Word spread through the city like wildfire, its flames fanned by hope and desperation. They were returning. The soldiers, the saviors, the bringers of sustenance were spotted on the horizon, their numbers a meager echo of the host that had embarked on the quest to the Ancient Forest. A human tide surged past the city gates, the starving citizens rushing to meet their champions. Many a wife and child bore the burden of trepidation, their hearts heavy with fear that their beloved might not be among the returning.

  As the army neared, the people's worry was momentarily suspended. A cheer echoed through the throng as the soldiers threw handfuls of fruits, vegetables, and meat into the crowd. Even the most haggard foot soldiers, their clothes ragged and faces gaunt, were hoisted upon the shoulders of the famished masses, hailed as heroes and paraded in jubilation.

  Among the throng, however, a different procession moved. The Dryads, once proud protectors of the forest, now walked chained together. Their postures were hunched, their eyes downcast, shrinking away from the clamor and cacophony of the crowd. They were on the receiving end of venomous shouts, jeering threats, and lascivious glances, while they trudged forward, a stark contrast to the victorious celebration around them. The men, however, kept the mob from getting their hands on the captive maidens, to keep them from the charms of the forest witches. Buren had court-martialed several men who had disobeyed his orders, and finding them under control of the Dryads, executed the soldiers himself, before they could turn against their comrades. Or that was what had been declared to the forces, who had now learned to stay away from their alluring captives.

  At the head of this returning throng rode Buren. Though bathed in the adulation of the people, he wore an expression of grim indifference, his gaze fixed ahead, the cheers of the crowd washing over him like distant white noise.

  Buren handed over the stewardship of the hard-won spoils to the Knights of Penance, with the Order's Grand Commander Valcor himself appearing to heap public praise upon him. "I imagine you must be weary from your endeavors," Valcor remarked. "Yet, a meeting between representatives of our Faith and the Crown has already been convened. Your presence is required."

  Buren nodded, his mind already turning over the advantages of this timely assembly. He had needs of the kingdom's leaders himself, and this provided a prime opportunity to address them all simultaneously.

  He leaned toward Valcor, his voice dropping to an undertone. "Keep the men away from the Dryads. The bacchanalia they held in that cursed forest have strengthened their powers of seduction. We lost many a man who merely held their gaze for too long."

  A note of understanding crossed Valcor's face. "We'll take them to the underground cells of the Inquisition, where their allure will find no eyes in the dark," he assured.

  Having done what he could, Buren instructed the keeper of the command pavilion to transport Inanna directly to his castle. With that, he set off towards the Central Citadel, to the debriefing on the events in the Ancient Forest the leaders undoubtedly awaited.

  Buren stepped into the already familiar crown room atop the Central Citadel, his gaze immediately drawn to the figure on the throne. Flynn, he thought reflexively before correcting himself; that was a memory he had to let go. Instead, Duriel, in the body of the boy who had once been his squire, now sat on the throne, radiating authority. Seated at a long table placed at the base of the dais, High Reverend and Grand Inquisitor Ruelle waited alone.

  Following the herald's instruction, Buren took his appointed seat at the end of the table. The distance between them was a clear indication of Duriel's intent to keep him at arm's length. Straining his ears to bridge the distance, Buren listened intently as Duriel voiced his indignation.

  "I won't stand for this injustice," Duriel declared heatedly. "I committed a substantial number of fighters and ample equipment to this cause. Yet, now I hear you have commandeered all the spoils for the Faith? Yield my rightful share, or face the consequences."

  High Reverend Ruelle gestured placatingly. "This is but a temporary arrangement. Rest assured, your half will be delivered promptly."

  "Half?" Duriel retorted, as though the term was the most preposterous thing he'd ever heard. "This is my city, and these are my people. I deserve no less than three-quarters of the spoils."

  The Reverend steepled his fingers, his face partially concealed behind them. "We can negotiate specifics at a later time. For now, we need to address the rumors circulating amongst the people. With Field Commander Coldwood now present, we can finally set the record straight."

  The imposing figure turned towards him, his face largely hidden behind his habitual veil, his mouth drawn into a wide, toothy grin. "Our scouts who returned ahead of the main force reported the assistance of a daemonic entity during the battle, greatly contributing to our victory. Can you confirm this?"

  Buren nodded.

  "And how would you justify this entity of darkness aligning with warriors of light and righteousness?"

  Buren maintained a careful poker face as he prepared to share the half-truths he'd concocted during the journey home. "I wouldn't assume she was truly on our side. It's more likely she had her own reasons for combating the Dryads."

  "And her origin?" continued the Reverend, the epitome of calm. Grand Inquisitor Ruelle's gaze was fixed on the table before her, yet Buren sensed her unwavering attention on him. "She seemed to have possessed a Dryad. It's possible the Dryads attempted to summon dark forces to aid them, only for their scheme to backfire."

  "Perhaps," the Reverend echoed. "Regardless, the truth may forever remain elusive unless we can capture and question this daemon. What's crucial is ensuring the public doesn't believe we would ever consort with such forces. We'll circulate your account, portraying it as a battle between malicious entities." He reclined in his high-backed chair, pivoting his attention to Ruelle. "You should proceed, given your most recent information," he instructed her.

  Ruelle nodded, her piercing gaze focusing on Buren. "Our scouts reported that more than double the men who returned to the city survived the battle, but remained in the forest. Is this true?" Buren nodded in affirmation.

  At this, Duriel perked up on his throne, edging forward. "And you think you can command my citizens who were among those who stayed?"

  "Commander Coldwood was granted authority to lead the war party as he saw fit," the Reverend reminded Duriel, only to be rebuffed. "But that was only valid while combat was still underway."

  "I don't believe such a stipulation was ever included in our negotiations," the Reverend countered, his tone measured.

  "But where are they?" Ruelle interjected, cutting off Duriel before he could respond. "Many Dryads managed to escape," Buren replied quietly. "Our men are stationed there to ensure the Dryads can't regroup and reclaim their power center."

  "Such foresight is commendable," Ruelle remarked, seemingly more to appease the king than to compliment Buren. "One scout reported observing the men digging near a large, white rock, chained like slaves while being watched by seemingly vagrant, yet evidently skilled, fighters."

  "Seems I didn't catch all the rats," Buren thought. "Your source likely strayed too close to the Dryads and fell under their spell, sharing fabricated tales to weaken our resolve."

  "Do you truly think so?" Ruelle asked, her unyielding gaze still fixed on him. "It's a possibility," Buren replied, meeting her stare.

  "A possibility," she echoed, her tone remaining impassive.

  "I'll need to warn the men about the possibility of more Inquisition spies being dispatched to confirm the situation," Buren contemplated, keeping his countenance carefully neutral. He had assembled a group of surviving warriors, telling them there was an orchard to harvest to bring back much-needed sustenance. The eager men had readily left their weapons behind, only to find themselves led to the Dryad Holy Grounds. Their defenseless state made them easy prey for Buren's men, handpicked from the arena fighters, who leveled their swords and spears at them, forcing them to start excavating with the shovels and pickaxes they were given.

  Progress was agonizingly slow; the stone that had resisted even the Gauntlet was barely scratched by ordinary tools. But it was a beginning. "As it stands, the battle still rages on," Buren stated. "Therefore, I cannot renounce command of this unit just yet."

  "The Field Commander is well within his rights," the High Reverend interjected before any objections could be raised. "As long as his efforts continue to shield our realm from dark forces."

  Duriel gritted his teeth. "Are you genuinely accepting this? Who knows what secrets he's safeguarding within that forest."

  "I'm sure Your Highness is more than welcome to investigate the wilderness himself," the Reverend proposed genially. "But currently, the most pressing issue is to assign the captured Dryads to work in our fields, thereby providing sustenance to our starving population."

  "I require some prisoners of the prisoners held in the Inquisition dungeons to assist with work in the Forest," Buren interjected, drawing the attention of the others. "The forces currently stationed there are insufficient for both security and construction. We need the prisoners to establish a garrison." The High Reverend glanced at Ruelle, offering an approving smile. "Agreed," Ruelle conceded. "You may select any deemed to have no more information to yield."

  Their attention then shifted to discussing the finer details regarding the spoils of war. Buren opted to sit on the sidelines, listening passively. It was better to let them divert their scrutiny elsewhere, as his explanations wouldn't stand up to close examination.

  That night, in his castle chambers, he stopped trying to stave off his nocturnal horrors. His waking thoughts had grown just as harrowing; every time his mind wandered, it filled with images of eyeless faces and bloodshed. He was at a point where thoughtless flight from the incomprehensible seemed a welcome respite. As he lay in bed, he tried to estimate how long it would take the excavation team to break through the rock at their current pace.

  When his eyes closed, he found himself not in a void of darkness but beside the white rock, its entrance yawning wide open. The sky was clear, the leaves of nearby trees rustling gently in a tranquil breeze - a stark contrast to the tempest-torn landscape he remembered. He entered the cave.

  The tunnel, initially made of the same white rock, gradually shifted into a metal that was fluid and smooth, much like the Gauntlet. It was laced with veins of gold and blue light. His footsteps on the metal floor were silent, as if he were a specter. Symbols hovered before the walls, translucent and silent, drawing him to study them, but whenever he focused on one, a blinding light momentarily overwhelmed his vision.

  When his sight returned, he was inside a circular room filled with metal desks embedded with gem-like structures, crystal-clear screens displaying symbols and views of other locations. "Portals," Buren thought, recalling the doors Toksaris had utilized. These, too small for entry, likely served for surveillance over distant locales.

  Seated at the desks were metallic beings, their fingers - more than ten on each hand, Buren noted - tapped rapidly on the embedded crystals. A spectral image manifested in the room's center, depicting mountains and lakes that Buren intuitively recognized as pre-Flood geography. A rush of knowledge flooded his mind, seeming to bypass his senses and implant directly into his consciousness.

  "The scan is complete," one of the metallic entities declared in an automated voice. "The problem persists. The vessel isn't ready for launch."

  "We're running out of time," a second figure, adorned with gold detailing, responded. Buren perceived it held a higher rank, though he didn't know how he discerned this. "Any progress on isolating the issue?" it asked.

  "Yes, I believe so," the first figure - an analyst, Buren understood without knowing why - replied. "The system is finalizing its trace."

  Suddenly, bright red symbols illuminated all the crystal windows - or 'monitors', as Buren instinctively labeled them - and appeared in the air. "But that would imply...," the high-ranking entity began, scrutinizing the report. Abruptly, it and all the other metallic entities turned to stare directly at where Buren stood.

  Startled by his sudden discovery, Buren instinctively raised the Gauntlet into a defensive position. "How did it bypass the firewall?" the officer questioned, a note of alarm tingeing its mechanical voice. "Activating countermeasures," the analyst declared, its hand a blur over the keyboard.

  Suddenly, a barrier of blinding light appeared, splitting the room and extending beyond the confines of the walls, ceiling, and floor. Buren was certain it enveloped the entire complex. As the luminescent partition started sliding towards him, obliterating everything in its path as effortlessly as a breeze would dissipate smoke, Buren could only watch in awe. The metallic beings were absorbed by the light, seemingly unscathed, disappearing behind it as if it were inconsequential to them.

  Tentatively, Buren extended his fingers towards the radiant barrier, but the light consumed the tips of his longest digits before he could retract his hand. The ends were cauterized, bloodless, and the incision was so clean it elicited no pain or sensation. He retreated from the advancing wall of obliteration and spun to flee, only for another luminescent barrier to materialize, boxing him in. The walls converged, inching ever closer.

  "Alright, time to wake up," Buren thought, concentrating on forcing his eyes open. Nothing happened. The walls of light continued their relentless advance, the confines of the room rapidly diminishing. His eyes darted around the shrinking space, but there were no escape routes, only the omnipresent, Gauntlet-like metal. Out of options, he dropped to one knee and clawed at the floor with his metal talons, but to no avail.

  As the walls neared, he had to turn his shoulders sideways to fit. The light was blinding. In a desperate, thoughtless move, Buren thrust the Gauntlet towards the ceiling with all his might, hoping to exploit a weak point overhead. Instead, he found himself in an entirely different realm.

  He was suspended in a void, devoid of air, enveloped by a sea of light streams in every direction, varying in thickness from hair-thin strands to wide channels, some straight, others meandering or corkscrewing, each a unique hue or blend of colors. At first, Buren saw only afterimages, but upon focusing, he realized they were familiar forms - trees, mountains, buildings, humans, animals - the tangible world he knew reduced to faint, rainbow-like outlines on the horizon. It was as if he were the only solid entity in a world made of smoke.

  "Flows...of magical energy?" he recognized, awestruck by the vibrancy. He noticed the white rock formation, appearing impenetrable to the magic flows and standing as the sole solid obstruction in this ethereal world. Then, he realized there was another void in the landscape, further than his eyes should be able to see, but still clear to him. More than that, he could see where it was situated from the capital, the material obstacles not doing anything to obstruct his vision. He sensed the pull towards that point in space, knew he could cross the distance in an instant, but a pulse reverberated through this realm, shattering his concentration.

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  He directed his gaze towards the pulse's source, an unfathomable distance away. Yet in this plane of existence, distance was an illusion. Buren observed the entities from his dreams, manifesting here as immense vortices, siphoning the magic flows and consuming them like fuel. The subsequent energy obliterated the material outlines surrounding them, even seeming to remove the very space they had inhabited. Buren focused on these entities, but to his alarm, he felt himself being inexorably drawn towards them.

  With a jolt, he woke, springing from his bed and crashing onto the cold stone floor of his castle chamber, covered in a sheen of cold sweat.

  Startled into action by the surreal experience, Buren quickly sprang to his feet, his heart still pounding. At first, he assumed it was dawn, but soon realized the light flooding his room didn't stem from the window but originated from the Gauntlet. Raising the metal-encased limb, he noticed the light emanating from its core, a radiance that faded as soon as he focused on it. The vivid impressions from his dream also seemed to dissipate rapidly, and he clung onto the most significant one, rushing out of his chamber dressed only in his undergarments.

  Guards stationed along the corridors watched their lord sprint past, maintaining their professionalism behind carefully neutral expressions, despite their evident bewilderment. The sound of Buren's bare feet smacking against the cold stone echoed in the hallways as he rushed past.

  Bounding up the winding staircase, taking three steps at a time, Buren reached the top of the highest tower and kicked open the door. There, he oriented himself, his gaze locked onto the direction that had been imprinted in his mind: the magical void, mirroring the one enveloping the white rock. It was situated to the South, beyond the territories ravaged by the Malignant One and its minions.

  Now that he had managed to superimpose the images from his dream onto his waking reality, the location solidified in his mind. He even remembered a village, conveniently situated just a few days' journey away from the enigmatic spot.

  Buren couldn't comprehend how his dream journey had transpired, or exactly where he had traveled, yet he was confident that his next destination had to be the enigmatic location that had manifested in the magical realm. He couldn't afford to wait for the excavation to finish. A sudden flashback from his dream painted a vivid picture in his mind: the rock being tirelessly dug up by the men was merely the external surface, accumulated during the chaos of the Flood. The actual shell of the heavily fortified base lay concealed beneath.

  Once the outer shell was removed, simple shovels wouldn't suffice to breach the ensuing barrier. It would require a key, and his only clue to finding it lay in his dream. "Let's just hope this place isn't nestled in the heart of a sacred site," he thought with a pang of bitterness. "There have already been enough complications."

  In the highest tower of the Grand Cathedral, the High Reverend was engrossed in prayer, imploring strength to annihilate the dark forces that beleaguer humanity. A subtle hum resonated behind him, the air shifted subtly, and he knew he's no longer in solitude. His prayers had been answered.

  "All proceeds as you've wished," he announced without turning. The response arrived in a voice that seems to fluctuate between being unsettlingly close and impossibly distant, its pitch undulating, as if the speaker wasn't firmly anchored in space but rather drifting, much like the thoughts of a restless mind.

  "So it would appear," the voice reverberated.

  "Do you seek something from me, my lord?"

  "Those pledged to annihilate the agents of corruption are now their protectors," the echoing voice said. "It's a blot on the pristine canvas of our vision."

  "They are merely a conduit to our goal," the Reverend replied, "fighting fire with fire."

  "I don't allude to the practices you've sanctioned - the Clerics studying magic, the Inquisitors wielding enchanted objects. There's someone amongst you, their goals veer from yours, even if their actions have persuaded you otherwise."

  "Do you intend to name this individual?" the Reverend inquired.

  "No. This person intrigues my masters, and they wish to observe his journey. They regard the two of you on parallel levels."

  A grin crept onto the Reverend's face. "No need to be cryptic. You're referring to Buren of Coldwood, the bearer of the Gauntlet, aren't you?"

  "You're more informed than we presumed," the voice admitted.

  "I'm not as blind as I seem, as you're well aware," the Reverend retorted. "And I share our masters' curiosity in him, which is why I've let him venture this far. He thinks he's maneuvering us, but he's merely a pawn in my game. Regardless of his objectives, as long as he can be manipulated into fighting corruption, I will let him believe he's controlling the situation."

  "Don't grow too complacent," the voice cautioned. "He mirrors your thoughts. Time will reveal who's in control and who's being manipulated."

  "And when can we expect the Reclamation?" the Reverend asked.

  "Time is immaterial. It will occur when our masters decree."

  The Reverend's response was halted by the sound of shattering glass. His visitor's effect on his surroundings had made him oblivious to the arrival of a servant boy, carrying a tray with a water jug. He heard the boy recoil, whimpering, his back thudding against the wall as he stumbled over a low stool.

  The Reverend turned and through the insight bestowed upon him by his masters, saw the boy cowering against the wall, radiating sheer terror. In his vision, his visitor appears as a distortion in space where all natural laws are grotesquely warped, an image that ordinary senses fail to comprehend. The boy was experiencing this firsthand, his brain frantically trying to comprehend the incomprehensible, his sanity crumbling in the process.

  The Reverend sighed. "How many times have I instructed you to knock before entering?"

  The boy opened his mouth to scream the type of a scream that never ends.

  Buren watched the elderly cleric bustling about, absorbed in his books and scrolls. His usual strategy of entering silently and waiting for the other person to acknowledge his presence had failed, as the Cleric remained completely oblivious to him. The situation was growing absurd, so Buren decided to intervene. He strode forward to intercept the Cleric's path.

  Engrossed in a large tome, the Cleric walked right into Buren, dropping the book in surprise. Buren swiftly caught it with his Gauntlet and offered it back.

  "Look where you walk," Faelun chided him. "You can't just barge into people when they're engaged in important work." He reached to reclaim his book, but Buren didn't release his hold, resulting in a gentle tug-of-war. Buren stood his ground while the Cleric fiercely tussled for the tome. As Faelun paused for a breath, Buren deftly slipped a piece of paper from his pocket and laid it atop the contested book.

  Faelun scrutinized the sheet, his lips moving silently as he studied the symbols inscribed on it. Suddenly, he released the book, his attention fixated on the piece of vellum. He swiftly moved it to his worktable, the book forgotten.

  "Where did you obtain this?" he asked, his voice a whisper.

  "Can you translate it?" Buren questioned. He had sketched what he could remember from his dream, which wasn't much.

  "No," Faelun replied, "No one can. No one alive, at least."

  "What are they?" Buren insisted.

  "They are symbols of the Iron People's culture, an ancient civilization that ruled these lands before they were driven underground by the Flood, disappearing forever," Faelun explained.

  Buren nodded. He had seen similar ruins on previous journeys, nestled deep within uncharted caves. Unrolling a map onto the table, he pointed to a location he believed to be the source of the magical void. "Are there any ruins in this vicinity?"

  "Not to my knowledge," Faelun answered.

  "And the mountain there, has it been explored?" Buren questioned.

  "Mountain? This map doesn't show a mountain in that area," Faelun countered.

  Buren was certain he had seen a mountain in his dream. "Maps aren't accurate. There is a mountain there."

  Faelun turned to rifle through his extensive collection of parchments. Pulling out a long scroll, he called to Buren, "Help me with this one."

  Together, they stretched the large map onto a board, small vices holding down the edges. Leaning in, Faelun pointed out, "This is the most detailed map I possess. There is no mountain here. Just woods."

  Buren inspected the map and found Faelun was right. But he also observed something else.

  "Moreover," Faelun continued, perplexed, "that area seems void of anything noteworthy. Dense woods with flat terrain and no significant landmarks. Either this spot is the most unexceptional in the Realm, or something has been intentionally scrubbed from the maps. It is a bit suspicious when studied so closely. But who would scrutinize an empty space? What's your take, Buren?"

  When no answer came, Faelun turned to find himself alone in the room. "No manners, that one," he grumbled, returning to the curious map. His brow furrowed, he wondered, "What is he getting himself into this time..."

  In the far reaches of the North, away from the capital, Toksaris grumbled as he trudged up another hill in the dense forest. He swiped at his hair to dislodge the stubborn twigs, and sputtered when he walked into a spider's web that clung to his face. His only consolation was that his destination was near. He pressed past a final bush—wincing as his hands got scratched in the process—and the old hunting cabin came into view. "Here's hoping someone's made tea, and perhaps heated some bath water," he mused.

  Toksaris yanked open the camouflage door of intertwined twigs and leaves, ducking his head as he stepped in. "I propose our initial matter of business be voting for a more accessible meeting locale," he announced, before his eyes had fully adjusted to the darkness. The room was small but filled with the scent of herbs. Wooden logs served as seats, with dried grass strewn over the bare earth floor, and a makeshift table - a board made from tied branches atop stones - at the center. The sole source of light was a wick on the table.

  "If I managed to get here, then it should pose no challenge for a wizard capable of hopping places as easily as one changes clothes," retorted a robust male voice, barely visible in the dim light.

  "And what would you know about clothes, my good monk?" Toksaris chided with a grin. "You hardly ever wear them. Besides, by the time I conjure up a portal, you'd have already arrived at the destination by sprinting."

  His grin faded, however, when the man leaned into the light. "My sprinting prowess isn't what it used to be," Anod confessed. His striking, well-defined face was marred on the left side, deformed beyond recognition. His back bent awkwardly to the left, his left arm terminating in a stump just below the elbow. His left leg was also absent, replaced with a wooden peg from the knee down.

  Toksaris rushed around the table and kneeled by Anod's side, his hands resting on his shoulder and upper arm. "By the Source," he whispered. "What befell you?"

  "A disagreement with an old comrade, I presume," interjected a female voice. Toksaris turned to see Azure, who had entered the cabin soundlessly. She was standing across the table, her bare thighs and abdominals gleaming in the warm light, clad only in a short, loose skirt and a vest.

  "I see you're staying in shape, at least," Toksaris said, his voice wavering due to his shock. He immediately regretted his casual words as the light reached her face when she sat down in a cross-legged posture. Azure's eye sockets were filled with two blue lilies, firmly rooted in her Dryad skin. The sight was a haunting blend of beauty and morbidity.

  "Unfortunately, I cannot extend the same courtesy--seeing you, that is," she replied. "I assume we're gathered here to discuss these recent friendly disagreements," she said, facing Anod.

  "I didn't summon us here," Anod confessed. "I assumed it was you."

  "No, it wasn't," she retorted. "I was too engrossed contemplating the future of my people."

  "So, Buren is left," Anod sighed. "Either he's attempting to sway us to his side, or this is a trap, a bid to do what he failed the first time and finish us off. I'm not sure which would be more offensive."

  "A negotiation or a trap?" Azure mused. "Dear monk, with Buren, it's likely a labyrinth of schemes. He could negotiate us into a trap, or trap us into a negotiation, whichever suits his purpose. But no, it's not him either."

  She rummaged in her bag and tossed a callstone on the table. "I found this in his jacket at the grove, along with some other things he won't be needing anymore." Her fingers brushed the flower growing from one of her eye sockets as she spoke.

  "Then who?" asked Toksaris. "If it were up to me, we'd be convening in one of Scythea's spas, or perhaps a tavern."

  "A dead man," announced a new figure who entered the cabin, his voice as coarse as gravel. As he straightened up, the light glanced off the metallic mask of tears on his face, his form concealed under a red cloak. Azure sprang to her feet with agility, somersaulting over the table and transforming the vines encircling her forearms into chakrams mid-leap. Anod, too, rose in a swift motion, or more accurately, on his functioning foot. He balanced on his good leg while raising the other, revealing a metal spearhead at the tip of his peg. His unimpaired arm arched over his head, wrist and palm poised like a serpent ready to strike. Toksaris noticed a blade extending backward from his left elbow, requiring only a swift twist of his torso to execute a slicing horizontal arc.

  Reacting a beat late, Toksaris scrambled to his feet, lifting his hands, palms facing forward. "Don't force me to reduce you to dust, Knight," Toksaris warned.

  "With the recent enhancements they've made to our equipment, you'll find that a tad more challenging than you expect," the masked man rasped, seating himself on the last stool.

  "But I doubt they protect you from being sliced in pieces," Azure said, snarling. "After what your Knights did to my home, I'd be more than happy to return the favor. Would serve your order right to have their fabled commander Traum shipped back home in tinderboxes."

  The Knight placed a callstone on the table, identical to the ones the others had already set there.

  "The Bearer of the Gauntlet is out of control," he said. "Before, his grit was a blessing to the Realm, as long as you did not hinder his plans in any way. Now, the darkness he claims to confront seems to be for his eyes alone."

  "And even when he considers is path the righteous one, there are limits that, once crossed, just make one a different flavor of evil," Azure said, lowering her weapons slightly.

  The Knight nodded. "I'm not here to fight, but to bring us together to confront something we previously failed to address."

  "We?" Azure echoed, relaxing her battle stance somewhat.

  "I didn't want to say 'I told you so', but..." the masked figure began, reaching to undo the clasps of his helmet. As he removed his mask, a collective gasp of recognition echoed among the three companions. "I told you so."

  The Inquisition guards uncrossed their halberds to allow Buren passage. He began his descent down the stairs, the persistent sound of water droplets hitting stone floors echoing in the confined stairway. Buren then traversed a long, dimly lit corridor lined with sturdy metal doors on both sides, their small viewing slats shut tight. Hidden behind these formidable barriers were the individuals the Inquisition desired to be forgotten, believed to be deceased by the outside world. They were the nameless, those who would likely never feel sunlight on their skin again.

  Toward the end of the corridor stood an especially large door, designed to slide sideways on rails instead of operating on conventional hinges. Buren paused before this imposing entrance. The jailer accompanying him pulled open the viewing slat. Buren remained still. After a moment's silence, he turned to lock eyes with the jailer.

  "We're obligated to monitor all interactions that transpire here," the jailer declared, attempting to maintain authority. He held Buren's gaze for a moment, but ultimately, he succumbed to the penetrating stare.

  "I'll be at the end of the hall," he conceded with a sigh. "Keep your hands in sight, as I will be observing."

  Once the jailer was out of earshot, Buren moved to peer into the chamber beyond. The only source of light in the room came from the small opening through which he peeked. He allowed a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Suddenly, something shifted in the shadows, allowing him to perceive the enormous entity imprisoned within. He came to the realization that the room's floor was far below him, implying that should he step in, he would plummet into the depths. Numerous deformed limbs and appendages seemed to claw their way towards the light from the dark abyss.

  "Can you hear me, Flynn?" Buren asked. A chorus of groans and cries reverberated in response. The monstrous being clambered against the wall, scratching at the stone surface in a desperate search for purchase. As it hoisted its massive form, Buren caught sight of Flynn, protruding from its side.

  He appeared in a better state than Buren had dreaded, with the grotesque limbs that encased his head, previously tormenting him relentlessly, now keeping their claws and fingers at bay. Flynn's countenance seemed more distinct, the sickly edema that pervaded the rest of the creature having receded.

  "How are things out there?" Flynn asked. His voice, surprisingly clear given his condition, startled Buren. This was not the case with Duriel, who had been incapable of speech under similar circumstances.

  "Fine," Buren replied curtly. "And in here?"

  "I won't lie, sir. At first, I hoped for death, and the quicker, the better." Flynn managed a grin. "But then I recalled your teachings, how you drilled into me the need to endure even when my body begged for respite. So, I persevered, resolved to turn this thing into my victim, rather than the other way around. I bit the fingers that clawed at me, and after a few days of gnawing, it learned to keep them at bay. I started to devour the surrounding flesh, and it too retreated. It seems the more I strive to separate myself, the clearer my thoughts become."

  "You've fought bravely," Buren commended. His heart, burdened with concern, lightened a touch with pride. Flynn's face lit up at the praise. Suddenly, one of the creature's other mouths screeched. Flynn countered with an ear-splitting roar that made the creature shrink back.

  "Additionally, I kept shouting until it learned to keep quiet, and managed to regain my voice in the process. By the way, how's my body faring out there?" Flynn asked.

  Buren's expression darkened. "Duriel isn't treating it any better than he did his own." Flynn's flesh twisted in a semblance of a shrug. As Buren's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he noticed that Flynn's visage was no longer that of Duriel. The face that had emerged from the swelling was a mix of Duriel and Flynn.

  "I believe it should take years of indulgence for it to affect someone my age. I'm more concerned about the clap and the like. And assassination attempts," Flynn added.

  "I'll ensure no one gets to it," Buren promised.

  "Thank you," Flynn responded. He gazed up at Buren, his eyes gleaming with hope in the dim light. "So, do you think you'll figure out how to fix this before Duriel does something irreversible with my body?"

  "I'm making good progress," Buren said, "I assure you, I'll find a way to make things right."

  "I know you will, sir." Flynn's unwavering faith struck a chord in Buren's heart. He realized that he now had another reason to stay resolutely on his path, one that was more personal than his heavy duty to the people of the Realm: to save his squire. His hands clenched into fists. "Hold on, Flynn. Nothing will stop me, and anyone who dares to obstruct me will rue the day."

  Deep within the remote forest, in the confines of a somber, cramped cabin, a reunited band of old friends rose as one. They had reached a consensus.

  "To free my people," Azure declared, extending her arm, palm facing downward.

  "To bestow the mercy of death upon a suffering comrade," Anod intoned, his hand coming to rest on Azure's.

  "To stand by my friends, whatever may come," Toksaris avowed. As his palm united with theirs, Azure and Anod felt a slight electric jolt.

  "To atone for my past inaction," the man known as Traum confessed, his hand joining the others. They all exchanged firm nods before retracting their hands.

  "Once more, the Seekers of the Artefact ride," Toksaris pronounced. "I just wish the circumstances were more favorable."

  "Flood the Artefact," Anod interjected.

  "Yes," Azure agreed. "This is about justice."

  "Then let us be the Seekers of Justice," the Knight of Penance pronounced. "And nothing will stop us, and anyone who dares to obstruct us will rue the day."