This was it.

They were the only ones left to stand against a darkness Adaria had never known. And Dreu had seen its many faces before.

“What is it?” Cassius’ voice cut through the haze that had claimed Dreu’s thoughts these past days. He turned toward the hunter, the Spellblade. One of the last. One of a kind.

“Nothing,” Dreu replied, forcing a smile that vanished before it could fully form. “Let’s get on the road.”

Cassius didn’t so much as blink. His gaze lingered, unreadable. If Dreu hadn’t known him so well, he might have mistaken the flicker in Cassius’ eyes for concern. But this was Cassius. 

He nudged his horse forward, but Cassius’ hand tightened on the reins, holding him back.

“Talk to me, monk,” he said, his voice flat and unwavering. “If you’ve kept anything from us, anything that might save our lives, now is the time to speak.”

Dreu felt Seraphis’ and Aliss’ eyes settle on him, waiting.

“Like I said, it’s nothing,” Dreu insisted, his eyes flashing with sharp intensity. Cassius arched one dark brow subtly before turning away. He clearly hadn’t believed him.

The group moved out of the clearing and back beneath the cover of trees. Their horses, rested and fed, surged forward across the uneven ground. At the thunder of hooves, the fauna scattered, none daring to cross their path.

Dreu rode at the rear, his gaze fixed on Cassius’ taut figure in the saddle ahead of him, while Aliss and Seraphis led at the front. The two spoke quietly about what might await them, their voices doing nothing to still the rising images clawing at the back of Dreu’s mind.

An Archivist.

Zenior was working with an Archivist.

It didn’t take long for Dreu to piece it together. He had suspected something earlier, especially when he learned that Zenior was removing memories, but it had sounded painless, subtle, something people wouldn’t even notice. He had dismissed it. Not anymore. Not after Essenwall. Whoever it was, they were moving quietly, avoiding detection.

Dreu’s grip tightened on the reins, his jaw clenching as memory bled into the present.

He was back on that narrow stretch of ground, molten river blazing on either side. Forced to his knees, he felt nothing of the heat, only the unraveling of his life all around him. The entire order of the monks had been there, yet not a single voice rose in his defense.

“I’m sorry…” Her trembling apology echoed through his memory again and again. “I’m sorry.”

“PLEASE!” Dreu’s voice broke with desperation. “Let her go! I’m the one at fault! Punish me, let her go!”

But no one listened. 

And from the shadows, he emerged. His robes were a deep earthen brown, and his hair, as dark as midnight, was drawn back from his face yet cascading down his back. The smile he wore was sharp, cunning, and triumphant.

“You know the rules, Dreu Kaelen. Our order does not yield to the temptations of this world.”

“You are right,” Dreu forced out, his throat tight at the sight of her suffering. “I am the one who sinned. I should be the one you punish.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” the man replied, barely containing the thrill in his voice. “And that is precisely what we are doing now, punishing you.”

And then, without warning, he began tearing her memories away, strand by strand. Her screams left no doubt about the depth of her suffering. The Archivist, the Keeper of Discipline in Dreu’s monastic order, took delight in her torment, watching her body writhe as if each stolen memory were a nerve ripped raw.

“STOP!” Dreu shouted, but his voice was swallowed by her cries.

The mage only smiled. Raising his hand, he let his magic seize Dreu’s mind as well. He didn’t strip Dreu of his memories; instead, he inflicted something far crueler. He made him feel everything she felt; every rip, every violation, every scream. Soon, Dreu’s own cries joined hers, yet not a soul stirred to help them, not a single voice rose against the torment.

Their minds were scoured as if scraped with acid. He felt her memories dissolve, leaving only a burning emptiness in their wake. The mage wasn’t content with simply erasing her memories; he went further. He left some intact only to twist them, turning secret moments of joy into traumas, laughter into screams, and Dreu’s own face into the visage of the monster behind her suffering.

And then, he stopped.

Dreu came back to his senses, lying flat on the ground, numb from head to toe. Above him stretched a sky stripped of stars, void of light. Beside him, she sobbed softly, her voice broken as she begged the monster to save her. Pleading, desperate, she begged him to free her from Dreu.

He comforted her, his voice pouring into Dreu’s ears like molten lava, scalding yet sweetened with a false, honeyed tone. Dreu felt the burn of that voice more keenly than the heat from the molten river not far from his fingertips. The Archivist lifted her to her feet and led her away, gone, never to be seen again.

Art above by Nelson Oga

“Come.” Dreu’s master stopped beside him, extending a hand. Dreu stared at it for a long moment, recalling the years of lessons, guidance, and trust he had once placed in this man. But today, all of it was betrayed. As head of the Monastic Order, he could have stopped the Archivist. He had the power. He had the authority. Yet he chose not to. He had chosen rules over mercy, doctrine over humanity, and order over what truly mattered.

The memory shattered. Dreu snapped back to the present, nearly slipping from his saddle into the mud. Ahead, Cassius was watching him; reins clutched in hand, his brow furrowed. While Dreu had been lost in his memories, they had stopped riding, and from the look of the reins in Cassius’ grasp, he had reached out to stop Dreu.

Dreu held his breath, waiting for words that never came. Cassius only studied him, his gaze fixed on the tension radiating off Dreu. Still, the hunter remained silent, just as Seraphis did. Yet as a Thunderborne, Seraphis could feel every ripple of emotion running through Dreu.

“We’ll take a short rest here,” Seraphis announced, dismounting and leading his horse away from the muddy ground.

“Rest?” Aliss groaned. “Again? How long have we been riding?”

“It’s midday, seer,” Seraphis replied, irritation creeping into his tone. “Sovervale isn’t far. We’ll reach it by nightfall.”

“That is the perfect timing,” Cassius added. “We can approach unnoticed. We need the cover of darkness.”

“Great,” Aliss muttered, but she said no more.

Dreu slid off his horse, legs unsteady beneath him. Cassius noticed immediately and stepping closer.

“Something’s troubling you,” Cassius said quietly. “If it’s tied to our mission, it’s better you speak now. If not, don’t let it put us all in danger.”

“Watch it,” Dreu snapped, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Clearly,” Cassius murmured, stepping back.

Dreu took a moment to steady himself. The Archivist from his past, he was certain, was not the one working with Zenior. That man had been the reason Dreu had traded years of his life to gain power, to exact revenge. He had savored the moment when the life had faded from the Archivist’s eyes, stripping him of his cruelty and shock. That vengeance had led to Dreu’s expulsion from the order, a price he had accepted without regret.

But he hadn’t been released without one final mission, one entrusted to him because, Dreu suspected, it had to be carried out in secrecy. Only he could be trusted to do it, and his master was the only one who knew about it.

“I’ll peer into the Otherside once more,” Dreu announced casually. Cassius’s sharp gaze lingered on him, clearly seeing through the facade, though he said nothing.

“Be careful,” Aliss whispered. Her concern tugged at something in him, and for a brief moment, the corners of his lips lifted in a ghost of a smile.

“I will,” he promised.

He settled on a dry patch of ground, crossing his legs and leaning his staff against the tree behind him. Placing his hands on his knees, he closed his eyes.

The pull was instantaneous. One moment he was surrounded by the soft wind and the chirping of birds, the scent of wet grass and mud. The next moment, he was engulfed by the suffocating stench of rot, the Otherside claiming him utterly.

Everything was hazy, his own form the only point of light in the consuming darkness that seemed endlessly hungry. Shapes drifted around him, some solid, some little more than smoke. Each creature was more evil than the one beside it.

Each step was a struggle, as if an invisible force sought to push him back, to expel him from a place where he did not belong. A form paused to regard him, its hisses and groans echoing through the void.

“Where is Lard?” Dreu asked, addressing a being as ancient as Adaria itself. The creature loomed colossal, slumbering like a mountain in the distance. It was the one who had always answered Dreu, never asking for anything in return. One day, he knew, it would name its price, and he would have to pay. But not today. Not yet.

“He waits for you,” the creature replied, its chuckle sending tremors across the ground on which Dreu floated. “He has grown strong enough to release the smaller ones, the weaker ones.”

Terror coiled in Dreu’s chest at the words, but his training kept his voice steady.

“Does he fear us so?” he pressed.

The creature laughed, a sound that reverberated through the Otherside. “He fears no one. Not even those who call themselves his masters.”

Dreu needed no further answers. His gaze caught another figure in the distance, one that burned with colors like his own, stepping into the Otherside from elsewhere, cloaked from head to toe. Recognition struck him like ice: the Archivist. The sight sent a shiver down Dreu’s spine, and before the Archivist could reach him with his magic, Dreu stepped out of the Otherside.

 Away from the hooded eyes.

Away from the cruel magic that had once stolen everything from him.

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