The Haze

“I might have an idea.” He smiled.

Kieran looked utterly dismayed.

“Yup.”

The echo of his own voice barely cleared the hum underfoot. The floor was still vibrating, a slow pulse that crawled up Nathan’s boots and into his bones. The others felt it too—every eye twitching toward the walls, weapons half-raised but with no target to point at.

Wait. If it’s really been an hour, why are they all still here?

Whatever this dungeon was doing, it was close.

Nathan did a slow sweep of the group, trying to make sense of the scene. The tension hadn’t broken. People looked ready to snap, all sharp edges and bad nerves. It felt like walking into a classroom right after someone threw the first punch.

He settled back on Kieran.

The look on Kieran's face shifted into annoyance—or back to anger. “I am not open to hearing your ideas.”

Ah. There’s Commander Death Glare.

“But we may—” Nathan started.

Doss cut in, sharp and frustrated. “He’s back now. We’ve been standing here indecisive for far too long.”

Kieran turned on her, jaw tight. “We’re not moving until I say we move.” His voice cracked like a whip, and for a moment, even the air seemed to obey.

Then he glanced toward the newcomers. His expression hardened further. “And as for you lot—next time you contradict an order, I won’t waste words.”

The men went still, wary but silent. Whatever had them riled up before seemed to drain away. One wasn't meeting Kieran’s eyes. The leader from before. Staring right at Nathan.

Nathan caught the shift. Why me?

Dane crossed the space between them, steady as always, eyes still sweeping the group. “You cut it close, Boss.”

Nathan blinked. “Close? I swear I was only gone five minutes.”

“It’s been nearly an hour,” Dane murmured, scanning the others, his voice low enough to disappear beneath the rumble. “The Field Marshal was—well, extremely irate. He sent a small team ahead with Taron about fifteen minutes after you vanished. They found a split passage, tripped something. A trap, maybe. Whole place started rumbling. They turned back fast.”

Nathan frowned. “A trap?”

“Seems like seismic activity was triggered,” Dane said, his attention flicking between Kieran, Doss, Taron, and the newcomers—all with weapons drawn. “Doss wanted to retreat. Kieran and Taron wanted to push forward. The newcomers started getting pushy about holding this position instead.”

Nathan stared at him. “The new group wanted to stay here? Why?”

“They didn’t exactly say.” Dane’s tone was even, but the implication wasn’t. “But it felt deliberate. Like they were waiting for something.”

“For me?”

Dane nodded once. “That’d be my guess.”

"Why would they do that?"

He met Nathan's eyes. “I have no idea why. But going against Kieran’s order like that—it’s not good.”

Nathan hesitated. “And you? What were you doing?”

Dane’s mouth twitched. “Me? I was waiting for you.”

"Oh."

The rumble deepened.

Dane’s brow furrowed. A flicker—pain? strain?—crossed his face before it vanished.

“What is it?” Nathan asked.

“It seems strange that we haven’t been attacked by monsters and that this tunnel hasn’t sustained greater damage by now.”

"Yeah, that does seem strange."

Bob gave a soft glorp from the pouch, like he’d just voiced agreement.
Nathan patted the lump through the fabric.

Too quiet. Too easy. If the dungeon was alive—and it always was—then what was it waiting for?

Nathan edged back toward the wall. The relic pressed against his palm, weight familiar, solid, as if pointing him toward the seam. It was still there—thin as a held breath, as patient as stone. Seems like the relic still thinks the seam is the right way.

“Draegor!” Kieran warned.

“Just—listen,” Nathan said. “I stepped into a side chamber. Clean. Quiet. No—” He bit off the word. “No… anything. It’s safer than waiting for whatever is happening here.”

“We are not trusting whatever trick or game you have planned,” Kieran said, voice iron.

Nathan grounded himself. “Then let me prove it. One person, a volunteer. See if I can take them through.”

Please, someone volunteer.

Doss’s head tilted the way it did when she found a new species of problem. “Into a wall?”

Says the woman who I swear mentioned something about a dimension earlier. How would they know that word here?

“Not just a wall. There is an opening,” Nathan said.

“So you say,” Taron quipped.

Kieran’s stare didn’t budge. “No.”

Another tremor rolled through—the kind that made teeth chatter. Somewhere, stone groaned like a ship turning in its sleep. Dust sifted down in soft, lazy drifts.

Bob burbled again, uneasy. Nathan instinctively covered the pouch with his hand. Easy. Not yet.

A voice spoke up, young and stubborn. “I’ll go.”

Nathan turned. The Calvesset cloak. The young guy from the beach. His partner looked ready to protest but kept her mouth shut.

Kieran’s glare snapped to him. “You will not.”

“With respect, Field Marshal,” the man said, swallowing, “he saved me. If there’s another route out of here. I’ll test it.”

“Are you going to defy my order as well? We have a lot of insubordination going on today!” Kieran roared.

The echo of his voice didn’t fade—it deepened. The floor answered with a low, hollow boom, then another, like something enormous drawing breath beneath the stone.

The vibration crawled up Nathan’s legs, into his ribs. The air thickened, humming with pressure. He could almost feel the dungeon’s pulse speeding up.

It’s waking up.

Another boom. It wasn’t beneath them this time. It came from behind the wall.

Nathan placed the relic piece back inside the side pocket on his pack.

He turned toward Kieran. “Let me try.”

Kieran’s jaw locked. “No one is stepping into anything. Not again. Especially not when you are endangering another person!”

“Field Marshal, listen—”

“No. We should focus on retreat for now.”

Doss gave a satisfied hmph as if she'd won.

Taron nodded. "We’ve waited too long to risk moving forward just to disable whatever is causing this."

Dane chimed in. "Pardon, but there is no guarantee retreat is viable at this point either."

Thanks, Dane.

Kieran glared at Dane.

The volunteer swallowed and stepped forward again. “I can do it.”

The air went still.

Nathan’s mouth went dry. He wanted to argue, to say I have no idea how this works, but there wasn’t time. The tremors were tightening, the rhythm quickening like a pulse heading for a heart attack.

The volunteer nodded once and looked at Nathan. “What do I do?”

Nathan’s mind blanked. Hell if I know.
He forced a steadier tone. “Just stand in front of me."

Kieran said, more calmly now, “This man,” He glanced toward Nathan. "is not trustworthy. He does not value any life but his own."

Wow. Harsh. Most honest feelings about Mason I've heard from him in a while though.

The man hesitated briefly. "He saved me on the beach. I owe him at least this, and it may help all of us."

Kieran stared for a moment longer. "Okay, if you—"

Another tremor cut him off. The sound came from deeper this time, the kind that turned the stomach—stone shifting against stone, a deep, wet grind.

Nathan met the man’s eyes. “You still sure?”

The man gave a quick, terrified nod.

"What's your name?" Nathan asked trying to calm his own nerves.

"My name? It's Tryvor."

“Right. Tryvor.” Nathan swallowed hard, feeling sweat slip down his spine. “Stay still. I’ll… I’ll try mana first.”

Please, for the love of all that is holy, do not explode him. Focus.

Sweat dripped down Nathan’s forehead. He raised his hand, then switched to just one finger. He pointed at the man. He thought, lift and move, trying to think it as quietly as possible, as if gentler thoughts might make it safer.

Nothing happened.

The man blinked at him, unsure if he should pretend to feel something.

Nathan rolled his shoulders, shook out his hand. Right. Okay. Wrap him in mana. I can do this.

He forced a breath, steadying it. Concentrate. Not too much. Just enough.

If this worked—if he could move someone without stepping through himself—it would mean groups instead of one-by-one. Seconds instead of minutes.

It would mean they might all survive.

He closed his eyes for a breath and reached—carefully, deliberately—for that faint hum under his skin.

Mana answered, sluggish at first, then quickening as it recognized intent. It coiled through his fingertips, a ghost of heat brushing the air between him and Tryvor.

Dust stirred around their boots. The hairs on Nathan’s arms lifted.

He pushed the current forward, shaping it, trying to picture a barrier wrapping the man instead of shoving him.

For everyone else, nothing showed—no glow, no aura—just the breath-snatching sight of Tryvor’s body lifting an inch off the ground. Then, before a single hand could reach for him, the man drifted forward, weightless, straight into the wall—
and vanished.

His mana just snapped. No recoil. No pain. Just… gone.

A few gasps broke the stunned silence.

Doss whispered, almost reverent, “Extraordinary. Barehanded thought-casting.”

Nathan didn’t dare move. His pulse thundered in his ears. Did that—did that actually work?

The hum in the walls deepened, the air thick with that strange, charged vibration.

“I’m just going to check,” he said quickly.

Kieran barked something—too late.

Nathan stepped forward and through the same spot.

It was like passing through a threshold—no light, no pull—just a faint shift in air pressure, the temperature cooler on the other side.

Then he stepped into stillness.

Tryvor stood a few feet away, eyes wide, breathing hard but alive.

Nathan’s knees almost gave out. He laughed once, a disbelieving sound. “Good job. I’ll be right back.”

He turned before Tryvor could respond and reached back toward the seam.

The sound hit first.

Shouting, weapons drawn, dust still hanging in the air. It couldn’t have been more than ten seconds—but the chamber looked worse. Cracks split the floor. The tremors had grown violent.

“Where the hell were you?” Kieran’s voice cut through the noise. “You were gone for minutes!”

Nathan blinked. Minutes? Inside, it hadn’t even been half a breath.

Oh, crap. Time’s still off.

"I'll try a larger group this time!"

A few stepped forward—including the Calvesset woman—most watching him warily even as the ceiling began to groan above them.

“Tryvor’s fine! You all want to stay here?”

The ceiling cracked again, dust raining down.

He got a group of ten.

The ceiling groaned again, stone grinding against stone.

Nathan straightened. Confidence—real or borrowed—rushed in like air after a long dive. “Line up! Single file!” he barked, louder than he meant to.

A few startled looks, but the group obeyed. Armor clanked, boots scuffed, a line forming unevenly behind him.

“Stay close to the person in front of you. Don’t touch the wall. Don’t panic.” He glanced at Kieran, whose expression was caught somewhere between fury and disbelief. “See? Following orders for once.”

Kieran didn’t rise to the bait. “If this kills them, Draegor, you’re next.”

“Then I’ll make it fast,” Nathan shot back, mostly to hide the tremor in his hands.

Bob burbled sharply from the pouch—possibly agreement, possibly protest.

He turned back to the line. Ten faces, all waiting on him. Okay. Focus. Same as before.

He drew in a steadying breath, calling up the hum beneath his skin. The mana gathered faster this time, like it remembered the path. He reached toward the first in line, shaping the current to wrap the group together—an unbroken thread.

The air thickened. Dust lifted. Boots began to slide forward, weightless.

For a moment, it looked effortless—like a single breath exhaled into the seam.

Then the strain hit.

The hum inside him faltered, thinning to threads. His knees wobbled. Sweat pricked at the back of his neck. Too many at once. I’m bleeding mana faster than thought. Maybe because I didn’t directly absorb motes?

He gritted his teeth and kept the current steady, but the edges of his vision began to fuzz.

“C’mon,” he muttered under his breath. “Not now.”

The air grew dense, heavy—like the space around him was thickening. The second man in line glanced back, alarmed.

Nathan turned slightly toward the pouch at his side. “Bob,” he whispered. “I could use a little help here. Just a nudge. Promise I’ll find snacks later.”

A questioning glorp answered him, then a warmer one—like agreement.

The surge came a heartbeat later. His vision flared white at the edges as fresh energy flooded his veins, wild and prickly but effective.

“Good blob,” he rasped, and refocused.

The current strengthened. The weight of mana in the air deepened, pressing against his skin, and the pull through the seam grew steady again.

One by one, the line moved forward and vanished through the wall—clean, silent, effortless.

Nathan held until the last boot disappeared—
and the mana cut on its own again.

He staggered a step back, chest heaving, the world dimming at the edges. The seam still glowed faintly—white and unwavering—like the light itself was waiting.

“They made it,” he rasped. “It worked.”

“How do you know?” someone called.

“Because the same thing happened when I sent Tryvor through,” Nathan said. “And he’s alive.”

Kieran’s voice cut through the tension, low and hard. “Next group!”

Nathan straightened, forcing the fatigue from his tone. “Yes, let’s keep it moving. Another ten!”

The newcomer leader—the same one who’d watched him earlier—met Nathan’s eyes for a beat. His expression was unreadable, but after a moment he turned and started lining people up.

Kieran saw it. “You. Stay back,” he ordered, voice cutting through the noise.

The man stiffened, about to protest, but Kieran didn’t give him the chance. “Commander Taron, you go with that group.”

Taron’s jaw tightened. He gave Kieran a hard look—half questioning, half warning—but nodded and moved to the front of the line.

The leader hesitated, then stepped aside, jaw clenched.

A few others exchanged uncertain glances. Doss’s expression was caught somewhere between scientific awe and horror.

The ground rumbled again, deeper this time, a slow, rolling groan that sent dust trickling down from the ceiling.

We don’t have time for another argument.

This time it went faster. Nathan was steady now, the earlier drain replaced by a sharp, controlled pulse. He gathered the current with precision, wrapping it around the next ten like invisible threads.

“Hold still,” he warned, and the air thickened.

One breath later, the group lifted as one—weightless, caught in the current—and surged forward. Ten figures drifted toward the white, boots brushing the ground only once before they slipped through the light and were gone.

The mana held firm this time—clean, sure, no strain, no flicker. Even the rumble beneath their feet seemed to ease, as if the dungeon were holding its breath.

In less than twenty seconds, the group was gone.

Nathan exhaled, rolling his shoulders, the hum inside him settling. The seam still glowed, bright and patient.

“Next,” he said, voice steady. "Last group."

Doss almost eagerly started the line, then the leader, then Dane, and Kieran last.

He looked at Kieran. "See you in a flash."

Kieran looked away without a word.

Okay, then!

He repeated the process.

Everyone was through. His mana snapped again.

Then the strangest thing happened.

The rumble stopped. The cracks were gone. Even the dust in the air had vanished. The corridor was bright, clear—eerily untouched.

Nathan turned in a slow circle. “What in the fuck…?”

Bob glorped.

No quake. No sound. No movement. Not even the faint buzz that usually lingered after something big. Just clean, perfect stillness.

He swallowed hard. “Illusion?” he murmured, but that didn’t make sense. “Who would’ve—or could’ve—produced an illusion on that scale? And why?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, uneasy. “Weird.”

Then he walked through the seam.

Everyone was there—alive, unharmed. Relief flooded him, loosening the tension in his chest.

He blinked. “Hey, the weirdest thing—”

Dane caught his eye across the group and gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. His expression didn’t change, but the look was clear enough. Don’t.

Does… Dane know?

Nathan’s words dried up. “—uh. Never mind.”

He turned instead, pretending to study the seams.

Kieran followed his gaze. “We can all see them.” His tone was cautious, edged.

Nathan forgot himself for a moment. “You can?” He cleared his throat quickly. “That’s—really interesting. Maybe if you can see them now… everyone can get through on their own?”

Kieran’s eyes narrowed. “Which way?”

Nathan hesitated, then pulled the relic piece from his pack pocket. It pulsed gently in his palm. He thought, Ronan.

Just like before—with Nyx and the stag—a brief flash came: an image of Ronan, vivid and gone again. Crazy.

He turned the relic a little until the pulsing light grew stronger, pointing toward the third seam.

“This way,” he said quietly.

Several of the group shifted. Now that everyone could see the seams, no one seemed eager to test them.

“I’ll go first… again,” Tryvor said, this time with confidence.

“Again?” Nathan almost chuckled. “Well, it worked the first time.”

Tryvor grinned faintly, nerves flickering beneath the surface. “Perhaps luck favors me.”

Nathan exhaled and glanced at him. “I suppose you might just try walking through it.”

“On my own?”

“Yes.”

The man walked forward and vanished through the seam.

Huh. More convenient for me—not having to use mana.

They all waited a moment. Tryvor didn’t return.

“I’ll go check.”

He stepped through the seam. It was getting easier every time—just a doorway now.

Nathan came out of a tree this time. A dense forest stretched around him, shadows tall and layered, the air damp and green.

Tryvor wasn’t there.

“Tryvor?” Nathan called. No response. He tried again, louder.

“Here!” The voice came from farther off. A moment later, Tryvor emerged between the trees, breathless but grinning. “It was taking so long for anyone to come through, and I couldn’t see the seam on this side.”

Nathan turned, studying it. From his angle, it was just as visible as the others. “I see.”

“I went to look around,” Tryvor said, pointing north. “Caught sight of smoke that way. Could be more people.”

“Good job.” Nathan clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll go get the others.”

Nathan slipped back through the seam in the tree.

The people in the vestibule seemed relatively calm—tired, wary, but calm.

“He’s fine,” Nathan said before anyone could ask. “He just couldn’t see the seam on the other side anymore. Forest biome. Dense trees, stable ground. Visibility’s decent once you’re through. I think it’s safe.”

Kieran’s sharp gaze held him a beat longer than he liked. Then he nodded. “Move.”

One by one, the rest of the group stepped through, dissolving into white light. Nathan stayed until the last boot vanished, then followed.

Sunlight sifted through high canopies—gold and green. The ground was soft with moss and fallen leaves, the air thick with a damp sweetness that clung to skin. Birds—or something like them—sang somewhere unseen.

For a moment, Nathan let himself breathe. After the ruin and the tremors—or rather, the illusion of tremors—this almost felt peaceful.

He glanced toward Dane. I’ll ask him later.

They started north.

Kieran was out front, posture rigid; Doss scanning the trees with that unblinking analyst calm; Taron side-eyeing the newcomers as though suspicion itself could be weaponized. Tryvor caught Nathan’s eye and gave a quick, proud nod.

Nathan nodded back. Cute.

The forest wasn’t hostile, just wrong in quiet ways. Roots coiled like veins beneath their boots. Shapes flickered at the edge of vision, there and gone. A faint breeze ghosted through the leaves, but it didn’t move the branches—just made the light bend oddly for a heartbeat before straightening again.

They walked in uneasy silence. Boots, breath, the occasional snap of a branch underfoot. But no webs. No monsters. That was something.

After what felt like an hour, Kieran called a halt.
“Fifteen minutes,” he said. “Hydration check. Stay alert.”

No one argued. People dropped where they stood, weary and quiet. Someone adjusted a pack; someone else took a knee and started cleaning their blade with the automatic precision of habit.

Nathan crouched by a low patch of moss and ran a hand along it. It was cool and slick—almost too alive. Bob burbled softly from the pouch at his side, like a sigh.

“Yeah,” Nathan murmured. “Same.”

For a few breaths, the forest was calm—almost too calm. The light through the trees didn’t shift the way it should. It just hung there, suspended.

He was still staring upward when the hair on his neck prickled.

Someone was watching him.

Nathan straightened slowly, eyes scanning the group. Kieran was talking with Doss near a fallen log. Taron checked the perimeter. Dane stood a few meters off, motionless as ever.

But near the edge of the clearing, half in shadow, one of the newcomers was staring at him—the same man who’d been watching him since the temple.

The soldier’s expression was relaxed. Too relaxed.

When their eyes met, the man smiled—not warmly—and curled a finger at Nathan.

Nathan felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. This is not good. Be Mason.
He adjusted the strap digging into his shoulder, the weight of his pack a steady reminder he still had the relic, and walked to where the man stood.

The man tilted his head toward the trees. “Walk with me, Draegor.”

He’s obviously familiar with me. I’m almost a hundred percent certain now. This man is from Droswain. I suppose I should play along for now—keep the peace.

Kieran’s voice carried from the other side of the clearing, but no one else seemed to notice the exchange.

Nathan forced a crooked grin. “Bit in the middle of a break here. Maybe after—”

“Now.” The word cut through the quiet like a blade.

Something in the man’s tone left no room for argument.

Nathan hesitated, then followed, keeping a careful distance as they slipped between the trees.

They didn’t go far—just far enough that the hum of conversation behind them faded into the rustle of leaves.

The man stopped beside a split trunk, hands resting easily at his sides. He turned, smiling faintly. “About damn time we got alone. You’ve been avoiding me.”

Nathan tried to keep his voice steady. “I’ve been busy keeping everyone alive.”

The man chuckled. “You see—” he looked to the side and laughed—“this whole time you’ve been acting bizarre. Mason Draegor, helping others. You always were too good at pretending. I just can’t find your angle.”

Nathan’s heart thudded once, hard. “Pretending?”

The man stepped closer, close enough for Nathan to see the faint scar running from his jaw to his neck.

“Where is the weapon?” he asked.

Nathan blinked. “Weapon?”

“Yes—the reason we had to come to this damned dungeon in enemy territory.” His voice sharpened, frustration bleeding through. “The weapon. Or relic. Whatever you called it.”

Nathan swallowed. Promises. Bait on a hook large enough to catch a country. Fucking bastard traitor, Mason.

“The one you told our informant to use,” the man continued, tone rising. “You said it would tip a war in our favor. You asked for proof of loyalty. We provided it. Our orders were explicit—secure it before Eryndral does. Use your plan if necessary.”

He smiled then, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll take me to it. You must know how to get there. Walking into invisible openings and all.”

Nathan’s mind stuttered. What do I even say to this guy? I need to stall!

“According to the book,” he said slowly, forcing his voice steady, “yeah, I can get there. Since we all got thrown into random places, it’s been harder to find my bearings is all.”

He barely finished the lie when a sharp whistle split the air.

Two short. One long. Too precise to be chance.

The Droswain leader’s smile widened. “Well, isn’t that fortuitous,” he murmured. “Reinforcements. Did you do that on purpose, Draegor?”

Nathan blinked. “What?”

The man raised two fingers to his lips and whistled back, matching the rhythm perfectly.
The sound carried clean through the daylight hush, threading through the green like a signal the forest already knew.

For a moment, nothing moved. Then the light itself seemed to shift as figures began to emerge between the trees—shadows turning solid, armor and dark cloth catching flashes of sun as they moved with practiced coordination.

Nathan’s pulse kicked hard. “Who are they?”

The man didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the advancing figures, then slid back to Nathan, a slow, sharp smile spreading across his face.

“As if you don’t know,” he said.

Nathan’s throat went dry. Shit.

A branch cracked somewhere behind him. He turned—too late.

Kieran was there.

He stood a few paces back, sword already drawn, expression carved from disbelief and fury. The sunlight turned the edge of his blade pale and cold.

Kieran turned back to him, eyes wide and wild. “YOU!” He pointed his sword at Nathan, the word striking like thunder.

“Field Marshal—” Nathan began, but his voice cracked against the sound of steel clashing somewhere behind them. Screams—short, panicked—rolled through the forest in waves.

Kieran took a step forward, boots grinding into the moss. “You told them about this! You led them right to us!”

“I didn’t—”

“You did! And not only that, you’re the reason for their damned invasion—you traitorous piece of shit!”
The blade slashed through the air, stopping feet away but close enough that Nathan flinched. “I heard you! Every damn word of it!”

Nathan’s thoughts scrambled. He was here the whole time—he heard everything.

The Droswain leader laughed softly, a satisfied, terrible sound. “Seems the commander has questions, Draegor.” He flicked two fingers toward his remaining men. “Assist the others. Clean up what’s left of his people.”

Half the black-cloaked soldiers broke formation, disappearing into the trees toward the screams. The clash of steel grew louder—closer.

Nathan took a step back. “Listen to me—”

“Enough!” Kieran roared, his sword trembling with fury. “I was almost fooled, by you and that spy. But this?” His voice cracked, raw and bitter. “This is who you are!”

Spy?

Nathan could feel it—the fight spreading behind them, the air shaking with mana and steel. His chest ached with helplessness. “If you’d just—”

“Shut up!” Kieran snapped. “You think I’ll fall for it again?"

The Droswain leader took a slow step closer, smirk curling. “He’s not wrong, you know. The Draegor I knew was a master of misdirection.”

Nathan wanted to run, to scream, to make them both stop. “You don’t understand—”

“Oh, I understand plenty,” Kieran said coldly, lowering his blade into a ready stance. "I was hoping I'd have evidence to take you down, make you suffer, show the world. Instead, I am going to kill you. Right here and now."

“Shut up!” Nathan snarled, yanking his sword free. Mana surged before he could think—raw, volatile, climbing his arm and sheathing the blade in a bright, shuddering glow.

He swung. The current burst outward in a jagged arc, slamming into the Droswain leader and hurling him back into a tree. The impact split the bark with a dull crack.

The forest erupted.

Screams tore through the air—closer now, right on top of them. Metal on metal, boots pounding, shouts splintered by pain. Nathan turned, breath caught in his throat.

Through the blur of motion, he saw red.

A Calvesset cloak—Tryvor.

He was locked with one of the black-cloaked Droswains, parrying wild, desperate. Another shape surged from the side, blade flashing twice—clean, fast, efficient.

The steel went through him once. Then again.

Tryvor’s body jerked, the red cloak darkening. He slumped to his knees.

“No!” Nathan’s scream tore out before he realized it. His stomach heaved. Mana surged in his veins, wild and frantic—he raised his sword, ready to strike, to burn, to do something—

—but Kieran was already moving.

The sound of steel came first. Nathan barely caught the glint before Kieran’s blade cut through the air toward him.

“You led them here!” Kieran’s voice broke through the chaos, all fury and betrayal.

Nathan stumbled back, the edge of the strike grazing his sleeve, hot and bright. “Wait—”

Kieran didn’t.

His aura hit like heat—if that’s even what it was—a pressure wave without wind. The air warped around him, trembling, light bending toward the blade as though afraid to touch it. For a heartbeat, the steel burned too bright to look at. Then the glow sharpened, turning mean.

Nathan’s pulse went wild. He’s actually going to kill me

Kieran came on like a storm—relentless, every swing a question Nathan couldn’t answer fast enough. Sparks burst as their blades collided, the light catching on Kieran’s face, all fury and grief.

He barely blocked the next blow, not because he was too slow—because he hesitated. His hands shook, vision tunneling. He could still see Tryvor’s body on the ground, the red soaking through his cloak, the way he’d fallen like the air had been punched out of the world.

No more. I can’t do this.

Kieran’s blade cut close enough to shear a lock of his hair. Nathan’s breath stuttered, chest tight, heart hammering so fast it hurt. He lifted his sword again, instinct screaming defend, but his mind recoiled. He thought about using mana—just for a second—letting it pour through him, bright and burning. But how much is too much? What if it ripped through Kieran?

Kieran’s next strike would have broken through—

—but it never landed.

Steel rang against steel.

Dane stood between them, twin blades crossed, catching the full force of Kieran’s swing. The impact shuddered through the air, the sound sharp enough to sting.

For a single breath, everything stopped. Leaves trembled. Even the chaos behind them seemed to hold its breath.

“This bastard!” Kieran snarled, stepping back, blade still blazing.

Before anyone could move, Taron burst through the undergrowth, sword raised, voice cutting through the tension.
“Field Marshal—multiple casualties!”

Kieran yelled, “Hold them off, Taron! Get any injured out of the fight! I’m not finished here.”
He turned back toward them, eyes flashing.

Nathan’s eyes darted toward the tree—
where the Droswain leader had slammed into the trunk. He was gone.

Dane didn’t look away from Kieran. His voice was steady, stripped of any pretense of subordination.
“Field Marshal. You’re about to make this worse.”

Kieran’s jaw flexed, fury narrowing into something colder, more dangerous. “I knew it,” he hissed. “How long have you been playing me? Since you approached me?”

“That isn’t how it is. You’re about to kill the wrong one, I’m telling you,” Dane said.

“Oh really?” Kieran’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Bullshit,” he spat.

Bob thrashed in the pouch, a frantic vibration against Nathan’s ribs. He pressed a hand over it without thinking, heart pounding, dread curling hot in his throat.

More black cloaks were closing in through the trees, and what remained of their squad stumbled back toward them. Dane slid one blade away and pulled a slim metal stylus from his belt.

A stylus?

He moved fast—faster than Nathan had ever seen. Sigils burned into being with every stroke.
“Burn.”
The first volley erupted toward the oncoming Droswains, fire blossoming into the air and slamming into several of them.

Then Dane pivoted, eyes flicking toward Kieran. “Sorry about this,” he said, grim and even. “You’re too angry to listen right now.”
“Bind.”
Two sigils flashed out—one hit Kieran, another Taron. Both staggered, the light around them sparking like water meeting flame.

“Time to go,” Dane said—a decision, not a suggestion. He caught Nathan’s wrist and yanked.

“Wait—” Nathan choked, stumbling after him.

Behind them, Kieran’s voice split the air. “Draegor! You bastard!”

Nathan looked back just long enough to see Kieran on one knee, face twisted in fury and pain, his sword still burning in the dirt beside him. The sight turned Nathan’s blood to ice.

“Back to that tree. Now!” Dane’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. “The seam.”

They ran—branches clawing at them, dirt sliding underfoot. The forest erupted behind them: shouting, metal, the hiss of spells tearing through the air. One exploded close enough to sear the back of Nathan’s arm.

“Which tree?” Dane barked.

Nathan’s eyes locked on it—the one he’d come through before, bark faintly shimmering. “There!”

More spells hit around them, light cracking the ground into molten glass.

“Here?” Dane demanded, skidding to a stop.

“Yes!” Nathan slammed his hand against the trunk, and part of it vanished through. “This one—”

“Turn,” Dane said, already spinning him so they were facing each other, his hands firm on Nathan’s shoulders.

“For wha—”

“Brace,” Dane said, calm in the middle of the chaos.

“Who are you?”

Dane didn’t answer. He just pushed, tilting them.

The seam swallowed them.

Nathan landed hard on his pack, air burning in his lungs. Dane rolled off him, breathless. They were back in the vestibule.

He lay there a moment, panting, before coming back to his senses.

“You—” he rasped, coughing. “You’re a mage.”

Dane was already on his feet, calm as ever, as if they hadn’t just been running for their lives.

“And what was that back there?” Nathan pushed up, breath ragged. “Spy? Kieran said spy—are you trying to kill me?”

Dane’s eyes slid toward him, cool and certain.

“I could’ve killed you a while back if that was the plan.”

Oh fuck.
He knows I’m not Mason.
How long?

Nathan surged upright, chest puffing like he could still bluff it. “You know I could cut you down right now!”

Bob glorped from the pouch.

Dane looked him over, expression unreadable. “I believe you,” he said evenly.

Nathan’s pulse jumped. “Good. Glad we’re clear.”

Dane stood there—different. The air around him felt heavier somehow, authority without effort. His whole demeanor had changed.

“Would you rather I drag you back to your dear prince?”

Kieran. That face. That bloodlust.
Is there any coming back from this misunderstanding?
No. Not that I can see.

“My—dear what?” Nathan blurted, heat rushing to his face.

Dane laughed once, low and humorless, shaking his head. “That face. Who did you think you were hiding that from?”
He turned, scanning the vestibule, the seams glowing faintly. “Though it did help my case with the prince.”

“What case? You’re not making any sense!”

This asshole. The only one of the mercs Nathan had actually trusted—and now he was a stranger.

“Was everything an act with you?”

“Later.” Dane slung his pack off and dropped it with a thud. “Come on.” He gestured vaguely. “Your leg’s bleeding.”

“What?” Nathan looked down. Blood. He hadn’t even felt it through the adrenaline.

He hesitated, rubbing at the ache in his shoulder. Kieran’s expression flashed in his mind—the fury, the betrayal.

Definitely can’t go back.

“Fine! But keep your distance from me!”

Dane mockingly raised both hands. “As you wish.”

“And you’d better explain everything to me!”

“Yes, Bos—no…” Dane’s mouth curved. “What should I call you?”

“Boss!” Nathan almost shrieked.

“Okay, okay.”

Jerk.

He looked away, chest tight. Poor Tryvor.
I just want to go home.

Mason the traitor. Murder, human trafficking, kidnapping, blackmail, starting wars—every crime pinned to that name.

Exhausting.

“Sit,” Nathan said, pointing with his sword.

Dane didn’t argue. He slipped the pack from his shoulder, crouched, and began pulling supplies with that same infuriating calm—wraps, a small tin, a water canteen. He handed the bandage over. “For the leg.”

Nathan grabbed it, muttering something that wasn’t quite thanks.

By the time he’d finished wrapping it—too tight, just to make a point—Dane had laid out a strip of dried meat and the canteen between them, then sat back with his knees up, spine resting against the cold wall.

Nathan ignored the food. He kept his sword in hand, its point resting against the floor, and leveled a look at him.

“Now start talking,” he said. “Everything. I want to know everything.”

Dane didn’t look up.

“You’re certain?” he asked quietly.
“It’s a long story.”

“Yes,” Nathan said. “Start.”

“Seventeen years ago—”

“Whoa, whoa, too far back!”

“You want my full story or don’t you?” Dane’s tone was flat.

“I start at the beginning or not at all.”

Nathan sighed. Not like they had anywhere else to be—and this was the safest place they could be.
Blood was already seeping through his wrap.

Silence pressed in.

“Fine… let’s hear it.”

Dane sat for a long moment, gathering his thoughts.

“Seventeen years ago was the first time I saw Mason. I didn’t know him then.”

His eyes lifted, meeting Nathan’s.

“I was eight when I watched him murder my entire family.”

Nathan froze.
Fuck.