The est themselves are the product of an Imperial Science Academy experiment that spiraled beyond containment. Their creation led to the Second Primelaw, forbidding the union of multiple races.

  — Catalog of the Civilized Coast, Eadwulf

  Awareness returned slowly, dragging me from the depths of a fog that clung to my thoughts like damp wool. Voices swirled around me, sharp and insistent, but they overlapped too much to make sense. My eyes cracked open, and the world resolved into muted shapes and shadows, the edges blurring like the remnants of a fading dream.

  Pain lanced through my abdomen as I shifted, a phantom echo of the blade I’d taken. My hand moved instinctively to the spot, expecting to find torn flesh, but there was nothing—only smooth, unbroken skin. Relief mingled with unease, settling heavily in my chest.

  Baerbald’s voice pierced the haze, low and cold, the kind of tone that commanded attention. “Your friend is a hoarder, yanthi,” he said, his words dripping with contempt. I followed his gaze to Elreak, standing a few paces away, his stance relaxed but his presence radiating a dangerous stillness.

  Elreak’s lips curved into a faint smile, sharp as a drawn blade. “If you think you can take it, you’re welcome to try.”

  Baerbald’s answering smirk was humorless, a predator baring its teeth. He gestured to one of the est at his side. The creature snarled, retrieving a short dagger from its belt before tossing it toward Elreak with a flick of its wrist.

  The dagger spun through the air, the blade catching the dim light. Elreak snatched it cleanly from the air, his hand closing around the hilt as though it had always belonged to him. He rolled the weapon once in his palm, testing its weight, before leveling Baerbald with a steady look.

  “Kind of you to offer,” Elreak said lightly, though his voice carried an edge of steel.

  The moment stretched taut. Then Baerbald moved.

  He came in fast, his sword a silver blur as it arced toward Elreak’s midsection. Elreak sidestepped with practiced ease, the dagger in his hand snapping up to deflect the blow. Sparks flew as steel met steel, the clash reverberating through the air.

  Baerbald pressed the attack, his strikes precise and relentless, each movement honed to lethal efficiency. Elreak gave ground but never faltered, his body flowing like water as he turned each strike aside with a twist of his wrist or a shift of his weight. The dagger, though small, moved like an extension of his arm, its blade flashing with deadly intent.

  Their movements became a blur, the rhythm of their fight like a deadly dance, each step measured, each strike calculated. Baerbald’s attacks were deliberate, meant to test Elreak’s defenses and exploit any weakness. Elreak countered with speed and precision, his every movement honed by years of surviving battles where the odds were never in his favor.

  A sharp clang rang out as their blades locked, each man straining against the other. “You’ll have to do better than that,” Elreak said, his voice low and steady.

  Baerbald’s expression didn’t waver. “And you’ll have to last longer than that,” he replied, his tone as sharp as the blade he wielded.

  A flicker of movement caught my attention, pulling my focus from the fight. Halaema stood nearby, her posture rigid, her eyes fixed on something behind me. Her voice cut through the din of battle, calm but edged with urgency.

  “There’s an old saying, Elidyr,” she said quietly, her gaze never wavering. “Always account for the unseen.”

  Her words hung heavy in the air, a warning that seemed to echo long after she’d spoken them.

  Oblivious to her meaning, Elidyr scoffed, his attention fixed on Halaema with a smirk that barely masked his irritation. “And what might that be?” he challenged, his voice laced with derision.

  The answer came not in words, but in an eruption of raw power.

  From the shadows behind me, a hand emerged—a frail, trembling hand, its fingers clawing at the air as if grasping for life itself. It belonged to a student I hadn’t noticed, battered and barely clinging to consciousness. From this fragile figure rose a surge of ancient magic, the words of an unfamiliar spell rasping from bloodied lips.

  The air around us shimmered, a faint purple wisp coiling through the haze like smoke from an unseen fire. The energy rippled outward, taking form in the space between the living and the dying. Then it struck, latching onto Elidyr’s leg with unrelenting precision.

  He froze, his sneer faltering as he looked down. The transformation began immediately, veins of gray stone threading through his flesh, spreading like cracks in brittle glass. His expression twisted into something feral as he staggered back, his movements slowing with each passing second.

  “What is this?” he shouted, his voice cracking with panic as the petrification crept higher. “What have you done to me?”

  The spell offered no answer—only screams. They tore from his throat as the magic consumed him, stone overtaking his torso, freezing his arms mid-reach, his face contorting into a mask of agony before it solidified completely.

  The chamber fell silent except for the faint hum of dissipating energy. The purple wisp lingered briefly in the air, curling and fading as the last echoes of the spell dissolved. A suffocating weight pressed down on me, the haze thick and oppressive, carrying with it the phantom pain of my wound—the wound that should have killed me.

  Through the haze, my eyes locked on the spear in Elidyr’s petrified grip, its shaft angled slightly toward me. The weapon seemed to pulse faintly, as if calling out to me. My limbs felt leaden, my muscles sluggish, but the sight of it stirred something primal—a need, a resolve.

  Gritting my teeth, I dragged myself forward, each movement a battle against the grogginess clouding my mind and the sharp pain radiating from my core. The world narrowed to the spear, the metal gleaming faintly in the dim light, just out of reach.

  I stretched, my fingers trembling as they brushed against the cool surface of the shaft. A purple wisp curled around my hand, fleeting and insubstantial, as if urging me on. Dizziness clawed at me, but I forced it down, clenching my jaw as I made one final push.

  With a guttural cry, I surged forward and snatched the spear from his petrified grasp. Pain flared in my abdomen, sharp and unforgiving, but I held tight, the weapon’s weight anchoring me in the chaos.

  For a moment, I knelt there, my breath ragged and uneven, the spear clutched tightly in my hands. Around me, the chamber was silent, the air thick with the residue of magic and the unspoken realization of what had just occurred.

  The phantom pain was gone as I pulled myself upright, the spear in my hand grounding me as I stood fully for the first time since waking. The cool metal steadied me, but my focus wasn’t on the weapon—it was on Halaema and Folmon.

  My gaze shifted between them, silent but questioning. Should he remain this way?

  Folmon’s expression twisted as he stared at Elidyr’s petrified form, his lips parting as if to speak, only for hesitation to silence him. His shoulders slumped, resignation warring with something darker—doubt, perhaps, or guilt.

  Halaema, however, met my gaze directly. She stepped closer, her expression calm but tinged with sadness. “Elidyr’s path is over, but his soul lingers, trapped between here and the Gates,” she said quietly. Her voice carried no malice, only a profound sorrow.

  I tightened my grip on the spear, the weight of her words settling over me. “And if leaving him like this only twists what’s left of him?” I asked, my voice low but steady.

  Halaema inclined her head slightly, her eyes flicking to Elidyr’s frozen features before returning to mine. “Sometimes, destruction is not cruelty—it is mercy,” she said softly. “To see the Gates is to find release. To be frozen in time is to remain locked away from that journey. Is this a fate you would choose for yourself?”

  Her words pierced through the haze of lingering exhaustion and pain, striking something deeper. Folmon’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into trembling fists at his sides. “We were supposed to save lives,” he muttered, his voice trembling as his eyes flicked between me and Halaema. “Not... this.”

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  Before I could respond, the clash of steel tore through the tense silence. My head whipped toward the sound in time to see Elreak and Baerbald locked in a brutal exchange, their weapons moving in a deadly rhythm.

  Baerbald’s strikes were relentless, each swing of his sword aimed to overwhelm and dominate. Elreak, by contrast, moved with fluid precision, his dagger flashing in tight arcs that deflected Baerbald’s blows with calculated ease.

  “You think you can stop me?” Baerbald snarled, his voice laced with fury.

  “I think you’re not as invincible as you’d like to believe,” Elreak shot back, his movements unyielding despite the strain beginning to show in his frame.

  The fight became a backdrop to my decision, the clash of their blades punctuating the silence that followed Halaema’s words.

  “The Heart does not cling to vengeance,” she said softly, her voice steady amid the chaos. “It transforms. Let this moment shape the echoes that follow, Ivolith—not for hatred, but for peace.”

  I turned back to Elidyr’s petrified form, his face frozen in defiance, his features etched with the last vestiges of his will. My fingers flexed against the spear as I weighed the enormity of what I was about to do.

  And then, I moved.

  The spear arced through the air, its motion precise and unyielding. The impact shattered Elidyr’s stone body, fragments of him scattering across the ground in a cascade of dust and debris. The sound reverberated through the chamber, silencing even the clash of Baerbald and Elreak’s fight for a moment.

  I stood over the remains, my chest heaving, the spear still gripped tightly in my hand. Folmon stared at me, his eyes wide with a mix of horror and something else—something darker. Rage flickered in his gaze, faint but unmistakable, as if he was beginning to question the very beliefs that had once anchored him.

  “We were supposed to be better than this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  Halaema placed a hand on his shoulder, her expression calm but heavy with understanding. “Sometimes, mercy doesn’t look the way we think it should,” she said quietly.

  Folmon’s lips pressed into a tight line, his conflict as palpable as the dust hanging in the air.

  Behind me, the sound of steel on steel resumed, Baerbald’s voice cutting through the tension. “You’re wasting your time, yanthi,” he sneered, his strikes coming harder and faster.

  Elreak smirked, his dagger catching the edge of Baerbald’s sword in a deflecting motion that sent the larger man stumbling. “I’ve got all the time I need,” he replied, his tone light despite the sweat beading on his brow.

  The chamber remained a battleground of emotions and combat, but as I looked down at the fragments of Elidyr, a strange stillness settled over me. I had made my choice. The consequences, I knew, would follow.

  Baerbald’s gaze, alight with a tumultuous mix of rage and disbelief, swept over us. “You cannot fathom the consequences,” he hissed, his voice a warning as stark as the cold stone around us. He moved toward Elidyr’s petrified remains, but Elreak stepped into his path, his bare chest rising and falling with steady breaths. Baerbald’s lips curled into a sneer as his sword came up, gleaming in the dim light.

  “You’re wasting time,” Elreak said flatly, his voice calm but mocking.

  Baerbald lunged, his sword cutting a sharp arc toward Elreak’s midsection. Elreak twisted away, the blade slicing through empty air just inches from his side. His movements were fluid, honed to an instinctive precision that left no wasted effort. He countered immediately, the dagger flicking out toward Baerbald’s ribs. Baerbald twisted his wrist, deflecting the attack with his sword’s flat edge, the impact ringing out.

  “They can’t kill each other,” Halaema said softly, her gaze fixed on the two fighters. Her words seemed meant more for herself than anyone else. Then, louder, as if trying to refocus the group: “Elidyr is frozen—trapped between here and the Gates. We need to—"

  “There’s no saving him,” Folmon interrupted, his voice tight. His fists clenched at his sides, trembling slightly. “Whatever mercy could’ve been offered is gone. This isn’t what we’re supposed to be doing!”

  Baerbald pressed the assault, his strikes relentless. The sword moved like an extension of his arm, each arc perfectly calculated. He aimed to overwhelm Elreak with a combination of speed and power, forcing him onto the defensive. Elreak met him blow for blow, his movements a dance of efficiency. Barefoot and shirtless, his footwork was precise, his every step keeping him just out of reach or positioning him to counter.

  The clash of their weapons rang out again and again, sparks flying as dagger met sword. Baerbald feinted low, dipping his blade toward Elreak’s thigh, then snapped it upward. The edge caught the skin along Elreak’s ribs, leaving a shallow cut. Blood welled instantly, a crimson streak against his pale skin.

  “Getting slower, yanthi,” Baerbald sneered, his grin sharp as a predator’s.

  Elreak didn’t flinch. His expression barely changed, save for a faint tightening at the corners of his mouth. “You talk too much,” he muttered, adjusting his grip on the dagger. His movements grew sharper, his attacks faster. The dagger in his hand became a blur, testing Baerbald’s defenses with swift, surgical strikes.

  Halaema’s attention shifted back to me, her voice cutting through the clash of steel. “By what fortune do you stand, Ivolith, when est venom claims all it touches?” she asked.

  Her words caught me off guard, though I should have expected the question. I glanced at her, then at the faint scar where the wound had been. “I encountered a shepherd,” I said finally, my voice quiet but steady. “He told me to return.”

  “A shepherd?” she echoed, her expression sharpening with intrigue. “You walked the Gates.”

  “I don’t know what I walked,” I admitted. “I only know I shouldn’t be alive.”

  Her lips pressed together in thought, but before she could respond, Folmon’s voice rose again, brittle with frustration. “Why is it always death?” he demanded, his gaze flicking to the fight. “We were supposed to save lives, not... this.”

  Baerbald came in with a heavy downward strike, the blade arcing toward Elreak’s shoulder. Elreak stepped into the attack, raising his dagger to catch the sword just below the hilt. With a sharp twist of his wrist, he redirected the blade outward, throwing Baerbald off-balance. Before Baerbald could recover, Elreak’s free hand shot forward, striking him square in the chest.

  Baerbald stumbled but recovered quickly, swinging his sword in a tight arc. Elreak sidestepped and closed the distance in a blur, his dagger slicing toward Baerbald’s throat. The westfolk barely parried, their blades colliding with a force that left Baerbald’s grip trembling.

  Elreak pivoted, driving Baerbald into the wall. The dagger pressed beneath his chin, its edge biting lightly into the flesh. Baerbald froze, his chest heaving as his sword clattered to the floor.

  “Your life ends here,” Elreak declared, his voice cold and unyielding.

  “War should elevate us, not degrade us to savagery,” Folmon said, his voice tight. His words carried the weight of his turmoil, though he still didn’t meet anyone’s gaze directly. “True power lies not in dominion but in harmony. This cycle of retribution must end, lest it consume us all.”

  Baerbald sneered, tilting his head slightly. “Harmony? And yet here you are, standing in blood and rubble, trying to preach to me.”

  “This isn’t harmony,” Folmon said, his voice cracking slightly as he gestured to the room around us. “This isn’t justice. And it’s not right.”

  Elreak’s dagger didn’t waver. “There’s no benefit in allowing you to live, scum,” he said flatly. “So what reason would we have for concocting a story to save your life?”

  Baerbald’s sneer widened faintly, his eyes locking on Elreak’s. “Because you’re not as certain as you pretend to be,” he said, his tone venomous. “That’s why you’re still standing here.”

  The chamber fell silent, the tension thick as Elreak held Baerbald pinned, every breath charged with the weight of unspoken choices.

  Baerbald’s sneer lingered as he tilted his head, studying Elreak with something between amusement and derision. “You won’t do it,” he said, his tone as venomous as ever. “All that talk of vengeance and prevention—just words. A mercenary without conviction. If you had the heart to kill me, you’d have done it already.”

  Elreak didn’t react. The dagger remained steady, pressed against the vulnerable hollow beneath Baerbald’s chin. I saw the tension in his shoulders, the slight tremor in his fingers—not hesitation, but restraint. He didn’t flinch, even as Baerbald pressed on.

  “Let’s review, shall we?” Baerbald’s voice oozed mockery. “A dying student with the ‘miraculous’ ability to petrify. A thiwen who somehow survives est venom. And now a mercenary pretending he has the moral authority to decide who lives and who dies.” His smirk widened, though there was no humor in it. “You’re nothing more than a tangle of convenient lies.”

  I am not thiwen.

  Elreak’s voice cut through the rising tension, calm and resolute. “I have faith in my friends.”

  Baerbald laughed, a harsh, jagged sound that grated against the stone walls. “Faith?” he scoffed. “And where did that faith get you? You couldn’t even tell Elidyr was loyal to Giantridge. A mercenary’s trust is worthless when he can’t tell friend from foe. Why should anyone follow your lead?”

  “You question the value of trust,” I said, stepping forward before anyone else could respond. My voice was steadier this time, sharper. “Because you’ve never understood its power. We stand together, not by chance, but by choice. By belief in something greater than ourselves.”

  Baerbald’s sneer faltered for a fraction of a second, his gaze narrowing on me. “And what, pray tell, could possibly be worth all this?” he asked, his tone dismissive but tinged with curiosity.

  “Because we all have something worth fighting for,” I said.

  His eyes shifted back to Elreak, his expression turning sly. “What about you, yanthi?” Baerbald’s voice dripped with derision. “What are you fighting for? Or are you too afraid to answer?”

  Elreak’s silence stretched out, heavy and unyielding. For a moment, it felt as though the world itself had frozen, the charged air of the chamber thick with anticipation. My own breath was shallow, my heartbeat loud in my ears.

  The silence broke with a sickening sound—a blade slicing through flesh. Baerbald’s expression twisted into shock as he staggered forward. His hand rose instinctively toward the wound in his chest, but his fingers faltered before they reached it. The dagger was still in Elreak’s hand, its hilt slick with blood.

  Crimson spilled in a torrent, staining the stone floor beneath him. Baerbald’s knees buckled, his body sagging against the wall before sliding to the ground. The mocking smirk he had worn moments ago was gone, replaced by a slack emptiness as his life ebbed away.

  “I fight for those who choose to stand with me,” Elreak said, his voice quiet but firm. He wrenched the dagger free, letting Baerbald’s lifeless form crumple to the ground.

  I couldn’t look away. The pool of blood expanded slowly, dark and glossy against the cold stone. My legs felt weak, and I leaned against the wall, the weight of the moment pressing down on me. Around me, the chamber seemed muted, every sound dampened by the enormity of what had just occurred.

  Halaema’s face twisted in horror, her hands rising as though in prayer. “He did not deserve our mercy,” she said softly, her voice trembling. “And yet in death, he finds it.”

  Elreak turned, his expression unreadable. He stared at the dagger in his hand for a long moment, then let it fall. The clanging sound echoed sharply in the silence.