For hours, Eron and Kieran pressed deeper into the Bastion, following the erratic currents of the Flowlines. Morning's faint light struggled to penetrate the oppressive shadows, leaving the air thick with an unnatural chill. The forest felt alive—not in the natural, thriving sense, but as though it waited, calculating every move they made.
Neither spoke for a long time, their silence a fragile truce with the Bastion's hostility. Finally, Kieran broke it.
"She'll get Tyris back," he said, his calm voice carrying a weight that his usual tone lacked.
Eron nodded, his sharp gray eyes fixed ahead. "She'll make it."
Kieran smirked faintly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Guess that makes it nine scrolls claimed."
Eron glanced at him but didn't reply. The tension in the air had shifted, growing thicker, heavier, with every step. It wasn't fatigue—it was something deeper, something tied to the Flowlines themselves.
They emerged into a clearing, and the ruins loomed before them. Massive stone columns stretched skyward, cracked and blackened with age. Flowline energy pulsed beneath the structure, running in jagged veins across the ground and up the walls. The currents surged and ebbed like an erratic heartbeat, as though the ruins themselves were alive and breathing.
At the center of the ruin was a dais, and atop it hovered two golden scrolls. Their glow illuminated the jagged crystal spires surrounding the platform, casting fractured beams of light into the murky air.
"There," Kieran said, pointing toward the dais. "Took long enough."
Eron frowned, his sharp gaze scanning the ruins. "Something's wrong." He knelt, placing a hand against the glowing veins in the ground. The energy beneath his palm vibrated erratically, hot and chaotic. "The Flowlines here… they're unstable."
"Everything in the Bastion feels unstable," Kieran muttered, taking a cautious step forward.
As if on cue, the ground beneath their feet shuddered. A faint rumble echoed through the ruins, growing louder.
"Of course," Kieran said with a dry sigh, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword.
The shadows at the edges of the clearing rippled. A massive shape emerged, rising from the ground like a nightmare given form.
It was a Wraithbound.
Larger than the one they had fought before, its jagged black armor gleamed faintly in the glow of the Flowlines. Red veins of corrupted energy pulsed across its body, feeding its every movement. It let out a guttural roar, its claws scraping against the stone as it advanced.
"Bigger," Kieran noted dryly, drawing his sword.
"And angrier," Eron added, unsheathing his blade.
The Wraithbound lunged. Its massive claws carved deep gouges into the stone as it charged. Kieran darted to the side, his sword slashing at the creature's flank. The blade struck true but skittered off the Wraithbound's armor, leaving only a shallow crack.
"It's tougher, too," Kieran muttered, rolling to his feet as the creature turned on him.
Eron darted forward, his strikes precise and controlled. His blade found a weak point where the corrupted Flowlines pulsed brightest, carving into the creature's leg. The Wraithbound stumbled but didn't stop. Instead, it slammed one clawed hand into the ground, sending a shockwave through the clearing. The force knocked both Eron and Kieran off their feet.
The Wraithbound roared, its jagged, broken cry echoing through the ruins. Shadows curled around its limbs like living tendrils, reinforcing its movements as it charged again.
"This thing isn't just strong," Kieran growled, scrambling back to his feet. "It's adapting."
"It's tied to the Flowlines," Eron said, his voice tight. "They're keeping it alive."
"Great. Any brilliant ideas for cutting it off?"
"Working on it," Eron replied, darting to the side as the Wraithbound's claws raked the ground where he had stood. He slashed at its exposed side, his blade biting into one of the glowing veins. The creature shrieked, a burst of corrupted energy spilling from the wound.
The Flowlines beneath the Wraithbound pulsed erratically, their glow flickering. For a moment, the creature staggered, its movements unsteady.
"There!" Eron shouted. "Hit the veins where the Flowlines are brightest!"
Kieran didn't need to be told twice. He surged forward, his sword slashing in a flurry of strikes aimed at the creature's vulnerable spots. Each hit sent ripples of corrupted energy cascading across its armor, cracks forming along the jagged plates. But the Wraithbound wasn't done.
With a guttural roar, it slammed both claws into the ground, sending another shockwave through the clearing. This time, the Flowlines beneath the stone erupted, spewing bursts of dark energy that coiled into shadowy figures—smaller, wraith-like creatures that darted toward Eron and Kieran.
"Fantastic," Kieran muttered, spinning to block one of the shadowy attackers. His blade sliced through it, the creature dissolving into mist, but more appeared to take its place.
"They're distractions," Eron said sharply, parrying a shadow that lunged for his throat. "Focus on the Wraithbound."
"Easier said than done," Kieran snapped, cutting down another shadow. He turned just in time to dodge the Wraithbound's claws, the creature's movements growing more frenzied.
Eron darted toward the Wraithbound, weaving between the shadows. He leapt onto a nearby stone column, using it as a springboard to launch himself onto the creature's back. His blade plunged into one of the glowing veins running along its spine, and the Wraithbound let out a piercing shriek. Its body convulsed, dark energy spilling from the wound in violent bursts.
"Now, Kieran!" Eron shouted, holding on as the Wraithbound thrashed wildly.
Kieran didn't hesitate. He charged forward, his blade glowing faintly as he channeled the Flowline energy beneath him. With a single, powerful strike, he drove his sword into the Wraithbound's chest, aiming directly for its corrupted core.
The creature froze, its guttural cries turning into a low, distorted moan. Cracks spiderwebbed across its armor, light spilling from its core as the Flowlines within it unraveled. With one final, shuddering roar, the Wraithbound collapsed, its body dissolving into a swirl of shadows that faded into the ground.
Eron dropped to the ground, breathing heavily. "You all right?"
Kieran wiped sweat from his brow, smirking faintly. "Still standing. You?"
Eron nodded, his sharp gray eyes scanning the clearing. The Flowlines beneath the ruins had returned to their erratic hum, pulsing faintly as though recovering from the disruption.
They turned their attention to the dais. The scrolls still hovered in place, their glow steady and unyielding.
The two scrolls hovered above the dais, their golden glow unwavering. The ruin, battered by the fight, felt eerily still in its aftermath. The air remained heavy, saturated with the faint hum of the Flowlines, as though the Bastion itself held its breath.
Kieran stepped forward, his movements deliberate and precise. His sword hung loosely at his side, streaked with the inky residue of the corrupted Wraithbound. He stopped just short of the scrolls, his blue eyes narrowing as he studied them.
"Two scrolls," he murmured. "For once, something went our way."
Eron stayed a few paces behind, his sharp gray eyes scanning the ruin. The Flowlines beneath their feet pulsed erratically, the energy running hotter and faster than it should.
"Careful," Eron warned, his voice low. "The Flowlines are unstable. They're reacting to something."
Kieran's lips twitched into a faint smirk. "The only thing they're reacting to is us getting lucky for a change."
Eron didn't reply, his eyes lingering on the glowing currents that threaded through the stone. Something about the energy felt off—wrong in a way he couldn't quite name.
Kieran reached out cautiously, his hand hovering over the nearest scroll. The warm light reflected in his eyes, but just as his fingers brushed the surface, he froze.
His entire body went rigid, and his breath hitched.
The Flowlines beneath the ruin surged wildly, the steady hum breaking into a jagged, discordant wail. A crushing pressure descended on the clearing, and Kieran stepped back sharply, nearly tripping on the uneven stone.
Eron's head snapped up, his chest tightening as an invisible weight pressed against him. It wasn't just the air—it was the Flowlines themselves, their energy suddenly oppressive and suffocating, as though recoiling from something unseen.
"Kieran," Eron said sharply, his voice low.
Kieran's eyes darted to the edge of the dais, his fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. "It's here," he murmured, his tone taut with restrained fear.
"What?" Eron asked, but then he felt it too.
The air grew colder, charged with a presence that made the Flowlines tremble beneath their feet. Slowly, the shadows at the edge of the ruin began to shift—not like mist dispersing, but like something alive, coiling and twisting with intent.
And then the figure stepped forward.
It emerged from the darkness in a way that made Eron's pulse falter. The figure didn't walk—it flowed, its movements smooth and inhuman. Cloaked in black, it stood tall and lean, its body wreathed in shadows that writhed like living tendrils. Beneath its hood, two molten golden eyes burned, unblinking and fixed directly on them.
Kieran's grip on his sword tightened, but he didn't draw it. His voice dropped to a whisper, rough and uneven. "Eron… that's not something the Bastion made."
Eron's breath came shallow, his sharp mind struggling to process what stood before them. The figure radiated a presence that wasn't just power—it was suffocating. The Flowlines themselves seemed to bow to it, their energy faltering, dimming, as though consumed.
The figure tilted its head slightly, a deliberate, mocking gesture.
Eron clenched his fists at his sides, his instincts screaming at him to act, but the weight of the figure's gaze pinned him in place. It wasn't fear—it was something deeper, colder, as though the figure was stripping away every barrier he'd built around himself and leaving him exposed.
"It's not just watching us," Kieran said, his tone low and controlled, though his knuckles were white around his sword's hilt. "It's weighing us."
The figure didn't move further. It stood as if it had all the time in the world, the shadows curling around its frame like smoke. Its golden eyes narrowed, and for a brief moment, its pale lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile—something devoid of warmth, a smile that promised nothing but pain.
Kieran's shoulders tensed, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white. Eron, usually composed, felt his breath hitch—a sharp, involuntary reaction he couldn't quite suppress. It wasn't just the smile; it was the weight of everything behind it, a sense of being utterly outmatched.
Eron's jaw tightened. His voice was low, almost a growl. "Kieran."
"I see it," Kieran replied, his tone tight, his breath shallow.
"It's not here for the scrolls. It's here for us."
Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.
Above them, the golden eyes burned brighter, unyielding.