The thienian defenses, long thought impenetrable, fell not through brute force but through strategy. Gaintridge encircled the Prolog, expanding south and west through neighboring lands before delivering a crushing blow to the region’s sparsely defended southern front. This marked the beginning of the end for thienian resistance.

  — A History of the Thienians, Walfried

  "Wall breached," the GOLEM intoned, its voice a chilling monotone, each syllable as deliberate as a tolling bell. "Signs of elation detected." Its sudden announcement shattered the tenuous quiet, plunging the antechamber into an uneasy stillness.

  Folmon’s head snapped toward the sound, his grip tightening on his staff. The light from the gem at its crown flickered, the only sign of his unease. “We need to move,” he said, his voice low and clipped, as though speaking too loudly would make the situation worse. His eyes flicked to the students, then to me, his gaze sharp yet shadowed by doubt. “Quickly, before it reaches us.”

  The metallic cadence of the GOLEM’s approach reverberated through the chamber, each step a dissonant clash of metal on stone.

  "Move," Elreak ordered, his tone cutting through the group’s hesitation. He motioned toward the passage, his movements brisk and precise. “No delays. Halaema, take the rear.”

  Halaema nodded, her calm demeanor steadying the nervous students. “Stay close,” she murmured to a young girl clutching a bundle to her chest. Her hands hovered near her healing kit, ready for use if needed. “We’ll be fine,” she added, her tone resolute.

  Behind us, the GOLEM’s voice trailed like a specter. “Absence of light within chamber. Initiating night mode.”

  Elreak moved to the front, sealing the door with a firm shove. The heavy thud of wood meeting stone echoed briefly before Folmon stepped forward. His hand pressed to the door’s surface, his voice dipping into the arcane language of his spells.

  I watched closely as the wood began to dissolve under his touch, shifting and flowing like molten wax into a dense stone barrier. Then, from the last trickle of liquefying wood, a wisp of purple mist escaped, curling upward in a graceful spiral. My breath caught, and for a moment, everything else seemed to fade.

  “What—” I started, then hesitated, glancing around. No one else appeared to notice it. The students were focused on Halaema’s quiet reassurances. Elreak’s gaze was fixed on the passage ahead, spear in hand. Even Folmon, his face pale with concentration, seemed oblivious to the strange mist.

  “Elreak,” I said cautiously, keeping my voice low. “What about the wisp?”

  He shot me a sharp look, his brows drawing together. “What wisp?” His tone was brusque, but it was the confusion in his expression that sent a chill through me.

  “The—” I stopped myself, shaking my head. “Never mind. Forget it.”

  Elreak frowned but didn’t press further. He turned back to the students, his focus returning to the task at hand.

  The GOLEM’s voice interrupted any lingering thoughts. "Illusory door detected. Weapon systems charging."

  The first strike landed with a deafening crack, sending vibrations through the floor. Folmon didn’t flinch, though his face paled. “It’ll hold,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else, his voice wavering slightly.

  “Elreak, we can’t wait,” Halaema said sharply, her composure tinged with urgency as she ushered the last of the students through the passage. “If the barrier breaks—”

  “It won’t,” Folmon interjected, his voice regaining its edge. He took a steadying breath, his hands never leaving the stone.

  But the second impact sent visible fractures skittering across the surface. Elreak swore under his breath. “Move now,” he barked, his emerald eyes darting toward the forest beyond.

  I stepped back, my gaze lingering on Folmon’s hands as he finally released the spell. His shoulders sagged briefly before he straightened, his expression neutral but distant. "It will hold," he repeated, though this time the words felt like an offering to himself.

  We plunged into the sanctuary of the forest, the thick canopy enveloping us in shadows. The air was cool and heavy, muffling the lingering sounds of the GOLEM’s assault. Halaema stayed close to the students, her voice soft as she reassured them. Elreak stalked ahead, spear in hand, his movements fluid and purposeful.

  I stayed near Folmon, glancing at him as he caught his breath. His face was lined with exhaustion, and his hands trembled faintly as he gripped his staff. “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I’ll manage,” he replied, his tone clipped. But the haunted look in his eyes lingered, and I couldn’t shake the image of that purple mist curling into the air like smoke from a dying fire.

  We came to a pause, the forest’s hushed embrace wrapping around us as we sought refuge beside a time-weathered riverbed. The dry channel curved like a scar through the lush greenery, its edges softened by creeping moss and wildflowers. It was quiet here, the kind of quiet that carried the weight of recent chaos. Beneath the sprawling canopy of sheltering trees, the world felt smaller, the stars above distant and untouchable.

  I settled onto the riverbed’s uneven stones, letting the cool earth ground me. The constellations stretched across the dark sky, their faint brilliance an unspoken reminder of how far we were from the empire’s looming shadow.

  Elreak appeared beside me, his footsteps as sure and deliberate as always. He carried himself with an ease that I envied, as if the tension of our escape hadn’t touched him at all. His spear leaned casually against his shoulder, and when he sat down, the fluidity of the motion drew my eye in a way I didn’t care to analyze too closely.

  He tilted his head back, the strong line of his neck catching the silvered light. “Sabah and Masaan,” he murmured, his voice low, a quiet ripple breaking the stillness. “They’re brighter tonight.”

  I forced my gaze upward, willing myself to focus on the moons and not the sharp angles of his profile. One, large and golden, hung low in the western sky—Masaan. The other, smaller and silver, drifted higher—Sabah. Their light spilled unevenly across the clearing, a strange and beautiful contrast.

  “You see their essence,” he added, his tone distant, as though speaking more to himself than to me.

  “Elreak,” I said softly, my curiosity overcoming the hesitation that sat heavy in my chest. “What do you mean by their essence?”

  He turned his head to look at me, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. The shadows softened the harshness of his features, but his emerald eyes glinted like firelight, sharp and searching. A faint smile tugged at his lips, slow and almost teasing. “Masaan and Sabah are locked in an eternal chase,” he explained, his voice like velvet. “Masaan begins its journey across the sky at dusk, and Sabah follows, faster, always gaining ground.”

  The way he said it, his voice dipping just enough to set my pulse thrumming, made me wonder if he realized how much I was watching him. I forced myself to look away, pretending to study the moons instead of him.

  Something about his explanation stirred a memory, faint and fragmented, deep in the recesses of my mind. The Rings of Sabmas. The thought bloomed unbidden, sharp and vivid as a starburst. I had seen them once before—not in the sky, but as a vision, suspended in a tempest of sand and chaos. The endless chain of celestial stones had glowed faintly, their arcs cutting through the heavens like jagged scars, casting shadows against a sky painted in ominous hues.

  Even now, I could feel the weight of that vision. The rings had been fractured, trembling as though under the strain of some unseen force, their light dimming as the storm of the Great Consciousness raged below. They had seemed both immutable and fragile, an eternal truth threatened by the chaos of a breaking world.

  “I’ve never seen the moons so far apart,” I murmured, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

  Elreak’s brow furrowed as he looked at me, and I felt the full weight of his attention like a physical thing. “What are you talking about? They’ve never been closer.”

  I stumbled over my own thoughts, torn between wanting to explain and wanting to escape the scrutiny in his gaze. “I don’t know how to explain it,” I said finally, hoping my voice didn’t betray the sudden tightness in my chest. “I just… know things.”

  He studied me for a moment longer, his eyes narrowing slightly, and then his lips curved into a faint, wry smile. It wasn’t cruel, but it made my pulse quicken all the same. “And how does one just know things?”

  The playful edge to his voice sent a jolt through me, and I shrugged, more to buy myself time than to answer. “It’s complicated.”

  The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t comfortable either. It was charged, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s holding something back. I couldn’t bring myself to look at him again, not with the heat rising to my cheeks, but I could feel his presence, steady and close enough that the space between us felt thinner than it should.

  The rustle of leaves above seemed louder than before, a reminder that we weren’t alone out here. I focused on the sounds of the forest, trying to settle the unease thrumming in my veins.

  Then, a sharp snap—a twig breaking—cut through the quiet. My pulse quickened, and I saw Elreak’s expression harden in an instant. He moved with startling swiftness, his hand finding his spear in one fluid motion. His sharp gaze swept the shadows, and his tension radiated outward, setting every nerve in me on edge.

  Without a word, we both rose, standing shoulder to shoulder as we faced the shadowed trees from which the sound had come.

  Between the twisted trees, two figures emerged like shadows given form. Their wiry frames were cloaked in obsidian garb that hugged their emaciated bodies like a second skin. The segmented fabric gleamed faintly under the moonlight, designed more for stealth and flexibility than protection, each panel moving with eerie precision as they shifted through the underbrush.

  Their movements were silent, predatory. Every step seemed measured to avoid the forest floor’s traps, as though the very air bent to their will. The usual sounds of the woods—the whisper of wind through leaves, the faint calls of night birds—had fallen into an uneasy stillness, amplifying the tension that coiled in my chest.

  The faint creak of a bowstring being drawn broke the silence. One of the figures knelt behind a fallen tree, bracing their bow against their knee for stability as they reached into the quiver strapped across their back. Their movements were precise, methodical. The green-tipped arrow they withdrew glimmered faintly, its luminescence pulsing like a heartbeat. The other figure, standing slightly behind, scanned the area with quick, sharp movements, their bow held low but ready to snap into position.

  These weren’t just marksmen; they were hunters. The crouched archer took aim, the curve of their longbow catching the light as they adjusted their stance to align with the natural cover of the fallen tree. Their grip on the bow was firm, the fingers of their drawing hand hooked around the string with practiced ease. The nocked arrow pointed forward, its tip steady, waiting for the moment to strike.

  I tightened my hold on my daggers, my breathing slowing as I assessed their positions. The standing archer shifted slightly, their feet spreading in a balanced stance, bow now raised just below shoulder height. It was a classic overwatch formation—one archer focusing on precise, aimed shots from cover while the other scanned for new targets.

  Elreak’s spear gleamed faintly in the corner of my vision as he retreated with the others, leaving me to track the threat ahead. I edged closer, using the uneven terrain and the dense cluster of trees to obscure my movements. My steps were deliberate, my weight rolling from the outside edges of my boots to the balls of my feet to keep silent.

  The kneeling est adjusted their aim again, their shoulders rolling slightly to settle the bow’s weight evenly. The draw was slow, controlled, the string pulled taut until it rested against their cheekbone. A breath passed before they relaxed slightly, waiting for the target to move into their line of sight. Their discipline was unnerving—no wasted energy, no sudden jerks or unnecessary motion.

  These weren’t mindless predators. They were trained assassins, their methods designed to dismantle defenses and sow chaos.

  I moved closer, my body low to the ground as I closed the distance between us. The moonlight spilled over their segmented armor, highlighting every sharp angle as they prepared to loose their arrows. I could almost hear the faint hum of tension in the air, the bowstrings ready to sing.

  Then, the standing est shifted again, their stance widening as they raised their bow. Their arrow was nocked in one fluid motion, the movement fast but practiced, a direct contrast to the crouched archer’s slow, deliberate draw. They were preparing to volley—a coordinated attack designed to overwhelm their target with simultaneous strikes.

  The acrid scent of their blood poison hit me, sharp and metallic, as I closed the final gap. My daggers gleamed faintly in the pale light, their edges sharp and ready. Every nerve in my body thrummed with anticipation as I positioned myself behind them, unnoticed.

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  And then, with one deliberate step, I slipped into striking range, my daggers steady in my grasp.

  Summoning every ounce of strength, I hurled myself at one of the est. The impact sent us both crashing to the ground, his wiry frame colliding with a nearby tree. His bow slipped from his grasp, striking the earth with a dull thud as he crumpled into an awkward heap.

  The second est pivoted sharply, his gaze snapping to me with predatory focus. Discarding his bow in a fluid motion, he drew a dagger that gleamed dully in the fractured moonlight—a blade designed for precision, not theatrics. He closed the distance between us with a practiced efficiency that spoke of honed skill.

  I sidestepped his first lunge, redirecting his arm with a deft motion, but his recovery was almost immediate. A punch landed hard against my chest, a calculated strike that forced the air from my lungs and sent me staggering back. My daggers fell from my grasp, clattering against the rocks and rolling out of reach.

  His lips twisted into a cruel smile as he spun the dagger in his hand, his movements effortless. My body dropped instinctively as his leg swept in a low arc, missing me by mere inches. He caught the dagger mid-spin and surged forward, the blade glinting as he pressed it against my throat. The cold metal bit into my skin, a wordless reminder of how close I was to the brink.

  The est leaned in, his breath hot and acrid, laden with a sour stench that made my stomach churn. Droplets of foul-smelling saliva dripped from his jagged teeth, landing on my skin with a searing sting. His voice was low and venomous, his words delivered with deliberate malice. “You were with the others,” he snarled, his tone like the scrape of stone on stone. “Why do you stand apart, thiwen?”

  I’m not thiwen.

  The blade pressed harder, the sharp edge threatening to pierce. I could feel the weight of his intent, the inevitability of his strike hanging over me like the cresting arc of a falling blade, poised to sever without hesitation. Then, suddenly, a voice broke through the tension—a whisper, insidious and unbidden. It lacked the snarls and malice of my attacker, but its presence was no less unsettling. It spoke directly to me, slipping into the edges of my mind like a shadow cast by an unseen flame.

  I know this mind, the voice murmured, its presence like a shadow creeping through my thoughts. I know this voice. I have seen this one before.

  Its words slithered into my consciousness, carrying an unnerving familiarity. The invasive tone was both confident and calculating, as though it were unraveling the fibers of my will, searching for the perfect place to strike. I see everything, it continued, its resonance deepening, probing deeper. Your thoughts are mine. Your will is my command.

  A shiver coursed through me as the weight of its intent settled over me, oppressive and undeniable. My pulse quickened, the rhythm jagged, as though trying to resist the voice's grip. Then came the command—simple, brutal.

  Kill him.

  The words carried a chilling finality, each syllable pressing harder, sinking deeper into the cracks of my resolve. My fingers closed around a small rock, the cool surface grounding me against the chaos swelling in my chest. The est lay before me, oblivious, his jagged breath loud in the silence. Desperation surged through me, a mix of instinct and resistance battling the voice’s insistent pressure.

  I swung the rock with all the strength I could muster, its arc driven by something primal. The impact was muted, as though the forest itself recoiled from the act. The est crumpled, his body folding into the underbrush, a dark ichor pooling beneath him. His death was unceremonious, final. I rose, my breaths ragged, my grip tightening on the bloodied stone.

  The other one, the voice whispered, colder now, more insistent. It still draws breath.

  Its words coiled around me, sharp as glass. My chest tightened. “Who are you?” I demanded aloud, my voice raw, splitting the heavy quiet of the night.

  There was no direct answer, only the faintest suggestion of a sneer in its tone. Kill him, the voice repeated, no longer a whisper but a command, vast and suffocating.

  The daggers found their way into my hands without my knowing. The motion wasn’t mine—it belonged to something else. My body moved with mechanical precision, my gaze locking onto the unconscious est. He was vulnerable, defenseless. The daggers hovered above his throat, their edges gleaming in the faint light.

  My breaths came shallow, my heart a maddening drumbeat in my ears. A chill ran down my spine as I realized my own body was betraying me, bending to the voice’s dominance. “No,” I said through clenched teeth, my voice trembling but growing louder. “I won’t.”

  The resistance in my voice startled even me, breaking the oppressive silence with a finality that felt like a strike of lightning. “You don’t control me,” I said, louder this time, each word deliberate, tearing through the voice’s invasive pull. My hands trembled, but the daggers faltered, holding their position instead of driving downward.

  End him, the voice commanded, its words dripping with malevolent fervor. The weight of its presence pressed down on me, coiling through my thoughts like smoke. Kill him and be done with it.

  My fingers tightened around the daggers, trembling with the strain of resistance. It wasn’t just my body fighting back—it was my mind, my will, clawing for any scrap of control. The voice wasn’t just commanding; it was prying, tearing through my thoughts as though it were searching for something buried deep.

  You hesitate, it hissed, the words laced with disdain. Why? This moment is meaningless. One more life beneath your blade changes nothing.

  The tone—it wasn’t merely cruel or taunting. It was vast, layered, as if it carried the echoes of countless others speaking in tandem. A chill coursed through me, my breath catching as the realization began to take form. This wasn’t some remnant of a memory or the manipulation of an unseen enemy. This was something far greater, far more terrible.

  “You’re not…” I whispered, the words faltering. “You’re not someone. You’re something.”

  The voice shifted, wrapping around me like a vice. Its laughter was a low, alien sound that resonated in the deepest recesses of my mind. Ah, you see it now, don’t you?

  Fragments of images, unbidden and jagged, tore through my thoughts—a hive pulsing with light, an endless tide of scorps moving as one, the vast shadow of something ancient and unrelenting. The pieces slid together, the truth sharpening like a blade.

  “The Great Consciousness,” I murmured, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. The name hung heavy in the air, oppressive, and saying it felt like stepping onto a precipice.

  The voice didn’t confirm, nor did it deny. Instead, it pressed harder, bearing down on me with a force that made my knees weaken. You think naming me will save you? Words are air. I am the void between them. I am the thought before it is yours.

  My breaths came shallow and ragged. “Why me?” I forced out, trying to keep my focus, to hold onto the threads of defiance unraveling in the storm of its presence. “What do you want from me?”

  The answer came not as words but as a surge of oppressive energy, a tidal wave of will that demanded submission. My arms shook violently as I fought against it, the daggers trembling in my grip. My mind screamed against the force trying to bend me, to consume me. I clenched my teeth, shouting through the rising roar in my head.

  “You won’t take me!”

  The voice’s tone sharpened, like metal grinding against stone. You are already mine. Do you not feel it? The pulse of my resonance in your bones? The inevitability of my will? Fight all you want; you are but a flicker against the endless dark.

  A shadow moved at the edge of the clearing, drawing my focus. My instincts roared to life, breaking through the fog. A figure stepped into view, deliberate and cautious, their armor catching the moonlight in segmented gleams. The sharp curve of a longbow in their hands glinted, an arrow drawn and aimed.

  The daggers fell from my grasp as I threw myself to the ground, the arrow slicing through the space where I had stood moments before. It struck a tree with a dull thunk, and the voice hissed in frustration, its hold on me loosening.

  They come, it whispered, its tone shifting from fury to contempt. You will fall before them, as all others have.

  I pressed my back against a tree, trying to steady my racing breaths. My thoughts spun, a cacophony of fear, resistance, and the chilling certainty that the thing in my mind was far from finished. The figure stepped fully into the clearing, their segmented armor glinting in the faint light. They struck the trees with their weapon, the sound deliberate, rhythmic—a show of force meant to intimidate and deceive.

  But the voice lingered, its shadow curling at the edges of my mind, waiting for the moment to strike again.

  The voice’s response to this newcomer was tinged with anticipation, its tones laden with a sinister eagerness. Excellent, it purred, each syllable steeped in malevolent glee. Another sacrifice. Their fate is sealed.

  Despite the mounting pressure in my mind, my left hand betrayed me, lifting the dagger with an almost mechanical precision. The blade descended, plunging into the est’s stomach, tearing flesh and releasing a nauseating stench that turned my stomach. I tried to stop, to pull my arm back, but the control wasn’t mine. The dagger clattered to the ground as my hand moved again, this time delving into the creature’s entrails, the grotesque sensation of slick, warm viscera sending a jolt of revulsion through me.

  Do you see now? the voice hissed, its tone dripping with sadistic delight. This is what you are. This is what I make you.

  “No!” The word tore from my lips, my voice raw, trembling with defiance. But the laughter that followed—the voice’s chilling, low laughter—seeped into every corner of my mind.

  Resistance is amusing, it sneered. But it is futile. You are mine, a puppet dangling from my strings.

  A surge of determination rose within me, fragile but unyielding. This was my body, my mind, and I wouldn’t let it take them from me. I clenched my teeth, focusing on the physical sensations beneath my hands—the slimy warmth of intestines, the pungent, acidic tang of the air. Every detail anchored me to reality, to myself, grounding me against the tide of the Great Consciousness’s dominance.

  The laughter faltered, replaced by a sharp edge of irritation. What do you hope to achieve, little one? it demanded, the words coiling tighter, pressing harder. You cannot defy me. Your will is nothing.

  But I kept pushing, pulling at the threads of control it had wound around me. My breaths came in shallow, deliberate gulps, each one a silent declaration of rebellion. My grip on the est’s organs tightened, the grotesque act now serving as a focal point of resistance. The more I concentrated, the more the voice’s grip loosened, its suffocating presence beginning to recede.

  With a final surge of effort, I broke through. My body was mine again.

  With my will bolstered by this newfound strength, I seized the opportunity to reclaim my mind. “Enough!” The word erupted from me, sharp and unyielding, slicing through the oppressive air. It was a command—not a plea—delivered with the full force of my defiance.

  The grip on my arm slackened, but the voice didn’t recede entirely. Instead, it coiled tighter around the edges of my thoughts, its presence still insidious. You think you’ve won? it hissed, its words dripping with disdain. Your defiance amuses me, but it changes nothing. I am the inevitability that will consume you.

  I clenched my fists, my mind racing. The Great Consciousness wasn’t invincible—it couldn’t be. It had invaded my thoughts, yes, but it wasn’t omnipotent. Every word it spoke, every attempt to control me, was an act of effort. It was probing, searching for weaknesses in me to exploit, but what if there were weaknesses in it, too?

  I forced myself to focus, blocking out the voice’s taunts. What had I observed? It spoke in patterns, layered and complex, like countless voices overlapping. It surged stronger when I hesitated, when I doubted, but its grip faltered when I acted decisively. And there was the way it recoiled whenever I asserted control over my own senses, anchoring myself in the tangible.

  You’re wasting time, it sneered. You can’t outthink me, little one. Your mind is already mine.

  But I could feel the cracks in its confidence. It wasn’t omniscient—it was trying to intimidate me into surrender. I needed to turn that against it. My breathing steadied as I focused again on the physical world: the weight of the daggers in my hands, the damp chill of the air, the faint rustle of leaves above me. The sensations pushed back against its invasive presence, like light driving away shadow.

  “You thrive on hesitation,” I said aloud, my voice quiet but certain, speaking not to it but for myself. “On fear. But you don’t understand me.”

  The voice lashed out, its tone venomous. I understand you better than you understand yourself! Your thoughts, your doubts—they are mine to wield.

  “No,” I said, closing my eyes and centering myself. “You’re a parasite. And parasites don’t survive without a host.”

  With that realization, I shifted my focus entirely inward, not to the voice but to myself. I turned my attention to the parts of my mind it hadn’t touched—the memories it couldn’t access, the corners of my being where it wasn’t welcome. I drew them forward, fortifying the boundaries it had invaded. The voice thrashed in my thoughts, its fury palpable, but I pushed harder, mentally sealing off the space it had occupied.

  Stop this, it snarled, its confidence cracking. You can’t shut me out. You are weak!

  I ignored it, doubling down on the act of reclaiming my mind. I was no one’s puppet, no tool for its use. My will was my own, and I would prove it. With a final surge of focus, I slammed the mental doors shut, locking it out.

  The voice’s presence fractured, retreating with a scream of rage that echoed faintly, like a fading storm. The forest fell silent again, the air clearing of its oppressive weight. My knees buckled slightly as the tension drained from my body, but I steadied myself, breathing deeply.

  Footsteps broke the stillness, deliberate and steady, growing louder as the stranger approached. I opened my eyes, the daggers still heavy in my hands. And then, faintly, from the edges of my mind, the voice lingered, whispering its final challenge:

  And how will you stop yourself from killing whoever approaches? Its tone was quieter now, insidious but weakened. You think this is over? You think you’ve won?

  I sheathed the daggers, letting the act speak for itself. “I don’t intend to,” I said aloud, my voice firm. “And if I do, I’ll deal with it myself.”

  The voice fell silent, but its presence wasn’t entirely gone. It lingered, a faint undercurrent at the edges of my thoughts. It was a battle I’d won for now, but I knew this wasn’t the end.

  “Deal with what?” Elreak’s voice cut through the stillness, steady but laced with unease. His presence grounded me, but his sharp gaze darted over the scene—the fallen est, the blood-streaked earth—with a wariness that hinted at unspoken questions. “What happened here?” he asked, his tone measured, though the tension in his voice betrayed his concern.

  “They fought back,” I said evenly, but the words carried a strange weight, a hollow resonance that wasn’t entirely mine. The sound of my own voice unsettled me, and Elreak stiffened slightly, his eyes narrowing as though he’d caught a whisper of something beyond the words.

  “You…had to defend yourself,” he said slowly, his tone neutral but edged with unease. He didn’t press further, but his gaze lingered on me, searching.

  I swallowed hard, pushing down the remnants of the Great Consciousness that still curled at the edges of my mind. “Did the others make it out?” I asked, forcing the question forward, grounding myself in the urgency of the moment. My voice was sharper now, more mine, though not entirely steady.

  Elreak hesitated, his expression darkening. “Two of the students…” He paused, drawing a breath. “They didn’t make it. They were sent to the Gates.”

  The words hit harder than I expected, but before I could respond, Elreak crouched by one of the est’s bodies. He plucked an arrow from its quiver, its jagged, venom-streaked tip catching the faint light. “These arrows,” he said, his voice turning cold, “are tainted with est blood. There’s no hope for anyone struck by them. The venom…” He trailed off, shaking his head as he dropped the arrow. It struck the corpse with a faint sizzle. “When the barrage stopped, I came looking for you. I made noise deliberately, hoping to draw them away.”

  I nodded, but my body felt alien, my words still carrying the faint residue of something other than myself. “It might have worked,” I said, my voice calm but oddly hollow, the echo of the Great Consciousness faintly weaving through it. “If they hadn’t already been so close to the end.”

  Elreak’s head tilted slightly, his brow furrowing as he turned his full attention to me. “That’s…an unusual way of putting it,” he said carefully, his tone both curious and cautious. He studied me closely, the weight of his gaze uncomfortable but not unwarranted. “You sound…different.”

  I clenched my fists, forcing the lingering whispers into silence. The Great Consciousness had not left entirely—it lingered at the edges of my thoughts, but I wouldn’t let it take hold again. This was my mind, my voice. I took a steadying breath, pushing the remnants of its presence out. “I’m fine,” I said, forcing a faint smile. “Just tired.”

  Elreak didn’t look convinced, but he let the matter rest, his gaze softening as he returned to pragmatism. “We should leave,” he said, his tone firm. “The others are waiting just outside Cenorthien.”

  His hand settled on my shoulder, a gesture of reassurance that sent a ripple through me—comfort mingled with a lingering unease. Reflexively, I mirrored the gesture, placing my hand over his. The act grounded me, the last of the Great Consciousness’s echoes slipping away. The silence between us felt lighter now, and I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

  Together, we turned our gazes upward to the celestial waltz of Masaan and Sabah. The moons moved in tandem, their paths a quiet reminder of resilience and balance.