Adarin snapped his rootwhip out in desperation, aiming at where the goblin had been—trying to strike before his mind lost the thread entirely.

  The whip cracked through empty air.

  Only a cackle answered him, echoing from somewhere unseen.

  He froze. What the hell have I just been doing?

  Something twisted in his mind. Something is missing.

  One of the knights—his helm adorned with feathers even more ridiculous than anything Rüdiger had ever worn—leveled a two-handed sword at Adarin. “What have you done, foul creature?”

  Adarin looked around the room: the shattered city crystal, Liora unconscious and wrapped in webbing, and himself seated in the middle of a bloody ritual circle. Well. This doesn’t look good.

  The knights spread out, forming a half-circle as they advanced on him.

  Adarin considered fighting. Nope. No good tools against plate armor. Add that to the priorities list.

  “We were sent by the War Council to infiltrate behind enemy lines,” he said loudly. “The shaman-in-command of the enemy forces is still in this building. If you hurry—”

  “Silence!” one of the knights thundered. “What dark magic have you performed here? What have you done to the crystal?!”

  Mr. Featherhead stepped forward, sword raised for the strike.

  Adarin groaned internally. Fucking morons. Very well. A good commander knows when to fight—and when to surrender.

  “We surrender. Take us prisoner and let us speak to your leaders.”

  Featherhead paused—then chuckled. Several of the others hesitated, but he kept advancing. “I will wipe you out, vile creature.”

  Adarin swallowed. Goddamn fanatics. Well, let’s try their gods against them.

  “In the name of the One, I swear I am innocent. If you are a man of faith, you will let me speak to your leaders. I swear this by the holy faith we share.” He shuddered inwardly. I feel dirty just saying that.

  The knight paused—sneered—but didn’t strike.

  Another knight grabbed his shoulder. “Elias. Stop this at once. He invoked the Holy One's Name. We must obey.”

  Elias froze. “You would have me hold back my duty?”

  “Your duty,” said the golden-helmed knight calmly, “is to serve the One.”

  The knights huddled together. Junior ones were posted over Adarin, while two began untangling Liora with noticeably more care.

  Fine with me, Adarin thought. Do I run? No. Not without her.

  The golden-helmed knight approached. “Do you agree to be taken prisoner while we work this out? You will not be harmed… unless the Archbishop commands it.”

  “Yes. I agree,” Adarin said, tone flat. They don’t even see me as human. Fuck.

  The knights invoked the One and marched them into a windowless cell—stone walls slick with damp, no exits, no options. The hours dragged in silence. Each heartbeat echoed like a hammer against Adarin’s wooden frame. He practiced rootwhips in the stale air just to keep from unraveling, while Liora curled up in the corner, shivering and unresponsive.

  Adarin gently lifted Liora onto a crate instead of leaving her on the stone floor.

  Eventually she woke with a groan and clutched her head. “What happened?”

  He recapped. With each sentence, her anger grew. “Rüdiger. That goddamned dark wizard—I should never have trusted him. He—”

  Adarin raised a manipulator. “Believe me, I’m not happy either. But if he traded us to the enemy to buy the retreat? That was the right move. We saved lives.”

  She stayed curled in the corner, silent—until, after long minutes, her lips moved. “If I stop healing, then I’m nothing.” Her hands shook, but she pressed them together as if in prayer. By the time the gunfire started, her eyes were burning with fragile resolve.

  A day passed.

  Adarin practiced his rootwhip in the stale air, tuning pressure and arc. Liora stayed curled in the corner, distant.

  Nothing he said reached her. She’s shutting down. Can’t blame her.

  The only good thing that happened:

  Root Whip Lesser Tier 1 → Root Whip Early Tier 1

  Yes, it’s the enemy’s tool. But I could get used to this.

  Hours later and without warning, the door burst open.

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  Elias returned, flanked by Gold-Hat.

  “You are to come with us,” Elias growled.

  Adarin stood—then stopped. Liora wasn’t moving. He approached her. “Hey. Liora. We need to go.”

  She shook her head, shivering.

  A guard stepped forward. “Get her moving—or we will.”

  Adarin turned. “You would dare lay hands on a priestess of Ishna?”

  The knight hesitated. “She’s a dark mage.”

  “No. A healer. The last survivor of her unit.”

  It took time. But finally, Liora rose—clinging to his manipulator like a lifeline.

  Feather-Hat and Gold-Hat were waiting in the corridor, visibly irritated.

  They moved in a formation of a dozen knights and left the castle.

  Adarin scanned everything—banners, armor, faces.

  Sunbanner. Crusade. And scaled steel—definitely religious loyalists. They took the castle. How?

  Rüdiger, I have so many questions for you.

  They walked down the main street, then veered into a side alley.

  Elias frowned. “Why are we going this way?”

  Gold-Hat shrugged. “It’s a shortcut. You want to stand around heretics longer?”

  Elias chuckled.

  Too tense, Adarin thought, watching Gold-Hat’s posture.

  They rounded a corner. Broken furniture blocked the road.

  Elias scowled. “Justin. I told you we should’ve taken the main road—”

  Clicks. Mechanical. Coordinated.

  Orange-robed men emerged from windows and barricades. Crude, fuse-lit firearms aimed from every angle.

  The knights froze—eyes wide, caught between instinct and disbelief. Crusaders had fought alongside Olivists at three gates already. Some even lowered their blades an inch, still expecting parley.

  One of the orange-robed men stepped forward, calm and deliberate.

  Adarin recognized him immediately.

  He was the First Speaker of the Olivists.

  John Mettig emerged with unsettling calm, his orange robes bright against the smoke. He didn’t posture—he simply sat atop the barricade like a man presiding over his own courtroom, rune-decorated pistol dangling loose in his hand. The smile he gave them was one of quiet inevitability.

  “Well,” the priest said, “do I need to spin it out for you?”

  Adarin glanced around and silently agreed with the man. The knights didn’t stand a chance. They were outnumbered three to one, and muskets had already made their armor into coffins of steel. No prayer or parry could stop black powder at this range.

  Then the First Speaker twisted the knife.

  “Thank you,” he said with serene cruelty, “in the name of the One, who judges even his knights when they grow proud.” His tone was serene, but the words carried the finality of scripture.

  Feather-headed Elias gasped, spun around, and drew his sword in one fluid motion. “You!”

  Adarin chuckled under his breath—but then tensed as he felt Liora grip his manipulator tighter.

  “Adarin, what are we going to do?” she whispered, eyes darting across the alley. Guns lined every wall, pointed at the knights.

  He nodded slightly, noticing that none of the barrels were aimed at them. Adarin responded over the noospheric link. ‘If I give the signal, you drop. Fast. Then play dead. I assume you can heal yourself from one of those wounds?’

  Liora grimaced. ‘I hate gunshot wounds. They’re always messy. Too much flesh lost.’

  Well, sucks for you. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.

  But the argument between the knights and the Olivist leader was escalating. Voices rose. Hands gripped hilts and triggers alike.

  It was about to go very wrong.

  Adarin assessed the layout, the tension, the shifting of gun barrels. Better if we start this.

  ‘On the floor—now,’ he hissed to Liora.

  She dropped instantly with a sharp yell. And that was it. The trigger. The straw that broke the camel’s back.

  Like a festering cyst bursting open, thunder exploded from all sides.

  Gunfire thundered from all around them.

  Knights screamed. They charged. They died.

  Smoke filled the street—thick and stinging. Orange-robed men stormed out of buildings and vaulted the barricades.

  Adarin grabbed Liora and dragged her back, trying to escape the alley in the chaos.

  Of the ten knights, only four remained standing. Gold-Hat was down—shot in the back.

  One knight muttered prayers under his breath even as he fell. Another tried to keep tapping his pommel, but his arm was blown apart before the second tap. Elias raged, while Gold-Hat’s plume dipped into the mud as he collapsed.

  The rest fought like cornered animals. Their swordplay was masterful—parrying spear thrusts and ducking shots—but it wasn’t enough. Each knight was swarmed by five or more attackers.

  One by one, they fell.

  Elias was the last.

  The First Speaker approached slowly, pistol loose in his hand.

  “Stop,” he said.

  Elias roared in frustration. “You heretic! Servant of the Demiurges! I curse you and your line—may your ilk die a horrible death!”

  The First Speaker shrugged. “May the One bless you. You’ve done us a valuable service.”

  He raised his pistol almost reverently. Smoke curled as a single shock cracked. Elias’s eyes went wide—then the plume of his helm sagged as he fell to his knees, choking out a last curse before crumpling lifeless.

  The moment Liora realized the battle was over, she moved—almost jumping forward.

  “What are you doing?” Adarin hissed.

  But determination blazed in her eyes. “There are wounded. I need to help them.”

  Adarin looked around. The Olivists were finishing off the last of the knights, driving spears through shattered visors and gaping joints. John Mettig knelt over the golden-helmed knight, a bloody dagger in hand, whispering what might’ve been a prayer.

  Liora rushed forward without hesitation this time—no priestess, no necromancer, just a healer clawing her way back to purpose. She shoved past the man, voice breaking: “Move. Or I’ll let him die.”

  Adarin groaned and followed her.

  She moved efficiently, checking each of the seven fallen. Two Olivists were beyond saving—she shook her head sadly—but with the others, she went to work.

  She began with the worst injuries. Liora cut her palm, pressing blood to the wound. Faint scales shimmered across the body of the dying soldier as she whispered: “Mother Ishna, grant the blessing of your healing to these poor souls. Should the grip of the demiurge of death be too deep in them, grant me the wisdom to soften their suffering.”

  Well, she’s busy. He turned to John Mettig and approached with slow, deliberate steps.

  “First Speaker,” Adarin said, inclining his head. “You have my thanks for freeing us. But may I ask—what are your intentions? Freedom? Or have we simply traded one jailer for another?”

  The First Speaker chuckled softly. “That is a complicated question, is it not, City Lord?”

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