The chamber stank of death and old power. Beneath Magnus's boots, the floor—a mosaic of bleached bone—was slick with blood black as pitch. Veyne's blood. She came at him again, claws sweeping wide, her twisted form a nightmare of stretched sinew and cursed runes. His blade met her, each impact pulsing with the sword's defiant light, runes flaring bright as stars before they dimmed under the weight of the curse.
Her eyes—once sharp with loyalty—were now twin voids of ichor, void of reason, void of mercy. The curse had devoured her. The Citadel's curse. And Lysara, seer of decay, stood untouched at the chamber's edge, her moon-pale eyes cold, her raven-skull staff humming with the dark sorcery feeding Veyne's madness.
Above them, roots hung like veins from the ceiling, weeping sap that hissed where it fell, burning the air with its stench. Magnus's shoulder throbbed—his blood mingled with the rot, dripping from a gash carved by Veyne's claws. The curse buried in his veins howled for release, urged him to shift fully, to become the beast and tear her apart. But he held fast. His humanity frayed, but not yet broken.
Veyne struck again—claws raking his chest, steel and leather shredding under her unnatural strength. Pain tore through him, staggering him back. Her snarl was no longer human; it was a thing of death and grief, her body elongating, jaws distending in mockery of both wolf and woman.
He swung low, aiming for her legs, but she caught the blade between her talons—steel shrieking, sparks flying. Her cursed strength bent the edge. Overhead, the ravens circled, their cries like broken bells. And Lysara laughed—a sound colder than any wound.
"Your pack falters, Varik," she whispered, lifting her staff. Sap ignited midair, coiling into green fire that circled them like serpents. "The Suldari understood power. Join us… or watch everything you love burn."
Magnus's roar shook the roots overhead. Dust fell like snow as he surged forward, boot slamming into Veyne's chest. She staggered, claws tearing across the bone floor, shrieking.
"Release her!" he bellowed, his voice distorted, torn between man and monster. His eyes blazed with amber fire. "Or I burn this place to ash."
Lysara's smile deepened, and she slammed her staff down. The green flames erupted, forming a cage around Veyne. She screamed—pure, agonized sound—as the runes on her skin turned searing white.
Magnus lunged, but the flame lashed back, scorching his skin. The curse screamed through his nerves, pain and power surging in equal measure.
Veyne collapsed within the flames. For a heartbeat, her monstrous form flickered—shifting back. Her eyes turned amber again, the real her breaking through the curse's hold.
"Magnus…" she rasped, voice cracked, broken. "Kill me… before it wins."
His heart twisted. The beast within howled to obey, to end her torment. But she was pack. She was Veyne. He'd sworn to protect her, even from herself.
He turned on Lysara, his claws lengthening, fur creeping up his arms.
"Undo this," he snarled, voice ragged, barely human, "or I'll rip your heart from your chest."
Lysara did not flinch. Her pale gaze shimmered. "The Citadel's curse cannot be undone. Only fed. Blood for blood. Give me yours… and she lives."
The fire crackled tighter around Veyne. Her screams weakened into whimpers.
Magnus's scar pulsed, the old one—the mark of his father's failed rebellion. He heard the distant howl of his pack, Jakob's scent on the wind, Kiera's iron resolve not far behind. They were coming. But even their strength might not tip the balance.
And then he saw it—the shard. Lodged in the altar beyond Lysara's shadow, the third piece of the Key. Power beyond imagining. Enough to end this curse… or to bind them all forever.
His father's words echoed: Power is survival. Weakness is death.
He moved. The sword gleamed in one final arc—but Lysara vanished, dissolving into sap and shadow before his strike could land.
The cage of flame collapsed. Veyne surged free with a shriek, her eyes once again pitch-black, her claws striking for his throat.
He caught her wrists, barely holding. Her strength was still unnatural. The ravens dove, slicing his back as they passed. And Lysara's voice, now disembodied, echoed through the roots.
"The Citadel watches, Varik. Save her… and forfeit the Key. Kill her… and fulfill your bloodright."
Veyne's claws grazed his neck, drawing a thread of blood. His grip trembled. The beast inside clawed at the edges of his soul. His vision blurred.
He had seconds.
Save Veyne, and let the Key vanish into the Citadel's maze.
Kill her, and seize the power meant for his bloodline.
The chamber groaned. Roots cracked. Earth shifted.
Then—Jakob's scent. Kiera's steel. The pack was near.
Magnus's eyes met Veyne's.
And the Citadel waited, hungry.