Basil carving runes into the dirt while looking like he was on the verge of summoning his own grave.
If someone had told Nythir a year ago that he would lead a rescue mission for the woman he loved, accompanied by this… collection of souls, he would have punched the future forinsulting him. Now he just braced himself for whatever was about to happen.
Lyssara strolled to his side, braid swinging like a weapon. “Ready to start a war with kitchen utensils?” she asked.
“No,” he muttered. “But since when has readiness mattered to anyone here?”
“Never,” she agreed with terrifying cheer.
Vorrik proudly held two iron pans together like ceremonial drums. “I am going to dent a king’s skull with this.”
“That isn’t how wars work,” Nythir tried, knowing full well it was pointless.
“Neither is our group,” Lyssara reminded him.
He had no answer for that.
A low hum vibrated through the frost as Basil stepped away from the massive sigil he’d carved into the hardened earth. The design was beautifully complex—Draewyn circlework intertwined with ancient Valedaran calligraphy, glyphs for movement and protection layered with geometry used during emergency evacuations. Trained mages should have used it, not… this.
Basil straightened. “Everyone step inside. Carefully. Do not cross the—”
The horde surged forward immediately, trampling half the symbols. Someone dragged a pitchfork through a delicate arc. A small child dropped a spoon directly into the circle’s core.
Basil made a sound that could only be described as academic heartbreak.
“Please,” he begged. “For the love of every deity—do not cross the runic—”
Too late.
The magic was already out of control.
Nythir could feel it vibrating through the ground, uneven and furious, like a heart beating too fast. Basil stood at the center,eyes wild, hands glowing with sigils that refused to remain stable. This wasn’t careful spellwork. This was grief given form.
For the first time, Nythir understood that whatever line they had meant not to cross had already been obliterated. There would be no retreat from this.
The Baroness swept forward, radiant with confidence and delusion. “My time to shine.”
“Oh gods,” Basil whispered.
She opened the golden locket at her throat and tipped Estella’s stored blessing into the sigil. The entire field blazed with molten light as every relic and enchanted trinket blessed by Queen Estella awakened in a single breath.
Nythir’s teeth buzzed. His vision burned white. The magic surged so violently that the frost cracked beneath their feet.
Vorrik squinted. “Is it supposed to glow this much?”
“No,” Basil said.
“No,” Sable echoed.
A pulse rolled through the sigil—deep, ancient, alive.
The earth split open.
And a phoenix, enormous and incandescent, tore upward in a column of gold.
Nythir stumbled back. “What—”
The phoenix tilted midair, wings arching like molten scythes, and dove straight at them.
