The storm broke over the northern coast as Elian and Cray reached the ruins of Varrin Hold.

Once a fortress, now a carcass. Its spires were broken, walls half-swallowed by creeping vines and black moss. The wind howled through the shattered windows like mournful spirits still trapped within.

They had no time for caution.

"The second Anchor is here?" Cray asked, voice barely audible over the thunder.

"Yes," Elian said. The blade at his hip pulsed faintly, pulling him forward like a compass. "Her bloodline traces back to the first Binding. She’s the strongest of the remaining three."

"And the most dangerous," Cray muttered. "If she’s still sane."

Elian didn’t reply. That was a generous if.

Varrin Hold was not merely abandoned — it had become a feeding ground. Creatures of the Veil prowled these ruins, drawn to the flickering power of the Anchor trapped within. The Cult had likely left her here deliberately, unable to control her but unwilling to let anyone else reach her either.

Ahead, the grand archway loomed — once regal, now twisted, the stone bleeding black veins that pulsed like arteries.

As they stepped through, the stench hit them.

Rot. Old magic. Something far fouler beneath it.

The great hall was littered with bones.

Not animal.

Cray nudged a skull with his boot. "She’s made a hobby of discouraging visitors."

"She was bound here for a reason," Elian said grimly.

The pulsing in the blade grew stronger as they approached the inner sanctum.

The chamber beyond was circular, its ceiling collapsed to reveal the storm above. Rain poured down in heavy sheets, striking the ground like spears. In the center, atop a dais of cracked obsidian, sat a woman.

Her skin was pale as ivory, her hair long and tangled, silver strands catching the flashes of lightning. Chains wrapped her limbs, etched with runes that pulsed in rhythm with the storm. Around her, dozens of faint sigils glowed, forming a spiderweb of containment.

Her eyes opened as they approached.

Silver. Piercing. Old.

"Elian Dorne," she whispered, voice echoing unnaturally. "The Bound One returns."

Cray shifted uneasily. "She knows you."

Elian stepped forward, careful not to cross the sigil boundary.

"I never forgot you, Lysara."

Her head tilted. The rain never seemed to touch her, parting as though afraid.

"You abandoned us. You left me to rot while you played immortal."

"I was locked in my own prison," Elian said softly. "The Cult twisted everything. Malrek—"

"Malrek is a symptom," she snapped. "The rot began in the Pact itself. We were pawns even then."

Elian’s jaw tightened. "I didn’t come to argue history. The Seal is breaking. If we don’t reforge the Anchors, everything dies."

Lysara laughed — a sound like shattered glass.

"And you expect me to give you my soul again? You ask me to return to the chain willingly?"

"You were always part of it," Elian said. "The Hollow kept you alive for a reason. You are still the second Anchor, Lysara. If you die, the Seal fractures."

Cray cleared his throat. "She’s not exactly cooperating, Elian."

"I was betrayed," Lysara whispered, her voice dropping into something more fragile. "I watched the others fall. I heard them scream as their souls were consumed. And now you offer me what? Salvation? Another eternity of servitude?"

"Choice," Elian said.

That one word landed heavier than any of the rest.

Lysara’s silver eyes narrowed.

"I will not be chained again," she hissed. And then her voice changed — deeper, layered, corrupted. "But you may die for your arrogance."

The storm surged.

The containment sigils flickered.

And then shattered.

The power that burst from Lysara was not human.

The rain froze midair. The wind became a solid wall. The ground cracked beneath Elian’s feet as she rose, floating inches above the dais, the chains burning away like paper.

"Cray—" Elian barked.

"Already on it," Cray said, pulling a carved obsidian talisman from his coat and hurling it into the air. It exploded in a burst of violet light, creating a temporary warded barrier around them.

Lysara struck it instantly, her hands crackling with silver fire.

"You won’t bind me again!" she shrieked.

Elian stepped forward, raising his blade.

"I’m not here to bind you," he shouted over the storm. "I’m here to wake you!"

The blade pulsed, and for a moment — just a moment — Lysara hesitated.

Elian spoke the old invocation, words nearly lost to history.

"By pact, by blood, by sacrifice — the Anchor stirs. The Weave accepts."

The blade’s glow surged. A thin line of golden light shot forward, striking Lysara’s chest.

She screamed — but not in pain.

In remembrance.

Her body convulsed as old memories poured into her. The original Pact. The sealing of the Gate. The oaths they swore before the world turned.

Her floating form dropped to her knees.

The silver fire in her hands died.

"Elian…" she whispered, her voice no longer layered with corruption. "I… remember."

Elian lowered the blade, his breath heavy. The light from it dimmed.

"It’s done," he said. "The second Anchor is awakened."

Cray exhaled, lowering the ward. "Two down. One to go."

Lysara’s head lifted, and for the first time, a sad smile crossed her lips.

"They won’t let you reach the third," she whispered. "He’s not like me. He’s already been taken."

Far away, within the Hollow Veil’s sanctuary, Malrek stood over the third Anchor — a man whose eyes glowed black, whose veins pulsed with corruption, who was no longer entirely himself.

Malrek whispered into his ear.

"You will bring them to me. Let them come. Let them see what hope costs."

The third Anchor opened his eyes.

And smiled.