The world was silent when Alkibiades woke.

  A dull ache ran through his bones as if the earth itself had struck him. He pushed himself upright, breath shallow, palms sinking into soil that still trembled with the ghost of magic.

  The ground around him was scorched in wide, uneven circles. Ash and cracked stone painted the landscape in gray and black, and the faint smell of ozone clung to every breath.

  The path had been torn apart. Jagged fragments of cobblestone hung like broken teeth among the dirt, their edges humming with a faint blue shimmer that pulsed once and died. The chaotic portal that had brought him here was gone, leaving only its taste behind.

  He steadied himself on one knee, brushing soot from his gauntlet, then muttered beneath his breath, “Damn it, Aeyona. Gentle landing next time.”

  The wind carried his voice into the emptiness. No reply.

  He turned slowly, scanning the ruins for movement. The others should have been near. They had stepped through the same portal, seconds apart. Yet the world was silent except for the soft hiss of dying magic.

  He called out once, then again louder, his voice echoing through the fractured hills.

  Nothing.

  “I hate magic.” He muttered to himself

  The loneliness of it hit harder than he expected. His chest tightened with the old instinct to curse the gods for their humor, but he swallowed it down. Emotion was a luxury he could not afford. He adjusted his grip on the sword at his hip and forced himself forward, eyes cutting through the haze.

  That was when the shadow moved.

  At first it was only a flicker near the edge of his vision, a dark ripple across the dust. Then it grew sharper, closer. He turned in a fluid motion, blade drawn, the steel catching what little light filtered through the clouds. The silence held for a single heartbeat before it tore apart.

  A vertical wound in the air split open beside him. Space itself seemed to scream. Light bled out around the edges in violent streaks of violet and red.

  The air grew heavy, pressing against his chest as though the world itself had forgotten how to breathe. The wind turned inward, drawing debris toward the widening crack. From within it, something moved.

  Malastare stumbled out of the rift, robes tangled and torn, his face half-hidden beneath his hood. His boots scraped over the burnt earth, and the mark of strained teleportation shimmered across his skin like a ghostly bruise.

  Then came the sound.

  Shrieks rose from the rift, thin and jagged, as two imps burst through behind him. Their wings were tattered, bodies slick with tar-black ichor that steamed where it hit the air. Their faces stretched far too long, teeth needle-thin and wet.

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  One clung to the ground like a spider, the other took to the air, its scream cutting through the dark like broken glass.

  Alkibiades did not hesitate.

  He surged forward, blade flashing. The grounded imp lunged low, its claws slicing sparks from stone, but he sidestepped, slashing upward through its chest.

  The creature shrieked, the sound warping into laughter before dissolving into smoke.

  The flying one dove from behind. Malastare spun, shouting an incantation that split the air into shards of crimson light. The magic flared outward, searing through one of its wings, but the imp kept coming.

  It slammed into Alkibiades, claws digging into his remaining armor, ripping even more of it off. The smell of sulfur filled his nose.

  He drove his sword upward through its ribs. The creature writhed, gurgling, and bit at his shoulder with jaws that should not have existed.

  Malastare thrust his dagger forward, crimson glyphs spiraling from it's pommel. The runes lit the creature from the inside, and it burst apart in a bloom of ash and embers.

  For a moment, the two men fought as if no argument had ever stood between them. Every movement fell into an old rhythm, blade and spell, motion and counter. The clang of steel and the snap of magic rose together, then ended together.

  When the last imp crumbled to dust, silence returned heavier than before. The air trembled with the residue of power, and ash drifted between them like snow.

  Alkibiades lowered his blade, tip brushing the ground but not yet sheathed. His breath came sharp, steady, controlled.

  Malastare straightened slowly, brushing a smear of soot from his sleeve, his fingers trembling faintly. His eyes glimmered with lingering spelllight. “You look like shit,” he said, voice dry but uneven.

  Alkibiades took a slow step closer. “You could have warned me we would have company. Do you usually bring monsters with you?”

  “Demons,” Malastare corrected, catching his breath. “And no. That was not part of the plan.”

  “You never plan for anyone but yourself.”

  Malastare’s mouth twitched. The wind picked up again, tugging at their cloaks, carrying the bitter scent of burnt ozone. He said nothing.

  Alkibiades finally sheathed his sword. The motion was slow, deliberate. “Where have you been?” he asked. “Start talking. Now.”

  Malastare’s expression softened, though weariness lingered behind his eyes. “I wasn’t expecting to find you alone,” he said. “The portal residue, it’s still fresh. You came through that?”

  Alkibiades gave a small, humorless laugh. “If you can call that a landing.”

  Malastare frowned as he studied the shattered ground, the circles of charred soil. “You’re alone. Why?”

  “Looks that way,” Alkibiades said. “Aeyona made the portal for us.”

  Malastare’s brow creased. “That shouldn’t scatter travelers. Unless something went wrong.”

  “Which it did,” Alkibiades replied flatly.

  Malastare glanced around again, wary. “So the others…?”

  “Not here. Not yet, at least.”

  The elf nodded once, his expression unreadable. “Then we have more problems than one. I left for good reason.”

  Alkibiades crossed his arms. “Your own reasons. Of course. The scholar chasing whispers while the rest of us clean up the mess.”

  “You think I enjoy wandering wastelands?” Malastare’s tone sharpened. “I’ve been following the cult’s movements. Their activity has grown bolder in the last few days. Entire caravans vanish. Villages wake to find their wells turned black. It isn’t random.”

  Alkibiades cut him off with a raised hand. “You think I don’t already know that? I’ve seen what they’ve left behind. I’ve watched them butcher and chant in the same breath. Don’t lecture me about the cult.”

  Malastare exhaled slowly. “Then you already know something worse is coming.”

  Alkibiades tilted his head. “How did you find me out here, then?”

  “You still carry the sigil I left you,” Malastare said with a faint smile. “It let me come back easily. And you thought I’d abandoned you.”

  Alkibiades’ frown deepened. “You left without a word. Forgive me if I wasn’t expecting a reunion.”

  The air thickened between them. Ash swirled on the rising wind, glowing faintly where the lingering magic touched it.

  Alkibiades broke the silence first. “Any more actual news?”

  “They are trying to summon something,” Malastare said quietly. “Or rather, bind it. Something powerful.”

  Alkibiades’ grip on his sword tightened again. “Bind?”

  “Yes. Bind, control, contain. Not more undead, though. They seem to already have that. This is something older.”

  His words fell heavy. Even the sound of the wind seemed to fade.

  “What kind of thing are we talking about?”

  “I don’t know,” Malastare admitted. “Only that it is stirring beneath Vinea’s soil. I’ve seen the signs in the ley patterns. The land hums like a body holding its breath. The cult isn’t just raising the dead. I fear they’re trying to summon a lord of the hells.”

  For a moment neither spoke. The horizon flickered faintly in the distance, a dull orange glow like torchlight or fire. Alkibiades’ anger gave way to grim focus.

  “You’re certain of this?”

  Malastare nodded. “Certain enough to leave everything else behind.”

  He turned toward the horizon where the light pulsed again. “You see that?”

  Malastare followed his gaze. “Viexel. The outer ward. I saw it earlier tonight. If your friends made it through, that’s where they’ll be drawn.”

  “Then we move.” Alkibiades adjusted his armor and started down the broken road.

  Malastare gave a soft exhale. “You still don’t trust me.”

  “Trust is still to be earned. Survival comes first.”

  “Always the faithless soldier.”

  “Always alive.”

  The wind rose again, carrying the scent of rain and distant smoke. They walked side by side into the darkness, their shadows long across the ruined path. Ahead, the faint glow of Viexel’s walls shimmered like a promise neither of them could name. Hope or disaster, reunion or another fracture waiting to happen.