Chapter 66

  Reprieve

  Elara stands at the camp’s edge, the cold night air threading through her robes like unseen fingers. Her breath curls in the dim light, a ghostly wisp that vanishes before reaching the treetops. Her fingers twitch against the worn fabric of her sleeves, tracing absent patterns—an old scholar’s habit, a tether for restless thought. The wind carries the scent of damp earth and old rot, an acrid undercurrent beneath the woodsmoke and sweat clinging to the camp.

  Lyra’s hounds move like living shadows between the sentries, their sleek forms slipping between torchlight and darkness. Muscles coil beneath thick fur as they prowl, their ears flicking at sounds beyond mortal hearing. Their hackles rise, bristling like dry grass before a storm, and their amber eyes gleam—feral, watchful, catching firelight in unnatural ways. A low growl rumbles from one of them, a sound felt more than heard, swallowed by the murmur of the camp.

  Elara swallows, her pulse quickening. They sense it too. The weight. The wrongness pressing at the perimeter. It lingers beyond the fire’s reach, unseen but palpable, an unspoken presence tightening around her ribs. She inhales slowly, steadying herself, but the unease does not break.

  The ruins loom behind them, jagged towers and broken walls swallowed in shadow. Even beyond its gates, the castle has not relinquished them.

  “Come now…” Elara whistles, the sharp sound cutting through the camp’s subdued murmur. The fell hounds move as one, their massive forms gliding to her side with the effortless grace of creatures born to the hunt. Their dark pelts drink in the firelight, the flickering glow casting eerie patterns along their muscular frames. One lets out a low, rumbling chuff, ears twitching toward the treeline—toward something unseen, watching.

  Flames crackle and twist, their warmth battling the night’s creeping chill. Shadows stretch and recoil across the canvas of makeshift tents, shifting like restless specters. The camp hums with quiet industry—scholars hunched over ancient relics, their murmurs blending with the scratch of quills against parchment. Engineers and excavators work at the perimeter, driving stakes into the earth, reinforcing barriers of sharpened wood and stacked stone. Nearby, mercenaries sharpen blades by torchlight, the rhythmic rasp of whetstones underscoring the distant hammering of adventurers securing the last of the camp’s defenses.

  “Elara?” Enoux’s voice is steady, measured. She approaches with Garik, Tibbins, and Pocket in tow. Despite the day’s grime, her noble bearing remains untouched. “You’re unsettled.”

  Elara exhales sharply. “I saw it, Enoux.”

  Garik stops mid-stride, catching the weight in her tone. “Saw what?”

  “The dungeon,” she breathes. “What waits below.”

  The words still the air around them. Even Lyra, curled beside Selene’s sleeping form, lifts her head.

  “I saw our deaths.” Elara’s throat tightens. “The undead. The vampires. The machines—automatons still running their last command. A lich at the end of our journey, patiently waiting to usher us into our final demise.”

  Silence. Heavy. Unyielding.

  “You saw what?” Pocket’s face lights up. “Automatons?”

  Elara nods.

  Tibbins and Pocket exchange gleeful glances, the kind that only scholars of the arcane and absurd could share.

  “That’s… that’s it?” Garik frowns. “I mean… how in the inferno’s reach did you see us? ?”

  Elara’s lips twitch in a humorless smile. “I… had help.”

  “Help?” Enoux’s eyes narrow.

  “Aks’Stof,” Elara says.

  Enoux stiffens. “Aks’Stof?” she echoes, voice barely above a whisper.

  Elara nods. “A prisoner. Chained within the castle.”

  Garik exhales through his nose, the sound sharp, pragmatic. “Stones in my beard…”

  Elara grips her arm, gaze locked on the looming silhouette of the castle. The weight in her chest sinks deeper.

  “That’s not all,” she murmurs.

  Garik gives a wary grunt. “Oh?”

  Elara meets his eyes, unflinching. “Garik… we fucked up.”

  Elara stands near the fire, its warmth failing to chase away the cold sinking deep into her bones. Her mind hums with restless energy, the echoes of her vision pressing against the edges of her thoughts. Across the fire, Garik and Pocket argue, their voices a low but insistent buzz against the night.

  “I’m telling you, it’s the Lich we should worry about, not some damn automatons,” Garik says, arms crossed, irritation sharpening his words. “Mindless things can be broken. Undead sorcery? That’s a different beast.”

  Pocket snorts, shaking his head. “A different beast that hasn’t stirred in centuries. The automatons move. That means

  is powering them.”

  Garik’s scowl deepens. “Of course. By the great hammer, what has you all wound up, isn’t it?” He huffs. “Just something else for you to reverse-engineer and add to your fancy little toy-box, eh?”

  “Of course!” Pocket grins. “Garik, my boy, I

  retired, after all.”

  “Retirement won’t mean a damn thing when those bloodsuckers drain the taxpayers funding your—” he gestures vaguely, “—”

  Pocket recoils at the thought. “Oh… I see. Point taken. The undead do seem like the more pressing matter.”

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  “Now he says it.” Garik snorts.

  Elara barely listens. Her thoughts are elsewhere—trapped in the moment when she saw Aks’Stof. The way his hollow gaze met hers from the castle’s depths. She turns to Enoux, voice low.

  “He’s alive. Barely.”

  Enoux stiffens. The crack in her composure is small, but Elara catches it. “Who?”

  Elara swallows. “Aks’Stof.”

  A sharp breath. Then silence. Firelight flickers over Enoux’s face, carving shadows across her features. Her hands—steady even in battle—curl into fists.

  “How… is that possible?” she murmurs. “He disappeared after he destroyed the Ebon Mountains.”

  “I don’t know exactly,” Elara admits. “But he’s there. The throne room isn’t the destination—it’s a wall. A first line of defense. The castle is to keep people out… or keep something ”

  Enoux’s eyes darken with understanding. “Something like that…” she says slowly, “requires an infinite power source. Either from an undying star… or—”

  “An immortal being.” Elara finishes the thought, throat tightening. “Like Aks’Stof.”

  A long pause.

  Enoux exhales. “Do you think…?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Elara says, though the words taste hollow.

  Enoux leans in, teasing now. “So… you met your grandfather?”

  Lyra, half-drowsing by the fire, chokes. “Your ?”

  Laughter breaks the tension. The sound is unexpected—strange in the wake of what they’ve learned—but real.

  Still, hearing it aloud sends a pang through Elara’s chest. The word feels foreign, too soft for the image burned into her mind—his shackles woven from void, the weight of ancient sorrow in his eyes.

  She nods. “That’s right, Lyra.” A small smile touches her lips. “We… have a grandfather.”

  Lyra and her hounds perk up, tails thumping against the dirt.

  Enoux exhales, her expression unreadable. Then, with slow deliberation, she steps forward and pulls both of her nieces into a brief, firm embrace.

  Tibbins slides off Gru’s broad shoulder, his usual cocky grin absent. Behind him, the Gnarly Roses hover in uneasy silence—Rin’s sharp gaze flicking between faces, Nia’s fingers drumming against her belt, Roaka and Ula whispering in hushed tones.

  Elara swallows, steadying herself. The words feel heavier than they should. “We made a mistake.”

  Rin is the first to respond. “How?”

  “The man we killed—” Elara’s voice is steady, but the weight of the truth presses against her ribs. “He wasn’t just another threat. Not an intruder. And if he was… then so are we.”

  Silence settles over the group.

  Nia tilts her head. “What makes you say that?”

  Elara exhales. “Because he was the key.”

  More silence, but this time it’s different. The tension shifts—sharp, expectant.

  Garik’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

  Elara turns to him. “Garik… did Selene seem, at any point, confused? Unusually afraid?”

  He hesitates, then his eyes widen. “Now that you mention it… she nearly hyperventilated when she first saw—” He stops. His jaw tightens. “Oh, crap.”

  Enoux’s expression darkens. “Garik… are you telling me—”

  He nods once.

  Elara presses on. “Killing him was a mistake. First, because he was Soul-Bound.”

  A collective gasp ripples through the group.

  “Second,” she continues, “because his death woke something in the castle… or rather, enraged it.”

  A murmur of curses and hushed whispers spreads through the camp. Garik folds his arms, his face unreadable. “You’re saying the castle is stirring because of us?”

  “No.” Elara shakes her head. “It’s more than that. Its denizens—whatever they are—were bound to him.”

  Enoux and Pocket exchange sharp glances.

  “To the Human?” Enoux’s voice is flat. “That’s impossible.”

  Pocket’s voice quivers. “But that would mean, he’s—"

  “It is,” Elara agrees. “Also, Aks’stof confirmed it himself.”

  A collective groan.

  Elara pushes forward. “His death fractured the balance. I’ve seen three factions forming inside. One wants us dead. One wants nothing to do with this. And the third… the third fights for justice.”

  Pocket scoffs. “Since when do lifeless husks care about justice?”

  “They aren’t lifeless.” Elara meets his gaze. “And they chose our side.”

  The fire crackles, filling the silence. Even Garik seems to reconsider, his jaw working as he processes the information.

  “We don’t have time to argue,” Elara presses. “The castle isn’t done with us. Whatever civil war is brewing in there, we’re caught in it.”

  Garik exhales sharply. “Then we set new rules. No one strays past the perimeter. Double the watch. And if anything moves in the dark—”

  “We assume it’s hostile,” Roaka finishes, voice firm.

  “No,” Ula says suddenly. “You aren’t paying attention. Killing is what got us into this mess.”

  Roaka scowls. “And not killing will get us killed.”

  “Killing him broke the balance,” Rin points out. “We trust Elara’s visions. We always have.”

  The others nod, but Elara isn’t reassured.

  “You still don’t understand.” Her voice drops, urgent. “Any further conflict with the castle will be our doom. If we fight—if we kill again—we all die.”

  The words hang in the air.

  Garik exhales. “So what’s the plan?”

  Elara hesitates. Even saying it feels absurd. But it’s the only way. “We have to find the man we killed.”

  A beat of silence—then laughter. Gru lets out a booming chuckle. Tibbins wipes at his eyes, grinning. “She’s lost it. All the head-mumbo-jumbo finally caught up with her.”

  Before Elara can snap, Enoux and Pocket stiffen.

  “No,” they say in unison.

  Enoux turns to Elara, eyes sharp with realization. “You’re right.”

  Pocket nods, rubbing his chin.

  Garik stares at them like they’ve all gone mad. “He’s dead. We killed him.”

  “Yes,” Enoux says slowly. “But, according to legend… they don’t stay dead for long.”

  Garik’s expression twists, understanding dawning. His mouth moves soundlessly before the word finally comes out.

  “…Respawn.”

  Elara meets his gaze and nods.