The morning after Dareth's death broke slower than any Liora had ever known.
Dawn bled across the ruined skyline of Tharamel, dull and grey, as if the sun itself was in mourning. Smoke from the burned bone-creatures still curled through the air like dying fingers, and the scent of charred death lingered on everything—skin, cloth, memory.
Tessa hadn't moved all night.
She sat curled around Dareth's corpse, arms tight, face buried in his chestplate, unmoving except for the tremble in her breath. Liora had tried to approach once. The look Tessa gave her had stopped her cold. It wasn't hate. It was worse.
It was emptiness.
She had lost something too vital to scream about.
Lienne lay nearby, still unconscious, half her ribs broken, a gash across her forehead that refused to clot. Liora had used every healing spell she knew. The damage was internal. Worse, it was emotional. Lienne had known Dareth the longest. She had followed him into this mission with the loyalty of a sister.
And Liora…
She had been the one to call the spell.
The one who unleashed the final rite.
Her hands still ached from it, blood smeared beneath her nails where she'd clawed at the dirt, screaming as magic surged through her veins like a venom she couldn't purge.
She rose.
The Codex Mortuum floated beside her now like a ghost tethered by fate. The book had grown silent in the night, pages closed, flesh cover pulsing with a heartbeat she tried not to hear. She didn't trust it.
But she couldn't abandon it.
Not now.
She found a hollow beneath one of the broken arches where they had taken shelter.
Dareth's body had been cleaned, wrapped in cloth, his axe laid beside him.
Tessa finally stood. Her eyes were swollen. Her voice was raw when she finally spoke.
"He believed in you. Even after everything."
Liora didn't respond. She didn't deserve words.
"You could've warned us," Tessa continued. "About what that spell would do. About what it would cost."
"I didn't know," Liora whispered.
"But you chose to speak it."
The accusation wasn't shouted.
That's what made it worse.
It was just truth.
Liora knelt and pressed a rune into the dirt. It lit softly, wrapping Dareth's body in a gentle flame—pure, respectful. Not necromancy. Not resurrection.
Just goodbye.
The fire burned clean, no screams, no howling spirits. Only silence. And ash.
Later that day, Lienne finally stirred.
"Is he gone?" she rasped.
Liora nodded.
"Good," Lienne croaked. "He wouldn't have wanted to see this place again."
"You need rest."
"I need revenge."
Liora blinked.
"The White Circle sent those spine-walkers," Lienne said, pushing herself upright with a wince. "That graveyard wasn't just protection—it was bait. They wanted us to come here. They wanted us to open the Codex."
That made Liora stop.
"You think they knew I would find this place?"
"I think they led you to it."
Her thoughts spun.
Mavrek had manipulated her. Again.
But why let her gain the Codex?
Why allow her to wield its power?
Unless…
Unless it was part of the plan all along.
She wasn't defying the White Circle.
She was walking exactly where they wanted her to.
As the camp packed in silence, Tessa sat with her back to the others, polishing Dareth's axe. She didn't plan to bury it. She planned to wield it.
And Liora didn't stop her.
Let her rage be fire.
They would need fire soon.
Because the Codex had whispered a name to Liora in the middle of the night—a name she hadn't heard since childhood. A name even Alric had feared to speak aloud.
Veluran.
The Grand Veilwright.
The man behind the founding of the White Circle. The father of the bone-rites. The first to bind a soul to a book and call it salvation.
The one her mother had called Master.
That night, Liora dreamt again.
But this time, she didn't dream of blood or bone or betrayal.
She dreamt of a small cottage by a lake. Of a woman's voice singing in the old tongue. She saw a little girl—herself—laughing as a pale-haired woman braided her hair.
Her mother.
No mask. No rituals.
Just her.
But when she turned, her eyes were empty.
And Liora felt the same void staring back at her that now echoed inside herself.
When she awoke, the ash from Dareth's funeral fire had settled across her skin like war paint.
The road ahead led east—toward the forgotten city of Myrhaal, where the Trial of Masks awaited.
To pass it meant unlocking the next Veil-tier.
To fail meant death.
She would walk it alone, if she had to.
But behind her, Tessa stood—axe in hand, grief turned to fury.
And Lienne followed, limping, broken, but defiant.
They were her broken blades now.
And Liora?
She was becoming something else.
Something older than fear.
Something darker than fate.
Something… inevitable.