The mansion groaned around them as if mocking his struggle.

  Fuck. He lashed out with a blade, forcing them back, but he was slower now his vision doubling. They attacked in pairs, quick jabs of half-formed spells, improvised weapons. Another blow found his ribs, forcing air from his lungs in a desperate wheeze. He swung wildly, caught someone’s shoulder, and heard a scream.

  A gust of energy smashed into his barrier again, sending sparks skittering across the scorched floor. He staggered, barely upright, blinking sweat and blood from his eyes.

  Elia watched it all, amused, circling like a vulture. More attackers poured into the room, encouraged by Mark’s unsteady stance. He barely managed to summon another barrier, this one smaller and weaker, to block a flurry of crystalline shards that burst from some lunatic’s fingertips. Tiny cuts peppered his face and neck, stinging like hornet stings.

  He swallowed hard, ignoring the blood on his tongue. Another attacker came in hot—Mark sidestepped, parried, kicked the guy’s knee out, then slashed low. It felt like hacking through a tide that never receded.

  “Holy hell, what’s with this guy?” one of the intruders hissed, voice cracking. “How the hell’s he snuffing our spells?”

  “Why aren’t the runes working?”

  “Yeah,” another muttered, “this doesn’t make any sense.”

  Murmurs spread through their little pack.

  Elia leaned casually against a busted pillar, arms crossed, one good eye gleaming. “Little sparky here’s got something special, that’s for sure,” he said, his tone smug as hell. “Guess not all bedtime stories are false.”

  Lida’s going to kill me. Mark thought grimly. If I even survive this.

  Elia pushed off the pillar. “Any last words, hero? Looks like the end of the line.”

  Mark wiped blood from his lip and managed a shaky grin. “Yeah… that eyepatch really suits you.”

  “I’m gonna kill you slow, you piece of shit,” he snarled.

  “Oh, shut up.” Mark coughed. “I’ve kicked your ass enough times. You’re just pissed I ruined your ugly face,” he said, voice dripping with mock sweetness.

  Elia’s glare was pure poison.

  Another attacker rushed in, fast and desperate. Mark sidestepped, felt his muscles scream, parried a shimmering blade with his void edge, kicked the guy’s knee out so it popped with a sick crack, then slashed low, warm blood splattering on his boots.

  He took down a couple more, quick brutal hits, all instinct. Bone, flesh, magic crackling and dying. But someone else caught him off-guard—a heavy blow to his wounded arm—and he staggered back.

  He stood there, cornered, practically pinned against some old broken dresser while those jerks crept closer. His head rang. Dust choked his lungs. He could barely see straight. His heart hammered so loud it drowned out the screaming, the crashing, the desperate scuffles of Crescent mages somewhere else in this godforsaken mansion. What to do? What to do?

  They’d been chipping away at him for what felt like ages—he’d lost count of how many he’d taken down, how many times he’d dodged death by inches.

  The intruders smelled his weakness—he could see it in their eyes, hear it in their jeers. Their smirks spoke volumes, closing in on him like a pack of hungry wolves on the prowl.

  His blades felt heavier, flickering, threatening to wink out with every labored breath. He was done for. He could barely stand, let alone fight. Screw this. He clenched his jaw, ignoring the blood trickling into his eye. He had to hold out, just a little longer.

  A hard blow caught him in the arm, and he grunted, stumbling. Another lunged from the side, blade catching his shirt, drawing a fresh line of red. He struck back blindly, blade scraping bone, hearing a shriek—didn’t matter whose.

  Then… something shifted. The air changed. For a split second, the static of panic in his brain cleared, and he sensed it. Ether. Flowing back. Just a faint hum at first, like a distant engine warming up. His eyes widened. Ria did it. Holy shit, she actually did it.

  His opponents didn’t realize it yet—they were too busy savoring their almost-victory.

  He inhaled, lungs scraping raw air, and reached deep inside his reservoir, where the power lay coiled, starving for release. Pain still screamed in his veins, but now it had company—something hot and electric. The ether filled him, fueled him, crackled through his nerves like fresh adrenaline.

  His vision sharpened, and the world slowed just for half a second.

  “FULMINIS,” he roared, voice echoing through broken halls.

  A flash.

  A crackle.

  ZZZZZZZAAP!

  Lightning exploded from his fingertips, a snarling, crackling beast of white-hot fury. Raw and hungry.

  The air stank of ozone and scorched flesh in a heartbeat. The flash hurt his own eyes, but he didn’t care.

  It tore through the space, a tangled web of current that burned skin, fused metal, and shattered glass.

  They had no time to scream properly. The front line of attackers caught the full brunt, their bodies jerking violently, limbs spasming, eyes bulging as lightning tore through them.

  It was brutal, ugly, and fast. Mark didn’t hold back—he couldn’t afford to. He poured everything he had into that surge, each tendon straining as if he could channel his rage and terror right into those killers.

  Sparks danced off the floorboards, lighting them up in tiny embers. The stench of charred flesh slapped Mark’s nostrils, making his stomach churn. Those who tried to dodge weren’t lucky. The lightning arced unpredictably, hungry for anything in its path. One attacker tried to dive behind a broken dresser but got nailed mid-leap, his scream cut short. Another stumbled into a downed comrade and got roasted anyway, their melting gear dripping onto the floor.

  When the flash faded, Mark stood panting, body shaking.

  Some attacker who’d managed to hurl himself flat now twitched and whimpered, half-burned. Broken metal and fused plastic littered the scorched floor.

  Holy hell, that was close. He sucked in air, lungs on fire, heart doing somersaults. He coughed the bitter taste of smoke and blood on his tongue, body on the verge of collapse.

  Static still danced along his fingertips, the acrid smell of scorched everything raking the back of his throat. He scanned the hall—shattered furniture, bodies slumped over, chaos of broken tables and bloodstains. Stunned attackers stared back, a few twitching as they tried to gather themselves.

  He blinked sweat from his eyes, noticing the absence of a certain one-eyed asshole. Elia had vanished. Of course, that bastard would run.

  The remaining intruders lunged.

  Mark barked out a laugh, grim and tired, and unleashed another burst of lightning. ZZZTT!

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  It seared across their faces, ripping screams from their throats, flesh charring, dropping them like sacks of meat.

  The stench gagged him, but he swallowed it down. Still no sign of Elia.

  Then, a sudden shout—too close. An attack from his flank.

  Mark tried to bring up a barrier, but he was off-balance, too slow. Shit— But before the hit landed, a wall of ice slammed into place. Crackling frost spread out, blocking the attack. He stumbled back, panting, and turned to find Ria rushing toward him, eyes blazing. She threw shards of ice like knives, taking down anyone else stupid enough to move.

  Mark managed a weak grin. Right on time.

  He took a shaky step forward, lightning dancing weakly at his fingertips. Then that damned shimmer caught his eye.

  That teleporting prick popped back into view, blade already descending. Mark jerked a shield up just in time, sparks flying, his arm going numb from the impact.

  Elia snarled and kept swinging, teleporting around like some sadistic jack-in-the-box.

  Mark could hardly stand, let alone fight. He dodged behind a crushed armchair, rolled over broken glass, used a toppled bookshelf to deflect another strike. Every muscle screamed. Blood trickled down his arm. He kicked debris into Elia’s path, trying to buy a fraction of a second. Didn’t matter—Elia just blinked through the chaos, pressing the attack.

  Mark’s blade-hand trembled. He could barely stand, every step a stumble.

  Elia saw it, grinning, circling like a shark that smelled blood.

  Finally, Mark spotted an opening. He lunged forward, body screaming in protest, and jammed his void blade straight into Elia’s ribcage.

  “AAAAAAARGH!”

  Elia’s eyes went wide, his scream raw and high-pitched, making Mark’s ears ring all over again.

  Mark didn’t stop. He twisted the blade cruelly, feeling wet muscle and bone grind.

  “STOP! STOP!”

  Mark answered by grabbing his neck with a trembling hand and letting lightning crawl down his arm, a controlled surge, lighting up Elia’s nerves like a Christmas tree from hell.

  “AAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHHHH!!!”

  His screams hit a pitch that scraped Mark’s skull. He twisted the blade further for good measure, feeling muscle and bone give under pressure.

  Mark finally let go. Elia dropped like a sack of broken bones, limbs twitching, eyes rolling back. No teleporting now, asshole.

  Ria still hurled ice at the stragglers, taking down anyone who dared move. Mark coughed, spitting blood, swaying on his feet. The hallway reeked of burnt flesh and singed fabric. The few survivors backed off, eyes wide with horror.

  Just feww moreee….

  He tried to keep it together, but he was done. The world blurred, dizziness chewing at his edges. His legs folded, dumping him onto the blood-slick floor. His vision funneled down to a pinpoint of light.

  “Mark!”

  Ria’s voice, distant and desperate, calling his name, was the last thing he heard before the void swallowed him whole.

  * * *

  Mark’s eyelids fluttered open, the world a blurry mess of shadows and dust motes dancing in the dim light. A dull ache throbbed behind his eyes, his head feeling like it had been used as a bowling ball.

  He groaned, pushing himself up, his muscles protesting with a chorus of aches and pains. His mouth tasted like old pennies, and his shoulders ached as if he’d slept under a pile of bricks.

  Stiff. Every damn part of him is stiff. He stretched, his joints popping like firecrackers. He looked around, his gaze slowly taking in his surroundings.

  Where the hell am I?

  He found himself in some kind of abandoned building, a decaying place that whispered of forgotten grandeur. The walls were charred, the wallpaper peeling off in long, tired strips. The smell hit him first: old rot, moldy carpet, and something else he couldn’t name.

  What happened? The fight… Elia… Ria…

  “Ria?” he called, voice hoarse and shaky. No answer. Just his own ragged breathing. Damn. He tried again, louder. Nothing but silence.

  Shit. Where was she? Was she safe? Had she escaped? Panic clawed at the edges of his mind.

  He swallowed hard, stepping forward on creaking floorboards.

  It felt like a mansion, a big old relic of a place, but something was off. Doors lined the corridor, some barely hanging by their hinges, others stubbornly intact and sealed tight. He paused at one doorway, peering in. Darkness. Another door. There he found a room still… well, fresh. Fresh flowers sat in a vase on a polished table, their petals bright and velvety. Next to them, a row of books—spines uncracked, perfectly aligned, no dust.

  Perfectly preserved, like a stage set waiting for actors who never arrived.

  He forced himself onward. Another room. This one destroyed—ceiling caved in, shards of glass spread across a mildewed carpet. Water stains on the walls, slime crawling in corners. The difference between rooms jarred him: one rotting, the next pristine, like time had picked favorites and ignored everything else.

  Tall, arched windows let in dusty shafts of light. He approached one, pulling the heavy curtain back with trembling fingers. Outside, he saw… what? Hard to say through the grime and fog. A shape of trees maybe, or something hulking and unmoving. He stepped back, uneasy prickles crawling up his spine. He was alone here, and that was the worst part. Not knowing where Ria was, if she was okay, or if any of this was real.

  He clenched his fists, took a breath that only half filled his lungs. He’d keep moving. There was nothing else to do.

  Every crack and creak that broke the silence sent jolts of anxiety down Mark’s spine. He hated how jumpy he felt, like some terrified kid in a haunted house. Still, he kept pushing forward, boots scraping dust and debris. The hallway stretched on forever, each step hollow and echoing, each painting on the wall more disturbing than the last. Faces twisted, eyes hollow, some figures missing limbs or staring back at him with silent, accusing glares. Who the hell are these people?

  He wandered through the mansion, the silence broken only by the sound of his own footsteps.

  How long has he been walking? Minutes, hours, days—no clue. Strangely, he didn’t feel the slightest ache from the beating he’d taken, the blood loss, or the exhaustion. His body felt oddly weightless as if he were walking on a dream’s edge.

  That’s when he started noticing them: the runes. Strange, looping symbols etched into the cracked plaster and charred beams. He recognized zero of them—just weird curves and lines that made his brain itch. One, in particular, caught his eye, glowing faintly. When he reached for it, the damn thing skittered away like a frightened insect, leaving a trail of glimmering light. What the…?

  Mark didn’t hesitate. He followed it, his curiosity overriding his unease. Down twisting corridors, through rooms that seemed to bend in impossible angles. The building warped around him, hallways stretching and curving in ways that shouldn’t be possible. He started to feel that electric charge in the air, the sensation prickling at his skin, making his hair stand on end. Am I going nuts? Is this place messing with me?

  Up a staircase that spiraled just a bit too far to the left, he followed that glowing sigil to a door carved from ancient, gnarled wood. The rune hovered there like some spectral beacon. He pushed it open—carefully—and stepped into a chamber straight out of some occult nightmare. Shelves crammed with trinkets he couldn’t begin to understand: odd masks, vials of thick liquids, skulls carved with intricate patterns.

  And there, in the corner, an ornate chest shimmering with that same eerie light. The rune hovered above it, pulsing like it was alive.

  What the hell is this?

  Mark swallowed hard and reached out. Screw it, he thought, I’ve come this far. His fingertips brushed the chest, and everything exploded in white. No sound, no pain, just blinding radiance.

  When it faded, he was somewhere else. Another room, more unsettling than before. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He just stared, heart pounding, What the fuck just happened?

  Mark’s breathing went ragged. The new room was somehow worse—walls that seemed to breathe, floors that felt soft under his boots, that smell creeping into his nostrils like a rank whisper he couldn’t shake off.

  Get a grip, Mark. Get a fucking grip. But how? His body felt off, his mind heavy, like someone stuffed cotton behind his eyes.

  He stepped forward, boots kicking up dust that swirled in oddly intentional patterns. His gaze drifted to the corner, where a lonely chair stood. A skeleton sat propped up on it, legs crossed like it had all the time in the world. Bony fingers clutched a book so tightly it looked like it would never let go. Mark approached slowly, each footstep crunching on something he’d rather not think about.

  He reached out, prying the book free. The moment he touched it, the temperature plummeted. His breath puffed white. The air turned thick, buzzing with strange energy. Whispers rose, a chorus of disembodied voices coiling through his head. A blinding light filled the room, forcing Mark to shut his eyes. Where is that coming from?

  “Omona alshurica, valesh shiriaa.”

  “Karaali arosula, jurnaavima.”

  … The voices overlapped, wrapping around him, pressing into his skull. He couldn’t understand a damn thing. What the hell is this?

  “Zamaala jivaris, kyndara kullamaa,” a third voice joined in.

  “Yvvarnaa vyndaara, sharjaali chivima.”

  “Kalorith mandrakar, alishikator,” a deeper voice intoned.

  What the fuck?

  Then, a voice, androgynous, inhuman, resonated through the room. “In the name of the *****, I curse thee to a fate of eternal suffering, for the sins of thy predecessors.”

  “Who’s there?” He shouted, “What curse?”

  Just as suddenly, everything went quiet. Mark opened his eyes, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  He blinked.

  The room looked normal—well, as normal as this nightmare could get.

  I’m going crazy. Panic surged through him. He took a step back, his gaze darting around the room, searching for an escape. That’s when he saw it—a glint on the floor, near the skeleton’s feet, almost as if beckoning him.

  A talisman. Small, detailed, shimmering even in the dimness. He picked it up, heart hammering. An electric jolt buzzed up his arm, knocking the breath out of him. The talisman glowed, bathing the room in a sickly, unnatural light.

  Before he could process this, the walls buckled. The floor rippled. The entire space came apart like a set piece shredding itself. Mark felt a violent tug in his gut, the world slipping away. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for it to end.