Sieg stepped forward first. Fingers trailing over the wood of the cathedral doors.
No locks. No chains. Nothing barring the way. Yet something resisted—an unseen weight, ancient and absolute.
With little effort, he pushed them open.
The air hit us.
Thick. Humid. Stinking of incense, burning oils—and something fouler. Metallic. Old blood, left to dry.
Candlelight flickered along the towering stone pillars, their trembling flames twisting shadows into grotesque shapes. And at the heart of the grand chamber—they knelt.
A congregation of robed figures. Chanting. Low. Hollow. Wrong.
Their voices layered, an unnatural harmony that grated against the mind, sinking beneath the skin like a sickness. The sound filled the cathedral, pressed against the stone, hummed in the bones.
And at their altar, bathed in the dim, flickering glow—it loomed.
A towering effigy. The body of a man, draped in heavy robes—but the head.
A bat's snarling maw, fangs jagged and crude, like something gnawed and broken. Hollowed-out sockets where its eyes should've been—empty voids, drinking in the candlelight.
The air felt heavier now.
Like something was watching.
I tightened my grip on my sword. Beside me, Orlan exhaled, fingers twitching. His magic was already stirring. Sieg, unreadable as ever, rested a hand on his sabre.
Too loose.
I knew better.
He was ready to cut down anything that moved.
But they didn't react.
Even as we stepped closer, as steel left its sheath, as we prepared for the inevitable—they did nothing.
They simply knelt. Chanting. Unwavering.
And then—we hit something.
Like walking face-first into solid glass.
Sieg reached out first, pressing his palm forward. A ripple spread from the point of contact, warping the air—thin, distorted. A shimmer.
A barrier.
Sieg frowned, pushing harder. Nothing.
Orlan stepped forward, tilting his head. "Let me examine it."
Violet energy crackled at his fingertips as he traced a pattern in the air, murmuring something low and guttural. A thin arc of light extended from his palm—snuffed out the moment it touched the barrier.
Orlan exhaled sharply. "Divine warding. Old. Powerful."
Naestra had been quiet. Lurking near the edges of the room, flipping a dagger between her fingers.
She finally spoke. "Doesn't matter if we break through it, though."
Sieg's gaze snapped to her. "Explain."
She leaned against a pillar. Casual. Too casual. "Might get through. Might find nothing." She shrugged. "Nyxar's a big deal. Gods like him? They don't sit in one place. He might not even be here."
A cold weight settled in my stomach.
A god spread across multiple realms. Answering prayers wherever he pleased. If we broke through the ward and found an empty altar—this was a waste of time.
Sieg's expression darkened. "And what do you suggest?"
Naestra grinned. "I go find him."
Orlan's hollow gaze turned toward her. "And draw him back?"
"Exactly."
She straightened, rolling her shoulders, cracking her neck. "I'll jump through the realms I know he's worshiped in. Track him down. If he's close enough, I'll make sure he finds his way here."
Sieg gave a curt nod. "Do it."
And just like that, she was gone.
A flicker of shadow. A breath of silence.
Orlan turned back to the barrier, raising both hands. Arcs of energy coiled between his fingers, humming with raw magic. "While she hunts, I shall attempt to dismantle this ward."
Sieg took a step back, arms crossed. I followed, keeping my eyes on the kneeling cultists.
Still chanting. Still unmoving.
Orlan's hands moved in slow, deliberate motions, violet energy rippling outward as he worked. Magic coiled through the air, stretching toward the ward—only to recoil the moment it made contact. Whatever divine force had sealed this place, it wasn't letting go without a fight.
But my mind was elsewhere.
I exhaled, glancing toward Orlan. "Tell me something."
His skeletal fingers twitched mid-pattern, but he didn't stop his work. "Ask."
"There are realms out there," I muttered. "Realms that thrive with their Gods. That aren't like this. Surely—" I hesitated. "Surely, there are one or two that are just... good."
Orlan was silent for a moment. The magic between his fingers pulsed, light bending and distorting as he probed the barrier. When he finally spoke, his voice was even. "Thou seeketh comfort in a dangerous thought."
"That doesn't answer my question."
He sighed. "Naestra would know more than I."
Sieg, who had been watching the worshipers, finally spoke. His voice was quiet. "She's already told us." His eyes scanned the kneeling figures, their heads bowed in blind reverence. "There are a few realms that thrive. A few that live in peace under the rule of good-natured Gods." He shrugged. "But call me stubborn, I still believe this saying."
He turned his gaze to me.
"Absolute power absolutely corrupts."
My grip tightened on my sword.
Sieg didn't look away. "I will never say I'm better than any of these Gods. That's not what concerns me." His tone was steady. Cold. "I just don't want my realm—my world—to be taken by something with ill intent."
He gestured toward the cultists, still murmuring their broken prayers.
"That's why I'm here today. That's why I recruited you."
He turned back toward the barrier. "No God will rule this world."
And I knew, without a doubt—he meant it.
Orlan winced. Or—at least, that's what a walking skeleton looks like in pain. His arcane light flickered, hands clenching slightly before stilling.
Sieg's head turned sharply. "What happened?"
Orlan didn't answer at first. His hollow sockets were locked onto the worshipers. Watching them. Understanding them.
Then, he spoke.
"They power it."
His voice was calm, almost detached.
"This ward—it is not held by runes, nor by relics. It is held by them. Their very souls have been bound to its weave." His fingers twitched, magic dissipating from his palms. "We will never get through as long as they remain."
A pause.
"We have to kill them."
Silence.
Sieg stood still. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the slight shift of his stance. He didn't speak right away, and when he did, his voice was lower.
"I swore never to kill an innocent." His hand hovered near his sabre, but he didn't draw it. "They are innocent."
He exhaled.
"I can't do what you ask, Orlan."
Orlan inclined his head, a slow, measured movement. "Understood."
Then both of them turned to me.
And I considered it.
Not in the way Sieg did—not in the way a man with a conscience would.
No.
This was an opportunity.
They weren't fighters. They weren't warriors. They were vessels. A collection of souls, bound to something greater than themselves, fueling a god's will. And if I killed them—if I took those souls and bound them to me—then their power wouldn't just dissipate.
It would become mine.
I would grow stronger.
Not just a little.
With this many, with this sheer volume of life waiting to be stripped and reforged—my Echoes would multiply.
I would not let this chance pass.
I stepped forward.
"I'll do it."
I was already moving.
And beside me, Rikard appeared.
It didn't take effort anymore. It didn't take focus. There was no need to hold onto old memories, no need to force his existence into the world.
It was easy now.
Too easy.
Rikard's form was sharper, his armor darker, his movements quicker. He was stronger. I could feel it. And if my theory was correct, if the nature of my power worked the way I suspected—
Then Rikard would only grow stronger as I did.
Convenient.
But not enough.
I reached inward, toward something deeper. Toward the inferno waiting inside me, the unrelenting hunger for power.
Astrid.
The moment I called to her, rage ignited in my blood.
Fire, fury, violence.
I felt my body shift—veins bulging, muscles tightening, growing, stretching past human limits. My breath came heavier, my heartbeat louder. My hands flexed around the hilt of my sword, and for a brief moment, I almost laughed.
This is what strength feels like.
The barrier wouldn't hold.
The worshipers wouldn't last.
And I would not waste a single soul.