The morning mist hasn’t lifted, but the air has gone heavy, as though the forest itself is bracing for what’s to come.
Elaris paces slow circles around the fire, hands clasped behind his back, jaw set.
Sereth sits apart from the group, hunched slightly, eyes fixed on the silver gleam of Heartstring across her lap. Her knuckles are white where she grips it, and every time someone glances her way, her shoulders tighten just a little more.
The silence breaks when Elaris stops moving.
Elaris: “All right. How do we get to her?”
His voice is calm — almost too calm — but the mark on his hand pulses silver-green, betraying his tension.
The twins exchange a look. Laz’s tail flicks; Vex folds her arms, chin lowering.
For once, their usual mischief is nowhere to be found.
Vex: “We can open the way.”
Laz: “A rite of travel. Direct, infernal, and painful.”
Elaris: “Painful for whom?”
Both twins speak in eerie unison:
Vex & Laz: “Everyone.”
The word hangs like frost in the air.
They begin to explain — voices overlapping slightly, words falling like old ritual.
Vex: “The path to her domain isn’t like a plane shift or a teleport. It’s not travel.”
Laz: “It’s submission. The hells don’t open doors; they swallow.”
Vex: “We can mark the circle and call the name written in our contract, but the moment we do—”
Laz: “—we’re inside her realm. And her rules apply.”
Garruk huffs.
Garruk: “Her rules. Wonderful. Bet the wine’s terrible down there.”
Borin: “Wine? Try fire. I once heard dwarves in the deep say their forges sing infernal hymns.”
Kaer, arms crossed, leans back against a tree trunk and mutters without looking up:
Kaer: “So this is the part where we all die in the name of love, luck, or very bad decisions.”
Vex flashes a brittle grin.
Vex: “You sound jealous, Sir Brooding of the Thornmere Line.”
Kaer: “If sarcasm worked on devils, we’d have won already.”
Despite the tension, a few tired smiles flicker. Even Elaris almost allows himself a sigh that sounds like a laugh.
But the light fades when Laz speaks again, quieter this time.
Laz: “We’re not scared for us.”
Vex: “No.”
Laz: “We’re scared for you. All of you.”
The crackle of the fire sounds louder after that.
Elaris’s gaze moves from one companion to another, resting briefly on Sereth.
She’s staring into the flames, eyes distant — the pain in her chest visible now in every shallow breath.
He wants to reach for her, to reassure her, but something in her face stops him.
He turns back to the twins.
Elaris: “Then we go together. If we stand apart, she wins before we begin.”
Vex sighs, her tail curling nervously.
Vex: “All right, Bones. But once we start, there’s no turning back. The rite binds what’s invited.”
Elaris: “Then let’s make sure she regrets the invitation.”
He looks to Arden.
Elaris: “Saint Sunshine, prepare your light. The rest of you—steel yourselves.”
Arden nods, clutching her holy symbol tight enough to make her knuckles pale.
Arden: “If the Hells think we’ll kneel, they’ve chosen the wrong company.”
The circle begins to take shape — etched in ash, salt, and blood from a single cut across Laz’s palm. The infernal sigils rise like smoke, each rune burning red-hot before fading into black flame.
As the twins begin their chant, the air grows thick — too thick to breathe.
The world trembles, colours bleeding to grey.
Then, a voice slides through the void like oil through water — smooth, delighted, utterly at home.
Valthrix (disembodied): “Oh, you’ve come back to me. How… romantic.”
The sigils ignite. The ground falls away.
One by one, they vanish into the infernal dark.
Meanwhile in Sereths Mind her torture continues.
Her world flickers before the descent, and for a moment she isn’t Sereth anymore — not the ranger, not the fighter, not even the woman Elaris loves.
She’s watching herself.
The air in her head is soft and colourless, a dream-space without sound.
There’s a younger version of her sitting cross-legged on the ground — the child with dirt-streaked cheeks and a broken bowstring, arms wrapped tight around her knees.
She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t speak. She just breathes like she’s trying to remember how.
Then the whisper curls through the void, smooth and poisonous as silk.
Valthrix (inside her mind):
“Poor little Sereth. Innocence, grace, confidence, skill — all fading, petal by petal. Diminishing, just like your emotions.”
The child looks up at her with eyes too old for her face.
Child Sereth: “Your precious Shepherd better hurry.”
And with that, the world folds inside out.
The party lands hard, boots and steel scraping against a marble floor that shouldn’t burn but does.
The court of Valthrix stretches before them — a cathedral carved from black crystal, lined with veins of molten gold that pulse like arteries.
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The air itself tastes of fire and honey; every breath feels stolen.
The twins arrive first.
Both immediately inhale sharply — that infernal air filling their lungs like something half-remembered. Their sigils blaze crimson, and the transformation is instant.
A flare of magic ripples through the court — their mortal gear evaporating, replaced by regalia they haven’t worn in decades.
Vex stands in a dress of ember-black silk veined with scarlet lace, her horns adorned in thin golden filigree.
Laz is robed in deep crimson and obsidian, a circlet of infernal iron crowning his brow.
Rings of ruby fire gleam across his fingers; jewels glitter like eyes across his chest.
The sight draws a stunned silence from everyone else.
Garruk blinks.
Garruk: “So… this is your disguise when you’re slumming it topside?”
Borin lets out a whistle.
Borin: “Bloody Nine, lad, I didn’t think the hells did fashion.”
Arden covers her mouth to stifle a laugh. Even Kaer’s stoicism cracks with a short, quiet snort.
Vex groans loudly, spreading her arms.
Vex: “Yes, yes, we know! Royal infernal bloodline, glittering agony, can we move on?!”
Laz throws his hands up.
Laz: “Please, make the jokes quick. The longer we stand here, the more she enjoys it.”
It’s the first genuine laughter they’ve shared in days — a strange, fleeting echo of warmth in a place that has none.
Even Elaris lets a breath slip that almost becomes a smile.
Everyone laughs… except Sereth.
She stands slightly apart, bow slung across her back, her eyes dull and far away.
The laughter washes over her like rain on glass — she knows it’s happening, she just can’t feel it.
Elaris turns toward her, worry flickering in his gaze, but before he can step closer, the air quivers.
A sound like a sigh through a flute fills the chamber.
Then her voice comes — not from one direction, but from everywhere, layered and melodic.
Valthrix: “Ahh, my lovely little congregation. You all made it. How touching.”
The shadows along the dais peel away like skin from fruit, revealing her seated on a throne of molten crystal, wings of smoke folding lazily behind her. Her smile is a crescent moon of hunger.
Valthrix: “So then, Pale Shepherd… are you ready for our three games, in accordance with your contract?”
Her gaze slides toward Sereth as she speaks, voice lowering into a purr.
Valthrix: “And perhaps a little… recreation for the one who’s already learning how expensive silence can be.”
The floor beneath them ripples with heat, runes beginning to flare.
Elaris squares his shoulders, meeting her eyes without blinking.
Elaris: “Begin.”
The first rune ignites — a circle of black fire.
Valthrix’s laughter rings like shattered bells.
Valthrix: “Then let us play.”
The light in the chamber bends as Valthrix materialises fully — not the wraithlike silhouette they’d seen before, but her complete infernal glory.
Her gown is stitched from darkness and molten glass, every motion scattering sparks that never reach the floor. Her horns rise in a curling lattice of silver bone, delicate as sculpture but sharper than blades. Around her, the air ripples with power; the smell of burnt sugar and blood fills every breath.
Her eyes — two pits of slow-turning galaxies — drift lazily across the gathered mortals before her lips curl in that same impossible smile.
Valthrix: “Now this is how we should meet. No taverns, no mortal grime, just a proper audience with me.”
She raises one long-fingered hand, and the floor ignites in runes. Chairs of polished obsidian erupt from the ground behind the party, forming a perfect semicircle.
Valthrix: “You will all sit. The games are not for you. They are for him.”
Her gaze slides to Elaris. The tone shifts— all playfulness draining, replaced with the calm cruelty of an executioner.
Valthrix: “Should any of you interfere, the contract shreds your souls where you sit. Understand?”
A ripple of unease moves through the group. Garruk tenses; Arden’s holy symbol glows faintly but fizzles in her palm, inert. Sereth’s hand trembles slightly, but she doesn’t move— expression distant, blank.
Valthrix (smiling wider): “Good. Now, let’s review the ga—”
Elaris (cutting her off): “Before that.”
The interruption lands like a slap. Her head tilts slowly, predatorily.
Elaris: “Let’s just review that contract again. I want to ensure there are… no misunderstandings.”
The firelight shifts colours, red bleeding to cold blue as her expression twitches— not annoyance exactly, but something close.
Valthrix: “If you must.”
With a flick of her wrist, the parchment unfurls midair, pages twisting like wings. Infernal script slithers across it, glowing in pulses of crimson light.
The runes hum softly, whispering half-formed words no mortal should ever understand.
Elaris steps forward, eyes scanning each infernal glyph, lips moving as he reads— slowly, deliberately, searching.
Elaris: “Three games. One chance at each. If I win, the twins are released and you leave this realm.”
Valthrix: “Mhm.”
Elaris: “And if I lose, the debt transfers to me, correct?”
Valthrix (smirking): “Exactly as written. So simple, isn’t it? I do appreciate a man who reads the fine print.”
He narrows his eyes.
Elaris: “I also notice something missing. You said ‘three truths.’ Not ‘three victories.’ Which means—”
Her smile sharpens, and for the first time, the faintest crack of approval ghosts through her gaze.
Valthrix: “Ah, he does read.”
She glides closer, the hem of her dress whispering like fire across silk.
Valthrix: “You’re correct. These are not battles, Pale Shepherd. They’re truths. You must face three truths — one about me, one about yourself, and one about those you claim to protect.”
Her words are honey over glass.
Valthrix: “You win when you understand. You lose when you lie.”
The parchment folds itself neatly and vanishes in a curl of smoke.
Valthrix: “There. Satisfied?”
Elaris’s mark pulses faintly silver; his eyes narrow.
Elaris: “Not even remotely.”
She laughs — not cruelly, but fondly, like a cat finding a new toy.
Valthrix: “Oh, I do like you. Very well, Shepherd. Let’s begin with something simple.”
Her fingers snap.
The world folds, the obsidian floor dissolves into an endless mirror of glass, and the party find themselves sitting at the edge of a void lit by faint, flickering stars.
Only Elaris remains standing at the centre, reflected a hundred times over.
Valthrix’s voice slithers through the dark, silk over steel.
Valthrix: “The first truth, Shepherd. Let us see what happens when you’re forced to watch yourself — not as you think you are, but as you truly are.”
A reflection steps forward from the glass.
It looks like Elaris — but younger, eyes wild, hands bloodied, the Lattice pulsing beneath his skin like veins of molten iron.
Reflection: “Tell me, Elaris…”
“Did you save her life… or steal it?”
The court of glass breathes. Each reflection of Elaris shivers, echoing Valthrix’s laughter through the mirrored dark.
But away from the centre, at the circle’s edge, Sereth’s world tilts.
Her focus slips. The sound around her muffles until there’s nothing but a low heartbeat-like thrum. The glass beneath her knees turns to still water, and she’s looking down into it—at herself.
Only, the reflection isn’t her now. It’s a child: barefoot, tangled hair, dirt-smudged cheeks, clutching a wooden practice bow with both arms. The small figure kneels in the same posture she does, eyes wide and waiting.
Sereth (softly): “It’s… me.”
She reaches forward, fingers trembling. The surface feels cool for a breath, then—
A shock of burning pain streaks up her arm. She jerks back with a gasp, clutching her wrist.
The child doesn’t flinch. The smile that spreads on its tiny face is wrong—too slow, too knowing.
And then Valthrix’s voice slides through the little girl’s mouth, every syllable velvet and venom.
Valthrix (through the child):
“Oh, Sereth. Always reaching, always yearning. You touch what’s lost and wonder why it burns.”
“Would you like me to fix that, little flame? Shall I give you back enough to care? Enough to ache, to want, to love… but never to speak it?”
Sereth’s breath catches. The echo of the burn still throbs up her arm, into her chest, like a second heartbeat.
Sereth (hoarse): “No—stop—”
Her consciousness flickers, the glass shattering outward—
She’s back in the court, sitting again, trembling. The world feels thin.
Elaris is still locked in his mirrored duel, but her vision swims.
Everything feels too bright, too sharp, her emotions fluttering like trapped birds against the cage of her ribs.
Valthrix’s words still crawl behind her eyes, whispering, “life is cruel, isn’t it…”
Then—warmth.
A hand closes around hers. Another finds her other palm.
Vex on one side, eyes glimmering gold, tail twitching nervously.
Arden on the other, murmuring a silent prayer under her breath.
Neither of them speak, because they can’t—the infernal binding still seals their throats—
but they hold on.
And through that fragile contact, Sereth rolls another Will save, with advantage from the shared bond. (18.)
The burning steadies. Her breath evens.
The child-voice fades.
For a heartbeat, she can almost feel again.
Across the glassy arena, the reflection of Elaris tilts its head and smirks—his darkness noticing her stability, feeding off it.
Valthrix, lounging on her throne of crystal flame, watches both scenes at once with feline delight.
Valthrix (purring):
“Oh, how precious. My little flames, holding hands at the edge of oblivion.”
“Do hold on tightly… your shepherd is about to bleed his first truth.”