Though Arcalion’s fortress had been purged of its curses, its walls still bore scars. They whispered of pain and defeat. The paladin rested in a quieter chamber, its light fractured by broken stained glass. Marenna remained often at his side, watching each breath, steadying the streams of mana that still resisted healing.

  Garlan, meanwhile, prowled the empty halls, ever on guard. He slept only in fragments. He could feel the shadow lurking behind the stones, as if it had never truly left.

  On the third day, Arcalion opened his eyes for good.

  — He played with me, he whispered. Not to kill me. To break me.

  Garlan stepped closer.

  — What did he want?

  — He wanted a name. Yours.

  Arcalion closed his eyes briefly, then reopened them, clouded with memory.

  — I saw him. He had no stable form. His body shifted from one moment to the next. Sometimes thin, sometimes massive, sometimes… almost childlike. But always with the same gaze.

  He drew a ragged breath.

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  — His eyes were empty wells. Not black. Not red. Just… absent. And his voice… soft. Too soft.

  A shiver ran down Marenna’s spine.

  — He has no warmth. No hatred. He speaks as if he’s teaching. As if we were his students.

  Garlan narrowed his eyes.

  — He wants to learn how to unmake dragons.

  — No, Arcalion rasped. He wants them to unmake themselves.

  A heavy silence.

  — He wants to prove that even dragon bloodlines are nothing before his craft. He doesn’t mean to kill you. He means to raise you back up… as his target. Perhaps… as his material.

  Marenna clenched her fists.

  — You will never be someone’s creation. You are life. And if he tries… I’ll put life into his death. So he’ll know what it means to be alive.

  That same night, a wounded messenger staggered to the fortress gates. He collapsed before them, his body lacerated, eyes wild.

  — The village of Nareth… they… they’re all standing… but dead!

  He held out a shard of black stone. A demonic rune was carved into it, still warm.

  Garlan seized it. The frozen mana crawled up his arm.

  — He’s sending us an invitation.

  They left at dawn. Garlan, Marenna, and Brenuss.

  The landscape dulled with every mile. Nature bled of color. The wind was absent. The scent of earth turned flat. Nothing sang anymore.

  When they reached the ridge overlooking Nareth, they understood.

  The village still stood. Intact. But no smoke curled from chimneys. No windows were open. The fields were planted—yet wilted without rotting.

  Garlan’s fists tightened.

  — He’s here. I can feel it. And he’s waiting for us to enter.