This chapter is long overdue! In the final version of the book, this will probably be placed somewhere around chapter 495, but I went back to my outline recently and realised I completely forgot to write the Alveron stuff! Hope you like it.
Marcela’s sword was wet with blood. It slid in slow, steady drops from the curve of the long blade, spattering darkly against the flagstones as she walked. She stopped the drip with the slightest touch of Sumi’s blessing, controlling the water in the blood to keep it on her blade. The essence stones set into the walls cast a weak, uneven glow down the narrow corridor, their light catching along the edge of her weapon and painting it in dull crimson.
The passage was barely wide enough for one person at a time. Teff led the way, moving with quiet precision despite the exhaustion etched into his shoulders. As a Ranger of Cern, he kept one hand near his bow and the other trailing lightly along the wall, feeling for hidden seams, loose stone, or concealed runes. Tamsin was just behind him, her twin axes shining with runes in hand and a savage grin on her face.
They were all spent. Their armour was scored, robes torn, and faces smeared with soot and blood. It had taken a full day of relentless fighting to finally break through the outer defences. Months of sieging in the Remnant Realm. The warlocks and demons had held well, their magic powerful, but as more and more of their gateways in Alveron were discovered, their supplies had dried up. It had only been a matter of time, and today, that time was up.
They were inside.
The five of them were part of the advanced force, sent ahead of the main army to breach the inner keep and eradicate whatever remained. There would be no surrender here. The enemies left behind were the worst of them—fanatics and beasts alike, too twisted or too devoted to retreat. Every skirmish in these corridors had been close, desperate, and savage.
“There’s a door ahead,” he said quietly. “I hear at least a dozen inside. Probably more. They’re restless.”
Marcela came to a stop just behind him. “Same breach as before. Teff, get that door open. Varris—”
“I know what you need me for,” Varris rumbled. He was the newest member of their party—a replacement for Kendric.
She stepped back, flattening herself against the wall as he moved past. His stone armour shifted across his broad frame like liquid granite, plates flowing and reforming with a faint grinding whisper. Once settled, it gleamed with a metallic sheen, polished so smooth it almost shone gold in the essence light. As a Chosen of Osidium, he wore the strength of the earth itself, and since joining them, that strength had only deepened.
Marcela repositioned herself in the centre of the formation. Behind her stood Len, barrier sorcerer of Avaroth, and Faelor, Archer of Kark.
Teff crouched at the door, tools flashing briefly in his hands. The lock gave way with a muted click. He rose and glanced back at them.
Marcela met his eyes and gave a sharp nod.
Teff slipped aside.
Varris didn’t hesitate. He charged forward like a boulder launched from a siege engine, magnetic force surging through him. The door exploded inward beneath his charge, splintering in a roar of shattered wood and stone.
He barrelled through the wreckage without slowing. The enemy had made some attempt to barricade the way, but Varris tossed it aside with ease.
Stone surged over his body, thickening, layering, forming a reinforced shell just as the room beyond erupted. Arrows shrieked through the air. Blades flashed. Bolts of magic struck with violent cracks. Demons threw their bodies at him, tearing at the stone with teeth and claw. Len thrust his wand forward, and layered spheres of blue barrier snapped into place around Varris, each impact rippling across them in bursts of light.
The chamber filled with thunderous booms and the hiss of spellfire. Acid splashed and steamed where it struck the shields, sizzling as it ran down in smoking rivulets. Varris planted his feet and forced stone up from the floor, anchoring himself, becoming an immovable pillar amid the storm.
Then the first barrage faltered.
“Hurry!” Varris called, his voice carried by resonating stones in his armour, deep and gravelly. “One of them is creating a rift.”
Faelor squeezed past Len and aimed his bow past Marcela’s side. Silver light gathered on his arrow, bright at first, then condensing to a single sharp point. Essence pulsed, then he sent it flying into the centre of the chamber.
It exploded in a thousand needles, tearing outward in every direction. Screams echoed from the room, pained and panicked.
A humming warmth spread across her skin as his mobile barrier blessing enveloped her, thin and flexible but strong enough to turn aside blades and stray spells. The familiar buzz steadied her pulse.
Now it was her turn. She dashed past Teff and Varris, into the chamber, already swinging her blade at the group of foes gathered on the left, Tamsin splitting off to the right with a berserker roar. Two were chanting around a spell formation, a deep red crack in the world taking form between them.
Marcela slashed out, sending the blood on her blade flying with Water Blade in a violent, crimson arc, reshaped by her will into a razor-edged crescent. It flew across the chamber in a glittering spray, scattering like ruby shards beneath the flicker of warped torchlight.
Across the room, a circle of warlocks stood shoulder to shoulder around a half-formed rift in the air. The ritual crackled with unstable essence, a jagged tear in reality that pulsed like a bleeding heart. At her attack, translucent wards flared to life before them, layered plates of shimmering force that intercepted the blood-blade in a burst of steam and light.
They were strong. Not true threat, but she sensed a few with the distinct pressure of Soul Manifestation amongst them, their intent trying to dominate the essence of the chamber. The rest were lesser, but together they formed a wall that would not break quickly.
Instead of pressing directly, Marcela pivoted. She sprinted along the chamber’s outer edge, boots crunching over splintered wood and broken stone, angling for the far side. If she could force them to divide their attention, Teff and Faelor could crack the wards from the front.
Spells lashed out at her as she ran. Bolts of shadow hissed past her shoulder. A lance of sickly green flame streaked towards her ribs. She deflected what she could with swift, economical flicks of her blade, water trailing from the steel in shimmering lines. The rest struck Len’s barrier. Blue light rippled over her skin, absorbing the impact with a muted hum.
She reached the far flank just as Varris roared from the entrance, stone grinding against stone. The warlocks faltered, their focus splitting between two threats.
That was enough.
Teff and Faelor bombarded the weakening wards from the front, while Varris stormed forward with Len’s support, sheer mass pressing into the enemy. The layered protections shuddered, then collapsed inward with a sharp crack as he weirded his arms like hammers.
Marcela was already moving, plugging into their midst, blade weaving in lethal arcs. Water followed her strikes like silver threads, slicing through cloth, flesh, and conjured hide alike. A demon lunged at her from the side, its elongated jaw snapping. She stepped inside its reach and carved upward, splitting it from hip to shoulder in a single, fluid motion.
Behind the broken ritual circle, the crack in the world widened.
Two clawed hands forced their way through first, talons scraping at the edges of reality. A red-scaled head shoved after them, horns catching briefly on the tear before wrenching free. The demon’s eyes burned with hunger as it snarled, trying to drag its massive frame into the chamber.
Marcela crossed the distance in three strides. The demon saw her at the last second. Its eyes widened, surprise overtaking rage.
Her blade fell.
Steel and water cleaved through neck and spine in one decisive stroke. The demon’s head separated cleanly, thudding to the floor as the body spasmed and collapsed back into the rift. Her blade was already moving toward the two casters, three perfect slashes before she finally went still. The tear shrank with a wail of displaced essence and snapped shut, leaving only a scorched scar in the air.
She waited for movement, her blade poised. Only when silence crept back into the chamber did she sheathe her blade, the quiet hiss of leather soothing to her ears.
Marcela straightened, chest rising and falling. Bodies lay scattered across the stone—warlocks in torn robes, demons dissolving into foul smoke. The ritual circle was shattered beyond repair.
Yet unease tightened in her chest.
The deeper they pushed into the keep, the worse the resistance became. Stronger rituals. More desperate defenders. She wiped her blade clean on a fallen robe and forced her breathing steady.
She had made a promise—to Hump, and to Mav. Taking the stronghold was the army’s objective, but victory would be incomplete if she was unable to bring Mav’s sister home from these halls, along with the many other children that had been taken from Alveron. There was more at stake than simple victory. There was a generation of talent stolen by the warlocks, and she would see it returned.
Her greatest fear was that when defeat was certain, the warlocks would kill them out of spite.
Teff was already moving, scanning the chamber’s perimeter. It appeared to have previously been a barracks—rows of crude beds lined the walls, though many were now splintered and overturned from Varris’s violent entry. Personal effects lay scattered underfoot. Cracked bowls, torn blankets, ritual implements.
More doors lined the far wall. Teff moved from one to the next, listening, checking, testing the handles. At the final door he paused, then shook his head.
“Clear,” he said quietly.
Marcela nodded once. “Then we keep moving.”
They pressed deeper into the keep. It was hard to tell any one part from another. The same old stone and dead essence lingered everywhere. Marcela’s grip tightened on her sword as they turned another corner. The gruelling fighting continued, but bit by bit, they worked their way through the keep, soon finding other similar parties tasked with this role.
As the day wore on, there was a change. A shape rounded the bend ahead at a sprint. Weapons snapped up instantly. Varris stepped forward, stone flowing across his fingers, ready for another fight, when Teff suddenly shouted.
“Wait! One of ours.”
The figure came to a sudden stop, hands raised, a sly grin on his face. “Only me everyone. Let’s all take it easy.”
“Skander,” Marcela said. The rogue that had followed Randall even before the fall of House Ferrand. “What’s the matter?”
“Randall sent me,” he said. “We found children. Alive and well, though a little on the crazy side. He thought you’d want to come see for yourself.”
For a heartbeat, everything stilled.
“Where?” Marcela asked.
“Lower cells. South wing. They were warded. We broke through when the inner ritual collapsed. I’ll show you.”
Skander led them through the keep. Her boots pounded against the stone as she ran, weaving through broken corridors and past the remnants of barricades. Skander kept pace at her side, guiding her with brief gestures whenever the passage split.
They descended a narrow stairwell, the steps slick with moisture. The air shifted again, stale and thin. Marcela felt it in her chest—a tightening she could not quite name. They turned into a final corridor barred by iron grates twisted from within. Two allied soldiers stood guard outside a reinforced door, one nursing a bandaged arm.
“Inside,” Skander said.
Marcela pushed the door open.
“Careful,” one of the guards said. “They’re savage. Look like kids, but they’re just as much warlocks as the rest of them.”
“They’re still kids,” Marcela said.
The chamber appeared to have once been a large storage hall, but it had been converted into some sort of training chamber. Dozens of children filled it, glaring at them with hate-filled eyes. Some sat huddled in corners. Others were right at the front of the group, staring at anyone who came close.
These were not the eyes of children that thought they were being rescued.
“Good luck,” Skander said. “I need to catch up with my party.”
“Thank you, Skander,” Marcela said. “And thank Randall for me too. I owe him for this.”
Marcela stepped inside slowly, lowering her sword.
“I’m here on request of a young boy looking for his sister,” she said, forcing her voice to be steady. “Is there an Amy from Elenvine here?”
For a moment, nothing happened. Empty eyes looked up at her. Suspicion. That same anger.
“You’re all safe now,” she said, softer this time. “The warlocks are defeated. This place is ours.”
A murmur rippled through the room, faint and uncertain.
Then, from near the back, a small hand lifted.
“I’m Amy.”
Marcela’s gaze found her. The girl was slight, hair matted and cut unevenly, but there was strength in her posture. She stood even as the others crouched. There was an emptiness to her eyes, but no anger. Tiredness.
“What’s your brother’s name?” Marcela asked.
“Mav.” The girl swallowed. “Is he okay?”
The name struck Marcela square in the chest.
She couldn’t help it. She grinned. “Better than okay now that I’ve found you.”
Something shifted in the girl’s face. Not quite a smile. Not yet. But the emptiness receded, replaced by something warmer. Hope.