The Oak Door

“We’re so fucked.”

He felt spread too thin. Need to pull Kieran to me.

“What can I do?” he shouted to no one.

An idea sparked.
Mana wrap. Like the spire.

“Bob, I need a mana hit!”

A tendril tip shot out, and mana flooded in.

“That’s enough!”

Bob rumbled, shrinking another foot.

Mana shot down through Nathan’s boots, enveloping Bob’s legs and feet like a shield. The pull hit the instant it settled—sharp, hungry. The specters below meant to drain him dry first, then finish off Bob.

He gritted his teeth. Can’t hold for long.

Bob’s movements steadied, his glow evening out.

“Keep fighting, Bob! Hit the specters—your feet! Down below!”

Bob rumbled and started swatting more furiously, with more intent.

The net was retracting. Too slowly.

Nathan looked back at Dane.
He wasn’t beating on the construct wall anymore; he was on the floor. His body convulsed violently, sweat dripping down his pale face. Their eyes met—not glassy this time. Focused. Almost lucid.

“Boss… hit—”

Nathan tilted his head, legs threatening to buckle. “Hit? Hit what?”

“Me.”

Break it? Shock him out of it?

His eyes glazed over again. The fight vanished from his face, replaced by that empty stillness. Then he stood, striking at the construct wall again.

Hit. Me. Oh.

Nathan lowered the section of wall between them.

Dane leapt out, toward Bob.

Rope.

The pen construct snapped apart and reformed, reshaping itself into a thick rope of mana.

Restrain.

It caught Dane just as he tried to climb Bob again, coiling around his upper body and arms. Nathan pulled him free.

He reeled the rope in, and the instant Dane was within reach, Nathan drove his fist into the man’s temple. Dane went limp. Nathan pulled him in with the rope and let the construct set him across Bob’s shoulder, hoping the steadier movement would keep him from sliding off.

Nathan dropped the last remnants of the pen construct, letting the mana rush back into him.

Ahead, the net construct hovered, packed with bodies. With the pen’s mana flowing back into his wrap, Nathan hauled it in faster. The strain did not ease with distance; it eased only when the returning mana hit him, each pull giving him a moment of relief before the siphon below took hold again.

He snatched his sword from Bob’s shoulder. The weight steadied him.

“C'mon.”

Bob tore through anything that moved. The air churned with the crush of battle. Roaring beasts, chittering things, the scattered chanting of hungry, and the specters driving everything forward while doing the most damage.

Nathan hurled a few more explosions into the mass, then forced himself to focus solely on pulling the net in.

He could make out Kieran’s shape now. His mouth moving.

He’s saying something.

The net jerked forward one last time and slammed into place in front of him.

Kieran’s storm-gray eyes locked on him—angry, blazing.

“Draegor! Why would you bring us here? Using us as fodder?!”

He was seething.

Nathan blinked. For real? You ungrateful shit.

“I… didn’t have much time to think about it. Is it that important right now?” He waved his hand around at the nightmare shifting beneath them. “Did you want to be left on the ground for the monsters?”

Kieran was smooshed up against the edge of the net, people piled on top of each other, arms and legs sticking out of the bucket-scoop shape Nathan had hauled across the basin.

Taron managed to wriggle up enough to breathe. “Let us out!”

I don’t even think I should. His mana was still being siphoned. Bob had cleared a lot of the specters away, but more kept joining; some were even halfway up Bob now.

I need them.

Kieran was still shouting obscenities.

“I want us all to live!”

Kieran stopped mid-tirade and stared.

“Please.”

For a breath, Kieran froze—eyes widening at the word.

“Please, help me.”

Then his expression snapped back into rage, narrower, sharper.

“Selfish! Always selfish!”

Taron yelled from somewhere in the pile, “Field Marshal, let’s just see if he has a plan!”

Plan? Me?

“Let us out of this thing!” Kieran shouted.

“Promise you aren’t going to try and kill me?”

Taron croaked, “He promises!”

Not reassuring.

Field Marshal? Not like he had a choice but to trust the man valued his soldiers’ lives.

Kieran looked furious. “DAMN!” he finally exploded. “I will take you down after we survive this! Mark my words, Draegor!”

Nathan swallowed. If we make it out of this.

“I’m going to construct a tower! You are going to help me get the things off Bob’s body. They’re draining him, and me, but let's worry about him first.”

“Tower?” Kieran barked. “Construct?”

“Any mages?” Nathan yelled.

A few ayes answered from the pile.

“Okay. Hold on.”

He closed his eyes.
Tower. Picture a tower. It has to fit around Bob’s trapped foot. Encase him. Stop the drain. Protect what’s left.

He exhaled and extended his wrap—pulling it off Bob’s legs and feet completely. The protection vanished. The drain slammed back into Bob in an instant.

A circular construct rose.

Interior steps formed, spiraling up the inside, each just wide enough for a fighter to stand on. Soft blue light pulsed along the walls in steady breaths, illuminating narrow slots where blades, spells, and augments could strike through.

“Bob! Stop swiping for a second—focus on the ones further out! We’ll handle the rest!”

Bob rumbled, frustrated but obedient, his massive form shuddering. His trapped foot dangled through the broken earth—held fast—surrounded by a writhing knot of specters already tearing into him again.

Nathan sent his wrap plunging after it.

It speared through the loose soil, found the solid strata beneath, and anchored. Mana braced against the pressure. With a sharp exhale, he curved the construct under Bob’s foot, lifting the weight just enough to give Bob leverage—just enough to stop him sinking deeper.

The strain hit like a spike behind his eyes, but the foundation held.

He shaped the forming wall tight around Bob’s lower half, sealing off the worst of the siphon—wide enough not to crush him, narrow enough that he didn’t waste a shred of mana.

Bob wasn’t going anywhere until this was over.

Someone in the net gasped. “What is he—”

Nathan drew a ragged breath and forced the construct to keep rising.

Rounded edges sharpened into the unmistakable outline of a chess rook.

The rook climbed higher, its sides sealing off the monsters below. The openings remained—kill zones more than windows. Any creature that climbed would have to shove its face straight into incoming fire. A fortress ring locking into place, made for containment and survival.

Low enough for Bob’s tendrils to lash the field. High enough to give them a chance.

The strain hit him like a punch. The specters tightened their pull on his wrap. His breath stuttered, but he forced more mana into the base until it held.

Almost. Just a little more.

Bob shifted, forcing Nathan to rebalance. More specters clung to the glow around Bob’s legs, draining directly from Bob now, not the wrap.

Finally the last segment locked into place. The construct stood complete—a rook-tower outpost crowned with ridges.

Nathan exhaled once, a shaky, burning breath.

He flattened the net in one motion—its weave hardening into a wide platform—and extended a bridge to the rook’s outer ledge.

“First,” Nathan rasped. “Mages—on the tower rim!”

No one moved.

“Now! Cross the bridge!”

He turned to Kieran.

“I’m sending you down there.”

“Sending us? Where?”

The remaining six men stood on the platform, waiting.

“Down,” Nathan said. “Kill the things draining Bob and me—and any monsters that got swept inside. He’s our main weapon.”

“Bob is this—” Kieran pointed. “Creature? He was smaller.”

“Yes and yes.”

The Field Marshal studied him for a long moment. Nathan could feel the sweat matting his hair, dripping down his face, every breath a rasp.

“Fine,” Kieran said. “But when this is over, you and I—”

“I know already. Death, vengeance, doom, whatever.” Nathan raised his voice. “Lowering you now. Brace!”

“To what—”

The platform jolted downward, then steadied as it dropped toward the rook’s interior spiral steps.
All of their blades flared, bright burning augments igniting along the steel.

Nathan blinked.
Right. Augments. Mana.
The worst possible thing against specters.
Not only could it feed them—mana would be ineffective anyway.

“Field Marshal!” he bellowed before panic could finish forming.

Kieran’s head snapped up.

“The ones in black!” Nathan yelled over the roar. “No augments. Cut them clean. Mana won’t hit them—it only makes them stronger.”

Understanding flashed across Kieran’s face.
He barked the command, and the blades went dark in an instant.

As the platform descended to the right height, the men leapt off one by one, landing on the spiral steps that wrapped around Bob’s massive leg. From there, they hacked downward, cutting through specters clinging to his flesh in sharp, efficient arcs—clean steel, no augments.

“Finish them!” Kieran roared, his voice echoing up through the tower.

Nathan retracted the platform into himself the instant the last man jumped.

Good. That’s working.

“Taron, keep your flank tight! Anything that climbs gets buried!”

“Aye!” came the shout back, half-swallowed by the chaos.

The rook trembled as Bob shifted, another cluster of monsters clawing up his leg. Nathan grit his teeth and braced both hands on the parapet.

“Keep the outer line clear! I’ll handle the drain!”

He turned to the upper ring. “Mages, on my mark—hold your fire until I say! Just hold!”

The sigils that had begun to bloom above their heads flickered uncertainly and froze midair. The battlefield went eerily still—just Bob’s thunderous breathing and the distant hiss of specters reforming.

Nathan pointed his sword outward. “Bob! Sweep—everything on the ground around the tower, now!”

Bob answered with a roar that shook the basin. Tendrils lashed out, smashing through the nearest monsters like a giant sledgehammer, carving massive arcs through dust and bone-white grit. Each impact sent shockwaves across the cracked earth beneath the blood sky.

“Again!” Nathan bellowed.

Bob obeyed—another sweeping arc smashing through the nearest monster stacks before they could rise high enough to reach the rim.

“Keep the stacks down!” Nathan shouted. “If anything reaches the top—cut them before they climb!”

Inside the tower, steel rang against bone. Kieran’s squad fought their way down the spiral steps, clearing specters and beasts that had been swept inside when the rook formed.

Outside, the monsters continued to build towers of bodies. Some were already starting to scrape the rim.

Not happening.

Nathan stepped onto the battlement, boots hitting the stone with a thud. The instant he made contact, heat surged up his legs—the physical fire ignition point.

Good.

He raised his sword and slammed the blade down onto the crenellation.

A blast of orange fire rippled outward along the tower’s edge, racing across the battlements in a wide arc. Anything clinging near the top ignited where it hung, shrieking as it fell away.

“Focus on the big ones!” Nathan shouted. “Hit the monsters—leave the black ones for me!”

Bob rumbled below as another shockwave of dust and bone erupted from his tendrils, collapsing three rising stacks at once.

Nathan moved along the rim, mana from his sword striking through the horde again—another geyser of real fire ripping outward. Bodies fell in burning sheets.

“Hit the slots—knock anything loose near the base!” he shouted over the roar.

Inside, Kieran’s voice echoed: “Strike them down! Don’t let even one stay attached!”

Nathan didn’t look down.
Every second counted. The drain eased here and there—enough to breathe, but nowhere near enough to survive for too long.

Nathan slashed another arc of fire down the rim, boots anchored to the construct.
“Hold,” he muttered to the tower, to Bob, to himself.

Bob shifted, tendrils dragging in slow, exhausted sweeps—like a creature fighting through deep water. The rook groaned with him, blue light pulsing in uneven rhythm.

Then the ground began to hum.

A low vibration rolled across the basin floor—slow, resonant, wrong. Nathan’s head snapped toward the far ridge. Beyond the rook’s outer wall, dust spiraled upward in a tight column.

Not again.

The pale ground cracked, fissures crawling outward like veins. The remaining specters scattered, drawn toward the disturbance.

Something massive was pushing up through a ruin beyond the tower.

Nathan’s jaw clenched. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He steadied himself on the rim and shoved the last scraps of focus into the tower’s base. The rook shivered, but held.

The red sky darkened to rust. Shadows shifted where they shouldn’t.
The shape kept rising—huge, jointed, the outline fundamentally wrong.

What now? C’mon universe. Cut me some slack already.

Nathan barked a hoarse, cracked laugh, planting his feet and raising his sword.

“Anytime now would be great.”

A voice rolled through the dust—deep, layered, like stone grinding bone.
“We will drain you and your pet, human.”

Nathan exhaled, half-laugh, half-curse.
“Fucking great, it's talking again.”

Earlier, Commander Kell's group heading north...

Kieran gave the order.
Kell’s brows rose. Ronan shifted his grip on his spear. The mercenaries—including Ronan—seemed unusually subdued. Greta stepped forward to take point.

Nyx didn’t move.

A prickling sensation crawled along the back of her neck—like someone dragging a cold fingernail down her spine. That mana again. Thick. Unpleasant. Sour. Coming from the west.

She glanced that way, toward the trees Rhea had indicated.

Should she say something?
The Field Marshal wasn’t an idiot—he’d feel it soon enough, right? And if she opened her mouth, Doss might notice the stag.

She tightened her grip on her stylus.

Let’s just move.

Kieran’s group began to shift into formation. Kell barked his first marching command. Nyx still hadn’t stepped away.

Sera brushed past her, lowering her voice. “Are you alright?”

“I'm not sure,” Nyx muttered. Then, quieter: “Something feels off.”

Sera's expression flickered—agreement, not surprise—and she gave a single short nod. "Let's stay vigilant."

Nyx exhaled sharply through her nose as they followed Kell.

Good. Away from Doss. And away from whatever that overpowering mana is in the direction the Field Marshal is headed.

She fell into step beside Ronan.

He usually walked like a statue trying not to offend the earth, but today his movements were tighter. More controlled. His jaw was set in a way she didn’t like.

“Brute.” She nudged him with her elbow. “You okay?”

A long exhale. “Fine.”

Liar. A very polite, stoic liar.

“You’ve been strange since earlier,” she said.

His brows ticked up once. “Fine.”

That didn’t make her feel better. It was the same answer she’d had three times already.

The twenty Draegor mercenaries behind them marched in eerie quiet. Too quiet.
Their usual off-color jokes and petty bickering were gone—replaced by a strange, flat discipline. Ronan’s gait matched theirs.

Nyx frowned. Something about all of them felt… pulled inward. Dimmed. Eyes forward, shoulders tight, as if listening to a voice no one else could hear.

Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe it was the Nightmare Realm biome wearing on everyone.
Maybe it was—

The back of her neck prickled again.

She glanced west over her shoulder.

Still that mana.
Still wrong.

Her stomach knotted as the column pushed through brush, boots crunching brittle leaves.

They hadn’t gone far. Not even halfway to the descent point when all twenty mercs stopped in their tracks.

The shift was instant.
Twenty men freezing mid-step—mid-breath—mid-movement. Ronan too. His shoulders locked.

Nyx halted so fast her heel skidded in loose dirt.

“…Ronan?”

No answer. His eyes had glazed over.

Every merc wore the same expression.
None of them looked around.
None flinched.
They just stood there, chests rising in the same slow rhythm—too slow, too even.

A cold ripple crawled up Nyx’s spine.

Kell spun. “Report!”

Nothing.

Not a flinch. Not a twitch.

Sera moved first.

She stepped toward the nearest mercenary and waved a hand in front of his face. No reaction. Not even the flicker of recognition.

“They’re not unconscious,” she murmured. “Holding tension. Like… braced.”

Ronan’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword—slow, deliberate, mechanical.

Nyx’s throat went dry. “Ronan.” She stepped directly into his line of sight. “Hey. Hey—look at me.”

His eyes didn’t track.
Didn’t widen.
Didn’t narrow.

Just stared through her, unfocused and hollow.

The prickling on her neck sharpened into a hot, needling pulse.

That mana.
The same direction.
Stronger.

Too close.

Kell’s grip tightened on his blade. “Sera. With me. Nyx—stay back.”

Nyx didn’t move.

“I think… this is mind control.” Her voice felt thin. “But it can’t be.”
Because that would mean the real Mason Draegor would have to be near.
Impossible.

Nathan.
What happened to Nathan?

She turned toward the direction of that strange, overpowering mana—

Ronan’s hand shot out and clamped around her wrist.

Not rough.
Not frantic.
Just precise.

Nyx gasped, heart lurching.

Ronan blinked once—slow, like someone finishing a long recalibration—and when he finally spoke, the voice was undeniably his.
His cadence.
His tone.
His calm.

But the words were wrong.

“Grab them all,” he said. “We take them to Boss.”

“Yeah—Boss needs them,” one merc sneered, voice flat and hollow.

Another lifted his blade. “Kill if they resist.”

Weapons rose in a ring of cold metal. Augments flared.

Nyx didn’t hesitate. Her stylus snapped into her hand and her sigil struck Ronan square in the chest.

“Bind.”

He hit the ground hard, armor denting against rock. The binding wrapped up his limbs in glowing lines.

Ronan snarled, straining. “You witch.”

“You’re not yourself, Brute,” Nyx shot back, hand trembling but steady. “I know you don’t want this.”

“I’m killing you first when I get free.”

No use reasoning.

Nyx spun.

“Don’t kill them!” Nyx yelled. “They’re not in control!”

The remaining mercenaries had already moved—surrounding Sera, Kell, and the others in perfect, unnatural formation. The brush erupted into steel and shouting as Kell’s group fought without lethal intent, trying to subdue rather than kill.

She fired sigil after sigil—quick, clean, practiced.
Binding a pair.
Tripping another.

One by one, the controlled mercenaries collapsed into invisible binds until only strained breathing and groans remained.
Injured—yes.
Dying—no.

Kell exhaled sharply, lowering her blade. “Helps to have such a talented mage.” Her eyes flicked to the bound mercenaries. “Glad you’re on our side.”

Nyx kept her eyes forward. The hairs along her neck were still standing.

“Commander Kell,” Sera said quietly, “new orders?”

Kell nodded to Greta. “Point. We move. The Field Marshal needs to hear about this.”

She gestured at the pile of restrained mercenaries. “That’ll hold?”

Nyx nodded. “Yes. Only a mage could break my bindings.”

“Good.” Kell pointed sharply. “You four—stay with them. Eyes open. The rest, with me.”

“Commander Kell,” Nyx said suddenly.

Kell paused mid-step. “What is it?”

Nyx swallowed. “There is very powerful mana coming from the direction the Field Marshal went.” She hesitated, feeling the prickling against her spine rise again. “Stronger than mine. Much stronger.”

Kell went still.

The group quieted, every face turning toward her.

“Suggestions?” Kell asked.

Nyx took a breath, trying to steady the roiling in her chest.

“We can avoid the west and cut a wider arc, but… it’s close. Whatever it is, it’s not masking itself.” She looked toward the treeline, toward that slow, pulsing dread of mana. “If it’s hostile, we don’t want to walk straight into it.”

Sera stepped up beside her. “How strong are we talking?”

Nyx shook her head slightly. “If I tried to suppress it? It would flatten me.”

That earned a sharp look from Kell.

Greta muttered under her breath, “Then we definitely don’t head straight at it.”

Kell didn’t hesitate long. “The Field Marshal will most likely be in need of our assistance,” she said. “We scope it out—carefully.”

Nyx’s pulse jumped. “Commander—”

“We stay tight,” Kell continued. “Quiet. No spells unless necessary. Greta, take point. We go slow. Observe.”

Greta nodded and moved ahead, slipping through the brush like she’d been born in it.

Sera fell in beside Nyx. “If he’s in trouble, he’ll need us.”

Nyx didn’t answer.

The stag in her pack had been quiet for so long. The poor thing must be feeling this pressure as well.

She swung the pack around to her front and eased open the flap. The tiny creature was curled at the bottom, shivering.

“I’m sorry, little one,” she whispered, giving it a quick, gentle pat.

“Move out,” Kell ordered.

They retraced their path in deliberate, silent steps.

Greta reappeared, signaling:
Quiet. Follow. Single file. Low.

She led them to a low rock outcropping, half buried in scrub and stunted brush.

Concussive booms rattled the ground—again and again.

The Nightmare Realm biome.

The scene ahead was a nightmare of its own.

Bodies convulsed on the ground.
A cluster of strangely dressed strangers stood watching.

And Doss—calmly speaking with one of them, as if this were routine.

Kell whispered, “What is happening over there?”

Nyx shook her head. “Converting them? Not sure about Doss.”

But her gaze fixed on the strange man.
That mana—monstrous, cold, sickening.

That must be Mason Draegor.
How? Why? The relic? Was it real?

Her thoughts spiraled.

Greta hissed, “We’ve been followed.”

“What? From where?” Kell whispered.

“Behind.”

Nyx cursed herself. The overwhelming mana had drowned out everything else—including the Droswain shadows closing on them.

“Droswains,” Sera hissed.

“We’ll be found out,” Greta warned.

Nyx looked toward the strange man and Doss.

“Too late,” she whispered.

The man was looking right at her.
And then—he waved.

The nerve.

Her stylus rose.

Kell spoke quickly. “Nyx, you’re the strongest. Find the Field Marshal. He’s not over there—likely in the Nightmare Realm.”

A bolt of blue-white energy slammed into a rock inches from Sera’s head.

The fight exploded.

“Contact!” Kell roared. “Augments!”

“I can help!” Nyx shouted.

“We can handle them. Go!” Sera yelled back.

Nyx hesitated for a single heartbeat—then ran.

Brush tore at her sleeves as she pushed through the uneven slope, breath sharp in her throat. Every few strides, the ground shivered—little vibrations rolling up through her boots, each one worse than the last. She kept her stylus in one hand and her pack tight against her chest, the stag trembling inside.

“Just hold on,” she muttered—whether to herself or the creature, she wasn’t sure.

The mana thickened with every step. Oppressive. Like pushing into a pressure front. Her pace slowed despite her efforts; the air felt heavy, buzzing against her skin.

Where are they? Where is he?

Nyx crested a low rise—and finally saw it.

Not a doorway.
Not a glowing structure.
Just a gap in the rock, a jagged opening into the Nightmare Realm biome.

But the aura pouring out of it—

It hit her like heat from a furnace. Suffocating. Nearly as overwhelming as the monstrous presence she’d felt outside. Nearly.

Nyx tightened her grip on the stylus. “Hold on, little one. Let’s see what kind of mess they’ve managed this time.”

And she stepped into the gap.

A narrow corridor connected the two smashed biomes.

Then—blood-red sky.
Gray dust drifting in stale air.
An immense canyon yawning beneath her feet.
The echo of a large-scale battle rattling somewhere ahead.

The Nightmare Realm.

She swallowed. Never wanted to see this place myself.

She followed the canyon until she reached a massive tumble of shattered rock—something had blown this entire passage apart. The noise pounded from the other side of the cave-in.

Nyx climbed—firing off tiny grip-sigils under her boots and palms. They weren’t meant for speed, just brief bursts to help her hold the surface, but they pushed her upward fast without draining her the way casting continuously would.

At the top, the world opened—and her breath caught.

Hundreds of nightmare creatures converged on… Bob.
A shimmering blue tower of mana.
People fighting for their lives.
And Bob—Bob was colossal.

What is this? Oh my.
She gripped the rocks.
I can’t wait to study Bob. I need to—no. Focus. Focus.

The cave-in dropped away beneath her like a broken staircase. Jagged stone. Sharp ledges.

She started picking her way down the other side—then stopped cold.
Something massive writhed beyond the tower.

Huge, black, writhing—as if made of too many bodies mashed into one. It screamed, a pitch that clawed straight through her skull.

Not as tall as Bob, but massive enough.

A man stood on the tower’s rim, back to her. Sword raised.

Nathan.

A fireburst—huge, incandescent—erupted from the blade and slammed into the monstrosity. The basin shook. Bodies toppled. Black smoke curled upward in a choking column.

You’ve come far, haven't you?

She descended faster, lashing out at any stray creature scrambling up the rubble.

“BOSS!” she shouted, the sigil already drawn as she slashed a ribbon of mana-fire that detonated dangerously close to the tower rim he stood on.

The blast tore through the nearest cluster of monsters, bright enough that Nathan jerked and snapped his head up, eyes wild.

He was shouting something at her.

She squinted.
Like I could hear you from here, idiot.

A laugh nearly broke free. Against all logic, it was a relief to see him alive.

Then Nathan unfurled something toward her—
A square of light.
A construct platform trembling in midair.

Fascinating.

She reached out, brushing the edge as he kept yelling.

Yes, yes, I’m coming. Study comes later.
…Fine.

She stepped onto the square.

It lurched, carrying her across the chasm, skimming over writhing monsters as Nathan dragged it toward himself with teeth-gritted concentration.

When she was finally close enough to hear him, he shouted:

“Nyx! What are you doing here?!”

“No hello?” she called back as the square dissolved beneath her boots and she stepped onto the tower.

Nathan glared at her.

She sighed. “Fine—trouble. The same kind you’re dealing with. Commander Kell, Sera, the others—they need help.”

Her gaze flicked toward Dane. “Like that one, I’m guessing. But with Ronan and the others.”

I won’t mention Mason Draegor yet.
That stranger… the mana. And was that Nathan’s body I saw—could it—
No time. Not now.

Nathan’s expression cracked wide—relief, fear, hope.
“Ronan? You’ve seen Ronan?”

“Yes. He—look, we’ll talk later—”

“Agreed. We need your help here first.”

Nyx moved to the rim and peered down.

There he is.

Kieran fought far below on the spiral stairs inside the tower, driving his blade through the narrow openings along the walls. Others were doing the same—hacking at anything trying to climb up.

“I was originally looking for him!” she snapped, pointing sharply.

Nathan followed where Nyx was pointing, chest heaving.

Kieran.
Far below inside the rook, the men had finished clearing everything that had spilled into the tower and were now working through the slots—slamming blades through the openings in steady, brutal rhythm.

“Makes sense,” Nathan muttered. “He is the guy in charge.”

Bob gave a weak rumble—less miserable than before, at least.
Probably because nothing was gnawing on his mana now.

Nathan winced as a spike of pressure slammed behind his eyes. His knees buckled.

Nyx stepped closer. “Are you okay?”

Nathan leaned over the parapet instead of answering. “Bob! Those specters are gathering around the base again—”

Bob CHIRPED indignantly and slapped a tendril down, flattening a cluster like he was swatting flies.

“Thanks,” Nathan said weakly. “Love the enthusiasm.”

He turned back to Nyx. “Yeah, so, slight issue.”

Nyx raised her brows. “Just one?”

“That last blast took a lot out of me. Pretty sure I’m not going to be able to hold this tower together much longer.”

The ground rumbled under them.
The tower shuddered hard enough to rattle Nathan’s teeth.

Great.

Three fresh specter masses began forming at the basin’s edges—already rising, already merging together.

“HUMAN. YOU WILL FALL.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Nathan groaned. “Where do they keep popping out from?!”

“Nightmare Realm,” Nyx said dryly, as if that answered everything.

“Right. Try being here for a while.”

“No, thank you!”

“Oh—and fun fact,” Nathan added, “I can understand those things.”

Her eyes sparkled.

Knew she’d enjoy that.

“I know that look and no. You cannot study me.”

“You’re no fun!”

“Never claimed to be!”

She smiled. "I’ll get right to it, then!"

“Oh—one more thing,” Nathan said quickly, pointing at a writhing black mass. “Those ones in pure black? They either eat mana or repel it. It has to be something physical.”

Nyx’s eyes lit like someone handed her a new toy. “Interesting.”

Then joined the other mages and immediately made them look like toddlers with sparklers.

Her sigils were faster.
Cleaner.
Lethal.

Then she did something that made Nathan’s brain short out.

She drew a sigil tight—too tight—then pulled.

Mana condensed into a huge curved scythe-blade, shimmering silver, its edge solid enough to catch the light.

Nathan choked. “How are you doing that?!”

Nyx swung the blade once—one smooth arc—
and an entire specter cluster tore in half.

She flicked her stylus smugly. “I have my tricks!”

Nathan scrubbed a hand over his face. “Of course you do.”

Bob made an urgent gesture—one tendril flicking toward Nathan.

“Dane?” Nathan said, eyes widening.

Sure enough—Dane was striding toward a mage with purpose, stylus raised.

“Oh no you don’t.”

Nathan snapped a rope-construct out, the band lashing around Dane’s torso and arms in a single hard coil. He reeled him in like a fish.

“I need to take them all to—”

Dane blinked at him, confused. “Boss.”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Nathan grimaced. “Really sorry about this. Again.”

He punched him.

Nothing.

Dane stayed awake.

“Ooff. My bad.” Nathan punched him again. “Really sorry.”

Dane sagged this time, finally going limp.

Nathan had the construct lay Dane flat on the tower ledge. “Okay. That’s… handled. Sort of.”

The fight was dragging on too long. His vision fuzzed at the edges, and every time the tower shuddered he felt his grip on the wrap slip like he was trying to hold the whole damn thing together with fraying twine.

He staggered back to the parapet.

Below, the specters circled again—slow, deliberate, patient. Like vultures waiting for the carcass to stop twitching. Out on the basin floor, the monster hordes had thinned… but not nearly enough. And now they weren’t even rushing the tower—they were keeping Kieran and the others just busy enough.

“Nyx!” he shouted, louder than he meant. “It’s a trick! They’re using the monsters as fodder. Distracting us while the specters keep combining underneath us.”

Nyx cleaved through another specter lump with her scythe, sending more specters flying. “Underneath?”

“Yes!” Nathan snapped. “Every time the big ones get knocked apart, I’m still getting drained. They’re clustering at the base. And I think more are underneath.” He jabbed downward. “I extended the base under Bob’s foot—underground. They’re feeding through that. Must be!”

Nyx straightened, expression sharpening. “So they’re not trying to break in and eat us all.”

“No,” Nathan muttered. “They’re trying to bleed me out, first.”

Nyx’s grin turned sharp and wicked. “They sound hungry.”

“Yeah,” Nathan said. “For me. Which is rude.”

She pointed her stylus toward Bob. “Then let’s get his foot unstuck. And make this tower smaller so you’re not bleeding mana like an idiot.”

“Okay, but how do we—”

They both stopped.
Looked at each other.

And said in perfect unison:

“Smaller.”

Bob CHIRPED like he’d been waiting for them to catch up.

“You must be tired, huh, buddy.”

Nyx scanned her surroundings—
the exhausted, shaky, half-useless mages around her—
then lifted her stylus with a resigned sigh.

“Okay! I—” she glanced at the others, grimaced, “…we—will hold them off while you figure out how to get him smaller!”

Nathan blinked. “Me?!”

“Yes, you!” she snapped, cleaving another specter in half with a vicious sweep. “You made him big—reverse it!”

“Reverse it,” Nathan muttered. “Right. Easy. Just… opposite of big.”

He pressed a hand to the parapet, reached through the wrap, and touched the construct underlying the tower—and Bob.

“Oh,” he said flatly. “Yeah, that’s not a problem. Bob? Buddy? We’re doing the small version now, okay?”

Bob rumbled, confused.

Nathan nodded rapidly. “Yes. Small. Shrink. Tiny Bob. Fun-size Bob. Pick a size—any size. Just—down.”

Bob didn’t move.

Didn’t shrink.

Just hit another stack with a tendril.

He stared up at Nathan with those black unblinking eyes.

“Oh no,” Nathan breathed. “He thinks shrinking means abandoning the fight.”

Bob gave a trembling chirp—low, guilty, almost apologetic.

“You have done so much. You really saved our asses. Thank you, Bob. Truly.”

Nyx, still swinging the scythe like a silver guillotine, yelled, “What?! What is he doing?!”

“He—uh—he thinks going smaller is… cowardly?”

A tendril slapped the outer wall in indignation.

“Okay, rude,” Nathan snapped. “It is not cowardly. It is strategic! STRATE-GIC!”

Bob chirped louder.

Specters started massing beneath them again.

Nyx shouted, “Nath—Boss!!”

Nathan leaned over the parapet, grabbing one of Bob’s tendrils. “Listen to me, big guy—if you stay huge, you stay stuck. And if you stay stuck, they keep draining me. And if they keep draining me?”

He pointed at the specter piles swelling under the tower.

“We. All. Die.”

Bob went still.

“Dead,” Nathan emphasized.

A single, soft chirp.

Then—

Bob flickered.

Dimmed.

And finally—

SHRANK.

A tired, wobbling, exhausted blob of gold and jello—but free enough that the stone around his trapped foot cracked open and released. Nathan retracted the tower base from underneath the ground as Bob came loose. He started to feel more in control as his construct came up above the ground.

Then Bob continued to shrink.
Smaller.
Stabilizing around five feet.

Nathan sagged forward in relief. “Yes—YES—that’s it! Good Bob. Excellent Bob. Perfect Bob.”

Nyx whooped, swinging her scythe so hard a whole specter clump vaporized. “Finally!”

But the ground shuddered.

Hard.

The tower groaned.

Nathan looked down.
Specters surged beneath them—ravenous, concentrated, bubbling up through the hole where Bob’s foot had been.

“Oh,” he said weakly. “That’s not good.”

Hundreds swarmed the base at once—like they’d been waiting for Bob to stop being a threat.

Nathan’s knees buckled. The drain hit him hard and fast, ripping through his wrap like a starving mouth.

He groaned, breath stuttering. “Everyone—! I need to reshape—maybe—”

He couldn’t speak anymore. Couldn’t think. Instinct took over as he forced the construct to retract.

People yelled as the floor shifted under them.

He smoothed the walls. Rounded everything.

A sphere—
a giant mana hamster ball—
the only shape he could hold under this kind of pressure.

But the drain didn’t stop. The specters clung to the outside, draining faster than he could replenish.

He lost the float.

The entire structure slammed back down into the basin, jarring through his bones.

Everyone inside tumbled, tangling in limbs and gear.

Bob’s tendrils shot out, grabbing him—funneling mana into him in desperate pulses.

Nathan forced it into the construct, reinforcing the thinning walls.

“Need—need to figure something out!” he croaked.

A flash of silver flickered in the chaos.

The stag.

I didn’t even name you.
Sorry, buddy.

It darted across the collapsing floor of the construct—straight toward Bob.

Somehow they understood each other. Bob wrapped a tendril around the tiny creature, careful despite the chaos.

The stag blazed.

Silver veins lit across its body, branching like molten cracks. Its eyes—those strange silver eyes—glowed bright as twin moons.

Pretty.

Nyx yelled, “I’ve got an idea!”

She rolled and slid her way across the shifting floor toward the stag.

“Whatever it is, make it happen,” Nathan said weakly. “Fast.”

“When I tell you—shape the ball into a wide open platform.”

Nathan stared at her. “What? That sounds like a terrible idea.”

“I second that,” Taron called from somewhere in the pile.

A few others shouted their agreement—mostly variations of “Terrible idea!” and “Absolutely not!”

Kieran’s voice cut through all of it, sharp and authoritative.
“Does anyone else have a better suggestion?”

Silence. A collective, defeated no.

That was… unexpected.

“Trust me,” Nyx snapped. “And the little ones.”

Like I have a choice.
The ball was already settling into the hole.

“I’m going to make him big!”

The stag?

“Are you ready, little one—ready to be big?”

The tiny stag snorted. A sharp, bright sound.
Maybe approval. Maybe challenge.
Definitely yes.

"Boss! Can you square off the bottom?"

Square?

Nathan forced the ball to reshape, thinning and flattening the curve as best he could.

“Good enough! Stop. Everyone clear!”

Within seconds, the stag grew—bursting upward in a stretch of light. The tiny nubs became long, spindly antlers. His small frame elongated into a full, towering adult. The white of his coat burned bright, shot through with molten silver veining.

He was magnificent.

“I almost named you Bambi,” Nathan muttered, half-delirious. “You’re so much cooler than Bambi.”

“Okay, little one,” Nyx said, “you’re going to send out a wave. Blow all those nasty things away. Protect us, yeah?”

The stag stomped a hoof—sharp, decisive.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Nyx shouted, “Now!”

“Drop it—now!”

Nathan released the construct from the top, the sphere peeling open.

The collected specters tumbled outward in a writhing cascade—some flung free, others crushed as the collapsing shape landed atop them.

The stag lifted his head.

Static crawled along his antlers—thin at first, then bright enough to sting Nathan’s eyes. Silver veins lit beneath his coat, racing down his legs, pulsing through every bone.

Bob chirped—and hauled himself onto the stag’s back, gripping with three tendrils while the fourth wrapped around an antler like he’d found the world’s most chaotic saddle. Golden light surged through him, feeding into the silver.

“Oh, sure,” Nathan muttered, hoarse. “That’s normal.”

Nyx thrust her stylus toward the pair. “Now!”

The stag slammed both hooves down.

The world detonated.

A dome of crackling silver expanded outward in a perfect circle, gold riding through it like molten lightning. It hit the ground with a concussive snap—specters and monsters vaporized or flung like broken dolls. Every climbing stack collapsed at once. The basin cleared in a single breath.

Nyx yelled, “Not what I expected—but good!”

The platform shuddered beneath them. Men stumbled. Kieran braced. Nathan staggered behind him.

Then—

A groan.

Deep. Low. Wrong.

Not a creature.

The ground.

Cracks webbed across the basin floor, pale and spreading as something beneath shifted.

The platform lurched violently before the construct’s mana folded back into Nathan.

Kieran’s footing vanished.

He slipped backward—straight into Nathan’s chest.

The two of them toppled together over the edge—
and fell directly into the same massive pit where Bob’s foot had been trapped.

Nyx’s voice rang above them—but she and the others were already sliding with the basin’s collapsing floor.

Mid-fall, Nathan twisted, forcing the last scraps of mana to obey him.

One platform.
All he could manage.

A thin, trembling sheet of light snapped into existence beneath the cluster of people still above.

It shook like a dying spark.

Nathan flung his will upward, using the mana he’d just received from the collapsing construct.

“Go—go—GO!”

A single mana thread tethered him to the platform.

The platform blasted upward and outward, disappearing from view.

Then—

Something slammed into the tether.

A specter.
Then two.
Then an entire clutch spilling from the spiral alcoves carved into the pit walls—

Their claws hooked the glowing mana thread—
and shredded it instantly.

Spiral ramps rushed past them—alcoves and openings with creatures pouring through.

Nathan and Kieran dropped alone.

Specters dove from every level of the spiral—
a waterfall of teeth and limbs chasing the two men down the shaft.

This is it.

A flicker caught Nathan’s eye—
dull yellow, faint, waiting near the bottom of the chasm.

A seam.

Nathan reached out—caught Kieran’s wrist.

“Let GO!” Kieran snapped, twisting hard, trying to wrench free even as they plummeted.

“Seam!”

Nathan hauled him in, locking both arms around him—a rough, desperate clamp, nothing elegant.

Kieran jerked in reflex.

Nathan didn’t care.

We’re not dying.

He scraped together the last pathetic threads of his mana—felt them spark, crackle, barely hold shape—and shoved them outward, forcing just enough lift to angle their fall toward the glow.

The yellow seam rushed up to meet them.

Don’t rejec—

They glided through.

Nathan hit grass—real grass. Cool, springy, shockingly alive under his palms.

Mana flickered through him like a breath of air after drowning. He felt… reinvigorated.
Even with Kieran’s full weight crushing the life out of him.
Even after a near mana burnout.
Even after almost dying.

“Would you—get off—” Nathan wheezed, shoving at his shoulder. “I literally just saved you.”

Kieran’s fingers were still knotted in his cloak, knuckles bone-white. “Why,” he ground out, voice raw, “do you keep doing that?”

Nathan blinked up at him. “…Doing what?”

“Not killing me,” Kieran snapped. His voice was low, ragged. “You could’ve obliterated me with magic a dozen times over. You’ve had the opportunity. Many.”

Nathan squinted. “Do you… want me to?”

Kieran didn’t answer. His hand stayed fisted in the fabric, breath too fast for a man who never lost composure. “It doesn’t make sense,” he muttered. “None of this does.”

“Well,” Nathan said, “I’m very consistent about saving your ungrateful ass. Now please—can you get off? You’re heavy.”

Something in Kieran’s expression cracked. His grip loosened. He looked down, realized what he was doing, and pushed himself upright, jaw tight. He didn’t offer a hand.

Nathan rolled onto his side and sat up. “No, really, don’t help—”

But Kieran wasn’t listening. He was staring past him. “What is this?”

Nathan followed his gaze.

They stood on a grassy knoll overlooking the most idyllic landscape Nathan had ever seen—too idyllic. A perfect painted sky. Lazy, curated clouds. Butterflies drifting like props on invisible strings. Below them, a spotless village nestled in the valley, every roof immaculate.

A starter village? Would’ve been better to land here in the first place.

“Are we still in the dungeon?” Nathan asked.

“I don’t recognize this place,” Kieran said.

Nathan turned behind them. “Uh—Field Marshal?”

“What?”

“You can see that too, right?”

Kieran turned. His voice went taut. “A door?”

“Okay, good. Just making sure.” Nathan squinted. “Any seams? Like the vestibule?”

“No.” Kieran frowned. “Can you not see the seam?”

“I don’t see a seam. I see… an oak door standing there, not attached to anything.” Nathan stepped closer, circling it. “We must’ve come through here, right?”

The door was solid—plain wood, black iron handle. No yellow seam-glow. He tried the handle. It swung open easily. Just the same grassy hill on the other side.

Not sure what I expected.

“Should we head toward the village?” Nathan asked.

“My sword,” Kieran muttered, scanning the grass with rising agitation.

Nathan checked himself. “My pack’s gone! Oh—and my sword.”

No weapons. No supplies. No Bob, Dane, Nyx, or stag. Just peaceful silence and warm sunlight.

“Maybe there’ll be a seam at the village,” Kieran said.

“If we’re even in the dungeon,” Nathan muttered.

“Where else would we be?”

“I have no idea!”

Kieran hesitated, then gave the inevitable order. “To the village, then.”

Nathan rolled his eyes. Yes, Captain Obvious.

“Yes, Field Marshal, to the village.”

Kieran glanced at him.

Nathan kept his eyes forward.

They started down the hill. The perfect world waited.

“Are there no people?” Nathan wondered aloud.

“Doesn’t appear so.”

This is so strange.

There was a wooden sign above the village entrance.

Why do those glyphs look so familiar?

They crossed the threshold.

A glowing screen blinked into existence in front of Nathan.

He froze.

“No fucking way.”

“What?” Kieran asked, staring at Nathan like he couldn’t see anything.

Nathan pointed weakly at the screen.
“You seriously don’t see that?”

Kieran’s brows pulled together—hard.
“No.” His hand drifted toward where his sword should be. “Explain. Now.”

“Now? You give me this now?” Nathan said, exasperated.

A pale-blue panel—flat and weightless, words suspended in the air as if projected from nothing.

Welcome to the Tutorial Training, New Student.
Visit the Inn to register.
Your assigned attendant will provide housing and orientation details.

No buttons.
No prompts.
Nothing to touch or interact with.
Just… text.

How lame.

“It’s in… English, though?” Nathan’s voice cracked.

“What is Anglash?” Kieran demanded. “What are you saying?”

Nathan didn’t answer for a moment. He couldn’t. He just stared as the words flickered—glitched—and vanished as if they had never been there at all.

“…We should find the innkeeper. I guess.”

“Innkeeper?!”

Nathan sighed inwardly.
So happy he doesn’t have his sword right now.