Katya and Ragnar took the morning carriage bound for Juno, where they would seek an audience with the Divine Lord Gortash.

  “I can feel the breeze,” Ragnar said quietly, tilting his head toward the open plains.

  “That’s because we’re in the Iscor plains now, not some necrotic wasteland,” Katya replied with a grin. “Look at your hair, it’s actually flowing. This is why it’s important to wash, you know. I feel so comfortable right now.”

  She leaned closer, studying him. The smile faded. “Oh no. There’s a crack.”

  “A crack?” Ragnar asked.

  “In your face,” she whispered, her voice tightening. “Just below the eye.”

  Ragnar touched the spot with two fingers, unfazed. “I see. It’s breaking again. No matter. We’ll reach Gortash before it fully gives way.”

  “What? No,” Katya hissed, eyes darting to the driver as if someone might overhear. “Didn’t you listen to Matriarch Aisha? If they find out what you are, it could be over for both of us. Even with the token. We have to fix this.”

  “I can mend myself, but every time I do, it costs another life,” Ragnar said. His tone was flat, almost weary. “I will not harm innocents for my own sake.”

  Katya’s brow furrowed. “Wait… you said the weave heals you. What if we try a potion? That could work.”

  “If potions function as they did in my time, they would be useless here,” Ragnar replied.

  Katya’s hands curled into fists. “Then what do we do?”

  Ragnar looked out at the passing fields. “If I could pierce the Veil again, the weave itself would mend me. It brought me back once. But the Veil resists; it does not yield easily. Even in the academy, when I wrestled with Laws, I never learned how to break through to it directly.”

  “We can try,” Katya said quickly, “but not in the carriage. For now, we need to hide it. Let your hair fall over your eye and it’ll cover the crack.”

  Ragnar stared at her blankly.

  “Look, even if you hate the idea, we have to. Think of it as… modern fashion.” She gave a nervous half-smile.

  Before Ragnar could respond, a thunderous boom echoed across the plains. The horses reared, snorting, as the carriage jolted to a stop.

  “What happened?” Ragnar asked sharply.

  “I don’t know, sir. I’ll check,” the driver called back.

  A shout rang from the front. “Bandits!”

  Katya’s stomach sank. “Bandits? This route should have been secure…”

  Ragnar stepped out of the carriage, hand closing around his sword.

  Katya scrambled after him. “You can’t fight them head-on. What if the cracks spread? And if you mend yourself… there are others here, Ragnar. People will see. I’ve got tools so, I can help.”

  “I’ll just use the sword,” Ragnar said flatly.

  “Still…” Katya’s voice faltered with worry.

  Their driver came sprinting toward them, waving frantically. He never made it. A jagged thorn of shadow burst from the earth, skewering him mid-stride.

  Katya froze, blood draining from her face. “That… that’s not bandits.”

  A low chant drifted through the air, rising and falling like a sickly hymn. The words blurred together, too warped to make out.

  Ragnar and Katya pressed forward. Around them, panic unfolded. Villagers scattered in every direction, some frozen in horror, others already lying still with dark wounds etched into their bodies.

  “Same marks,” Ragnar muttered, pointing to the corpses.

  Katya’s voice trembled. “Whoever they are… not bandits.”

  The chant swelled. From the haze, a line of hooded figures emerged. Their shadows writhed unnaturally, thorned branches stretching and curling across the ground.

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  Ragnar listened closely, catching the shape of a word. “Ell-ahi,” he whispered. “It means Master. The tongue is Enchoria, the speech of the divine.”

  “Divine?” Katya asked, eyes wide.

  “I don’t know much,” Ragnar admitted. “But when I studied the Laws, I studied this tongue as well. It was said to be an interpretation of how the cosmos sings.” His voice grew firmer. “Stay back.”

  He stepped forward.

  The earth split. Thorned shadows lashed across the ground, darting toward him like spears. Ragnar braced himself, whispering under his breath—“Regression.”

  Nothing happened.

  The thorns tore through his chest, sinking deep. For the briefest instant, Ragnar only stared at them, stunned that his command had failed.

  This was no ordinary sorcery, Ragnar realized. Regression should have unraveled it—stripping intent, leaving only raw weave. Yet the shadow-thorns remained, driving deeper, tearing through flesh that was no longer wholly flesh.

  He clenched his teeth, straining to summon strength enough to resist.

  “Ragnar!” Katya’s voice cracked as she rushed forward.

  “Stay back!” His command rang out, firm even as golden light spilled from the cracks where the thorns pierced his chest, running down like liquid fire. “It’s dangerous.”

  Katya saw a crack of light tear across the clear sky. A heartbeat later, lightning poured down on the hooded figures. Their wards flared dark against the strike—some held, others shattered, leaving their owners writhing on the ground.

  A spear whistled from above and struck one of them clean, dropping the figure to its knees. Riding the lightning itself, a small form descended—a pangui, his golden beard blazing as he landed. At his command, a colossal weave-construct of a tree erupted from the earth, roots coiling like serpents before lancing through more of the hooded cultists.

  But the fight was far from over. Many raised new wards, shielding themselves against the onslaught. One of them raised his hands and began to chant. Slowly, horribly, a massive eye of darkness swelled open in the air, its ember glow spilling across the field like a wound in the sky.

  “Close your eyes!” the pangui shouted. Katya obeyed without hesitation.

  “You too, red hair!”

  Katya heard the world rupture and then the ground trembled, screams tore the air, thunder cracked, and then there was silence.

  When she opened her eyes again, the hooded figures lay scattered across the field. Some were charred, others reduced to broken remains.

  Ragnar was still on his feet. The pangui now stood before him, gripping a spear three times his size. His golden beard caught the light as he narrowed his eyes.

  “A Hollowborn in the wilds,” he muttered, then charged.

  “Stop!” Katya cried.

  The spearhead halted just short of Ragnar’s throat.

  “Who are you people?” the pangui demanded.

  “I’m Katya of the Crimson Wing, and this is Ragnar,” she answered quickly.

  “Why bring a Hollowborn here?” His tone dripped with suspicion.

  “We have our reasons,” Katya said, voice tight.

  “Speak, or I drive this spear through his skull.”

  “We’re seeking an audience with Divine Lord Gortash,” Katya blurted. “We carry the Earth Token and a letter of introduction from the Syr matriarch.”

  “You’re Syr?” the pangui asked, his brow furrowing. “How did you come by the token?”

  “Yes. The chief of the wasteland gave it to us. Ragnar saved them when raiders attacked with ash-golems,” Katya explained in a rush.

  Even as she spoke, she noticed Ragnar rising inches above the ground, eyes closed, his body slowly knitting itself back together.

  The pangui’s eyes widened in horror. “He is consuming the weave of the dead,” he hissed and thrust his spear forward.

  The spear inched closer to Ragnar’s chest, close enough Katya thought it would pierce him, then stopped. Just like the time her own sword had failed against him.

  “Law?” the pangui muttered, confusion flickering across his stern face. He stepped back, tightening his grip on the massive spear.

  Katya saw the sky crackle above, thunder coiling in the clouds. “Stop! Please, he means no harm!” she pleaded.

  “He is a monster. A bringer of death,” the pangui snapped. “If you do not leave, you’ll burn with him.”

  The flash came blinding and merciless. Katya squeezed her eyes shut. So this is how I die, she thought.

  But instead of searing pain, she felt herself pulled sideways, as if the ground itself had tilted. For a heartbeat she was weightless, sliding through empty air where no step should be, before crashing down hard a few meters away. The lightning struck where she had been, engulfing Ragnar in blinding radiance.

  Katya opened her eyes. Burn marks scarred the earth all around, yet Ragnar stood untouched at the center of the devastation. His eyes were wide, alive with something sharp and searching.

  “So space is malleable,” he murmured. “I suspected as much when I first grasped causality, but…” His gaze shifted to Katya. “Are you hurt?”

  She could only nod, still reeling, her mind grasping at what had just happened.

  The Pangui’s voice cut through, spear leveled unwaveringly at Ragnar. “A law-bearing Hollowborn, not moving by instinct, but by understanding. You are different.”

  “You must be the Divine Lord Gortash?” Ragnar asked. His tone hardened as his brow furrowed. “You were going to kill her too.”

  “I gave her a choice,” the Pangui replied, knuckles whitening around the spear’s haft.

  “You call me a monster,” Ragnar said coldly, unsheathing his blade. “Yet you were the only one willing to strike an innocent.” His eyes narrowed, voice steady and sharp as steel. “You’re a demigod, aren’t you? Then show me, show me what makes you different from the one I’ve slain before.”