The night sky was sealed by thick black clouds. There was no moonlight only solid darkness pressing down upon the world. But among the clouds, a figure walked. Each step left behind a shimmering trail of phosphorescent blue light, as if the sky itself were a mirror of water reacting to their presence.
A long cloak fluttered in the wind, yet the figure's face remained entirely hidden, swallowed by shadows. Above them, distant thunder rumbled like drums announcing something terrible. And then, two presences appeared hovering softly at the edge of the nearest cloud, their shapes blurred by mist and shadow.
"The initial plan is complete," said one of the voices, cold as the edge of a blade. "The Orcs were wiped out. Five targeted battalions... eliminated."
The figure among the clouds stopped walking. The blue footprints hovered for a few more seconds before fading into the air.
"Caim Vanadius Bellator is still trapped inside the modified dungeon," said the second presence. "But not for long. Adriel... is already intervening. As expected. He'll be a nuisance and should be eliminated the first chance we get."
"And the son of Ragg, the Grand Lord of Karak?" asked the entity.
"Gravely wounded. Off the board for at least a year."
"Elves and humans?" asked the unmoving figure, their voice echoing like a whisper laced with thunder.
"They didn't fall. The trap was ignored. On top of that, the plan involving the Beastkin was completely nullified. That damned orc Kargath was wandering the Beastkin lands and entered the dungeon on sheer instinct. Our schemes didn't even graze him."
A heavy silence followed. Then came the question, hovering like a blade on the verge of falling:
"And what about the anomaly with three affinities?"
The clouds trembled slightly.
"He destroyed the item. Saved the group. And survived... all of it." The figure replied, truly surprised by the outcome. "He's dangerous," they added with hesitation. "We should eliminate him while we still can."
"That's a good idea..." responded the central figure after a long pause. "But I don't think we'll succeed any time soon. The energies around him... are unstable. Chaotic. Intertwined with something I can't understand."
"You think he was blessed by a deity?"
"There are no signs of that. Which makes it even stranger."
A second of silence was filled only by the sound of the wind cutting through the clouds.
"Then..." said the shrouded figure, "let's plant a seed."
The second presence, until now only a shadow among the mist, spoke for the first time:
"Laek, master of the Tower of Wind Mages... accepted the invitation. He's already in the field."
"But our network of infiltrators in demon territory has been completely dismantled. Lyra purged them with surgical precision. We no longer have eyes inside."
The central figure took a long breath. Their voice now sounded like a sentence being handed down:
"Let the next piece move."
The sky darkened even more. A thunderclap rolled like the roar of a god.
"Contact Branca. Have her deliver the package to the anomaly."
The three figures vanished into the clouds as if they had never been there.
Only the faint blue traces of footprints remained for one final moment, before vanishing into the moonless night's silence.
**
The main hallway of the mansion felt suspended in time. Velvet carpets with silver trim muffled all footsteps, and floating candelabras cast a bluish light over black marble columns etched with lunar symbols. At the end stood a door of dark oak, marked with ancient runes and a delicate silver inscription:
"Those who command the tides of night do not tremble before the darkness."
The head butler—a middle-aged man with hollow eyes, impeccable posture, and sharp black horns—paused before the door. He took a deep breath, as if preparing to face a force greater than himself, and then knocked twice with his knuckles.
"Enter," said a soft voice firm, composed, and perfectly enunciated.
The door opened on its own, revealing the chamber of Mari Lunaris Argentum: a semi-circular space with enchanted mirrored walls that reflected stars that did not exist outside. At its center, seated before a crystal desk, she remained still, dressed in silver-blue ceremonial robes, her head held high and hands folded over a large, heavy record book.
Her golden eyes, dim like ancient moons, rested on the butler for a brief moment. No smile. No emotion.
"My lady..." he said, bowing deeply, "We've received official confirmation from the castle. Your children... have exited the dungeon."
Mari did not move. The room's twilight made her pale skin and silver hair glow faintly, as if bathed in the light of a nonexistent moon.
"Their condition?" she asked, her tone unchanged, as if inquiring about the weather.
"Lady Seraphine is unconscious. Total exhaustion, but stable. As for Lord Aeloria..." a heavy pause, "he suffered critical injuries. He's lost both legs, several organs are failing. There are signs of internal necrosis. He's alive... but at fatal risk."
A silence fell, thick as velvet.
The butler, for a moment, expected his lady to rise. To run. To show something. But she only closed her eyes slowly, and when she opened them again, her voice was a sharp whisper:
"Did the artifacts synchronize?"
The man hesitated, clearly caught off guard. His brow furrowed at the oddity of the question.
"Yes, my lady. Synchronization was confirmed shortly after the dimensional rupture manifested. The memories were stored successfully."
Mari rose with a composed elegance, her gown fluttering like enchanted mist around her.
"Then bring the thread. I want to see everything that happened in there."
The butler stared at her, surprised. For the first time in years, something almost human crossed his eyes: disbelief. Not at the order itself, but at the priority.
Her children lay broken. One, mutilated. The other, in collapse. And still... Mari Argentum Lunaris wanted the truth before she wanted them.
He nodded, offering a slow, restrained bow.
"As you wish, my lady."
And he left with silent steps, leaving behind the room where false stars reflected the indifference of a mother who placed destiny above blood.
Minutes passed. When the butler returned, his steps were nearly inaudible, but the black case in his hands seemed to weigh far more than its light contents should allow. The container resembled a ceremonial weapon case—long, adorned with silver filigree and sealed with arcane locks. He set it gently upon the crystal desk and bowed without a word.
Mari approached with slow, measured grace. Upon opening the box, the artifact was revealed: a single golden thread, no thicker than a hair, affixed to a crystal core at one end. At first glance, it was dull, but at contact with the air, it pulsed once with a faint internal glow.
The butler lifted it with near-surgical precision, as if handling a living, dangerously volatile creature. He carried it to a pedestal on the left side of the room, where two silver magic clamps awaited. The thread was stretched between them, held taut like it was ready to vibrate with some forgotten melody.
"Prepared," the butler murmured.
Instantly, the room's light vanished. A perfect blackness devoured every source of magical illumination, and even the lunar mirrors on the walls turned opaque.
From the thread, white mist began to rise. It flowed like dry ice vapor, but denser, with a pearlescent glow. It spread across the floor, the walls, until it gathered into a thin floating curtain before Mari.
And then... the images began.
The mist transformed into a translucent veil that projected the memories extracted from Aeloria and Seraphine's experience. The scenes appeared in rapid succession, like a turbulent stream of nightmare fragments:
The beginning.
Glenn's group wasn't entering through a runic door, but instead emerging directly from a dark swamp, where glowing moss shifted like living skin. A dungeon entrance with no shape, no warning. As if the world itself had swallowed them whole.
Desperate battles against distorted versions of themselves. The copies emerged from liquid walls of pulsating mercury, each reflection more cruel and unstable than the last.
The grasshoppers being shredded by a grotesque, colossal crocodile, its skin pulsing with dead eyes and regenerating fangs.
The massacre brought by a colossal serpent, its entire body cloaked in darkness and spatial runes. Magic fused with dimensional manipulation. Purple lasers tore through the environment. The despair in Aeloria's eyes as he was swallowed and crawled back out, blood streaming across his entire body.
A moment when everything seemed to collapse.
Glenn walking away from Seraphine, determined, with something in his eyes the thread couldn't fully capture.
And then... the end.
The sky within the dungeon was collapsing.
A flickering red sun covered everything in its sickly light. No structures around. No solid ground. Only void and ruin. The only visible things: crackling blue lightning and purple lasers colliding and spiraling like warring comets.
The thread began to tremble slightly between the clamps.
The mist around it pulsed in waves. Mari stood motionless, watching without blinking. Her golden eyes reflected the final flashes of memory.
Slowly, the mist began to dissipate.
The thread slackened.
Silence.
The butler waited, frozen, afraid to even breathe.
Mari remained still for long seconds. Her eyes were still fixed on nothing, as if her thoughts were still trapped within that memory.
Her golden gaze, once unreadable, now gleamed with a sharp light—not of emotion, but of calculation.
She whispered, more to herself than to the butler:
"From the very beginning... it was an impossible dungeon."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, her jaw clenched. The next words came out almost as an accusation against fate:
"How did Glenn manage to destroy the final artifact?"
For a moment, silence.
Then, with the same cold authority that commanded nobles and armies, she turned to the butler and declared:
"Prepare my carriage. I'm going to see my children."
The butler hesitated for a second, almost startled by the belated decision. But he quickly bowed deeply, masking any trace of surprise in his voice:
"At once, my lady."
Mari stepped away from the now-faded curtain of smoke, her strides firm, her expression unshakable. The matriarch was finally stepping out of the role of distant observer, heading toward the blood that flowed in her veins.