The road to Frostspire was a ribbon of frost and shadow, the air sharp enough to cut lungs. William rode alone, Stormrend's hilt cold against his thigh, when six figures melted from the pine thickets. Their leader—a hulking brute with a scar splitting his face from cheekbone to jaw—stepped forward, a rusted axe slung over his shoulder. "A good prey," he sneered, yellowed teeth glinting. "Looks rich and young. We'll have fun peeling that armor off your corpse."
William dismounted, his hand resting on Stormrend. "Leave quietly," he said, his voice low, final.
The bandits laughed, their breath fogging the air. The leader spat. "Or what? You'll kill us, pretty boy?"
Lightning cracked the silence.
William's hair bled from jet-black to crimson, his scarlet eyes swallowed by voids of black. A smile split his face—wide, unhinged, wrong. The bandits froze.
He moved.
The first bandit's head hit the snow before his body crumpled. The others lunged, blades glinting, but Stormrend's lightning tore through them—charring flesh, fusing steel to bone, filling the air with the stench of scorched meat. The leader stumbled back, axe forgotten, screaming, "Monster!" as he fled.
William blurred. A hand punched through the man's chest, fingers closing around his heart. Lightning surged, turning veins to ash, ribs to cinders. The corpse collapsed, smoke curling from its hollowed ribs.
Silence.
William inhaled, the crimson in his hair and the void in his eyes lingering. "You finally let me out, William," he whispered.
In the labyrinth of his mind, two figures stood in a cavern of crackling lightning and shattered ice.
One William—black hair, crimson eyes—stood rigid.
The other—crimson hair, black eyes—smiled, sharp and endless.
No words passed between them.
Only the storm, howling, unanswered.
The von Einsbern camp sprawled beneath a starless sky, fires flickering like resentful eyes in the dark. Aurelia stood apart, her ice-blue gaze fixed on the northern horizon. How did he defeat a High Warlord? Her fingers tightened around her dagger's hilt. Raw power? Strategy? Or something worse? She'd demand answers when they reached Frostspire—if he hadn't locked himself in his room again.
Thalric slumped by the fire, brick-red eyes glaring at the flames. "Can't William even wait for us?" he grunted, stabbing a stick into the coals. "Acts like he's too good to breathe the same air."
Theron lounged against a log, his fiery gaze reflecting the blaze. "Let him play the lone wolf. He'll freeze his ass off before dawn."
Rowena huddled in her tent, the spirit contract tome open in her lap. Pale cerulean eyes darted between the pages and the translucent figures darting around her—a childlike spirit poking her inkpot, another braiding her hair with phantom fingers. She flinched but didn't shoo them away. "Control requires understanding," Svana had scribbled in the margins. Easier said than done.
Leofric stood at the camp's edge, his crimson eyes narrowed as his knight captain relayed supply counts. The communication crystal at his belt flared, and his butler's voice crackled through. "My lord, imperial knights ransacked the castle. They tore apart vaults, questioned servants—left nothing untouched."
Leofric's jaw twitched. "Why would Robert sanction this madness? Is he senile?"
"The Count of Blackmoor was assassinated last night."
The words hung like a blade. "What?" Leofric's voice dropped to a growl. "By whom? And why?"
The butler hesitated. "They found a Lonalion dagger in his chest. The emperor believes it was Garios."
Leofric's fist clenched. Fool. But the campfire's crackle drowned his thoughts, and the night marched on, heavy with unspoken storms.
Inside William's mind, the storm raged. The two figures faced each other across the fractured landscape.
William—black-haired, crimson-eyed—crossed his arms, voice sharp as a blade. "I told you not to come out on your own."
The other—crimson-haired, void-eyed—grinned, teeth glinting like shards of obsidian. "Oh, come on. Let me have some fun, you bastard." He paced, boots crunching on lightning. "How long have I been stuck in here? Three years? You even gave me a name. Michael. Aren't we practically brothers?"
William's gaze hardened. "I'll let you have your fun. But for now—stay inside and watch."
Michael laughed, the sound echoing through the storm. "Seriously? Again?"
"If you listen," William said, a sly smile creeping in, "I'll let you fight all you want."
"There it is—that cheeky smile." Michael leaned closer, black eyes narrowing. "I don't trust that smile."
William shrugged. "Aww, come on. Aren't we practically brothers?"
The storm roared, unanswered.
The Duskborn carriage jolted as Arutoria's communication crystal flared to life, its jade light pooling over her lap. Her maid's voice hissed through the gem, strained but steady. "My lady, Emperor Robert's knights turned the castle upside down—tore apart your study, interrogated the staff. They left nothing untouched."
Arutoria's moss-green eyes narrowed, her fingers tightening imperceptibly around the crystal. "Why? What madness provoked this?"
"The Count of Blackmoor was assassinated in his sleep."
A beat of silence. Arutoria leaned back, her moonweaver crown glinting faintly. "The count had enemies thicker than summer flies. One finally stung."
"No, my lady." The maid's voice dropped. "They found a Lonalion dagger in his chest."
Arutoria's expression didn't flicker. "I see."
Outside, Silvind's laughter drifted from where she rode beside Arthur, but Arutoria's gaze stayed fixed on the crystal's dying glow. A Lonalion dagger. Too crude for Garios, too bold for Robert. Her lips thinned. But just right for chaos.
The carriage rolled on, swallowing her silence.
Frostspire's gates loomed ahead, their iron hinges groaning as William dismounted. The courtyard buzzed with panicked servants—maids clutching overturned furniture, stablehands corralling spooked horses, the air thick with the clatter of shattered porcelain. At the sight of him, they froze, relief flooding their faces like a tide.
The butler hurried forward, his usual composure frayed. "Lord William," he panted, gesturing to the chaos. "Imperial knights stormed the castle at dawn. They claimed the Count of Blackmoor was assassinated—"
"—and suspect Garios," William finished, scarlet eyes scanning the wreckage: torn tapestries, scattered ledgers, a shattered vase that had once belonged to Lyrielle.
The butler nodded. "Precisely. They left no stone unturned."
William knelt, gathering shards of the vase. "Tidy the castle before the others arrive," he said, his voice calm but edged. "I'll assist."
Servants exchanged glances. The prodigal heir, scrubbing floors? But William was already rolling up his sleeves, lightning flickering faintly in his palms as he righted a toppled bookshelf.