The sky over Veyrath darkened long before sunset.
It wasn't clouds. It wasn't smoke. It was the Hollow's influence creeping outward, bleeding into the world now that Liora had returned through the ancient door. The veil was thinning—and the White Circle felt it.
"We have movement," Dareth said, scanning the treeline with a spyglass. "Five convoys. One of them carries a sigil I've never seen."
"Show me," Liora said, stepping beside him.
He handed her the glass.
The sigil was white, simple—a circle with a single drop suspended inside. New. Unrecorded.
"That's not theirs," she murmured.
"Then whose is it?"
"A splinter. Or something worse."
The truth itched beneath her skin, like power coiled too tight. She turned to the others—Tessa, bruised but ever defiant; Dareth, steady as a war drum; and Lienne, the priestess whose holy magic now flickered uncertainly in the presence of Liora's altered soul.
"We move in before dusk," Liora ordered. "We intercept. Capture one alive."
"And if they're not human?" Tessa asked.
"Then we kill them slowly and learn what we can."
The ambush was fast, silent, brutal.
They struck from the ridgeline, blades whispering through the wind, Liora's magic suppressing sound and light as her new soul bond flared in her chest. Shadows twisted around her like a cloak, and her eyes shimmered with pale gold—the mark of fused essence.
But it wasn't enough.
One of the enemy screamed.
It wasn't human. Not fully. Its flesh peeled back mid-battle, revealing runes carved into muscle, bone fused with something mechanical. A graftborn—one of the White Circle's new experiments.
"They're binding magic to the dead with iron," Lienne gasped.
"No," Liora said. "They're testing necro-alchemy. I saw it in Alric's memories. This is phase one."
The battle cost them.
A spear caught Saren—one of their quietest, kindest fighters—straight through the chest. It burst from his back with a sickening crunch.
Liora turned too late.
His eyes locked on hers.
"Tell my sister… I…"
His breath hitched once—and he was gone.
Rage swallowed her.
She lifted her hand, and the runes from the Hollow responded. Her magic surged, warped, screamed. The Veil split—and every soul nearby heard it.
The remaining graftborn convulsed. Their eyes burned white, and one by one they imploded—pulled inside themselves by a force they couldn't resist.
"Liora!" Dareth shouted. "You have to stop!"
But she didn't.
Not until the last enemy was ash.
Silence followed. Not peace.
Tessa crouched over Saren's body, hands trembling.
"He was just a kid."
"He chose to be here," Liora said quietly.
"So that makes it okay?" she snapped. "He didn't have to die like that."
"None of us get to choose how we die," Liora said, her voice hard as ice. "Only why."
"And what about you?" Lienne asked. "Why are you doing this?"
Liora turned, eyes burning gold.
"Because if I don't, we all die."
That night, they buried Saren in the Vale of Thorns, an old soldier's graveyard whispered to guard the spirits of those too restless to sleep. Tessa placed his carved stone on the mound herself. No one spoke.
Later, Liora sat by the fire alone, staring at her hands. The soul fusion pulsed beneath her skin like a second heartbeat, and every so often, she heard him—Alric—whispering.
Not words. Feelings.
Guilt. Fear. Determination.
And something worse: acceptance.
"You feel it, don't you?" came a voice from the trees.
She looked up.
A man stepped forward—tall, broad, wrapped in bone-white robes lined with crimson. His face was covered in a mask of pale stone carved into a serene expression.
"Mavrek," she said.
He bowed his head.
"It's time we met face to face."
"You've been watching. Pulling strings."
"I've been preparing the end."
He circled the fire, hands clasped behind his back.
"You did well with the graftborn. But that was a trial, Liora. One of many. The White Circle is no longer fragmented. We are whole. And we want you."
"You can't have me."
"We already do. Every choice you've made, every power you've claimed—it brings you closer. You're not becoming a weapon."
He leaned closer.
"You already are."
Then he vanished—no sound, no trace.
Only smoke in the air, and a sickening certainty twisting in her stomach.
Back in her tent, Liora sat with Alric's soulstone in her hand.
"You knew this would happen," she whispered.
Yes.
"What do I do now?"
Choose. Fight them your way—or burn it all down from within.
She gripped the stone tighter.
And smiled.