Semua Bab The magic within : Bab 21 - Bab 30

The vault’s gap yawned wide enough now for the air itself to leak out.It didn’t rush — it bled, slow and steady, carrying with it the scent of scorched iron and the faint hiss of something breathing on the other side.Daryl’s blood dripped in steady rhythm to the vault’s heartbeat.Too steady.Too loud.The shadows felt it.Killian didn’t need to hear the words to know what the First wanted — Daryl’s wound was the opening it craved.One step, one drag across the floor, and that bloodline would be inside the vault, feeding whatever waited there.The shadows at Daryl’s feet coiled like snakes scenting prey.They didn’t strike fast — they didn’t need to.They knew he couldn’t run.The first tendril lashed out, winding around Daryl’s ankle.He slashed at it with his blade, cutting deep — but every cut simply made it split, two tendrils growing from the wound.A second wrapped his other leg, then his waist.The pull wasn’t violent — it was constant, irresistible, like a slow

The vault swallowed them whole.No sound of stone, no crash of doors — one heartbeat they were in the chamber, the next they were falling through silence. The air was thick and cold, like drowning in shadows that clung to their skin.Killian hit the ground first, knees buckling. The surface beneath him wasn’t stone but something softer, breathing faintly under his weight. He pushed up, hands leaving pale smears across black flesh that wasn’t flesh.Daryl landed beside him, gasping, his broken leg mended — or at least, he thought it was. The pain was gone, but when he looked down, he saw the limb was made of writhing shadow, indistinguishable from the vault itself.They had been remade for this place.The vault wasn’t a room. It was a realm.The sky — if it could be called that — was an arching dome of pale bone, cracked and bleeding light through its fissures. Rivers of black ichor cut across the ground in crooked paths, flowing against gravity, climbing walls, defying all sense

guild’s stronghold hadn’t known silence in days.The moment the scout’s bloody warning reached the council, the air turned to iron. The hallways that once held whispers of smuggling runs and petty rivalries now roared with war-drums. Runners carried orders until their feet bled. Smithies clanged day and night. Every shadow in the stone passages seemed alive, but no one had the luxury to rest long enough to question it.Killian stood in the thick of it all, but his eyes were always elsewhere.Not on the maps marked with enemy movement. Not on the steel forged in hurried desperation. Not on Maera’s barked orders echoing off the stone walls.His gaze kept finding Daryl.His cousin walked among the soldiers like a ghost.The limp from his broken leg had faded faster than it should have, too fast, and Killian hated himself for noticing. Daryl’s face was pale, eyes too bright, carrying a fevered light that had nothing to do with healing.And when the others raised their blades to pr

The retreat was chaos wrapped in silence.The remnants didn’t scream as they pursued. They didn’t roar, didn’t howl, didn’t rage. They just moved — endless, faceless bodies pouring through the valley like a tide of black glass. The only sound was steel striking ash, boots pounding broken ground, and the horn-blasts of the guild calling for retreat.Killian’s world had narrowed to one thing: Daryl’s weight against his shoulder. His cousin’s body was burning hot, his pulse ragged, his breath a rasp. The shadows clung to him like parasites, writhing and wriggling, dragging across Killian’s arm as though trying to worm their way into him too.But he held on. Gods, he held on.“Harlow!” he shouted. His voice cracked against the clash. She was already ahead, rallying a broken line of guild fighters, her sword blazing with runes. She caught his eye and barked the only word that mattered:“Run!”And so they did.The guild’s mages raised walls of flame, walls of stone, walls of force th

The monastery had always been a ruin. Broken walls. Collapsed ceilings. The echoes of prayers no one remembered.But now it felt like the ruin breathed.The stones sweated cold at night, pulsing faintly as though veins ran beneath them. The air was thick with the smell of iron and burnt dust, a taste that lingered on the tongue no matter how many times one rinsed their mouth. Every shadow stretched too far, curling when no light moved them.The guild had no torches anymore. They went out the moment they were lit. Instead, they clustered in circles, relying on wards and ember-runes carved into the floor. Even those flickered.It wasn’t safety. It was defiance.Killian sat with Daryl inside the largest ward, watching the lines of chalk faintly glow. Daryl hadn’t spoken much since his scream had shaken the monastery. When he did, it wasn’t always him.Sometimes he muttered names, names that made the guild’s veterans pale and glance at each other. Names from old wars. Names from befo