Ariella
Pillar isle Dungeon
Pillar isle
North Pillar Ocean
America continent
April 17th 6415
Lilith and Eduardo were gone.
In their place, Greta, Ben, and I materialized in a different section of the Dungeon—a hollow chamber wrapped in gloom. The air was thick with damp mana residue, and faint pulses of energy shimmered like ghostly veins across the stone walls.
Greta was already in motion. Her boots struck the cracked floor in agitated rhythm as she paced back and forth, muttering under her breath. Her cloak flared with each turn, catching the low violet light that seeped in from the crystal-laced ceiling. She looked like a storm trapped in a cage.
Ben stood completely still, his hulking frame half-shrouded in the ambient shadows. He didn't speak. He didn't move. He just stared—eyes narrowed, chest rising in slow, deliberate breaths. Tension rolled off him like steam from a mountain spring.
My head throbbed violently, as if tiny hooks of pressure were digging through my skull. My Mystic Eye was still active, involuntarily. The world shimmered and flickered with too much information—spatial leylines, spiritual threads, echoes of movement that hadn't yet happened.
With a grunt, I forcibly severed the connection. The Mystic Eye faded. And in its place, a backlash surged through my mind like a searing blade. I staggered, clutching the side of my head as if trying to hold my brain in place. My knees bent slightly under the weight of the recoil. It felt like my skull had been cracked open and etched with fire.
"Fuck," I whispered, breath shaky.
The residue of visions still danced at the edges of my sight—flickering afterimages, fractured silhouettes of people and things that weren't there anymore. It was like my senses had been stretched too far, and now they were snapping back with a vengeance.
Greta stopped pacing and glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes, still faintly aglow from her mana surge, softened slightly. "You okay?"
"Peachy," I muttered, straightening up, though my legs still trembled from the overload. "Mystic Eye went overboard."
She didn't press. Ben's gaze lingered on me a moment longer, unreadable, then shifted toward the sealed doorway at the chamber's far end.
"I've been concentrating most of my mental force on my internal smell," Ben muttered, nostrils flaring slightly. "That doorway... it's the only way out of here."
His voice was low, grounded, like he was speaking from the gut. He took another deep breath through his nose, his eyes narrowing. "No rot. No blood. But... something's waiting on the other side. Can't tell what."
"I've already cast as many detection spells as I could without triggering backlash," Greta added, her fingers flexing with residual mana. Wisps of silver-blue light still clung to her knuckles like reluctant smoke. "Every one of them points toward that doorway."
The doorway stood at the far end of the chamber—a jagged arch of darkened stone, etched with veins of faintly glowing script. It pulsed, softly, like a heartbeat. Too subtle to be threatening, but too deliberate to be benign.
I reached inward, summoning my Internal Sense. The world around me sharpened, stripped of its glamour. The air's pressure, the vibration of mana strands, the pulse of nearby surfaces—they all became clear like brushstrokes in an unfinished painting. No moonglass in the walls this time—thank the gods. My perception wasn't being scrambled.
And just like Ben and Greta had said, the doorway was the only exit. No hidden tunnels. No side vents. Just that single path forward.
Still... I hesitated.
"Something wrong?" Greta asked, catching the way my stance shifted.
"I don't like it," I replied quietly, still scanning. "This Dungeon's already messed with our perception once. Who knows what else it's hiding? What if the exit isn't just a trap, but part of a larger... script? A ritual?"
"Could be," Ben said, his voice even, but he didn't back away. "But we can't stay here."
I stepped closer to the arch, narrowing my gaze as I examined the threshold again. The air around it shimmered—faint, almost like heat rising from stone, but with a slick, oily iridescence that danced just beneath perception. It wasn't just residual mana. It moved with intention. Like something unseen was breathing through the stone.
A faint hum buzzed at the edge of my thoughts, like the vibration of a tuning fork pressed against bone.
"There's something behind that veil," I murmured. "Not an illusion. A filtration field... thin as silk, but woven with purpose. It's scanning. Watching."
I focused harder, feeling the subtle push and pull against my senses. "Whatever's embedded in this doorway, it's not passive. It's... evaluating."
Greta stepped up beside me, her expression tightening. "Yeah. I can feel it too. Layered enchantments—subtle, precise. It's a mana sieve with behavioral scripts. This thing doesn't just check who crosses... it chooses how to respond."
"Meaning?" Ben asked from behind us, arms crossed.
Greta flicked her fingers, conjuring a trail of reddish-black ash that danced across her skin like smoke with weight. It coiled along her forearm, shaping itself into a long, obsidian staff. Jagged crimson cracks spiderwebbed along its surface, pulsing faintly like veins filled with molten blood.
"I've seen this kind of magic in corruption-based Dungeons," she said, gripping the staff tightly. "They don't just block intruders—they dissect them. Filter bodies, minds, even mana types. If we cross this threshold without the right resonance..."
Her eyes met mine.
"It could splice us. Shuffle our bodies across multiple chambers. Gate collapse is another risk—one wrong trigger and this room might collapse inward, erasing us before we even scream."
I swallowed, keeping my breathing steady. "That's one hell of a lock."
"This Dungeon's alive," she said grimly. "And it's testing us."
She spun the staff in her hand once, a sharp whistle cutting through the stagnant air. As it pointed toward the doorway, the red cracks along its surface ignited, flaring with a flash of runes. Her mana poured into the staff like a torrent—controlled, but heavy—channeling into a spell matrix far more complex than the scrying charms she'd used earlier.
"I'll try to crack a glimpse past the filtration layer," she said. "No promises."
As the spell began to charge, the ground beneath us trembled faintly, like something in the Dungeon had noticed.
Ben tensed, his eyes flicking toward the shadows beyond the door.
"Make it fast," he muttered.
Greta's spell circle began to form midair—three rotating rings of crimson runes, spinning slowly like planetary gears, each line of script mutating as her staff resonated with the warded threshold.
A sharp click echoed from the doorframe like a locking mechanism disengaging. The shimmer across the threshold pulsed once, then settled into stillness.
Greta exhaled, lowering her staff. The crimson glow faded from its cracks as it unraveled into motes of reddish ash, vanishing into her palm. Without a word, she stepped toward the door and reached for the handle.
"Wait," I said, instinctively raising a hand.
She paused, turning slightly to glance over her shoulder.
"What did you do?"
"I cast a bypass spell," she replied calmly. "A grimoire-born weave—Flickertrail Mirage. My personal craft. It overlays a false spiritual and mana signature over our presence, mimicking the threshold's criteria for safe passage."
"Basically a glamor for metaphysical patterns," I muttered, watching the shimmer still ripple faintly like silk caught in a breeze.
"Exactly," she said with a half-smile. "It tricks the enchantments into thinking we belong here. Don't worry. It should be fine."
Before I could ask what should meant in Dungeon terms, she gripped the iron knob and slowly turned it. The door creaked open, revealing a corridor beyond.
Light spilled into the chamber—dim, silver-toned, with a crystalline sheen that shimmered faintly with every flicker of the mounted torches lining the walls. The flames didn't burn with natural heat; they hovered in place like locked will-o'-the-wisps, pulsing with ambient mana.
Greta took the first step forward.
The shimmer across the threshold shifted slightly as she crossed it—reacting, but not resisting. No trap sprang. No spatial distortion surged to split her form. She made it through clean.
She turned back, her expression composed but cautious. Then she gave a small nod.
"All clear."
Ben was already moving. His heavy footsteps thudded behind her, steady and unflinching. I followed close behind, but as soon as I passed through the veil, the air changed.
The corridor was colder—eerily silent, except for the soft crackle of the silver-blue torches that lined both sides like sentinels. The walls... gleamed.
I froze for half a breath.
Moonglass.
The corridor was built from it—wall to wall, end to end. Thin veins of moonlight shimmered within the transparent crystalline structure, casting reflective ghosts of ourselves as we moved. The moment I recognized the material, I clenched my jaw and willed my Internal Sense off. One scan here, and I risked scrambling my mind again.
Greta led the way deeper into the corridor, her steps cautious but deliberate. We followed close behind, each footstep echoing softly along the polished crystal floor as if the Dungeon itself was listening.
Somewhere ahead, the corridor began to curve, its smooth walls gradually bending leftward in a graceful arc. The soft silver glow of the torches began to dim, as if the moonglass itself were absorbing the light. Shadows pooled in the corners, thickening with each step we took.
Greta frowned, lifted her hand, and whispered a quick incantation under her breath. A small flame flickered to life in her palm—pale gold with hints of red at its core. She released it, and it floated ahead like a guiding ember, casting just enough light to cut through the encroaching gloom.
We followed it in silence until the corridor finally opened into a vast chamber.
The ceiling soared high above, lost in darkness, but the walls were lined with massive statues—each one carved in the likeness of towering wolf-humanoid hybrids. They stood frozen in mid-snarl or with arms crossed over their chests, their eyes set with faintly glowing gemstones. Their presence was oppressive, ancient, and regal.
Then a voice rang out, sharp and commanding:
"Halt! Who goes there?"
Across the wide hall, near a set of larger double doors flanked by the two largest statues, two figures stood guard. They were clad in gleaming silver armor, polished to a mirror finish. Their helmets bore intricate wolf designs, and on their chestplates was a raised insignia: a wolf's head silhouetted against a full moon.
My breath caught.
That symbol...
It was unmistakable. What the hell are they doing here? I thought to myself.
"I'm—" I began, but was immediately cut off.
"Foreigners," the second guard spat, a woman with a lean, muscular build. Her silver armor fit snugly, designed for speed rather than brute strength, but the symbol on her chest was the same.
She didn't hesitate.
The male guard stepped forward, already channeling mana through his legs. His stance shifted in a blink—Rapid Step. He surged toward us, sword drawn, speed blurring his form.
I barely had time to flinch.
But Ben was faster.
He stepped in front of me with a thunderous stomp, his gauntlet-encased arm rising to meet the incoming blade. The clash rang out like a bell—metal shrieking against enchanted steel. Sparks exploded from the impact. Ben's eyes flared with raw energy as he twisted, catching the warrior off-guard, and delivered a crushing kick to his chest.
The silver-armored man flew backward, skidding across the polished stone until he slammed into the exact spot he'd launched from. Dust kicked up around his landing, but he didn't rise immediately.
Ben stood between us and the two guards, shoulders heaving, his breath now misting with heat. Mana surged around him in waves, faint lines of golden-red light pulsing along his skin beneath the armor.
He was growing—literally.
His body swelled slightly with raw energy, muscle taut beneath his robes, the edges of his gauntlets glowing. The air around him shimmered with pressure.
Since we'd left Thornhill, Ben had been pushing himself to the brink, training obsessively. He'd reached the peak of the Warrior Realm months ago—but refused to ascend.
He wanted to do it right.
He knew that ascending without resolving the inner weight he carried from Neil's death would shatter his foundation. There were still pieces of his spirit he hadn't confronted. And until he did, he'd remain in this state—balanced on the razor's edge between power and restraint.
The female guard snarled, her upper lip curling to reveal sharp canines. With a sudden blur of motion, she unsheathed twin short swords from her belt and launched herself at us with predatory speed.
Ben stepped forward without hesitation, his movement fluid despite the surge in muscle mass and height. He was shifting—entering that midpoint between his human and Lycan forms. Coarse fur bristled along his arms and neck, and his eyes glowed faintly amber. His hybrid form crackled with mana-infused strength, every step sending tremors through the stone beneath his feet.
Their clash was immediate.
Steel met gauntlet with a shriek of friction. Sparks flew. The chamber echoed with the rhythmic symphony of strikes—her twin blades slicing in rapid arcs, each one aimed with deadly precision. Ben blocked with his gauntleted forearm, parrying her cuts with well-timed deflections, countering with explosive punches that forced her to give ground.
The female warrior wasn't just fast—she was disciplined. Her battle art gave her footwork like a dancer's, weaving and sliding out of Ben's range just as one of his fists came crashing in. She ducked a hook, spun low, and came back up with both blades slashing toward his ribs—only for Ben to twist and catch the strike with his bracer, forcing her back with a roar.
"They're evenly matched," I muttered, eyes tracking the flurry of movement around the statues.
Behind me, the male guard staggered to his feet, face twisted in fury.
"He's still in fighting shape," Greta noted, her gaze sharp. "And from the feel of it, both of them are Warrior Realm."
She looked at me with a hint of challenge in her voice. "You can handle him."
"I'm still an Adept," I said, drawing in a breath.
Greta smirked. "You're no ordinary Adept. Jack's been raving about your progress since training started. And besides—" she gestured toward the rising Lycan, "—this is the perfect time to show off your Boundless Factor."
The male guard let out a deep-throated growl. His body shuddered, mana spiraling around him like a miniature vortex. Then he howled—a booming, bestial cry that echoed through the chamber like thunder.
Bones cracked.
Limbs elongated.
Fur erupted across his body as he exploded outward in size and mass, transforming into a towering grey wolf—a Direform. His armor expanded with him, plates reshaping around his limbs and shoulders as if forged to accommodate his monstrous form.
I narrowed my eyes and reached behind me, pulling out Noct Aeternum.
The bow responded instantly to my touch, its sleek obsidian form gleaming with crimson undertones. I withdrew one of the specially forged arrows Greta had gifted me back on the train to Zellux. I hadn't tested them yet—until now.
I drew.
The mana within me shifted, and with it, Noct Aeternum resonated.
I activated one of its exclusive techniques: Eclipse Snare.
Darkness coiled around the arrowhead—no ordinary shadow, but voidlight, threads of shimmering anti-luminescence that bled through the air like a woven curse. The obsidian arrow shimmered with reddish veins, and when I loosed it, the arrow didn't just fly—it tore through space, bending the light around it.
But before it could reach the target—
The wolf let out a second howl—louder, deeper, charged.
The sound burst forth like a shockwave. Wind pressure erupted from his lungs, a concussive wave of force that twisted the air and knocked debris across the chamber. My arrow hit the edge of the wind wall—and was deflected, veering off-course and clattering to the ground.
"Tch. That howl…" I hissed. "It's a directional pressure field."
"He's smart," Greta called. "Using his mana to reinforce his howls—that's an exclusive Mana art skill for Lycans and most Mana beasts. You'll have to pin him down before you can snare him."
I nocked another arrow, my eyes narrowing as I pulled mana into my core.
Fine, I thought.
Let's see how far Boundless can take me.
I exhaled slowly. The deflected arrow hadn't discouraged me—it had focused me. The wolf was strong. Fast. Smart. But I didn't need to match him. I needed to overwhelm him. I closed my eyes for a heartbeat and let my mind fall inward—into that ever-spinning place deep in my soul where the Boundless Factor stirred. Threads of spatial law, temporal drift, and radiant force coiled within me like a nebula on the edge of collapse.
And then I pulled it forward. The world shifted. The air around me grew heavy, yet fluid—like moving through warm water. The mana in the space responded, resonating with my will. Faint lines etched themselves into the floor and walls—interlocking hexagonal patterns that shimmered in and out of existence. The environment didn't change entirely, but it tilted in my favor.
Ben's fight with the female warrior continued off to the side, but both paused briefly—sensing what I had done. Greta looked up, a flicker of intrigue dancing in her eyes.
"A pseudo-Domain?" she asked.
I nodded once, my voice steady. "I figure this way I won't expend much mana." Over the months of training under Jack, I'd learned to manifest a local distortion zone—a compressed version of my Endless Reign domain. It wasn't a complete domain, but it was still powerful enough to bend the rules.
The wolf lunged forward again, massive limbs pounding the floor.
I didn't move.
Instead, I extended one hand toward the incoming beast and activated the effect of my pseudo-Domain. Vector Imposition. The wolf's momentum twisted. One step faltered. Then two. He skidded slightly to the right, his trajectory subtly thrown off by the shifting gravitational paths within my field. I raised Noct Aeternum again, the bow humming as I called forth radiant-threaded mana, overlaying the voidlight arrow with a filament of golden light.
Greta had called the arrows Eclipse-Wefted. They responded to the balance between light and shadow, perfectly suited for the Boundless style.
"Let's try this again," I whispered.
The arrow shimmered as I loosed it—not straight, but curved through the spatial distortion like a comet bending through gravity. This time, the wolf couldn't howl fast enough. The arrow struck home.
[Eclipse Snare]
Voidlight exploded outward into a blossoming web of crimson-threaded darkness, wrapping around the wolf's legs and torso. Tendrils of anti-light burrowed into the floor beneath him, locking him in place with gravitational anchors that hummed in resonance with my field.
He thrashed, howled, and clawed—but the snare held. The Boundless imprint had locked his spatial coordinates temporarily—not just in place, but in possibility. He couldn't step beyond what the domain allowed. I stepped forward, Noct Aeternum glowing faintly in my hand.
"I don't want to kill you," I said, voice calm but unwavering. "But if you charge again, I'll break more than your footing."
The wolf let out a strained, guttural growl—but didn't move.
Ben had the female pinned against one of the statues now, his claws inches from her neck. Her blades were cracked. She was breathing hard.
Greta stepped up beside me, eyes scanning the threads of the snare with a satisfied hum. "Well. That was... elegant. Jack was right."
I slowly let the pseudo-Domain fade, the hexagonal patterns dissolving into dust. My breath was a little shaky, but my grip remained firm. The field may have been temporary—but for those few moments, I owned this battlefield.
The dust of my pseudo-Domain hadn't fully settled when the temperature in the room shifted again. Not from magic. Not from mana. From presence. A crushing weight settled across the chamber, pressing against my chest like an invisible hand. Even Greta's expression darkened slightly, her posture shifting into something more guarded.
Then the doors behind the two subdued guards—the male Lycan, now partially entangled in my Eclipse Snare, and the female warrior still pinned beneath Ben's gauntlet—creaked open.
The sound was slow. Controlled. Regal. From the depths of the corridor beyond, a figure emerged, his silhouette framed by a flickering blue light that pulsed like a living heart.
He stepped into view with the effortless grace of someone who had never once feared consequence. Tall, silver-haired, and draped in deep navy and charcoal battle-robes marked with glowing runic thread, he wore a light ceremonial mantle atop armor etched in lunar filigree. His cloak billowed slightly, though no wind touched him. A crownlet of silver roots—thin and woven like starlight—rested just above his brow.
His gaze swept across the battlefield with calm detachment. When he spoke, his voice was as smooth as it was commanding.
"Harald. Iseut. Explain yourselves."
Neither guard could answer.
Harald let out a strained growl from beneath the Eclipse Snare, his body still trying—and failing—to free itself.
Iseut's eyes flicked to Ben, then to the newcomer, her mouth trembling slightly with pain and frustration. "Intruders, Your Highness... They—"
He raised a hand.
Silence fell.
He took in the scene again—his gaze falling on Noct Ethereum, still faintly glowing in my hand. Then to Greta, standing calmly with her arms folded, a thin line of red-black ash still lingering near her boots.
Finally, his eyes landed on me.
His irises gleamed a metallic violet—a telltale trait of the Sterling Lineage—those of the Arcadian Royal Blood. Eyes born under the moon, refined by ritual. I felt it immediately: the resonance of his power brushing against mine.
Not overwhelming. Not oppressive. But undeniable. This man was no Warrior, no Master. He stood on the Great Sage Realm—the same realm as Greta.
"Ariella Ashtarmel," the prince said smoothly, his voice carrying the chill of authority cloaked in velvet. "It seems reports of your demise were greatly exaggerated."
I tilted my head slightly, narrowing my eyes. "And you must be one of Arcadia's five silver princes."
"Erik Sterling," Greta said flatly beside me, not even bothering with formality.
The prince's lips curved into a faint smile. "Ah... the Ashborne Witch herself. I wasn't sure you'd remember me."
Greta scoffed lightly, folding her arms. "Kind of hard to forget someone my age who can match me in power. Arcadian nobles are quite unruly after all."
There was a casual ease in her tone—dry, fearless. For a moment, I saw a flicker of someone else in her posture: the calm swagger, the irreverent tilt of her voice. Jack Kuria. She wasn't his by blood, but he had raised her. And in this moment, she wore his attitude like a second skin.
Erik gave a short laugh—more amused than offended. "You've never changed."
His gaze returned to me.
"And if you're here, Greta, I assume you entered through the Dungeon beneath the Pillar Site."
"We did," I said before Greta could. "I'd heard Arcadia housed a Dungeon of its own. I didn't expect this one, though. But now that we've seen it firsthand… it makes sense."
Erik gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable. "Yes. It is one of our oldest sacred sites. Few outsiders ever set foot inside it, let alone emerge."
He paused, then offered a shallow bow of acknowledgment—not to Greta, but to me.
"Princess Ariella Ashtarmel, for the sake of our fathers' friendship, I will overlook the fact that you've trespassed into consecrated ground."
The weight behind his words was unmistakable. Courtesy, not mercy.
"But," he continued, "as a gesture of goodwill... I ask that you release my subordinates."
His eyes flicked to Ben, whose claws remained inches from Iseut's throat, then to Harald, still bound within my Eclipse Snare, his form partially stuck in a half-wolf struggle against the voidlight threads.
"And you as well, my fellow Shifter," he said, inclining his head toward Ben. "Surely there's no need for this tension to escalate further."
Ben didn't move immediately. He waited—for me.
I looked up at Erik and studied him in silence for a breath longer.
Then I lowered my bow slightly.
"I'll release them," I said. "But know this, Prince Erik—if any of your people strike first again, I will not hesitate."
"Understood," Erik said, his tone courteous but cool.
I whispered a quiet phrase, and the voidlight around Harald flickered, then unraveled like silk threads pulled loose by wind. He collapsed to the ground, coughing hard but alive. Ben stepped back from Iseut, his stance still guarded, but the threat gone.
Greta gave a single nod. "Now that the formalities are out of the way, Erik... why don't you tell us what kind of ritual you're running in the belly of a Dungeon?"
"I'm not sure I should reveal the secrets of my race to outsiders," Prince Erik said, his voice measured, though something flickered behind his eyes—restraint, or perhaps warning.
Greta arched a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching. "Is it what I think it is?"
Erik's gaze narrowed at her probing, but he didn't answer. Instead, he turned toward his subordinates as Harald and Iseut limped back to his side, heads bowed low in reverence.
"You two still need more training," he said coolly, barely sparing them a glance. "Remain here. Guard them."
Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked back toward the massive double doors. He paused at the threshold, giving us a lingering glance over his shoulder—a glance that said he hadn't dismissed us, only postponed us.
Then the doors closed behind him with a soft boom that echoed through the chamber.
Harald and Iseut returned to their positions at the entryway, their glares cutting into us like knives. Every flick of their eyes screamed, Next time, we won't hold back.
We didn't speak much after that.
Time passed.
It was impossible to tell how long we waited—the Dungeon warped time, and the lack of natural light made it worse. It could've been an hour. Or three.
Eventually, we settled into a kind of uneasy silence. Greta leaned against the cold stone wall, eyes closed, arms crossed, perfectly at ease. Ben stood near the far side of the chamber, arms folded, eyes flicking now and then toward Iseut, who hadn't stopped glaring at him since the scuffle ended.
I sat down cross-legged in the corner and began to meditate. The strain of using my pseudo-Domain, combined with the pressure of facing a Great Sage realm expert like Erik, still lingered in my body. I needed to recover.
When I finally opened my eyes, I found Greta watching me, one eye open and glinting with quiet interest.
"You've gone up a tier," she said, her tone casual but approving. "Your Adept stage is stabilizing. Must be nice—having an Ability Factor that pushes you forward like that."
I nodded, brushing hair from my face. "It's not much. I'm still only halfway through the Adept realm."
Greta smirked faintly. "And yet you handle Warrior Realm Lycans like you're walking through water."
She tilted her head toward the two guards at the door. Harald refused to look at us. Iseut met my gaze again, but there was a hint of unease behind her scowl now.
I shrugged. "I just react faster in the Boundless State. It's not always strength—sometimes it's control."
Greta's expression softened, just a little. "That's the difference between a prodigy and a monster. You're figuring out which you are."
A beat passed before I leaned closer.
"Do you know what's going on in there?" I asked quietly. "What kind of ritual needs that much protection?"
She opened her eyes fully and looked at me, thoughtful now.
"I don't know much about Lycan rites," she admitted. "But Jack mentioned something once—about the Sterling family. Just like how your Ashtarmel family is famous among the vampire royals, the Sterlings are the most famous among the eight Noble Houses of the Lycan race."
Her voice dropped slightly.
"They're the Lycan House. The bloodline that's kept the Arcadian pack unified for millennia. It's said their Ability Factor is... dangerous. Unique even among the Lycans."
I frowned. "So the ritual?"
She nodded. "It might be something called the Gleam Rite. From what I've heard, it's a sacred ceremony performed when a Sterling awakens their bloodline ability. A way to stabilize the power of the bloodline..."
"Something's been bothering me about what the prince said," I murmured, glancing toward the closed chamber doors.
Greta opened one eye, her expression curious. "What is it?"
"When he mentioned we came through the Dungeon at the Pillar Site... the way he said it—it sounded like that wasn't their way in. Like they don't even use that entrance at all. Almost like..."
"They've got their own private Hyperfold gate into this place," Greta finished, sitting up straighter.
I nodded. "Exactly."
Greta's brow furrowed, and she exhaled sharply. "Wouldn't surprise me. Their king is a goddamn Paragon."
I looked at her. "An Emperor Realm cultivator?"
"Not just that," she said, her voice edged with tension now. "He's a war-forged monster. Fought in the Long War—one of the few Lycans who survived the Siege of Kordaxis. If he wanted to, he could bind a Dungeon of this level to his bloodline. That means..."
I clenched my jaw. "The Mircallas sent us into a claimed Dungeon."
Greta laughed once—but she wasn't amused. It was bitter.
"Of course they did. Aristocrats never do anything without an angle. Renee knew this was under Arcadian control. And she threw us into it like pawns, hoping we'd survive long enough to stir the waters."
"Which we did," I muttered.
"Too well," Greta said, eyes flicking back to the door. "Now we've got a Great Sage watching us, a Paragon probably sensing everything from above, and a sacred Lycan ritual that might implode if one thread is pulled wrong."
I exhaled.
"I guess we would just have to wait and see for now," I said.
-
Royal Palace
Pandemonium City
Hudsonia Region
Kingdom of Ashtarium
April 28th 6412
Twilight bathed the palace courtyards in golden hues as Eduardo and Ariella strolled side by side along a winding stone path lined with flowering moonlilies and whispering fountains. The hum of enchantments in the garden hedges lent a soft tranquility to the air, but Ariella's voice carried with the energy of genuine enthusiasm.
"I've been completely immersed in the Lykaris civilization lately," she said, her eyes bright as she gestured animatedly. "It's strange how so little is known about them—especially given how much influence they had during the Antiquity epoch. Their architecture, their lunar rites, even their mythological hierarchy… It's all so layered."
Eduardo listened, hands clasped loosely behind his back. His steps were unhurried, every motion fluid and precise, as though time itself moved differently around him.
"They were the first to formalize a lunar calendar tied to divine worship," he said thoughtfully. "Most scholars attribute it to the Sterling Clan, but the Lykaris' moonstones predate their texts by almost six centuries."
Ariella blinked, momentarily stunned. "Wait—you've read the ancient Arcadian scrolls?"
Eduardo gave a faint smile. "Studied them. Translated two versions."
She looked at him, surprised. "I had to beg the Royal Academy Institute just to view the replicas in their vault."
"They never show the originals to researchers under seventy," he replied smoothly, as though it were common knowledge.
Ariella narrowed her eyes at him playfully. "You're hiding how old you are, aren't you?"
Eduardo's smile deepened. "I prefer to think of it as a mature perspective. And it helps that my grandmother is also very interested in the Lycan culture and society."
She shook her head, grinning. "I forget sometimes. You're not like the other nobles I've met. Most of them just want to talk about war campaigns or bloodline enhancements."
"And you want to talk about forgotten cultures and lunar dynasties."
"Exactly," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're probably the first person I've spoken to who even knows what Lykaosian script looks like."
Eduardo looked at her for a long moment. There was something in his expression—quiet, amused, and almost reverent.
"I didn't expect to meet someone like you," he said softly.
Ariella looked ahead again, her voice softer now. "Neither did I."
The garden wind stirred again, carrying with it the soft rustle of leaves and the faint scent of jasmine. Lanterns suspended from wrought-iron arcs rocked gently in their hooks, casting ripples of gold across Eduardo and Ariella's faces. The warm light danced over her features as she glanced upward, momentarily caught in the spell of the moment.
In the distance, the palace bells chimed the seventh hour, a lilting echo weaving through the gardens like the final note of a fading lullaby.
They continued their stroll in comfortable silence until, ahead on the garden path, a figure emerged from the hedged corridor—walking in the opposite direction. She moved with brisk confidence, her attire catching immediate attention: a sleek midnight-blue suit with silver accents, paired with a layered cloak that shimmered like a night sky. Her high-heeled boots clicked lightly against the cobbled stone.
Ariella's eyes narrowed with recognition.
"Delilah?" she called out, her tone both surprised and curious. "Where are you going?"
The figure paused. Delilah Ashtarmel turned on her heel, her loose chestnut curls bouncing slightly with the motion. A smirk curled on her lips as her amber eyes fell on her cousin—and then drifted to the man walking beside her.
"Well, well," Delilah said, drawing closer with a playful sway. "I thought you two would be locked away in some dusty library by now—reciting ancient scrolls and sipping over-steeped tea."
Ariella arched an eyebrow. "We were having a perfectly nice walk."
Eduardo offered a polite nod, but there was a flicker of amusement in his gaze.
Delilah glanced at him, then back at her cousin. "Seems like you're finally being treated like the princess you are."
Ariella tilted her head. "And you're dressed like you're sneaking out of the palace again."
Delilah grinned. "Who says I'm sneaking? I've simply... grown fond of moonlit escapades."
Ariella's gaze lingered, noting the faint shimmer of enchantment spells laced across her cousin's outfit—stealth runes and minor illusions, no doubt. It wasn't the first time she'd seen Delilah like this lately. Gone were the days of quiet tea ceremonies and family luncheons; Delilah had taken to the night, and this wasn't her first late outing.
"You've been going out more often," Ariella said, her tone half-curious, half-concerned.
Delilah shrugged with practiced ease. "Can't spend every evening cooped up with formal dinners and forced pleasantries. Some of us like to remember the world still turns outside these palace walls."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through Eduardo's expression—perhaps understanding, or memory—but he said nothing.
"Be careful," Ariella said quietly, softer than before.
"You know you can come with me," Delilah said, glancing over her shoulder with a mischievous grin.
Ariella hesitated, her fingers brushing lightly against the hem of her sleeve. "I'm not sure..." she murmured. The idea of slipping into the night with her cousin sounded exhilarating—but it also tugged at a familiar thread of unease.
Delilah stepped closer, her tone turning coaxing. "Come on, Ella. Don't tell me you don't want to have a little fun. You've been locked up in meetings and courtyards for days. One night out won't hurt." She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. Then she turned to Eduardo with a raised brow.
"What do you say, Prince?"
Eduardo's gaze flicked to Ariella, reading the uncertainty in her expression before offering a small, lopsided smile. "It could be fun," he said gently. "And I wouldn't mind seeing what passes for nightlife in the capital of Ashtarium. Might be more interesting than royal luncheons and garden walks."
Ariella gave a quiet laugh, caught somewhere between amusement and intrigue.
****
Lilith moved through the shadowed corridor beneath the palace—her boots echoing softly against the smooth stone floor of the royal guard's hidden passage. The blood on her gloves had dried hours ago, flaking faintly as her fingers clenched the folded parchment she'd pulled from the broker's corpse.
Her fight in King's Crown City had ended the only way it could—with her standing, and everyone else either dead or too broken to speak. The last man, however, had talked. Screamed. Enough to give her a name and a seal. Enough to make her stomach knot with something that wasn't fear—but rage.
The Obsidian Verge property had been rented by someone from the Church of Lilithism.
A religious order with as much political sway as the royal family. If not more.
She didn't like that. Not one bit.
Lilith stepped into the palace proper, her expression unreadable as she headed toward Ariella's quarters. The guards stationed outside nodded at her, but she barely acknowledged them. Her focus was ahead—only to pause as she reached the door.
The room was empty. Not a soul inside. A frown creased her brow. She pivoted, eyes scanning the hallway—until she spotted a group of handmaidens in pale gold tunics, whispering among themselves as they walked by.
Lilith strode toward them. They froze when they saw her.
She grabbed the arm of the nearest one, a small brown-haired girl who instantly stiffened.
"Where is the Princess?" Lilith asked, voice low but firm.
The handmaiden wouldn't meet her gaze. "T-The Princess... hasn't been seen since the luncheon, my lady."
Lilith's eyes narrowed. Her grip didn't tighten—but the air around her suddenly felt heavier. A subtle flicker of crimson aura pulsed at her fingertips, enough to make the handmaiden tremble.
"I see," Lilith murmured, releasing the girl. She turned sharply and strode down the hall, the echo of her steps now lined with a rising urgency.
-
Lilith stepped out of the night-shadowed alley and onto the glowing promenade of Vel Corra Street, the city's famed district of indulgence and elite vice. Ahead of her loomed a lavish building—The Gilded Thorn, its marble facade lit by enchanted lanterns that shimmered gold and violet in the dusk light. Music thrummed from inside, low and seductive, like the pulse of a living thing.
A crowd had gathered outside—well-dressed nobles, off-duty Ascendants, and curious aristocrats, all queued in a winding line, laughing, flirting, and trying not to look too desperate to get in.
Lilith didn't spare them a glance.
She glanced at the screen of her Uni strapped to her wrist. A crimson dot blinked on the map overlay. Ariella's signal. Still inside.
Of course, she was.
Lilith tapped the screen to minimize the tracker. The app had been there ever since the kidnapping—installed quietly, discreetly. She knew Ariella had found out eventually. She also knew Ella had never brought it up.
A soft breeze swept past her as she approached the entrance. Two enormous bouncers flanked the doors, one of them—a towering Lycan with silvery tattoos along his arms—stepped forward, blocking her path with a raised hand.
"Hold up—"
Lilith's hand moved faster than his words.
Her palm struck his throat with precise, restrained force—enough to silence, not kill. The Lycan choked on his next breath, stumbling back with a stunned grunt as his eyes bulged. The line behind her fell silent.
She didn't even blink.
The second bouncer, a human with glowing runes beneath his collar, took one look at her eyes—amber and rimmed with threat—and wisely stepped aside. No further words were exchanged.
Lilith walked through the entrance without slowing her pace, the heavy double doors parting as if the air itself feared to stop her.
Inside, the Gilded Thorn pulsed with decadence—curved balconies, velvet lounges, and perfume-laced air. But Lilith wasn't here for the ambience.
She was here for Ariella.