Varsha drapes herself across the roots of the nightmare like a queen at rest.

  Her fingers weave idle patterns in the vines that hold Sereth upright.

  The ranger’s head sags forward now; breath comes shallow and rasping. Her eyes are half-lidded, rimmed red. She’s murmuring — words without shape, fragments of things that once mattered.

  “…Elyra… don’t go near the ridge…”

  “…Elaris… I promised…”

  “…why does it still hurt…”

  The thorns at her wrists pulse faintly with each broken syllable. Each exhalation drains a thread of colour from her skin, until she looks carved from candlewax instead of flesh.

  Varsha smiles, tender and terrible. “There now. You’re almost honest again. No masks. No bravery. Just grief. The truest form of love.”

  A few paces away, Elyra’s crystal cage hums with sympathetic agony. Inside, she clutches her chest, nails digging into her own palms as if she can physically hold her mother’s soul in place.

  She feels it — not through sight or sound, but through that bond, the invisible current that has tied them since the day they first shared blood and battle.

  Every pang that racks Sereth’s body reverberates through Elyra like a mirror echo. Her breathing falters; her glass-etched boots tremble with cracks that race up her calves.

  She presses both palms against the crystal, whispering through the barrier:

  “Mum… please… don’t… don’t let her take you.”

  The words never reach the air. They dissolve into ripples that Varsha drinks like wine.

  “Oh,” Varsha croons, glancing toward the mirrored prison. “You feel it, don’t you? How her light seeps away? Such a strong connection. Perfect for harvesting.”

  She gestures lazily. A dozen vines slide from Sereth’s cocoon, slithering into a basin of still water beneath the thrones of glass. The surface ripples—and beyond the ripple, another world moves.

  Far away, in the obsidian heights of the Spire, the Crimson Queen stirs.

  Azhareth stands beside her, hands folded behind his back, his molten eyes turned to the floor.

  The basin before her throne shows the same vision: Sereth suspended, Elyra trapped, the vines drinking them both.

  The Queen watches in silence for a long time, her crimson irises reflecting like twin suns in the dark.

  “The ranger bleeds beautifully,” she murmurs at last. “So much will, so much ruin. A perfect vessel.”

  “She resists still,” Azhareth says quietly. “Even on the edge.”

  “Good.” The Queen’s lips curve faintly. “Resistance sweetens the yield.”

  The vines in the basin throb, and a thin stream of radiant essence bleeds upward into a hovering orb above the Queen’s hand. It glows pale gold — Sereth’s light, mingled with Elyra’s.

  The Queen closes her eyes, inhaling the essence like perfume. “Yes… that is what he fears losing. That is what binds him. Her.”

  Azhareth glances up. “You speak of the Shepherd.”

  “I speak,” the Queen says, “of the thread that keeps him human. When it snaps, he will be mine.”

  Her gaze sharpens, turning toward the basin again. “Tell Varsha to continue. But do not break them entirely. The despair must ripen.”

  Varsha’s smile widens as she feels the Queen’s satisfaction echo down the vine network like approval from heaven.

  “You see, little hawk,” she says softly to Elyra, “even your pain has purpose. Every tear, every scream, every tiny act of defiance—feeds Her.”

  She presses a hand against Sereth’s sternum. The ranger flinches, a weak groan escaping her lips.

  “Such a loyal heart,” Varsha whispers. “It’s almost empty now. Shall I show you what fills it in the end?”

  The world ripples again.

  Sereth finds herself alone in the ruins of Thornmere.

  The Ember Tankard is ash. The forests are grey bone. No birds, no laughter.

  Only footprints — her own — over and over and over again, leading nowhere.

  She tries to scream, but the sound catches in her throat.

  Her legs tremble. Her hands are those of an old woman again.

  In the distance, a figure stumbles into view.

  Elyra — aged, frail, wrapped in tattered cloak.

  She reaches for her mother with shaking hands, blood at her lips.

  “Help me,” Elyra rasps.

  “Please, Mum… it’s so cold.”

  Sereth lurches forward. The effort makes her vision tunnel. Her pulse stutters into silence between beats.

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  Her fingers brush Elyra’s, but there’s no warmth there.

  Only dust.

  Varsha leans in close, whispering into her ear:

  “Go on. Save her. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Promise and fail.”

  Sereth falls to her knees, a sob catching in her chest.

  “I can’t…” she gasps.

  “I can’t…”

  Varsha’s tone becomes almost tender. “No one blames you, little ranger. No one left to.”

  She straightens, turning toward Elyra’s crystal cage — where the real Elyra is screaming soundlessly, every nerve burning with her mother’s pain.

  “Watch,” Varsha says to her, voice honey over poison. “This is mercy.”

  The vines squeeze once more.

  In the waking world, Sereth’s heartbeat flutters to almost nothing — a faint, trembling echo under the Spire.

  The Queen closes her hand over the glowing essence and whispers:

  “Break.”

  (The sound returns. Drip. Drip. Slower now, the rhythm of a dying candle.)

  Sereth’s eyes open one last time in the nightmare.

  Her voice is barely a breath.

  “…Elyra?”

  A pause.

  “…don’t… forget… to… run…”

  Then the light in her eyes dims to embers, still burning, but only just.

  Elyra’s sob shatters against the crystal walls of her prison.

  Her breath fogs the surface, forming a single word before it fades:

  “Mum.”

  And beneath it all, somewhere deep, the Queen smiles.

  The Ember Tankard was quieter than it had been in months.

  No laughter from the twins.

  No clattering mugs.

  No sound of Pancake’s dramatic proclamations about his own magnificence.

  Only the crackle of the hearth, and the sound of a storm building outside.

  The Crimson Dice gathered in their usual corner, the long table scarred by years of travel and battle.

  Only half the chairs were filled.

  And the empty ones—Sereth’s, Elyra’s—felt like wounds.

  Elaris stood at the head of the table, both hands braced against the wood. His jaw was tight, his eyes hollowed by sleepless nights.

  He’d spent the last two days walking the perimeter of Thornmere, testing every charm and barrier, whispering every incantation he knew to reach the bond.

  Nothing but thorns.

  Every time he reached out, the thread that tied him to Sereth bled grief back into his mind.

  He could feel her fading.

  Arden sat beside him, her holy symbol dimly glowing, a candle of calm amid chaos. But her fingers trembled. Even Seren’s voice—the goddess that spoke through her—had gone quiet when she tried to scry.

  “The Vale is bleeding,” Seren had whispered through her. “She is between life and loss.”

  Garruk paced behind them, fists clenching and unclenching, his half-orc tusks catching the firelight. “I don’t like this silence,” he grunted. “Give me something to hit.”

  Borin rumbled in reply from his stool, mug untouched. “Aye. But hitting’s no use if ye can’t find the enemy, lad. We can’t swing at shadows.”

  Vex flicked her tail against the leg of her chair, horn tips glinting crimson in the firelight. Her twin, Laz, mirrored the motion unconsciously, both of them restless in their seats.

  “This is more than shadows,” Vex muttered. “I can feel it through the infernal veil—something’s pulling her down. It smells like rot and regret.”

  Laz leaned back, arms folded. “Queen’s work. Or one of her pets. Maybe both.”

  Kaer stood at the window, watching lightning claw the sky. “We need facts. Where they were taken. When. How.”

  He turned to Elaris. “You said you felt it happen.”

  Elaris nodded, slow and measured. “I did. They were with us one moment, then gone. Varsha’s essence flooded the weave, pulled them below. And Silvenna…” He swallowed hard. “She locked us in crystal. We couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t—”

  He cut himself off, voice cracking for the first time in days.

  Arden’s hand touched his arm, gentle.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “They planned this. They wanted to break you.”

  “They succeeded,” Elaris murmured.

  A long silence. The storm outside roared, thunder shaking the beams of the tavern.

  Pancake broke it, hopping onto the table and puffing out his chest.

  “Alright, listen up, you miserable lot.”

  Everyone looked up at the tiny purple weasel in the red bowtie.

  “You can all sit here and wallow in your guilt stew, or we can do something about it. Because last I checked, we’re the Crimson Dice, not the Crimson Crybabies.”

  Even Kaer’s stone expression cracked at that. Garruk barked a laugh that sounded like a growl.

  “Finally,” Vex muttered, smirking. “Someone said it.”

  Pancake crossed his paws. “Good. So. Step one—find where they’re keeping our girls. Step two—smash everything between here and there. Step three—profit.”

  Borin’s beard twitched. “A surprisingly sound strategy, if ye strip the nonsense from it.”

  Elaris exhaled, the faintest ghost of a smile appearing. “He’s right, though. We can’t sit here. They’re dying.”

  Arden rose, her staff glowing faint gold. “Then we begin with what we have. The Lattice is still bound to you, Elaris. Varsha and Silvenna are feeding her corruption through it. That means—”

  “That I can trace it,” Elaris finished. “But if I do, it will reveal us in turn. The Queen will feel me.”

  Kaer looked at him. “Then you’ll have to be faster than her.”

  Garruk’s grin widened. “And when we find them, I’ll rip that blooming garden apart root by root.”

  Laz leaned forward. “What about Valthrix? Devils love leverage. You think she’s watching all this?”

  “She’ll show herself when she smells desperation,” Vex said. “And right now, we reek of it.”

  Elaris nodded slowly. “Then let’s make her watch. Let her think we’ll do anything.”

  He turned toward the hearth, where runes began to glow faintly along his palms.

  “Because this time,” he said, voice low and burning,

  “we will.”

  They gathered outside Thornmere beneath the storm.

  Arden set wards in a circle of pale light. Borin placed sigils of protection on the ground. Garruk stood at Elaris’s back like a wall of muscle and fury.

  Vex and Laz wove infernal counter-curses into the air, twin voices humming in eerie harmony.

  Pancake perched on Kaer’s shoulder, tail twitching.

  Elaris knelt at the circle’s heart, the Lattice mark on his chest burning like molten iron.

  He closed his eyes.

  He reached through the weave.

  Through the pain. Through the bond. Through her.

  For a moment, everything was still.

  Then—

  A whisper, faint as smoke.

  “Elaris… help… me…”

  His eyes snapped open.

  Arden gasped. “Sereth?”

  The wind howled. The light flickered.

  Elaris rose to his feet.

  “She’s alive.”

  They all looked to him.

  “But barely. And she’s not alone.”

  Lightning split the sky, white and terrible.

  “They have Elyra too.”

  A low growl rolled from Garruk’s throat. “Then what are we waiting for?”

  Borin hefted his hammer. “Aye. Let’s bring the fight to their bloody garden.”

  Kaer unsheathed his sword, eyes like tempered steel. “Varsha’s lair lies beneath the Vale. We’ll need to move fast.”

  Vex twirled a dagger, tail flicking. “Fast, loud, and fabulous.”

  Laz smirked. “And armed to the teeth.”

  Arden looked to Elaris. “And you?”

  He met her gaze. The stormlight caught his eyes, and for a moment, he didn’t look mortal. He looked like the necromancer who once commanded death itself—and the father who would burn worlds for his family.

  “I’m done waiting,” he said.

  The rain began to fall, hissing against the runes as the party turned toward the horizon.

  Thunder roared like the drums of war.

  And somewhere, deep beneath the earth,

  two faint heartbeats fluttered in the dark—

  weak, but not gone.