The Ipsimus Temple stood like a monolith against the night sky, its jagged spires towering high above a weary Rome, cloaked in darkness as if the stars dared not touch it. It was a place of secrets, whispered vows and ancient rites, where the air felt thick with the weight of centuries. Those who served within its walls knew that it was not just stone and mortar—it was alive, pulsing with the mysteries and silent commands of the Order.

  Inside, the halls were a labyrinth of cold, dark stone, the temperature dropping with every step deeper into its core. Shadows danced along the walls, cast by dim, flickering lights barely illuminating the passageways. The ghostly whispers of the Modus Ipsimes drifted through the air, their voices so soft and fleeting that they seemed to come from the walls themselves, echoing off the smooth surfaces before vanishing into nothing. Every step carried the weight of secrecy, every breath an unspoken vow of loyalty to the Order’s inscrutable will.

  Yoreal, a high-ranking member of the Modus, stood silently in one of the darker corners of the temple, cloaked in shadows that shifted and twisted as though they, too, were alive. The oppressive air hung heavy on her chest, her every breath measured and shallow. She had always prided herself on her composure, but an uneasy tension crawled up her spine tonight. Her instincts—sharp, honed over years of survival in the Order’s dangerous hierarchy—whispered that something was wrong. She had been in the temple a thousand times before, but it felt as if the walls were watching her tonight.

  The faint glow of the wall sconces barely reached where she stood, leaving much of the chamber in darkness. She couldn’t shake the sensation of unseen eyes tracking her every movement. The ancient temple had always been a place of risk, but this felt different. The stillness in the air was too deep, the silence too unnatural, like the temple itself was holding its breath.

  Suddenly, a whisper—barely audible—broke through the quiet murmur of voices. It was the signal she had been waiting for, and despite her control, her heart skipped a beat. She turned sharply toward the sound; the shadows swallowing her as she made her way deeper into the chamber, her footfalls so light they barely stirred the dust on the stone floor. Her hand instinctively brushed against the hilt of the weapon hidden beneath the sleeve of her cloak, a comforting presence in the growing tension.

  The temple grew darker as she approached the far end of the hall, where the dim light from the hanging orbs in the centre of the hall glowed weaker, as though they, too, feared what lay beyond. As her eyes adjusted to the deeper shadows, she saw him—the figure she had been waiting for. He stood just beyond the light, shrouded in darkness, but there was no mistaking the familiar lines of his face. She relaxed, if only slightly, though the weight of the night still pressed heavily on her.

  “What news do you bring?” Yoreal’s voice was low, barely audible over the persistent whispers that clung to the walls like mist. Even here, in the darkest part of the temple, there was no true privacy.

  Her accomplice moved closer, his voice a mere breath against the air. “Lady Yoreal, the word has come; the Lord of Misery will be exposed by the end of the festival of light.”

  The surprising message, though expected, made her pulse quicken. She didn’t show it, but her brow lifted slightly in surprise. It had come sooner than she anticipated.

  “Do we have confirmation that he will be eliminated?” she asked, her voice a thin thread of sound weaving through the low murmur of the temple. Ever aware that she might be overhead.

  “As the sun sets and rises in eternity, I assure you it will be done before the end of the Festival of Light.”

  He stepped closer, and the flicker of light caught his face for a fleeting moment. Her heart clenched as she saw the familiar features of someone she had dearly missed—someone who had once been more than just a fellow conspirator. She allowed herself to smile for the briefest of moments, a rare gesture in a world that had long since robbed her of such indulgences. But the moment passed quickly, swallowed by the cold reality surrounding them.

  Yoreal’s eyes darted around the chamber, scanning the darkness for any sign that they had been watched. The uneasy sensation gnawed at her insides, but the temple showed no betrayal. Still, she knew better than to trust silence in this place.

  “I must leave to make preparations,” she whispered, her voice regaining its edge.

  Her accomplice bowed his head slightly, and they parted without another word. A strange feeling washed over her that she would never see him again. As she navigated through the winding corridors of the temple, the sense of foreboding settled in her chest like a heavy stone. Each step echoed faintly off the walls, a constant reminder of how exposed she was, yet she pressed forward, her thoughts racing.

  The air seemed to grow colder the deeper she went, the light from the strips in the corridors dimming further, leaving only the vaguest outlines of stone arches and passageways. The temple’s labyrinthine design was both a refuge and a trap. It hid secrets well, but it made getting lost far too easy. Still, Yoreal knew every twist, every hidden turn—she had walked these halls for longer than most.

  Though tonight, they felt unfamiliar. The temple, usually a fortress of confidence and control, seemed to shift around her, its walls closing in with each step. And as she made her way toward the exit, a singular thought consumed her: if the end was near, would she live to see it?

  Yoreal slipped out of the temple’s shadow, the cool air of the evening hitting her face like a sudden gust of reality. The streets of Rome were alive, teeming with life, but the energy only heightened her paranoia. People moved like currents, their voices blending into the hum of the Festival of Light, yet she felt painfully exposed. The weight of the temple’s dark corridors still clung to her, and despite her calculated exit, every step felt like a mistake waiting to be uncovered.

  She kept her head low, her hood drawn tightly over her face, each footfall a measured beat as she threaded through the crowded streets. The sky had descended into twilight, and the sun cast long, jagged shadows over the cobbled roads. The meta stones beneath her feet glittered with the last remnants of daylight, but Yoreal barely noticed. Her mind was sharp, locked on one thought: escape without detection.

  The air was thick with the scent of roasting meats and spices; the festival nearing its final hours. People laughed and danced around her, their joy starkly contrasting the turmoil roiling in her gut. She clenched her fists beneath her cloak, willing herself to remain calm, but the tension refused to dissipate. Each glance over her shoulder, each flicker of movement in the corner of her vision, sent jolts of unease up her spine.

  The thought gnawed at her, but she buried it, forcing her pace to quicken.

  Just as she began to breathe easier, thinking she had melted into the anonymity of the crowd, a figure stepped out from an alleyway, blocking her path with a suddenness that sent her heart lurching. She froze, her pulse spiking as the figure’s face appeared. Her blood ran cold. It was a face she recognised all too well—a confidant of the Grand Modus, one of the most loyal enforcers of the Order.

  “You think you can outsmart the Epsimus?” he hissed, his voice low and venomous, dripping with contempt as he stepped closer, his eyes narrowing.

  Yoreal’s muscles tensed, but she forced herself to remain still. Her mind raced as she calculated her options. This confrontation could unravel everything. Her plans, so meticulously woven, could unravel in an instant. She had to be careful. She couldn’t let him see her fear.

  With a composure that betrayed none of her frayed nerves, she met his gaze directly. “I have no secrets. Only loyalty to the Order,” she said, her voice steady but cold.

  The tall, imposing man laughed bitterly, a harsh sound that cut through the festival’s noise. “Loyalty?” he spat the word like it was poison. “Do you even know the meaning of the word?” He took a step closer, his shadow swallowing her own. “Loyalty is more than your petty schemes. It’s obedience. It’s submission.”

  Yoreal’s skin prickled under his words, but she didn’t falter. “Loyalty is to the cause, not to those who pervert it,” she said, her voice sharper now, the bite of her words slipping through the cracks of her forced calm. “The Epsimus is no longer fit to lead. You know it, even if you refuse to admit it.”

  His eyes blazed with anger, and for a moment, Yoreal wondered if she had pushed too far. But there was no turning back. The tension between them hung thick in the air, and Yoreal’s hand inched closer to the hilt of her weapon, still hidden within the sleeves of her cloak.

  “The Epsimus might be delusional,” he snarled, his voice dropping dangerously low, “but the Modus Ipsimes see everything. We will not allow harm to come to our master.”

  Yoreal’s eyes hardened. “He’s destroying the Order from within, and you’re too blind to see it. The founders’ vision is being twisted into something grotesque. We serve a greater purpose than one man’s vanity.”

  “As the ancient founders instruct, so the Modus will serve,” he retorted, his jaw tightening as if the words themselves were a creed carved into his very being. “It is not within our mandate to question a living Epsimus.”

  Yoreal could see the conflict flicker behind his eyes for a moment. She pressed harder. “I know deep down you agree with me,” she said, her voice softer but intent-laden. “You know what he’s become. This can’t continue. The Order is crumbling under his rule, and everything we’ve built will turn to dust when it falls. Come with me; we can work together to restore the Order to its former glory!”

  His expression wavered, but only for a heartbeat. The flicker of doubt was replaced by something colder—a killer’s resolve. He raised his hand slowly. The same weapon she wielded he was now pointing at her, glinting in the dying light as he levelled it at her.

  Yoreal’s instincts flared to life. In a split second, she saw her opening. As a burst of deadly nanites hurled towards her, she moved. Her leg shot out in a swift, fluid motion, kicking the weapon from his grasp. It clattered to the ground, skidding across the cobblestones, and he stumbled backwards, caught off-guard. Without hesitation, she lunged forward, her blade already retracted, and drove it through the weak point in his armour, just beneath his ribs. The light waling sound of her blade caused by the vibrations made the air cold with horror; the vibrating blade sunk deeper into his side. A swarm of nanites released from her blade, entering his body to collect their prey.

  The man gasped, his eyes wide with shock, a single, bloody cough escaping from his lips. His body crumpled against her as his strength faded, and Yoreal felt the warmth of his blood against her hand as she withdrew the blade. She watched him collapse to the ground, his life already fading from his eyes.

  “We serve a greater populace. Not a demon set out to destroy it all,” she whispered, the words barely audible over her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

  Yoreal glanced around quickly, her senses heightened by the surge of adrenaline. The festival continued, unaware of the violence unfolding in the alley. She had no time to linger.

  She turned and fled, her legs carrying her swiftly through the twisting streets as the sun disappeared entirely beneath the horizon. Her heart pounded in her chest, each step pushing her farther away from the confrontation scene, but the feeling of being watched clung to her like a second shadow.

  She felt the weight of unseen eyes in every corner she turned and every alley she passed through. The Grand Modus… how much did he know? Had the confidant been alone, or had others been watching from the shadows? Her breath came faster, her pulse refusing to calm.

  She couldn’t risk being caught. She had worked too hard and come too far to be undone now.

  Yoreal didn’t stop running until she reached the city’s outskirts, where the bustling streets gave way to the quieter ruins of Rome’s forgotten corners. The safe house lay beneath the veil of neglect and time—a small, ancient structure buried beneath layers of history, hidden from prying eyes. Only a select few within the Order knew of its existence, and even fewer dared to come near it.

  Yoreal slipped into the dim confines of the safe house on the outskirts of Rome, her breaths shallow and controlled, but each movement betrayed a thread of exhaustion she couldn’t entirely mask. The journey had been tense, every shadow outside the city a potential watcher, every flicker of movement drawing her wary gaze. Within these narrow, crumbling walls, she allowed herself a brief moment of reprieve.

  Her fellow conspirators awaited her inside, their faces etched with lines of exile and hardship, their loyalty to the Order undiminished. They had once moved freely within the Grand Temple as members of the Modus Ipsimes, trusted, even revered. Now, cast aside by the Inquisition, they lived in the shadows, hunted and weary but resolute. As Yoreal entered, their gazes fell to her hands, stained with the remnants of blood from her narrow escape, and the tension in the room thickened.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “What happened?” Lysander’s voice was low, his sharp eyes wide as he took in her appearance. He gestured to her bloodstained hands, his face a mixture of concern and grim understanding.

  Yoreal scanned their faces, noting the quiet dread that lingered behind each gaze, a fear honed by years of evading the Epsimus’s reach. She exhaled slowly, steadying herself, her voice laced with an edge that cut through the silence.

  “Someone from the Grand Modus confronted me,” she said, her tone bitter. “They know something. I don’t think they understand the full extent of our plans, but it’s enough for them to send someone after me.” Her eyes darkened, and her voice grew cold. “I was the only one who survived. The nanites should take care of the remains.”

  A hush fell over the safe house as her words took root, the weight of the danger they all faced settling over them. Elda, a scarred, vigilant woman who had once been Yoreal’s most steadfast ally within the Modus Ipsimes, looked pale as she leaned forward, her voice tired with age. “The Inquisition has been relentless… If they’re closing in on you, Yoreal, then we don’t have time. We must act before Torne’s suspicions fully take root.”

  Yoreal’s gaze hardened, a fierce determination burning in her eyes. “I’ve gotten word that Torne will be vulnerable to attack at the end of the Festival of Light,” she replied, her voice steady as iron. “If we delay any longer, he’ll use our hesitation against us and destroy us from the inside. We act now, or everything we’ve fought for will be for nothing.”

  Maelis, the eldest of the group and once a revered figure within the Order, nodded grimly. “He has exiled us all, yet we remain his greatest threat. That arrogance is his weakness.” His gaze moved to Yoreal, his voice deepening with urgency. “Lectus… Is he prepared? He will have to bear the weight of this once Torne is gone.”

  Yoreal’s expression softened momentarily as she thought of her son, now nearly twenty and no stranger to the hidden battle she waged. She had shielded him from the worst of Torne’s ambitions, imparting her own vision of the Order, a future free of cruelty and control. “He’s ready,” she replied, her voice steady. “He understands the cost. He’s seen the darkness his father is capable of, and he’s felt the weight of those expectations. If Torne falls, Lectus will know how to guide the Order—differently.”

  Elda nodded, glancing at Maelis before turning her gaze back to Yoreal. “Then we must give him that chance. A new path, a new Order, under the rule of someone who understands more than fear.”

  Lysander, who had remained silent, spoke up, his voice carrying a steel-like resolve. “We do this, not just for ourselves but for him. For the Order we once believed in.”

  Yoreal extended her hand, scarred and bloodstained, toward her companions. “For Lectus, for the future. We bring him to his knees, together.”

  As dawn’s first light crept over the city, Yoreal approached the Ipsimus Temple, her heart a storm of anticipation and dread, though her head remained high, her stride purposeful. The weight of her mission pressed against her with every step, like an invisible hand at her back, urging her forward, yet she fought the urge to glance over her shoulder, to check each shadowed corner. She couldn’t afford to show hesitation now.

  The temple loomed before her, its cold stone facade bathed in the pale gold of morning. The Festival of Light was nearing its end, and traces of celebration clung to the air, mingling with the scent of incense and the distant echoes of hushed prayers. But Yoreal’s focus remained sharp, narrowed to a single purpose. Today, she would end Torne’s rule—or be consumed by it.

  As she moved through the temple’s labyrinthine corridors, whispers followed her like phantoms, weaving in and out of earshot, snaking through the halls in her wake. Rumours had already started to take root, murmurs of disappearances, whispered plans gone wrong, and secrets slipping through the cracks. She felt eyes linger on her, burning into her back from beneath hoods and behind cloaks. Glances darted away as she passed, but she sensed the undercurrent of suspicion, the uneasy silence that settled like a mist in her path. Even her title and reputation no longer seemed to hold them back.

  Her stride remained steady, her expression betraying nothing, but her senses were taut beneath the mask, her mind constantly churning thoughts and half-formed doubts. Every footfall sounded too loud in the stillness; every shadow seemed to stretch too long. Her allies were hidden throughout the temple, scattered among the gathering members of the Modus Ipsimes, but even they could not dispel the paranoia that prickled down her spine. With each step, she braced herself, prepared for the weight of a hand on her shoulder, the sharp command of an inquisitor, and the cold glint of suspicion in Torne’s eyes.

  She passed through another archway; the walls narrowing as she neared the Grand Hall. The sounds of the festival faded, replaced by an eerie quiet, the faint whispers of ritual prayers just audible beyond the thick stone walls. This close to her goal, every sense felt heightened, the tension beneath her skin thrumming like a taut wire. She could feel the weight of the confrontation looming ahead, heavy as the surrounding walls. The final ceremony awaited, where Torne himself presided, surrounded by his most loyal followers. Her stomach tightened as she imagined him seated in judgment, a figure draped in cold authority.

  The Festival of Light, traditionally a symbol of renewal, a ritual steeped in tradition, would become far more dangerous today. Yoreal could feel it in the air, in the rigid postures of those she passed, in the silence that seemed to deepen as she approached the hall. She steeled herself, fighting to hold her composure as she stopped short of crossing over the threshold into the grand conference chamber.

  The tension was tangible; an electric hum buzzed beneath the surface. The gathered members of the Ipsimus Order sat in silence, their expressions veiled but their eyes alive with suspicion and intrigue. Yoreal’s allies moved quietly among them, poised and ready, each carrying a piece of the plan she had orchestrated. She could feel their presence, a silent network of loyalty woven through the room, yet the enormity of what lay ahead weighed heavily on her shoulders alone.

  Just outside the entrance to the Grand Hall, Yoreal paused, closing her eyes as she drew in a slow, measured breath. The scent of incense thickened, cloying and oppressive, pressing into her lungs. The air felt heavier here; the silence punctuated only by the faint, murmured chants echoing from within, the scent of ritual and power mingling with the tension coiled inside her. She cantered herself, focusing on the rhythm of her breath, willing her heart to slow, her mind to sharpen. There was no room for weakness. Not today.

  With one final breath, she straightened her shoulders and stepped forward. The heavy doors to the Grand Hall creaked open, swinging wide to reveal the vast chamber within as if inviting her into the lion’s den. Sunlight poured through the towering stained-glass windows, flooding the room with an almost blinding radiance, casting long beams of colour across the polished marble floor.

  For a moment, her vision blurred, overwhelmed by the sudden brightness. Colours from the windows painted the hall in fractured shades, turning the scene into something surreal, almost ethereal. But beneath the beauty, she felt the eyes upon her, the weight of Torne’s presence filling the hall like a dark undercurrent beneath the light.

  But as her eyes adjusted, her heart clenched.

  At the pinnacle of the great hall, where the throne of the Ipsimus stood, Torne loomed, his figure as dark and imposing as ever. But it wasn’t his presence alone that froze her blood—it was what he held. Lectus, her son, knelt before him, his face pale but composed, with Torne’s iron blade pressed against his throat. Nearby, the Grand Modus stood like a spectre, his expression unreadable, his silent complicity a dagger.

  Once alive with murmurs, the hall fell deathly silent, the tension so thick it pressed against Yoreal’s skin. She faltered, her breath catching in her chest, her mind reeling as she took in the sight before her. The gathered crowd watched in stunned silence; every pair of eyes locked on the scene playing out before them.

  Time seemed to stretch endlessly for a moment, the air between them charged with the weight of unspoken threats. And then Torne’s voice rang out, cutting through the stillness like the sharp edge of his blade.

  “Yoreal,” he called, his voice slick with malice, each word dripping with mockery. “How timely of you to arrive?”

  The blade in his hand glinted cruelly in the sunlight as he tightened his grip on it, the metal pressing deeper into Lectus’s skin, just shy of drawing blood. The subtle shift sent a fresh wave of panic rippling through Yoreal’s veins, but she forced herself to remain still, to think.

  “Have you come to witness the closing of the festival, or perhaps something more?” Torne’s smile was a thin, vicious line, the amusement in his voice barely masking the threat beneath. His gaze fixed on Yoreal, eyes cold and unrelenting.

  Yoreal’s heart pounded, her mind racing. She had prepared herself for a confrontation, but not like this, not with Lectus at the mercy of Torne’s blade. She had expected power struggles, manipulation, and threats—but this was more personal, more dangerous. This was a declaration of war, and Torne made it clear that he held all the cards.

  She stepped forward, forcing her voice to remain calm despite the storm of emotions threatening to break through. “Torne, this isn’t necessary. The festival—”

  “Oh, but it is,” Torne interrupted smoothly, his grip never wavering. “The festival is about power renewal, is it not? And what better way to renew our purpose than to rid ourselves of unnecessary… distractions?”

  Yoreal’s blood ran cold. She could hear the veiled meaning behind his words, the finality of what he intended. Her gaze flicked to Lectus, his eyes steady despite the fear that surely gripped him. He had always been strong, but now…now she feared that strength would not be enough.

  “Lectus is not your enemy,” Yoreal said, her voice firmer now, desperation creeping in at the edges. “Let him go, and we can—”

  “Negotiate?” Torne’s laughter was harsh, echoing off the vaulted ceilings of the chamber. “What would we possibly have to negotiate? Do you think your schemes have gone unnoticed? You think I haven’t seen what you’ve been planning, Yoreal?”

  Her heart sank as his words cut through her. He knew. He had known all along, and this—this was his retribution.

  Torne’s eyes darkened, and the mocking tone slipped away, replaced by something far more dangerous. “You underestimate me. I have always been in control, Yoreal. Always. And now, I will remind you of that fact.”

  Without warning, Torne pressed the blade harder against Lectus’s throat, and Yoreal’s breath caught. She moved forward, her hand twitching toward her concealed weapon, but she knew she was too far. Too slow.

  “Stop!” she cried, her voice echoing through the chamber, but Torne only smiled, his eyes locked on hers as he made his next move.

  The implication hung in the air like thick smoke, suffocating the room. Yoreal’s accomplices stiffened behind her, their hands twitching toward their concealed weapons. Every heartbeat echoed in the vast chamber, the silence amplifying the dread that crept into her thoughts. She had spent months carefully orchestrating this moment, but now, Torne’s unpredictable manoeuvre shattered the control she had painstakingly crafted. Time itself had slowed, each second a fragile, perilous gamble.

  Torne’s eyes, sharp as a predator’s, bore into hers. He smiled, but there was no warmth, only the cold certainty of a man who had lived too long in the cradle of power. His voice, calm and unwavering, sliced through the stillness. “You thought I was oblivious to your plots? Never forget—I am always infinitely ahead of the universe and all its plans.”

  His grip on the blade tightened, the edge pressing dangerously close to piercing Lectus’s throat. Yoreal’s heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing as the weight of her failure began to sink in. Torne wasn’t bluffing; his arrogance was terrifyingly real.

  “You are fools,” Torne continued, his voice thick with contempt. “If you think you can challenge me—me, the Epsimus, chosen by the universe itself—you are gravely mistaken. You cannot defeat me.”

  Yoreal opened her mouth to speak, to plead, but no words came. Lectus, kneeling before his father with the blade against his neck, turned his gaze toward her. His face, serene amidst the chaos, betrayed none of the fear she felt gnawing at her insides.

  “Mother,” Lectus said softly, his voice carrying across the room like a quiet prayer. “I ask for forgiveness. He is my father, and I could not allow this to happen.”

  Torne’s expression shifted. For a moment, Yoreal thought she saw something almost human in his eyes. “I loved you most,” he said, looking down at Lectus, his voice tinged with something darker, more complex than the anger he had always shown. The words were alien, coming from the Lord of Misery as if they didn’t belong to him. His gaze lifted to Yoreal, and the softness evaporated, replaced by the cold fury she knew too well. “But I will miss you least.”

  With a single, deliberate motion, Torne slid the blade across Lectus’s throat.

  The sound was so small, so insignificant—a wet gasp as blood spilt from the wound, but it struck Yoreal like a thunderclap. The air left her lungs as her heart seized in her chest. Time collapsed inward, the world shrinking to the sight of her son collapsing, his life spilling out of him, staining the pristine marble floor red.

  “No,” she whispered, barely audible, as if the word could pull him back from the abyss. But the truth was undeniable.

  Gasps of horror rippled through the hall as the members of the Ipsimus Order looked on, their faces stricken with shock and disbelief. Yoreal’s body moved before her mind could catch up, her hand instinctively reaching for her blade. Her heart pounded in her ears, her mind a blur of fear, rage, and disbelief.

  With a cry of fury, Yoreal drew her weapon and charged toward Torne, her mind set on ending his reign and avenging her son. She barely noticed the frozen stares of the Grand Modus and the others. Her entire being focused on the towering figure before her. The man who had killed her son.

  Torne turned slowly, almost lazily, a sneer curling across his lips. His eyes gleamed with contempt. At that moment, Yoreal saw not a leader but a tyrant whose mind had finally unravelled. She struck out with all her might, her blade aimed straight at his heart.

  But Torne moved with the cold precision of someone forged in blood and conflict. He caught her wrist effortlessly with his bare hand, twisting her arm and sending the blade clattering to the ground. His grip was like iron, and before she could react, he had disarmed her, leaving her defenceless.

  “You are no match for me, Yoreal,” he sneered, his voice low and mocking. “You always were weak. Foolish.”

  Torne’s words cut deeper than the blade ever could, but Yoreal did not relent. Her son’s blood was still warm on the floor, and her heart, though shattered, burned with a fire that refused to die. she swore silently.

  Steeling herself, Yoreal straightened, her gaze hardening. She could see the madness in Torne’s eyes, the way power had twisted him beyond recognition. “You’ve lost your mind,” she spat, her voice trembling with anger. “Lectus was your son—your heir! And you murdered him.”

  Torne’s smile widened, dark amusement flashing across his features. “And you thought he could replace me, didn’t you? You thought your pathetic schemes would unseat me? I am Epsimus, Yoreal. The chosen of the universe.”

  Before she could reply, two guards materialised from the shadows, their hands gripping her arms with unyielding force. She struggled, twisting in their grasp, but their hold was iron. They dragged her forward toward the centre of the chamber, her feet barely skimming the ground.

  “I grow tired of your deceit,” Torne said, his voice now low and venomous. The blade he held—still stained with Lectus’s blood—glinted in the dim light. He stepped closer, his eyes blazing with finality. “Join my heart in death.”

  Yoreal’s breath caught as he raised the blade. For the briefest of moments, she thought of Lectus—her son, her beloved child. She had failed him. The thought pierced through her like the blade about to enter her throat.

  The sharp sting of metal cut through her skin, and a gasp escaped her lips. The blade, now slick with her blood, felt cold as it pierced her flesh. Her knees buckled, and the world around her began to blur.

  As her vision darkened, Yoreal thought of Lectus. For once, she was united with him, their blood mingling on the floor of the Ipsimus Temple. Their lives were taken for a cause they believed in with all their hearts.

  And as the darkness swallowed her whole, the last thing she felt was the crushing weight of defeat.

  That day, all hope of Torne’s downfall was lost.