentacles, scrambling across walls and poking through holes in search of a shelter — and failing, because the water was gone.

All that was left to do was finish it off.

Sensing them leap across the wet ruins, the silver beast stirred, releasing its phantoms and vainly extending its tentacles. In daylight, the lokhi looked especially grotesque: a nightmarish mass of tangled seaweed with a slick amorphous core. But it couldn’t do a thing to the Ascendants anymore — all-powerful in its element, it was completely helpless outside of it.

One of the Thousand stopped on a convenient ledge, dispassionately selecting a vector for the attack. Wind and Daggers struck first, embedding themselves into the monster with poisonous ice. It thrashed in fury, trying to shift shape and shielding itself with its limbs, but it was only a probing blow meant to slow the creature’s vital functions. Only silver could kill silver... and he had a perfect Rune for the job.

Dehydration.

Ignoring the female Ascendant’s greedy look, the White Devil released the silver Rune and focused, his arm outstretched toward the target. Twelve seconds... though given its powerful regeneration, Dehydration might take longer to drain the lokhi’s moisture. It didn’t matter. The monster had nowhere left to run!

Sensing the touch of another’s Rune, the lokhi squirmed violently in its stony den and began to wither. Dehydration was truly the bane of aquatic creatures, stripping away their very essence to the point where no energy for regeneration remained. Unknowingly, Sharpfin had gifted him the perfect weapon against the lokhi, especially one that was trapped and immobile.

Trout couldn’t take it anymore and turned away, possibly throwing up yesterday’s fish. She had never been squeamish, but the creature’s transformations were especially revolting.

Withering, changing, struggling to transform, emitting dozens of illusions screaming in different voices, the dying lokhi still managed to drag itself out of the tower and collapsed into the sticky mud, trying to burrow in. But the White Devil, maintaining line of sight, instantly bound it with a combination of Veil and Freeze, locking it in place, then struck again with Wind and Daggers, giving it no chance to recover. The monster shattered the ice and flailed, splattering muck with a hundred withering tentacles. It kept shifting form and releasing phantoms, but with every moment, they grew more amorphous, and the lokhi’s movements slowed down.

It was losing control. It was dying.

It took half a minute for the silver Dehydration to reduce the lake creature to a blackened dried-up bundle, a shriveled remnant bristling with wire-thin limbs. Frozen in place, the lokhi’s remains slowly sank into the sludge, and moments later, six silver glyphs lit up above it. Starblood and five Runes.

A Slate flashed behind his back, but the White Devil knew how to read glances, minds, and hearts. He knew that the thirst for Blood and Runes could cloud reason even fiercer than lust, and what happened next didn’t surprise him at all.

One of the Thousand dodged the released Rune with scornful ease, and the Black Creeper, finding no target, uselessly sank into the mud. Silver Trout froze, afraid to move or even breathe as the harpoon’s tip pressed right against her gill slits.

“Don’t move. One word, one thought, one gesture, and you’ll die,” One of the Thousand warned her. “Don’t close the Slate.”

She stared at him, eyes wide with horror. During their time together, the daughter of the Riverfolk must have figured some things out.

“Now dismiss that Rune and transfer it into my Slate,” he continued, linking his runic circle with hers. “Or the blood of the bronze fish will stain this lake.”

Trout knew he wasn’t bluffing — her life was hanging on the edge of his spear. The girl’s lips began to tremble. She had stared death in the eye when the lokhi grabbed her, but this was even closer. And worse.

The bronze Rune of the Black Creeper slid into his Slate. The Rune that could bind and kill an Ascendant.

The White Devil gave a satisfied nod: she had made the right choice. He had expected her to act, as five silver Runes were a massive temptation to any Ascendant. Trout had traveled with him, helped him, seduced him, and all of that was genuine — but she also patiently waited for him to kill the lokhi. She had no intention of settling for a silver scale tossed her way for helping the victor. The Ascendant wanted it all, and her desire had overpowered even fear.

The foolish fish.

“On your knees,” he ordered, and the girl collapsed into the muck without a word of protest. Good; her only chance of survival lay in total submission. She had learned a lot about him — pity she failed to overcome her greed. In Unity, only Starblood mattered, but knowing whether you could take it from your enemy mattered even more.

In a past life, he would’ve killed her without hesitation, for betrayal must be punished swiftly and without mercy. But the seeds planted by the young Earther had taken root, and the shard of the United remembered their struggle for the fate of that Shadowfolk girl at the edge of the chasm. Back then, Sigurd had spared her, and the Earthfolk’s foolish mercy reminded him of the words of those of the True who served Sentinel.

He Who Fights was the first of the True, and the Earthers the precursors of the Kel. Maybe their foolishness held a hidden wisdom that the Thousand had lacked?

Fine. So shall it be.

The White Devil struck the female Ascendant lightly on the forehead with the blunt end of the shaft, just enough to knock her out and dull her senses for the next hour. Trout’s limp body slumped into the mud like a sack. He dragged her closer to the shore, then turned back and collected the Runes dropped by the defeated lokhi.

Almost a hundred drops of Starblood. Two silver Runes of Growth. A silver Rune of Amplification. A Rune of Flourishing and Regeneration. A Rune of Phantom Apparitions.

Just what he needed to regrow his arm.

The White Devil turned away, his eyes fixed on the ruined Spire tower where the lokhi had made its lair. Then he started toward it, as Runes and Starblood weren’t the only secrets hidden in that lake.

Chapter 14

THOSE OUTPOSTS, the Wardens that had once protected Esthé, were special. Each of the five inner and seven outer Spires housed a Sword, a great Item capable of destroying even golden Ascendants. The Wardens could’ve stopped a dozen Skyhawks, and the one found by Sigurd had also been struck down by a sword of true light. But many more Hawks had come on that day.

The White Devil carefully Fluttered over puddles and avoided getting stuck in the sediment coating the ruins of the Spire’s main tower. Once a majestic cylinder holding an illium blade, the Spire had been shattered into several large pieces and countless smaller fragments scattered around its foundation.

The Sword itself was broken, lost forever — the celestial weapon of Eternity, a force capable of reshaping reality itself, had shattered it into countless nearly worthless Relics. They could still be used to craft minor artifacts or Symbols, but doing so would mean digging through mountains of silt and piles of rubble. One of the Thousand wasn’t going to waste time on that yet but noted the location and made plans to visit the other Wardens. For now, he picked up a few shards of various shapes seemingly indistinguishable from muddy lake stones. Altered illium required celestial craftsmanship, but perhaps, one day, he’d meet such a smith. After all, a Portal leading to the Frozen Abyss was still waiting in his Slate...

Yes, the golden Sword was gone, but it wasn’t the only thing kept inside the Spire. Climbing the wet ruins to the tower’s foundation — once a golden patterned ring and now the foul lair of a lokhi — the White Devil found what he had been seeking since he realized the true nature of the Sunken Spires.

The hilt, which fed the blade with Starblood, was coated in black residue and lake plants, but when he rubbed the Heart’s pommel, the familiar starry gleam flashed back to life under the grime. The lokhi had indeed guarded a treasure and absorbed some of its power over the dozens or even hundreds of cycles. Standing just a step away from the ancient artifact, the White Devil felt the flow of his Blood quicken. Such was the power of the Heart, which stored and channeled the energy imbued into it.

Right below the Heart lay a Bearer, one of a dozen mighty silver Ascendants, his servants and students once chosen to control the great Items. His remains had long since fused with the stone, becoming part of it, but a silver lightning bolt still glimmered between the pits of his eye sockets. The White Devil touched it with reverence, absorbing a drop of Blood from the long-dead warrior, and the ancient bones crumbled into dust, their essence lost. The aura of yet another Item gleamed in the dissolving pile: a blackened disk-shaped amulet on a thin chain. One of the Thousand picked it up too — silver, still charged with Starblood — and through time, saw the three bolts he had once carved on the metal.

He recalled the Bearer’s name, Talain the Serpent-Eyed, a master artificer, warrior, and poet born of the Storyteller line, and the moment Talain had presented him the Item in the great citadel rising above the other towers of Esthé. For a heartbeat, the former splendor of Elthanir’s capital, where all roads and Nations of the octagon once converged, flashed before his inner sight in a blaze of memory.

All of that was gone forever, leaving only ruins and filthy stones behind. Once, they were strong and numerous, preserving and multiplying the wisdom of the Kel descendants and shattering Eternity’s chains for many Ascendants, and yet...

That path had been wrong, even if the Thousand overlooked its flaws back then. They needed to forge another, for Eternity could not be defeated by pride, strength, or skill alone.

He carefully cleaned the Heart and tore it from its cracked setting. As large as two human heads, the faceted crystal shimmered with a golden rank. Its properties were intact, as confirmed by Ascension:

Heart of the Sword

Artifact of Unity

Part of the Sword of True Light

Replenishes the Starblood reserves of the Sword of True Light, readying it for the next attack. Emits an aura of Starblood that accelerates its flow and gradually saturates the surrounding space with Starblood.

The capacity of Hearts, crafted from forbidden fragments found in the Breach, was vast but not limitless. True light consumed a great deal of Starblood. Some, he knew, had been drained dry by their Bearers, but not the one in front of him. The celestial warriors must have destroyed that Spire early on, not letting it release its charge — the swords of hard light had grievously wounded many of them.

It was a golden treasure with countless potential uses. A wandering beggar had no need for it, but if he were to find a home again… One of the Thousand tucked the Heart into his Storage Rune and realized he had wasted a silver Rune of Cleansing — the Vial taken from Azymandia was now worthless to him.

He still had business to attend to, so he returned to the camp, dragging the unconscious Trout with him. Waiting for her to wake up, the Ascendant carefully examined the spoils from the lokhi.

Well, those were good Runes.

He put both Growths into Will, unlocking his first stars of Control and Manipulation. Those silver Attributes were vital to his path, the cornerstones of mastery over himself and others. And his dormant Skills stirred in response: Closed Mind and Aura of Manipulation.

Mind had been his old shield, and Aura surrounded him like a cloak, the sentients always sensing its shadow around him. Those stars granted him more power than raw Might or physical Perfection.

The silver Amplification offered a few options. The most tempting was the Rune of Spirit Conjurer, but while artificial Creatures made from Starblood in converters were relatively predictable, enhancing a living Ascendant turned into a Creature Rune could have unpredictable consequences. Azymandia probably knew plenty about such experiments, and he decided to question her first.

The second option was Whitewing. Amplification had a chance to boost its speed, grant combat traits, or bolster defense. But it wouldn’t fundamentally change anything, just like enhancing the Rune of Thunderstorm, which, in his current situation, would be overkill. Runes of Amplification could be bought from the Watcher, so the White Devil applied it to the thing that mattered the most to him right now: the Ability Rune meant to regrow his arm.

Lifegiving Bloom

Ability Rune

Grade: silver

Activation: 12 Starblood drops

Augmentation: Rune of Amplification

The ability to instantly heal surface wounds, rapidly treat severe injuries, and regrow lost limbs or internal organs over the course of several days.

Duration: 144 minutes

Cooldown: 1 treeday

That Ability had been his goal ever since getting the one-armed body. Its source was the regenerative potential of a lokhi, which regrew lost limbs faster than they could be taken. Of course, he couldn’t match that, but the Rune would awaken an ancient vital force within his body that could do more than simply regrow his fingers. From now on, even deep wounds would quickly heal, and severed limbs would no longer be a threat. And if he could evolve this Rune into a silver Skill and then make it gold, his body would become nearly invulnerable. Even a golden opponent would struggle to take a single life from him…

But accelerating the growth of his arm required a bit of blood; his body remembered all too well the trauma sealed by the runic dagger. The White Devil took out Pebble’s knife, put his stump forward, and did what had to be done. Good thing Silver Trout couldn’t see it. His actions, and especially the indifferent expression on his face in a moment when any normal human would’ve screamed, groaned, or at the very least grimaced in agony, could frighten her far more than the pathetic transformations of the lokhi. The fragment of the United felt pain too, for his spirit had fused with its physical vessel, but he treated it differently, like the warning call of a horn announcing that something was wrong with the body. How could one be a slave to the sound of a horn? You simply heard it and acted accordingly, keeping a cool head. Paying no attention to the blood, he freed his flesh and repaired the disrupted flow of eo before activating Lifegiving Bloom.

The bleeding stump scarred over almost instantly. And then, a true miracle happened: the fresh pink skin began to itch, swelling with clumps of new, still shapeless flesh. For a while, he watched the growth of new tissues, and within them bones, nerve endings, and blood vessels — a process akin to the one happening to a child in its mother’s womb, only accelerated hundreds of times. A single use of the Rune might not be enough, despite his high Elemental Affinity, but the White Devil hoped to have a new arm within a few days.

And then there was the Rune of Phantom Apparitions, a silver Spell that conjured spectral doubles. Sigurd had a similar one, the Rune of Astral Phantoms, but this Spell was better, because the copies didn’t have to match the Ascendant’s appearance. A decent addition to a new silver combination… but it lacked the second part.

Meanwhile, Silver Trout had regained consciousness and groaned, gingerly touching her head. He wrapped the growing flesh of his arm with a strip of cloth — the sight wasn’t exactly pleasant.

Finally, she noticed him, sitting a few steps away with his hand wrapped and a dagger in his lap still dripping blood. She flinched and gasped but didn’t make the slightest attempt to flee, open the Slate, or resist in any other way. She knew that doing so would be signing her own death sentence and realized that if he hadn’t killed her before, he wasn’t going to do it now. Not yet, at least.

That foolish bronze fish...

“Flamelike…” she rasped at last. “The fish didn’t want—”

“...Anything except for the silver that didn’t belong to the greedy fish.”

“How… did you know?” she asked, figuring out that lying wouldn’t help, and nervously licked her lips.

He smirked, looking her in the eye, and Trout flinched again. He had seen through her since the beginning, and them traveling together and sharing a bed meant nothing. Another man, even a strong Ascendant, would have already trusted her, but this one had eyes on the back of his head and already knew what would happen next.

“I understand many things better than others.”

“You’re not Earthfolk,” she whispered. “You’re like a demon, the kind who ruled the forbidden ruins and stole the bodies of others... I saw it... The way you walk, the way you kill, the way you cast Runes... Flamelike Mark would have never... Is that why you cleared his name?”

“I’m not human,” he agreed.

A shiver ran down the Ascendant’s spine as she realized that One of the Thousand wasn’t joking at all.

“Yes, the shine of silver clouded the foolish fish’s mind. I… wanted to take it and return to the Dead Fish with silver scales.” She nervously licked her lips again. “But you didn’t kill the fish right away…”

“For that, you should thank the Earther you tried to make your thrall twice,” the White Devil said slowly.

“What? Why—”

“Silence. I am deciding your fate.”

Indeed, for a few seconds, he considered what to do with her. Silver Trout had helped him during the journey and bravely dived into the lake, but even as she hunted by his side and shared his bed, she was plotting to backstab him. The one who returned with silver would tell the whole tale, reap all the Glory, and within a cycle, no one would remember the exiled stranger whose bones rotted at the bottom… Her Riks and her Nation weren’t behind it — they would’ve given her a better weapon. No, it was just the temptation of silver and the Rune of Black Creeper that had fallen into her hands by chance. She really believed it could bind him…

Before, he would’ve repaid betrayal with death and forgotten her name. But he had already walked that path, and it ended in the Living Chains of Eternity. He was traveling a different road now and didn’t need to stain his future alliances with needless blood.

“You won’t get silver or bronze, but you’ll keep your own life, Blood, and Runes, though now they’re mine as well,” he said at last. “Your people won’t hear of their little fish’s disgrace either. But in return, you’ll owe me a wergild and swear an Oath to repay it by the end of this cycle.”

Trout closed her eyes for a moment, as if in relief.

“What Oath does the demon want from the fish?” she asked.

“A simple one. You’ll return to the Dead Fish and tell your people the truth about the lokhi hunt. Then you’ll gather all Earthfolk thralls held by the Deadfish, the Coldwater, the Goldenlake, and the small Riverfolk clans… and take them to my former Nation’s freehold. There, you’ll tell the man who calls himself my father that this small gift was sent by Flamelike.”

“All Earthfolk thralls?!” Silver Trout blinked in shock. “But… there are ten in the Dead Fish alone… The Riverfolk won’t just let them go. Not without a wergild!”

“You’ll pay the wergild. The bronze fish is clever, is she not?” the White Devil went on mercilessly. “She figured out how to steal silver — she can figure out how to return the Earthfolk thralls. And if not… I’ll find the fish and take what’s mine. Or should I take it now?”

“The fish will swear the Oath,” Trout sobbed unexpectedly. “But what should she say to the Deadfish? Does Flamelike… want to return to his people?”

“No. My path lies elsewhere,” he replied. “But tell your Riks that Flamelike asks him to forget the old grudges against the Earthfolk. And give him this…”

One of the Thousand tossed her a few Stigmata that belonged to swamp-dwellers, all trash-rank.

“Tell him the time of old wars is past. Tell him a new battle awaits the Circle, and all Nations will have to fight together. And tell him he’ll hear my name again…”

He had planned to return her weapons, the spear carved from the bones of the Dead Fish and the hunting net taken from Sharpfin, both in exchange for the Creeper, but her foolish greed had cost her the reward. The Runes would go to the Watcher’s treasury, and the female Ascendant would head home. They might even meet again after she fulfilled her Oath. The White Devil didn’t doubt for a moment that she would.

After parting with Trout, he spent another day by the shores of the Sunken Spires, though that name no longer suited the lake. It didn’t matter; soon, rains and mountain streams would refill its basin, concealing all traces of what had occurred. But the Riverfolk would long remember the legend of the Ascendant who had drunk the lake dry.

First and foremost, he needed to finish regrowing his arm. Without any stars in the silver Vitamancy Attribute, it would take two or three sessions of Lifegiving Bloom. The White Devil left the Sunken Spires and set off to Esthé, or rather toward it, keeping the ruins of his ancient capital to his right.

One of the Thousand was headed to the place of his imprisonment. Using Whitewing there was risky even at low altitude. After the fall of the Circle’s capital, the Watcher had placed barriers on those lands, for the Runes brought by the host of Eternity had degraded the spectral walls, creating a weakness, and even pierced the crust in some spots, roads to the deep horizons. The hollow bones of Unity, their intricate weave bound by the knots of the great Spires, had opened the path to Worms as they surged into the soft underbelly of the Circle and gradually flooded the ruins.

That was very bad — this breach should have been found and sealed long ago — but the Ascendants of the Circle never ventured into the ruins. They were considered a forbidden place of death, a city of demons, and the Watcher was bound to offer generous gifts from his vault. But first, the White Devil wanted to inspect his former prison.

Soon, he spotted the familiar mountain peaks, crossed the blue ribbon of the Floodwater by leaping through its rapids, and retraced Sigurd’s path in reverse, heading for the largest of sacred lakes, shaped like a sleeping woman sprawled across the blanket of forested foothills.

The scorched scar left by Sigurd’s capsule had already healed — Unity surged with life — but the crater and scattered wreckage remained intact. Over half a cycle, no one had touched the shattered Earther craft. One of the Thousand inspected it, paying special attention to the sheared edge that had severed part of the torpedo. He stood on the lake shore and on the small island, where barely a trace remained of the yurr’s tidy garden and the Earther’s camp, and headed toward the mountain spur, following the same path once taken by the wounded noxwolf.

How had a creature from the Shadowlands even made it so close to the Circle’s center? True, the noxwolf might have come along the mountains, keeping to the forbidden zones between the domains of the Storm or Skull septs, whose borders met the lake lands far to the “east,” but why would it travel so far? What drew it there? In those parts, its pelt would smolder by day from the Ygg radiance, and prey was scarce — and why hadn’t it already devoured the lone little gardener by the time of Sigurd’s arrival?

Luck again? Another coincidence? The Unseen loved smiling, but nobody knew what stone he’d pull out of his pouch, black, white, or gray, and what symbol would be carved on it.

The noxwolf had made its lair right where Sigurd was supposed to arrive. That wasn’t surprising either. Perhaps it was drawn by the Starblood lingering in the ancient bones, but three white stones in a row were too many to be a coincidence, and then there was the seed, as if waiting for its moment...

One of the Thousand halted before the cave entrance. It had been created with the help of a powerful Rune or tools similar to those of the Earthers — it was impossible to say. One thing was clear: someone had known where the shard of the United was buried and gave it to those who dug out that passage.

Why had he been imprisoned there, of all places? The White Devil remembered the fate of many Brethren who had fallen into the clutches of Eternity, and it was truly horrifying. The first captured shards of the United had been subjected to endless torment, killed and resurrected in an unending cycle. Eternity wanted to intimidate those who stood with the Thousand. Others they subjected to Disgrace, stripping them of memory and mind to turn them into obedient thralls — the lords of the Skythrone found twisted pleasure in such acts. But the weapon that subdued the Kel and the lessers didn’t work against those like him, and so the sky lords resorted to another approach — sealing their shackled souls in different places, stripped of Blood and power. Sometimes openly, like the Barrow of Yantander, where an entire army of disciples was tasked with guarding the tomb, and sometimes secretly, like a hollow illium bell left sealed in a closed Domain. Yet even they, nearly omnipotent in their rotting Eternity, dared not command the Watcher, and the Saga Runes, as well as secret missions and special tracking Runes wielded by the survivors, might eventually lead to the trail of the imprisoned Brethren, for their secret was one Unity never wished to forget.

He had been bound not far from the site of his defeat. Perhaps the Reshapers were simply in a hurry, but it was probably a deliberate calculation. No one would search for a defeated sovereign near the ruins of his own stronghold. And for several hundred, maybe a thousand cycles — the White Devil still wasn’t sure how many — the mountainside crypt with no entrances or exits, a hidden cavern beneath stone roots, had guarded his spirit. Until...

One of the Thousand climbed into the narrow tunnel and soon entered the lair, where he carefully examined the remains of the shadow predator’s meals. His eyes saw what Sigurd had failed to recognize: old bones unfit for food. The beast had also been brought there, both as a guardian against unexpected guests and as bait for the one meant to come that way.

Now almost certain, he stepped into the dark cave, where the sacrificial bell awaited. A pit twenty men tall had been dug in the stone to open the chamber holding him. The bones of those who did it littered the floor a few steps away from the entrance. It was a group of beings that included an Ascendant… and a powerful exo servant of the Watcher, who had opened the bell and then fell to a fire Rune. Stepping forward with caution, One of the Thousand heard a commanding voice.

“Stop! This place is forbidden to you!”

Glimmer. He remembered her voice, and ancient hatred surged from deep within his mind, pounding in his chest. That golden-haired sky bitch, young and radiant, illuminated the darkness with her glow, and he looked into her eyes, as bright with Starblood as before. The Reshaper, a hundred times more dangerous than the pathetic Azymandia — one of the thousand celestial warriors summoned by the Empyreans to grind the Thousand into dust — had left behind a guardian echo, just like those that powerful Kel used to place in their Domains.

“I, Taelys Kel Amyss, command you! Stop!”

He stepped back, and the wretched echo faded. Her Slate was charged with a reflection of the golden Rune of Anor. He could drain it if he wanted, but there was no point in doing that.

She might realize the projection had been broken. Now, the real Kel Amyss — she deserved death without any mercy or restraint, just like the rest of her treacherous ilk... but a silver worm shouldn’t dream of such feats. One of the Thousand felt grateful to the Reshaper. Her face and voice reminded him just how weak he still was, how far he remained from posing any threat to the likes of her.

They had galactic cycles to spare, and he... The White Devil didn’t know how much time he had left. Were the Outer Beasts already tearing at the Breach? Or were the drifting citadels of the True and the Watcher’s islands only preparing for the great battle to come?

As he looked, he realized another thing that Sigurd had missed. The squad that carved a path here was no ordinary group. Just one Ascendant and one exo, yet besides drilling through the mountain’s roots and locating the crypt, they had also breached the four-sided bell where the Living Chains bound his remains. The exo endured the Flame of Anor, again and again, and broke through the altered illium of the gate, a feat most Ascendants of Unity could never have managed. But they succeeded, which meant they had been hardened, prepared, and guided.

And then, they were killed down to the last survivor. Some of the bones, including those of the Ascendant whose Stigmata Sigurd had taken, lay outside the zone guarded by the fake Glimmer. Maybe the reflection had gone berserk after repeated intrusions and incinerated every living thing in range, yet the arrangement of the bones suggested otherwise: death came upon them suddenly, and only after the exo had unsealed the bell and its altar. They were killed once their task was complete.

All right. Someone with precise knowledge of his prison’s secret location had dispatched a search party, arming them with the tools to pierce the mountain and open the bell. Then, coldly and deliberately, they slaughtered them all, leaving Glimmer’s reflection untouched to guard the sanctuary from any strays.

Then, once the prison stood open — maybe cycles later, maybe not — a capsule fell nearby with an Earther inside. His body harbored a dormant True One, as if freshly released from the Seal of Dissolution. Even he, One of the Thousand, didn’t recognize him as True at first — the boy was so strange, so foreign, unlike anything he’d ever encountered before. A precursor of precursors, of whom even the Order of the True told only vague legends…

And that True One found a seed of the Great Tree in the lake, granting him a mighty shield, among other things. Following the trail of the noxwolf, he came into that cave. The Unseen laid an entire road of white stones before him — if it was the Unseen, and not some other party that wished to free the shard of the United with the hands of someone whose body they could never claim.

That part was completed — but why? Was the young body of the True One meant to become his new prison? Or was he supposed to gift him with knowledge and speed up his Ascension?

Or perhaps… that was how they meant to forge themselves a new shield, combining what had been and what would be? The White Devil did not have the answer, but he had no doubt that those who had set it all in motion knew the truth. And likely not only knew, but had swum upstream through the rivers of time, ensuring that all unfolded as it should. As they willed.

Eternity, then. And if he was right, then they also knew he would find himself a new body, come to that cave, trace the signs, and realize they were steering the flow of events. The chief Norn had said that if what was divided became one, the Keepers were willing to pay that price. If those words were addressed to him, then whatever had happened frightened them far more than the return of his forgotten father. Which meant that...

“If I’ve guessed right,” he said, staring into the emptiness of the crypt, “then give me a sign. GIVE ME A SIGN!”

The echo of his cry bounced from the walls, returned to him, and danced down the tunnel’s hollow.

It wouldn’t surprise him to see a hooded figure up above at the edge of the mountain’s slope, lounging atop a large boulder with legs casually crossed, flipping a shiny coin. All of that was quite typical of a certain pathetic Keeper who loved placing swords and shields into the hands of others. It wouldn’t even shock him to learn that the man played for both lords just to make sure he’d never lose, no matter how the spheres flipped.

But there was no one above — only emptiness, trees, stones, and wind. Eternity refused him an answer, unwilling to share a sign.

So be it. It changed nothing. He still had to find his siblings. Some of them too had swum through the River of Time and knew how to battle the omniscience of Skythrone.

Soon, he had fingers again. Beautiful, long, strong, just like those on his right hand. The new hand was the same size, too, though the newborn skin had yet to darken. It was a true joy to train with knife and spear with two real hands — to hold things, to eat, to help himself stand up. Now his body was whole again and had enough Starblood, but his Attributes and Runes were still too weak.

Silver, weapons, armor — but above all, an Aspect. There were no truly powerful Ascendants in their Circle, but even so, seizing and holding power would be difficult without it.

Now, nothing stood in the way of him entering the Arena. The Cursed Shrine had sent out two more signals — both of which had been received by someone — but One of the Thousand had yet to enter combat himself. It was impossible to predict who he would face in the Arena. His Runes were still weak, too, his Slate filled with trash, and his team of Creatures — his only viable advantage — was unprepared for the Domain’s fire traps. A definite advantage — and perhaps a smile from the Unseen — was the wealth of aquatic Runes he had obtained, yet the White Devil knew all too well how such a smile could turn into a deadly grin.

He Who Fights used to say that the United looked only upon those Ascendants who didn’t look back. It meant he shouldn’t rely on luck alone; he needed to prepare for the duel with utmost dedication while keeping in mind his goal of acquiring an Aspect.

It seemed it was time to return to the Silver Castle, make use of Azymandia’s runic laboratory, and leave Sigurd the gift he had promised.

However, there was a chance of encountering Earthers in the Domain, and that was unacceptable. Although all paths were cut off by the Wild Hunt, the clever ones would quickly find other ways, and Sigurd’s folk would soon hear of Flamelike. It was good, and it was unavoidable. Still, the Ascendant who had defeated the mistress of the Silver Castle and gifted an Earther her Domain Rune must not reveal to the Earthfolk that the body he now inhabited belonged to the son of their Riks.

The White Devil knew that Sigurd was no fool and that their parting would only strengthen him. He was bound to figure out how to disable the other Key while the Earthers explored the Domain. After all, the Domain’s master had the power over all Keys he had gifted. It was a simple test: if the entrance remained open, the Silver Castle was safe. If it wasn’t, then the Domain was off-limits for now...

At the moment, the gates of the Vizu Aran Domain were open.

Chapter 15

THE KEY LED TO THE VERY SAME PLACE Sigurd had first arrived: a small decorative lake with a path leading up to the Silver Castle. For some reason, Azymandia had loved greeting her visitors there, probably observing them, gauging their reactions to the surroundings, and deciding which of her Runes to send after the new “guest.”

The golden mistress was calculating, but she was taking incredible risks because even a trio of crystal guardians might fail to defeat certain intruders. The Kel lady knew that, but she delighted in taking risks. It was a small thrill, like a seasoning, for the chance of encountering an equal opponent was slim, and Unity had few truly powerful Ascendants. And usually, power came hand in hand with wisdom. The wise wouldn’t care about the Keys to an old silver Domain where danger might lurk.

Her tactics had proved quite successful. The heiress of Vizu Aran, herself a weak gold, had gradually assembled a strong team of silver Creatures out of her captives. That was enough to defend herself even in Eternity, yet she continued to entertain herself, clearly having developed a taste for it.

Until he arrived.

The Earther had left a message right by the entrance, a trash Saga Rune that One of the Thousand watched as he made his way to the spires of the Silver Castle. Sigurd was warning him that the Domain would soon be closed and proposed setting up a secret link, also asking for runecrafting instructions. The young True One also inquired about a certain unusual Rune that Azymandia had once taken from the Riks of his freehold, and the air immediately grew thick with an old secret. The White Devil had seen Vincent Cassidy through Sigurd’s eyes, first in the Domain and later at the moot, and instantly sensed something strange about him. A strong silver, an Earther, yet a real Ascendant — a warrior who hadn’t left the silver Flaminica a single chance of winning. He was dangerous, and in the concentrated grace he displayed on the mootseat’s arena, One of the Thousand even caught a glimpse of something ancient and forgotten... But no, that was impossible — yet he still made a mental note to question Azymandia.

It felt unexpectedly... nice to hear Sigurd’s voice, just like the question of a young apprentice sent off to walk his own path but returning to seek wisdom from his elder. The Earther and his people were an important link in the White Devil’s plans, so they deserved to possess what every Kel did — the ability to copy their own Skills. And something else as well... but first, he carefully examined the Domain.

Almost nothing had changed — if anything, quite the opposite. In Azymandia’s rune laboratory, he found stores of Starblooded matter, the same they had brought back from Eternity and found in Esthé. Golden fragments of Thorius’ altar, chrysalis shards, and parts of kiiras from the Archive of Dreams — the Earther had prepared worthy gifts in exchange for the secrets. The White Devil wasn’t going to remain in his debt.

Most importantly, in the Chest of Azymandia’s sister, whose reflection slumbered in one of the Coffins, he found a beautiful asari worthy of a Vizu Aran Eugina. Unfortunately, it wasn’t blue and silver, but that was quite fixable, for Runes could do many things...

“Oh, my former home...” the summoned Azymandia sighed, dramatically stretching her arms. “I thought I would never see you again...”

“You have some time to rest, my,” the White Devil said. “Summon your Pack Rats and have them gather silver minerals, and tell the Maidens to fetch food and wine.”

Obeying his command, Azymandia sighed in relief and plunged into her favorite pool, which began to bubble and exploded into arches of waterfalls where the naked Kel lady bathed herself. Then the waters calmed, and platters with exquisite food, fruits, and wine spun across the surface toward her. With her hands and Living Hair, she greedily attacked the food as if she had starved for a thousand cycles.

One of the Thousand sat down at the edge of the pool, a cup of wine in hand. With a faint smile on his face, he watched her feast.

“Would my lord like to share the meal?” asked Azymandia, deftly handling her utensils while her tresses held two elegant goblets from which she occasionally sipped. “Oh, this poor Rune is so grateful...”

“No, but we will talk, and I command you to tell me the truth.”

“What does... mmm... my sky lord wish to know?”

“Tell me how to raise the rank of a Rune with an Ascendant sealed inside. Can the Rune of Evolution do that?”

“Mmm... If it could, the entire Golden City would have lined up at the Rune Masters’ doors,” Azymandia snorted, never stopping her meal. “Raising a rank to gold... with just one golden Rune... I would have grown richer than Trickster himself, my lord. No, it’s impossible. When we create a Creature from Starblood, the entire constellation of its development is created at once, from trash to sky, and all that’s left is to fill it. That’s why Creatures are far weaker than Ascendants. They have no Slates or Runes, few Attributes, and only a handful of Starblooded abilities...”

“I know that. But what happens to an Ascendant Rune if you raise its rank with Evolution or use Amplification? You must have tried this with your servants?”

“No, why would I? The Vizu Aran have long known that it’s pointless, just a stupid waste of Runes. If you turn a silver — say, that pitiful neo, Thorius’ maid — into gold with Evolution,” Azymandia smiled with contempt, “then her Rune will become golden, but the Creature itself will only gain a random golden star in one of its Attributes... not necessarily the one you need. It will remain a pathetic silver wrapped in golden foil!”

“What about Amplification?”

“Amplification just boosts one random Skill by one star,” Azymandia shrugged her bare shoulders. “And that’s it, my lord! Otherwise, I would have long had a team of golden Runes with golden Skills, and the High Houses would have bowed to me...”

He pondered her words. Apparently, Ascendants sealed into Runes could only advance the classic way, gradually consuming Runes of Growth, and Evolution and Amplification were useless. He had suspected as much, as the original templates for Creatures weren’t designed for Ascendants.

“So, only Augmentation, Reduction, and Recharge are of use to Creature Runes containing Ascendants?”

“My lord is not mistaken. Only Runes that alter the Rune itself and not the Creature within,” Azymandia confirmed, emptying another goblet, and suddenly giggled. “Ooh, maybe my lord will find me a golden Augmentation? Then I could serve him twice as long... or twice as often...”

“I’ll think about it,” he nodded. “Now I want you to remember which Runes you took from the Earthfolk Ascendant. That silver Riks you drained and trapped in Timelessness... Be honest, my.”

“Aw,” Azymandia smiled weakly and lowered her eyes. “That stubborn little fool? He had a lot of stuff, my lord. Mostly trash...”

“But was there anything noteworthy? Gold? Rare silver? Cursed Runes? Tell me the truth, my.”

“My lord is wise,” Azymandia said softly. “Oh yes, there was something in his Slate. A jewel of another rank.”

“What rank?”

“A Draconic Rune, my lord.” She looked at him with a strange expression of vengeful pride. “The one we found in the swamps wasn’t the first to fall into my hands. That stubborn little fool carried... a Draconic weapon of the True.”

“What? A Draconic weapon? Of the True? How did you know that?”

“It was a sentient weapon that contained the speaking spirit of one of them,” Azymandia grimaced. “Or its reflection... I don’t know.”

“And what did you do with it?!”

“Got rid of it, of course,” the Kel lady shuddered. “It was a dangerous Rune with a madwoman inside. Thorius gave me almost a thousand Coins for it...”

“So that Riks belonged to the True?!”

“I didn’t kill him to check, but of course he didn’t,” Azymandia smirked. “I pulled out all his memories and found no signs of Dissolution. He was just a puppet. The Unseen winked at him, and the Riks found a Draconic Rune, leading him to the fortress of those hardhe— forgive me, my lord, Sentinel’s loyal defenders.”

“An interesting story. Tell me more, my,” he ordered. “What did you see in his memories?”

“Aw, there was a lot of garbage, and I didn’t pay it much attention. Some strange world — probably on the Underside or in a massive Domain,” the Kel lady grimaced again. “Then a ruined Tower, a Portal, and the Citadel of the True. That Rune spoke to him and guided him. The True saw something in him and gave him their nail. Well, one of the old ones...”

“I see,” he nodded. “And the Draconic Rune?”

“They left it to him, either as his reward or her punishment. There was a lot more, but I didn’t watch everything, my lord! He was so stubborn, resisted fiercely, interfered... you can’t imagine how much time I wasted on him,” Azymandia sighed heavily. “I got tired of it! I decided to leave him for dessert, once I’d improved my Skills a little. Then other things came up, new guests arrived...”

“That’s why you didn’t gut him completely,” the White Devil said slowly, suddenly realizing what had been hidden from him before. “And the Draconic Rune ended up with the soultrader?”

“Yes, my lord. Azymandia lowered her eyes. “I desperately needed Coins back then. And that Rune couldn’t be used without its consent. Flex Thorius offered me a fortune for it...”

“And you don’t know what happened to it afterward?”

“Only a fool meddles in the affairs of contractoriums... Oh, my lord, forgive me again. Most likely, Thorius resold it or kept it for his collection. Draconic Runes, especially sentient ones, are a tremendous rarity, as my wise lord knows...”

One of the Thousand kept an impassive face, but deep down, he wanted to strangle Azymandia right there, preferably several times. Had he known that, he would’ve negotiated with Thorius in a completely different way: say, by trading the idiotic golden lady for the Draconic weapon of the True, an extremely rare combat artifact of Unity. Of course, there was no guarantee Thorius would’ve agreed. Unlike Azymandia, he had a good idea how much a sentient weapon in a Draconic shell was worth. Well, now he had an answer for Sigurd — and a new understanding of the silver Riks whose son’s body he had taken.

“Good, my,” he said slowly. “Now tell me, can my golden Rune Master create blank Runes?”

That ability was unlocked at one of the golden stars of Rune Mastery, and the one Azymandia had received in the marshes was already her sixth, meaning she most likely already possessed it. Any Rune Master unable to craft blanks was incomplete, for without them, no full-fledged Rune could ever be made.

“My lord wishes to drain me dry...” Fear flashed in her eyes. Real fear, not feigned — Azymandia understood perfectly well that creating blanks would rapidly deplete her Starblood. Especially high-ranking blanks — and what would a shard of the United want with trash?

“Out of materials or Starblood?” he asked calmly. “Tell me the truth, my.”

“Either way,” she breathed out. “But my lord knows the materials must contain enough Starblood. Not everything does... And if there’s no materials and I must use aether, then—”

“I know, my,” he interrupted. “I won’t take your Blood. I have materials. Let’s go to the laboratory.”

One of the Thousand did know the process. If Starblooded material of the right rank had enough Starblood inside, the Rune Master could craft it into a blank Rune using the material’s own supply. Otherwise, a golden crafter could shape a blank out of their own Starblood, but a silver one would cost eighty drops to one hundred, and a golden one, three to four hundred. That would also burn away the stars of their Attributes, for by creating Runes out of their Blood, the master sacrificed a part of themselves. He could indeed drain Azymandia’s Blood and Attributes, lowering her back to silver, if he commanded her to create them. She wouldn’t last long...

There was no time to admire the sight of the fully naked Kel lady languidly rising from the pool, shooting him a challenging look of her clear blue eyes and slowly slipping into a sheer helio. One of the Thousand ordered her to hurry — there was much work to be done. He also ordered her to bring the Spectral Maidens along.

Azymandia’s Rune Constructor was gone. She still had Illium Engravers in her Slate, one of the core tools of Rune Mastery. Unlike the Constructor, that Item gave no hints, relying fully on the master’s skill. But a real gold was bound to have the knowledge of all Symbols and Seals and the ability to carve them by hand out of the material’s core.

Yet it was a long and tedious process. Luckily, the Domain had a Rune Anvil: an excellent instrument for crafting and altering Runes. That’s what they decided to use, for it also provided a number of additional options, such as identifying the Draconic symbols left after dismantling the wand. But first things first...

From the silver heart of the lokhi, the Kel lady created five Elemental Symbols (Water).

From the fragments of the drake Riks, silver Elemental Symbols (Air).

From the chrysalis shards, silver Elemental Symbols (Death) and Symbols of Items.

The silver ingots from the corpse pit, once the skulls of Vizu Aran’s noble foes, turned into six fine silver blanks, and the wooden and bronze ones became a multitude of blank Runes and Symbols of Items that they used to store the Stigmata collected in battle.

Finally, the golden part of Thorius’ altar yielded three golden blanks and the symbols of Augmentation, Cleansing, and Evolution. He made her craft them first — trading with the Watcher required knowing what they already had in stock.

The Illium shards of the Sword of True Light were only good for extracting Blood — working them required celestial Mastery. He left them for the day a proper master would be found or raised. The wondrous metal forming the bones and shell of the great sphere was the best material for weapons in Unity bar none. And the empty Draconic Rune would make a perfect vessel for it.

There were also the fragments of the Draconic wand, but neither Azymandia nor her anvil knew their real shape, making it impossible to extract Symbols or Seals out of them. The chunks gleamed with a crimson rank and bore a cryptic description:

Fragment of Draconic Wand

Locates and binds creatures...

Relic. Starblood present

The Draconic Symbols left from dismantling the Rune were similar. There were five of them: Serpent Blood, Infinity, Recurrence, Draconic Growth, and Absolute Authority. Four possessed Draconic rank, but the fifth... the fifth gleamed sky blue. Azymandia had managed to preserve a Symbol of the celestial rank, one of the greatest treasures of Unity. A pity they couldn’t use it yet... but that made the upcoming journey to the Frozen Abyss all the more meaningful. If he could find traces of the icesmiths and the Halls of Ergial still stood, he might not only reclaim his Brother but also a Draconic weapon.

“And now, my, sell all this junk to the Watcher...”

He connected their Slates and transferred her the many Runes looted from the swamp Ascendants and aquatic creatures. A lot of them were wood and bronze, but some flashed silver, such as the useless Bogmaiden, which also went into the Watcher’s Treasury. So did the bronze Runes with the Stigmata of slain enemies — the Watcher paid three Coins per each, and that was far better than feeding the souls to the greedy Eternity.

He had taken a lot of Starcoins from the swamp-dwellers, and the Watcher paid him even more. Now, even gold from his treasury was within his reach, but the Keeper of Unity only traded the best Runes for Deeds, and ordinary Properties weren’t important. He could have taken a golden Rune from Azymandia anyway. Her Slate had a few curious options: Time Stop, Sphere of Great Void, Levitation, Great Cure...

“Will my lord rob his faithful Rune once again?” Azymandia asked slyly, just as skilled in reading faces and intentions as he was.

He sifted through the options in his mind and concluded that, ahead of the upcoming trial, he should only take what he truly needed. He also had to repay the Earther’s golden gifts and leave a message, and do it at once. If Azymandia’s Rune became damaged in the Arena, he would have to find another golden master to repair it, making her Slate inaccessible for a long time.

“You are mine, and so are your Runes,” he smirked. “But I haven’t yet decided what burden to take from you. For now, buy the following from the Watcher...”

There was no sense in preserving Starcoins. Azymandia spent them all, purchasing bronze and silver Cleansings, Evolutions, Augmentations, and Amplifications for him — a lot of Properties, yet even they weren’t enough to make his Slate battle-ready.

“Tell me, do you have anything fire-resistant, my?”

“Fire-resistant, my lord?” The Kel lady blinked in confusion. “What kind of fire?”

“Ordinary kind. Creatures of flames. Streams of lava. Burns that could kill your Creatures and scorch this delicate skin.” He touched her marble-white shoulder. “What protection do you and your Runes possess?”

“Elemental fire?” Azymandia echoed thoughtfully. “There was Torc, but you took it away... Shifting Armor or Cold Scales should shield me from it. As for Runes... My Seer’s tome holds many decent Spells. What does my lord intend?”

“Unbind her Rune from your Slate and give it to me,” he ordered.

“She is a very bad, disobedient Rune,” Azymandia pleaded. “I kept her memory and mind intact, but my lord does not know how to keep her in check... And she is an important part of my team...”

“Does the Kel lady not understand that she and her Runes are now part of my team?” he smiled coldly. “What difference does it make whose Slate holds the Creatures? And I haven’t finished yet...”

The gaze of One of the Thousand shifted to the Spectral Maidens, who trailed behind their mistress like silent shadows. They were the weakest of her Runes and served mostly as useless attendants. In battle, bronze Ascendants with their Skills were of little use, but Sigurd, as he recalled, had immediately set his sights on them. Very well. Let the Maidens become his payment.

“Take all the Runes from their Slates and give them to me. Raise Spectral Form to silver,” the White Devil ordered. “Understood, my?”

“You will take my sweet girls from me?” Azymandia’s lashes fluttered, and fake tears welled in the corners of her eyes. “I spent so much time training them...”

“Break their Runes and release them from the Oath.”

“What, my lord?” The Kel lady stared at him in dismay. “But why? It’s... foolish. They remember nothing, know nothing, and only serve me... It’s a good Rune. Let them continue to—”

“Right now, my.” Something in his ominous voice told Azymandia that arguing was out of the question. She stopped mid-sentence and obeyed. The lines of the constructium flickered, and the eyes of Aiho and Nitwit shimmered with Starblood pouring out of the broken glyphs. From now on, the girls were free: mere Ascendants of flesh and blood again, no longer immortal Creatures imprisoned in a Rune. The Maidens exchanged bewildered glances, clearly unsure of what to do next and too afraid to ask — Azymandia had trained them very well indeed.

The White Devil stepped forward, opened his Slate, and materialized the Rune of Speaking Stones taken from one of the Swampcave warriors. That Item Rune consisted of two linked stones that allowed their holders to communicate across any distance. Keeping the main stone for himself, he pressed the second into Aiho’s hand and closed her fingers around it. He and Sigurd would use it to talk, but first...

“Cleanse their memory with Oblivion,” he commanded the Kel lady. “They must forget our faces, everything you did to them, and everything they saw in the Domain. Afterward, place them into a Pillar of Timelessness... And be quick, your time is nearly up!”

Azymandia obeyed, sobbing and swallowing her tears. The Maidens froze, trembling under their mistress’s pulsating gaze, then lost consciousness and drifted into one of the free pillars, clinging to each other as if for protection, fear and wonder frozen on their faces.

“My lord wounds the heart of his wretched servant,” Azymandia whined once the task was done. “She fought for him, was loyal to him, and instead of a reward, he robs her again, taking what she holds dearest. Oh, my lord is so cruel!”

“Not as cruel as you were to your Runes,” he chuckled. “Tell me what you did to them — truthfully.”

Azymandia twisted her mouth into an ugly grimace, as if about to burst into tears, but the Oath forbade her to lie. Reluctantly, she spoke up.

“I nearly killed them but didn’t let them die. After capturing them, I emptied their Slates, tormenting them with pain. I read their minds to find their weaknesses and broke their will with the Eye. Then I taught them obedience anew — through pain, fear, and humiliation. Later, after the Oath, I remade them to my liking. I’ve already told you this, my lord...”

“Would you like to experience the same?”

She shook her head in silence, and he chuckled.

“Then value the master you have. And you will receive your reward...”

“I thank my lord for his generous promises. But he should know that my Glory will soon run dry. He has nearly drained it all, and now this poor Rune won’t be able to buy anything for him until the end of the cycle...”

“How were you earning the Glory of Unity in the first place?” he asked. “You never left the Domain, never completed the Watcher’s missions. Or is this the remnant from the old days?”

“Both the old and what little my Runes managed to gather,” Azymandia replied.

“You don’t even remember how you obtained it...”

“I can remember if I wish,” Azymandia shrugged. “My lord knows that... But why would I need it now?”

Oh, he knew that, all right. To preserve clear memory across past cycles, you had to cultivate special Attributes: silver Mnemonics and golden Past Memory. Only then would old memories avoid being buried beneath new experiences. But therein lay a great danger — those who remembered all of their lives risked plunging into madness.

To prevent this, the True used Seals of Dissolution, walking their path anew each time, while the wretches who had fled into Eternity either reveled in their insanity, creating cults out of it, or cured themselves through cowardly oblivion, storing their past lives in dream crystals. Azymandia could remember her past, but for now, her birth, childhood, and youth were blank pages. Most likely, she recalled only the last thousand cycles, and all her previous experiences were a half-forgotten hymn she could savor again if needed.

But this life — this life she would remember well. One of the Thousand sensed it: for the Kel lady, it would be the brightest of them all.

“You served me well today, my,” he decided to switch anger for mercy, studying her Attributes. “Is this your seventh golden star in Rune Mastery?”

“Yes. Is my lord pleased?”

The White Devil patted her cheek like a well-behaved little dog — she had done good work and earned a small reward.

“Did you enjoy our last battle?”

“Oh, I nearly lost my mind...” The Kel lady licked her lips. “It was so thrilling, my lord. I would like to experience something like that again...”

“How many did you kill? How much Starblood did you take?”

“I wasn’t counting, maybe nine or eleven,” the Kel lady answered, thinking. “As for Blood, only a measly hundred drops, my lord! You’re taking many more from me...”

“This is only the beginning. Serve me, fight for me, and you’ll gain far more than you lost. I’ll make you a true Ascendant,” the White Devil said with boundless confidence. “And you’ll thank me when you finally earn your freedom.”

“Such sweet words for the poor Rune,” Azymandia sighed, dramatically lowering her gaze. “She will serve, for she has no choice, and only hopes that her lord will leave her at least a drop of Starblood... But her time is running out, and the promised reward has not been claimed...”

“We’re not done yet.”

“What else can the Rune do for her lord?”

“One last thing. Take this Rune...” He handed her the Rune that held her sister’s asari. “Can you make the dress turn blue?”

“Is it for her?” Azymandia’s eyes narrowed in anger. “For that pathetic corpse whose reflection you changed for some reason? Am I right?”

He slapped her cheek, softly but loudly.

“I ordered you to craft a Rune, not to lecture me. Obey. The asari must be blue and silver.”

“I can only imprint a Color Change,” Azymandia muttered, unable to hide her anger. “A pathetic bronze rag!”

“Then make the asari change color,” he agreed calmly.

“Why do you need her, my lord?” The former Kel lady suddenly sobbed, handing him back the altered Rune. “Why are you taking from me and giving her Runes? Does her new reflection have other skills than lying? But by Eternity, I can pleasure you much better! If my sky lord allows...”

Suddenly, she sank to her knees, wrapping her arms around his hips, her cool lips brushing his skin. The blue strands of her hair coiled under his clothes in an instant, tickling his flesh in the most sensitive places.

“You think you’ve earned this reward?” he asked coldly, not stopping her insistent caresses.

“Yes! Last time, the sky lord promised to reward me,” came a coaxing whisper from below. “I have chosen! Has he already tested that new reflection in love?”

The White Devil felt no desire for Azymandia, but eros was a good key to the golden lady’s obedience. She needed more than just suffering; she needed to know that he would not deceive her in things either great or small. She had to wait, to hunger, and to fight for his favor. Only then would she truly be his.

They had only a few minutes, so their love was wild, like a mountain stream rushing down rocky slopes. He took her like a slave who sold her love, for it was roughness from which the heiress of Vizu Aran derived true pleasure. That was the best way to gain power over her: not just over her trembling body, writhing in spasms of ecstasy, but over her mind and soul as well, for without them her service would be incomplete.

“Oh, this reflection is even better in making love than the old one,” Azymandia whispered in the final seconds of her corporeal existence. “My lord, I await our next meeting…”

The White Devil smirked, gazing at the golden glyph once again etched into his Slate. Had the Kel lady known where their next encounter would take place, she wouldn’t have been so reckless with her words. Everything had a price, even pleasure, but he was still dead-set on forging that foolish lustful doll into a true Ascendant.

Chapter 16

THEN HE TURNED to his Runes.

Gold came first. A golden Augmentation halved the cooldown of the Living Chains. That Rune, his most powerful weapon, still had one upgrade slot left, but so far, he had no suitable Properties.

A golden Evolution was a treacherous Rune, as One of the Thousand was perfectly aware. The most expensive and special Property, it allowed you to increase the Rune’s rank but often completely changed its effect. Gold and silver were worlds apart in power, too, and such artificially improved Runes often ended up weak and costly to use. “Gilded silver,” the Ascendants called them — and gilding a truly strong silver Rune with four or five enhancement stars was rarely worth the effort. Sometimes, the results were disappointing.

At the moment, only one truly good silver Rune shone in his Slate: Dehydration. It was extremely hard to block: only disrupting the caster’s concentration, exiting their line of sight, or wearing armor completely impervious to runic effects could save the target. That was the exact Rune he could try to “gild,” as combined with Time Stop, Dehydration or Living Chains could become extremely powerful golden weapons worthy of being used in the Arena.

He applied Evolution and nodded in satisfaction at the result.

Desiccation

Spell Rune

Grade: gold

Activation: 240 Starblood drops

Extracts moisture from all objects and creatures within the area of effect, leaving behind only withered lifeless matter. Can affect objects and natural landscapes. Duration depends on the resilience, quantity, and size of the affected targets.

Duration: 12–(???) seconds

Cooldown: 2 hours

He had expected something like that. Desiccation could sap the moisture from many targets at once, affecting not just the living. It was a good Rune, and if enhanced further, even an excellent one, capable of turning a lush garden or even a vast lake into a scorched wasteland. Weapons like that, albeit of celestial rank, had once formed the Sundered Lands.

The new gold joined the Runes gleaming in his Slate. Only Cleansing was left, but its time hadn’t yet come. It was silver’s turn.

He amplified and augmented Lifegiving Bloom, for that Rune was essential. The lokhi’s gift preserved his body longer and better than Cure, mending minor and medium wounds.

He also amplified and augmented Galewings, turning them into Stormwings. They gained an hour-long duration and the ability to deflect both projectiles and melee weapons.

Thunderstorm received an infusion of the Element of Water, turning it into Typhoon, a real localized cyclone swirling with water currents and energy sparks. There was no evading it within its range.

He evolved the feeble Misty Cloud to silver, transforming it into Veil of Fog, and then amplified it, creating Impenetrable Veil of Fog, which not only concealed the caster but also slowed down their enemies. The Elemental Rune of Death made it toxic, poisoning the targets inside. Next, he created a new combination, linking Fog with the augmented and amplified Phantom Apparitions. Now Deadly Fog could be filled with his copies, confusing and distracting the enemy. That silver Link was designed for battlefield control and stealth: a fearsome weapon that could unsettle even the strong and scatter the weak.

He evolved Aquatic Blade to silver, turning it into Aquatic Sword — the Unseen threw him a black stone, but that was bound to happen sooner or later.

The weak Black Creeper also evolved, becoming a Serpent that could both strangle an Ascendant and bind their arms and legs. After two Amplifications, the Binding Serpent could crush lower-rank armor and disable the enemy Slate without even plunging the foe into slumber.

Bronze came last. There wasn’t much left of it — most of the junk, including Silver Trout’s Items, had already been sold to the Watcher’s treasury.

Phantom Gaze turned into Wanderer’s Eyes capable of perceiving much hidden from others. Augmented and amplified Scales transformed into Reflective Scales, and Flutter became the bronze Weight Reduction. He also amplified Wanderer’s Tent and Pouch, keeping in mind his own comfort. Ascendant’s Defender and Floating Shield fused into another combo, albeit meant for someone else. At that point, his Rune Mastery finally flashed silver, and he took a silver blank and placed it inside the old amulet taken from the Bearer’s corpse in the Sunken Spires.

It was a fine Item once crafted by his own hand. After Amplification, it began to glow, becoming the Mark of Triple Lightning. That Item not only accelerated the flow of Starblood, like Seeker’s Star, but also contained three charges of his lightning, released in response to every attack against the wearer.

And then, when his Runes and Symbols had nearly run dry and his Slate at last looked worthy of a silver Ascendant, he summoned Morwayne.

His second assistant looked just like Azymandia, having emerged right after the battle in the marshes, but as always, remained perfectly composed. She looked around — the soothing atmosphere of the Vizu Aran Domain was utterly unlike any place he had summoned her before. But it was hard to faze the Conjurer, who had seen much during her time in Eternity, and she merely bowed her head in greeting.

“Are we in Unity, my lord?” Morwayne asked, and he nodded.

“Yes. We are guests here, and it’s completely safe,” he said, sweeping a hand at the pool before opening his Slate. The table beside it filled with delicacies and drinks created by the legendary Kel Tar, whose Rune of the Feast had once belonged to one of the Spectral Maidens.

“Eat, drink, and rest, my Ascendant. The pool is yours, and here is what you asked for...”

One of the Thousand took out the Rune of the Color-Changing Garment, and Morwayne deftly caught the glyph, examining it with curiosity. An unexpectedly warm smile touched her lips.

“My lord did not forget the dress. I thank you... But may I ask for some time for myself?”

The White Devil didn’t disturb her, leaving her alone — he knew the Ascendant wanted to clean up. She required a completely different approach than Azymandia, for Morwayne was a necromancer and a seer whose pride had already been broken once. The lesson given to her by Eternity was a bitter medicine, teaching her to treasure every moment of life but also leaving an indelible scar on her soul. In Unity, Morwayne was to become one of his first pillars and serve as they had served him before, so she needed to feel equal, beautiful, and free.

The conjurer met him in a deep blue, almost black, asari — elegant, figure-hugging, with a slit up to mid-thigh and an ornate belt. Her hair fell in luxurious waves over her shoulders, supported by a circlet, and her translucent gray eyes gleamed with a spark of Starblood: Morwayne’s cold beauty, once she had composed herself, was slightly overwhelming. She was a halfblood, with far more Ammos blood in her veins compared to his other descendants who dwelled on the Circle’s outskirts.

He invited her to share dinner and expressed his admiration with both words and gaze.

“Were there a touch of silver here, my lord’s eyes would rejoice more,” she said with a smile. “We, the Kel’Thalas...”

“Here is your silver.” One of the Thousand drew out the Mark of Triple Lightning and gently placed it around her neck, a heavy disc of silver lior on deep blue velvet. Morwayne fell silent and finally spoke up, looking at her reflection in the mirrored floor:

“Yes... it’s much better this way. I thank you again, my... lord.”

“Call me Flamelike,” he commanded. “This name shall be mine for a long while on this new path... You are the first to receive my Lightning, Morwayne.”

Thank you, Flamelike,” she replied gracefully. “It is written in the stars that there shall be many like me, and I see the threads of our fates intertwining for a long time. I shall serve you and die for you. How may I be of use today?”

“Just dine with me.”

She did so with pleasure, and the company of Kel’Thalas was far more agreeable than conversation with Azymandia. They ate and spoke, and One of the Thousand watched her handle cutlery and drink ruby wine from clear glasses. He studied her carefully, and she him, for their previous encounters had been fleeting.

Oh, Kel’Thalas was far from simple. She had spent forty cycles in Unity and a hundred and six in Eternity, forty of those in nightmarish service to Thorius. That time had filled her with wisdom but scarred her soul. Even her new reflection showed that the Ascendant had seen much. Morwayne was gorgeous, but not everyone would find appeal in her icy grace that held not even a drop of carnal allure. Few men would dare offer her gifts, for such a diamond burns cold even from afar. And it wasn’t the intimidating rune symbolizing the third eye that darkened her brow — it was the fact that Morwayne was a conjurer, necromancer, and seer, and communion with the dead required specific Skills, a certain temperament, iron will, and complete lack of fear.

Her cold gaze, expression, and voice full of glacial calm could repel and frighten the uninitiated, but not a shard of the United. He had seen her as a living corpse and accepted her Oath. He gave her a new body and came to know it together with her. She was his Rune and became the first of his chosen servants. They needed to be bound by strong ties.

Morwayne relished in every moment, enjoying the food, the drink, the conversation, and the glances, and he watched her as she savored them, spoke what she wanted to hear, and smiled in the way that pleased her.

It wasn’t hard. The thoughts of humans, like the Kel, always flowed in the same direction, and the language of the body betrayed their desires. The White Devil had known many women and knew their secrets — even those of seers who had lived a hundred cycles in Eternity.

He needed that particular one.

“Is everyone in your Circle like you?” he asked, openly admiring the elegant neck and proud tilt of her head as she brushed her hair back. The cold blood of Ammos was evident in all of her — the elongated eyes and high cheekbones, the long slender fingers, the gestures and the words. No wonder the experienced Azymandia had instantly marked her as a rival. Morwayne was no Petal-in-the-Wind or even Flower Whisperer — her blood was far denser, though to the dwellers of Eternity, those like her would still forever remain the despised neos, branded with the seal of the lessers. Flex Thorius had made her undead almost in a mockery: look, guests, a queen of Unity serves in my house, an amusing toy in a twisted reflection... There’s even something of the Kel in her, isn’t there, my?

“No, Flamelike. The Kel’Thalas are an ancient lineage, and we cherish the purity of our blood. For hundreds of cycles, we’ve watched over the Barrow of Yantander. My House is one of the six that rule the Circle of Seven Trees, my lord. If I were to return there...”

Morwayne smiled mysteriously, but he understood everything perfectly.

“Tell me more about your Circle.”

“It has seven light-bearing Trees growing above the demons’ prisons. They say six were but sprouts when your Brethren were... bound. They were planted above the crypts, and now the Trees form a great ring of mighty Barrows, each one guarded by a House descended from the Kel. We cross blood only with each other, and the other Nations are subject to us.”

“Your Houses are tasked with guarding the prisoners. From whom?”

“From the demons themselves, and from those who’d come to set them free,” Morwayne said, looking him straight in the eye. “From those like you, my lord. And those who serve ones like you.”

“But you cast aside your old oaths. Are you no longer afraid of demons?”

“I saw worse demons in the deceitful Eternity. I became a demon myself, but you gave me back my freedom. And now I am here, with you, Flamelike. If a thousand demons of the Forgotten must be freed to bring down the Skythrone, then we must do it swiftly, my lord. I want Eternity to burn!”

Morwayne’s cold smile turned into a snarl. Her hatred was strong and genuine, like the heat of a bonfire, and One of the Thousand shared it entirely. He nodded.

“And you, my Ascendant, shall witness it. How many of my siblings are bound in the Barrows of your Circle?”

“Six, my lord. And each barrow is surrounded by many layers of protection. It is the duty of every Kel House to guard and sustain them. My Circle does not like guests. But I shall lead you to the Barrow of Yantander...”

“And the other Brethren? What are their names?”

“I know of two more, The Blightking and Morgayne. They say I was named after her. The others are hidden.”

Each of his siblings was glorious in their own way, and that Glory was not always kind. The Blightking had many names, and even more titles. The main one, in the tongue of the Kel, meant “Great Plague.” Once, he had become a living nightmare for Eternity. The Runes he created reaped half of the Golden City, forcing even the golden Kel to rot alive, saved only by the endless resurrections. Healing Runes and artifacts were useless, and the dwellers of Eternity remembered that nightmare for a long time before all sources of infection were finally found and destroyed.

“Morgayne...” he repeated the old name of another Sister, mistress of Paths and Portals, a great warrior of celestial rank. “Is the dragon blade buried with her?”

“I know not. My brother knew her Barrow, but he...”

“What happened to your brother?”

“I bound his spirit to a shard of the Altar. At first, I meant to free him, so that Talar could pass beyond the veil, but now I think...”

She faltered, and he gently prompted her, “Speak.”

“Maybe I could restore his mind? If so, he would become my spectral guardian. Perhaps my lord could place him into a Rune and return his reflection to Eternity, as he did with me? I swear by the Seven Trees, I’ll repay the spent Runes a hundredfold!”

“What can your brother do? Who was he in Unity and Eternity?”

“A warrior and a dreamcatcher... And in Eternity, my silver shield and a master of artifacts. His spirit burns hotter than mine, but he was always loyal! Flamelike, I humbly beg you,” she pressed her palms together in supplication, “in the name of all the United, even the Forgotten One... If you can bring him back, he will accept your Lightning and join our army. If we return to Yantander together, we will awaken all your siblings...”

“That path is not closed to us,” he replied. “But for now, my Ascendant, I have other gifts for you... Open your Slate.”

He handed her several Runes. The first, Reflective Scales, was meant to protect Morwayne’s vulnerable living body from weapons and attacking Runes. The second was a combination of Defender and Floating Shield. A splendid combination of Items, especially after Azymandia had imbued the sword with the Element of Flight — the exact property possessed by the Shield. Defender was a blade that shielded its bearer, helping to parry melee attacks, and now it could do so on its own, hovering around the Ascendant while the Floating Shield intercepted ranged strikes. For Morwayne, whose hands were always busy with the Howling Pitcher and whose mind was focused on controlling spirits, they provided invaluable support. The Scales worked for only twelve minutes, and the Mark of Lightning had only three charges — when they ran out, those Items would help protect the Ascendant.

Morwayne also received Threehead’s Claw. She carefully studied the Rune, spinning it on the tip of her slender finger as a vertical crease formed between her brows, and finally returned it to the White Devil.

“Thank you, my lord, but this Rune doesn’t suit me. The blade is too heavy. I don’t use such weapons. Mine are different… May I offer advice, Flamelike?”

“Yes, my Ascendant. Speak.”

With a swift movement, Morwayne pulled the Howling Pitcher out of her Slate, reached into it, and withdrew a familiar Relic: a sharp shard of Thorius’ Altar, shaped like a curved dagger. The White Devil couldn’t see it, but he knew a ghostly chain stretched from it to the mad spirit of her brother, bound to the other end.

“I bound Talar’s soul to this shard of the golden Altar with Eternal Bonds,” she said, showing the Relic. “It possesses the power to bind souls. Does my lord know? Does he still have golden shards left?”

“Yes,” he replied — a few still remained from the stockpile left by Sigurd, though not many. “Do you need another? Why?”

“You wanted to give me a weapon,” she said, not blinking. “There’s a way to forge a golden dagger from a shard of the Altar. A sacrificial athame. It will bind souls with a firm thread. Not just one, like a shard, but many of them. And I can collect them in the Pitcher.”

“How do you know this?” he asked, immediately grasping the implications. If Morwayne was right, it could allow them to free the slaves of Eternity without turning them into Runes.

“The secrets of the sky lords lay bare before me. I saw how Thorius filled the Pitcher, and the shard keeps Talar’s soul in Unity. If my lord meets a golden master of Artifaction, I humbly ask…”

“I have one in mind,” he smiled, caressing her with his gaze. “Tell me more, my Ascendant... I know these memories are painful, but you served Thorius for a long time and had access to his treasury. Tell me, did he keep any Draconic Runes? I know one was sold to him ten cycles ago.”

Morwayne looked at him in amazement as if the question truly shocked her. Then she lowered her head.

“Yes, Flamelike. My former master kept such a Rune. I saw it. But how did you know? It is a great secret… Or did my lord tear it from the mind of Flex Thorius?”

“Sadly, no. Tell me about this Rune.”

“It was of Draconic rank, a sentient weapon of the Order of the True that could take any form. It housed a reflection of an ancient warrior queen, a real... character.”

“A mentor?”

“She was an odd fit for a weapon spirit. Thorius wanted to extract or alter her but couldn’t do anything to a Draconic Rune and feared destroying it. He tried to torture her, but she just laughed. So he got rid of her.”

“Got rid of her? How exactly?”

“Sold it to one of his circle. A Draconic Rune is a treasure equal to celestial, but a weapon that wouldn’t serve was useless, and there was nothing he could do.”

“Do you know who got the Rune? Where is it now?”

“No. But I saw it, I touched it, and I helped Thorius when he tried to alter it. I remember it. I’m an oracle and a seer. If my lord wills it, I can find that Rune in Eternity — unless it’s hidden from scrying by someone truly powerful.”

“All roads lead to the Golden City,” One of the Thousand said slowly. “But for now, our path lies elsewhere, my Ascendant.”

“I know,” Morwayne nodded. “I saw how the Unseen weaves the threads of our fate. But let my lord know — if he commands it, I can return to Eternity myself. The mark of Thorius has been lifted, and I know the Golden City.”

“I will make you gold,” the White Devil said suddenly, and it sounded like a vow.

“I know,” she answered with such certainty it was as if she already knew he would keep it. “And I will follow you through shadow and flames.”

“Do you see it?”

“Yes, Flamelike. I see fire ahead. I’ve seen it since the moment you entered Thorius’ Domain. Give me your hand, my lord. I will look again…”

He extended his left hand, and her long white fingers intertwined with his, dark and strong. Morwayne half-closed her eyes and began to sway slightly, entering a prophetic trance, and her grip turned into the claw of a hunting bird. The White Devil didn’t move. Aside from a spirit conjurer, his Rune was a seer, able to glimpse the web of events and locate places, items, and people. Their stars had always been different, but converged in one — the Unseen, who governed Spirit, allowed seers to peer into his bag of stones, while the Silent let them glance at the current of time’s flow.

“You are preparing us for battle…” she whispered without opening her eyes. “Flames… I see only flames ahead, and I will walk into them…”

“What do you see in them?”

“Oh, they’re hot! Black crystals and shadows… He’s coming…”

“Can you see him?”

“He’s... shielded from scrying. He’s... dark. And he’s... guided. Someone else is there!”

“Who?”

“I’m going to die,” Morwayne whispered suddenly. “And many Runes will be broken. But your flame will burn even brighter! And you will see the sign!”

“What sign?”

“The Rune. You asked for it. You’ll understand.”

“What do you see beyond this?”

“I can’t see anything,” Morwayne whispered, and he saw that her eyes were already open. “Only the flames…”

“A grim prophecy, my Ascendant,” he said, still holding her hand. “Have you no other for me?”

“Only the flames,” she repeated, not looking away. “When will you lead us into them, my lord?”

And he told her the truth, for lying to a seer was tantamount to mocking the Unseen.

There was nothing left to wait for anymore. They were going to enter the Arena the next day.

Chapter 17

THE YOUNG EARTHER never showed up in the Domain. A pity. They really needed to meet, but Sigurd might’ve had urgent matters to attend to. The White Devil couldn’t wait for him forever, and Keys and Portals belonging to others didn’t work inside the Silver Castle, for they could become a path of escape or a gate of invasion. He left the Domain and waited for all his Runes to recover: to enter the Arena, you had to be as prepared as possible. In the meantime, two more duels were fought there, and a third challenge appeared — but he didn’t respond to it either, for striking the gong or being challenged mattered as well.

No one could predict what stone the Unseen would grant them. No one could guess the opponent they’d face in the Arena. Yet the shard of the United knew: the warrior who entered it first and thus challenged all Ascendants of Unity was, more often than not, better prepared for battle. The one who answered could be hesitant, acting under pressure or emotion. On the other hand, the challenger had to wait for a response, and that was a cost… and some champions were clever, preferring, as the Earther would say, to play the waiting game. The Arenas held many nuances and tactics, and some of their patrons had honed slaying Ascendants into a craft…

The White Devil waited until the third challenge was accepted and immediately activated the Rune of Cursed Shrine. That allowed him to avoid the greediest of those lying in wait for the gong, empowered with Runes and Abilities. One of the Thousand wasn’t scared of the coming duel, but dying in the Arena wasn’t part of his plan. His goal was different: a deadly trial of mind, spirit, and body, gaining Starblood, and obtaining many valuable Runes. And above all, awakening his Aspect. With it, the stages of his upcoming Ascension would be far easier to overcome…

When he issued his challenge, and the Arena Rune flashed with an ominous crimson glow, a thrill of anticipation coursed through his veins. The White Devil wasn’t afraid: fear was for the one who would accept his challenge. Still…

What stone would the Unseen draw for him?

He didn’t have to wait long.

Translocation to the Domain was instantaneous. Grim black vaults closed in around him. Gone were the elegant interiors of the Castle, replaced by obsidian walls. Instead of the fragrance of flowers drifting over the pool, the air was tinged with hot ash, and the silver glow of light-trees gave way to crimson reflections of flame.

The Cursed Shrine. It hadn’t changed since his last visit and wouldn’t for a thousand cycles more, for those who had built it had heeded Artisan himself.

One of the Thousand stood at the Arena’s starting point, and the echoing gong from the subterranean corridors signaled that his opponent had just arrived at the opposite end.

The Domain was far from simple. Those who constructed such places believed that a duel to the death between two Ascendants should not be a mere contest of brute force. A true warrior had to use cunning and take advantage of the Arena’s terrain. Every Ascendant had a chance to showcase the strengths of their Ascension. One who grasped and exploited the Domain’s hidden mechanisms could impose their strategy and defeat even a superior foe.

The White Devil knew the inner workings of the Cursed Shrine.

A dungeon carved from a vast block of obsidian, it resembled a grid of parallel corridors crossed by just as many perpendicular ones. Inside them were caches, shelters, and traps, all capable of aiding the fighters or hindering them, helping them to escape or leading them into a trap. At the labyrinth’s heart lay a great circle surrounded by a fiery chasm. Four Translocation signs along its perimeter enabled movement across the Domain.

That allowed for evasions and ambushes, flank strikes and rear raids. Moreover, the Domain was home to malicious creatures of fire meant to slow Ascendants and guard the cursed shrines.

Those altars positioned at four equidistant points, forming a kind of rhombus, were the key to victory. The fighter who lit them all would gain a temporary ally — a silver spirit who would fight at their side. With such aid, even a weak challenger could triumph.

Waiting was pointless. Azymandia, Morwayne, and the Seer appeared almost simultaneously. Their reactions, however, differed: the Kel lady pressed her palms to her face, glancing around in fear; the necromancer nodded with icy calm, catching her master’s gaze; and the adept of the Seven Stars grinned wide, instantly recognizing the shift in her ownership.

“Where are we?” Azymandia gasped, sensing something wrong. “What is this… stinking dungeon?”

“The Cursed Shrine. An Arena Domain,” Morwayne said, bowing. “I’m ready, my lord.”

“A flaming pit? What Arena?!” the Kel lady squealed in raw terror. Of course, she knew such places — and would never have entered one willingly. The Kel of Eternity were cowards but no fools.

“Are you scared, Kel? I hope I’ll see your burning bones today!” the Seer snarled. “Maybe my Rune will finally go to a worthy Ascendant!”

“You know something about this place?” the White Devil asked her.

“Only madmen come here…” She gave him a hard look and added, “So you did take my Rune from the golden bitch?! Too bad it won’t be yours for long. Soon you’ll all burn…”

“But death is but a step on the road of Ascension for those whose spirit is immortal,” the White Devil replied, quoting the ancient tenet of the Order of the True. The Seer froze — the paladins of the Seven Stars were the disciples and heirs of those who had once manned the drifting citadels. She studied him intently, and One of the Thousand went on, smiling faintly. “In any flesh and form…”

“How do you know…?” the Seer whispered.

“I’ll tell you when we return from the Arena, my,” he said gently. “But now listen — and obey!”

His plan was simple: use his key advantage, the army of silver Creatures, to light the altars first, leaving the enemy no chance. The Seer, his strongest Rune, could handle one shrine solo — she’d take the one on the right. Azymandia and her team would take on the shrine on the left. He would ignite the closest one, while Morwayne’s ghosts scattered down every corridor, securing key positions and tracking the enemy, denying them the element of surprise. Once the altars were lit, One of the Thousand would choose the time and place for the duel — if by then his opponent hadn’t already fallen to the silver demon.

But first things first. While Morwayne fetched the Pitcher and the Domain echoed with the eerie wails of spirits, the White Devil pointed out massive coal-black crystals jutting here and there from the obsidian walls.

“Summon the Pack Rats, my!” he commanded. “Let them work — we need shards.”

That material had no name in the Earth tongue, for the Earthers were yet to encounter it. The closest they had was the so-called “exoresources,” wondrous minerals and metals shaped by the will of the United: illium, sunstone, lior… Each had its purpose, and this one was no exception.

The sentients of Unity called it voidstone or demon crystal, for creatures drawn to solitude often nested in the hollow veins of its deposits. The Kel people called it morloid, loosely translated as “black amber” or “black onyx,” and used it to craft crystal spheres, binding artifacts, and dimensional vaults. It was also used to smelt morlium, an exceedingly rare black metal capable of absorbing any damage. The secret of its forging was long lost, but Items and Item Runes made of morlium still surfaced in Unity, relics created by the legendary smiths of Artisan’s era. One of this Arena’s rewards, for example, was a silver Item made from such a metal — a coveted prize for any warrior.

In short, morloid shards could come in handy, but most importantly, they were supposed to be placed upon the altars of the Cursed Shrine to ignite them.

Was that complicated? Yes, but the Arenas weren’t aimed at novices. Someone like Sigurd had no business testing his strength here — he’d easily become prey for those who frequented the Domains in search of Runes and Glory and had long since learned their rules.

“An Arena, my lord,” Azymandia whimpered as her Runes chipped away at the crystal. The Kel lady had donned her Shifting Armor and summoned her entire team, while the Seer, her tome in hand, cast the Seal of Flame Protection on everyone, but her fear still clung to her like a cloak. “I’ve heard… an Arena is a trap, there are real monsters here… What if we can’t make it out?”

“For us to make it out, unbind and give me the golden Rune of Time Stop,” he said, offering her a golden Cleansing on his fingertip. “It will improve our odds. And don’t cry, my…”

Azymandia obeyed without a word — One of the Thousand had calculated right. A fourth gold flared in his Slate. Alas, the cleansed Rune had lost both Amplification and Augmentation, but better to have it than not. He kept it to himself, but the chance of the golden Kel lady getting damaged in the battle was quite high.

It all depended on what kind of opponent the Unseen had sent him…

The Cursed Shrine was a small Domain, but the fighters could take a while to clash. Just reaching the Arena past the ifrits, fire pits, and traps would take no less than thirty minutes, even for a strong Ascendant. And if one were to light the altars and circle the maze-like halls, seeking the perfect moment to strike… The last time the White Devil had fought there, his opponent was a female Ascendant who saw threads of fate and wove them into deadly snares: she couldn’t kill him, and he couldn’t beat her, for she foresaw every blow. It ended only when her Starblood ran dry, but that battle lasted hours, and it was then that One of the Thousand mastered all the intricacies of the Cursed Shrine.

He knew there was still time to gather the crystals. And while the Pack Rats tore at the wall and Morwayne’s ghosts flew through the Domain’s corridors like disembodied gusts of wind, he bound all the servants — his own and those released by Azymandia — into a single mental link. They had to fight as one. Then he gave two black shards to the Seer, two to Azymandia, and kept two for himself. One was enough to light an altar, but there were four sanctuaries, and he didn’t know who would ignite the last one closest to the enemy’s starting point.

It was time.

“Go to the end of the corridor, then turn right. Let your Visage lead… Watch for cracks and firestones. Count the passages on your right. At the fourth, make a turn and search the side cave for the altar. Kill the ifrit and its retinue and throw the shard into the bowl.”

“My lord… I…” Azymandia stammered, but he cut her off.

“Do it, my! Your Runes will help you.”

“I know where the second altar is,” the Seer said. “It mirrors the first, just to the left. They told us about this Arena…”

“You’ll throw the second shard into it. Do it! And you…” He turned to Morwayne. “What are your spirits whispering?”

“They haven’t found him yet, my lord.”

“Follow me, Ascendant.”

The nearest shrine was his. Reaching the cache didn’t take long. The two wide fissures with lava flowing sluggishly in their depths, a fiery veil reacting to movement, and a flaming rock emitting searing beams posed no serious threat. The White Devil easily passed them, arriving at a passage leading into the altar hall. There were many corridors like this, crawling with ifrits and fire spirits, but most were decoys. Only four hid real altars. He signaled Morwayne to halt as he stepped across the threshold and nodded when fiery silhouettes began forming from the sweltering air.

The guardians were dangerous Creatures, especially the bronze ifrit surrounded by fluttering minions. It could shoot flame arrows, breathe fire, and conjure lakes of molten magma — a formidable foe even for an Ascendant of equal rank. But none of that mattered, for the Rune of Aquatic Sword shattered it into hissing rubble before the ifrit even registered One of the Thousand. The combo of Maelstrom and Spectral Hatchets stormed the hall next, drowning the blazing figures. The survivors fell to Sparkwind and Icy Daggers, and the White Devil stepped toward the steaming altar flooded with water and coiled in blue lightning and casually tossed a shard of morloid into the black fanged bowl. Immediately, spectral flames swirled above it, signifying, as he knew, the emergence of the first crimson crack on the rune-scarred main shrine. When four of them appeared, a silver spirit of flames would erupt from the Domain’s depths.

One of the Thousand picked up the Starblood and Runes dropped by the fallen guardians. They weren’t much — three wooden blanks and one bronze — but the Arena’s creators always gave the Ascendants a chance to stock up. His first time, his opponent had cleared the entire Domain, but even that didn’t save her.

“My lord… my spirits have found him!” Morwayne exclaimed.

“Where?

“He… he’s in the central corridor. He’s… heading to the Arena.”

A novice, then? One ignorant of the Domain’s secrets? The White Devil felt a twinge of disappointment. A straightforward Ascendant not even attempting to use the Arena’s mechanics was most likely a fool, swept in by the Unseen’s whim. It would be amusing if he died without even reaching combat…

“Can you see him?” he asked Morwayne. “Who is he? Show me!”

The Ascendant focused. One of the Thousand knew it was difficult even for her to control dozens of ghosts bound to the Pitcher by unseen fetters. But he also knew that Kel’Thalas could slip between them and see through their eyes.

“Flames!” A fiery reflection flashed in the Ascendant’s pupils. “He burned the essence and the thread… He sees them!”

“What did you glimpse?”

“The prophecy unfolds,” Morwayne groaned. “Only the flames, my lord!”

Without waiting for a hosanna, he dove into her mind, which yielded to his pressure, and saw a wall of fire roaring down the corridor. It was no ordinary elemental fire but something else, something conjured by a powerful Rune or Skill, because it obliterated Morwayne’s ghost in an instant. A second later, she reported losing another.

The White Devil charged into the scalding black corridors. The enemy hadn’t ignited the fourth altar, either unaware or not caring about it, and that meant he had to reach it himself. Whoever that Ascendant was, the plan remained the same. Improvisation had to wait.

Halfway to the Translocation sign, the Domain rang again with chime, crack, and thunder — the second crack split the main altar of the Arena. The Seer had reached her mark and lit her sanctuary, but Azymandia wasn’t as quick to advance. Still, she had a whole squad of battle Runes; they couldn’t lose.

“He burned another… He’s still heading for the Arena, my lord! No — he stopped… He… he’s gone, my lord!”

“Find him! Have your spirits encircle the Arena — secure every crossroads!”

“Yes, my lord… Oh… Oh no! Flames!”

They all heard it even from afar, the sound that tore through the Domain. It was the roar of flame rushing through the corridors of the blazing shrine like a storm, a breath of overwhelming force expelled in every direction, flooding the Domain’s tunnels with searing heat. A Rune of great power — but fortunately, the White Devil knew what had to be done.

He grabbed Morwayne and leaped with her into the nearest passage that hid a false altar hall. Inside, chaos erupted — the ifrit and its minions were lying in wait — but it was still better than facing the fiery hell sweeping down every corridor. One of the Thousand summoned the Aquatic Giant, and while the bronze Creature distracted the ifrit, struck down its minions with Icy Daggers.

The roar peaked. Heat and blue fire licked the corridor, but those were only the splashes of the inferno that had passed close. Relentless and scorching, it ignited Morwayne’s Reflective Scales, but the White Devil remained untouched. He wasn’t going to let himself be marred by a few pathetic sparks. Still, the fire was potent and deadly, and it seemed to have struck everywhere at once.

“They’re gone… I’ve lost all the spirits!” Morwayne said, wide-eyed. “All of them, my lord! Is that… gold?!”

“Gold,” he agreed, watching cruel blue tongues of fire dance along the walls and floor. “Strong gold…”

“I can’t see… I don’t know where he is!”

Good. The enemy had spent a golden Rune, revealing one of his trump cards before the duel had even begun. The White Devil felt grim satisfaction. The Slate of the unknown Ascendant held gold, and his opponent was no weak silver either. The fight had only just begun — the golden Spell had blinded them, but his Creature Runes were still alive, probably managing to shelter themselves from the wave. The Seer was surely safe. Azymandia, though… Why was she hesitating? Why hadn’t she lit the altar yet?

A moment later, One of the Thousand received another blow. The fragments of the Seer’s Rune shimmered in his Slate. It was broken — the silver Ascendant from the Empire of Seven Stars had fallen, and the speed of her defeat impressed even the shard of the United. Her Rune had lit the altar, survived the fire, yet didn’t last more than a minute afterward. His opponent, his Aspect, or a summoned Creature, was standing at the second altar. Likely the opponent himself — no one else could’ve killed the Seer that quickly.

How had he gotten there so fast?!

That could only mean instant Translocation with no need for signs. His opponent had come to one lit altar. His next target would be the second, the one he and Morwayne had just activated. In that sense, it was good Azymandia had delayed; otherwise, he would’ve become the second to fall. The Unseen had sent him a worthy opponent.

The White Devil already knew what would come next. As soon as the teleportation ability was ready, the unknown Ascendant would appear at the second activated altar, if he wasn’t already there. And once the third lit up, he’d rush to it, catching the enemy unaware. He wasn’t afraid — he sought the fight himself. That was a good sign.

Ignoring the halo of flame gnawing at the walls and arches, the White Devil raced the opposite way toward the Translocation sign, commanding Azymandia to halt. The fourth shrine would be the key, but it had to ignite at the same time as the third. If not, he might lose his Creatures before the battle even began.

The mental link held. The Kel lady was terrified. The Cyclops had shielded her from the fire but died, and the rest were singed. She managed to heal them, but her group reached the shrine just as the inferno struck. Ignoring her hysterics, the White Devil ordered her to clear the altar hall but wait before throwing the shard. That would draw the enemy’s eye.

He would not play by another’s rules. One of the Thousand stepped on the Translocation sign and together with Morwayne, appeared in the opposite corner of the Arena. That was the place where his opponent had appeared first and also the location of the final shrine. It had to light up at the same time as the third, leaving the enemy no time to react.

But he had to choose where to make his stand or whom to sacrifice. Sometimes, to lure the lord into the right sphere, you had to give up a piece of your own constellation. The enemy believed himself the hunter…

After clearing the fourth altar, the White Devil cast a measuring look at the female Ascendant. Morwayne was calm, yet something in her face changed when she saw the black shard in his outstretched hand.

“You accepted life, love, and an oath from me. Are you ready to accept death?” One of the Thousand asked.

“Yes, my lord,” Morwayne whispered. She couldn’t help but fear death, but she had already died once, endured Eternity, suffered countless agonizing rebirths, and regained her body, becoming a Creature Rune. For her, dying wasn’t the same as for a mere mortal. “I foresaw it… I’ll walk into the flames.”

“Throw it into the bowl when I command.”

In that battle, Kel’Thalas wasn’t as important as Azymandia, so the choice was obvious. Stroking her cheek, the White Devil stepped out and walked, nearly ran, down the widest corridor leading to the Arena’s central ring. When he saw the flaming pit and greedy tongues of fire licking the black chains, he gave Morwayne the mental order to light the altar.

The Arena was before him: a black rune-scarred disk ringed by lava. Two black chains of legendary morlium hung above it, stretching from both sides, while the main altar lay in the middle, already crisscrossed by three zigzagging cracks. Only the last one remained...

One of the Thousand was running across the chains when the enemy reached Morwayne. Their minds were linked, and the shard of the United felt her fear, pain, searing heat, a wave of flame, and... death. The Ascendant resisted, but like the Seer, the enemy killed her almost instantly.

He had something that let him kill Ascendants quickly, too quickly. The shard of the United still didn’t know what.

When the broken Rune of Spirit Conjurer returned to the Slate, the White Devil ordered Azymandia to cast her shard into the fire and leave the altar hall immediately — to run, fly, teleport to him to the arena as fast as possible.

The main altar split apart with a deafening clang, heralding the arrival of the Domain’s guardian. A cackling silver demon burst free, forming its massive body from lava and tongues of fire — a fearsome opponent even for a powerful Ascendant. Normally, it gave a decisive edge to one of the fighters, and whoever claimed it as an ally was already halfway to victory...

Azymandia was still alive, as were her Runes, hurrying to aid him. And his opponent... realized what had happened — and shifted to the central arena. A whirlwind of darkness and tongues of flame, scattering blue sparks, erupted from the tunnel in a blazing hurricane, tearing across the black chain above the chasm. As he stared at the dark silhouette wreathed in fire, One of the Thousand realized something as well.

Sometimes, the Unseen’s smirk could shatter a cold mind, a clever plan, and a fiery heart. Sometimes, it was his smile that decided whose stone tipped the scales of fate.

The Unseen loved the Brethren, often aiding them in things great and small. But that day, he had chosen to laugh at one of them.

Chapter 18

THE OPPONENT’S NAME was hidden. All his equipment, from the jagged greaves to the massive helmet styled after a demon’s head, was dim with the coal-black gloom of morlium. Full Black Armor, the mark of the Cursed Shrine glowing on each of its six parts. His opponent had walked that Arena, emerged victorious, and claimed its prize at least six times, but most likely, many more.

An ominous orange light seeped from the slits of his helmet and joints of his armor, as if their wearer’s skin was on fire, while a flaming vortex swirled around him. It wasn’t a Rune or a Skill — it was an ethereal Creature, an Aspect whose shifting form vaguely resembled a winged being seemingly woven out of tongues of flame.

All Aspects were as unique as Ascendants, but the inner essence of sentients repeated again and again. The White Devil knew that the one before him was a Phoenix, a being capable of swiftly carrying its master in a fiery storm and healing them with its heat. Only a fierce, powerful spirit could give birth to such a reflection. In armor that absorbed all damage and with such an Aspect, he was practically invulnerable and immortal. The shard of the United would never wish such an opponent — it was the worst draw imaginable, an unbeatable champion of the Arena.

But he had no choice left. Fight or die!

The battle began even before his enemy entered the central circle. The Arena swelled with a thick green cloud of Deadly Fog. The necrotic energy in it slowly killed anyone inside by seeping through the tiniest gaps in their armor along with the air. Phantom Apparitions, copies of the White Devil, appeared in the mist, and he became one of them, making it nearly impossible to tell the original from the fakes, for the Rune of Spectral Form gave him such a nature. Of course, that method wouldn’t defeat the champion of the Cursed Shrine, but it could deceive him and reveal how he killed.

The fiery demon summoned from the altar proved quite useful. Any silver Creature was incredibly dangerous, and the Shrine’s guardian combined the physical might of a molten golem with elemental fury. It couldn’t be controlled, but usually, the demon would relentlessly pursue the enemy Ascendant, forcing them to fight on two fronts, and defeating it was no easy task. One of the Thousand had once experienced that firsthand. Now, the demon served as his shield, taking the first blow, for ignoring such an opponent was impossible.

They clashed in a roar and blaze of flame. Half the Arena, shrouded in mist, instantly turned into a lake of molten lava. Rising from it, the guardian tore into the intruder, surrounded by the flaming mane of his Aspect. Fire against fire! Seeing the enemy endure heavy blows, the White Devil realized that his Constitution and Might Attributes were close to gold, and his immunity to Fire Pillars and Lava Lakes revealed high Elemental Affinity.

Peak silver — that Ascendant could likely cross into gold but was in no rush to do so, perhaps intending to continue harvesting the treasures of silver Arenas.

The shard of the United didn’t want to wait: wasting a moment while enemies fought would be foolish. Sliding unseen through the mist, he struck twice with Aquatic Sword and Icy Daggers. The black armor absorbed both Runes. That was the strength of morlium — any runic effect, even of a higher tier, was absorbed. Still, there were ways to deal with that protection, provided one had the time!

The Ascendant, locked in combat with the demon, responded with a humming wave of fire that swept away the poisoned mist and swirling phantoms as if brushing away an annoying fly. Then he struck in an utterly unexpected way, entering the guardian demon’s body and momentarily merging with it. One of the Thousand wasn’t sure what Rune that was, but the Arena guardian suddenly froze, bloating and cracking, and exploded, shattering into a thousand pieces.

That power was overwhelming! For the first time since the beginning of the duel, the White Devil’s heart pounded hard in his chest. He could lose this fight.

But not all pieces had entered the spheres yet. Azymandia and her team were already close, and the Barbarian, shapeshifted into a massive shaggy warg, leaped onto the Arena in a single bound across the lava chasm. The rest of the combat Runes followed: the Dancer and the Gardener, and the golden Kel lady herself floated in the very rear, surrounded by every possible defensive effect. The White Devil had carefully guided them — despite Azymandia’s fear and resistance, she had to play her role!

A Sphere of the Great Void engulfed the Arena. The golden Rune stripped everyone within of the ability to use Starblood and Slates — only Items continued functioning, though they lost part of their properties. That could help defeat the enemy, for the numerical advantage was his. Four silvers and a gold against one silver, even if a powerful one!

Radiating orange light like heated metal, the Ascendant burst out laughing as he turned to face the new threat. That laugh, the way he moved, his stance — all of it stirred something in the One of the Thousand, something long forgotten. And when he saw the flickering blue shimmer near the enemy’s right hand, his heart surged a second time.

The silver Barbarian, a Nordian in service to the Kel lady, was a real killing machine in his werewarg form. The transformation granted him immense strength and speed, letting him tear through a squad of men or even challenge another silver. Fangs, claws, unbelievable agility, and beastly fury were supposed to be the difference inside the Void Sphere with no Runes allowed, and yet...

A crescent slash of pure blue flame cut him down mid-leap. Turning into a flickering spot at the enemy’s right wrist, it suddenly extended and swept the Gardener down from the black chains. A cloud of dust and ash was all that remained of his Creatures! The next strike targeted the Dancer, but she dodged with an impossible somersault.

One of the Thousand was used to trusting his eyes, but still...

It was an Item. A golden weapon. The Spectral Blade of Celestial Flame. The golden evolution of Dimensional Blade empowered by one of the most powerful golden Elements. One of his Brethren had wielded such an Item long ago, and even the celestial hounds of Eternity feared it.

The Unseen had sent him an enemy close to gold, glinting with gold. A true killer of Ascendants, who mustn’t be given a single chance! If he focused even for a second, One of the Thousand would be nothing but a pile of gray ash.

It took the Arena’s champion a minute to wipe out Azymandia’s Creatures. All she had managed to do was neutralize his Aspect, which couldn’t exist in the zone of golden Void. Then the Kel lady screamed in pure panic as a flash of blue flame streaked toward her, unstoppable and undefendable.

“My lord!”

He unsummoned her a split second before the Blade of Celestial Flame sliced through where she had just stood. In that same moment, the Sphere of Great Void vanished, and the White Devil finally attacked with his primary weapon meant to win this battle.

Time Stop and Desiccation! A deadly, underhanded combination of Runes: the first trapped the foe in a cocoon of Timelessness while the second drained them of life-giving moisture. If timed perfectly, that move could kill even a golden Ascendant.

When the enemy surged through Time Stop as if it weren’t there, the White Devil’s heart thundered for the third time. It was impossible… unless his foe had something stabilizing the temporal flow. Such artifacts existed — but by the Forgotten, what were they doing on a silver Arena?!

Whatever the case, the champion had guarded himself against time tricks, sealing one of the core weaknesses of every Ascendant.

One of the Thousand could do nothing against that foe. He was a pup against a battle-hardened garm. His silver, let alone bronze, was worthless trash to a warrior like him.

Another fiery wave. Another flash of the Blade of Celestial Flame. His turn had come, and the White Devil charged headlong, forcing his broken body beyond its limits. He narrowly avoided injury by sacrificing his Spectral Form, soared into the air, and struck, a honed downward thrust with the harpoon aimed at the visor in his opponent’s helmet.

He hit his target — his enemy didn’t even care to dodge. That blow would’ve snapped a normal man’s neck on impact, killing him instantly, but the silver Ascendants were built tougher. The Typhoon imbuing its tip only made his opponent flinch. Not even wounded, he caught the spear and tore it from the White Devil’s grip in one powerful twist. The Ascendant laughed, examining the stolen Item, then hurled it back with such force and precision that the One of the Thousand had to duck to avoid it, letting it whistle past his right shoulder.

The clash had made it clear: the enemy’s Attributes were vastly superior. One of the Thousand saw no flaw in his movement. A pure, polished Iron Style — it was like fighting his own reflection, only faster and stronger.

So be it. He had to use a Vial to replenish his Starblood, already drained by the battle. Only one Rune remained in the Slate that could bring him victory. Even if it cost him a list, it was a worthy price for one who bore true Blood.

As if mocking one another, they stepped sideways in perfect unison and opened their Slates at the same time, almost simultaneously releasing their Runes.

The Living Chains unleashed by the White Devil greedily bit into the black-armored figure. Morlium devoured runic energy and was incredibly tough, but it still wasn’t illium, and gold always trumped silver. The Chains would devour even the Cursed Arena’s armor and its champion, whoever he was...

And a fraction of a moment earlier, fanged serpents coiled around his own body. The exact same Living Chains — the enemy had cast a mirror of his own! It couldn’t be a coincidence.

Just a little more, and the Chains would shred the silver Ascendant into pieces. The Healing Scales protecting his body flickered and cracked — silver was silver, powerless against gold.

But by that time, the enemy’s helm and breastplate were already gnawed away, and the White Devil finally saw his opponent’s bloodied face. He recognized him and understood everything. And in the final moments before death, he recalled his Rune.

And then, for a dreadful second, as the enemy’s Chains tore at his flesh, he felt his foe do the same. Freed and drenched in blood, both Ascendants lay a few steps apart, and One of the Thousand could hear the Arena champion’s heavy breathing. He remembered his name all too well...

A green flare of a healing Rune enveloped the enemy’s broken body, while Lifegiving Bloom aided One of the Thousand, transforming his bloody wounds into fresh pink scars within moments. They rose at nearly the same time and finally looked each other in the eye.

“You broke all my Runes,” the White Devil said.

“And you broke mine,” his opponent growled in a deep rumbling bass. He ran his hands over his muscular coal-black torso, now covered in a web of fiery lines, and his grim face twisted into a semblance of a smile. On a Flamefolk’s face, it looked sinister, like a demonic snarl. “Brother…”

“Brother,” the White Devil echoed. He stepped forward, and they touched — first hands and then foreheads, locking each other in a fierce warrior’s embrace. The champion’s rough skin was hot, and his eyes burned like twin embers. The body he had chosen belonged to a child of Flame, but even in that form, One of the Thousand recognized him unerringly, for how could he not know another shard of the Forgotten?

“Orrin!” the White Devil exclaimed. “I couldn’t believe it when I recognized your blade...”

“Ho, I took it back,” grinned the one who, thousands of cycles ago, bore the name Orrin Flameblade, Lord of the Forge and Warlord of a Thousand Battles. “And my name too… What about you? Have you changed yours, Lightningbearer?”

“A different name is a good sign on a new path,” the White Devil replied.

They had never been friends, more like the opposite. Rough and impatient, always charging ahead, Orrin rarely fit into the Thousand’s plans. But the bond between them was stronger than friendship, kinship, or love. They were fragments of the same shattered whole. Different, yet united. And when they stood together, nothing could stop them.

“You look different,” Orrin grumbled, stepping back and studying him. “And you’ve changed your tactics...”

“And you haven’t. How did you end up here?”

“Ho! Same as you — I came for Blood and Runes.”

“But it seems our meeting is no coincidence.”

“No coincidence, though it wasn’t foretold,” Orrin confirmed darkly. “Tell me, how long ago did you... awake?”

“I was freed halfway through the last cycle. But this body... I found it later, just recently. My spirit hasn’t even had time to change it.”

“That’s why you’re so weak,” Orrin snorted. “I awakened twenty cycles ago. The hounds of Eternity threw the bell that held my spirit into the heart of one of the Forges in the ruby octagons. There’s a Flamefolk Circle there now, and I rule one of their Crucibles.”

“I never doubted you. Who freed you?”

“The Flamefolk. They used Runes that triggered a volcanic eruption. I took the body of their Riks… And you?”

“The Earthers. The people from the sky ark. Have you heard of them?” the White Devil asked. When Orrin shook his head, he continued, “But they were guided. Someone showed them the place and helped them break the seals of Eternity. So it wasn’t just me? Someone’s freeing us, Brother.”

“You guessed right. The Runes that freed me were... gifted too,” Orrin boomed. “Have you met anyone else… of our kind?”

“No. Have you?”

“Two. Melchior and Sarvara the Gentle,” Orrin said. “I looked for them...”

“And… where are they now?”

“Gone to rejoin the United,” Orrin grinned wide. “I sent them to him.”

“You,” the White Devil echoed, struck by the grim realization. “Why?”

“Such is our fate, Brother. What else can we do? We tried to change the cosmos, and you know how that ended. We’ll never be as strong as we were when a thousand Circles were ours. You know that. Only one thing remains — to reforge the shards into the whole. Us. Him.”

“But there are other paths, Brother.”

“We’ve walked them. Why delay our destiny?”

“Because this path wasn’t created by us either.”

“Do you know that He Who Fights is dead?” Orrin snarled. The lines on his body flashed with a fierce orange glow. “And if we don’t rejoin the United, Unity itself is doomed to fall! Not even the True know when the Outer Beasts will come! There’s no other way, Brother!”

“I know. And do you know about the Earthers and the new sky ark?”

“No. What does it matter?” Orrin waved impatiently, his tone rising — the conversation was clearly starting to irritate him. “No Nation and no ark will stop the Beasts!”

“Listen to me, Brother. The precursors of the Kel have returned. I saw them with my own eyes, those who came at the dawn of time on a sky ark and created everything: Unity, Ascension, and the United. Someone called them back from the darkness of the ages — someone who holds the Chronos Rune.”

“Who exactly?” Orrin asked after a pause. “The Silent?”

“That is hidden from me. But I know this — they were summoned because they hold the Source.”

“The Source? Ho!” Orrin gave a skeptical grin. “That one?”

“Yes. The root and the cause. And Eternity craves it. To them, we are but a sword and shield. I know that. I talked to the Norns. If they get their hands on the Source, even the United returning from beyond won’t be able to change anything. It has happened before!”

“It has happened before, brother,” Orrin said thoughtfully. “So what do you propose?”

“Gather the Brethren and take the Source from Eternity. Become a shield — not for them, but for those who forged it. Those who will forge it… They can create new True Ones and maybe do even more. But they need time to grow strong!”

“Ho, the hounds of Eternity will devour us with them,” the other man smirked. “But I’m a warrior, not a thinker — you know that. Maybe that’s the point, Brother...”

“This is why I want to hear those of us who saw the furthest. They must know.”

“I hear you, even if I don’t like these clever games,” Orrin grumbled. “We have only one thing left to decide: who leaves the Arena to find the others, and who rejoins the Forgotten One?”

The White Devil hadn’t forgotten for a moment where they stood. No matter what, the Cursed Shrine wasn’t a place two silver Ascendants could leave. Only one would walk out — even for the shards of a United, that law was unbreakable.

“I don’t want to kill you,” the White Devil said, and Orrin bared his teeth again, nostrils flaring wide.

“You can’t kill me. But it’s not about what we want. Do we have a choice? There’s no other way off the Arena.”

“Maybe we should toss a coin?”

“We already did, by stepping in here.”

Everything was clear — except for one thing.

“Tell me, where are you getting the Keys?” the White Devil narrowed his eyes. “You’ve been here many times. Why answer my challenge today, of all days? We were thrown together by someone who wants to send all Brethren beyond the Fringe. You know that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Orrin growled. “And you’ll learn it if you take my Runes. And if you don’t, then don’t bother... So in which Circle does that new Nation from the sky ark dwell? I promise you, I’ll find the Source.”

“You’ll learn it if you take my Runes,” the White Devil echoed his words.

The shards of the United had fought before, killing their own kind. Their reasons varied, as they often chose different paths, but the Thousand had always known that each death brought them closer to the final goal. The United whose name was forgotten had split himself into a thousand pieces and was supposed to return from beyond when all of them arrived there. Many had proposed sacrificing the entire Thousand before, but there had always been a caveat: to do so, they had to find every last sibling. Even a single one remaining within Unity could disrupt the plan, and that was exactly what treacherous Eternity had exploited, dividing and chaining their souls. There were other reasons too, and the White Devil knew them, as did Flameblade. And that meant…

A blue butterfly of the Flameblade flared to life next to Orrin’s wrist. But the enemy never got the chance to use it when a hissing fountain of water exploded beneath him, launching him into the air. His body helplessly spun above, flung skyward by the foaming jet, buying the White Devil a few precious seconds.

He had used the Silver Geyser, instantly transforming it into a churning vortex with the Rune of Whirlpool. Then he unleashed all of his combat Runes one after another. It was time to go all in.

A Typhoon erupted with deafening booms, engulfing the Arena. Wind and lightning speared into the spinning Geyser, turning the battlefield into a raging storm of elemental chaos. One of the Thousand soared in a wide arc around the storm on a summoned Whitewing, searching for Orrin and ready to strike the killing blow.

Boom! Scorching fire burst outward in all directions like a massive bubble of flame swelling beneath the surface. The elements collided, dissolving into steam, but fire proved stronger — it was gold. The White Devil dodged the blue flash of the Flameblade once more, deftly slipping through the boiling plumes, but suddenly, invisible claws sank into him like a thousand hooks, dragging him down toward Orrin, his skin pulsating with the heat of lava.

A moment later, they were almost touching. His brother’s crimson eyes blazed with triumph. One last blow remained, and his blade was already darting forward, ready to pierce the apex...

The White Devil had never feared death. Neither the one that had laughed at him a thousand times and grown into an old companion, nor the one that took beings like him beyond the veil of existence. At times, he even craved it, for the burden of living weighed heavily even on a shard of a United. But now was not the time. Too much was at stake. The Source. The new True Ones. The search for the Brethren… For some reason, the young Earther flashed through his mind: frowning, shaking his head with sorrow. Sigurd had never received his answers…

The cold fury inside the White Devil suddenly bloomed into piercing blue flame, burning and freezing at the same time. Its fury incinerated the claws holding him and scorched Orrin, immediately dispelling the aura that shielded him. His brother staggered, stunned by the awakening of an Aspect, and howled in rage as tongues of cold fire lashed across his body.

An Aspect! It had finally emerged at the brink of death, gifting the White Devil one final chance. One of the Thousand felt that fire as part of himself, his own power and anger. He could quench it or make it cut like a blade!

Coldfire. The rarest of Aspects granted only to the chosen who could both protect and destroy. Its flames destroyed runic barriers and neutralized attacks, serving as an Ascendant’s sword and shield. He couldn’t ask the Unseen for a better gift.

But a chance didn’t mean a victory. An Aspect wouldn’t stop a warrior who had survived a thousand battles, and Orrin, now reduced to a wick to another’s fire, wasn’t about to lose. His actions were calculated: why douse the Coldfire when you could kill its master? The Blade of Celestial Flame flashed again — and pierced the air, for One of the Thousand had used the Rune of Aquatic Body and spilled onto Orrin like falling rain.

That dangerous Rune turned your body into liquid: fluid, shapeless, and pliant. The White Devil had tried it once, for training only, and realized that such a transformation was extremely risky, but it allowed you to seep through any crack. Destroying a liquid body was easy… unless it was inside the enemy’s stomach!

He doused Orrin, permeating his mouth, nostrils, throat, and gut and cutting off his breath. Now, to get him out, his opponent would have to literally burn out from the inside.

It was a desperate trick — a weapon of last resort. The White Devil knew he wouldn’t kill his Brother that way — a silver that close to gold wouldn’t die from suffocation. In a few moments, he’d find a way to purge the water invading his body.

But those moments were everything.

Coldfire. Aquatic Body. And finally, the most insidious of attacks: Binding Serpent!

Released beforehand, it lashed out like a spring from the wall of steam, wrapping around the choking Ascendant’s body, arms, and legs, and bit into his throat with savage force. That ability would have been useless before, when his brother had worn the black armor or was focused, but right now, he was vulnerable.

Like illium shackles, the Binding Serpent locked the Slate with its embrace. Its venom was supposed to kill Orrin at once, yet the White Devil wasn’t surprised when it failed. He burst out of the fallen twitching body entwined in scaly coils as a stream of water and regained his shape, whole, unharmed, and ready to strike the final blow.

He had a lot to say, but what was the point? Many fools had died wasting words on those already doomed when they should’ve simply done what had to be done.

The White Devil struck with Threehead’s Claw imbued with Thunderbreak, aiming right at Orrin’s broad chest. His target was the apex, the core that housed the spark and spirit of every Ascendant. With it destroyed, even True blood couldn’t save his opponent, his body bereft of its eo.

The summoned spirit roared, accepting the sacrifice. The upper half of Orrin’s torso exploded into shreds. Starblood burst out of the ruptured apex in a surging silver wave and spiraled into the air, scattering into countless Runes and Drops, while the remains of the body shimmered and vanished — his brother didn’t want his corpse or Items to fall into an enemy’s hands and used a posthumous Translocation.

The White Devil only watched. Perhaps he, too, would die like that when his time came. He had no doubt that it would.

“You fought well, but the Unseen smiled on me today,” he said into the air. “See you on the other side, brother.”

Epilogue

HIS BROTHER HADN’T SHARED his Items with the victor.

Many Ascendants used posthumous Translocation, Dissipation, or Detonation to deny their killer any rewards. It was a clever trick — outside teleportation was blocked in the Arena only during the duel itself. Most likely, Orrin’s remains had gone to the Forge, one of the volcanic strongholds of the Flamefolk, along with his black armor and the legendary Flameblade. Maybe they would bring joy to his heirs, if he had any.

But like the White Devil, Orrin was one of the True, and his Blood and Runes weren’t bound to the Stigmata. A pile of spectral glyphs lay where he had fallen — the finest loot the White Devil had earned during his latest life.

He felt no bitter joy from victory. Unity had grown a little poorer — the flaming spirit of his brother left it, and the shard of the United sensed only bleak emptiness inside. One of the Thousand couldn’t feel grief or regret — such emotions had no purpose — but he knew the hand that had orchestrated their duel was not his own. Orrin’s Flameblade might’ve been turned against the sky lords, yet someone whose shadow loomed above them had chosen to pit them against each other in the Arena.

Still, the news that he wasn’t the only freed shard of the United meant a lot. The game started by those who wielded the Great Rune of Chronos had colossal stakes, and he, Orrin, and the others were mere puppets in their enigmatic plan. But whoever tried to make the Thousand Brethren their pieces was taking a huge risk, for they might tear their invisible strings!

The White Devil first claimed the Silver Rune awarded to the Arena’s victor, then absorbed all that remained of his brother: silver and golden Runes and the fragments of his Slate. As he studied them, he searched for the answer, for Orrin had told him he’d find it by taking his Runes.

And he found it.

In the cave holding the coffin with his shackled soul, One of the Thousand had once begged for a sign. At last, he received it, beneath the dark arches of the Cursed Shrine, exchanged for the life of his brother, another member of the Thousand. A crooked smile twisted his lips, the kind that would’ve suited the one who loved to move pieces with the hands of other players, standing behind their backs. The one who had scattered through Unity the Runes like the one glowing at his fingertip.

“Whatever you do, mine, you’re mine,” the White Devil rasped — an adage of an ancient Worm that had become a motto to one of Eternity’s wretched Keepers.

The glyph depicted a bowing figure in a cowled hood.

The Rune of Wandering Merchant.

The next book of the series!

The Sublime Icesmith (Thousand Brethren Book #2)

End of Book One

Thank you for reading Thousand Brethren!

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About The Author

Roman Prokofiev is a bestselling author of LitRPG, gamelit and cyberpunk.

Roman started writing at an early age, inspired by fantasy classics such as J.R.R.Tolkien, Robert Jordan and Glen Cook. These days, he can’t remember what he’s done with those first tentative drafts - and in any case, they can’t have been that brilliant because Roman moved on, focusing on his studies, starting a family and running his own business.

Still, he always remained a passionate gamer and a voracious reader of fantasy. That’s why the genre of LitRPG struck a chord with him: Roman couldn’t help comparing his early writing to the bestselling works in the genre until one day, he decided to try his hand at LitRPG too.

His very first books immediately became popular with his online readers, topping book charts, and were promptly released in paperback and audio by traditional publishers.

Roman loves nothing better than to come up with an exciting story. So if you prefer heroes who wander off the beaten track to face breakneck adventures in original and well-crafted worlds, Roman Prokofiev’s books offer you a chance to indulge.

He thinks of himself as a virtual fantasy writer. In his own words, “I know the world of modern gamers and the nuances of MMOs perfectly, but the main thing in my works is the plot and adventures of the characters. I consider my main achievement to be the creation of Sphere of Worlds, a grandiose virtual multiverse populated by bright, unusual characters. Such as the ingenious merchant Cat, the naive alchemist girl Weldy, the cold-blooded hunter Ace...”