Chapter Six - New Friends & Old Enemies

The scattered threads of the party’s journeys began to draw together once more as each of them returned - some with grim news, others with battered pride, but all bearing the weight of unfinished tasks and unsettling revelations. Their arrivals at Terra Prime were staggered but close enough in time that it felt almost orchestrated, as if destiny itself had compelled them to reconvene. They assembled in one of the secured meeting rooms within Kyle’s bastion-like complex, its reinforced walls offering a brief illusion of stability amid the chaos engulfing Shadow.

 

The room, usually a place of strategy and planning, now echoed with subdued voices recounting difficult truths. Each group relayed their encounters - fragmented, bizarre, and often disquieting - and then the conversation faltered, giving way to an uneasy silence. No one quite knew what to say, or how to weigh the implications of what they had learned. Tension coiled in the air, thick and suffocating.

 

William sat slightly apart from the others, the ever-present edge of his restlessness just visible beneath his outward calm. He absently balanced his sword upright, its tip slowly carving a small conical gouge into the polished floor as it spun gently between his fingers. He stared at it with distant eyes, as if trying to divine answers in the blur of the blade’s rotation. Only when the scraping sound grew too sharp, too insistent, did he notice the damage. With a quick intake of breath, he stopped the motion and withdrew the sword, eyeing the marred flooring with a sheepish glance. The moment passed in silence, but the mark he had made - like so many left by their actions of late - would not be easily erased.

 

It was Kyle who first broke the silence, responding to a sudden ripple in the fabric of Trump. A call was incoming - from Benedict. With measured calm, Kyle accepted the connection, and the seasoned warrior’s familiar visage emerged from the psychic haze. Their greeting was brief but respectful, the bond between them forged in shared crises and strategic necessity. Without preamble, Benedict extended his hand through the shimmering portal and brought through two figures: Martin, son of Random, his expression hard-set and wary; and a stranger to most, a man few in the family would have recognised - Bannoq, Benedict’s own son.

 

That revelation alone hung in the air with quiet gravity. Benedict offered no elaborate introduction, merely a nod of acknowledgement as Bannoq stepped forward, composed and alert. His presence was an enigma wrapped in lineage - an Amberite by blood, yet cloaked in the obscurity of one who had been purposefully kept apart. Benedict, ever pragmatic, explained that he remained engaged in final preparations for the assault to reclaim Amber. His designs for the next stage of the conflict - particularly his refinements of the Jeweller’s Rouge and the weaponry that would bear it - were nearly complete. He would return soon, but until then, Bannoq would serve as his representative, his eyes and ears among the others.

 

With that, Benedict severed the Trump link. No further explanation was offered, and none was needed. As the psychic imprint faded, Kyle wasted no time. He moved to his desk, gathered his Trump-crafting tools, and began sketching a Trump of Bannoq - a necessary step if they were to trust and work with this newly arrived scion of Amber.

 

Still unsettled by her abrupt expulsion at the hands of Bennu, Corin burned with a need to understand more about the strange, radiant realm to which she and William had been taken - and from which they had just as quickly been cast out. She retreated to a place of stillness and focus, sending forth her Logrus tendrils in search of answers. First, she anchored herself at Ygg, the metaphysical midpoint between Order and Chaos, the ancient tree that served as a stable fulcrum amid the flux of reality. From there, she attempted to retrace the convoluted path through Shadow that William had used to reach his father's domain.

 

Her tendrils glided effortlessly through the initial layers of Shadow, the Logrus responding as it always did to her mastery. But soon, the trail grew faint, indistinct. As she pushed further, the tendrils began to lose purchase, slipping off the surfaces of the shadows like oil on glass. There was no resistance - only absence, as though the realm she sought now existed behind a veil of untraceable un-reality. Try as she might, Corin could not re-establish the pathway. Bennu’s domain had vanished behind a curtain of mystery and warded silence, impenetrable even to the Logrus.

 

William, always one to test the measure of those who walked in strength, saw something familiar in Bannoq - an intensity of purpose, a disciplined stillness, a sense of bloodline carved into bone. With a wry grin and a spark of curiosity, he invited the newcomer to spar. Bannoq accepted without hesitation, and the two departed the meeting room in search of a suitable arena. They found it in one of Kyle’s indoor training halls, its polished floors and vaulted ceiling offering ample space for the kind of engagement both men desired. Selecting a pair of weighted wooden blades from the wall racks, they stepped into the centre of the room and began.

 

The clash of their practice weapons rang through the chamber with rhythmic precision. From the outset, it was clear they were evenly matched - two warriors of Amberite stock, honed by different paths but sharing an instinctual fluency in combat. Bannoq’s strikes were sharp and efficient, betraying both strength and a refined economy of movement. He may have held a slight advantage in raw power and technical edge, but William’s relentless stamina and uncanny adaptability kept him in the fight. He shifted angles fluidly, responding to Bannoq’s feints with reflexes that bordered on the preternatural, closing vulnerabilities even as they emerged.

 

The bout continued far longer than either had likely expected. Blow for blow, feint for feint, they pressed one another with unwavering resolve. Bannoq, though clearly impressed, began to realise a critical truth: if this had been true combat, and if he failed to end it swiftly, then William’s sheer endurance would eventually wear him down. It was not merely that William could fight - he could persist, and that alone was a formidable weapon. By the end, Bannoq had gleaned much from the exchange. He knew now that while he might best William in a short duel, any prolonged encounter would almost certainly tilt in William’s favour.

 

Still troubled by the recent ambush on Trebernaxus, Joshua found himself turning over the demon’s cryptic warning in his mind - the chilling suggestion that the demon legions were gathering, that war was coming. The words had lingered like smoke in his thoughts, heavy with implication. If there was truth in them, then the balance between Chaos and Order might be tipping in ways even he did not yet comprehend. Determined to learn more, Joshua made a calculated decision: he would summon a demon lord - not one of the great princes of the Abyss, but a minor one, potent enough to possess knowledge, yet hopefully weak enough to bind.

 

Without informing the others, Joshua excused himself and ascended to the roof of the building, a wide, flat expanse beneath an open sky - an ideal place for channeling arcane forces without obstruction. There, in practiced silence, he began inscribing the summoning circle. His movements were precise, methodical. Glyphs of containment were drawn in shimmering ink, woven through with layered wards and runes of compulsion. Protective magics laced the perimeter, forming a reinforced matrix of control. He had no illusions about what he was attempting - summoning even a lesser demon lord was a perilous act, fraught with risk. These beings did not come willingly, nor did they answer questions without resistance. Joshua knew full well the cost of underestimating them… but the need for answers outweighed the danger.

 

With the Trump of Bannoq now complete, Kyle set his tools aside and made his way swiftly to the infirmary. His thoughts were troubled by more than strategic concerns - King Random remained in a precarious state, his condition unchanged since the attack. Standing beside the medical monitors and the pale, motionless form of the king, Kyle was struck by a bold, unorthodox idea. He considered channelling raw energy from the Jewel of Judgement directly into Random’s body - an infusion of power that, if successful, might stimulate healing or even reverse the venom’s effects. It was a gamble, but one born of desperation.

 

He placed the JoJ near the wound and began to focus, guiding a controlled surge of power into Random’s form. The reaction was immediate - and catastrophic. The wound, previously closed, tore open with a wet hiss as thick green ichor began to spill out in pulsing waves. Almost at once, virulent green and black veins erupted from the site, crawling along Random’s chest and limbs like living vines, pulsing as though something inside him was being forcibly propelled through his bloodstream. A sharp alarm blared. Random’s vitals collapsed. He flatlined.

 

Kyle recoiled, the implications of his mistake striking him as sharply as the alarm. Within moments, the attending physicians descended in a flurry of motion, shouting commands and activating emergency protocols. Kyle stepped back as they worked, watching with grim eyes as they fought to stabilise the king. After several harrowing minutes, they managed to revive a heartbeat - weak and faltering, but present. Still, the prognosis was clear: Random’s condition had sharply deteriorated, and Kyle’s intervention had done more harm than good.

 

Meanwhile, high atop the building under the open sky, Joshua completed the final lines of his summoning circle. The runes shimmered with latent power, and the wards thrummed in anticipation. With a final incantation, he triggered the ritual. A pulse of arcane force surged outward from the rooftop, rippling across the aether of Terra Prime like a thunderclap across still water.

 

Within the confines of the circle, reality began to twist. Ash-like motes drifted upward from the floor, swirling on invisible currents. They gathered and clustered in mid-air, slowly binding together to form the outer shell of something monstrous. Layer by layer, the coalescing ash took on the contours of muscle, horn, claw, and sinew - until at last, the figure of a demon stood fully formed within the circle. Its skin was the colour of deepest midnight, seeming to devour light itself. The air grew thick with the stench of brimstone and the weight of oppressive malice. The summoning was complete. The question was whether Joshua could control what he had just brought into the world.

 

The surge of power from the summoning struck Kyle like a wave - an unmistakable ripple of infernal energy that coursed through the fabric of Terra Prime. As master of this Shadow, Kyle felt it instantly and instinctively moved to contain the breach. Drawing upon his control over the realm, he sealed Terra Prime off from external influence, erecting metaphysical barriers to prevent further incursions. But the damage was already done - the summoning had been completed, and whatever had come through was now fully present within his domain.

 

Wasting no time, Kyle summoned his Pattern Lens, his vision sharpening as arcane geometries layered themselves over reality. Threads of power and points of distortion became visible, and his gaze was immediately drawn to a focal flare atop his own structure - the roof. There, the disturbance pulsed like a beacon. Frowning, he extended his will to the sky above, weaving storm clouds into formation. Lightning coiled within them, held in abeyance, ready to be unleashed should the need arise. Whatever Joshua had summoned, Kyle would be ready to strike.

 

Joshua wasted no time. With the demon lord securely bound within the summoning circle, he began his interrogation. His voice was cold, measured, but laced with urgency as he demanded answers about the cryptic warning delivered by his earlier assailant - the talk of a massing of demonic forces and an impending war. The demon, towering and silent, responded with little more than a disdainful snarl. It refused to speak, its infernal pride a shield stronger than any ward.

 

Unmoved by the resistance, Joshua escalated his tactics. Reaching into the dark recesses of his psyche, he launched a series of concentrated mental assaults - mind bombs - each one designed to rupture thought, fray consciousness, and inflict searing agony without breaking the binding circle. The demon howled, a sound that reverberated across the rooftop and deep into the bones of the city. Still, Joshua pressed on, relentless.

 

At last, the creature buckled beneath the torment. In a voice that rumbled like stone grinding against stone, it spoke of a summons - a command emanating from the depths of the Abyss itself. The greater lords of the demonic hierarchy were being called home, drawn together for a singular purpose. War was indeed coming, it said, and when the armies of the Abyss marched, the Courts of Chaos would be among the first to suffer. There would be no mercy. Only reckoning.

 

Sensing the situation escalating beyond control, Kyle surged toward the roof - but not before activating his Trump and reaching out to Bannoq and William. The message was brief and urgent: there had been an incursion into Terra Prime, and he needed their aid immediately. Without hesitation, both warriors answered the call and joined him in transit.

 

As they ascended, Kyle drew upon his unique command of the Shadow’s magical architecture. With a flick of intent, he attempted to infuse their weapons with enhanced power, channelling the latent forces of Terra Prime and augmenting them with raw energy from the Jewel of Judgement. Bannoq’s weapon drank in the energy with a smooth, almost eager resonance. William’s, however, reacted violently - he flinched as a jolt arced through his body, more backlash than blessing. Kyle paused, gauging the effect, and chose not to force further infusion. William would have to rely on his own strength.

 

They reached the rooftop moments later, but at first glance, nothing awaited them - no visible enemy, no sign of the demon’s presence. Unwilling to be deceived, Kyle activated his Pattern Lens once more, scanning the rooftop with supernatural precision. Threads of distortion twisted subtly in the air, revealing a zone where power was being deliberately masked. He considered his options - could he eject the obscured area from his Shadow entirely? The idea was tempting, but even with his mastery, he found no viable way to unweave that section of reality without risking broader collapse. Whatever was hiding here, it would have to be confronted directly.

 

While Kyle scoured the rooftop for traces of concealed power, Joshua delved once more into the demon lord’s mind, determined to tear forth answers the creature refused to give. Despite the agony inflicted by earlier mind bombs, the demon had grown silent again - defiant, unreadable. Undeterred, Joshua summoned the full force of his psychic might and pierced the veil of the demon’s consciousness.

 

What he found was a void - an oppressive, formless blackness. It seemed endless, devouring all thought and presence. Then, from the depths of that darkness, two baleful red eyes opened. They radiated no sound, no thought - only an overwhelming aura of ancient malice. Fear gripped Joshua’s heart, cold and absolute, and before he could react, the eyes unleashed a surge of raw power. The blast detonated like a silent scream within the circle, obliterating his wards, ripping apart his protective enchantments, and scattering his invisibility like shredded silk. The force hurled him bodily across the rooftop, landing in a crumpled heap.

 

The illusion was gone. All on the roof could now see the demon fully - and it was changing. Kyle staggered back as the protective seals he’d placed over Terra Prime shattered like brittle glass. The demon lord, now exposed and unbound, swelled with infernal energy. Its body surged in size, its hide transforming into vast, interlocking plates of obsidian armour. Talons extended and twisted into monstrous spears, each one as deadly as a lance. Its voice, once restrained, erupted in a roar that shook the heavens - thunder made flesh. The battle had begun.

 

Without hesitation, Bannoq and William launched themselves into the fray. The demon’s transformation had not dulled their resolve - if anything, it sharpened it. Overhead, Kyle extended his hand and summoned a jagged spear of lightning from the churning clouds. The bolt slammed into the demon with explosive force, knocking the creature to the ground in a sizzling heap. As it began to rise, defiant and snarling, Kyle struck again - but this second bolt had diminished effect, the energy seeming to ground itself harmlessly through the demon’s expanding bulk.

 

Seizing the moment of distraction, Bannoq surged forward with blinding speed, a blur of precision and purpose. He darted past the demon’s reaching claws and drove his weapon in a powerful arc across its thigh. The blade tore through a seam in the armour, carving a deep gash that sprayed foul, black ichor across the rooftop. The demon roared and staggered, momentarily brought low by the strike.

 

William moved with equal boldness, vaulting onto the demon’s back with fluid grace. His blade came down in a flurry of strikes, but the newly hardened plates of demonic armour turned them aside with little more than sparks. Realising the futility of brute force, William disengaged swiftly, flipping away before the creature could retaliate. The advantage was fleeting - but it was theirs, for now.

 

The demon lord, now fully engaged, turned its blazing eyes toward Bannoq. Undaunted, Bannoq darted in to repeat his earlier maneuver, aiming for another precise strike along the creature’s leg. But this time, the demon was ready. It shifted its stance at the last moment, angling its armour to blunt the blow. The strike landed, but lacked the force and effect of the first. With a guttural snarl, the demon retaliated - its massive claw swept through the air, narrowly missing Bannoq as he twisted away with practiced agility.

 

From above, Kyle loosed another bolt of lightning, willing the storm to answer his command. The crackling energy struck true - but instead of searing flesh or shattering bone, the power dissipated harmlessly along the demon’s hide, as if drawn inward and grounded. It was no longer merely withstanding the attacks; it was absorbing them.

 

Nearby, Joshua had recovered enough to rejoin the fight. With a gesture laced in Chaos, he summoned and hurled a Chaos Bomb at the creature. The blast struck with full force - but like Kyle’s lightning, its energy vanished on contact, devoured by the demon’s unnatural resistance. It was as if the beast had become an anchor of entropy, draining the battlefield of arcane power.

 

Bannoq pressed the attack once more, fully aware now that the demon was adapting to their tactics. Adjusting mid-stride, he feinted left before sidestepping sharply and carving a strike across the creature’s opposite leg. The blow lacked the devastating force of his earlier assault, but it was enough to open another wound - a shallow cut, yet still drawing that thick, black ichor.

 

Almost simultaneously, Joshua unleashed a focused psychic assault. Threads of mental energy coiled through the air and lashed into the demon’s mind, bypassing its growing physical resistances. The effect was immediate. The demon reeled, clutching at the sides of its massive head, howling in agony as the psychic torment overwhelmed its defences.

 

Seizing the opportunity, Bannoq surged upward with a final burst of speed and strength. He vaulted high and drove his blade upward beneath the demon’s chin with brutal precision, punching through armour, sinew, and bone. The weapon buried deep into the creature’s skull, slicing through its brain with a sickening crunch. A fountain of oily black fluid erupted from the wound, soaking Bannoq’s arms as the demon convulsed once - and then collapsed backward, its immense body shaking the rooftop with its fall. It was dead.

 

Though the demon was slain, Kyle’s fury had not abated. Displeased - perhaps even incensed - by the reckless summoning that had brought such chaos into his Shadow, he turned on Joshua with a surge of barely restrained rage. Without warning, a bolt of lightning lanced from his hand, striking the unprepared sorcerer squarely across the chest. The blast seared through Joshua’s robes, carving a jagged wound across his torso and hurling him backward. He hit the ground hard, consciousness slipping away beneath a veil of smoke and pain.

 

The sudden outburst left the others momentarily stunned. William, ever pragmatic and unshaken by inter-party conflict, stepped forward without a word. With practiced ease, he lifted Joshua’s limp form and carried him toward the infirmary. The rest of the group followed suit - intent on checking once again on Random’s condition. All, that is, except Kyle, who turned from the scene and strode briskly toward his study, the Jewel of Judgement in hand. There were questions that needed answering, and he would find them in its depths.

 

At the infirmary, Random remained unchanged - still alive, but only just. The mysterious venom continued its slow, insidious work. Meanwhile, Bannoq turned to Martin and asked if he wished to interrogate Annael. Martin’s eyes lit up with interest, and he readily agreed. Together, they departed in search of Kyle.

 

Around the same time, Corin emerged from her failed attempt to trace Bennu through Shadow. The frustration still lingered behind her eyes, but she set it aside for now and also moved to find Kyle, sensing that answers - or at least direction - would soon be needed.

 

Bannoq, Martin, William, and Corin convened outside Kyle’s study, hoping to enlist his aid or at least update him on their next move. But inside, they found Kyle completely absorbed in his examination of the Jewel of Judgement. The air around him shimmered faintly with the residue of deep magical focus, and it was clear he was not to be disturbed. Rather than interrupt, they scribbled a brief note explaining their intentions and quietly departed - bound for the penitentiary, where Annael remained imprisoned and awaiting further questioning.

 

Elsewhere in the infirmary, Joshua began to stir. Though his body still ached from Kyle’s strike, his formidable will had pulled him back from the edge of unconsciousness. Rather than announce his recovery, he chose instead to extend his senses outward. Letting his physical form rest, he projected his mind in search of Random. Reaching the unconscious king was not difficult - his presence was still tethered to life - but what Joshua found there offered little comfort. Random’s mind was a chaos of images, broken thoughts, and incoherent mutterings: a swirling fog of delirium and pain. There was no clarity to grasp, no hidden truth to retrieve - only the echo of a once-vital mind now lost in a haze of venom and dreams.

 

At the penitentiary, Bannoq, Martin, William, and Corin arrived at the secured cell that housed Annael. Moments later, Kyle appeared in a flicker of Trump energy, materialising silently behind them. The cell was spartan and imposing - a square chamber with three opaque walls and a single transparent panel of reinforced crystal, allowing the observers a clear view of the prisoner within.

 

Annael stood inside, arms crossed and defiant. His posture exuded disdain, his expression unreadable but laced with bitterness. The conversation began poorly and worsened quickly. Bannoq's presence, in particular, provoked him - perhaps a reflection of old memories or simply inherited resentment - and sharp words were exchanged. Annael made no effort to be cooperative; convinced he had no future, he embraced insolence as a final act of rebellion.

 

Seeking a more direct route to answers, Kyle attempted to initiate Trump contact using Annael’s card, hoping to breach his mental defences and overwhelm him psychically. But the moment the connection began to solidify, Annael hissed a single Power Word, disrupting the link in an instant. Undeterred, Kyle shifted tactics and reached out to Joshua instead. But something - or someone - was actively blocking the Trump contact. Frowning, Kyle activated a more mundane channel, opening a commlink to the infirmary.

 

“Put Joshua on,” he instructed flatly.

 

There was a pause before the response came: Joshua was awake but feigning unconsciousness. The ruse, however, had failed. Informed that his presence was required, he offered no further resistance. A Trump was opened, and moments later, he was brought through to the penitentiary, face unreadable and mind already calculating the situation ahead.

 

The questioning turned next to the Blood Droids - the deadly constructs that had shaken even seasoned warriors during the assault on Amber. Annael, now more forthcoming, recounted the long and frustrating genesis of their creation. In his early experiments, he had tested numerous technological devices near the fringes of Amber, searching for something - anything - that could function in its uniquely resistant environment. Every attempt failed. Magic warped circuitry, and the reality-stabilising effects of the Pattern rendered advanced tech inert.

 

But then, in a moment of inspiration - or perhaps desperation - he conceived a radical solution: what if a device could be powered not by electricity or arcane energy, but by the Blood of Amber itself? A living essence, potent and real, capable of anchoring a construct to Amber’s unyielding metaphysics. Thus began a long and painstaking process of trial and error as he sought to harness that essence into a functional energy source. After years of experimentation, he succeeded in developing a stable generator that could draw and utilise the power of Amber’s bloodline.

 

Once the generator was complete, integration with combat droids came swiftly. The results exceeded his expectations. The Blood-powered constructs were not only fully functional in and around Amber - they were also imbued with a profound resilience, shrugging off magical interference and Chaos-based assaults with unnerving ease. The Blood Droids had become more than machines - they were the cutting edge of a new, terrifying hybrid of blood, tech, and war.

 

When the conversation turned to Annael’s deep-seated hatred of Amber, his expression hardened. His gaze settled on Bannoq with a subtle intensity - not overtly hostile, but charged with something unresolved, as if Bannoq’s presence stirred memories better left buried. There was a long pause before Annael spoke, his voice low but steady.

 

He laid the blame squarely on the three eldest sons of Oberon. Finndo and Osric, he said, had tormented him and his mother with brutal, methodical cruelty. Their abuse was not just personal - it was systematic. His mother, once a proud member of the noble House of Karm, had suffered grievously at their hands. Eventually, she died, broken by years of mistreatment. Around that same time, Osric escalated his violence even further, murdering three members of her house in what Annael called a deliberate act of erasure.

 

But perhaps most bitter was Annael’s resentment toward Benedict - not for violence, but for absence. Benedict, he said, had turned a blind eye. Whether through willful ignorance or emotional detachment, he had done nothing to intervene. Whenever he did grace Amber with his presence during those dark years, it was fleeting, and he showed little interest in the quiet suffering unfolding within his family’s shadow. For Annael, Benedict’s inaction was almost as unforgivable as Finndo and Osric’s cruelty. The scars left behind were not just physical - they were generational.

 

A ripple of psychic resonance signaled a Trump contact, and Kyle paused to receive it. It was Benedict. Without hesitation, Kyle stepped through the connection and emerged beside the seasoned warrior. But the moment Benedict appeared within view of the cell, Annael erupted.

 

Like a man possessed, he hurled himself at the transparent wall separating them, fists slamming against the reinforced barrier with frenzied force. Over and over, he pounded the surface, blood smearing as his knuckles split open. There was no mistaking the source of his rage - Benedict’s mere presence had ignited something primal, something buried for too long.

 

Joshua, reading the danger in Annael’s unraveling, calmly reduced the oxygen levels in the cell once more. The effect was swift. Annael’s furious assault weakened, faltered, and then ceased altogether as he slumped into unconsciousness, his bloodied hands sliding down the wall.

 

Benedict stood silent, his expression unreadable - but for the briefest moment, something flickered behind his eyes. Surprise, perhaps. Or regret.

 

Seizing the opportunity, Joshua extended his senses into Annael’s mind. The surface thoughts were fragmented, blurred by emotion and trauma, but consistent. What Annael had shared thus far was not a fabrication - it was truth, at least as he knew it. And it had cut him deeply.

 

Once Annael had been subdued and silence returned to the cell block, Benedict gathered himself and addressed the others with quiet gravity. "We need a conference," he said simply - and so they convened in a nearby chamber, its sterile walls a poor but necessary backdrop for the truths about to be laid bare.

 

Benedict began by recounting a time long past, when Annael was born - the first of King Oberon’s many affairs beyond the bounds of marriage. Benedict had never approved of his father’s indiscretions, but rather than protest or become entangled in the emotional consequences, he had chosen to distance himself from courtly life. He withdrew from Amber, immersing himself in military disciplines and campaigns across Shadow, avoiding the drama he saw brewing in his family’s wake.

 

But Finndo and Osric had not been so passive. According to Benedict, they reacted poorly to the news of Annael’s birth - Osric, in particular, taking personal offense at the family connections of Oberon’s mistress. He spent considerable time in the relevant Shadow, nursing old grudges and turning his scorn into cruelty. Over the years, Annael and his mother suffered greatly. Osric’s reprisals grew increasingly violent and vindictive, while Finndo - less visible, but no less complicit - encouraged or enabled the abuse.

 

Eventually, the truth came to light: both brothers had been caught multiple times abusing the young Annael, physically and emotionally. But they were princes of Amber, and the Shadow authorities were powerless to stop them. Benedict, speaking with uncharacteristic remorse, admitted that he had known what his brothers were capable of. And yet, at the time, he had been too focused on his own path - too immersed in strategy, self-improvement, and military preparation - to intervene. He had trusted, foolishly, that Oberon would step in to correct the injustice. But Oberon never did. And by then, the damage was done.

 

In time, the House of Karm reached its breaking point. Finndo and Osric’s cruelty had gone too far, and their mistreatment of Annael’s mother - one of Karm’s own - demanded retribution. Tensions erupted into open conflict, culminating in a violent confrontation during which Osric slew three of Karm’s noble scions. In the chaos that followed, the house struck back - not against the princes directly, who remained protected by royal status, but against Annael’s mother, whom they held partially responsible for the disgrace and loss.

 

She suffered grievously, Benedict said, her final days marked by brutality. Yet in a last act of courage and cunning, she managed to spirit her son - now around fourteen - away to safety, along with a newborn daughter whose existence Benedict had not even known of until that moment. Then she vanished. With no sign of the children and no bodies recovered, the court assumed Annael had been killed by Finndo and Osric, his remains discarded in some forgotten corner of Shadow.

 

Both Finndo and Osric would eventually fall, dying in the service of Amber during distant campaigns - taking the truth of Annael’s fate with them. Benedict’s voice, though steady, held a trace of regret. He admitted that what had unfolded was a stain upon the family’s legacy - one he had ignored for too long. And now, perhaps, providence had offered him a narrow window to set things right.

 

Benedict then turned the conversation toward more practical, but no less dangerous, matters - namely, the Jeweller’s Rouge. He explained that he had dedicated much of his recent time to studying and refining the substance, unlocking explosive properties far beyond anything Corwin had ever achieved. Where Corwin had once experimented in theory and limited application, Benedict had gone further - transforming the Rouge into the basis for a new class of weaponry, formidable enough to turn the tide of war.

 

His intent, he stressed, was to see all such weapons destroyed. Their existence was too volatile, too easily abused. Yet some among the group raised the uncomfortable question: once such power had been unleashed, could it ever truly be erased? Would it not be wiser to keep a few weapons in reserve, just in case? Benedict didn’t dismiss the suggestion outright. He acknowledged the logic - but also issued a firm caveat. These weapons, under no circumstances, could ever again be used to threaten Amber. Should the need arise, he reminded them, he could always make more.

 

To ensure the Rouge remained out of reach, he had already destroyed the Shadow where it was refined - a place inhabited only by soulless constructs, devoid of meaningful life. As for Avalon, the source of the Rouge itself, he requested Kyle investigate how it might be completely sealed off from the rest of Shadow. The risk of someone else attempting to rediscover or exploit it was too great. Kyle nodded, confirming that such a complete isolation was not only possible - it would be done.

 

As the discussion drew to a close, Benedict made one final request. He wished to speak with Annael alone - without the presence of the others, without interruption. Whatever needed to be said, it was to be done in private. He turned to Kyle and asked him to arrange a secure meeting room within the facility, where Annael could be brought under guard. Kyle gave a silent nod and set the preparations in motion.

 

Before departing, Benedict was approached by Bannoq, who offered to accompany him. There was no defiance in the offer, only concern - or perhaps curiosity. But Benedict declined, his tone firm yet not unkind. "Not this time," he said, and with that, he stepped away. Some things, it seemed, still had to be faced alone.

 

In the quiet that followed Benedict’s departure, the remaining members of the group gathered their thoughts. A new thread of suspicion had begun to take shape - one that cast Annael not solely as a villain, but perhaps as a pawn. The dagger that struck down Random, the timing of its use, its origin through Alesha, and Annael’s seeming ignorance of its true nature - all of it hinted at deeper orchestration. Could it be that Annael had been deliberately manipulated, set up to appear the assassin in a larger game whose players remained hidden?

 

The notion was troubling. Whoever had orchestrated such a plot had done so with a long view - one spanning years, even generations. The pieces had been carefully arranged, the timing precise. But the question that loomed largest now was the simplest, and the most unsettling: who had the motive, the patience, and the power to weave such a plan? The answers, they suspected, lay not in the past - but in what was yet to come.

 

They returned once more to the infirmary to check on Random. The king’s condition remained unchanged - his breathing shallow, his pulse faint, and no sign of consciousness stirring behind his closed eyes. The sense of helplessness was palpable.

 

Moved by both duty and intuition, Corin stepped forward. Her bond with the Unicorn - tenuous yet profound - was unlike anything the others shared. She had touched the creature’s essence before, felt its presence ripple through her soul, and now she sought to reach it again. Closing her eyes, she extended her magical senses toward the slumbering divine, attempting to penetrate the mystery that surrounded it.

 

At first, her efforts yielded nothing. Her spells, her perception, her will - they all slid off the Unicorn’s mind as if repelled by a smooth, impenetrable surface. Then, just as she was about to withdraw, something shifted. A narrow fracture opened, a sliver of access, and she slipped through.

 

What she beheld was no ordinary dream. It was a vision drawn from the roots of time itself. The Unicorn - no longer the horned beast of legend, but a radiant, slender woman - walked through a sun-drenched meadow. Her beauty was luminous, otherworldly, and beside her walked a man of great height, with serpent-like eyes and a long, obsidian-black ponytail that trailed down his back. There was affection in their movements, laughter in their shared stride. Though no words were spoken, it was clear - they had been lovers. And what Corin witnessed was not merely memory, but a window into a primordial intimacy between two beings of unfathomable power.

 

Then it came - a tremor that rippled through both dream and waking world. In the vision, the ground seemed to lurch, the skies darkening as unseen titanic forces began to stir. And at that same moment, in the real world, a shudder coursed through the very fabric of Shadow itself. It was not physical, yet all present felt it: a reverberation of unleashed power, vast and primal, as if two ancient beings had come into violent conflict somewhere beyond sight.

 

Corin gasped and withdrew from the Unicorn’s mind, the psychic tether snapping as reality pressed in. She turned to the others, her voice urgent and eyes wide with what she had seen. She spoke of what she had felt - of colossal energies clashing in distant realms, of the ancient dream turning into a very real and present danger. The Unicorn’s past was not resting; it was awakening.

 

There was no need for further words. The group mounted their steeds, eyes steeled with purpose. Guided by Corin’s instinct and attunement to the disturbance, they plunged into Shadow at a full gallop - riding hard and fast in a hell-ride across realities, drawn toward the storm no one had yet named.

 

Their relentless ride through Shadow brought them to realms increasingly marked by devastation. As they passed through one after another, the terrain grew more fractured, more unnatural - entire landscapes torn apart by forces far beyond mortal comprehension. Jagged rifts split the earth, skies flickered with unnatural hues, and mountains crumbled into dust. Corin, her senses attuned to the disturbance, felt a deep certainty rising within her: they were drawing close. The others felt it too - an oppressive pressure in the air, a humming resonance in their bones. This was no mere magical duel. Something far greater was unfolding.

 

They soon understood the full magnitude of it. This battle of Powers was not simply ravaging Shadow - it was annihilating it. Whole realities were being torn asunder, snuffed out like candles in a storm. And then, finally, they arrived.

 

The party emerged into a broken Shadow teetering on the brink of collapse. Cresting a ridge after hastily conjuring protective wards and enchantments, they came upon a hilltop overlooking a vast, gouged valley. What awaited them below was unlike anything they had seen before - an epicenter of raw, mythic violence, where gods clashed and the world itself screamed beneath their feet.

 

Below them, the valley lay in ruin - a landscape shattered by unfathomable power. The very fabric of the Shadow was torn and scorched, reality itself buckling under the weight of what was unfolding. And at the heart of this cataclysmic arena, two titans raged against one another: the Serpent and the Black Unicorn, locked in a battle unlike anything the watchers had ever imagined.

 

Both creatures had grown to monstrous proportions. The Black Unicorn was immense - far larger than any draft horse, its muscled frame sleek yet terrifying, its Alicorn glowing with raw primal force. The Serpent, even more colossal, coiled and lashed with brutal power, its sinuous body thick as ancient trees, its scales reflecting a sickly, iridescent sheen. The Unicorn charged with unrelenting fury, its horn driving deep into the Serpent’s flank. The strike was clean and true, and molten blood poured from the wound, burning holes into the ruined earth.

 

But the Serpent was far from vanquished. With a furious roar, it retaliated, bringing its vast bulk and crushing tail to bear. The impact sent the Black Unicorn tumbling across the broken terrain, limbs flailing as it struggled to rise. Though bloodied, the Serpent showed no signs of weakening. If anything, the flow of its venomous lifeblood only seemed to stoke its wrath. The clash continued, raw and relentless - two ancient forces of myth locked in a war that could sunder worlds.