Lord of the realm

"So," he said.

"Priorities have shifted, have they?"

"The boy can be dealt with later," Wendelina said coldly.

"Right now, I'm more interested in making sure whatever's in that temple doesn't fall into the hands of demons and cultists."

Pride watched this with what might have been admiration.

"Interesting," he mused.

"You're willing to fight me for a treasure you don't even understand. That's either courage or foolishness. I haven't decided which yet."

"Call it what you want," Wendelina said.

Her power flared, silver light intensifying around her hands.

"But that temple and whatever's inside it are under Coven protection now. Die quickly or die in extreme pain. Your choice."

For a long moment, Pride didn't move. The assembled Blaedred forces tensed, awaiting his command. The witches prepared to unleash devastation.

The air itself seemed to hold its breath.

Then Pride laughed.

It was a genuine laugh, full of dark amusement.

"Oh, Mother of the bitches. You're magnificent. Three hundred years old and still so gloriously predictable."

He spread his arms wide, the gesture theatrical. "But I'm afraid I can't accommodate your request. I've come too far and waited too long to leave empty-handed."

"Then you'll die here," Wendelina stated flatly.

"Perhaps," Pride acknowledged.

"Or perhaps you will. Or perhaps—and this is the most interesting option—we'll all die when whatever's in that temple decides it doesn't like being disturbed by either of us."

He gestured toward the cracked temple, and as if responding to his words, a deep rumble came from within. The ground trembled. Dust and debris fell from the damaged structure.

Everyone felt it—a pulse of power, different from Jaenor's wild emergence but no less potent. Ancient. Patient. Aware.

"You see," Pride continued, his voice carrying easily over the rumbling, "the Ki'thara weren't just guardians. They were wardens. They weren't protecting the artifact from being stolen. They were protecting the world from what the artifact might do if improperly handled."

Wendelina's expression flickered with uncertainty for the first time.

"And you want to unleash that?"

"I want to control it," Pride corrected.

"There's a difference. The knowledge contained in that temple, the power it represents—it's from a time when the barriers between aura and origin energy were being actively studied, experimented with. Before the war made such research heretical."

He turned his masked face toward where Jaenor lay unconscious, Morgana and Rena still protectively flanking him.

"That boy just demonstrated what happens when those forces merge uncontrolled. Imagine what could be accomplished with the proper knowledge, with guidance from those who succeeded before the Separation."

"Succeeded?" Wendelina's voice was sharp.

"They failed. The Separation happened precisely because people tried to merge those forces. The war nearly destroyed everything."

"Did they fail?" Pride asked softly.

"Or were they stopped? There's a difference between something not working and something working too well."

Another rumble from the temple, stronger this time. Cracks spread across its face like a spider's web. Whatever was inside was waking up, responding to the presence of so much gathered power.

"Last chance," she said to Pride.

"Leave now. Take your cultists and go. I'll overlook this incursion if you withdraw immediately."

"No," Pride said simply.

"I don't think I will."

He raised one hand, and darkness exploded outward from him. Not shadow—true absence of light, as if reality itself was being carved away. The darkness formed into shapes, weapons, and creatures made of void and hunger.

"Kill them all," Pride commanded.

"Take the temple. Retrieve what we came for."

The Blaedred forces surged forward with a roar.

Wendelina's response was instant.

"Annihilate them!"

The witches unleashed their prepared spells simultaneously.

Lightning, fire, force, and stranger things erupted across the battlefield. The two sides collided in the center of the devastated clearing, and the night lit up with the fury of origin energy and dark arts.

Wendelina herself moved toward Draelusa, her power fully manifested now. Silver light condensed into blade-like forms around her, each one capable of cutting through steel like paper.

Draelusa met her advance with his own darkness, and when their powers collided, the shockwave flattened trees fifty feet away.

"You should have taken the deal," Pride said as they clashed.

"We could have had the bloodshed, and you could have saved your little army of witches."

"I don't make deals with demons," Wendelina snarled, sending a barrage of energy lances toward him.

He deflected them casually, darkness flowing like water to intercept each attack.

"Pity," he said.

"Because whether you win here or I do, that boy is going to wake up eventually. And when he does, he's going to be your problem or mine. Wouldn't it be better if we faced that threat together?"

"The only threat I see right now is you!"

Wendelina poured more power into her assault, and the battle between them intensified.

Around them, witches and cultists fought and died. Blood soaked into the already devastated ground. Screams and spellcasting filled the air.

And in the midst of all this chaos, Jaenor Arkwright lay unconscious, the epicenter of power that everyone was too busy fighting to properly watch.

Morgana held his hand, tears streaming down her face.

-

The battle erupted with devastating fury.

Wendelina's silver blades carved through the darkness Draelusa summoned, each clash sending ripples of power that made the air scream.

Around them, the two forces collided like opposing tides—witches hurling bolts of origin energy, Blaedred soldiers responding with dark arts that twisted reality itself.

A witch fell, her throat torn open by a shadow-creature that Draelusa had manifested. She didn't even have time to scream before the darkness consumed her completely, leaving nothing behind.

A Blaedred cultist staggered backward, his chest caved in from a Force technique. He tried to cast something, hands forming symbols, but blood poured from his mouth and he collapsed.

The clearing had become a killing ground.

Fire bloomed in massive pillars. Lightning arced between combatants. The ground itself was being torn apart by the sheer concentration of power being unleashed. Trees that had stood for centuries were reduced to splinters in seconds.

Morgana crouched over Jaenor's unconscious form, her body shielding him instinctively.

Rena was beside her, eyes wide with terror as she watched the carnage unfold around them. They were in the center of a storm, and it was only a matter of time before they got caught in the crossfire.

Baren acted in the moment. He knew that they were going to kill Jaenor. When he was held here by the sect, he overheard them hearing about the artifacts in the temple and how the clan people protected it and died while doing it.

He thought it would certainly interest the coven lady, and it did, seeing how they were fighting for it.

"We need to move!" Rena shouted over the din of battle.

"Now!"

"I know!" Morgana's mind raced.

Every instinct screamed at her to run, but Jaenor was dead weight, unconscious and unable to help himself. And they were surrounded by combatants who wouldn't hesitate to kill them if they got in the way.

A blast of dark energy struck the ground ten feet from them, leaving a smoking crater. The shockwave knocked Morgana sideways, and she barely kept her grip on Jaenor's arm.

That settled it.

They had to leave.

Now.

"Darian!" Morgana called out, scanning the chaos for familiar faces.

The broad-shouldered knight appeared from behind an overturned cart, blood streaming from a cut above his eye. Taeryn was with him, spear in hand, looking grim and ready.

"We're getting out of here," Morgana said as they reached her.

It wasn't a question or a suggestion. It was a decision, and her tone left no room for argument. "Darian, can you carry him?"

Darian looked at Jaenor's limp form, then nodded once.

"I've carried heavier," he said, moving to hoist his friend onto his shoulders.

Jaenor was tall and muscular, but Darian was stronger. He grunted with effort as he positioned the unconscious body, adjusting the weight until Jaenor was secure in a fireman's carry.

"Got him. Let's move."

"Wait!" Rena grabbed Morgana's arm.

She looked for Baren.

Morgana scanned the battlefield again, her healer's instincts at war with cold pragmatism. Staying would get them all killed. But abandoning people felt wrong, felt like betrayal.

Then she saw him.

Baren was fighting; he held off two Blaedred soldiers. He was wounded, favoring his left side, but his technique was still solid. Behind him, several survivors from the village cowered against the cracked stones.

And standing slightly apart from the main battle, Raelana was with him, and she saw Morgana and nodded at her.

As they waited, Raelana and Baren made their way towards them.

'We need to hurry," Darian suggested.

"Which way?" Taeryn asked, his spear held defensively as another explosion rocked the clearing.

Morgana pointed toward the northern edge of the forest, away from both the main battle and the paths the Blaedred forces had used to arrive.

"That way. Stay low, move fast, and if anyone tries to stop us—"

"We go through them," Taeryn finished grimly.

They moved.