Leo jolted awake, heart hammering against his ribs. For a second, he didn't move—his eyes darted around the room, searching the corners for movement, for red light, for teeth. Nothing. Only the dim shapes of furniture in the half-dark.
He swallowed, forcing his breath under control. The dream clung to him like a damp shroud. A spark of instinct told him to be sure. He whispered the trigger words, and the familiar tingle of magic surged through him. Both his vision spells flared to life, their invisible reach spilling through the house like water seeping through cracks.
One by one, he confirmed them all. The tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. He let the spells fade, lay back on the mattress, and closed his eyes. The rest of the night passed without incident.
The next morning, he kept his mouth shut. No mention to Arthur or anyone. It wasn't that he didn't trust them. But the god's laughter was still ringing in his ears, and speaking it aloud would just create unnecessary worries and he also didn't know how to explain the reason of why a god was after him. For now, he decided, this would remain his burden alone.
The plan for the day hadn't changed. They carried on their investigation as though nothing had happened.
…
The weeks blurred into a steady rhythm. By the end of the month, their work began to yield results. Bit by bit, they pulled at the threads of rumor and half-truth until they had a list of names—individuals tied to a vampire-linked organization. One figure in particular made Leo pause, a woman he remembered from the mission when he and the other paladins had brought the Magic Harp to this city.
Arthur never mentioned his father's death. Still, there was an edge to him now—his words shorter, his patience thinner—and he kept himself constantly buried in work, as if stopping might let something catch up to him.
The last four gatherings had gone smoothly enough. Most of their time together was spent answering endless questions about magical paths and training to the three low ranks.
Liam buried himself in conjuration study but had also begun the long, methodical climb into the diviner's path. He was still a novice, but he was determined.
Alina was further along—her assassin training was sharpening her movements and her instincts. She, too, had dipped into divination's basics. Over the month, she embarked on two expeditions, but neither yielded results.
Marco had left for a nearby city. The farewells had been the hardest part for him—long handshakes, too many promises to return, and the quiet guilt of leaving people behind. In his new home, he tracked down a man rumored to be the most unyielding trainer in the area. Two days of relentless persistence later, Marco convinced him to take him as a student. For now, Marco remained firmly on the warrior path, though he was reading into other disciplines before committing to a second.
Beyond their group, the world was far from quiet. The Kingdom of Light was still struggling to mend its damaged cities. Whole districts were nothing but scaffolding and dust. The Holy Cathedral remained sealed, the lingering corruption of the God of Light's power making it unsafe to enter.
The other two kingdoms stayed silent, but silence wasn't always peace. Marco's contacts had brought word of orc warbands gathering in the north and a troubling string of assassinations. Several counts had been targeted. One—Lord Ulfrik—had not survived.
The Shadow Circle had gone dark. The vampires, too, had seemed to vanish—until today.
Leo was in the church courtyard, sparring with Elna. Their training sessions had become routine over time and they'd drawn even closer because of it.
Elna darted between shadows, trying to catch him off guard, but Leo had little trouble tracking her movements thanks to his dual vision spells. The same couldn't be said for when he used illusions against her. Elna's Vampire Gaze saw right through them. Being a vampire herself, she wasn't easily deceived.
Through these mock battles, Leo had come to understand something important: illusions and shadows, when used together, could be devastating. Just like his blood phantoms, Elna had her own—crafted from shadow—and they were just as lethal. Worse, her illusion could phase through shadows too, making them even harder to pin down.
After the session, they wiped the sweat from their bodies with damp towels. They were just about to head inside when they noticed Briva sprinting toward them from across the field.
"Leo! Elna!" she shouted. "We found them!"
Leo quickly raised a finger to his lips. "Shh! Don't yell that out."
Briva reached them, slightly winded. "Relax, it's a church. Who's going to hear?"
"One of the kingdom's S-Ranks turned traitor," Leo said flatly. "People do betray, Briva."
"Alright, alright. My bad," she muttered. "Anyway, let's go. Arthur's waiting at the house."
Leo and Elna exchanged a glance and gave a silent nod. Without another word, the three of them headed home.
Arthur was hunched over a table with a large map spread across it when they arrived.
"Finally," he said without looking up.
"Where are they?" Leo asked, pulling out a chair and sitting beside him.
Briva and Elna took seats across from them.
Arthur pointed to a spot on the map. "South side of the city. Near the black market. Most of the thieves hang around there."
"I told you we should've searched there first," Briva said.
"And you did," Leo replied. "Found nothing."
Briva crossed her arms and puffed out her cheeks in frustration. "Sorry I'm not a shadow assassin," she grumbled, casting a side glance at Elna. It was thanks to her that they finally tracked down the hideout.
Elna offered a small smile. "Don't say that. There are plenty of things you can do that I can't."
Briva didn't respond, her cheeks still puffed out in mock defiance.
Arthur cleared his throat and brought the focus back to the matter at hand. "Alright, we need a plan to get in without tipping them off. If they catch wind, they'll disappear." He looked directly at Leo and Elna. "We've got two illusionists. This should go smoothly—if we're careful."
"Don't worry, it will. For now, I need to take a shower," Leo said, turning toward the bathroom.
…
Liamond sat in a straight-backed wooden chair, a single lantern in the corner casting long, jagged shadows across the cold stone walls. The smell of damp and iron hung in the air. Across the table sat Aline, wrists shackled, face half-hidden in shadow. This wasn't Liamond's first interrogation with him.
"Haven't you suffered enough?" Liamond's voice was calm, almost casual. "What are you afraid of? All your masters are dead."
"There is no way for our lady to die," Aline replied flatly, careful not to say her name.
"Lady?" Liamond tilted his head slightly. "You mean the Icethrone Empress? She perished fighting the Pope. You do know how powerful the Pope is, don't you?"
Aline's eyebrow twitched upward, but he smoothed his expression almost immediately.
"If you give me the details I want," Liamond said, leaning forward, "I can arrange a transfer to a better prison. Somewhere without the stench and darkness of these dungeons."
Aline scoffed. "What authority do you have? You're just a boy."
"Boy?" Liamond's tone hardened. "I'm a B-rank priest. And if I decide you're not worth the trouble, I could kill you right here, right now, and no one would question it."
That shut Aline up. He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing.
Liamond tossed a pen onto the table. "Write."
The prisoner stared at it for a few seconds, then snatched it up and began scribbling, each stroke jerky with restrained anger.
When he finished, Liamond skimmed the page and gave a single, satisfied nod. "I'll take care of your prison arrangements."
He stepped into the hall where a guard stood at attention. "Bring me a copy of what he wrote," Liamond ordered. The guard tapped a fist against his chest in acknowledgment.
Outside the church, night had already fallen. The crisp air felt sharp in his lungs after the stagnant dungeon. Down there, where the walls swallowed light, hours bled together until time itself felt like a rumor.
Liamond's home was on Bush Street, but for the past year he'd made a habit of detouring through Ash Burn Street first. A few minutes later, he stopped on the far side of the road.
Rosie Mantine—Leo's younger sister—was just stepping inside her home, the faint glow of a lamp spilling from the doorway. He waited until the door shut behind her, then exhaled and turned away.
He did this every night. He owed it to Leo. Rosie was fourteen now, the same age her brother had been when he'd joined the paladins. She'd already spoken to Captain Edmond about following the same path, but Edmond had told her to finish her basic schooling first. She had taken the advice seriously.
Liamond was about to leave when something shifted at the edge of his vision—a ripple of shadow too close to Rosie's house.
He didn't hesitate. 'Lara,' he sent through his telepathic link, 'bring a group to Ash Burn Street. If the captain's nearby, bring him. If not, find Faleria or Mr. Rorin.'
'Understood,' Lara's voice echoed in his mind.
Liamond closed his eyes. A second figure—his own form sculpted from pure light—stepped out of him like a twin peeling away from his body. The glow dimmed, and in its place stood a perfect duplicate of himself, ready to act.
The Duplicate remained in place while Liamond sprinted across the street, his boots whispering over the cobblestones. Ahead, the shadow moved with deliberate slowness toward Leo's house, its form warping and bending unnaturally with each step.
It reached the side of the house and began to melt into the darkness pooled there, preparing to slip inside.
Liamond slammed a palm to the ground and murmured a sharp incantation. The surrounding shadows quivered like disturbed water. At the same time, a ripple of pale light burst outward from him, rolling through the street like a wave.
The first spell—shadow manipulation—was one of the priests' and paladins' standard counters against shadow-path users. The second was a scanning spell, sweeping the area for any sign of living creatures.
He caught his target. An empty three-story house stood nearby. Without hesitation, Liamond leapt, catching the ledge of a third-floor window and pulling himself inside. Casting a spell, he wove a false shadow from his own light and bound it to the one his target had slipped into moments earlier. Now, instead of arriving at their intended destination, the target would be pulled toward the place Liamond had chosen.
The trap was set. The figure emerged from the darkness, peeling itself free like wet cloth from stone. Its form shimmered, unstable—an ooze-like mass struggling to hold the shape of a man. Its head turned, clearly startled to find itself in unfamiliar surroundings.
Then its eyes—if they could be called that—fixed on Liamond.
A scroll unfurled in Liamond's hand. "Silence," he whispered. The air thickened. The room fell into a suffocating quiet, cutting the creature off from any outside aid.
In the same breath, Liamond lunged. Light began to coil inside his mechanical arm, the intricate channels along the plating glowing brighter as the core at his wrist flared. He drove the arm down onto the creature's head.
The impact detonated like a muffled thunderclap, shattering the wooden floorboards and blasting a crater straight through to the ground level.
That arm had been crafted for more than just a hand—it was a weapon in its own right.
Liamond dropped down the splintered remains of the floor and stood over the writhing mass. "Who sent you?"
The creature quivered, producing a wet, gurgling noise that might have been laughter. Then its form began to dissolve into steam, shrinking away until nothing remained.
Liamond's fist clenched, the light in his arm fading to a dull glow. Someone had sent this thing here, and he intended to find out who.
No one would get close to this family. Not while he was breathing.
At that moment, the door burst open, and his light-forged twin stepped inside, flanked by Edmond, Albert, and Wina.
…
In the depths of the Magic Kingdom, inside a chamber where even the torchlight seemed afraid to linger, an ooze-like creature seeped from the corner's shadows. Its gelatinous form shifted and reshaped until it vaguely resembled a man—though the glistening surface never quite held still.
Across the room, Archmage Aran regarded it with hollow eyes set deep in his skeletal face, his presence as cold and still as the grave.
"And?" Aran's voice was a rasp, dry as parchment. "What did you find?"
"My lord," the creature gurgled, bowing slightly, "the man you sought—Leo Mantine—died nearly two years ago, when Flesa was invaded by the Ice Throne Empress. I attempted to gather more from his family, but… a paladin intercepted me."
Aran dismissed the concern with a flick of his bony hand. "Good. If he is dead, he is no longer our concern. I will not waste resources tangling with paladins." His empty gaze seemed to pierce through the creature. "We have more pressing matters."
He leaned back in his chair of blackened bone. "Kenneth's memories revealed a loose thread—a vampire. They are searching for something in the Shadowlands."
A faint shimmer of power passed through his skeletal fingers as he traced an invisible pattern in the air.
"That," Aran said, his voice low and certain, "is where we go next."