Jon stepped into the dimly lit stronghold, the heavy door thudding shut behind him with a low groan. His boots echoed through the corridors, each step stirring the silence that hung like a veil in the air. The flickering torchlight cast long, distorted shadows across the stone walls. The place felt colder than usual, colder than it had been in the days before everything had shifted.

  As Jon moved further into the depths of his stronghold, his gaze narrowed. He didn’t need to look far to spot the one person he hadn’t expected to see here.

  Lungar.

  The older man stood by the far wall, his long, dark robes billowing slightly despite the stillness of the room. His eyes, hidden behind a veil of unreadable knowledge, flickered as Jon approached.

  Jon stopped in his tracks, crossing his arms. His face, usually so stoic, betrayed a flicker of irritation. “Lungar,” Jon’s voice broke the silence, sharp and biting. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Lungar didn’t flinch. His usual air of aloofness remained, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Ah, Jon,” he began, his tone far too casual for the situation. “You wound me. Is it not a place for friends, for those who share similar... interests?”

  Jon’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t answer my question,” he snapped. His patience was wearing thin, the last few days’ events making him more and more irritable. “I didn’t invite you here.”

  Lungar gave a slow, almost deliberate shake of his head, his long fingers idly twirling a small trinket, a habit that always seemed to annoy Jon. “No, you didn’t. But you also didn’t send me away. Did you truly think you could dive so deep into matters that concern us all and not expect my presence? You should know me better than that by now, Jon.”

  Jon stepped closer, his glare unwavering. “I don’t need you lurking around. I’m handling things on my own.” His words were more a reflex than conviction. He could feel the weight of his words as soon as they left his mouth, knowing deep down that wasn’t entirely true.

  Lungar's smile never faltered. “Handling things, hm?” he mused. “And how well have you been handling everything? Your little secrets, your… unfortunate killings, your ‘harmless’ stronghold?” His tone was taunting, as if Jon had been a child pretending to play at something much bigger than himself.

  Jon clenched his jaw, the images of what he’d done to defend this place flashing in his mind. “You think I don’t know what I’ve done?” he spat, his voice low and dangerous. “You think I don’t understand the weight of it all?”

  Lungar’s eyes seemed to soften for a fraction of a second, an almost imperceptible shift in the depths of his gaze. “No, Jon. I think you understand it all too well,” he said quietly. “That’s the problem.”

  Jon took a breath, his fingers tightening around his forearm. "Then why are you here, Lungar?" he repeated, his voice softer now, tinged with frustration. "Why now? Why the hell did you show up just when things are getting... complicated?"

  Lungar didn’t respond immediately, his gaze lingering on Jon as if measuring him, calculating how much truth he could reveal without pushing him too far. Finally, he exhaled, his voice almost a whisper. “Because I was always here, Jon. Watching, waiting. And because... we both know that you cannot do this alone.”

  Jon stared at him, caught off guard. "So you're just going to... what? Watch from the sidelines?"

  “Not quite,” Lungar replied, his voice a strange mixture of indifference and gravitas. “But neither will I fight your battles for you. The Void requires your choices. The path is yours to walk, but even the most learned scholars need a guide from time to time.”

  Jon’s eyes narrowed, unsure whether he could trust Lungar. “And you’re the guide, I suppose?”

  Lungar gave a small, amused smile. “Someone has to keep you from tripping over your own feet, don’t they?”

  Jon’s frustration flared, but there was no denying that Lungar had a point. Despite his irritation, Jon knew that he was still too much in the dark about many things, and Lungar—annoying as he was—was the only one who might know something of use.

  “So, what’s your role in all this then, Lungar?” Jon asked, his voice a little quieter. “I can’t just keep ignoring what I don’t know. I’m starting to believe there’s more at play here than I thought.” He ran a hand through his hair, his thoughts tangled. “And I need to understand what I’m dealing with.”

  Lungar nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. “You already know far more than you think. The questions you ask are only a small part of the grand design, Jon. But make no mistake,” he added, his voice growing colder, “the answers you seek will not come easily.”

  Jon clenched his fists, frustration building again. “Then stop talking in riddles, Lungar. Give me something I can use.”

  Lungar took a long, deep breath. “The Void is not here for games, Jon. And neither am I. It watches, always. Every step you take, every choice you make… it will be felt. I am merely a... reminder of what you are meant to become.”

  Jon stepped back, trying to absorb the weight of Lungar’s words. He wasn’t ready to face the implications, but deep down, he knew Lungar was right. It was all connected. The Void. His bloodline. His family. And now, this damn Harbinger role he couldn’t escape.

  “Fine,” Jon muttered, his frustration still raw. “But if I’m supposed to become the Harbinger... I need to know how to control it. The power. The chaos.”

  Lungar nodded, the flicker of something almost sympathetic passing through his eyes. “Control... is something even I cannot teach you. But the path to mastering it, Jon, is already laid before you. It is not just about learning spells or rituals. It is about embracing what you truly are.”

  Jon stood in silence, grappling with the weight of Lungar’s words. The cold realization that there was no turning back from this, from the path the Void had set for him. The storm within him seemed to rage louder with every passing second, and yet, there was a strange pull toward it.

  He wasn’t ready. But he was starting to accept that he never would be.

  The atmosphere in the stronghold was thick with tension, the weight of unsaid things hanging in the air like an oppressive fog. Jon stood across from Lungar, the silence between them almost unbearable. The old scholar’s eyes were unreadable as always, his posture still and dignified. But Jon could sense a crack in the fa?ade, a moment of fragility waiting to be exposed.

  Jon clenched his fists again, his eyes narrowing. He wasn’t going to let Lungar sidestep the question this time.

  "You keep talking about the Void, about destiny, about... choosing paths," Jon said, his voice low but sharp. "But you never tell me anything about you. I want to know why you're here, Lungar. What’s your story? How did you end up being the Void’s little pet, watching over me?"

  Lungar’s lips twitched, a faint smile crossing his face, but it quickly vanished. He seemed to consider the question carefully, as if weighing the merits of honesty against the need for discretion.

  "Pet?" Lungar chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "I suppose that's one way to put it, Jon. But there’s far more to it than that."

  Jon crossed his arms, his gaze unrelenting. “Then enlighten me. I’ve been through enough of this nonsense already.”

  Lungar sighed, almost wistful. "Very well," he muttered. "I suppose I owe you an explanation at some point."

  He paced slowly, his hands clasped behind his back, as though recalling something distant. "You see, Jon, I wasn’t always this." He gestured to himself with a sweep of his hand, his robes shifting in the dim light. "Once, I was a scholar, yes, a seeker of knowledge, like so many others. I delved into magic—magic that few would dare touch, let alone understand. But my pursuit was different. I didn’t simply seek power or fame. I sought... understanding. The truth behind the very fabric of existence, if you will."

  Jon raised an eyebrow, skeptical but intrigued. “Go on.”

  Lungar paused, his eyes darkening slightly. "The world we live in... is a shell. A fractured illusion. Beneath it, there lies something older, something more real than all of this." He made a vague gesture to the stronghold, to the world itself, as if to emphasize the disparity. "The Void, Jon, is not just some dark force. It is the core, the origin. It is the truth. I sought it, relentlessly, without care for the consequences."

  Jon felt a knot tighten in his stomach. "So, you chased it? You actually sought the Void?"

  Lungar’s gaze hardened. "Yes," he said firmly, his voice low with conviction. "I sought the Void, and in doing so, I became... noticed. You see, Jon, power doesn’t always come with a price you’re aware of. I thought I could control it, that I could wield it. But the Void does not bend to the will of mortals. It simply... takes what it wants." He chuckled bitterly. "And it wanted me."

  Jon frowned, a sense of unease creeping into him. "So, what? You got chosen by it? Became its... servant?"

  Lungar didn’t flinch at the word. “A servant, yes, in a way. But it’s more complex than that. The Void is not a being you serve, Jon. It is an inevitability. A force of nature, unstoppable, ever-present. And it... watches." He leaned closer to Jon, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The Void saw my thirst for knowledge, my ambition, and it rewarded me. Or perhaps... cursed me. It allowed me to see things few can even comprehend, to understand things that would drive most insane. In exchange, it took a piece of me. My soul. My will."

  Jon’s face darkened. "So, that’s why you’re like this. You gave up everything just to have a glimpse at the truth."

  Lungar nodded, his eyes flickering with a haunted expression. "Yes. It was not a decision I made lightly. But once you peer into the Void, it changes you. And, as with any gift from it, you become... bound." He sighed heavily. "I have been its watcher, its agent, for far longer than I care to admit. I’ve lived countless lifetimes, Jon, and yet I am still bound to this task. To observe, to wait... for what I do not yet fully understand. But the Void is patient. It waits for you."

  Jon clenched his jaw, his mind racing with the implications. Lungar had given everything—his freedom, his soul, his very identity—to the Void, just for the sake of knowledge. And now, that same Void had sent him here, to watch Jon. But for what purpose? And why him?

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  "You’re saying you were... forced into this? Forced to be its agent?"

  Lungar’s gaze softened for a moment, an emotion flickering behind his eyes—regret, perhaps. "Not forced, Jon. But there are consequences when you open the door to the Void. You cannot simply walk away. I did not expect the price to be so high. But the Void doesn’t care about our expectations. It takes what it wants. And it... demands certain things."

  Jon’s chest tightened as the weight of Lungar’s words sank in. The Void had taken his soul. It had twisted him into something else. And now, Jon had the same power, the same fate looming over him. He wasn’t sure whether to feel sympathy for Lungar or horror at the idea of what he might become.

  "So, I’m just supposed to accept that I’m walking the same path?" Jon muttered, more to himself than Lungar. "The Void... it’s already here, isn’t it? And everything I’ve been doing... it’s all for its cause."

  Lungar gave him a knowing look. "Yes, Jon. Everything. And yet, it is still your choice. The Void does not force you. It merely waits for you to embrace what you are meant to be."

  Jon’s eyes flickered with something between resignation and defiance. He wasn’t sure if he could accept Lungar’s fate. He wasn’t sure if he was ready to accept his own. But deep down, he knew Lungar was right. The Void wasn’t something that could be avoided. And whether Jon liked it or not, his path had already been set in motion.

  “I’m not like you,” Jon said, his voice firm, but tinged with uncertainty.

  Lungar smiled, almost sadly. "No, Jon. You’re not. But you will be... eventually.”

  Jon turned away, his mind reeling, his thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and acceptance. The Void was not something that could be outrun. It had its sights on him. And whether he was ready or not, the clock was ticking.

  After what seemed like hours of silence, Lungar finally broke it.

  "You do have the ability, don't you?"

  Jon blinked. "What ability?"

  "The Phantom Presence."

  Jon shifted uncomfortably. The weight of the cave's damp air pressed against him. "Yeah... I have those, but I can't use it. So what is it?"

  A grin flickered across Lungar's lips, the dim light casting shadows across his scarred face. "It is a familiar. But we must summon him first."

  "Him?"

  "The Void offers only a few choices, and those few..." Lungar's eyes gleamed. "...are older than the stars."

  Jon swallowed hard. "Okay... so what do we need to do?"

  Lungar turned and motioned for Jon to follow him deeper into the cave. The walls narrowed, the darkness thickening around them. Eventually, they reached a wide chamber where a massive ritual circle was scratched into the stone floor—a seven-legged star carved deep into the rock.

  "For a familiar ritual, you need materials," Lungar explained, voice low. "To summon the Phantom Presence... you need but one thing—a shattered mind. You obtain it by killing someone and crushing their soul, like an orange pressed for juice. With it, you can conjure weapons... or summon your familiar."

  Jon felt a cold knot in his stomach. "What do I need to do?"

  Lungar reached into his coat, pulling out a small leather pouch. "Take this salt. Infused with obsidian shards—strong enough to withstand the Void's hunger. Fill the scratches with it."

  Jon took the pouch, his fingers trembling slightly as he poured the dark powder into the carved grooves. The obsidian-flecked salt shimmered faintly in the gloom. Lungar watched in silence, his expression dark and unreadable.

  When Jon finished, the powder began to glow—a faint, sickly purple light crawling along the lines of the star.

  Lungar's voice broke the silence. "Now stand in the center... and speak the incantation."

  Jon's throat tightened. "What incantation? I don't know any."

  Lungar's grin returned, cold and sharp. "Just stand there... and speak."

  Jon's mouth felt dry as dust. He stepped into the circle, the glowing salt casting eerie shadows on the walls.

  His voice was little more than a whisper at first.

  "I summon that which never should be—Harbinger of Ends, Doom of Worlds, the stain upon reality that no light may cleanse."

  The salt flared brighter, flickering into black flames that seemed to drink the warmth from the air. The temperature plummeted, breath misting in the icy gloom.

  Then—nothing.

  The flames snuffed out, the light fading to dull embers. The powder lay inanimate once more.

  Jon's heart pounded in the silence.

  Lungar's brow furrowed. "Are you sure that was the incantation?"

  Jon's fists clenched. "No, I'm not fucking sure what that was! Why is nothing happening?"

  Neither man noticed the shadow slithering along the cave walls.

  It pooled behind Jon, rising like ink spilled in reverse. Slowly, it coalesced into a hooded figure, the sound of a cane clicking against stone breaking the silence.

  Both men froze.

  The figure's skeletal hand reached up, pulling back its hood to reveal a grinning skull with twin purple flames flickering in its empty eye sockets. The smugness on its bony face was palpable—despite lacking flesh.

  The cane tapped the floor once more, the sound echoing through the cave.

  "A little dramatic, perhaps," the figure intoned in a voice both silken and deathless, "but I do appreciate the effort."

  Jon stumbled back, eyes wide. His heart hammered against his ribs.

  The figure straightened, brushing nonexistent dust from its tattered cloak with delicate, skeletal fingers. The purple flames in its sockets flickered, casting faint, otherworldly glows across the cave walls.

  "A shattered mind as an offering... crude, yet effective." The voice was like velvet stretched over razors, rich with amusement. "How quaint."

  Lungar's expression remained impassive, but Jon noticed the subtle shift—the tightening at the corner of his mouth, the way his hand drifted closer to the pouch on his belt.

  "Grimwald," Lungar said evenly.

  The figure turned its grinning skull towards him, purple flames burning brighter.

  "Ah... Lungar." A thin, echoing laugh rattled through the cave. "Still clinging to this plane, I see. How utterly predictable."

  Jon's throat felt dry. "You're... Grimwald?"

  The figure's head snapped towards him with unsettling speed. The grin never wavered.

  "I am many things, Harbinger. A herald. A teacher. A... gentleman of refined tastes." He clicked the cane against the floor again, the sound sharp, like bone striking glass. "And your most humble servant—whether you desire my services or not."

  Grimwald leaned in slightly, sockets narrowing.

  "But I must say... your summoning lacked a certain flair. No chanting? No bloodletting? Not even a single bell toll? Really, I expected more."

  Jon opened his mouth to answer, but Grimwald straightened abruptly, clasping both bony hands around the head of his cane.

  "Still—one mustn't grumble. I suppose the customer is always right."

  He let the words hang in the cold air, waiting.

  Nothing.

  Jon and Lungar exchanged a glance.

  Grimwald's purple flames dimmed slightly, as if the Void itself was sighing through him.

  "Nothing? Not even a titter? By the Void, what a pair of miserable sods I've been saddled with." He turned his skull towards Lungar. "You haven't taught him irony, I see."

  "Irony is not relevant to the current situation," Lungar said flatly.

  Grimwald's skull clacked as he tilted his head.

  "Ah. One of those conversations." He leaned closer to Jon. "Let me guess—he's the brooding intellectual, isn't he? Probably keeps a diary, full of tortured musings about the futility of existence and how nobody understands him?"

  "I do not keep a diary," Lungar said without missing a beat.

  Grimwald tapped his cane against his teeth. "Journal, then. Apologies, old boy."

  Jon blinked, utterly lost. "What... are you talking about?"

  Grimwald wheeled on him with the grace of a drunken stage actor.

  "Ah, of course. No context. How dreadfully provincial." He straightened his spine with an audible creak, then leaned on his cane. "Very well. Allow me to explain—at great personal expense, mind you."

  He cleared his throat—or at least made the impression of clearing a throat, despite lacking anything remotely resembling one.

  "British humour is an advanced form of wit, typically employed by the most sophisticated and exceedingly attractive entities across the multiverse. It is a delicate blend of self-deprecation, thinly veiled mockery, and the crushing weight of existential despair—all wrapped up in a charming accent." He waggled a bony finger at Jon. "The secret is to sound both utterly miserable and unbearably smug at the same time. Like Lungar, but with a sense of style."

  Jon's brow furrowed. "...What the fuck are you talking about?"

  Grimwald's grin seemed to stretch wider, though the skull never actually moved.

  "Exactly."

  He spun on his heel and began pacing the edge of the ritual circle, cane clicking against the stone with every step.

  "Now, where were we? Ah, yes—the whole bound-for-eternity bit." He waved a skeletal hand dismissively. "Don't worry, dear boy. I'm quite low maintenance. A spot of murder here, a sprinkle of forbidden knowledge there—I'll hardly be a bother at all."

  He paused dramatically, flame-eyes narrowing.

  "Unless, of course... you bore me."

  Jon swallowed.

  "How... would I bore you?"

  Grimwald leaned in close, purple flames flickering brighter.

  "Oh, you know... by whining. Moping. Clinging to trivial things like morality and free will." His voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial whisper. "Or worst of all... by taking yourself seriously."

  The last word oozed from his skull like poison.

  Jon's mind reeled, struggling to process whatever this thing was supposed to be.

  Lungar, for his part, simply folded his arms and muttered under his breath.

  "I liked it better when he didn't talk."

  Grimwald spun, pointing the cane directly at him.

  "I heard that, you miserable old piss bucket!"

  Jon and Lungar stood in the middle of the cave, still processing Grimwald's earlier theatrics. The air hung thick with tension, the smell of ancient stone and magic lingering around them.

  "So," Jon began slowly, his hand still gripping the ritual circle's edge, "I suppose we’ve established that Grimwald is... interesting."

  Lungar let out a low grunt, eyes narrowing at the skeletal figure still pacing with a laughable swagger.

  "Interesting?" Lungar muttered, his lips curling into a grimace. "I’d say a walking, talking nightmare with delusions of grandeur is more fitting."

  Grimwald paused mid-step, turning his skull towards them with a mockingly hurt expression. "Excuse me? I heard that, you old bag of wind."

  Lungar shot him a glare. "You’ve been worse, believe me."

  Grimwald straightened up, tapping his cane against the stone with a sharp crack. "I’m far more than you give me credit for, Lungar. But if you're suggesting I’m not living up to my potential, I’ll have you know—I am a being of unfathomable importance."

  Jon rubbed his temples. "Well, we can’t exactly keep you around here forever, Grimwald. We need you... somewhere." He paused, then glanced at Lungar. "Maybe the Adventure Society? You know, where they look for drama and pizzazz?"

  Lungar’s eyebrow quirked. "Pizzazz?" he repeated, raising a dubious eyebrow.

  "Yes, pizzazz." Jon turned to Grimwald. "They’ve got the whole 'elite' thing going on. They look for the extra in a person—someone with flair and presence."

  Grimwald chuckled, a deep, rolling sound like distant thunder. "Flair, presence... Yes, yes, I believe that’s a compliment, isn’t it? That’s my specialty, darling." He swept his arm dramatically, the rags of his cloak swirling like smoke. "How lucky they are to have someone with such impeccable taste."

  Jon looked skeptical. "But will they actually accept you? You’re not exactly the 'team player' type."

  Grimwald's smile spread like a crack in a foundation. "Not team player? Oh, my dear boy, I am the star. The centre of attention. Everyone loves me. They'll fall all over themselves to have someone of my... caliber among them."

  Lungar rolled his eyes, leaning against the stone wall. "Oh, yes, we’re all waiting for their resounding applause."

  Grimwald straightened his posture, dramatically puffing out his chest. "I'll have them eating out of my bony hand. Literally, if I choose to." He winked at Jon. "Just imagine—my splendid skills, my sophistication, my ability to charm the very earth beneath their feet." He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "Though I do hope they don't bore me. I'd hate to be stuck with a bunch of insufferable amateurs."

  Jon raised an eyebrow. "You’ve got the attitude for it, that’s for sure."

  Lungar crossed his arms, eyeing Grimwald suspiciously. "You think they'll just take you in? What’s in it for them?"

  Grimwald gave a theatrical shrug. "Oh, darling, they’ll find out soon enough. Besides, what’s life without a little mystery? Besides, I’m simply too important to be left to rot down here, playing second fiddle to a pile of damp rocks and whining wizards." He turned his head, glancing pointedly at Lungar. "Not naming names."

  Lungar stared back without a word, his lips twisting into a thin, wry smile.

  "Alright, Grimwald," Jon said, shaking his head with a small grin. "You’re going. Go put on your show for the Adventure Society. Maybe you’ll actually find something worthy to entertain you."

  Grimwald tapped his cane on the ground with a flourish. "Oh, I’ll be magnificent, darling. You’ll see. It’ll be glorious."

  He gave a nod of approval, the flames in his eyes flickering with barely contained amusement.

  "Well then," Jon muttered. "Off you go. Just don’t burn any bridges—yet."

  Grimwald leaned in with a conspiratorial wink. "Oh, Jon, my dear boy... I’m not in the habit of burning anything. I prefer to blow things up in style."

  Lungar snorted. "He’ll either charm them or burn them to the ground."

  Jon sighed and gestured toward the portal. "Get going before I change my mind."

  Grimwald turned, his tattered cloak flaring dramatically behind him. With a final flourish, he stepped through the portal. "You’ve made a wise decision," he called back with a sing-song voice. "This will be epic."

  Jon watched him disappear, and then glanced at Lungar. "Well, at least he’s going to make an impression."

  Lungar grunted. "That’s one thing I’ll give him—he’s impossible to ignore."

  Jon sighed again. "I just hope the Adventure Society survives the experience."