The low hum of the ship’s engines filled the silence of the small craft, a constant reminder of their journey across the stars. The vessel, sleek and dark as a dagger, cut through the void toward the outer fringe colonies—a place where the reach of the Order had not yet fully solidified, and negotiations were delicate affairs. At the heart of this mission was Torne, the Epsimus, whose cold presence loomed over every inch of the ship like an oppressive shadow.

  Standing at his post near the entrance to the private quarters of the Epsimus, Guard Captain Aric Solas kept his eyes fixed on the endless expanse of stars stretching beyond the view port. His posture was rigid, his armour polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflecting the silent professionalism demanded of him. The weight of his duty pressed heavily on his shoulders. He was Torne’s protector—the blade in the dark, the shield against any threat.

  Yet beneath the surface, hidden deep where no one could see, a storm raged within him.

  It had been a year since the Festival of Light, a year since Aric had stood as a silent witness to the execution of Lectus, the son of the very man he had to protect. That day had shattered something within him, something he could never fully repair. He had sworn his life to the Order, to Torne himself, but that day, when the blade cut through Lectus’s throat, Aric’s unwavering loyalty had died alongside the heir.

  The memory haunted him—Lectus’s calm acceptance, the flash of steel, and the sound of blood hitting the temple floor. In that moment, something in Torne had shifted from the feared leader Aric had once respected to something far more dangerous. A tyrant unmoored, his mind consumed by the weight of his own delusions. Torne had always been ruthless, but after that day, he became monstrous.

  Aric clenched his fists beneath his gauntlets, willing the thoughts to subside. It was a dangerous thing to harbour resentment against the Epsimus. Torne’s eyes were everywhere, and one wrong step could cost him his life—or worse, the lives of those he had once fought to protect. His face remained impassive as he stood at attention, his gaze never betraying the roiling conflict within.

  The stars beyond the view port flickered softly, distant and indifferent to the turmoil brewing inside him. Aric let his eyes linger on them as if they might offer some semblance of clarity, but the cold silence of space only deepened his sense of isolation. Out here, far from the heart of the empires of man, there were no distractions—nothing to dull the sharp edge of his thoughts.

  Aric mused bitterly. He had believed in the young heir and had seen in him the potential for a better Order. There had been a quiet strength in Lectus, a calmness about him that contrasted so starkly with Torne’s iron grip. It was that strength, that belief in something more significant, that had once fuelled Aric’s involvement in the resistance.

  He hadn’t always been a captain in Torne’s elite guard. Before the weight of his title, armour, and oaths, he had been part of something else—something fragile and fleeting but powerful in its hope. The resistance against Torne had been small, a group of disillusioned insiders who believed that the Order could be more than what Torne had made it. Yoreal had been their leader, sharp-witted and fearless, and Lectus had been their symbol of change, the heir they could rally behind.

  Aric hadn’t been born into nobility, nor had he risen to his position through family ties. He had earned his rank with sweat, blood, and unquestionable loyalty—or so Torne had believed. In truth, it was Yoreal who had recognised something in him. She had pulled him into their plotting shadows ever so slowly, testing his resolve, his convictions, before revealing the full scope of their plans.

  He had been careful, meticulously careful. He had walked the razor’s edge for years, serving Torne by day and conspiring against him by night. It had been a dangerous game, but it had seemed possible for a time. Yoreal had been confident of their success. Lectus would one day ascend, and when that day came, the Order would change—would be restored to something resembling honour.

  But then the Festival of Light happened, and everything collapsed. Yoreal was gone, Lectus was dead, and the resistance had been shattered, scattered to the winds. Those who had survived either went into hiding or were executed. Aric had been forced to bury that part of himself so deeply that he sometimes doubted its existence.

  Now, there was only this—the endless grind of duty, the constant watchfulness, the suffocating presence of Torne. A man, or something from beyond this plain of existence, who did not need any protection.

  Aric’s eyes drifted to the insignia etched into the bulkhead above the view port—a symbol of the Order’s might. To most within the Order, it was a badge of honour, a reminder of their purpose. But to Aric, it had become a symbol of everything that had been lost. The ideals that had once defined the Order had been twisted beyond recognition, contorted to fit the whims of a man who no longer understood the difference between power and madness.

  The silence of the ship, broken only by the faint hum of the engines, seemed to mock him. How many others felt as he did? How many of the guards, the officers, and the Archons still believed in the old ways and still yearned for the Order that could have been? Aric had learned not to ask those questions aloud, not even in the most secure of places. Trust had become a dangerous commodity.

  He reached up and absently minded and touched the hidden scar beneath his collarbone, a scar he had earned in one of the early resistance operations long before he had risen to his current position. It had been a near-fatal injury, one he had barely survived, and it had served as a constant reminder of the risks he had once been willing to take. Now, it was a reminder of the price of failure.

  A faint vibration through the ship’s deck pulled him from his thoughts. They were still far from their destination, but the journey seemed to stretch endlessly, each hour a fresh reminder of the heavy silence that filled the void. Out here, with no distractions, his mind wandered too easily to dangerous places.

  Aric sighed quietly and turned away from the view port, his armour catching the dim light of the control panels. His duty was clear. He had buried his past, and for the sake of survival, for the sake of the men who served under him, he had to remain loyal. If there was one thing he had learned over the past year, it was that survival often meant compromise.

  And yet, no matter how much he tried to suppress it, the thought always lingered at the edge of his mind: what if there was still a chance? A chance to finish what Yoreal had started? To end Torne’s reign before the entire galaxy fell under his madness?

  he told himself,

  But the doubt gnawed at him, as persistent as the hum of the engines. As long as he lived, if the memory of Lectus and Yoreal survived within him, the question would never fully go away.

  The low lights of the ship’s interior flickered slightly as Aric made his way toward his quarters. The crew moved around him in a seamless flow, none of them aware of the storm that brewed within the infamous captain of the guard. On the outside, he was the perfect soldier—calm, composed, and unwavering in his duty. But inside, the storm only grew stronger, threatening to consume him whole.

  Aric entered his quarters, the door sliding shut with a soft hiss. He stood there for a moment, staring at the empty room, the weight of his armour finally taking its toll on him. Slowly, methodically, he removed the gauntlets and chest plate, setting them aside. The cold air brushed against the bare skin of his arms, and he felt the familiar ache of old wounds, the scars hidden beneath the fabric of his uniform.

  He sat on the edge of his bunk, the silence of space pressing in around him. Alone, at last, he allowed himself a moment of weakness. His hands trembled slightly as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his head bowed. The mask he wore for the world, the mask of loyalty and obedience, cracked in the quiet of his room.

  Aric allowed himself to remember—really remember—the hope he had once felt. The vision of a future where Lectus led them, where Yoreal’s plan had succeeded. He had once believed in that future with all his heart and had risked everything for it.

  The silence in Aric’s quarters was suffocating, pressing down on him as the weight of old memories resurfaced. His hands, still trembling faintly, gripped the edge of the bunk.

  But then, the world around him shattered.

  A deafening alarm pierced the stillness, its high-pitched wail reverberating through the walls like the scream of a wounded beast. The ship lurched violently beneath him, sending him tumbling from the bunk as red emergency lights flared to life. The low hum of the engines turned into a frantic roar as the ship seemed to groan in protest, the vibrations intensifying beneath his feet.

  Aric scrambled to his feet, the moment of vulnerability vanishing in an instant as his instincts kicked in. His pulse surged, adrenaline replacing the lingering ache of old wounds. Something was wrong—. He could feel it in the very air, the tension crackling through the ship like static before a storm.

  He grabbed his gauntlets and chest plate, securing them hastily as he bolted out of his quarters. The alarm blared through the ship’s narrow corridors, mixing with the frantic shouts of the crew. Red lights flickered overhead, casting harsh shadows on the metal walls as he sprinted toward the cockpit, his mind racing as fast as his feet.

  The cockpit was a flurry of activity—crew members shouting over one another, their voices barely audible above the piercing alarm. The ship’s control panels flashed erratically, data streaming across the screens faster than anyone could process. The pilot, her hands gripping the controls with white-knuckled intensity, was shouting orders to her team, her voice strained with panic.

  “Status report!” Aric barked, his voice cutting through the chaos as he forced his way toward the pilot’s console.

  The pilot didn’t take her eyes off the screens, her face pale and drawn as she spat out the words. “Anomaly—an unknown anomaly just appeared on our trajectory, out of nowhere! We’re travelling at 983 astronomical units per hour—we don’t have the time to stop or alter course!”

  Aric’s stomach dropped. 983au per hour was an unfathomable speed—one that didn’t leave room for errors. “What kind of anomaly?” he demanded, stepping closer to the console, his eyes scanning the flashing screens.

  “I don’t know!” the pilot snapped, frustration and fear lacing her voice. “The sensors are malfunctioning—whatever this thing is, it’s interfering with our systems. We didn’t detect it until it was practically in front of us!”

  The ship shuddered again, a violent tremor that sent one of the crew members stumbling to the floor. The cockpit lights flickered dangerously, casting the room in brief, unsettling darkness before stabilising.

  Aric gritted his teeth, forcing himself to remain calm despite the rising panic. His mind raced through options, but none of them offered a solution. They were moving too fast. At their current speed, any attempt to slow down or veer off course would be futile. The ship wasn’t designed for sudden course corrections—not at this velocity.

  “Can we get a visual?” Aric asked, his voice steadier than he felt.

  The pilot’s fingers flew over the controls, but she shook her head, a grim look on her face. “It’s not showing up on our visual feeds—just a distortion. Whatever this is, it’s… cloaked. It’s bending light, warping everything around it.”

  The implications hit Aric like a punch to the gut. A cloaked anomaly? That wasn’t a natural phenomenon—someone, or something, had put it there.

  His mind raced, trying to process the possibilities. A trap? Sabotage? Was this an ambush? But by whom? They were on the outer fringe, far from the reach of their usual enemies. Unless…

  The thought chilled him, but he shoved it aside. There was no time for speculation. Right now, survival was all that mattered.

  “Brace for impact!” the pilot shouted, her voice cracking as she struggled to maintain control of the ship. The vibrations running through the floor intensified, the ship groaning under the strain as the anomaly drew closer.

  Aric glanced at the view port, his stomach twisting at the sight. Space itself seemed to ripple ahead of them, a dark, swirling distortion blotting out the stars in its path. The anomaly was massive—impossibly massive—and it was swallowing everything in its wake.

  It was a black hole.

  “Shut down all non-essential systems,” Aric ordered, turning to the crew. “Divert power to the shields. We need to buy ourselves as much time as possible.”

  The crew scrambled to comply, their movements quick but shaky as the ship continued to shudder. Aric could feel the tension in the air thickening by the second, fear clawing at the edges of every breath. They were hurtling toward the unknown, and there was no way out.

  The pilot’s hands moved frantically over the controls, her jaw clenched. “I’m trying to stabilise—systems aren’t responding. We’re going in blind.”

  Another tremor rocked the ship, and Aric grabbed the edge of the console to steady himself, his heart pounding in his chest. He could feel the pull of the black hole, like a gravitational wave tugging at the very fabric of the ship. Every second brought them closer, the darkness ahead yawning wider.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “How much time?” he asked, his voice low but urgent.

  The pilot glanced at the readings, her face pale. “Less than sixty seconds.”

  Aric’s blood ran cold. Less than a minute. That wasn’t enough time—not even close.

  He took a deep breath, his mind racing through the possibilities. If they couldn’t stop, they would have to brace for impact. But with a black hole, there was no telling what they would face on the other side—if they even made it that far.

  “Hold steady,” he ordered, his voice grim. “Prepare for the worst.”

  The pilot nodded, her knuckles white on the controls. “May the founders protect us.”

  Aric stared into the swirling void ahead, his chest tightening with every second that passed. The black hole loomed closer, its presence an ominous shadow that swallowed the stars. This was no ordinary mission, no routine negotiation. Something far darker was at play.

  And as they hurtled toward it, there was no turning back.

  Torne sat in his private quarters, the dim light from the ship’s console casting faint, restless shadows on the walls. The soft hum of the ship’s engines, a familiar comfort, was nothing more than background noise, distant and meaningless against the oppressive silence that filled the room. His eyes were closed, his thoughts far from the current mission. The outer fringe colonies were nothing more than another stepping stone in his expanding dominion—yet something else tugged at him, an inexplicable weight that had followed him since the moment they had embarked on this journey.

  Torne had always believed in his absolute power. His control over the galaxy was unquestionable. He had crushed rebellions, conquered worlds, and shattered anyone foolish enough to stand in his path. But ever since the events of the Festival of Light, something in him had shifted. A shadow clung to his mind, nameless and relentless.

  The sudden wail of the ship’s alarms shattered the quiet, tearing through the fragile stillness like a blade. Torne’s eyes snapped open, and his body tensed as the ship jolted violently beneath him. The dim light flickered, the soft hum of the engines becoming a strained groan. The ship trembled as if the very fabric of space around them had twisted.

  Rising to his feet, Torne moved with deliberate, calculated precision. Fear was a tool he wielded to control others—never something that could touch him. Yet the sudden shift in the air, the deep sense of impending danger, was unmistakable.

  He reached for the communicator, intending to demand an explanation from the bridge, but before his fingers could touch the consol, pain exploded behind his eyes.

  Torne staggered, clutching his head as his vision dissolved into chaos. His surroundings blurred and twisted, the walls of his quarters melting away as a torrent of images rushed at him with overwhelming force.

  He was no longer on the ship.

  The world around him took form—an ancient city carved from cold stone rose before his eyes. The architecture was unlike anything Torne had seen before; it was imposing and timeless yet familiar in a way that sent a shiver down his spine. The city was vast, its towering structures stretching toward the heavens, covered in alien carvings and symbols that glowed faintly beneath the overcast sky.

  But something was wrong.

  Torne’s breath caught in his throat as the ground beneath him shifted. The city wasn’t real—not anymore. He knew it had been destroyed, wiped from existence of years ago. He had read the reports and studied the ancient histories of Dessix—a once-great civilization that had been obliterated by a cataclysm that left nothing behind. The temple, the city, the mountain on which it stood—all of it had been lost to time.

  And yet, here it was.

  The vision pulled him deeper, the details sharper than they should have been. He found himself ascending a series of massive stone steps that spiralled toward the sky, the air thick with humidity and something far more sinister. The higher he climbed, the heavier the air became, as if it pressed down on him, forcing him forward against his will.

  At the summit of the steps, standing before the ruined remnants of what had once been a grand temple, a figure waited.

  Shrouded in darkness, its robes rippled in the air like liquid shadows. Power radiated from the figure, an energy so dark and raw that Torne could feel it pulsing in the very atmosphere. As he reached the top, the figure turned to face him.

  “Nivshevus,” a voice whispered through Torne’s mind, laced with ancient malice.

  Torne’s eyes narrowed as he regarded the figure. This was the same name that had haunted the most ancient records of Dessix—the name spoken in the final transmissions from those long-dead travellers who escaped before the planet was consumed by disaster. But Nivshevus was supposed to be dead, buried beneath the ashes of a ruined world.

  And yet here he stood, his presence filling the vision with an overwhelming sense of dread and promise.

  “Welcome, Epsimus,” Nivshevus spoke, his voice like a dark, echoing wind. “You have come far, and now you stand at the edge of a greater destiny.”

  Torne’s mind raced. He had never set foot on Dessix before this moment, never encountered this entity. And yet, this vision—it felt as if it had been waiting for him, calling to him across the void. He forced himself to remain calm, even as the air around Nivshevus crackled with energy.

  “You know who I am,” Torne said, his voice cold but measured.

  Nivshevus inclined his head slightly. “Of course. I know what you seek, Torne. The Order, your dominion, your strength—it is all a reflection of what you are willing to do. But there is more. Far more than you can imagine.”

  The words slithered into Torne’s thoughts, tempting him with the promise of something greater. Power. He had always craved it, always sought more, and now this vision—this being—offered him something beyond what he had ever imagined.

  “What are you offering?” Torne’s voice was sharper now, though the pull of Nivshevus’s presence gnawed at the edges of his resolve. He could feel the weight of the power surrounding the figure, thick and tangible.

  Nivshevus smiled, though his face remained hidden beneath the hood of his robes. “I offer you what I have had for centuries—immortality and dominion over forces that lie beyond the understanding of men. This city may be gone, but its power is not. The energy that binds the universe flows through me, and I can give it to you.”

  Torne’s heart quickened at the thought. Power. Not just the political power he wielded now, not just the strength that came from fear and control, but something deeper—something that transcended the limits of flesh and time. The thought of it was intoxicating.

  But he was no fool. “What do you want in return?” he asked, his voice edged with suspicion.

  Nivshevus’s laughter echoed through the vision, low and dark. “That you embrace what you were always meant to become. Dessix’s destruction was but the beginning of its rebirth. You are destined to bring this power into the galaxy once more. Together, we will reign over life and death. A human sacrifice must be made to create a conduit that will allow this power to flow into you.”

  Torne felt a pull deep within his chest, the seductive promise of immortality wrapping itself around his thoughts. The energy that surrounded Nivshevus was overwhelming and impossible to ignore. The idea of ruling not only as Epsimus but as something beyond—a being that could never be touched by time, by weakness, by death—it called to him with an undeniable force.

  But there was something darker beneath the offer, something unspoken. A price that Nivshevus did not name. Torne could feel it, hidden in the shadows of the vision, waiting for him to take the first step.

  Before he could respond, the vision shifted violently. The world around him shattered, and the ancient city of Dessix dissolved into nothingness.

  Torne gasped, his mind snapping back into the present as the ship buckled beneath him. The alarms blared once more, louder, more frantically. He stumbled, gripping the edge of the console as the ship hurtled through the anomaly, spiralling out of control.

  His breath came in shallow, ragged bursts as he turned his gaze toward the view port. Beyond the fractured glass, the planet appeared, looming closer with every second. Dessix. A section of its surface was broken, scarred by the destruction of the city and temple thousands of years ago, but it was unmistakable.

  They were falling toward it—pulled into the very place that had been wiped from existence millennia ago.

  The ship shuddered violently, its engines screaming in protest as they tore through the atmosphere. Torne braced himself against the wall, his heart racing as the planet rushed up to meet them. The crash was inevitable.

  And with a deafening roar, the ship struck the surface of Dessix.

  Darkness consumed him.

  The first sensation Torne felt was pain—sharp, deep, and all-consuming. It coursed through his body, rattling his bones and seizing his muscles. His breath came in ragged gasps, the thick, humid air burning his lungs with each desperate inhalation. For a moment, he couldn’t remember where he was or why everything felt so broken. His eyelids fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, and slowly, he became aware of the surrounding sounds—the distant hum of creatures, the rustling of leaves, and the drip of water from the dense jungle canopy above.

  He forced his eyes open, the world swimming into focus in jagged fragments.

  Above him loomed the twisted metal remains of the crashed ship, tangled in the thick vines and foliage that clung to the wreckage. His vision blurred again, his head throbbing in time with his shallow breaths. He tried to sit up but found his body too weak to respond. The pain surged again, and with it, memories flooded back—the anomaly, the descent, the crash.

  Torne’s mind snapped into focus, cutting through the pain. He was alive.

  Footsteps echoed nearby, and soon, Aric’s familiar face came into view. The Guard Captain stood over him. His expression hardened, though his eyes carried a flicker of something darker—resentment, or perhaps, hatred.

  “You’re awake,” Aric said, his voice flat and distant. He knelt beside Torne, checking the bandages hastily wrapped around his injuries. “I wasn’t sure you would make it.”

  Torne scanned his surroundings. They were in the remains of the ship—what was left of it, anyway. But more unsettling was the sight of the jungle that had overtaken everything around them. Towering trees with gnarled, ancient roots pressed against the wreckage, their thick trunks entwined with hanging vines. The air was heavy with moisture, and the ground beneath them was soft, blanketed in thick layers of decaying leaves and undergrowth.

  “Why am I alive?” Torne rasped, his voice hoarse. He knew the answer before Aric spoke.

  “Because I kept you alive,” Aric replied, his tone clipped. “Though I had every reason to let you die.”

  Torne’s gaze narrowed. They both knew the truth of those words—Aric had witnessed the events at the Festival of Light and seen Torne kill his own son, Lectus. He had been there, watching in silence as his master transformed into something far more monstrous than even Aric had believed possible.

  “You kept me alive,” Torne said, forcing the words through the pain. “Why?”

  Aric’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed as though he might not answer. But then his gaze hardened. “Because I need you alive. For now.” He stood up, casting his gaze over the jungle that surrounded them. “Besides, it wasn’t my place to decide when you die.”

  Torne’s lips twitched in a faint, humourless smile despite the pain. “It is no coincidence that both of us survived.”

  Aric’s fists clenched at his sides. “There were good men and women on that ship, and they all died because of you.”

  There was a tense silence between them, broken only by the low hum of machinery nearby. Torne’s gaze shifted, and he noticed a figure in the distance—a DG6 unit, its metallic frame barely visible through the dense foliage. It was working tirelessly on something—a shuttle. The pieces began to fall into place.

  “We found an emergency shuttle in the wreckage,” Aric said, not bothering to hide his irritation. “The DG6 unit has been repairing it ever since the crash. It is functional now, enough to get us off-world.”

  Torne’s eyes lingered on the shuttle for a moment, then shifted back to Aric. “And yet, you didn’t plan on leaving without me.”

  Aric’s expression twisted into something darker, his contempt barely concealed. “No. I didn’t.”

  Torne’s smile faded, his mind sharpening despite the pain. “We’re not leaving.”

  Aric blinked, his eyes narrowing in confusion. “What?”

  Torne gritted his teeth and forced himself to sit up, his body protesting every movement. “We’re going to the crater—where the city once stood.”

  Aric stared at him, his disbelief quickly morphing into fury. “What city?” he growled. “There’s nothing here, but an overgrown jungle and a crater. We need to get off this planet, Torne. We barely survived the crash.”

  “I don’t care,” Torne rasped, his eyes locked on the horizon. “Take me to the centre of the crater.”

  Aric’s hand twitched toward the hilt of his weapon, the fury in his eyes plain. For a moment, it seemed as though he might defy his master, finally free himself of the man he had grown to despise. But something in Torne’s gaze stopped him. There was a pull, a darkness in his eyes that hinted at something far beyond mortal understanding. Reluctantly, Aric nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line.

  “Fine,” Aric spat. “But don’t expect me to save you a second time.”

  With Aric’s reluctant help, Torne rose to his feet, though every step was agony. The humid air of the jungle clung to his skin, thick and oppressive. Together, they left the wreckage behind, the DG6 unit trailing silently behind them. The jungle stretched out before them, its towering trees and thick undergrowth forming a near-impenetrable wall of green and shadow. The leaves rustled in the heavy air, and strange, unfamiliar creatures skittered through the trees, their eyes gleaming in the gloom.

  The journey to the crater was slow, the jungle’s overgrowth making every step a struggle. Vines hung low from the canopy, thick with moisture, and the ground beneath their feet was slick with mud and decay. Torne’s injuries slowed them further, but his determination was unshaken. Something was pulling him toward the crater, something old and powerful.

  When they finally reached the edge of the crater, Torne stopped, his breath ragged, the pain in his body momentarily forgotten. The jungle thinned here, and the ground sloped downward into a vast depression—a scar in the earth where the ancient city of Dessix had once stood.

  The crater was immense, its walls lined with thick vegetation and trees that had grown up in the centuries since the city’s destruction. The jungle had reclaimed the land, but at the centre of the crater, something strange pulsed in the air—a faint, dark energy that seemed to ripple through the landscape.

  “This is madness,” Aric muttered, glancing around the overgrown crater. “There’s nothing here. We need to leave.”

  Torne ignored him, his eyes fixed on the centre of the crater. “No,” he whispered. “There is.”

  Without another word, Torne began descending into the crater, his steps slow and deliberate. Aric followed, his hand never straying far from his weapon. The DG6 unit trailed silently behind them, its mechanical servos humming softly in the quiet.

  As they reached the centre of the crater, the air grew colder, the oppressive heat of the jungle giving way to a chilling breeze. Torne could feel it—the presence that had called to him, growing stronger with each step. The ground beneath his feet seemed to vibrate with an unseen force, and the shadows that danced among the trees deepened, swirling in strange patterns.

  Suddenly, the temperature dropped even further, and the wind whispered through the trees. A figure appeared before them, materialising out of the dust and shadows.

  His form was ethereal, barely solid, but his presence was unmistakable. Dark energy swirled around him like a living storm, and his hollow eyes fixed on Torne with a gaze that seemed to pierce through the veil of time itself.

  “You’ve come,” Nivshevus said, his voice a low, echoing whisper carried on the wind.

  Aric froze, his eyes widening in disbelief. “What is this?” he hissed, his hand gripping the hilt of his blade. “What the hell is going on?”

  Torne stepped forward, his breath slow and measured. His eyes never left Nivshevus. “I know why I’m here,” he said softly. “You called me.”

  Nivshevus’s dark smile spread slowly across his spectral face. “Yes,” he said. “You are the one I have waited for. The one who will carry my power forward.”

  Aric’s gaze darted between Torne and the spirit, his voice trembling with fury. “You’ve lost your mind, Torne. This is insanity.”

  Torne ignored him. The pull of the power—the promise of something beyond—was too strong. “What must I do?” he asked, his voice steady.

  Nivshevus’s eyes gleamed with malevolent light. “A sacrifice is required,” he said, his gaze shifting toward Aric. “A life must be given, willingly or otherwise, to bind my spirit to you.”

  Aric’s face twisted with fury and betrayal as the realisation dawned on him. “You…” His voice cracked with disbelief. “You planned this.”

  Torne’s eyes remained fixed on Nivshevus. “It was always leading to this.”

  Aric’s hand flew to his weapon, but before he could draw it, the DG6 unit stepped forward, its metallic hand lashing out with inhuman speed. Aric’s body stiffened as the blade pierced his side, blood pooling at his feet. He gasped, collapsing to the ground, his eyes wide with shock.

  Torne stood over him, his face impassive. “You were always loyal, Aric, even though it was for your own survival,” he said softly. “But some things are bigger than us.”

  As Aric’s life drained from him, the energy in the air shifted. Nivshevus moved closer, his form solidifying as he reached out toward Torne. “The bond is complete,” he whispered, his voice thick with dark power. “Now, you will carry my knowledge—my power. And together, we will harness the Oblivium.”

  Torne closed his eyes as the spirit of Nivshevus flowed into him, the ancient power surging through his veins. The darkness within him grew, consuming everything.

  The path to ultimate power had begun.