Chapter Twenty-Four
Morning came not with light, but with a deepening shade of gray seeping through the fissure in the cavern ceiling—a melancholic half-light that barely touched the subterranean gloom. Dominic and Jay were already gone, vanishing into the forest's embrace before the false dawn had even fully stirred. Mira, half-awake on the rough-hewn bed, had caught only fragments of hushed voices drifting from the temple's deeper chambers—Meridia's low, urgent instructions, the murmured exchange of whispered strategies, and the naming of perilous destinations. Another mission. Another foray into the lion's den of Zenith's dominion.
She kept quiet, deliberately unobtrusive, a shadow against the cavern walls, moving with a near-silent grace that masked the restless energy coiling beneath her skin. She observed everything—the flickering shifts in the torchlight, the rhythmic drip of unseen water echoing through the chamber, the wary glances exchanged between the Forsaken as they moved about their hidden domain. Every detail burned itself into her memory, a desperate effort to map this strange, shadowed world, to carve out some fragile understanding in the chaos. She was a ghost here—unseen, unheard—absorbing the rhythms of this place without disrupting them, without drawing more attention than she already had.
Her gaze lifted, seeking escape in the muted gray light filtering from above. And there, perched in the shadows, a silent sentinel carved from suspicion and mistrust—Gerald. Watching. Always watching. His narrowed eyes followed her every movement, unwavering, unforgiving. The weight of his distrust was suffocating, pressing against her like a physical force, a constant reminder of just how tenuous her place here truly was.
Mira exhaled, the breath barely audible, then turned away, grounding herself in something tangible, something familiar. She reached for her worn leather satchel, fingers brushing against the rough homespun fabric of her stolen garments, the cool, reassuring weight of her hunting knife, the meager rations of dried meat and hard bread. A small, mundane ritual in the face of overwhelming uncertainty.
Then her hand brushed against something smooth, cool, and intricately carved—the wooden starling. Gingerly, she drew it out, cradling the small, fragile figure in her palm, turning it over as if searching for answers in the delicate etchings of its outstretched wings. A reserved, bittersweet smile touched her lips as a wave of memory washed over her—laughter and whispered secrets, Kat hunched over her sketches on the pier, their childhood dreams murmured beneath the Rivenglade sun.
Kat.
The name resonated within her, a fragile hope flickering in the encroaching darkness. Mira closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, and silently prayed to any gods still listening—for Kat's survival in the perilous, shadowed lands of Blackwater Falls. And, with a desperate ache, she wished for something more—that somehow, against all odds, their paths might cross again.
A shift at the edge of her vision snapped her back to reality. A shadow fell across her, blocking the cavern's dim light. It was the young girl—the one who had seized Mira's wrist so suddenly. Her pale eyes burned with an unsettling intensity, locked onto the wooden starling in Mira's hand. Without a word, she squatted beside her, her movements sharp and angular, her silence more unnerving than any accusation.
Then, with startling speed, she lunged forward, snatching the starling from Mira's grasp.
Mira flinched. "Hey—!"
The startled protest caught in her throat, half-choked by instinctive reflex. Jaw clenched, she swallowed a wave of irritation warring against something deeper—an ingrained fear curling in her gut. The wooden starling, Kat's gift, twirled between the girl's slender fingers, spinning in a dizzying blur.
Mira reached out hesitantly, her hand hovering between demand and restraint. "Please," she said, voice taut with barely suppressed frustration. "Give that back. It means a lot to me."
She reached again, fingertips grazing the girl's arm in a tentative, pleading touch. But the girl pivoted away, slipping just out of reach, her movements quick, erratic—almost birdlike.
Mira exhaled sharply, composure fracturing. "Give it back," she snapped, lunging forward. The girl jerked the starling just out of reach, her expression unreadable, as if testing Mira's limits.
Mira's patience shattered. "Give it back!"
Her voice rang through the cavern, sharper now, edged with something dangerously close to desperation. She reached again, faster, but the girl only danced further away, a cruel game played with impish precision, the starling forever just beyond Mira's grasp.
Just as the tension coiled to the breaking point, Wren strolled into view, her movements unhurried yet carrying an undercurrent of watchfulness. With a flick of her wrist—faster than Mira could track—Wren plucked the wooden starling from the girl's fingers, the small carving flashing through the air like a captured spark of light. With effortless precision, she tossed it back into Mira's lap.
The girl's head snapped up, her pale face contorting into a petulant frown. Her eyes burned with incandescent scorn, aimed solely at Wren. Without a word, without another glance at Mira or the returned starling, she pushed to her feet and stalked off, her frame stiff with indignation. She vanished into the cavern's deeper shadows, dissolving like mist into the dark.
"I'm sorry 'bout Ezzie," Wren drawled, her slang-laced accent softening the abrupt intrusion. Amusement flickered in her eyes, though it never fully shaped her expression. "She's… well, she's not quite right in the head, if ya catch my drift."
She chuckled, a low, throaty sound, and twirled a finger near her temple in a silent, knowing gesture that left little doubt about Ezzie's fractured state. "But don't take it to heart, yeah? She ain't mean ya no harm. Just… a bit touched by the Void, poor lass."
Mira exhaled softly. "Thank you, Wren."
The words barely rose above the distant murmur of the Forsaken moving through the cavern, the slow, rhythmic drip of water punctuating the silence. She cradled the wooden starling in her palm, fingers curling around the smooth, familiar grain as if anchoring herself to something real. With a quiet sigh, both relief and unease threading through it, she tucked Kat's gift back into her satchel. Nestled among her meager belongings, the small carving was a promise of remembrance, of resilience.
Wren stretched, loose-limbed and unhurried, then turned away, sauntering deeper into the cavern. Beneath her breath, she hummed an unfamiliar tune—an off-kilter melody, half-improvised, half-forgotten, that wove through the subterranean space like a ghost of something lost.
Mira lifted her gaze, searching the cavern for some semblance of belonging, some fleeting comfort in the shadowed faces around her. Instead, she found them—locked on her like predators scenting blood.
Gerald and Ezzie.
Opposing sentinels, watching her with an intensity that felt almost conspiratorial.
Fantastic. Now they're multiplying.
Gerald, still perched in the shadows, unmoving, his presence as suffocating as ever—a statue carved from suspicion and barely restrained hostility. And Ezzie, now lurking at a distance, her pale eyes gleaming with unsettling fascination, as if she'd just discovered a particularly interesting new specimen to dissect.
Silent. Unrelenting. Just her luck.
Mira turned away sharply, her breath shallow, a fresh wave of claustrophobia tightening around her ribs. This cavern—this so-called refuge—felt less like sanctuary and more like another, smaller cage.
Why?
Why couldn't she ever just belong?
Even when it was fragile, even when it came with conditions, belonging always seemed just beyond her reach. A mirage she could see, but never touch.
A commotion erupted near the cavern entrance, shattering the oppressive stillness like a sudden crack of thunder. Urgent whispers, hurried footsteps, the heavy thud of boots against stone—noise surged through the passage, growing louder, closer, a ripple of unease spreading through the gathered Forsaken.
Dominic and Jay were back.
And they were not alone.
A third figure stumbled between them, dragged roughly, his form awkward and resistant, his feet barely keeping pace with their relentless grip. And then Mira saw him. Truly saw him.
Her breath caught in her throat, her chest tightening as a cold shock rippled through her, stealing the air from her lungs.
A man.
Tall, broad-shouldered, yet diminished—his frame caving inward, his strength reduced to helpless resistance. His Zenithian robes, once radiant in white and gold, hung in tatters, streaked with dirt, torn where hands had seized him too roughly. The grandeur of his station was smeared in filth, the symbol of his authority trampled underfoot, defiled beyond recognition.
But it was his head that stole Mira's breath.
A coarse burlap sack, cinched tight at the throat, swallowed his identity in suffocating anonymity, rendering him faceless, nameless—just a shadow of the authority he once held. The fabric twitched with each muffled breath, each stifled protest, reducing his voice to nothing but strained, broken murmurs. He was faceless. Voiceless. Stripped of everything but his suffering.
White robes and burlap. Divinity and degradation. Faith and captivity. A man once revered, now dragged forward like an offering, held firm in the unyielding grip of his captors. The contrast carved something cruel into the dim cavern light—a silent, brutal shift in power. Hands that once bestowed blessings now bound and shaking, forced beneath the will of those who had long knelt before them.
The stark contrast between those robes, a symbol of Zenith's authority, and the rough burlap concealing his identity made the scene all the more jarring. But worse was the way Dominic and Jay handled him. No reverence. No hesitation. Their hands were iron, their grips unyielding. They weren't guiding him—they were hauling him, dragging him deeper into the cavern with a force that sent a fresh wave of unease crawling up Mira's spine.
The man struggled, his muffled protests torn from his throat and swallowed by the damp, echoing expanse of the temple. Dominic, his face flushed with exertion, eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to triumph, wrenched the captive's arms behind his back. His movements were practiced, disturbingly efficient. Jay, equally grim-faced, cleared a path through the gathered Forsaken, shoving aside anyone who hesitated too long, his jaw set, gaze cold, merciless.
With a grunt of effort, Dominic shoved the captive toward a rickety wooden chair that Jay had pulled forward, the legs scraping harshly against the stone floor. The man stumbled, his cries growing more frantic, but his protests were nothing more than muffled gasps behind the sack. No one moved to help him. No one even flinched.
Jay produced rough, frayed rope from somewhere within his scavenged garments and set to work binding him, tying his wrists and ankles with brutal efficiency. The coarse fibers bit into the white robes, staining them further, desecrating the once-sacred fabric.
Then, from the deeper chambers of the temple, Meridia appeared.
She strode forward from the temple's deeper chambers, dark eyes gleaming, taking in the scene with an assessing gaze, sharp as cut glass.
Then, a smile.
Dominic and Jay stood at attention as she reached them, their faces still flushed with exertion. In a voice barely above a whisper, she praised them. A low murmur of satisfaction, of approval. Her words were nearly swallowed by the captive's muffled whimpers, but Mira caught the meaning.
A successful capture. A mission completed.
And now—now came the part Meridia had been waiting for.
Mira's heart pounded against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of rising terror. Instinct took over—she pressed herself against the cold cavern wall, willing herself to vanish into the shadows, to disappear before anyone thought to look her way. Stay unseen. Stay unnoticed. Whatever vortex was forming at the heart of the Forsaken sanctuary, she wanted no part of it.
What was happening?
What twisted ritual, what brutal interrogation awaited this terrified captive? A cold, visceral premonition gripped her, sinking deep into her bones—a chilling certainty that whatever was about to unfold would shatter any last, fragile remnants of normalcy she still clung to. What in the Wild Gods' names had she stumbled into?
Meridia's voice, steady yet raised just enough to command the captive's attention, carried a deceptive calm. Her words were smooth, almost gentle, but beneath them lay an edge of steel that sent a fresh wave of shivers racing down Mira's spine.
"You are safe now," Meridia said, her voice ringing with false reassurance. "You are among friends. We are going to help you."
The bound man thrashed violently against his restraints, his protests muffled but urgent, a frantic denial of Meridia's hollow promises. His head jerked back and forth, the raw, animalistic sound of his terror reverberating through the cavern, clawing its way into Mira's chest, wrapping cold fingers around her lungs. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. Her vision swam, flickering with the torchlight.
She was trapped here, trapped with him, trapped with them.
Her gaze locked onto the captive, his frantic struggling, the ropes digging into his wrists, the way the torchlight flickered wildly against his panic-stricken movements. Her stomach twisted, tightened, churned until nausea crept up her throat. What were they going to do to him?
Then, with a swift, impatient motion, Meridia stepped forward. Her fingers curled into the coarse burlap sack and tore it away.
The cloth hit the ground with a dull thud.
Blinking in the harsh torchlight, his eyes, wide and unfocused, darted wildly, his chest heaving with ragged, shuddering breaths. He gasped as if he had been drowning, sucking in air, but the moment his voice found freedom, it broke into raw, unrestrained panic.
"Who are you?!" he choked out, his voice hoarse and cracking, echoing off the cavern walls. "Where… where am I?!"
Meridia moved closer, her posture shifting, her expression softening into something almost… placating. A cruel imitation of comfort. "You are safe now," she repeated, her voice smooth, her presence looming. "You are among those who understand. We are going to help you see the truth."
The words, meant to reassure, landed like a death knell in the suffocating silence of the cavern. Wrapped in a veneer of kindness, they were nothing more than a blade hidden in silk.
A promise, and a warning.
Terror gave the captive a sudden, desperate strength. He thrashed against the ropes binding him, his body contorting against the unyielding wood, muscles straining as his frantic gaze darted around the cavern, searching—pleading—for escape. For salvation. For mercy in the shadowed faces of his captors.
"Help me?" he choked out, his voice breaking on the words, raw with hysteria. "If you want to help me… please… please just let me go!" His breath came in ragged, sobbing gasps. "Please… What are you going to do to me?"
Meridia sighed, a sound of practiced patience, her expression shifting into something almost pitying. Slowly, deliberately, she pushed back the sleeve of her right arm, revealing the pale skin of her forearm. Then, with a fluid, ritualistic grace, she lifted it into the flickering torchlight—unveiling the luminous white mark burned into her flesh.
Zenith's brand. Twisted. Defiled. Forsaken.
"We are Forsaken," Meridia said, her voice quiet yet unwavering, every syllable laced with defiant pride.
The captive stilled.
His struggles ceased in an instant, as if an unseen force had drained every ounce of resistance from his body. His wide, terror-stricken gaze locked onto the mark, breath hitching in his throat—a silent, strangled gasp. For a long, suspended moment, he sat utterly still, transfixed, paralyzed by a fear that went beyond the ropes binding him.
Then, with a convulsive shudder, he wrenched his head to the side, as if looking at the mark itself was a sin. As if its mere existence was a profane defilement too terrible to behold.
Meridia's lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. No warmth. No true compassion. Only the cold satisfaction of watching his terror take root.
"Everyone here," she continued, her voice sweeping through the cavern, ringing against the stone, claiming the space, "is Forsaken."
The captive flinched. His body curled inward, his frame rigid with denial, his head still averted—as if refusing to look, to listen, could make this nightmare cease to exist. He shrank into the chair, trying to disappear, to will himself away from the abyss yawning before him.
Meridia exhaled through her nose, then stepped forward. Without hesitation, she seized his chin, her fingers pressing firmly against his jaw, forcing his gaze back to hers.
He jerked away instinctively, muscles tightening beneath her grip, but Meridia held firm. She was stronger than she looked. She tilted his face upward, locking her gaze with his, dark eyes alight with something unreadable.
"We are not the enemy," she murmured, her voice soft yet sharpened to dismantle, to break. "Everything you have been taught, everything Lucien has preached…" She leaned in just slightly, her presence suffocating. "It is all lies."
His eyes, impossibly wide, shone with the kind of terror that settled deep into the bones.
"No," he rasped, shaking his head weakly, as though trying to shake off the poison of her words. He squeezed his eyes shut, his face twisting in a silent plea.
His lips began to move.
Then, a whisper.
"Zenith's Light," he gasped, voice quivering, barely audible. "Zenith's Light, deliver me… deliver me from the Devil's evil… deliver me from his sinners…"
The whispered prayer grew into a low, continuous murmur, a fevered incantation—a fragile, desperate shield against the darkness swallowing him whole.
Meridia abruptly released his chin, flinging his face away as though his fervent devotion had burned her. His head lolled to the side, lips still moving, murmured prayers spilling from them in a low, rhythmic drone—trembling with terror, pulsing with desperation. For a fleeting moment, Meridia faltered. A ripple of something—frustration, impatience—passed across her features as she stepped back, pacing in a tight, restless circle. Her brow furrowed, jaw clenched, fingers flexing at her sides as if trying to regain her carefully measured composure.
Then, she stopped.
She turned back to him, her expression now carefully reconstructed—a mask of cold, calculating resolve.
A long, weighted silence stretched between them.
Then, as if exhaling the last of his resistance, the captive's prayers dissolved into quiet, broken sobs. His shoulders shook with raw, unchecked grief—a sound that echoed the hollowness blooming within Mira's own chest.
Dominic stirred.
He had sensed the shift—the momentary fracture in Meridia's resolve. Without hesitation, he stepped forward, filling the space she vacated with an aggressive certainty that left no room for doubt. His gaze flicked toward Meridia, a silent exchange passing between them, a question hanging heavy in the air. What now?
Meridia didn't look at him. Her eyes remained fixed on the broken man in the chair. But then, after a beat, she gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.
It was all Dominic needed.
With that subtle gesture, control was relinquished. Meridia stepped back, retreating into the shadows, yielding her place to Dominic—the brute force, the breaker of spirits.
Dominic wasted no time. He loomed over the captive, his broad frame casting a long, predatory shadow that swallowed the man whole. Then, with deliberate slowness, he crouched, knees cracking against the stone, positioning himself eye to eye with the trembling prisoner. He leaned in close—too close—his breath warm against the man's tear-streaked face.
His voice dropped to a low, conspiratorial whisper.
"Hey, buddy," Dominic murmured, his tone deceptively gentle, almost amused. "I didn't just risk my neck draggin' you all the way back here for you to go all ungrateful on me now."
The silken veneer of kindness cracked, peeling away to reveal raw contempt.
"Lucien ain't the god you think he is. Ain't your savior, neither. He don't give a damn about you." Dominic's voice hardened, thick with a bitter, simmering resentment. "He just wants you to worship him. Like he's Zenith himself." His lip curled, disgust twisting his words. "Can't you see how messed up that is?"
For a moment, silence.
Then—
A spark. A flicker of defiance in the captive's eyes, an ember reigniting in the ashes of his broken faith. He let out a breathless, derisive huff, his body stiffening. Then, slowly, with effort, he lifted his head. His tear-streaked face, once wilted with despair, hardened—sharpened with righteous fury.
Then, through gritted teeth, he spat, venom laced in every syllable.
"Lucien," he rasped, voice trembling, yet unshaken in its conviction, "is the Son. Zenith's Son. The Savior of the Light."
His mouth twisted in disgust. His body tensed. And then—he spat.
A thick globule of saliva landed on the cavern floor with an audible splatter, a physical manifestation of his contempt. Not aimed at Dominic. Not at Meridia. But at all of them.
The Forsaken.
"You," he hissed, the word like a blade, sharpened with hate, "Forsaken." The title dripped with venom, spoken like a curse.
He inhaled sharply, chest heaving, voice rising with fevered conviction.
"You are worldly tempters. Devils. Sinners. You bring nothing but pain and suffering to the Chosen." His breath came faster, words tumbling, fueled by terror and faith alike. "Lucien… Lucien is taking away all the pain, all the suffering in this world. He's gonna bring Paradise."
His eyes burned, fever-bright.
"Zenith's Paradise!"
Dominic recoiled as if struck, his face twisting in disgust, disbelief warring with a bitter, exhausted disdain. A harsh, humorless laugh escaped his lips, dripping with cynicism, corroded by something raw and unhealed.
"Paradise?" he scoffed, spitting the word like a curse. "Paradise? This little slice of heaven Lucien's peddlin' is nothin' but a godsdamn lie!"
He surged to his full height, looming over the captive, his shadow swallowing the man whole. His voice rose with unchecked fury, escalating into a raw, unrestrained roar that sent tremors through the cavern walls.
"He's disruptin' the godsdamn balance of this world, you blind fool! How can't you see what's right in front of your face?!"
With a sharp, violent motion, Dominic slammed his fist against the rock. The impact reverberated through the cavern, dust and pebbles breaking loose, cascading to the floor. "Wake up!"
The Forsaken stirred.
Dominic's rage was a wildfire catching dry grass, igniting something deep, something long-smothered within them. A low, simmering murmur rippled through their ranks, voices rising in agreement, in long-buried resentment clawing its way to the surface.
"Yeah!" a voice called out, raw and impassioned.
"That's right!" echoed another.
Then another. And another.
The cries built, voices intertwining, swelling into something larger than words—years of suppressed anger, of pain and disillusionment, breaking free in Dominic's fury.
And Dominic, fueled by it—by their rage, by the heat burning in his blood—lunged.
His hands seized the captive's robes, fingers knotting in the pristine white fabric, bunching it at the man's throat.
With a raw, unthinking force, he yanked him from the chair.
The captive's legs kicked uselessly beneath him as Dominic hoisted him upward, muscles straining, dragging him up until they were face to face—until the terror in the man's eyes was reflected in Dominic's own burning stare.
The chair, wrenched from beneath the captive, clattered violently against the stone, the crash reverberating through the cavern like a final, damning punctuation to Dominic's fury.
"You Chosen," Dominic snarled, his voice a low, guttural growl, thick with loathing. "You think you're better than us, don't you?"
Spittle flecked his lips as he spoke, his face contorted with rage, his eyes alight with something fierce, something seething.
"But you're the blind ones. You are the wolves in sheep's clothin'. You prey on the weak, the desperate—lost souls lookin' for a crumb of hope, for a sliver of belongin'."
His grip tightened, knuckles grinding against the captive's throat, his frantic prayers cutting off into wheezing silence.
"You lie." Dominic's voice shook, thick with bitterness. "You lie and you say Zenith'll give them a home, a family, a future—but one wrong step, one whispered doubt, one godsdamn mistake…"
His free hand shot out in a sweeping, contemptuous gesture, encompassing the cavern, the Forsaken, the world beyond.
"Poof."
A sharp, violent sound burst from Dominic's lips, mimicking the brutal erasure of a life deemed unworthy.
"Gone. Just like that."
His voice cracked—not with weakness, but with something older, something buried so deep it had rotted into him. "How is that justice?"
The Forsaken howled.
It erupted from them, a guttural, feral cry—years of injustice, years of pain and rage given voice, finally set free.
"Yeah!" they roared, voices colliding in a chorus of defiance, of long-suppressed fury.
"Tell 'em, Dominic!"
"Enough is enough!"
The cavern itself seemed to tremble beneath the weight of their voices, the ancient stone walls reverberating, amplifying their rage.
A storm had been brewing.
And now, at last—
It had broken.
Fueled by the rising fervor of the Forsaken—by the intoxicating rush of unchecked rage—Dominic finally snapped.
With a snarl, he lunged, his body taut with fury, years of bitterness and resentment erupting in raw, unthinking violence. His hands clamped down on the captive's face, large fingers digging into his trembling skin, forcing their gazes to lock—trapping him in the white-hot vortex of his wrath.
"You tear apart families!" Dominic roared, his breath scorching against the captive's cheek, spit flying from his lips. "You condemn us to die alone and afraid, cast out like vermin, like we ain't even human!"
His voice cracked, trembling under the weight of something deeper than rage—something old, something fractured.
"Do you have ANY IDEA what it's like? To have your entire life—your family, your friends—ripped away like you never mattered?"
His grip trembled.
"You forsake us. You forget we ever existed. And then you act like we should thank you!"
Dominic's voice broke—a strangled sob escaping, thick with something beyond fury. Something deeper. Something ruined.
"Thank you for the privilege," he spat, the words curling with venom, "of losing everything."
And then, with violent finality, Dominic slammed the captive back into the chair.
The force jarred the man's teeth together with an audible clack, the wooden frame groaning in protest. He whimpered, body curling inward, but his lips still moved, whispering frantic, desperate prayers—a futile shield against the storm of human wrath descending upon him.
But Dominic wasn't listening.
He didn't hear the captive's pleas.
He didn't care.
His fist struck before thought could stop him, a brutal right hook that connected with the captive's jaw in a sickening crunch. A spray of blood arced through the air, crimson droplets glistening in the flickering torchlight. The captive cried out—a raw, choked wail of pain that barely registered against the roaring tide of Dominic's fury.
He hit him again.
Another blow, vicious and unrelenting.
The captive's head snapped sideways, his neck straining, his breath stuttering in broken, shuddering gasps. His cries—once defiant, once filled with faith—had been reduced to whimpers. The sound of a spirit breaking.
A ragged cheer rose from the crowd—exultant, wild, swept up in the fever of long-suppressed rage finally given form.
But Mira—watching from the shadows—felt something else.
A cold, sharp rejection.
A visceral wrongness twisting in her gut.
This wasn't justice.
This wasn't righteous fury.
This was cruelty.
A brutal mirror of the very tyranny they claimed to despise.
No.
The word formed like a silent scream, shattering something in her.
Her legs trembled, but they carried her forward, slow at first, then faster, her breath sharp and shallow.
"No…"
The word barely left her lips, swallowed by the cavern's chaos. A whisper against a storm.
But she kept walking into the heart of the fire.
Dominic, blind to anything beyond the red haze of his fury, raised his fist once more, poised to strike, to deliver the final blow that would shatter what little spirit the captive had left.
Mira moved.
Faster than thought. Faster than fear.
A desperate urgency propelled her forward, past hesitation, past reason. Her robes billowed behind her, her violet eyes locked onto the impending violence, her heart a frantic drumbeat hammering against her ribs.
Dominic's fist came down.
Mira surged between them.
She threw herself into the space between predator and prey, a fragile shield against the storm.
Her hand shot out, fingers closing around Dominic's wrist in an iron grip—impossibly strong, stopping the brutal arc of his punch mid-motion. At the same time, her other hand landed instinctively on the captive's trembling shoulder—a silent promise, a wordless vow of protection.
"STOP!"
The word tore from her throat—not a plea, but a command.
And the world answered.
It wasn't just sound—it was power. A pulse of unseen energy exploded outward, a tangible shockwave rippling through the air. Black tendrils flared from her body—not just from her hand on Dominic's wrist, but from deep within. Spectral wings of void unfurled, shimmering like heat haze, yet carrying a bone-deep chill. The force slammed outward, unseen yet undeniable, disrupting the very fabric of the space around her.
The Forsaken staggered back, shielding their faces from the unseen force, cries of alarm cutting through the cavern. Wren swore under her breath, eyes wide with startled recognition. Gerald flinched, hand flying to the hilt of his scavenged knife. At the center of it all, Dominic was thrown backward, powerful frame stumbling as if struck by an invisible fist.
Then—silence.
The cavern stood still. Forsaken eyes, terrified Chosen eyes—all fixed on Mira, standing amidst the flickering torchlight.
Mira turned, her stunned gaze locking onto the man slumped in the chair. His face was bruised and bloodied, his body still trembling from the aftershocks of Dominic's brutal assault. He looked up at her, eyes wide and disoriented, but beneath the terror flickering in his gaze, something else stirred—confusion, hesitation, a fragile spark of wonder. He wasn't looking at her like a captor.
"Are you alright?" Mira murmured, her voice soft, laced with quiet concern that stood in stark contrast to the raw power she had just unleashed.
The man blinked sluggishly, his head lolling slightly as he tried to focus. "I… I'm not sure," he stammered, his voice hoarse and strained as he winced. "My head… it hurts." He hesitated, his brow furrowing as if something wasn't right. "Everything feels… foggy. But…" His gaze lifted, locking onto hers, and for a moment, a shiver ran down her spine. "But the fog… it's lifting."
His gaze swept the cavern then, moving over the assembled Forsaken, his expression shifting—terror giving way to something else. A slow, hesitant curiosity. The frantic fear that had consumed him moments before… receded. Not gone, not fully—but dimming, unraveling thread by thread.
He was still bleeding. Still bound. Still trapped in this moment. But something had changed.
The Light inside him—his unshakable devotion, his absolute certainty in Zenith—had flickered. Dimmed.
Replaced by something else.
Movement at the edge of her vision pulled her attention away. Meridia stepped forward, her earlier shock had faded, giving way to something sharper, something calculating. She stepped forward slowly, her dark eyes locked on Mira with an intensity that bordered on predatory fascination. A dawning recognition flickered in their depths—not just acknowledgment of what she had witnessed, but understanding.
Mira had unleashed something ancient, something raw and untamed.
Meridia's expression remained unreadable, but her voice—when she finally spoke—betrayed the subtle undercurrent of awe, of something disturbingly close to… reverence. "Well done, Mira."
The words barely registered. Mira was still trembling from the force that had surged through her, still struggling to comprehend what had just happened. She glanced down at her hands, half-expecting them to still shimmer with the void's energy, to still feel the unnatural hum of power coursing through them. But they looked the same—pale, slender, trembling slightly, but otherwise ordinary. She swallowed hard and looked back up, violet eyes wide, searching Meridia's face for answers.
What had she done?
What had she become?
The certainty settled deep in her chest, cold and unrelenting. Everything had changed. The fragile truce she had built, the uneasy sanctuary she had carved out, the anonymity she had clung to—it had all been shattered in an instant. She was no longer just a runaway. No longer just Mira, Lucien's wife. She was something else. Something powerful. Something dangerous.
Meridia's gaze never wavered, her expression shifting into something more complex—a mix of awe, calculation, and something far more unnerving. Possessiveness. She nodded slowly, deliberately, as if sealing an unspoken agreement, a truth now laid bare between them.
"Yes," she murmured, her voice lower now, almost conspiratorial. There was something chilling in the way she said it, something that sent another ripple of unease through Mira's bones. "Well done, indeed."
Mira's stomach twisted. The weight of Meridia's words settled deep, suffocating the last remnants of hope she had clung to. She had run from Lucien's gilded cage, desperate for freedom, only to stumble into something far more dangerous, something she couldn't yet begin to understand.