The gates of the main village loomed tall—reinforced wood bound in blackened iron, framed by weather charms and old wards barely holding together. Smoke curled from narrow chimneys. The wind here carried the faint scent of ash and salt.
Guards flinched as they approached.
Caelus said nothing.
Mimi walked slower than usual, her gaze flicking between villagers who had stopped to watch them pass. Children peeked around their mothers. Elders whispered prayers under their breath.
"He's not even glowing right now," Mimi mumbled.
Hoon didn't respond.
The town parted like it remembered something. Not a face. A shape. A weight. Not one of them had seen him before, but all of them had heard.
At the far end of the street, past cracked fountains and faded sigils, stood the palace. Less gold, more stone—sturdy, scarred, with a banner half-torn by time.
And at its steps, the King waited.
He looked nothing like the statues in the halls. No crown. No robe. Just a man in dark leathers with a single sword at his side. He hadn't sent knights to fetch Caelus. He came himself.
When Caelus stepped into view, the King inhaled sharply.
Then—he bowed.
Slow. Low. Deliberate.
Gasps rippled through the crowd. Hoon's eyes widened. Mimi stared.
Caelus didn't stop walking.
He only said, quietly, "You remember me."
The King rose. "I never forgot."
"You were smaller then."
"You haven't changed."
Silence.
Rain began to fall.
The King gestured to the doors. "Come inside. The throne is not ready, but my table is."
Caelus didn't move.
"I'm not here to be served."
"Then be heard," the King said. "You saved my father. Now you return when the Bleak stirs again. Tell me that's not more than chance."
"I don't believe in chance," Caelus said.
He stepped past the King—into the palace.
The King followed.
So did Mimi and Hoon.
Not as guests.
But as witnesses.
The palace was colder than it looked.
Its walls were clean, but the windows were sealed with iron mesh, and the floor bore the cracks of wars too old to speak of. Caelus walked without slowing, his steps silent, but the sound of them lingered longer than they should have.
Mimi and Hoon followed a few paces behind. Neither spoke. They hadn't since the bow.
The King led them into the council hall—not the throne room, not the war chamber. A circular space lit with blue lanterns, where the floor sloped inward like a conversation pit. No guards stood inside.
But three figures were already there.
The first stepped forward immediately—his armor muted steel, his posture straight-backed and unreadable.
"My name is Caeron," he said. "Emissary to the Crown."
He gave no bow. Just a short nod toward Caelus. "I was sent to track the light in the mist."
"You saw it?" Hoon asked.
"I saw what remained," Caeron replied. "Light that doesn't burn, but empties."
The second figure leaned against a column. Pale gloves. Embroidered collar. A thin silver circlet on his brow, not a crown—too subtle.
"You didn't tell me we were hosting myths," he said, voice light and almost amused.
"Serenthiel," the King warned.
But the prince only smiled. "I'm not mocking him. I just like knowing which bedtime stories walk through our door."
Caelus glanced at him. "And what are you?"
"Someone who doesn't like to be surprised," Serenthiel replied. "Especially by someone who doesn't leave footprints."
The third figure—broad-shouldered, older—said nothing at all. He stood near the door, one hand resting on a sword. His presence was still, but heavy.
"Voltaire," the King said. "Captain of the Third Wall."
Caelus gave no greeting.
He simply looked out the window. From here, the mountain peaks of Drevaloth were faint, fog-covered. But the Bleak was pulsing again. Softly, like a wound trying to reopen.
The King broke the silence. "There are rumors already. Some think you're a divine protector. Others think you're a weapon."
"They're both right," Caelus said quietly.
The room didn't react—but Serenthiel's eyes flicked, just once.
Caeron spoke next. "Why now?"
"I was asked," Caelus replied.
"By the King?" Caeron asked.
"No," Caelus said, without explaining.
The wind outside changed direction.
And in that moment, Serenthiel's tone shifted just slightly. "You've seen death before. Many times."
"I've walked beside it."
"Will it follow you here?"
Caelus didn't answer.
But for a heartbeat, the turquoise glow under his skin dimmed.
Mimi saw it.
And in that flicker, something else passed through her—a quiet image she didn't understand. Of rain. Of a banner falling. Of the world holding its breath.
Then it was gone.
The palace did not sleep, but the group left before dawn.
No fanfare. No escort. Just the quiet hush of guards who dared not speak and the weight of eyes from high windows. The King offered no words as they departed. He knew what was coming. And so did Caelus.
The Bleak's pulse had changed.
It no longer whispered.
It knocked.
They moved through the outskirts of the village, past empty stalls and shrines long since abandoned. Wind tugged at Mimi's cloak. Hoon walked close beside her, hand never far from his weapon.
Caelus walked ahead.
The path veered into deeper ground—marshland where old roots jutted from the earth like ribs. Rain fell slower here, as if time itself hesitated.
Behind them, a scholar watched from a tower window, quill trembling.
"Caelus," he whispered to himself. "Of what lineage…? Of what order…?"
But the name brought up nothing.
No records. No scriptures. Not even myth.
Just silence.
That night, they made camp beneath a ruined arch where old banners once flew. Hoon stoked a cautious flame. Mimi sat nearby, arms wrapped around her knees.
"He doesn't sleep," she murmured.
Hoon nodded.
"And he doesn't eat."
"I noticed."
Caelus stood at the edge of the clearing, facing the horizon. The light of the stars was distant—faint. The Bleak was just beyond that ridge.
It would break soon.
He could feel the cracks spiderwebbing beneath it.
Mimi looked up. "Is it true... what they said in the capital? That there are twelve Bleaks?"
Caelus didn't look at her. "There were."
"How many now?"
"…Eleven."
A pause.
"And if one breaks?"
He closed his eyes. "Then something wakes with it."
"Like what?"
He didn't answer.
But in the dark, something shifted in the soil.
A deep breath. Not from any of them.
But from the world.
The fire burned low.
Mimi watched Caelus from across the orange light, his silhouette half-lost to shadow. He hadn't moved in a long while—standing at the clearing's edge, eyes fixed eastward as if waiting for something none of them could hear.
She whispered, "He's too still."
Hoon opened one eye. "He's always too still."
Then, without wind, without sound, the sky above them shattered.
Or so it seemed.
A burning symbol carved itself across the stars—lines of red, jagged and spiraling inward like broken chains. It did not pulse. It loomed.
Mimi's breath hitched. "What is—"
"The mark of Strife," Caelus said, still facing the horizon.
She stood slowly. "Strife, as in Varenth the Strife? the Arcanists?
He turned then, and for a brief second, his eyes caught the firelight—one warm silver, the other icy opal.
"There are thirteen Arcanists," he said. "But only twelve Bleaks."
"That doesn't make sense," Hoon muttered, rising now too. "Shouldn't each god have one?"
"No," Caelus replied. "Strife never created a Bleak. They refused."
"Then who did?"
"The others. Even the ones aligned with ruin—the darker ones—they still created one each. Equilibrium made them do it. Said balance demanded it."
Mimi furrowed her brow. "Equilibrium?"
Caelus' gaze dimmed. "The thirteenth. The center. The one who held the others in line."
"But you said there are thirteen Arcanists."
"There were." His voice was low now. "Equilibrium doesn't exist anymore."
The sigil burned a moment longer in the sky, then faded like scorched mist. The stars returned—but their silence felt heavier.
"So what happens now?" Hoon asked.
Caelus looked east again.
"If Drevaloth's Bleak breaks… Vareth will wake. They won't be free—not yet. But they'll remember how."
Mimi stepped forward. "And the others? The rest of the Bleaks?"
"If all twelve fall," Caelus said, "Strife won't just awaken. They'll walk."
"And then?" she asked.
His answer was quiet. "Then balance dies with Them."
The path narrowed through a copse of thin, silent trees—branches bare, bark flaking like shed skin. Mist crawled low across the roots, coiling around ankles like hesitant fingers.
Caelus walked ahead, unhurried.
Behind him, Mimi and Hoon kept pace, though Hoon's hand rarely left the hilt of his blade. Something in the air had changed. Not the silence—it was always silent—but the weight beneath it.
Mimi glanced at the trees.
"…These feel wrong."
"They always do here," Hoon said.
"No," she whispered. "Worse."
Caelus didn't turn. "You're right."
Hoon narrowed his eyes. "You sensed it too?"
"I sensed it before we left the village."
He stopped then. Slowly, he turned to face them. "We're about to be ambushed."
Mimi stiffened. Hoon immediately drew his blade.
"You knew?" Hoon snapped.
"I see more than most," Caelus said. "I let it happen."
"You what—"
"You owe me your lives," Caelus said flatly. "Consider this payment."
Mimi's mouth opened, but no words came.
"Fight," he added. "Or run. But don't look to me."
And with that, he stepped back—just a few paces—and watched.
The trees shuddered.
From the mist burst twisted figures in cloaks of rot and bone—humanoid, but wrong. Spined arms, too many teeth, limbs forged from hardened shadow. They moved in broken lunges, circling.
Hoon didn't hesitate. His sword met the first one mid-charge, steel flashing in the fog. Mimi drew her short-blades, already moving beside him. Her form wasn't perfect—still raw—but she fought with instinct and fire.
Caelus remained where he stood, arms folded, the wind brushing strands of white hair from his face.
He watched Mimi dodge a clawed strike and drive her dagger deep.
He watched Hoon drop low, twist, and cut upward—clean, sharp, practiced.
They were imperfect.
But they were growing.
One day, they would be more.
He already saw it.
From the tree line, a final figure stepped forward—taller than the others. Not monstrous in form—but wrong in presence. His face was calm. Human. But his skin smoked like burnt oil, and his eyes glowed crimson.
Caelus raised his hand—and a pole of light began to form in his grasp. A banner of turquoise and rust-gold coiled upward in silence.
The demon's smile faltered.
"You'd draw that for me?"
"No," Caelus said, and light began to gather around him—subtle, but heavy.
The demon's shape wavered slightly.
Caelus took a single step forward. Power stirred. The banner flared.
The demon stepped back. "Fine. Another time, then."
And with a flicker of smoke, he vanished—leaving only silence, and the stench of ash.
Caelus didn't move for a long time.
Neither did Mimi or Hoon.
When the air settled, he lowered the banner—but didn't dismiss it.
He stared at the place the demon had stood.
And said nothing.
The trees thinned, giving way to stone.
Massive jagged ridges rose from the earth like broken ribs, their edges scorched and blackened, as if fire once tried to cauterize a wound that refused to close.
In the middle—the Bleak.
A fracture in the land, rimmed with rings of barrier spells layered atop each other. Some shimmered with divine light, others pulsed like old machines. One barrier had already failed, its remnants fizzling like shattered glass caught in time.
The Bleak throbbed.
Not visually—but the air around it bent. Sound warped. Wind died.
Mimi stopped first. "That's it," she whispered.
Caelus stepped past her, slowly. His gaze sharpened, the opal in his right eye faintly pulsing as if reacting to something that wasn't entirely in the present.
Hoon glanced at the barriers. "They've held this long?"
"No," Caelus murmured. "They're only delaying it. This one's been cracking for centuries."
"Then why hasn't it broken yet?"
"Because they're tampering with this."
Caelus raised a hand—not to touch, but to mark.
A ring of light formed at his feet, etched with sigils that rotated around his form. He extended two fingers, sketching symbols in the air. The magic didn't touch the Bleak—it hovered inches above the barrier, tracing its rhythm.
"What are you doing?" Mimi asked.
"Marking it. So I can return."
"Can't you just—teleport inside now?"
"If I touch it," Caelus said, "they'll all know."
"They?"
"The horde. The ones that follow Vareth."
He stepped back. The spell sealed with a faint chime, no louder than a breath.
"They're waiting," he added. "But they can't see it yet. Not with the barriers still intact."
"But once it breaks…"
"They'll come like a tide."
Mimi's hands curled into fists. "Then we stop it from breaking."
"No," Caelus said. "We can't."
"Why not?"
He didn't answer. His eyes remained locked on the Bleak.
Behind them, from the cliffs above, a faint flicker passed—metal against leather. A silhouette in pale armor watched the trio in silence.
Unmoving.
Unseen.
But not unaware.
The watcher pulled a small prism-shaped lens from their pocket, pressed it to their eye, and focused on the silver-haired figure below.
"…Found you," they murmured.
The Bleak trembled again—harder.
Dust rose in spirals from its rim.
Caelus turned slightly. "We leave. Now."
The tremor hadn't stopped.
Rocks near the Bleak cracked in rhythmic pulses, as if mimicking the thudding heart of something buried deeper than stone.
Mimi took a step back. "Is it... waking?"
Caelus didn't answer. He stared at the Bleak like it had whispered something only he could hear.
Then came a sound—a note, high and unnatural, like steel string drawn across bone.
A crack of light tore through the barrier's edge.
"No—" Caelus snapped, turning.
A sigil burned mid-air—his sigil. Not cast now, but old. Familiar.
Someone had reactivated it.
The space near the Bleak folded, warping like paper, then split with a burst of heatless flame. Out stepped three knights in royal armor, followed by dozens more—standard-bearers, shield units, and mages in formation.
At their front, a man with sun-pale eyes and greying blond hair raised a gauntlet.
"Move aside," he commanded. "In the King's name."
Caelus narrowed his eyes. "You've broken the barrier."
"You left the key," the man said. "Caeron doesn't forget faces."
Mimi blinked. "Wait… they used your spell?"
The knight—Caeron—stepped forward, lowering his helm. "Your magic still echoes, Savior. The King never forgot the day you lit the skies to save his father."
Caelus didn't respond.
Behind him, the Bleak groaned—its edges flaring with light now that the outer shield had been severed.
"You're making a mistake," Caelus said quietly.
"We are out of knights. We are out of time," Caeron replied. "This nation dies if we do nothing."
Mimi glanced between them, anxiety rising. "Caelus…"
He looked at her, then at Hoon, who already had his hand on his sword—not out of defiance, but readiness.
"You want to fight beside me?" Caelus asked.
"No," Hoon said. "We want to keep you alive."
A long pause passed.
Then Caelus turned back to the Bleak.
"Too late for that."