Chapter Eight - Corwin Defeated

At the Primal Pattern, Corin and Joshua sat in quiet conversation with Dworkin, their voices echoing faintly off the ancient stone walls of the chamber. With measured calm, they informed the old sorcerer that his grandchildren were preparing to launch a bold assault to reclaim Amber from the grip of Annael's Blood Droids. Corin, her voice tinged with both anticipation and irony, mused that it might be entertaining to witness the chaos unfold. This caught Dworkin’s attention. His eyes narrowed with interest - equal parts curiosity and mischief - and with a casual flick of his gnarled fingers, he wove a shimmering aperture into existence: a viewing window through the veils of Shadow. Through it, they saw Castle Amber in stark silhouette, poised on the cusp of war. The old man’s grin was slight but unmistakable. “Let us watch,” he said, “and see what comes of this family enterprise.”

On the outskirts of Amber, preparations for the counteroffensive were nearing completion. Benedict’s forces stood ready at their rally point, grim and disciplined beneath the banners of Amber. In a nearby Shadow, Julian, Caine, and Bannoq had marshalled their troops, their staging ground veiled by the shifting veils of reality. Meanwhile, on Terra Prime, the cutting-edge medical facilities remained on high alert, braced for the inevitable influx of casualties. From within his private sanctum, Kyle activated his Exalted-level Trump link, weaving an intricate lattice of psychic connections that allowed every key player - across multiple Shadows - to communicate freely and in real time.

But before coordination could begin in earnest, Kyle was interrupted. A physician entered his chamber, pallid and drawn, his expression stricken with both sorrow and fear. The words came heavily: King Random was dead.

Kyle severed the Trump web immediately and rushed to Random’s bedside. The sight that greeted him was unmistakable - flat-lined monitors, the rhythmic hum of machinery prolonging a body that no longer housed a mind. Though the King's chest still rose and fell with mechanical precision, his brain activity had ceased entirely. King Random was, in every meaningful sense, gone.

Reacting swiftly, Kyle reached for Corin via Trump, his voice urgent as he relayed the news of Random’s death. He implored her to come at once - believing, rightly, that her mastery of Life magic far outstripped his own. Without hesitation, Corin excused herself from Dworkin’s study and accepted the Trump call, stepping through the psychic conduit to Terra Prime.

Upon arrival, she quickly assessed the King’s condition. Her gaze deepened into the fabric of life itself, and what she saw confirmed Kyle’s worst fears: Random was brain dead. The intricate web of his neurons was collapsing, decaying second by second. Yet Corin’s command of Life was precise and potent. She acted immediately, halting the degeneration and casting Random into a delicate state of suspended animation. His body would not deteriorate further - for now.

But Corin knew this stasis was fragile, temporary. Without sustained reinforcement, the spell would collapse. So she turned to more enduring means. Extending a tendril of Logrus through the interwoven layers of Shadow, she sought out a stabilising focus - a reservoir that could hold the enchantment indefinitely. Her search yielded a construct she likened to a Prime spell battery: an inert anchor point in the metaphysical lattice that she could charge with raw Prime energy. With care, she wove her preservation spell around it, affixing Random’s suspended state to the battery. It would hold - long enough, at least, to see the battle for Amber concluded and to buy her time to return with a more permanent solution.

With Random’s condition now stabilised, Kyle returned to his study and reactivated the Trump network, re-establishing the psychic bridge between the scattered forces of Amber. Almost at once, Benedict seized the initiative. Without fanfare or hesitation, he launched his long-planned frontal assault on the walls of Castle Amber, his disciplined legions surging forward beneath the banner of their ancient homeland.

The others held their positions, awaiting the signal. It came just minutes later - clear and resolute. The assault was underway.

Julian acted first, Trumping directly into the towers of Castle Amber, where his keen senses and martial instincts would serve best in the high vantage points. Bannoq and William followed, stepping through into the castle’s Courtyard, ready to strike at the heart of the enemy. Caine, ever the rogue and tactician, selected the most dangerous destination of all: the Pattern Room. He vanished through the Trump with no further word, vanishing into the crucible where the very fate of reality might be decided.

No sooner had Caine arrived than a jagged burst of sound crackled through the Trump network - half an expletive, choked off mid-utterance. Then, silence. The connection had been severed with violent finality, the kind that spoke of either instant unconsciousness or death.

Reacting without hesitation, Kyle focused his mind and opened a Trump window into the Pattern Room. The scene that met his gaze was one of immediate and brutal chaos. Caine’s troops were locked in a desperate melee against a cluster of six Blood Droids, their weapons flashing in the gloom, bodies already strewn across the stone floor. But it was what lay beyond the skirmish that chilled Kyle’s blood: a seventh Blood Droid, undisturbed by the carnage around it, was nearing the centre of the Pattern - its traversal nearly complete.

Gripped by the implications of what he had seen, Kyle sprang into action. He accelerated Terra Prime’s temporal differential to its maximum - twenty times the rate of Amber - compressing hours of work into mere moments. Simultaneously, he bent the laws of his Shadow to hasten the retrieval and delivery of a weapon that might turn the tide: an EMP device, tailored to disrupt the synthetic systems that powered the Blood Droids.

Within seconds, the bomb arrived in a blur of motion, guided directly into his study. Without pausing, Kyle dropped it through a Trump conduit into the Pattern Room below.

But his fear proved well-founded - there had been no time to calibrate or prime the device properly. It fell uselessly to the floor with a dull metallic thud, inert and ineffective against the technological horror completing its walk of the Pattern.

With the EMP gambit failed and the situation rapidly deteriorating, Kyle reached out to Joshua via Trump, urgently requesting his aid. Upon receiving the call, Joshua first turned to Dworkin, questioning what action - if any - the ancient sorcerer planned to take regarding the Blood Droid nearing the heart of the Pattern. But Dworkin offered no intervention. His expression was one of detached fascination, as though he were observing a rare magical experiment rather than the potential unravelling of reality.

Realising no help would be coming from that quarter, Joshua nodded and took matters into his own hands. In a blur of motion, he Shape Shifted into the form of a Blood Droid, adopting their fearsome exoskeletal frame with unnerving accuracy. With the transformation complete, Kyle harnessed his formidable Trump mastery to open a direct passage to the Pattern Room and hurled Joshua through.

The disguised Joshua landed silently behind Caine’s embattled soldiers - now locked in close quarters with their mechanical foes.

Several of Caine’s soldiers caught sight of Joshua’s sudden arrival, their eyes widening in disbelief as they glimpsed what appeared to be a seventh Blood Droid flanking the enemy. For a heartbeat, they assumed fortune had favoured them with reinforcements. But Joshua did not hesitate. Moving with precision, he swept through the chaos, scooped up Caine’s limp form, and vanished through a Trump portal before the troops could redirect their attention - or worse, break formation and jeopardise the defence.

Moments later, they reappeared in Dworkin’s study. Caine bore a large, purpling welt on his temple - evidence of the blow that had felled him. Without a word, Dworkin placed his hands on Caine’s head and uncorked a slender vial, tilting a few drops of its contents past his grandson’s lips. Whatever the concoction was, it stirred something within the unconscious prince.

Before Joshua could speak or intervene, Dworkin reached down and deftly removed the Spikard from Caine’s hand - the powerful artefact he had claimed from Bleys’s corpse. Joshua managed to conceal his frustration, but not without effort. He had hoped to claim the ring for himself, and the disappointment stung.

Back in the Pattern Room, the battle had turned grim. Though one Blood Droid now lay shattered on the stone floor, the victory had come at great cost - fully half of Caine’s troops had fallen, their efforts barely stalling the mechanical onslaught. And at the centre of it all, the seventh Blood Droid continued its relentless march along the Pattern, drawing ever closer to its heart.

Then, with a final, deliberate step, the construct reached the Pattern’s centre.

In an instant, the air ignited with raw energy. A brilliant eruption flared outward from the Pattern’s core, and a thunderous shockwave rippled through the cavern. The walking Droid’s form began to change - its once matte casing now shimmered with a polished, chrome-like finish, reflective and unnervingly pristine. It threw back its arms and let out a bellow of exultation, a cry torn between triumph and awe, resonating like metal scraping across the bones of reality.

And then, as if in answer to its ascension, the remaining five Blood Droids were hurled backward by an unseen force. They struck the cavern walls with immense violence and collapsed in a heap, unmoving - lifeless husks in the wake of something newly born.

Beyond the castle walls, the battle raged with unrelenting fury. Amber’s defenders clashed with wave after wave of Blood Droids, the air thick with the sound of steel, gunfire, and shouted commands. Yet amid the chaos, something began to shift. The shockwave unleashed from the Pattern’s heart - born of the Blood Droid’s completion of its walk - continued to ripple outward, an invisible tide of metaphysical disruption.

Wherever it passed, it struck the Blood Droids with devastating effect. One by one, they began to shut down mid-flight or mid-stride, their systems collapsing under the weight of the unleashed energy. Dozens plummeted from the skies, crashing into courtyards, battlements, and city streets, their metallic husks splintering on impact.

At the Pattern’s centre, the newly transformed Droid - its body now gleaming like liquid silver - threw back its head and loosed a final cry of jubilation. And then, without warning, it vanished, blinked from existence as if pulled beyond the boundaries of Shadow itself.

Outside, the remaining Blood Droids - those few that had resisted the wave - were swiftly hunted down. The Amberites, sensing the turning tide, pressed their advantage with ruthless efficiency. As silence returned to the battlefield, the grim work of gathering the shattered remains began. The siege was over. Amber, for the moment, had been reclaimed.

Back on Terra Prime, Kyle - buoyed by the knowledge that Amber’s victory was now all but assured - turned his attention to other matters. His first stop was the medical wing, where Gerard remained under observation. The attending doctors confirmed what Kyle could already see for himself: Gerard had made a full recovery in every respect but one. A severed spine had left him paralysed from the waist down. Though such nerve damage might heal in time - especially given the remarkable resilience of their bloodline - Kyle knew it would be a slow and uncertain process. Among the many traumas Amberites could endure, this kind of injury was notoriously stubborn.

He gently roused Gerard from his induced slumber and brought him up to speed on the events that had unfolded since his incapacitation. Gerard’s reaction was swift and predictable - fury boiled beneath the surface. His fists clenched as he absorbed the truth of Annael’s betrayal, and Kyle could tell that if his brother were within reach, Gerard would not hesitate to enact vengeance then and there.

Leaving Gerard to process his anger, Kyle made his way to another chamber, where his mother, Fiona, rested. She too had made a full physical recovery. He woke her carefully and recounted all that had occurred since she had summoned him back to aid King Random. Fiona listened without interruption, her emerald eyes betraying little of her inner thoughts. Though Kyle could tell she was displeased by what she heard, she remained composed - her emotions far more tightly controlled than Gerard’s, her intentions unreadable.

Curious - and deeply unsettled by her earlier condition - Kyle asked Fiona what had happened to her. She responded with uncharacteristic restraint, her voice low and measured. She had been alone at the edge of the Primal Pattern, lost in contemplation, when she sensed someone approaching. To her astonishment, it had been Corwin.

But before a single word could be exchanged, he struck.

Without warning or explanation, Corwin had lashed out, catching her across the side of the head with Grayswandir. The impact had been swift and brutal - and that, she told Kyle, was the last thing she remembered before everything went black.

Back at the Primal Pattern, Dworkin had grown weary of Joshua’s lingering presence. With a dismissive wave, he suggested that Joshua return to Amber - after all, events were surely unfolding there that would require his attention. Joshua hesitated, reluctant to leave the enigmatic sorcerer’s side. But Dworkin would not be gainsaid. His form subtly swelled, growing taller and more imposing, his expression sharpening with unmistakable authority.

Without another word, he reached out and took Joshua firmly by the elbow, guiding him out of the study and down the winding tunnel that led to the Pattern chamber. The air shimmered faintly as they walked, thick with lingering power. When they reached the threshold, Dworkin invoked a reverse Trump with casual precision. A ripple of energy engulfed Joshua, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone - deposited in the Courtyard of Castle Amber, where his next task surely awaited.

After concluding his exhaustive debrief with Fiona - bringing her fully up to speed on the events that had unfolded in her absence - Kyle took a moment to stabilise Terra Prime, returning its accelerated time flow to normal. With the immediate crisis abated and his mother now recovered, he activated a Trump and transported them both to Amber.

They emerged in the castle’s courtyard, the scent of scorched stone and ozone still heavy in the air. Around them, the family had gathered - those who had taken part in the assault on Amber, their expressions etched with exhaustion, relief, and wariness. Joshua stood among them, his presence a silent signal that matters were far from over.

Kyle stepped forward and addressed the assembled family, his tone solemn as he delivered the news: King Random was dead. The words hung heavy in the courtyard. Julian’s face darkened, his features tightening into a grim mask. Without a word, he turned sharply on his heel and walked away. Benedict remained still, his jaw clenched as he glanced toward Martin, but he said nothing.

Breaking the silence, Kyle raised the question that now loomed largest - who would lead Amber in the interim? Benedict wasted no time in making his stance clear: he had no desire for the throne. All eyes turned to Martin, the King’s son, whose hands rose instinctively in protest. “I want nothing to do with it,” he said flatly, his voice edged with frustration. He then demanded to be returned to Terra Prime.

Without objection, Kyle handed him a Trump of his private study. Martin took it, vanished through the card, and was gone.

Joshua broke the awkward quiet that followed. He proposed a governing triumvirate - Benedict, Fiona, and Julian - as the three eldest compos mentis children of Oberon. Or perhaps, he offered, a broader council made up of all of Oberon’s descendants. The suggestion met with little enthusiasm; most remained silent.

Benedict finally spoke. He reminded them that Random had not taken the crown by force or lineage alone, but had been chosen by the Unicorn itself. That choice, he said, must be respected. The Unicorn would decide again, in time - when it was ready. Until then, he would serve as Regent, holding the crown in trust until a successor was chosen.

Reluctantly, Kyle produced the Jewel of Judgement and handed it over. Benedict took it with visible discomfort, as though accepting not power, but burden. At the moment of contact, Kyle felt something ripple across his senses - an ill omen, a disturbance in the fabric of his personal Shadow. It was a sensation he recognised all too well: the same wrongness he had felt when Joshua had summoned a demon. Something had just shifted, and not for the better.

Amidst the chaos of the battle for Amber, Corin had remained focused on her mission to preserve Random’s body. Delving through the fractured weave of Shadow, she successfully located a Prime battery - an arcane reservoir capable of holding vast stores of magical energy. Drawing upon her formidable command of Prime, she infused the construct with raw power and delicately anchored her preservation spell to it.

The battery now served as a stabilising conduit, maintaining Random’s physical form in stasis and halting the ongoing degradation of his neural pathways. Though his mind remained absent, the King’s body was preserved - untouched by decay, held in place by Corin’s precise and carefully sustained enchantment.

Moments later, Corin felt the unmistakable tingle of a Trump contact brushing against her defences. Cautiously, she allowed the connection to form - only to be overwhelmed by a surge of malignant power. Dread coursed through her as the Trump solidified, revealing the stern, unyielding face of Lord Bances Amblerash, the High Priest of the Church of the Serpent.

His eyes were cold, resolute, and filled with judgment. Behind him stood a grim phalanx of robed figures - other priests of the Serpent - each channelling their arcane strength into Bances, bolstering the Trump with collective might. It was a show of force, not merely to reach her, but to breach any wards or resistances that might have stood in their way. Corin realised instantly she had made a grave mistake.

Corin quickly recognised the magnitude of the Trump connection - its strength was overwhelming, far beyond anything she could sever alone. The combined power of the Church had been marshalled to ensure this contact could not be refused. Through the glowing Trump, Lord Bances issued his decree: she was to return to the Courts of Chaos immediately, to stand trial for her defiance and open disregard for the will of the Serpent.

Corin met his demand with unwavering refusal, her voice calm but resolute. Words passed between them, sharp and charged, but it became clear that Bances had little patience for debate. With a curt gesture, he signalled his acolytes - and the Trump flared with light as his men began pouring into the room. The assault had begun.

The first wave of attackers surged through the Trump Gate, and several acolytes immediately grappled Corin. But she was faster. With a snap of will and gesture, she unleashed one of her prepared Prime Bombs - a contained detonation of raw magical force. The nearest assailant was hurled backward, his body crumpling against the far wall. Yet it was clear these were only the vanguard.

The Trump Gate, now fully anchored, pulsed with power beyond her ability to dismantle in time. A new presence stepped through - one far more formidable. Chinaway Hendrake, High Lord of Chaos and whispered to be the strongest warrior in all the Courts, emerged from the light. His movements were impossibly fast. In a blink, he was upon her, gauntleted hand closing like a vice around her throat.

Choking, Corin unleashed another spell. Her body shifted and exploded into a roiling tower of Prime energy and black smoke - an elemental storm of power and fury. But Chinaway’s grip remained unbroken. His gauntlet cut through her transformation, anchoring him to her even as her form writhed and buckled.

The two slammed through a wall, crashing into another chamber in a maelstrom of destruction. Then came a new threat - Lord Bances invoked a net of searing energy, which cascaded down over them both. It racked their bodies with agonising force, yet Chinaway held fast, his fingers still clamped around her throat. The glowing net constricted - and with a final, wrenching pull - it dragged both combatants back through the Trump Gate, vanishing in a blinding flash.

Sensing a fresh disturbance - a resonance all too similar to the chaos that heralded Corin’s abduction - Kyle acted without hesitation. He reached out via Trump and pulled both Fiona and Benedict with him, transporting the three of them directly to Terra Prime, materialising in the corridor adjacent to Random’s medical suite.

What they found was alarming. The door to Random’s room was gone, replaced by a scorched, jagged hole. Charred streaks marred the surrounding walls, and something deeper, more unsettling, pulsed from within the chamber - an unnatural "opening," cloaked from normal sight, but unmistakably active in the metaphysical spectrum. Several adjoining walls had been breached, the damage radiating outward like the blast pattern of a magical rupture.

Without waiting for further escalation, Kyle reached into Benedict’s coat and touched the Jewel of Judgement. Channelling its raw power, he forged a blunt and forceful seal across his Shadow, slamming shut its boundaries against all intrusions. The moment he did, a violent explosion detonated from within Random’s chamber - sending bodies and debris flying across the corridor.

And just as suddenly, the unnatural “opening” within the room collapsed - snuffed out as if it had never been. But the warning it delivered was unmistakable: something had reached across Shadows to strike at them once again.

Within the hallowed and oppressive walls of the Cathedral of the Serpent, Lord Bances made his final move. Speaking a Word of Power drawn from the deepest rites of his order, he severed Corin’s access to her magic - disrupting not only her spellcasting but her Shape Shifting and Logrus alike. Her body faltered under the sudden nullification, her powers silenced in an instant.

As the energy net surrounding her dissipated, Chinaway rose to his feet, visibly singed but unbowed. Without ceremony, Bances produced a set of manacles - rare, forged with ancient sorcery to suppress even the most fundamental powers of Chaos. He locked them around Corin’s wrists with cold efficiency.

Stripped of her defences, Corin was handed over to Church custody and transported from the Cathedral to the deepest cells of the Abyssal Dungeons. There, she would await her trial, cut off from her powers, and isolated in the most secure prison the Courts of Chaos could offer.

Back on Terra Prime, the remaining Chaosians - those who had been dragged through the Trump Gate but not yet slain - staggered to their feet, dazed and disoriented in the aftermath of the blast. Confusion reigned for a heartbeat as they struggled to orient themselves. Then one, a hulking beast-like warrior with mottled skin and tusked features, caught sight of Kyle, Fiona, and Benedict standing in the corridor.

With a savage bellow, the creature drew twin hand-axes and charged.

Benedict stepped forward with unflinching precision. In a single fluid motion, he drove his blade into the creature’s eye, twisted his stance, and brought his sword down in a sweeping arc. Both of the beast’s outstretched arms were severed just below the elbows. The monster collapsed in a lifeless heap at his feet, its charge ended as swiftly as it had begun.

Among the Chaosians still standing, one caught sight of Benedict and froze. Recognition dawned in his eyes - wide with fear - and without a word, he turned and fled. But he didn’t get far. Kyle raised a hand and loosed a swift incantation, freezing the would-be escapee mid-stride, locked in place as though trapped in amber.

Two more Chaosians made to react, but Fiona moved faster, her fingers tracing a sharp arc through the air. With a whisper of power, both were immobilised - frozen in place by her precise, icy spellwork.

The last two warriors, undeterred, roared in defiance and charged Benedict. It was a mistake. With clinical efficiency, Benedict met them head-on. His blade danced once - twice - and both attackers fell in broken silence, their fate matching that of the beast who had charged before them. The corridor fell still.

Back in Amber, with the others having dispersed to their respective tasks, Joshua made his way alone to the Pattern Room. The battle was over, but his curiosity was far from sated. He approached the fallen Blood Droids - six of them in total, lying inert where the shockwave had dropped them. Unlike the wreckage strewn outside the castle, these units appeared largely intact, making them ideal subjects for experimentation.

Kneeling beside one of the bodies, he pried open its chassis with practiced care and located what he believed to be the blood generator - the strange device at the core of each construct’s hybrid nature. Channelling controlled heat toward it, he observed that the energy dispersed instantly across the entire frame. The chassis material, he noted, was an exceptional heat superconductor - meaning thermal manipulation would be of little use here.

Undeterred, Joshua shifted strategies. His gaze settled on the piping connected to the generator, and he considered a more extreme approach: the introduction of a small, carefully controlled quantity of Primal Chaos, to observe how the construct’s inner systems might react to fundamental, entropic disruption.

Back on Terra Prime, Kyle turned his attention to the Chaosian who had attempted to flee. With practiced ease, he reached into the man's mind and began to peel it open, sifting through memory and intent. The Chaosian was no common foot soldier - he was a minor Lord of Chaos named Farq, and a known member of the Church of the Serpent. From his thoughts, Kyle confirmed the worst: the assault had been orchestrated by none other than Lord Bances Amblerash, High Priest of the Church - a figure of immense power, political cunning, and zealous conviction.

But Kyle uncovered more. Within Farq’s memories lay whispers of a clandestine group within the Courts - a cult that revered Benedict as a kind of living myth. Farq was not among their number, but he knew of them, and he certainly recognised Benedict for who he was.

Armed with this knowledge, Kyle consulted with Fiona and Benedict about mounting a rescue mission to retrieve Corin from the Courts. Benedict, though sympathetic, declined. His refusal was not born of indifference, but of caution. Amber, he reasoned, was too vulnerable in its current state. An incursion into the Courts - whether covert or overt - for the sake of someone who was still a recent ally, posed too great a risk. Fiona agreed.

Kyle accepted their reasoning, but not their resignation. He was not so easily deterred. Without hesitation, he reached for a Trump and called Joshua.

Joshua accepted the Trump contact without hesitation, and Kyle promptly transported Lord Farq into the Pattern Room beside him. Without delay, Joshua reached into the Chaosian’s mind and performed a ruthless psychic reaming. Farq’s thoughts were torn open like a sardine tin - his secrets, memories, loyalties, and every corner of his consciousness laid bare.

Once the extraction was complete, Joshua passed a psychic imprint of Farq’s home to Kyle and instructed him to begin crafting a Trump of the location. As Kyle set to work, Joshua turned his attention back to the now-dazed Lord.

With casual brutality, he flung Farq onto the Pattern.

The moment Farq’s body touched the glowing lines, the mind control Kyle had exerted earlier broke. Panic surged into the Chaosian’s eyes as he scrambled to his feet and attempted to flee - but it was far too late. Sticky lightning arced up from the Pattern’s surface, latching onto his feet and yanking them back down with crushing force. The current began to crawl upward, tendrils of energy tearing through his garments, flaying flesh from bone as it climbed.

Farq screamed - high, desperate, and animalistic - as his arms were wrenched down, pinned to the Pattern. The lightning continued its ascent, searing his torso, neck, and finally his head. Skin peeled away, muscle split open, bone was exposed to the air. His final cries were raw, primal, and then - silenced.

The Pattern hissed as a curl of foul-smelling steam rose from the blackened remains. Lord Farq was gone, consumed utterly by the power he had dared tread upon.

Joshua agreed without hesitation - rescuing Corin was not only necessary, but wise. He saw in her great potential, and the loss of such an ally was unacceptable. Kyle, equally resolute, offered to accompany him. Joshua nodded in appreciation; this was not a task he wished to undertake alone.

With grim efficiency, Joshua Shape Shifted into the precise likeness of Lord Farq, replicating not only his physical form but his psychic aura, down to its subtle emotional timbre - ensuring that none could question his identity. Meanwhile, Kyle rendered himself invisible and masked his own aura entirely, crafting a near-total shield against magical detection.

They Trumped to Farq’s residence, situated not far from both the Cathedral of the Serpent and the Halls of the Logrus. Encountering members of Farq’s household was inevitable, but Joshua handled the interactions smoothly, invoking the authority of “urgent Church business” to brush aside any inquiries. None dared challenge him.

As they moved through the ever-shifting corridors of the Courts of Chaos, the landscape remained deceptively calm. Citizens bustled through their daily routines as if untouched by the political tremors of recent events. But one detail stood out starkly - there was a near-total absence of Demonkind, a strange silence where chaos and predation had once been commonplace.

As they passed the looming edifice of the Cathedral, Kyle sensed the Trumps he had crafted for Corin - still active, buried somewhere within. They considered making a move then and there, but Joshua held up a hand. It would be wiser, he said, to speak with Suhuy first. The old master might offer both information and discretion.

Disguised as Lord Farq, Joshua entered the vast, shifting expanse of the Halls of the Logrus with confident strides. Approaching the central administrative dais, he requested an audience with Master Suhuy. The clerk, unsurprised but unimpressed, offered the standard bureaucratic deflection - Suhuy was unavailable, of course, and such audiences were rarely granted without advance notice.

Unperturbed, Joshua reached into his robes and produced a small, unassuming token - the one Suhuy had personally given him at Ygg. He offered no explanation, simply asked that it be passed along.

The administrator accepted it with perfunctory indifference and disappeared into the depths of the Hall. Several minutes passed. When he returned, the man's demeanour had changed. He now wore a look of quiet surprise, and his tone was markedly more respectful. Wordlessly, he handed the token back and gestured to a nearby archway.

Joshua and Kyle were instructed to proceed through the door. It would take them directly to Suhuy’s study.

As Joshua and Kyle stepped through the Trump-like portal, the veil of magic surrounding them unravelled. Kyle’s concealment spells dissipated, and Joshua’s Shape Shifted form collapsed, revealing them both in their true guises. On the far side, Master Suhuy stood waiting. He arched a single eyebrow at the sudden shift, but otherwise betrayed no surprise.

Without missing a beat, Kyle discreetly captured a psychic imprint of both Suhuy and his surroundings - an instinctive habit, honed through long practice. After a brief and awkward greeting, Joshua launched into a summary of recent events: Corin’s abduction, the Church’s brazen assault, and their growing power.

Suhuy listened in silence, his expression darkening with each revelation. Though clearly disturbed, he was careful with his words. He explained that, following the Patternfall War - and the Chaos faction’s failed attempt to unseat Amber - the Courts had suffered a deep loss of prestige. Their final defeat outside their own gates had been a humiliation. The Crown, once the fulcrum of power in Chaos, had been politically diminished, especially after being implicated in backing the failed war effort.

In the vacuum left behind, the Church of the Serpent had surged forward. Now the dominant institution in the Courts, it had eclipsed even the ancient authority of the Logrus itself. Suhuy, once a voice of immense influence, had found his power diminished alongside the waning of the Crown’s.

He could not act openly in Corin’s favour, he explained - any intervention on his part would be politically disastrous. If discovered, it would render his position untenable. Still, Suhuy offered to help covertly. He would investigate and attempt to discover where Corin was being held. The possibilities were few, but daunting: one of three high-security locations - the Royal Palace, the Cathedral of the Serpent, or the dreaded Abyssal Dungeons.

It did not take Suhuy long to locate Corin - she had been imprisoned in the Abyssal Dungeons, the deepest and most secure facility within the Courts of Chaos. The three conferred on how best to proceed. Joshua considered resuming his guise as Lord Farq to infiltrate the prison and extract her. But Suhuy quickly pointed out the flaw in that plan.

Farq, while a titled Lord, was minor nobility at best - hardly influential enough to demand custody of a high-profile prisoner like Corin without raising immediate suspicion. Such a request, coming from someone of Farq’s stature, would be viewed as an anomaly at best, or a deception at worst.

To legitimately secure Corin’s release, one would need to belong to Lord Bances’ inner circle - figures of real authority and standing within the Church. Joshua briefly entertained the notion of confronting one of them directly, perhaps even seizing control through force or guile.

Suhuy cautioned strongly against it. These inner circle members were not like Farq - they were seasoned sorcerers of considerable power and influence. Any engagement with them would be perilous and unlikely to succeed quickly or cleanly. Worse, even if Joshua managed to subdue one, he would almost certainly trigger alarms or call attention, leading to a swift and coordinated response from the others.

And if that happened, not even Joshua would be likely to escape unscathed.

Abandoning the riskier idea of direct confrontation, Joshua opted for a subtler approach. He would maintain his disguise as Lord Farq and request a routine inspection of Corin - nothing more. If the opportunity presented itself, he would attempt a quiet extraction. Kyle agreed to monitor the operation remotely via Trump, ready to pull Joshua out at a moment’s notice should things turn sour.

Joshua resumed Farq’s appearance, complete with aura and bearing, and departed aboard a filmy bound for the Abyssal Dungeons. The journey carried him deep into a shadowed chasm at the far edges of the Courts, where the Abyss itself stirred at the bottom - but not so near as to risk immediate corruption from its ever-hungry influence.

The entrance loomed ahead: a colossal archway carved from blackened stone, etched with warding sigils that pulsed faintly in the gloom. Beyond lay the prison proper - a sprawling warren of tunnels, tier upon tier, descending into a labyrinthine world of suffering and containment. The air was thick with the echoes of agony: distant screams, low moans, and the ceaseless hum of ancient enchantments.

Passing beneath the arch, Joshua entered a vast cavern where a floating administrative platform hovered in the centre like an island of order amid chaos. Without hesitation, he guided his filmy toward it, the grim task ahead beginning to unfold.

Upon arrival, Joshua - still wearing the guise of Lord Farq - sought out the presiding warden. The man was grim-faced and seasoned, clearly not one to be easily impressed. When Joshua claimed to be acting under direct orders from Lord Bances to inspect the status of the prisoner Corin, the warden's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“There’s been no notice of such a visit,” he said flatly. “No writ. No seal. This is irregular.”

Joshua met the resistance with practiced ease, leaning into the arrogance expected of a Chaos noble. He offered assurances of Farq’s authority and sweetened the proposition with promises - substantial Boons and favours from House Farq in exchange for cooperation. The warden hesitated, weighing the risk against the reward, then finally gave a curt nod.

“Fine. But you’ll be escorted.”

An agreement reached, the warden summoned two hulking prison guards clad in hardened chaos-forged armour. Together, the four of them stepped onto a waiting filmy, which glided silently into the endless network of tunnels that made up the Abyssal Dungeons, descending toward the place where Corin was held.

In the oppressive silence of her Abyssal cell, Corin knew instinctively that her usual arsenal of powers was useless - stripped away by the manacles binding her. Denied her Logrus, her Shape Shifting, and all magical channels, she turned inward, focusing on the one force still available to her: the Pattern.

It was still new to her, still unfamiliar territory. But necessity drove her to delve deep, seeking understanding, hoping she might find some thread - some loophole - to unravel the manacles’ grip. Though she failed to break free, her exploration wasn’t without reward. She began to grasp how the Pattern could serve not just as a navigational tool, but as a defensive force, a ward against intrusion.

It was then, as she probed further, that something shifted. In the far corner of the cell, two red pinpricks of light emerged from the darkness. They grew - either swelling in size or rushing toward her - until they resolved into a pair of baleful, glowing eyes. A shadow-cloaked figure stepped forth, human in form but steeped in a darkness that defied the protective wards of the prison. He moved as if the very laws of the Abyssal Dungeons did not apply to him.

The intruder studied her, his gaze heavy with a strange familiarity. “You look... familiar,” he said, his voice a silken rasp. “Like someone I’ve met before.”

Corin, tense but unflinching, demanded a name. The figure offered none.

What followed was a measured dialogue - at first. The shadowed man spoke of freedom, of escape, and of a master who could dissolve her bonds and restore her powers. All she had to do was come with him... and serve.

Corin’s answer was unequivocal. She refused.

The man’s demeanour shifted in an instant. Fury replaced persuasion. With a snarl, he seized her and hurled her across the cell, her body slamming against the reinforced door with brutal force. He closed the distance with terrifying speed, gripped her throat in one black-gloved hand - and Corin screamed as searing heat burned into her skin, the darkness branding her as it tightened.

It was at that precise moment - Corin’s scream echoing off the cell walls - that Joshua arrived with the Warden and two massive prison guards in tow. Stepping off the filmy, they made their way down the corridor, but the cry of pain spurred them to urgency. They broke into a run, closing the distance to the cell in moments.

Through the reinforced viewing panel, they saw a terrifying scene: a shadowy, demonic figure clutching Corin by the throat, dark power radiating from its form. But as soon as their presence was detected, the entity reacted. In a blink, it dissolved into the floor - melting into shadow and vanishing without a trace. Corin collapsed, limp, onto the cold stone.

The Warden, pale and shaken, barked an order. “Open the cell - now!”

As the guards moved to comply, Joshua rounded on the Warden, his voice laced with fury. He condemned the state of security in the Abyssal Dungeon, demanding to know how one of their most critical prisoners could be assaulted by an intruder - right under their noses. The Warden stammered, crimson with embarrassment, his authority shrinking beneath the weight of his failure.

Joshua pressed the advantage, invoking Lord Bances by name. “What do you think he’ll say when he hears of this?” he asked darkly.

He demanded the immediate removal of Corin’s manacles. The Warden balked, hesitant to override standing orders. So Joshua pivoted, insisting that at the very least, Corin be physically examined to ensure she had sustained no permanent harm.

The Warden nodded and instructed the guards to search the rest of the cell while he knelt beside Corin to check her condition. That was all Joshua needed.

He reached out and placed a hand on the Warden’s shoulder, unleashing a wave of mental force. In an instant, the man’s thoughts were subdued, his will overridden. Joshua slipped into the Warden’s mind and scrubbed it clean - erasing every memory of his own arrival and the events that followed. The Warden, now pliant and unaware, was instructed to leave.

With the cell secure and Corin unconscious but alive, Joshua gently lifted her into his arms. A moment later, they vanished in a swirl of Trump energy - returning to the sanctuary of Suhuy’s study.

Back in the quiet sanctum of Suhuy’s study, the ancient master moved with practiced calm. With a few deft gestures and incantations, he removed the enchanted manacles from Corin’s wrists, releasing the suppression field that had bound her powers. As she slowly regained her senses, Suhuy offered her a chair and summoned restorative draughts to ease her pain.

Yet his tone, when he finally spoke, was one of measured disappointment.

“You allowed yourself to be captured,” he said, not unkindly, but without masking his disapproval. “And you’ve taken a reckless stance against the Serpent - our most sacred force. That is not a thing to be defied, let alone provoked. You’ve done both.”

Corin listened in silence, accepting the rebuke with quiet resolve.

Joshua and Suhuy exchanged a final word before parting, renewing their agreement to stay in communication should anything destabilising arise. The accord between them was fragile but mutually respected - an understanding born of shared pragmatism more than trust.

With Corin recovering, the trio - Joshua, Kyle, and Corin - prepared themselves and departed once more, Trumping back to Amber. Their mission was complete, but the shadows they had stirred in Chaos were far from settled.

Back in Amber, Kyle - ever vigilant - turned his attention to Corwin, seeking clarity on his uncle’s recent and increasingly unsettling actions. Scrying across Shadow with precision, he found Corwin riding through a dense forest astride the Black Unicorn, the divine beast moving with a majestic, predatory grace. But what truly unnerved Kyle was the figure riding alongside him: a Pattern Ghost of Corwin himself, eerily identical in form but infused with Amber blood - Fiona’s blood, he realised with a chill.

As Kyle watched, the forest began to thin, trees giving way to open stone and silence. Ahead lay the Primal Pattern of Amber, etched into the bedrock of all reality. And then the truth struck him - Corwin’s intent was unmistakable. He meant to use the blood-filled Pattern Ghost as a weapon, to damage or even destroy the Pattern itself.

Kyle reacted instantly, sending out urgent Trump calls to every ally within reach. Corin, receiving the alert, immediately contacted Dworkin and relayed what was coming. The old sorcerer’s reaction was explosive. He flew into a rage, growing in both size and presence as he stormed from his study, heading straight for the Primal Pattern with wrath in his wake.

Wasting no time, Kyle gathered Fiona, Benedict, Corin, and Joshua and Trumped them all to the Primal Pattern. They arrived just as Corwin approached at a steady canter, the Pattern Ghost riding beside him like a spectral twin.

Kyle acted immediately. He targeted the Ghost’s mount with a freezing spell, locking the creature in place with a sudden sheath of ice. The effect was instantaneous - the horse froze mid-stride - but the momentum of the Pattern Ghost carried it forward. It sailed over the immobilised steed and crashed hard into the earth, tumbling in a sprawl of limbs and magic.

Unfazed, Corwin expertly wheeled the Black Unicorn around, slowing just enough to position himself between the party and his fallen double. With a practiced motion, he dismounted and slapped the flank of the divine beast. The Black Unicorn surged forward in a blur of motion - headed straight for the group.

Kyle reacted again, launching a spell to lift the creature from the ground and halt its charge. But the spell barely touched it. The beast shrugged off the magic with divine indifference. At the last moment, instead of trampling the group, the Black Unicorn leapt - soaring in a single graceful arc over their heads. It landed with barely a sound behind them and continued its path undeterred.

Turning, the group saw its true target: Dworkin, who had just emerged from his cave, his form swollen with power and rage, ready to confront the godbeast barrelling toward him.

The clash between Dworkin and the Black Unicorn was immediate and thunderous - a collision of primordial forces, ancient and terrible. The air crackled with raw energy as the two titans exchanged blows, their power shaking the very bedrock of the Primal Pattern. For a moment, they seemed evenly matched - neither yielding ground, each testing the other’s limits.

But then the Black Unicorn found an opening.

With a sudden surge, it drove its alicorn - sharp, gleaming, and saturated with divine force - deep into Dworkin’s thigh. The blow pierced flesh and sent the old sorcerer staggering, blood blooming across his robes. The tide was turning against him.

From the side-lines, Corin acted swiftly. She unleashed a powerful spell, hurling a blast of energy at the Unicorn in a calculated attempt to shift the balance. The attack struck true. Though not enough to fell the beast, it disrupted its rhythm and drove it briefly back on the defensive - giving Dworkin the precious seconds he needed to recover and re-engage.

Benedict stepped forward, his sword already in hand, and advanced on Corwin with calm precision. The two brothers met in a swift exchange of steel, blades flashing in the light of the Primal Pattern. Benedict moved with flawless discipline, every strike honed by centuries of martial mastery.

Yet, to the surprise of all watching, Corwin met him blow for blow.

Their swords rang out in a fierce rhythm, neither yielding an inch. Corwin fought with a brutal, instinctive style - less refined, perhaps, but no less effective. For all of Benedict’s precision, Corwin’s passion and unpredictability made him a formidable opponent. The duel surged and faltered, feinted and struck, but neither could pierce the other’s guard. For now, they were locked in perfect equilibrium.

As the Pattern Ghost began to rise shakily to its feet, Joshua struck without hesitation. He unleashed an implosion spell - a focused collapse of magical force designed to rupture from within. The effect was dramatic: blood exploded from the Ghost’s skin in violent sprays, splattering across the ground in wide arcs. The construct dropped back to its knees, visibly shaken, though no physical wounds appeared, and the bleeding abruptly ceased.

Corwin, sensing his simulacrum in jeopardy, reacted with supernatural speed. In a blur, he disengaged from Benedict and positioned himself between his Ghost and the others. Without warning, he raised one hand and unleashed a terrible force.

Benedict was lifted into the air, arms and legs wrenched straight as if bound by invisible ropes. His body hung taut, suspended helplessly in mid-air. Corwin’s voice rang out, wild and furious. “Back off!” he roared. “Or I tear him apart!”

But the threat did not slow the others. They understood the stakes too well. To hesitate now would be to surrender the Primal Pattern - and perhaps reality itself.

Kyle and Corin acted in unison. Kyle reached out with countervailing magic, attempting to unravel the invisible forces holding Benedict aloft. Corin, meanwhile, launched a disruptive spell toward Corwin, aiming to break his focus. Their combined efforts sent ripples of power through the battlefield, challenging Corwin’s grip and forcing him to divide his attention.

While the others battled Corwin, the Pattern Ghost recovered and surged back to its feet. With eerie, silent purpose, it sprinted toward the beginning of the Primal Pattern. But Joshua was already there - positioned squarely between the construct and its goal.

The Ghost lunged.

Its strike was blindingly fast. Joshua barely had time to react before the spectral blade - Grayswandir’s echo - plunged into his shoulder. Though only a simulacrum of the true weapon, it carried enough residual power to burn, searing through muscle and bone. Joshua grimaced but held his ground.

In the same instant, he raised the Trump of the Cathedral of the Serpent and activated it. Simultaneously, he Shape Shifted - his body liquefying into a shimmering mass to avoid a second blow. As the Trump flared open, Joshua seized the Ghost with his will. Drawing upon his own considerable Trump mastery, he pulled the construct with him.

The Ghost resisted - but not for long. With a final psychic wrench, Joshua dragged both himself and the Pattern Ghost through the Trump, vanishing from the battlefield in a flash of light and shadow. Their destination: the heart of the Serpent’s Cathedral.

Corwin’s psychic grip on Benedict held fast, resisting Kyle’s and Corin’s earlier interference. Realising brute force alone wouldn’t be enough, Fiona stepped in. Channelling her power into Corin like a conduit, she amplified her daughter’s spellwork with sharp, focused precision. Corin unleashed a searing blast of energy, laced with both their essences.

The attack struck Corwin squarely, disrupting his concentration and breaking his hold on Benedict. He dropped to one knee, momentarily stunned.

Benedict did not hesitate.

With the speed and decisiveness born of countless battles, he lunged, driving his sword deep into Corwin’s shoulder. But Corwin was not finished - he swung Grayswandir upward from the floor in a vicious arc. The blade found its mark, slicing into Benedict’s abdomen just as he landed the blow.

Both brothers collapsed in a tangled heap, blades still buried in flesh.

But it was clear who had taken the worse of it. Benedict remained down, blood spilling from the wound, unable to rise. Corwin, though staggered and bleeding, managed to push himself upright. With dark resolve burning in his eyes, he turned once more toward the others - still ready to fight.

Seeing Corwin stagger away but still poised to strike again, Kyle seized the fleeting opportunity. Without hesitation, he rushed to Benedict’s side. Blood pooled beneath the fallen prince, his wound severe and his strength rapidly fading.

Kyle drew forth a Trump and, with practiced speed, activated it - locking onto Terra Prime’s trauma centre. A shimmering portal opened, and with a single, decisive motion, he pulled Benedict through, delivering him into the hands of the waiting medics before the battle could claim him entirely.

With Benedict safely extracted, Corin and Fiona refocused their assault. Together, they unleashed a renewed wave of magical fury upon Corwin. The combined force of their power was too much, even for him. Struggling to deflect the onslaught, Corwin was driven back - step by step - away from the Pattern’s edge.

Seizing the moment, Kyle reached out with his Trump senses and locked onto Corwin’s Trump deck, secured at his belt. With precise focus, he targeted one of the cards and unravelled it mid-channel - forcing a Trump detonation.

The resulting explosion struck Corwin full-force. He was hurled sideways, crashing hard to the ground, momentarily stunned. Grayswandir was torn from his grasp, skittering across the stone floor, its pale blade gleaming where it landed.

Kyle didn’t hesitate. The Trump explosion had given him a fleeting window, and he intended to use every second of it. Sprinting across the battlefield, he made a direct line for Grayswandir, scooping up the gleaming blade as he passed.

Corwin lay stunned, struggling to rise, disoriented from the blast.

With grim determination, Kyle raised the sword high - and drove it down into Corwin’s chest, hammering the blow home with all his strength. Grayswandir, the blade Corwin had once wielded as a symbol of power and legacy, now struck its former master with brutal finality.