ShadowBound: The Need For Power

Before Aesmirius and Sylvathar's clash had erupted, Mystica and Magnus had already succeeded in locating Caelum, Sylas, Tharionson, Regulus, and Varyn.

Regulus and Varyn, though caught in the fringes of Sylvathar's mystic pulse, had managed to shield themselves quickly enough to avoid fatal damage—though their armor bore cracks, and their breath came uneven. Tharionson had collapsed entirely, not just from the weight of Sylvathar's aura but from exhaustion—he had already fought two hybrid generals in a brutal engagement prior. His myst reserves were depleted, and his body had finally given out.

But it was Caelum and Sylas who had taken the worst of it.

Sylas had suffered a brutal, ironic injury—his own ice-forged spear had been dislodged in the chaos and driven straight through his abdomen, the jagged blade erupting from his lower back in a grotesque exit wound. Blood soaked his robes, and his breath was barely audible, his heartbeat flickering near silence.

Caelum fared no better. A root tendril summoned by Sylvathar at the last moment—just as Caelum had attempted to land—had lanced into his side. A chunk of his right abdomen had been torn away, revealing the stark white of rib bones and pale coils of intestine dangling from the open wound like wet ropes. He had screamed once before the pain overwhelmed him.

Yet despite the devastation, none of them perished.

Mystica, though pale and visibly drained, had stabilized them all. She wove healing glyphs with surgical precision as she closed Sylas's wound just enough to halt the bleeding and numbed Caelum's shredded nerve endings to prevent shock from killing him outright.

Once stabilized, Mystica activated a coordinated teleportation spell.

They reappeared in Ilis.

The capital city stood eerily quiet. Sylvathar's myst had cleared, and the demon horde—more than half—had been utterly eradicated by Aesmirius's earlier attack. The rest had been eliminated by Ilis's defending forces. The battle was over. For now.

The seven warriors were greeted immediately by the city's remaining medics and healers. Caelum and Sylas, both critically injured, were rushed to reinforced stasis beds under protective wards. Tharionson, on orders from King Tharion himself, was taken directly to the royal infirmary, where he could receive treatment from the most skilled physicians in the kingdom.

Regulus and Varyn were also seen to, their wounds tended quickly. But when the healers turned to Mystica and Magnus, the two veterans refused further aid. Though clearly fatigued—Mystica's glow dimmed, and Magnus leaned heavily on his sword—they waved the medics off.

As the chaos settled, Lucy appeared.

Dressed in scorched armor, her cloak torn, and her face marred by ash and weariness, she approached the duo. Her expression was grim.

"Come with me," she said quietly. "We need to talk. Privately."

She led them through the crumbling remnants of Ilis to a quiet quarter of the city, away from listening ears. Members of the Royal Corps followed discreetly, keeping watch for spies or lingering threats.

When they reached an abandoned corridor of shattered marble and broken statues, Lucy turned to them.

"As of right now," she began, her voice calm but taut, "you two—along with my agents—are the only ones capable of protecting Liam once Aesmirius's presence fades."

Mystica crossed her arms, expression unreadable. "I figured as much. Aesmirius's presence is interwoven with Liam's dark magic. Valemir and Tharion would've sensed it the moment he arrived—and they won't just ignore that. Once Aesmirius relinquishes control, Liam's body is going to crash… just like last time."

"And in that moment," Lucy added, nodding, "he'll be completely defenseless. They'll take the opportunity to kill him without hesitation."

"And without Galen around to stop them…" Mystica trailed off.

"Liam's life will be hanging by a thread," Lucy finished.

Magnus exhaled, dragging a gloved hand down his jaw as he leaned against a broken column.

"I haven't been briefed on the full situation with the kid," he admitted, "but I don't need to be. If protecting him is what's needed—I'm in."

Lucy gave him a rare, small smile. "Thanks for being simple, as always, Magnus."

"Anytime."

She straightened, then gestured back toward the camp. "Let's head back."

As they turned and walked through the battered ruins, toward the temporary infirmary, Mystica suddenly stopped. Her eyes lifted toward the sky.

"The spatial distortions…" she murmured. "They've stopped."

"You think it's over?" Magnus asked, his tone low, almost wary.

Mystica closed her eyes, reaching out with her senses. "I don't know. But we'll find out soon enough."

She raised a hand, myst forming a pulsing portal sigil meant to open a rift to Zone 16—far enough to observe, close enough to react.

But she never completed it.

Because something else opened first.

Above the infirmary camp, a portal shimmered into being—sickly green and pulsating with regal power. Everyone nearby froze. Healers, soldiers, guards—all went silent.

They knew.

Floating through the rift with effortless grace was Sylvathar.

He was bloodied, but not broken. His robe hung loosely off his frame, torn in places but still flowing like it answered only to his will. His right hand was clasped behind his back. In his left—

He held someone.

Dangling by the hair like discarded prey was Liam.

His body was limp, clothes burned and shredded, his face bruised and bloodied, arms limp at his sides. Sylvathar held him aloft like a conquered prize, his emerald eyes cold and unfazed.

Gasps echoed across the camp.

Lucy's pupils dilated, Mystica's mouth parted and Magnus tightened his grip on his weapon.

Everyone recognized the boy—not by face, but by what he did. This was the one who had appeared from thin air, stood infront of a demon army and wiped it out with just one brutal attack. The one who challenge Sylvathar directly. The one who gave them hope.

And now, that boy hung lifeless in the grip of a man who looked down on them not with rage… but silence.

An eerie, chilling silence.

Sylvathar floated there, suspended in the air like a judgment passed, his expression serene, almost reverent.

The healers faltered and soldiers began to step back.

Because in that moment, they understood.

Hope had not just died.

It had been carried back to them in the hands of their executioner.

Sylvathar surveyed the field of battered warriors and stunned civilians, his gaze sweeping across each face twisted with horror, disbelief, and helplessness. The sight stirred something dark within him. A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—cold, cruel, and satisfied.

"Ah… such rapture," he murmured, voice calm and regal, every syllable polished like a king's decree. "To witness each and every one of you sink so gracefully into despair… truly mesmerizing. I could watch this unravel forever."

He paused, letting the silence stretch—letting it seep into their bones—before suddenly flinging Liam's limp body to the ground with a careless flick, as if discarding rotten waste. Liam struck the earth with a dull thud, the impact sending a small cloud of dust into the air.

Mystica and Magnus darted forward without hesitation.

They dropped to their knees beside the boy's unmoving body. His breath came in shallow rasps, barely audible. His face was streaked in blood—his chin wet with it, trails leaking from his nose, the corners of his eyes stained crimson as if he had wept tears of blood, and from his ears, slow, steady drips. His skin was pale as parchment.

"He's still breathing," Mystica said softly, but the tremble in her voice betrayed the dread coiling in her chest.

Above them, Sylvathar's voice echoed once more, distant but unmistakable.

"Worry not," he said, hands clasped neatly behind his back. "I haven't killed him. Not yet. What fun would there be if no one was around to witness his end? Death, after all, is far more poetic when it's performed."

His gaze shifted with eerie calm toward one of the larger infirmary tents. Then a flicker of familiarity crossed his eyes, followed by a faint smirk.

"He did well bringing the princess here," he said almost tenderly. "Now, I believe I'll be taking her with me."

Green tendrils of myst emerged from the air around him—thread-thin but vibrant, glowing with arcane life. They slithered across the camp like vines, homing in on the tent. A moment later, the fabric split open gently, and Sheila was pulled forth—still unconscious, wrapped in protective gauze, her silvery hair stained and tousled. The myst carried her with surprising care and deposited her beside Sylvathar, who looked down at her like a collector admiring his rarest trophy.

But that was when a roar shattered the moment.

King Valemir surged from the sidelines, his longsword already drawn, eyes wild with paternal fury. "You will not take her!" he bellowed, launching upward with the force of a divine storm, aiming to cleave Sylvathar in two.

Sylvathar barely turned his head.

A single pulse of emerald myst shot from his palm—a wave so dense it cracked the air. It struck Valemir mid-flight, folding him in on himself and hurling him back down like a meteor. He smashed into the ground, cratering it, coughing violently as his sword clattered from his hand.

Sylvathar descended ever so slightly.

"Ah…" he said thoughtfully, eyes flicking between Sheila and the groaning form of the man beneath. "You're her father. King Granger. I see the resemblance."

He gave a nod—not out of respect, but mockery—his voice dipped in icy amusement. "She's not your daughter anymore. She's mine now."

Valemir strained to rise, his fingers curling into the dirt, blood dripping from his lips. But he could do nothing. Nothing at all.

Sylvathar ascended high again, lifting his chin to the wind.

"For what it's worth," he continued casually, "I suppose this is… a temporary goodbye to Amthar. You've served well as a sacrifice. I'm sincerely grateful."

His voice dropped into something colder, more final.

"As a token of my appreciation, I shall refrain from killing the rest of you. I have more urgent matters. A divine light to extract…" His eyes settled on Sheila with quiet hunger. Then he offered a slight, graceful nod. "So, please—accept my deepest thanks. And enjoy your pathetic lives."

Behind him, a green portal spiraled open, its light casting a sickly glow over the fractured camp. He turned toward it, his silhouette framed by the swirling vortex. For a fleeting moment, everyone dared to believe that he might actually leave.

But then—he stopped.

A chill swept through the camp like a blade pressed against every neck.

Sylvathar tilted his head, his smile twitching into something darker, unstable. Then—he laughed.

Low at first.

Then higher.

A mad, cold-blooded laugh that echoed through the ruins like the cry of a beast who had decided not to walk away from the kill.

"You know…" he said, turning back around slowly, his emerald eyes shining with twisted glee. "Now that I think about it… returning to the Demon Realm with only half of one of Amthar's kingdoms shattered? That just feels… unsatisfying."

He lifted a finger and wagged it. "No, no, no. Not when the real threats—the only ones who could possibly stop me—are all here. Wounded. Exhausted. And perfectly ripe for execution."

He chuckled again, eyes narrowing.

"And I was going to leave?"

He extended one hand outward, fingers flexing. Emerald myst gathered like wildfire, spinning into a radiant orb in his palm—blinding and humming with dense, violent pressure.

"How foolish of me."

The orb expanded slightly, casting sharp green shadows across every face below as he aimed it toward the survivors—warriors, civilians, healers, kings.

"I'd best finish what I started."

Every eye widened, breaths caught in trembling chests, as the emerald orb above them swelled—its glow intensifying, casting an eerie green over the battered camp like the breath of a god poised to erase them all. The survivors stood frozen beneath it, their final moment teetering on the edge of annihilation.

Sylvathar raised his hand, ready to release judgment.

But then—his eyes twitched.

A glint of color pierced the distance beyond him. A flicker—deep orange laced with crimson, barely perceptible at first, but growing larger by the heartbeat.

A red-orange light.

It streaked across the horizon like a divine lance, screaming through the air with impossible velocity. Sylvathar's pupils contracted as he stared, sensing something unnatural.

But it was too late.

The moment stretched—then shattered.

A small but absurdly dense fire orb, no bigger than a marble yet burning with a sun's fury, hurtled forward and struck Sylvathar dead center in the chest.

Boom.

The detonation wasn't grand or thunderous. It was focused. The kind of power that ignored theatrics and simply decided to remove its target from existence.

Sylvathar's body was sent flying backward like a ragdoll flung by a hurricane. He tore through the air, past the protective borders of Ilis, then slammed into the earth miles away, cracking the terrain with a thunderous quake that rolled beneath everyone's feet like the growl of a wrathful god.

The emerald orb he had conjured dispersed instantly—unraveling into harmless motes of light.

Then silence fell.

Mouths hung open in disbelief as no one moved or breathed.

Then slowly—almost ritualistically—every head turned toward the direction the fireball had come from.

And there he was.

Floating calmly in the sky, hands in his coat pockets, coat tails flapping like the wings of a warborn seraph. His dark red cloak shimmered in the fire-kissed light of the fading blast, and his pristine white hair danced in the wind like a war banner raised high.

His eyes—cold and bored—swept over the battlefield below.

The air around him crackled, not with myst, but with authority.

Amthar's strongest knight,...

Galen Magna, had arrived.