The Hood's Mask (Part I)

Greylund Village, Northern Eryndral — Seventeen Years Ago

The firelight from the harvest bonfire spilled through the village square, turning every face gold. Fiddles tangled with laughter. The smell of roasted barley, sweet bread, and spiced meat hung thick in the air, and for once no one wore a weapon.

Greylund had been built by men who used to fight and by women who used to wait for them to come home. Tonight they were only farmers, bakers, and millers again. Lanterns hung from fence posts and along the square. Someone rolled out another barrel of cider.

Papa stood at the center table, mug raised high, grinning like a fool.
“To good harvests,” he bellowed, “and to large, healthy families!” He winked at Mama.

The crowd erupted in laughter and claps. “Aye!” several shouted back.

Mama laughed, rocking my baby sister, Myra, gently against her chest.
“Oi! Let this one grow a bit before you start hinting at more, you incorrigible beast! Four’s plenty.”

Laughter spread again. Lorne—my big brother—groaned and covered his face, and Liza—my little sister—squealed with delight. The night felt endless—warm, safe, ordinary.

Then the wind shifted.

A thin line of smoke unfurled over the rooftops, gray against the stars. Mama squinted, about to call to Papa—then a scream split the air. Not laughter. Not a game. The fiddle went silent.

Papa lowered his mug.

“What was that?” someone shouted. “Is something burning?” another asked. Worried voices rippled through the crowd. Then came the sound of horses—dozens of them—thundering. Another scream.

“Lianne!” Papa called. Mama met his gaze. He was already moving toward us.

The third scream came from somewhere nearby. Firelight flared—too bright, too fast.

“Take as many as you can. Get them to the Burrow!”

The Burrow. Every villager knew it—the hidden cave at the base of the forest slope where cool air breathed out of the dark. It was the agreed-upon evacuation spot, though most of the time the children just used it to play in or people waited there out of the rain.

Papa pressed a small knife into Mama’s hand. “Go,” he said, voice low but steady.
“You?” she whispered.
“I’ll follow when I can.” He kissed her forehead. “Children, listen to your mama.”

He was already shouting orders to the men. “Weapons!”

I wanted to call out.

Lorne grabbed my hand as I looked back at Papa’s fading figure.

A group had already gathered around Mama—old women, untrained men, mothers, and children. The weak and the infirm.
“Everyone with me! Toward the trees—hurry now!”

They followed her into the dark without hesitation. Fire cracked behind us, throwing sparks into the wind. Someone shouted that the storehouse was burning.

Mama gripped Liza’s hand in one of hers. The baby was strapped tight to her chest. Lorne and I followed close behind.

We ran for the treeline. My heart pounded. Behind us came shouting—deep, angry voices—and the sound of things breaking. Then the clash of steel.

Branches clawed at my sleeves as we ran. The smoke stung my throat and made my eyes water. I could smell the wool of Mama’s shawl, the sweat on Lorne’s arm, and the sharp tang of burning grain drifting from the square. Her braid swung against her back, a flash of red-gold each time the firelight found it.

“Keep moving!” she called, voice fierce and breathless.

Shapes hurried through the dark ahead—skirts, shoulders, baskets half-dropped. Somewhere a baby cried, and one of the grandmothers wheezed for air. Mama slowed for them; she always did. I wanted to tell her not to, that Papa said to hurry, but the words stuck in my throat.

She stopped and glanced over her shoulder.

“Boys, go on—with them!” She shoved my shoulder, but Lorne didn’t move.

“I stay with you, Mama!” Lorne said, his voice cracking a little.

I nodded, because if he stayed, I stayed too.

Mama swore under her breath—words we weren’t supposed to hear. The baby squirmed against her, letting out a thin, tired cry. Liza clung to her skirt, her little shoes tiptoeing.

She looked down the slope. The trees thinned there. “Then this way,” she said. Her braid brushed Myra’s head as she turned, motioning to the stragglers—the women, the children, the ones who could barely walk—and they followed her without a word.

We moved along the narrower path, the ground soft with moss and fallen leaves. The air was colder here, the kind that bit through my sleeves. Behind us came the crackle of fire and men’s voices, rough and strange, calling words I didn’t know.

The brush thinned; I could see more of the sky. For a heartbeat, I thought maybe we’d lost them.

Then I saw lights through the trees—three, maybe four torches—moving fast.

Lorne shoved me forward. I stumbled into a thorny bush. Small cuts burned across my arms, and I wanted to cry out, but the sound stuck. My heart pounded so hard it hurt my ribs.

Three men stepped out of the trees, torchlight dancing on their faces, and behind them—someone smaller. A boy. He hung back, silent, eyes empty, a knife loose in his hand.

Lorne moved in front of Mama and our sisters, planting himself between them and the men.

The men grinned. One spat.
“Well, look what we’ve got here. Pretty flock, this one.”

Another laughed, eyes dragging over the women. Then he looked over the group, considering.
“Old ones aren’t worth the trouble.”

His blade flashed—quick, precise. The elders dropped where they stood. The children screamed.

Through the leaves, I saw everything.

One of the men stepped toward Mama, his smile wrong, too close.
She didn’t wait. The knife Papa had given her flashed up under his jaw. Blood sprayed the dirt.

The other two froze for half a heartbeat, then roared.
“Stupid bitch!”

“Mama…” I whispered, but no one heard.

The man she’d stabbed fell to his knees, then forward. Liza screamed. The baby wailed, pressed tight to Mama’s chest. She pushed Liza behind her, knife still ready, breathing hard.

Another shape burst from the dark—no warning, no shout—just a flash of steel as a villager slammed into one of the men, blade driving deep.

For a breath, hope returned.

The man staggered, snarled, and swung back, but the villager twisted, ripping his sword free and plunging it through the man’s throat. He crumpled.

The fight was over. For a breath, nothing moved but the fire.

The villager turned, panting, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes landed on the small figure standing among the bodies—the boy, battered and dirty. His face was hollow. A knife dangled loose at his side. He just stared.

“Easy, lad,” the man said, lowering his sword a little. “You’re safe now. Where’s your—”

The boy lifted his hand. An instinct. A sudden, frightened motion to protect himself.

Air folded inward.

The villager froze mid-step. His back arched—one sharp crack like dry wood snapping—and he hit the ground, motionless.

The boy stared at the body. Then at his own hand.

His eyes widened. A sound escaped him—half gasp, half laugh. His chest heaved like he couldn’t understand what he’d done.
“Magic?”

There were screams and crying that seemed to grab the boy’s attention again.

Then something darker slid over him—like shadow spilling through his veins. His breath hitched. His hand lifted again.
“Shall we test?”

Something cold rippled through the clearing. The air warped.

The boy’s shadow pulsed wider. The pressure deepened.

Mama fell first. Then one of the women who’d tried to cover the little ones—her arms still wrapped around them as she hit the ground.

Lorne moved before anyone else could. He threw himself toward Mama, trying to reach her, to stop it—anything.
“Stop!” he shouted, and the word cracked.

The boy’s eyes flicked toward him.

Lorne’s feet left the ground. For a moment, he hung there, back arched, eyes wide—and then he was gone. The sound that followed was sharp and final.

I bit down on my hand to keep from screaming.

One of the other women—a neighbor—had grabbed two children and tried to shield them, pulling them close under her arms. Her face twisted, fighting invisible weight. For a second, she almost held it back. Then she didn’t. The pressure crushed her down, and they went with her.

The baby’s cry rose thin and high, cutting through everything. Mama had fallen on her side; the strap that held Myra had kept her pressed against her chest.
I saw the boy’s head turn toward the sound.

“No,” I whispered.

His hand clenched. The cry stopped.

“I… have magic,” the boy whispered. He sounded delighted—awed, not horrified. Around him lay the still and broken, and he smiled as if he’d found something precious.

I watched, hand over my mouth.

More torches. Voices. They came nearer through the trees.
“Orin?” someone called. “Boslow?”

The boy flinched but didn’t answer.

“HEY!” a voice roared through the trees. “You useless bastard!” The man spotted the boy and strode closer. “Why’d you run off?”

Then they saw the clearing. The bodies.

“The hell happened here?” one muttered. “Some of these look like good stock.”
He nudged Lorne’s body with his boot.

The boy stood very still and didn’t answer.

Another man swore under his breath. “Boss’ll be angry if he finds out.”
“Then let’s not tell him.”
“Right? What about the bodies—our men?”
“Leave ’em.”

The first man stepped in and cuffed the boy hard across the side of the head. “Mute now?”

The boy stumbled, caught himself.

“What a mess,” one said.

“Sorry,” the boy muttered.

“Shut your mouth.”

“We got a lot of ’em. Let’s head back to the village.”

Their torches turned. Voices faded, swallowed by the dark.

I didn’t move for a long time. When I did, my knees gave out. I crawled toward where Mama lay and pressed my face to her dress, sobbing until my throat burned.

When dawn came, the smoke had thinned to a gray mist that smelled of ash and blood.

I stumbled back toward the village. Bodies lay everywhere—people I’d known all my life, now unrecognizable.

Except one. Papa. His body was charred, but I knew it was him. I sank beside him and cried more tears than I thought I had left.

I never learned the boy’s name, but I remembered his face long after.

The memory faded, but its weight never did.

The stillness of the vestibule crept back in.

“I found my father the next morning…” Dane’s voice was distant now, stripped of the memory’s heat. He had never told anyone about it.

Silence settled.

Across from him, the Boss swallowed, looking down at his hands as if expecting blood that wasn’t there.

“I’m sorry, Dane.” He didn’t look up.

Dane studied him for a long moment. “You aren’t the one I want dead.”

The Boss hesitated. “How are you so sure?”

“Later.” Dane rose, shouldering his pack. “We’ll continue once we’re moving.”

“On… the move?”

“Yes.” Dane’s tone left no room for argument. “We can’t stay here long. Time runs faster outside—remember? How’s the wound?”

The Boss blinked. “Huh? Oh. It’s fine. I think the bleeding stopped.”

“Good,” Dane said.

The Boss glanced toward the seam they’d come through. “The relic pointed that way,” he said, voice tight.

Dane raised a brow. “Relic?”

The Boss winced. “Device. I mean—guild artifact.”

“Relax,” Dane said. “I figured it wasn’t a guild artifact.” I've only ever seen those glyphs on Mason’s book.

That seemed to rattle the Boss even more; he exhaled, resigned.

“I believe it means Ronan’s somewhere in that direction. I’m guessing we don’t want to head back for now.”

“Not with Commander Kieran out for your head,” Dane said.

The Boss gulped.

The little creature stirred in its pouch, making a soft noise. A tendril poked the Boss’s wrist.

“Oh. Right—snacks.” He dug through his pack and handed over a bit of food. The creature chirped once, then went still again.

Dane broke the quiet. “Maybe it’s for the best we don’t find Ronan yet.”

The Boss looked over. “Ronan really doesn’t know you’re a spy?”

“No. No one in Mason’s ranks does. If they did, I wouldn't be a very good spy.”

He nodded slowly, eyes unfocused. “So much has happened already.” He pulled the relic out again, watching it pulse faintly. “Next person we find should be Nyx.”

Dane frowned. “Are you sure you trust her?”

The Boss huffed a quiet laugh. “More than I trust you. I don’t even know what to believe anymore.”

Dane didn’t answer. Understandable, but this Boss is too trusting. She could be with the Collegium, too.

The light from the relic in the Boss’s hand stayed steady.

“Can you use that to tell us which way the relic is instead?” Dane asked.

“I can try.” The Boss held it up, went still—quiet. Completely focused.

After a moment, when nothing changed, he rolled his shoulders.

“Relic?” A pause, then, “Weapon?” he whispered. The light didn’t change.
“I think it only works for locating people,” he said at last, looking toward the seam. “Ronan…”

Worrying about others. It still amazed Dane.
“Ronan will manage. He’s strong. The mage woman, then.”

The Boss nodded. “Nyx,” he said after a pause.

The relic didn’t flicker; its glow swelled as the Boss angled it toward the second seam, dimming when he turned away.

He looked back at Dane. “This way.”

Dane adjusted his pack. “Lead on, Boss.”

He heard a murmur from the Boss—too low to make out—and then the man stepped through the seam.

Dane followed.

Cool air closed around him—damp, mineral, faintly metallic.
Fog pooled low to the ground, heavy and slow-moving, curling around roots turned to stone.

“Feels like being underwater,” the Boss said ahead.

Dane kept moving. The air tasted stale, as if it hadn’t shifted in centuries.
“Keep close.”

“You stay in front.”

Dane almost chuckled. “Yes, Boss.”

He took point, pushing through the fog. The creature the Boss carried made a few wet, curious noises.

“Not now, Bob.” Then, quieter, “I think there may be monsters nearby.”

Dane didn’t slow. “Did your creature tell you that?”

“In a way.”

The Boss added, “And just call him Bob.”

“Bob,” Dane repeated flatly.

He shook his head. As horrifying as that little creature was, it did seem to have a protective streak toward the Boss—and it had come in handy during fights.

They walked for a long time. The fog deepened, swallowing sound. Fossilized roots jutted from the ground like ribs, their slick surfaces glimmering faintly where veins of light ran through the stone.

Dane counted his breaths—four in, five out—to keep rhythm in the stillness. The Boss trailed a few steps behind, the relic’s pulse dim and steady in his hand.

Now and then, the creature made a low, uneasy trill. Not warning—just restless.

“I think we’ve avoided whatever he was hungry for,” the Boss murmured. His voice barely carried through the mist.

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Dane said.

The air was cool and wet, metallic on the tongue. Condensation slipped from the ceiling of petrified wood, dripping into shallow pools that caught the wandering light until the ground shimmered faintly beneath them.

They walked until the fog thinned enough to reveal a hollow where the roots arched overhead like a cage.

Dane stopped and scanned the clearing. Mist gathered in shallow dips, curling pale around the stone. No movement. No sound but their breathing.

“We’ll rest here,” he said.

The Boss hesitated, then nodded. He sank beside a gnarled root, setting his pack within arm’s reach. The relic dimmed between them, its glow swallowed by shadow.

Dane stayed standing a moment longer, scanning the fog. Nothing stirred. Finally, he sat—back to stone, a blade across his knees.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Dane gathered his thoughts.

The Boss waited. The fog drifted slow between them, the relic’s light fading to a dull heartbeat.

“It was three days before anyone came by,” Dane said at last.

He hadn’t left his father’s body. He hadn’t had the strength. Hunger blurred the days together; thirst made the world tilt. When help finally came, it wasn’t soldiers or villagers—just a group of adventurers passing through.

One of them, a young mage from the Collegium, took pity on him. She offered water, food, and questions he didn’t answer.
Do you have any family? Anywhere to go?
He said nothing.

Later, he heard her whisper to the others—low, but clear enough to catch.
“That boy has a propensity for magic.”
Another voice answered, “He’s most likely an orphan now.”

They burned what remained of the corpses, offering brief prayers to the dead. When he tugged on the woman’s sleeve and pointed, they followed him back into the woods—to where his family and the others lay crumpled and broken. They built another pyre there, smaller, quieter.

He couldn’t cry anymore; his tear ducts were dry. But as the smoke rose, a hollow peace took hold. The rot would stop here. Nothing else would gnaw at them.
And he made a silent vow: one day, he would find the boy—whose name he still didn’t know.

When the group broke camp, the decision had already been made. He would go with the mage—back to the Collegium.

They reached its sprawling grounds at dusk on the fifth day. The towers rose like the bones of a god—white and silent. Light spilled from high windows in long, sterile ribbons across the courtyard stones.

Inside, everything smelled of ink and old paper. Voices echoed through arched corridors—lectures, recitations, the hum of magic too controlled to feel alive.

He hadn’t understood any of it then. The words meant nothing; the faces all looked the same.
Only later would he learn what the place truly was—a dozen orders sharing one name.

Scholars who argued over ethics and theory.
Healers and alchemists who brewed cures for diseases no one else could name.
Artificers who burned stones until they sang.
And, somewhere below them, behind veiled staircases and unmarked doors—the ones who kept secrets instead of sharing them.

They asked his name for the register.
“Dane.”

It felt strange, hearing his voice aloud again. He hadn’t spoken since the day of the massacre.
The mage who brought him hesitated when he did, then signed her name beside it. After that, she left.

He spent the first months in stillness. Ate when told. Slept when told. Answered to boy or apprentice when called.

The lessons stayed: theory, languages, sigils, swordsmanship. He learned faster than they liked—how to hold mana behind his eyes, how to keep it from leaking when startled or afraid, how to wear calm like a skin.

In time, he began to open up—slowly, but nonetheless.
Others noticed. A boy named Talen shared stolen food with him after curfew. A girl from the eastern wing helped him mend a broken focus crystal. Small things. But for the first time since he arrived, something stirred in the hollow space inside him—purpose, not warmth.

He realized knowledge could be weaponized. Every lecture, every charm, every lesson in restraint was another tool he could one day turn outward.

Years passed. He was always near the top of his classes.

One evening, a man in gray found him in the courtyard. His face was sharp; his eyes sharper. He didn’t introduce himself.
“You hide well,” the man said.

Dane didn’t answer. He already knew who he was—one of the Veiled, the Collegium’s unseen order.

The man smiled faintly. “You’ll do.”

After that, his lessons changed. No one spoke openly about the Veiled. Students trained there learned to walk unseen, to lie convincingly, to erase traces of their casting and intent. They rarely mingled with the others.

Pain was a tutor as much as ink or chalk. Every mistake cost him something—blood, breath, or pride. He learned to shift tone and manner until he could pass through any room unnoticed. To build lies that would outlast truth.

It was easy, in a way. He had already learned how to live hollow.

The year he turned fifteen, the Collegium began assigning field tests—small missions meant to prove discretion and obedience. They were paired in twos, always under quiet supervision, never told who was watching.

His partner was a girl named Verin—older by a year, clever, and almost too calm. Together they handled courier work, surveillance, low-risk retrieval. Nothing heroic. Nothing that would earn a name.

That same year, the Droswain border war broke out. Eryndral lost many in the first months, but by winter word spread of a miraculous counterattack. By spring, the capital was celebrating its victory.

He was there—one of hundreds gathered along the avenue as the soldiers returned. Sunlight struck their armor like fire. Music and banners filled the air. Even he felt it—that current of pride running through the crowd, a strange, borrowed thrill.

Then the noise shifted. Louder. Focused.

Verin nudged him. “They’re saying the High Mage’s here.”

He followed the crowd’s gaze. Riders moved through the archway—officers first, then a group of mages in silver-trimmed cloaks. The cheering rose, deafening.

“The hero of the campaign,” a woman near him said, clutching her child’s hand. “The one who brought down Droswain’s beasts himself.”

Her companion laughed, awe in his voice. “Mason Draegor.”

The name struck like a blade twisting in his chest.

His gaze locked on the man at the front of the column. Taller now. Broader. Scars along his temple. He rode with a practiced ease, face calm—almost smug.

That face.
The boy’s face.
Grown. Fed. Praised.

Fury welled up so fast he couldn’t breathe.

He reached for his stylus. His hands shook as he drew the first lines—instinct, spellform, reflex. He wanted Mason to look at him. To know.

“Dane,” Verin hissed, grabbing his wrist. “What are you doing? You’ll get us killed!”

“He’s right there,” he said, low enough that no one else could hear.

“Stop. Orders are clear—no exposure, no interference. You break them, they’ll erase you.”

Her grip was iron. Around them, the crowd roared Mason Draegor’s name. He could barely hear himself think.

Mason smiled and raised his hand to the people—to the cheers, to everything he didn’t deserve.

Dane lowered his stylus, pulse still hammering, and forced the anger down.

That day he learned patience could be another kind of weapon.

Later, behind the closed doors of his master’s study, Tareth watched him for a long while before speaking.

Finally, he said, “You saw someone in that parade. Almost let your emotion overtake you—I heard about that. I wouldn’t expect it from one so disciplined.”

“Yes. I nearly lost it, Master.”

“Was that person… Mason Draegor?” His words were careful, testing.

The anger tightened again. Dane forced it down. “Yes.”

The man steepled his fingers, eyes narrowing. “We’ve had our eye on him for some time. A difficult individual. We’ll need someone highly specialized to infiltrate.” He said it as if it were already decided. “Many sectors watch his movements. Their eyes don’t last long. The few who return—come back wrong.”

Dane stiffened. “I’d like that opportunity.”

His master’s smile was small and unreadable. He rested a hand on Dane’s shoulder, brief and formal. “Then you’ll need different lessons. Training in infiltration of this caliber will ask more than skill. It will ask what you are willing to become.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Dane said.

His master did not refuse.

The next six years were nothing but that: training, disguise, control. He learned to suppress his mana until even the Collegium’s detection wards couldn’t find it—to breathe like a civilian, move like a mercenary, think like someone who didn’t know the rules.

He was told to build a history. So he joined bands across Eryndral—scavengers, sellswords, bounty groups. Never long enough to draw suspicion, never clean enough to be harmless. He learned to lie in ten accents and to drink with men he should have killed.

When work got dirty, he let it. But he didn’t kill unless he had to. The others mistook it for restraint; in truth, it was calculation.

Whenever he stumbled across trafficking routes or slavers, he sent word to his main handler, Groth, through coded ledgers. The Collegium cleaned up quietly. No one ever traced it back.

Years passed like that—fighting, learning, vanishing—until he’d built enough of a reputation to be noticed. Not famous, just steady. Reliable. Dangerous enough to matter, forgettable enough to live.

That was the man Mason Draegor’s recruiters eventually found.

Before they sent him in, Groth gave one final order.

“Do not kill. Observe. Record. Report.”

His blood boiled. Six years of preparation—six years breathing through lies, swallowing rage, learning to look harmless—and now they told him not to act.

“Remember,” Groth said, “he’ll put some kind of control on you. Let him. It gets you in.”

He hesitated, jaw tight, but he would obey.

For now.

When the call finally came, he was ready.

He sat near the back, silent, the wood creaking beneath their weight as the wagon trundled toward Draegor’s camp. He knew what waited—initiation, blood, obedience tested to the edge of death. The reports had been clear: men forced to fight one another until only the strongest—or the most broken—remained.

Mason’s fortress loomed ahead, black banners rippling in the wind.

Among the recruits, one man stood out—a mountain of muscle with calm eyes and a soldier’s bearing. Dane knew his face from surveillance sketches: Ronan. Little history. Promising rank. A valuable addition to Draegor’s inner circle. He filed the observation away, emotionless.

They herded the recruits to the training grounds before dawn. The air reeked of blood and hot metal. Mason watched from a raised platform, hands clasped behind his back, a faint smile ghosting his lips. He was enjoying the barbarity.

It took everything in Dane not to cut him down right then and there.

When the fighting began, he didn’t join the frenzy. He watched, waited, adapted. Those who faltered were struck down—not by the recruits, but by Draegor’s men. The lesson was clear: survival was obedience.

Until he had to participate. It was bloody. He was merciless. He was chosen.

Hours passed. Then Mason descended.

His boots crunched through the sand as he walked among the bodies. “You want to serve me?” he asked softly. His voice carried—quiet, patient, terrible. “Then bleed for it.”

He moved from one man to the next, blade in hand, collecting blood from the wounds of those still standing. A drop from each palm caught in a glass vial that shimmered with runes. When he reached Dane, their eyes met—the same eyes from Greylund, the same shape of cruelty.

Dane bowed his head. The cut burned like frost.

The ritual that followed was silent but suffocating. Runes flared along the ground, pale as bone-fire. The air thickened. One by one, the men bent under invisible weight. Mason’s words coiled through the air like chains.

Obey. Serve. Remember who owns your blood.

Pain flared through Dane’s veins—bright, burning, alive. It was the spellweb’s root, the first tether. He felt it settle deep, curling around his mana like a noose.

He remembered Groth’s warning. Let him. It gets you in.

He forced his breathing steady as the others gasped and fell to their knees. Some screamed. Ronan and the rest of Mason’s men watched without emotion.

When it ended, Mason smiled faintly and turned away. “Get them into the barracks.”

The chains tightening were the price of entry.

The binding took root fast. Thought dulled to instinct; orders slipped in like breath. He ate, slept, fought—when told. No spellwork. No casting. He never dared. The training that once taught him control now became his only shield.

But somewhere deep beneath the commands—beneath the obedience—he still felt it: a thread that didn’t pull.

He had some resistance.

For the next two and a half years, he lived inside the fog of obedience.

He relied on steel instead of mana. The twin blades Mason’s quartermaster issued him became extensions of his hands, habits carved into muscle. He learned to move without thinking, to kill when the web pulled at his nerves, to stop only when it allowed.

He was aware and not aware—sometimes lost to blackouts. Corridors. Training. Missions. Executions.

No one understood why the compulsion never weakened. The Collegium had warned that bindings could fade with distance or time, but this one didn’t. The manor itself fed it—an endless current of energy woven into the stone.

On rare missions away from the manor, his thoughts were clearer—as long as Mason wasn’t there.

He had his proof now—the bindings, the experiments, the compulsion—the truth of Mason Draegor’s control.

Two and a half years vanished like smoke. Then the world cracked open. Finally, someone from the Collegium had found a way to give him more of his reason back.

The fog lifted. The compulsion remained, coiled tight, but it wasn’t absolute. Something deeper inside the manor was keeping it alive.

And he had no idea how to kill it yet.

Once he regained some control—some free will—the reports began again.

He re-established contact with the Collegium, sending word through hidden channels—brief, coded, and sparse. His orders hadn’t changed. No interference. Do not kill Draegor.

It seemed unacceptable.

Months passed. Mason acquired the book—old leather, etched in glyphs that pulsed faintly even through the cloth he wrapped it in. Dane had seen artifacts before, but nothing like that. He couldn’t read the script, yet he could feel the wrongness of it—a rhythm under the skin, alive and watching. Whatever power it held, it wasn’t meant for mortal hands. And in Mason’s, it would end more than wars.

So he made a choice the Collegium hadn’t sanctioned.

He sought another ally—someone who had reason enough to hate Mason, and the means to act on it.

There were many who despised the man, but only one whose hatred carried weight—dating back nearly ten years, to the border war.
Prince Kieran of Eryndral. Commander of the Guild. A man of principle—unbent, unbought, and clean in a world that rarely rewarded either.

He watched him for a month, studying his routes, his men, his moments alone between councils. He waited for the right window—one evening at the eastern ramparts, when the Commander dismissed his retinue and lingered by the wall—

A low, wet trill cut through Dane’s words and memories. He stilled, listening as the sound echoed faintly through the mist. The memory dissolved; the present pressed in again—cold air, dim light, the smell of stone and mineral.

Bob stirred inside the Boss’s pouch, restless. The Boss jolted upright. “Monsters.”

The fog ahead rippled.

Shapes stirred in the mist, slow and deliberate.

Dane dropped into a half-crouch, both blades drawn. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and rot—the kind that came from something alive beneath the soil.

The ground itself shifted. Vines slid over the petrified roots, dragging long tendrils tipped with fleshy bulbs that opened and closed like mouths. Each movement left behind faint trails of blue-green light, phosphorescent and wrong.

Plant monsters. Not wild growth—hunters.

The Boss’s voice was quiet beside him. “Mana types?”

“Yes,” Dane murmured. “Several.”

The bulbs pulsed faintly, each one glowing in a different hue—some pale green, some the deep violet of Grime-touched mana. Threads of light ran through the fog like veins, feeding on something buried under the stone.

One root twitched. Another lurched forward, snapping toward them with a wet crack.

The Boss didn’t flinch. He calmly withdrew his sword, shifting his stance as he opened the pouch. “Go, Bob.”

The first vine lunged—the creature met it mid-flight, biting into the vine, tendrils wrapping around the pod’s rim with a wet smack.

It started to deflate.

A second vine lashed from the side. Dane’s blade cut through it cleanly, sap spraying across the stones. It hissed where it landed, burning faint holes into the moss.

More came.

The Boss’s sword hummed faintly—the sound low and metallic, like air vibrating against a spellform. When he swung, light rippled through the steel. The strikes hit without speech, without sigils—silent magic that burned through the vines on contact.

The fog churned. Shapes writhed, half-seen through the blue mist. Bob darted between them, impossibly fast, devouring the mana that bound the roots to life. One by one, the lights flickered out.

Then silence returned—thick and heavy. Only the drip of condensation remained.

The Boss exhaled softly and crouched, eyes scanning the dark. “That’s enough.”

Bob slithered through the fog, glowing brighter. That was how Dane could track him.

Dane wiped his blade clean on a fragment of moss, eyes narrowing. The air around them still hummed faintly—the mana not fading but gathering again, renewing itself. Something deeper was feeding this place.

He didn’t like that.

Bob went rigid, tendrils lifting slightly. It had sensed something he hadn’t.

“Boss,” Dane warned.

Another vine lunged from the fog.

Bob split the haze, tendrils latching onto the vine’s pod and biting deep. It deflated with a hiss, glowing blue-green as Bob drank the mana from it. The surrounding light dimmed almost instantly.

More vines followed. Dane spun through them, blades flickering silver through the mist. The air filled with the hiss of sap. The Boss cut down more, his strikes quick and silent.

Bob fed greedily, darting between roots and pods, its body pulsing brighter with each meal. The fog thinned around it as if consumed.

When Bob finally drifted back, the Boss caught it one-handed and guided it toward the pouch. A small smile touched his mouth. “Feeling full now?”

Bob gurgled in response, faintly smug.

Only then did Dane ease his stance. “Your crea—Bob is… feeding, correct?”

“I’d say more like refueling,” the Boss said with a small smile. “And apparently enjoying it.”

Dane watched, wary. He’d thought this before—it really was draining the monsters of mana. How bizarre.

Bob burbled again, pleased.

The Boss’s shoulders loosened. “Well,” he said, exhaling, “that woke me up.”

He turned toward Dane. “You’re more comfortable using the swords than your stylus.”

Dane paused, then wiped his blades with a cloth from his pack. “I suppose it’s become second nature. I do like them—but I’ll start using my stylus again. Let’s move before more come. Talk while we walk.”

The Boss checked the relic’s pulse—its glow steady, stronger toward the east.
“We’re still headed the right way, apparently.”

They started forward, fog curling around their legs as they followed the faint pull of the relic’s light.

“So,” the Boss said, glancing over, “you got to Kieran?”

Dane’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Ah, yes. It wasn’t easy. I couldn’t divulge much—only enough to make him curious.”

“You appealed to his grudge,” the Boss guessed.

“In part.” Dane’s voice stayed low, deliberate. “I told him I was eyes inside and that I’d been wronged. I also warned that Mason would soon press the Guild Council about a ritual—if Kieran wanted revenge, he’d need to listen.”

“Did he?”

“Eventually,” Dane said, expression unreadable. “But not before he tried to kill me.” He let the words hang.

The Boss snorted. “I bet he did.”

The fog swallowed the rest of the path ahead, and they kept walking into it.

“He did contact me,” Dane said, clipped. “But I couldn’t get proper word through before we set off. His and Taron’s men were already en route to the dungeon where Mason planned to hold the ritual. And so were we.”

Dane adjusted his grip on the nearest root, scanning the fog as they walked. “I didn’t expect to be kept out,” he said. “I thought I’d be able to help, but Mason ordered us to stay back. So we waited.”

He paused, eyes narrowing. “After hours with no word, Ronan, Dru, Grigor, and I went to find the chamber. We ran into you in the corridor.”

Dane’s gaze flicked toward him through the mist. “Immediately, we all sensed something was off. You seemed—” He hesitated. “—bewildered.”

“At first, I thought maybe the ritual had worked,” the Boss said quietly. “That you were suffering a side effect and would snap back. But I realized I couldn’t sense any mana from you either.”

The Boss gave a hard, tight shake of his head.

“Then we ran into those goblins, the orc…and you used your sword with no augment.” The memory roughened his voice.

Dane stopped and turned. “Be honest— you really had no mana at the time, correct?”

The Boss said nothing.

Dane waited a beat, then let a faint, humorless smile cross his face. “Thought so.”

He turned back toward the path.

“Whatever happened in that chamber,” Dane said low, “it changed something. I just didn’t know what yet—and I’m still not entirely sure.” He kept his eyes forward. “As we continued deeper into the dungeon, you just kept acting stranger and stranger.”

The fog began to thin; pale light broke through in uneven streaks. Behind him, the steady rhythm of the Boss’s footsteps followed—measured, human, out of sync with the man he used to be.

Dane didn’t look back. He kept walking. I’ll get you to spill it. It’ll be undeniable once I lay everything out. Somehow I’m going to get the real Mason Draegor back. I will make him suffer.

The Boss stopped.

“What is it?”

“Another seam.”

“Just one? Is your friend through there?”

The Boss’s relic glowed brighter as he tilted it toward a large petrified tree. “Possibly. We still haven’t confirmed what this thing is actually taking us to.”

“True.” Dane shifted his stance slightly. “Shall we try it?”