Take Me Away, Dark Lord!

He grabbed his own hair, his mind shattering. ”No. No. Light save me, no. It was a marker. I brought the marker out with us.”

”We lost her,” tears spilling from his single eye, hands trembling as he stared at his empty arms. ”The Duke told us. He warned us. And we lost her.”

The green fire of the tent roared higher, burning with a sickening, triumphant crackle, illuminating the devastation of the Vanguard.

The Trickster was gone.

The children were gone.

The heir to the Sovereign of the North, the tiny, bright light that had melted the frozen heart of the Reaper, had been ripped from their arms without a single sound.

Sir Lucas looked up at the darkening, bruised purple sky over the Verdant Gate.

He didn’t think about the Trickster.

He didn’t think about the magic.

He thought about the mythril carriage sitting in the encampment, about the terrifying, blood-soaked Leviathan sitting inside it, waiting for his daughter to return with a souvenir.

”Gods have mercy on us all,” Lucas whispered into the smoke, his voice devoid of hope. ”Because the Archduke will not.”

And as the screams of the grieving parents echoed through the jungle city, the true nightmare of the Verdant Gate had only just begun.

.

.

.

The night air of the Verdant Gate, previously thick with the humid, cloying scent of roasting spices and jungle blossoms, had been eradicated.

In its place hung the acrid, metallic stench of burning canvas, scorched earth, and the paralyzing, suffocating pheromones of panic.

Sir Boris remained on his knees in the mud.

The giant of the North, a man who had crushed the skulls of trolls with his bare hands and laughed in the face of charging wyverns, was entirely broken.

He stared at his empty, massive hands, his single eye wide, unblinking, and vacant.

The phantom weight of a tiny, six-year-old girl in a crimson dress still lingered against his chestplate, a cruel, mocking neurological echo of a reality that had just been violently shattered.

Sir Gallahan was hyperventilating, his pristine white cloak soaked in the filthy, trampled mud of the market square.

His golden eyes were fixed on the rough-stitched, purple plush rabbit lying in the dirt, the spatial marker.

He had put it in his pocket.

He had carried the Trojan horse directly out of the inferno, blindly delivering the Archduke’s heart to the slaughter.

”She is gone,” Gallahan choked, his voice a ragged, tearing sound that barely resembled human speech. ”I brought the marker out. I... I did this. By the Light, I did this.”

Sir Lucas stood over them.

The scarred veteran commander did not weep or collapse, but the expression on his face was one of death.

The brilliant military computer that had guided the Vanguard through a hundred impossible sieges had flatlined.

There was no battle plan for this.

There was no siege tactic for a target that had evaporated across dimensional space.

”We aren’t going to report this,” Lucas whispered.

His voice was entirely hollow, echoing with the finality of a man stepping up to the executioner’s block.

Boris slowly lifted his head, his face smeared with ash and tears.

”We strip our ranks,” Lucas continued, drawing his broadsword.

The steel caught the eerie, flickering light of the dying emerald flames. ”We don’t need to return to the encampment. We can’t look His Grace in the eye. We have failed our sacred oath; we are dead men. Until we tear this jungle apart and rip the throat out of every mercenary, mage, and shadow in this city and find her. Or we will die in the mud without ever returning to the barracks. There is no other path.”

Gallahan nodded slowly, a dark, fanatical, suicidal resolve replacing his panic.

He reached down and picked up the purple plush rabbit, his knuckles turning white as he crushed it in his fist. ”We must find her at all costs. Even if we must burn the Verdant Reach to ash.”

They were making the most extreme decision of their lives.

They were prepared to become rogues, to cast away their honor, to die in the shadows rather than face the father they had failed.

But they did not have the luxury of time.

The temperature in the market square did not simply drop; it plummeted.

The puddles of mud beneath their boots flash-froze into solid, jagged sheets of black ice.

The ambient noise of the screaming, panicking crowd was suddenly, completely snuffed out, as if an invisible dome of sound-dampening magic had crashed down over the entire district.

The crowd parted.

They did not just step aside; commoners, mercenaries, and merchants alike threw themselves to the ground, pressing their faces into the frozen mud, their primal instincts screaming at them to submit to the apex predator that had just entered the hunting grounds.

From the shadows of the main thoroughfare emerged Duke Kaelus von Nacht.

He was not running or sprinting.

He walked with a slow, deliberate, terrifyingly measured stride, still wearing his casual dark canvas tunic and leather trousers, lacking the physical intimidation of his armor.

He didn’t need it.

His face was a mask of an unrecognizable demonic madness.

The aristocratic, stoic Reaper of the North was gone.

In his place was a monster of pure, unadulterated, blood-soaked slaughter.

His violet eyes were not just glowing; they were bleeding trails of luminous, violent purple smoke into the air.

The dark mana rolling off his body was so dense and crushing that the nearby market stalls began to creak and splinter under the atmospheric pressure.

He had not seen the plush rabbit or heard their suicidal pact.

But as he looked at his three legendary commanders, who were covered in soot, standing empty-handed in front of a burning tent amidst a crowd of wailing parents, the Archduke’s supreme intellect needed less than a second to process the reality.

Kaelus stopped ten paces away from them.

The silence stretched, heavy with the promise of annihilation.