Lithrium's lower ring was alive with chaos.

  Not the kind that came with markets and music, but the kind that sank its claws into the air—suffocating, sharp, and wrong.

  Josh ran.

  His boots slammed against cobblestone slick with mist, weaving through alleyways like a hound chasing a phantom. The lanterns above flickered as if they, too, feared what slithered in the dark.

  Josh (panting):

  "Jonax... Where the hell did they take you?"

  He rounded a corner—only to skid to a stop.

  Shadows stretched long before him, and from them—

  Figures emerged.

  Dozens.

  Robed in tattered indigo and black. Hoods like stitched shadows. Eyes glowing with faint, unnatural light. And beside each of them—Bonds.

  Grotesque things.

  Some with too many limbs. Others floating midair like oil-drenched jellyfish. Some cracked with fire, others breathing frost.

  A whole unit. An ambush. Waiting for him.

  Cultist (softly):

  "The Stray's knight comes alone. How quaint."

  Josh's fingers curled into fists. Then—he grinned.

  Josh:

  "Nah... not alone."

  He stomped his foot once—magic runes flared beneath him.

  The air split open.

  From the rift, Horny charged forth.

  Seven feet tall. Towering. Snorting steam, eyes glowing crimson. His horns curved like blades of war, his hooves split the street.

  Horny (snorting):

  "WHO DARES DISTURB MY FEAST?"

  Josh (cracking his neck):

  "Time to turn these creeps into pavement paste, buddy."

  The first cultist lunged.

  Josh ducked under the blade—his elbow cracking into ribs, twisting the man's arm behind him and hurling him into another.

  Horny swung his war axe—a cleaver the size of a dinner table—and flattened two Bonds in a single roar.

  Chaos erupted.

  Flames. Screams. Echoes of Essentia chants filled the street.

  One cultist conjured a spined beast from bone and smoke—Josh dropkicked it into a wall before rolling to the side as ice shards shattered around him.

  But the numbers—

  They kept coming.

  Three Bonds latched onto Horny, clawing at his flanks. Josh cried out, summoning his spear—parrying a bolt of lightning, only for a vine-wrapped hammer to nearly take his head off.

  He was fast. Strong. Brave.

  But not enough.

  Josh (gritting his teeth):

  "Tch... Horny! We're getting boxed in!"

  Then—

  A silver streak shot across the sky.

  A falcon—glowing bright white like a comet—dove from above and ripped a cultist's Bond in half mid-air. Feathers burst like sparks.

  A voice rang out.

  "Reinforcements. Hope we're not late to the party."

  Josh turned—just in time to see four men step from the rooftop and land like gods descending from legend.

  The Silver Saints.

  Adventuring legends in Lithrium. A-Rank. All of them too beautiful for their own good.

  Leading them was Gareth—shoulders broad, jaw chiseled, hair windswept from the battle. A massive glaive rested on his back, pulsing with light. His Bond, the silver falcon, circled overhead like a divine omen.

  Gareth (grinning):

  "You look like you could use some help."

  To his left, Lucien, shirt half open, revealing a lean, muscled frame glistening with effort. He twirled twin sabers that danced like moonlight.

  Lucien (winking):

  "Shame we weren't invited sooner. Could've made this a proper performance."

  On the right, Thorne, a scarred and silent mountain of a man. He carried a hammer made of obsidian and steel, his Bond—a glowing serpent—coiled around his arm.

  And finally, behind them, leaned lazily on a lamppost, was Vale—half-lidded eyes, messy white hair, and a bored smirk. He had no visible weapon. His Bond—a smoky feline—lounged on his shoulder, yawning.

  Josh (blinking):

  "...Are you all models or something?"

  Gareth (laughing as he drew his glaive):

  "We're Saints, not saviors. Now move."

  Then the battlefield erupted.

  Gareth spun his glaive—cleaving three cultists in one motion. Light trailed behind each arc like celestial flame.

  Lucien flashed through the crowd—a blur of steel and charm—cutting down Bonds with flickering elegance. He passed Josh once, tossing a dagger into a cultist's throat without even looking.

  Lucien (grinning):

  "Nice axe, Minotaur. Fancy a spar later?"

  Horny (snorting):

  "ONLY IF YOU SURVIVE."

  Thorne shattered the ground with one stomp—his hammer sending a shockwave through half the street, flinging Bonds and cultists alike into the air.

  Vale? He barely moved. He whispered something under his breath—and gravity bent. Cultists began floating, limbs flailing, then slammed back down with a crack.

  Josh and Horny regrouped, back to back, Josh breathing hard.

  Josh:

  "I liked my odds better with just one Minotaur."

  Gareth (fighting nearby):

  "Hold the jokes, kid. Sierra's probably heading for the old Aqueduct District. There's a hidden sanctum beneath the well."

  Josh (eyes flashing):

  "You know where they're taking her!?"

  Gareth:

  "Go. We'll hold them here."

  Josh turned to Horny—his voice firm.

  Josh:

  "You good?"

  Horny (snorting):

  "I was born for this."

  Josh nodded—then took off, sprinting toward the eastern roads, blade at his side, fire in his chest.

  Behind him, the Saints clashed with the cult—silver versus shadow. Every blow lit the street like a storm. Gareth's falcon shrieked overhead. Lucien laughed as he dodged spells like a dancer. Thorne's hammer sang. Vale snapped his fingers and twisted the laws of nature.

  Josh didn't look back.

  Because Jonax was somewhere in the dark.

  Aqueduct District – Eastern Edge of Lithrium

  The ruins loomed like broken ribs beneath the city.

  Massive stone arches stretched overhead—remnants of Lithrium's old waterworks, now half-swallowed by earth and time. Crumbling aqueducts dripped with moss. Ivy-choked walls stood like tired sentinels. Fog clung low to the ground, coiling around Josh's boots like ghostly vines.

  He stumbled into the clearing—breath ragged, mud clinging to his clothes, cuts stinging on his arms. Behind him, Horny emerged from the mist, flaring his nostrils, scanning the silence.

  Josh's eyes darted between the shadows.

  There—movement. A flicker of a figure darting through one of the far tunnels.

  Josh (shouting):

  "Jonax!"

  He broke into a run, boots pounding down uneven steps, heart roaring in his ears.

  He reached the center of the old district—a circular plaza, cracked and broken. An old well stood in the middle, covered by a rusted grate, and behind it—

  A tunnel, dimly lit by flickering lanterns.

  And just at the edge of that tunnel—he saw them.

  Sierra.

  Her silhouette framed by pale light. Raven hair. Black robe, edges fluttering like smoke. And beside her—

  Jonax.

  Head lowered. One hand clutched by Sierra's, the other still shaking. Her wrists bound in thin, glowing threads. Her face turned just enough for Josh to see her eyes.

  Wide. Tearful. Terrified.

  Josh:

  "JONAX!"

  She lifted her head.

  But Sierra didn't stop.

  With a final tug, the two disappeared into the tunnel.

  Josh sprinted toward them—but the moment his foot hit the outer ring of stone, the ground shuddered.

  Rumbling. Cracking.

  The tunnel entrance began to collapse, stone by stone, crumbling inward like a dying throat.

  Josh:

  "No—NO!"

  He threw himself forward—but Horny grabbed the back of his jacket, yanking him away just as the arch fell, burying the passage in a mountain of dust and rubble.

  Josh landed hard—dust billowing around him.

  He coughed. Cursed. Slammed his fist against the stone floor.

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  Josh (hoarse):

  "They were right there..."

  Silence answered him.

  Only the distant drip of water. The mournful creak of the aqueduct. The gentle stomp of Horny's hoof behind him.

  He stared at the crushed tunnel—a heartbeat too late.

  His body shook—not from exhaustion—but rage. And failure.

  He knelt there for a long moment, dirt in his fists, fire in his lungs.

  Then finally, quietly, to himself:

  Josh (muttering):

  "...I'll find you."

  He stood.

  Horny stepped beside him, his massive frame silent but solid.

  Josh placed a hand on the beast's flank—calming, steadying.

  Then he turned away from the rubble—his mind already racing.

  They had Jonax.

  ...

  Royal Archives Vault — Beneath Lithrium

  The stone shook.

  Dust curled from the ceilings as another distant explosion trembled through the castle's foundations. Shelves groaned under the weight of ancient tomes. The glowing sigils beneath Lyra's feet pulsed with the heartbeat of something ancient—the Grimoire, cradled in her arm like a stolen crown.

  She turned slightly.

  But not fast enough.

  Iver (snarling):

  "You're not leaving with that book!"

  He lunged.

  The air cracked as he drew his blade—a curved, moonlight-forged saber, humming with cold precision. He moved like a shadow sharpened by fury, every step grounded in years of discipline, now unchained by rage.

  Lyra's eyes flared, tattoos along her arms pulsing.

  She leapt back, spinning mid-air—her foot kicked open a glyph, and a wall of translucent vines exploded from the stone floor. Iver sliced through them with a roar, ash and glowing leaves scattering in a storm of silver and violet.

  Their blades met—hers a twin-dagger set, curved and gleaming black like obsidian tears.

  Clang!

  Steel clashed in a flurry of sparks.

  Their bodies danced across the narrow vault like dueling storms. She twisted under his strikes, parried with acrobatic grace, but he kept pressing—harder, closer, angrier.

  Iver:

  "Was I just your shortcut?! Some fool to open the gate!?"

  Lyra (breathing hard):

  "I didn't want to—"

  Iver (roaring):

  "Then why?!"

  She flipped backward—her hand glowing with a rune as a series of spectral roots lashed from the floor like chains. He sidestepped—his blade glowing now with pale frost—and slashed downward, splitting the spell in two.

  She tried to vault away—

  Too late.

  He grabbed her wrist mid-air, spun her down, and slammed her into a column with a shout.

  The Grimoire clattered to the floor.

  Dust rose like smoke.

  She coughed, eyes wide—his blade at her throat, inches from her skin, arm trembling.

  Iver, chest heaving, eyes wild with betrayal, stared down at her.

  Iver:

  "You had me. You had me, Lyra... and you broke it."

  Her chest rose and fell, breath shaking. Blood ran from her lip where his elbow caught her earlier. Yet her voice, when it came, was soft.

  Lyra (smiling bitterly):

  "You were never supposed to mean anything."

  He flinched.

  But he didn't strike.

  The blade wavered.

  Then—

  Lowered.

  His shoulders fell. His grip loosened.

  Iver (hoarse):

  "...I can't."

  Lyra looked up at him.

  Not triumphant. Not mocking.

  Just... sad.

  Lyra:

  "You're too soft, Iver."

  She shoved him with her foot—lightly—and he didn't resist. He stumbled back.

  She rolled to her feet, picked up the Grimoire. A shimmer of violet glyphs swirled beneath her boots—a prepared sigil waiting for activation.

  She turned to him one last time. For a heartbeat, her eyes softened.

  Lyra:

  "If things were different... maybe I would've chosen you."

  The spell ignited.

  Wind roared.

  Light enveloped her.

  And in the blink of an eye—

  She was gone.

  Only silence remained.

  Iver stood frozen. His sword hung at his side. The cold from his blade seeped into the stone.

  The echo of the spell faded.

  All that was left were books, dust, and a man breathing too heavily in a room that suddenly felt too quiet.

  He let out a sound—a mix between a growl and a laugh—and turned, slamming his fist into the column where he had pinned her.

  Stone cracked.

  Iver (voice cracking):

  "Damn it..."

  He dropped to a knee, blade falling from his hand.

  And for the first time in a long while—

  He didn't know what to do next.

  ...

  Castle Lithrium – Grand Ballroom

  The chandeliers flickered. Velvet banners trembled in the shifting air. Time slowed—just for a breath—before the storm began.

  Five Aequinox.

  Five names whispered in nightmares now stood at the ballroom's heart. Behind them, shadows coiled, and Bonds emerged—monstrous and radiant.

  Isolde of the Serpent Veil raised a pale hand. Her Bond—a Wyrm-Serpent of glistening obsidian and sapphire—slithered from a tear in the floor, coiling behind her, its gaze burning with cunning hunger.

  Laeryn of the Shattered Veil, eyes half-lidded, sang a soft chant. Beside her, her Bond Saint—a robed wraith with no face, its hands pressed in eternal prayer—floated serenely, trailing incense and cold dread.

  Caden of the Crimson Verse grinned as he clapped his hands together. Fire burst from his skin, and behind him rose his Bond: a six-limbed Infernal Beast, horned and roaring, inked with runes that pulsed with madness.

  Marques of the Pale Scale lifted his staff. His Bond, a pale crocodilian with wings of parchment, crawled out from beneath his robes. Its tail dragged ink like poison, and its eyes were lifeless yet aware.

  Valter the Hollow Bell didn't move. But a faint chime echoed—and from the floor rose his Bond: a tarnished, floating casket bound in chains, levitating silently behind him like death itself.

  On the other side of the ballroom—

  Rica stepped forward, her coat flaring like a war-banner. Her hand raised. A gust of starlight swept beside her.

  Rica:

  "Queen."

  With a shimmer of arcane force, her Bond descended—Queen, an Aether Dragon, scaled in light and twilight, wings vast and translucent, eyes burning with old fire. Her arrival shook the room.

  Marian crouched low, twin blades drawn.

  Marian:

  "Scruffler!"

  A growl, wild and deep—and Scruffler, her Leaf-maned canine, burst into the fray, leaping with fierce joy, vines snapping as he landed beside her.

  Kristie rolled her shoulder, grinning.

  Kristie:

  "Snarl, chew their shoes off."

  Snarl, her Wargpup, howled—a blur of teeth and fur. He bounded in tight circles, ready.

  Elly, hands trembling but eyes calm, called her Bond with reverence.

  Elly:

  "Koirin, with me."

  The koi-fish, floating like a ribbon of light, water spiraling in loops, its glow surrounding Elly in a gentle aura.

  Lily stood already in position, bow drawn, her sharp eyes trained on the Aequinox with unshakable calm.

  Lily:

  "Glint."

  From behind her, emerging like moonlight breaking through fog, came Glint, her Whisperlight Deer. It shimmered with every step—its hooves floating just above the ground, antlers crowned with wisps of spectral flame. The creature moved with haunting grace, casting soft silver light across the formation.

  A quiet breath escaped Lily's lips as she nocked an arrow—one made not of steel, but starlight.

  Lily (calmly):

  "Let's keep them away from the Royals."

  Cedy and Rej took stances behind them. No Bonds—but daggers, slings, short swords. Their presence still felt sharp.

  Then—

  Three steps echoed.

  The Vahlcrest Knights strode forward.

  Naeva, silver-violet armor gleaming, pointed her sword high.

  Naeva:

  "Veldrith—take flight!"

  From the rafters above, Veldrith dove down—a creature of glassy feathers and blade-thin wings, its obsidian mask unreadable.

  Kael, calm and silent, drew his sword, the runes along its edge lighting with a silver hum.

  He whistled low—and from the mist behind him emerged Thornwalker, a panther-like beast made of stone and smoke, its gaze sharp and loyal.

  Ella, barefoot but fierce, snapped a scroll into the air. Crimson ink bled midair as she called:

  Ella:

  "Come on, Flarecakes."

  A low chirp—then a blast of heat. A red panda-like creature, but triple in size, with fiery rings along its tail and paws crackling like embers, landed at her feet. It blinked once, then snarled.

  Flarecakes, despite the name, looked ready to maul gods.

  Then—

  Chaos.

  Isolde moved first.

  Her Wyrm-Serpent lunged—Queen met it head-on, the clash of scales and aether exploding in a shockwave that shattered glass. Rica's hands moved, flinging sigils midair, each one detonating like lightning.

  Marian spun, blades catching Laeryn's veils mid-flight. Saint raised a hand, summoning illusions of ghostly monks—but Scruffler leapt through them, shredding their illusions and biting down hard on one of the veils.

  Caden laughed, dancing through fire. He hurled burning sigils like knives—but Kael was already there, meeting him blade for claw, rune for rune. Thornwalker lunged from the mist, catching Caden's beast by the throat. The floor cracked under them.

  Valter raised his hand.

  The casket opened.

  A wail erupted, cold and hollow. Those nearby faltered. Rej dropped to one knee, blood from her nose. Elly covered Koirin protectively—Koirin cast shimmering bubbles of silence to block the bell's tone.

  Kristie didn't stop—she hurled a dagger, Snarl biting Valter's ankle, disrupting the rhythm. The casket shut again, just barely.

  Marques whispered, and his Bond released a fog of forgetfulness. Memories flickered in Rica's mind.

  But Queen roared, and with her cry, Rica snapped free.

  A streak of light flew across the battlefield—Lily's arrow, glowing silver, sliced through the fog like a falling star, striking Marques's Bond in the shoulder. The crocodilian hissed, staggered, ink trailing from the wound.

  Lily stood firm, Glint at her side, hooves brushing no surface, antlers illuminating the battlefield like a mobile constellation. She nocked another arrow, eyes scanning.

  Lily (cold and steady):

  "Targeting blind spots."

  Glint moved fluidly, casting illusions of itself across the room—spectral copies darting in every direction, each one a flash of silver light and whispering wind. The illusions confused the Aequinox briefly, forcing Valter and Laeryn to hesitate, their attacks slicing through air instead of flesh.

  Caden, mid-spin, turned toward Lily with a mocking laugh, flinging a fireball her way.

  But Glint flickered, stepping in front of Lily and absorbing the fire with its antlers, dissipating it into harmless sparks.

  Caden (grinning):

  "Pretty lightshow."

  Lily responded with three rapid shots—one aimed at his Bond's eye, one at his leg, and the last into the floor before him. The second arrow struck true, causing him to falter just long enough for Kael to drive him back with a two-handed swing.

  Ella rolled beneath an arcane bolt, then flung a scroll into the air. It unravelled and Flarecakes exhaled a ring of compressed flame, igniting a pillar of fire around Caden's beast.

  Kael shouted, voice rough and low:

  "Marques—flank!"

  He and Naeva converged—Veldrith cleaved veils midair, its wings slicing through Saint's summoned monks.

  Scruffler howled, ramming into Laeryn. She stumbled, robes singed.

  Saint tried to cover her retreat, but Marian struck—both blades slashing at once, drawing blood.

  Isolde and Queen were locked midair, Rica's magic clashing with serpent-fire, every impact a kaleidoscope of light.

  Then—

  A surge of darkness.

  Valter moved through the battlefield like a ghost.

  He reached for Elly.

  Cedy tackled him from the side, her blade scraping against his mask. It rang like a funeral bell.

  Elly, lips pale, cast one final spell—Koirin exploded in radiant mist, healing Marian and Rej, shielding Kristie.

  Rej (panting, bleeding):

  "Remind me... not to fight five nightmares at once."

  Rica's voice rang out, strong and clear:

  "Focus on survival. Protect the Royals! Don't let them past this room!"

  Naeva and Kael moved to the doors, flanking like sentries.

  Queen, wings spread wide, released a blast of starlight that lit the whole room.

  Caden, burning and laughing, fell back.

  Laeryn, veils torn, whispered into Saint's sleeve.

  Valter, mask cracked, stared at Elly in silence.

  Marques, bleeding black ink, raised one hand—then dropped it.

  The last blast of Essentia faded into silence. Flickering embers floated through the air like dying stars. The chandeliers above hung crooked, cracked crystal dripping onto shattered marble. Blood smeared the floor. Bonds panted. Fighters stood hunched, barely holding formation.

  The ballroom had survived.

  But only just.

  Across the ruined space, the five Aequinox began to step back—toward the shattered stained glass windows behind them. They didn't run. They didn't limp. They moved slowly.

  Measured.

  Controlled.

  Like wolves retreating—not from fear, but because the hunt was already over.

  Isolde, her Wyrm-Serpent curling protectively around her, glanced across the ragged group of defenders. Her lip curled—not in pain, but in disdain.

  Isolde:

  "Still standing, I see. Barely."

  Rica, breath heavy, face streaked with dust and sweat, took a step forward. Her fingers still pulsed with crackling sigils, Queen hovering protectively behind her.

  Rica:

  "You're running. That's what I see."

  Laeryn tilted her head, her lips still half-curled in an unreadable smile. Her Bond, Saint, floated serenely behind her, silent as ash.

  Laeryn (softly):

  "Running? Oh dear. You really think this was the main act?"

  Kael, sword still raised, narrowed his eyes.

  Kael:

  "...What are you saying?"

  Valter, face obscured by his tarnished silver mask, took a single step forward. The air around him went cold, his casket-Bond creaking as it floated ominously.

  Then he spoke—his first and only words.

  A low, echoing voice that didn't seem to come from his mouth, but from everywhere.

  Valter:

  "Why do you think... there are only five of us?"

  A beat of silence.

  Marian's eyes widened.

  Cedy, bleeding from a cut on her temple, straightened slowly.

  Kristie stopped chewing on a curse halfway through.

  Then it clicked.

  Too late.

  Laeryn:

  "One of us is already gone... with a very special girl you failed to protect."

  Caden, bruised but grinning with bloody teeth, let out a low, amused whistle.

  Caden:

  "What was her name again? Jonax?"

  Kristie tensed. Her knuckles whitened around her dagger.

  Laeryn:

  "And another..."

  She held up two fingers.

  Laeryn:

  "Now holds the Third Key. The Forbidden Grimoire."

  The room shifted.

  A cold gust swept across the ballroom.

  Even Rica froze, her Essentia faltering in her hand.

  Rej:

  "...The third? That means..."

  Isolde:

  "Yes. The seal. It's almost open now."

  Kael's face darkened.

  Naeva stepped closer to the Royals, instinctively shielding them.

  Ella (softly):

  "We missed it. We were the distraction."

  Valter raised his mask slightly—just enough to let the air ring with another chime of finality.

  Valter:

  "And the Shepherd..."

  His casket floated up, twisting gently in the air.

  Isolde leaned forward now, eyes locking onto Rica's.

  Isolde:

  "Your precious 'Flame of Starborn'?"

  She smirked.

  Isolde:

  "He's currently having a private conversation with our Shepherd."

  Silence fell like a hammer.

  No one spoke.

  Even Snarl stopped growling. Even Queen went still.

  A pulse of dread rippled through the air like cold water trickling down the spine.

  Rica (low):

  "Ren..."

  Laeryn offered a lazy, almost apologetic bow.

  Laeryn:

  "You see, we didn't lose."

  She gestured around the shattered ballroom.

  Laeryn:

  "This was merely... the crescendo. The true song plays elsewhere."

  Valter opened his arms.

  And in a blink of dark flame—

  The Aequinox vanished.

  The Bonds with them.

  Gone in one silent breath.

  The defenders were left standing in the echo.

  Broken glass underfoot.

  Torches sputtering.

  A thousand questions tightening around their throats.

  Rica, hand trembling slightly, finally let her magic fade.

  She looked toward the fractured moonlight streaming through the destroyed window.

  Rica (quiet):

  "...They didn't want to win here."

  Kristie:

  "They already did."

  Lily:

  "Where are you Ren?"

  Elly, crumpled against the wall, clutched Koirin close.

  She didn't cry this time.

  She just whispered—

  Elly:

  "Ren..."

  Josh, Iver… or Ren, trying to hold the universe together with sarcasm and moral conviction?

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