The snow melted beneath their heels.
Steam rose where Laverna's feet landed, the ground hissing as if scorched by divine judgment. Her body moved like a streak of flame across the battlefield, weaving through enemy ranks with surgical precision. Beside her, Rynn's twin blades danced in a cyclone of silver, each movement fluid and deadly. Wind and fire met as they stormed the last known Eldrath stronghold east of Mistgrave, a dark fortress shrouded in curses and cloaked in Falzath's malignant energy. It was the closest corrupted outpost near the ruined gates of Laginaple, and its tower loomed like a wound in the earth, with veins of corruption spiraling up its foundation like a cancerous vine.
Laverna did not hesitate.
From the tiger eye necklace against her chest, the jamadhars emerged with a burst of white-hot energy, forged from the soul of George Applebee, Master Assassin. The twin blades were not just weapons; they were a vow made tangible, one sharpened by pain, purpose, and ancestral fury. The necklace pulsed in unison with her crest, both glowing with the same intensity as a dying star.
The jamadhars slid into her hands as if returning home. The steel vibrated, resonating with her heartbeat. The moment she took her stance, the battle changed.
Rynn slashed downward, summoning a spiraling gust of wind that knocked a wave of corrupted sentries into the walls. Laverna didn't waste the opportunity. She darted forward in a flash, flames trailing her every motion. Her jamadhars carved clean through two guards in a single blink. Their bodies ignited upon contact, fire consuming Falzath corruption like holy retribution. The twisted essence howled as it burned, shriveling in pain.
The ground recoiled beneath her steps. With every kill, her aura intensified. Fire curled around her like a living cloak. The snow around them evaporated instantly, giving rise to steam that clouded the battlefield. Yet within that steam, her figure burned brighter, unwavering.
Their synchronized assault was unrelenting. Rynn moved with the grace of a seasoned blade dancer, while Laverna stormed the stronghold like a demon of flame. With each strike, another Falzath rune cracked. The tower's magic destabilized.
"Left turret," Rynn barked without hesitation.
Laverna didn't need to look. She spun mid-run, jamadhars flaring as she hurled a crescent-shaped arc of flame toward the parapet. The heat of her will ignited the warding sigils embedded in the stone. They didn't explode.
They dissolved.
The corruption couldn't withstand her light.
Beneath her armor, the crest above her abdomen flared with orange luminescence, piercing through cloth and leather. It pulsed in rhythm with her kills, each death another thread torn from the Falzath weave. And as she advanced, she could feel it—the relic buried deep within the tower's altar called to her, like a festering wound aching for cauterization.
"They feel it," she muttered, her voice low, eyes locked on the stairway ahead.
"Let them feel fear," Rynn replied with calm determination.
She nodded. "Time to gut their gods."
The altar chamber was a macabre cathedral of obsidian and bone, its walls etched with the language of pain. Crimson veins pulsed from the throne-like relic at its center. It was a beacon of corruption, beating like a second heart inside the tower. Runes glowed with twisted life, fed by centuries of blood rituals.
Laverna approached, jamadhars trembling with anticipation. Her necklace shone like a second sun. She could feel George Applebee's presence inside the steel, lending her strength.
With one fluid motion, she drove both jamadhars deep into the relic.
The throne screamed.
Crimson light surged outward, attempting to engulf her, but her blades absorbed it, siphoning the energy into her own aura. She rose from the ground, lifted by the backlash. Her crest blazed.
Visions surged through her mind like lightning.
King Tristan stood alone in the throne room of Soma. His crown was crooked, eyes hollow. Shadows pooled behind him.
"You left me with nothing!" he shouted, voice cracking.
Lady Mariam stood defiantly, blood splattered across her sleeves. "You had a choice. You chose the fox."
Tristan collapsed to his knees, sobbing. A tall figure stepped from the darkness behind him. Robed, porcelain-masked, a presence like winter. The Hooded Lord. Voryn.
"You were betrayed," Voryn said softly. "Let that wound guide you."
Tristan's voice broke. "Why would you help me?"
"Because your pain feeds the seed of change."
A tendril of Falzath energy slithered from Voryn's hand.
"Make a pact," he offered. "Watch them all burn."
Tristan's trembling fingers reached out.
And took it.
The vision shattered.
Laverna collapsed, breath ragged. The relic was now a lifeless husk. Rynn caught her before she hit the stone.
"Did you see something?" he asked, scanning the room.
She nodded slowly. "I saw the beginning. The betrayal. The pact that started it all."
Rynn's eyes narrowed. "Then we're on the right path."
They turned from the altar chamber, stepping into the sunlight.
Outside, the wind shifted. The sky began to clear.
From the northern ridges, Zera halted her charge. The sigils along her arms flared in response to a distant ripple in the Falzath aura. Ahead, a grotesque Falzath beast convulsed, howling in pain. Dalen seized the moment, his flaming sword bisecting the creature with a savage arc.
Zera exhaled, her smile triumphant. "She's done it. Laverna struck a root."
Father Grent raised his staff high, invoking a brilliant ward that bathed the field in golden light. "Then we strike while their gods bleed."
The Fourth Talon surged forward.
Deep within Mistgrave, Shin froze mid-step. Yoshimatsu hummed in its sheath.
"Laverna," he murmured.
Tessara looked eastward, her Kagetsu no Men catching stray flickers of orange fire. "I felt it too. She's unseating the pact."
Maika's Taiyo no Men shimmered with solar fury. "The anchors are breaking. The grip of the Falzath weakens."
Shin smirked. "Then we finish it."
He drew Yoshimatsu. Crimson lightning danced along the blade.
"To the next sanctum," he said.
They marched.
Laverna stood atop the crumbling tower, wind catching her hair as the last remnants of the stronghold burned below. Rynn stood beside her, blades still glowing.
She raised her jamadhars toward the sun.
The necklace gleamed. Her crest pulsed in harmony.
Below, the western troops pressed forward, hope blazing in their eyes.
Falzath wards flickered and died. The land stirred.
Healing began.
But far beneath the surface, in a realm of rot and silence, Voryn opened his eyes.
The Crimson Root had been wounded.
But not destroyed.
And in the once-pristine throne room of Soma, shadows returned.
The pact still lived.
And its price was yet to be paid.