◇_ _
The first thing Mira saw was the smoke parting.A silhouette emerged from the trench, backlit by firelight and embers swirling in the ash-thick air. It was Lothar—but not. Not anymore.
He moved like a dying god—shaking, twitching, every step a struggle to hold together the thing inside him. His skin pulsed with ember-orange cracks, like molten veins beneath thin stone. His eyes weren't eyes anymore. Just black orbs rimmed with red, burning from within.
And yet,he wasn't attacking.He walked.
A soldier raised a crossbow. "Stop right—"
Lothar lifted his hand.The bolt never made it.The soldier's chest erupted mid-sentence, blood arcing wide. His body folded like paper. Others scattered, some screaming, some charging.
Lothar didn't run. He didn't scream. He didn't speak.He reached into the air, and the ground beneath their feet pulsed in response.Mira stood there,frozen. That, that wasn't just power.That was something else.
◇_ _
Inside him, Lothar was drowning.The entity clawed through his thoughts, ripping memories from the walls of his mind like old plaster. Every name, every feeling—it all blurred. Voices rose and fell like storms. He didn't know if he was breathing. Or if he had a body anymore. He was lost.
But something inside refused to go silent.
Corin.
The blood screamed. It wanted control. It didn't understand resistance. It didn't need him.
But Lothar clung to the echo of a summer voice and a promise made in blood.He would endure, he would do it , for his friend, for Corin. Even if it tore him apart.
◇_ _
Above, the camp was fracturing.Some fell to their knees, some turned on each other, some tried to flee.
Mira didn't move, she stared as Lothar knelt beside a dying guard. The man gurgled, one hand lifted in fear.
Lothar didn't kill him.
He whispered.
And the guard began to scream.
Not from pain—but from what he saw.
A moment later, the man's eyes melted. His scream became a wheeze. Then silence.
Scared, Mira backed away, her breath shallow.
"Lothar," she said, barely audible. "What are you…?"
The thing that wore Lothar's body turned toward her.
And it did something disconcerting, it smiled.
◇_ _
At the edge of the burning camp, in the slaver captain's tent, shadows danced over maps and gold.
The captain stared at the blood-red flare twisting into the sky.
Behind him, the flap shifted.
A masked man stepped into view.
No noise. No heat. Just cold—a wrongness in the shape of a man.
"This wasn't in the contract," the captain snapped, not turning around.
"That thing outside... You didn't mention it."
The shadow remained silent.
"I fulfilled the conditions," the captain went on.
"We delivered the vault. Held the slaves. Bled the forest. The artifact is uncovered. I earned my place in the guild."
The masked figure tilted its head.
"The work is done," it said at last. "But there are still witnesses."
"I followed the plan to the letter. We controlled the perimeter. The rituals. Everything!"said the captain in a panicked voice.
"And everything is still under control."
The figure reached into the folds of its robe and produced a small vial—its contents swirling with a deep red shimmer—and a scroll sealed with black wax.
"Your passage. The guild will contact you when the dust settles."
The captain took them with a shaky hand. His eyes lingered on the scroll.
Then he activated it.
Light swallowed him whole. He vanished without a sound.
The masked man stood in the empty tent.
And melted into the shadows.
◇_ _
Mira stood frozen as the thing wearing Lothar turned toward her fully.
She didn't run.
"Who… what are you?"
A pause.
The flames dimmed around them.
Then the voice answered—through Lothar's mouth, but not in his voice.
"I am what your kind forgot to fear."
Another step closer.
"I was bound beneath roots. My name was scoured from tongues. But I remain."
His shadow stretched long and hungry.
"You call me… Vaulrix."
The name shivered in the air. It tasted of metal and ash.
Mira clenched her fists. "Why him? Why Lothar?"
Vaulrix looked down at the body he wore.
"Because he endures."
Then his head tilted again, bored.
"But I've wasted enough breath on trash."
In a blur of motion, he surged forward.
Mira barely dodged. The air where she'd stood ignited.
A second strike came—faster than thought. She ducked, rolling hard, pain screaming through her shoulder.
His axe—or the thing it had become—tore through a cart, the wood exploding like dry bone.
Mira scrambled to her feet.
He was on her again.
A wall of smoke swallowed her.
Silence.
Then—Lothar's form staggered.
He stopped mid-kill, a hand to his head. A flicker of something behind his eyes.
Pain. Conflict. Regret?
Then it was gone.
He turned away.
Mira collapsed in the dirt, consciousness fading as blood trickled down her arm.
The last thing she saw before everything went dark… was Lothar walking through the flames.
◇_ _
He was efficient. Merciless. A walking storm of fire and decay.
Anyone in his path died—whether they screamed or begged or fought back. Limbs flew. Blood soaked the dirt. Those who turned to run didn't make it far.
Some tried to pray. Some called him a god.
None were spared.
By the time the flames died, there was no camp—only ruins, ash, and silence.
Vaulrix stood in the center, dripping with blood not his own.
He looked toward the treeline.
Then he spoke to the empty air.
"This body will not last much longer."
His fingers twitched. He flexed the stolen muscles.
"If I want to survive… I have to give him a break.He is a tether. A weakness."
Then his eyes slid to the left.
To an empty patch of scorched earth.
"...You think I don't see you?"
The assassin—hidden with masterful stillness—froze.
That gaze. It wasn't just power. It was knowing. As if Vaulrix could see straight through him—soul and all.
Vaulrix turned away and dashed into the forest.
The assassin stayed frozen for a breath. Two. Then cursed under his breath and gave chase.
"I don't care about the boy," he muttered. "I want the blood."
He wasn't after Vaulrix.
He was waiting for the vessel to break.
◇_ _
An hour passed.
The smoke hung low, curling between the burnt-out husks of tents. The wind shifted.
And the forest exhaled.
Six figures emerged from the tree line. They moved slowly, without fear, their heads bowed beneath heavy cloaks.
To most, they would look like poor travelers—tattered robes, soot-smudged faces, quiet steps.
But anyone with an eye for cloth would see otherwise.Their fabric shimmered faintly beneath the dirt. The hems were reinforced. The stitchwork too fine. The way they walked—measured, too balanced to be desperate.
These were not peasants.
They were precision wrapped in shadow.
They paused at the edge of the devastation.
One figure stepped forward.
The others remained still.
She pulled back her hood.
A young girl. Golden eyes, steady hands.
And the look of someone who knew that they were too late.