35

  The sun was sinking behind the jagged peaks of Sierra Cliffs, painting the sky in crimson and gold.

  At the foot of the great staircase carved between the twin cliffs, Durante stood—tall, steady, silent. His cloak fluttered against the rising wind, and his eyes, the color of deep moss, watched the three hundred steps that twisted upward into the narrowing pass.

  The cliffs hummed faintly with ancient energy, as if remembering the countless souls who had climbed and never returned.

  Durante exhaled once.

  Then began his ascent.

  Each step creaked beneath his weight, worn smooth by centuries of rain.

  He said nothing, his breath calm, but the world around him seemed to hold its own. Only the slow tap of his boots echoed through the narrow walls. The wind howled through the gap like a warning.

  By the time he reached the top, the sun had sunk low, the world bathed in a deep amber hue.

  At the summit stretched a vast, flat expanse—a checkered floor of black and white stone, scarred by battle and time. The space spanned a hundred yards in all directions, bounded by cliffs that plunged into darkness.

  At the far end stood a stone demon statue, towering and lifeless, its cracked wings framing the figure standing before it.

  Baldirion.

  “So,” Baldirion said, his voice coarse, like gravel dragging on metal. “You came.”

  Durante’s reply was quiet but sharp. “You know why I came here.”

  The old warlock tilted his head, his long chin and sharp cheekbones casting deep shadows in the dying light. His mouth curved into a half-grin, revealing yellowed, broken teeth.

  “You should know,” Baldirion said, his tone mocking, “that your brother came here—not the other way around, aye?”

  He paced slowly along the tiles, his ragged cloak trailing like smoke. His pale eyes gleamed with amusement as they swept the empty battleground.

  “Where is your pact, Druid?” he asked, voice taunting. “Surely you didn’t come here alone.”

  Durante adjusted the strap of his boot—bending slightly, his fingers brushing the stone floor.

  “Do I need a pact?” he murmured. “Me alone is enough for you.”

  Baldirion grinned wider. “Amusing indeed…”

  A long pause. The wind pressed against them, whistling through the cracks.

  “I’ve been waiting for this moment,” Baldirion whispered. “To test a druid. And not just any druid—you, Durante of Diospyrus.”

  He laughed, harsh and hollow. “Even Barang is wary of you, did you know that? The great shadow himself—wary of a tree whisperer.”

  His grin widened further, stretching his face unnaturally thin. “Imagine that, Durante. Barang looks up to you. What makes you so special, hmm? Let’s find out.”

  The last light faded, and the air trembled.

  The two stone demons flanking the statue shuddered, then began to move. Dust and rock flaked off as they awakened—massive, hulking forms with glowing veins of fire beneath their granite skin. One wielded an enormous axe in its left hand, the other a spiked flail that whirled as it stepped forward.

  The ground cracked beneath their feet.

  The golem with the axe leapt high, unnaturally so—its blade whistling down toward Durante’s head.

  The other flanked to the right, its flail spinning in a burning arc.

  Durante sidestepped at the last instant—the axe struck the ground with a deafening crack, embedding deep into the checkered stone.

  The moment froze.

  He pivoted.

  Slow motion—his right fist drew back, every muscle rippling with focus—then crashed into the golem’s abdomen.

  Stone shattered like glass. The air burst outward.

  The creature’s body exploded into fragments that scattered across the floor, rolling to a stop at Baldirion’s feet.

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  Baldirion’s grin faltered, just slightly.

  Durante wasted no motion. He seized the fallen axe, spun it with unnatural strength, and brought it down across the flail golem’s arm.

  The weapon cleaved through solid rock as if cutting flesh.

  He kicked next—hard, precise—his heel slamming into the golem’s ribcage.

  The creature split apart, its torso breaking clean from its legs, both tumbling off the cliff’s edge, vanishing into the mist below.

  Baldirion sighed. “Hmm. So the stories were true.”

  The remains before him trembled—then rose, hovering in the air as Baldirion lifted his hands.

  The shattered stones whirled like a cyclone, then hurtled toward Durante.

  He dodged, fluidly, but several struck his arm and shoulder. He caught one midair—fist closing around the spinning shard—and threw it back.

  The rock nearly hit Baldirion’s temple.

  The old mage twisted aside, landing lightly, then hovered, feet a few inches off the ground.

  “Quick,” Baldirion mused. “But not quick enough.”

  He thrust out a hand—fire roared to life, flaming orbs forming around him, then shooting toward Durante in rapid succession.

  Durante rolled aside, advancing between bursts, each explosion lighting the floor in red and orange. He picked up another rock—hurled it again—Baldirion deflected it lazily, laughing.

  Then, when Durante was only ten yards away, Baldirion snapped his fingers.

  The cliff wall itself shuddered.

  The ridge above Durante cracked and collapsed.

  Stone and dust rained down, engulfing him.

  Baldirion landed softly, waiting. Smoke curled around him as he watched the debris settle.

  From the rubble, a shape moved.

  Durante emerged, bruised, bleeding—but the wounds knit themselves back together in seconds.

  The sight made Baldirion grin again.

  “Amusing,” he said, his voice echoing. “But I told you—you are nothing without your pact. You’re slow. All you have is strength.”

  He floated higher, mocking him.

  Durante wiped the blood from his lip and said nothing.

  Then, suddenly, he sprinted forward—grabbing stones, throwing them one after another, relentless.

  Baldirion met him with fire and laughter, spinning midair, deflecting, circling him in flame. Their battle spiraled across the checkered floor, rock and fire colliding in bursts that shook the cliffs.

  They ended at opposite ends of the field—Baldirion near the cliff’s edge, Durante on the other side.

  Rain began to fall—soft at first, then harder, a steady drumming on the stones.

  Baldirion tilted his head. “So this is all you’ve got?” he sneered, teeth glinting. “I expected a lot more from the ‘Last Druid.’”

  Durante smiled faintly. The kind of smile that didn’t reach the eyes.

  Baldirion’s amusement faltered. “What—?”

  Durante began to walk forward. Slowly. Each step deliberate, echoing through the rain.

  Then Baldirion tried to move his hand—and couldn’t.

  Roots—thin at first—had wound around his wrist.

  He tried to summon flame—but his other arm locked in place.

  He looked down.

  The roots had burst from the cracks in the floor, twisting up his legs, binding him tight.

  His eyes widened as realization struck him.

  “The seeds…” he hissed.

  The very spot where Durante had knelt to fix his boot—he had planted them.

  The roots surged, thickening, hardening, climbing until Baldirion’s entire body was encased in living wood.

  Only his head and one arm remained exposed, the rest fused into a growing tree that creaked and groaned as it took shape.

  Rain hammered against the leaves that now crowned him.

  Durante stopped before him.

  “Now speak,” he said, voice low but heavy. “Where is Rowan?”

  Baldirion struggled, teeth gritting—but before he could answer, a hiss of molten stone cut through the rain.

  A searing magma rock smashed into Durante’s shoulder, throwing him sideways.

  He hit the ground hard, smoke rising from the burn.

  A blur followed—a man.

  He was fast—faster than sound. Durante barely turned before a kick slammed into his ribs, sending him rolling down the steps. His body struck stone, bounced, and hit the wall.

  Pain flared—but he stayed conscious.

  The new attacker landed lightly—dagger in hand.

  A triblade dagger, elegant and cruel.

  Durante raised his head—and froze.

  “...Rowan.”

  The young man stood over him, hair long and straight, dark as ink. His eyes, cold and resolute, mirrored someone Durante once loved. He wore a simple white tunic, yet every movement carried lethal grace.

  “Rowan,” Durante said, voice rough. “I’m your uncle.”

  Rowan hesitated—just a flicker—then pressed the dagger down.

  The tri-blade sank into Durante’s shoulder, just above his chest.

  He didn’t scream. He only looked at him—with sorrow, not anger.

  Rowan’s jaw clenched.

  Behind him, Baldirion, half-consumed by the tree, watched with cruel satisfaction.

  The dagger pierced deeper, twisting. Blood ran down Durante’s chest, pooling beneath him.

  The world seemed to slow.

  “Rowan…” he whispered again.

  But Rowan’s eyes were glass. Empty.

  He whispered, almost inaudible—

  “I’m Kael.”

  In Kael’s mind, that was the last word Durante would ever hear.

  The rocks behind the druid surged forward, engulfing him—layer after layer—until his form disappeared within a cocoon of stone.

  Then silence.

  Kael stood, breathing hard, hand trembling as he withdrew the dagger.

  Baldirion, his face still trapped in the wooden husk, smiled.

  “Good boy,” he croaked. “Now… let’s go.”

  Kael looked once more at the mound of rock that entombed Durante.

  He said nothing.

  The rain washed the blood away as Baldirion and Kael vanished into the mist.

  Only the tree remained—its roots deep in the stone, its leaves whispering softly in the storm.

  And beneath it, the faint pulse of life still beat within the rock.