Semua Bab The magic within : Bab 41 - Bab 50

The monastery did not fall in silence.It fell like thunder.The first breach came at dawn — a roar of stone as the western wall shuddered under Varrow’s siege engine. Dust belched into the sky. The mountain itself seemed to cry out, stone groaning, ancient foundations buckling.And beneath that sound, carried through every tunnel, every sanctum, every crack in the rock, came the army’s roar: not the shout of men, but the scream of bloodlines twisted into beasts. It was a sound that made even hardened mercenaries flinch.Killian stood at the threshold of the sanctum, shadows already breathing around him, and felt the pulse of the siege as if it were his own heartbeat.“They’re inside the outer wall,” Harlow said beside him. Her hand tightened around the hilt of her blade. “When the second falls, they’ll be at the gates.”“They won’t wait for the second.” Killian’s voice was low, tight. He could already hear claws scraping stone, already feel the vibration of tunnelling beneath t

The clash opened in thunder.Killian’s blade screamed against the warlord’s axe, sparks painting the broken monastery’s stone like fireflies before rain. The crowned warlord bore down with impossible weight, every swing of his black-iron weapon heavy enough to split bone and stone alike.Killian held, but only barely. His arms burned. His ribs throbbed where the last strike had clipped him. Each step back scraped stone, his boots grinding against dust and blood.The warlord’s helm was fashioned like a twisted crown, jagged spikes curving backward, its faceplate a leering grin of black steel. When he spoke, it was like gravel poured through fire.“You wear the shadows like a child wears armour,” the warlord sneered. “Too much for you. Not enough for me.”The axe swung again. Killian met it — and lost ground, slammed into the shattered arch of a doorway. The blow carved a crater in the stone just above his head.The Guild shouted somewhere behind him, a wall of steel and desperate cries

The monastery was not silent.It breathed.Stone groaned with every draft. The fires guttered low, painting the ruined nave in a copper haze that made shadows crawl like restless insects. Even the wounded, lying in rows along broken pews, refused to sleep — their groans and whispers kept the air taut, like a bowstring drawn too far.Killian stood apart.He leaned against the fractured wall where the scar on his arm throbbed in time with his pulse. Each heartbeat brought a flicker of light beneath his skin — faint, silver, unnatural. He hid it beneath torn cloth, but he knew Harlow had seen. He knew Daryl had felt it when Killian dragged him back from the vault’s hunger.The First’s voice was quieter now. But not gone. Never gone.“You hold them together,” it murmured, low in his skull. “But for how long? Fear eats faster than fire. Let me take their fear. Let me make it obedience.”Killian closed his eyes, exhaled slow. Not yours. Not ever.The Guild gathered in clusters aroun

The drums did not stop.Each beat rattled the monastery walls, shaking loose dust that rained down like ash. The sound seeped into bone, deeper than marrow, as though the world itself had been shackled to Varrow’s rhythm.Killian stood on the broken battlements, scar wrapped in bandages that burned against his skin. His sword was heavy in his grip — not from weight, but from exhaustion pressing through his limbs like lead. Below, the mist stirred, rippling in waves that hid the enemy from sight.Then the mist broke.They came not as men alone, but as things twisted by shadow.The first line were armoured soldiers, shields locked, faces hidden behind steel masks painted with the warlord’s sigil — a broken sun bleeding into a crown. Behind them moved the beasts: wolf-shapes that ran like men, hands ending in claws, jaws dripping black ichor that hissed when it struck the ground. Their howls drowned the horns.And higher still — ladders rising, carried by lines of soldiers chanting

The silence after Varrow’s retreat lingered long after the shadows collapsed.The wall still bled where his blows had landed, streaks of black ichor smouldering in cracks across the stone. The mist had pulled back, but the air felt fouled, like breathing smoke.Killian’s chest heaved as he stood alone on the battlements, sword slick in his hand, scar glowing faintly beneath the ruined bandages. The Guild fighters stared at him, a ring of faces caught between awe and fear.No one moved.Then the murmurs began.“He’s not one of us.”The words came from a young soldier, blood across his face, his pike trembling in his grip. His eyes were fixed on Killian, wide, almost wild.“I saw it,” he said louder, voice cracking. “The mark. It wasn’t a wound. It burned. Like it was alive.”Another soldier shifted uneasily. “Without him, we’d be dead.”“Without him, we’ll all be dead when that thing inside him breaks loose!” the boy snapped back, his voice shrill with terror. “He’s no command