"They’re feeding illusions or harnessing the meltdown. Possibly both."
He glanced around, voice dropping. "If this is the outskirts, I can’t imagine how the city’s center looks."
My thoughts turned grim. "We’ll see it soon enough."
We pressed on, the hush around us occasionally broken by the chittering or howling of creatures we couldn’t see. Once or twice, I caught glimpses of shadowy forms darting between rubble, eyes glowing with the faint luminescence of illusions. Local wildlife, twisted beyond recognition. They watched us with unblinking stares, but for now, they kept their distance.
Eventually, that patience snapped.
We heard it before it struck: a low chittering, a frantic clack of something hitting stone. Then, from beneath a fallen arch, a beast leapt—if it could be called a beast. It had the proportions of a deer but the face of a fox, elongated limbs half-phasing in and out of reality. The air around it rippled, as if illusions draped over its entire form like living armor.
It lunged, and I barely sidestepped the horns that sprouted mid-lunge from its brow. My sword flashed, meeting ephemeral flesh that felt more like thick fog, but it recoiled with a shriek. Asterion took advantage, driving his dagger into the creature’s flank. The illusions crackled upon impact, sending arcs of distortion skittering across its back. It twisted away, letting out a warbling cry. Another one scuttled forward, half-grown from the illusions themselves, limbs branching out at the knees.
The fight was quick but vicious. Each strike needed to be precise. If I swung at where I saw the creature’s body, illusions slid it aside. If I hesitated, it had a chance to gore or tear with half-formed fangs. My pulse pounded, the dryness in my mouth reminding me how close to exhaustion I was. Yet I forced my body to obey, forced the illusions to yield under the cold inevitability of steel.
In mere moments, the beasts lay in broken illusions on the ground, writhing as their stolen shapes collapsed. The swirling energies dissipated, leaving behind lumps of flesh that didn’t quite exist in any normal sense. A sickly green fluid seeped from them, evaporating in the air.
Asterion cursed under his breath, nudging one mass with the toe of his boot. "They used to be normal creatures, I think."
I wiped my blade on the shredded remains of a withered plant. "Not anymore."
When the illusions had fully dissolved, we saw how partially unraveled they truly were—body parts that never matched, flickering eyes that slid across their skulls. It was an abomination of nature. This entire region was an abomination now.
My muscles complained, each movement growing heavier. The forced transition from the ruin, the illusions we’d fought, the meager mana reserves left me dangerously close to a limit I refused to acknowledge out loud. Asterion noticed my fatigue, his gaze lingering on the set of my jaw.
"We should rest," he said, not unkindly. "Just for a short time."
I weighed the logic. My arrogance wanted to deny it, to push on, but I knew how illusions could sense weakness. If I staggered mid-battle, the land would devour me. "Fine. But not for long."
He exhaled, relief mingling with caution in his expression. "There’s an old watchtower up that ridge. It should give us a vantage point and a bit of cover."
We made our way there, each step a reminder of how battered we both were. The watchtower was indeed half-crumbled, leaning precariously as though illusions had nibbled away at its foundations. But it stood enough for us to find a spot inside, out of the swirling haze and jagged illusions prowling outside.
Inside, the floors had half-collapsed, creating a sloped surface of broken wood and stone. The walls flickered with half-burned glyphs, magic too old or too weak to maintain. It was quieter here, though not peaceful. The hush still weighed on us, laced with the echo of illusions that occasionally murmured Draven… Draven… at the corners of my hearing.
We lit a small fire from the scraps of debris that weren’t soaked in illusions. The flames were meager, casting erratic shadows across the stone interior. The flicker provided some warmth against the chill of warped reality. Asterion leaned against a portion of wall that seemed stable, his face weary.
"You know," he said softly, "some rumors claim the Cult is led by one called the Harbinger. That he communes with Belisarius’s echo. That he’s… unstoppable."
I stared at the city’s silhouette through a gaping hole in the tower’s side. Violet lightning arced now and then, painting fractured spires in stark relief. My mind drifted unbidden to the vision: flames, a robed figure drawing from a catastrophic well of power. "Unstoppable if uncontested," I corrected, tone like ice.
Asterion eyed me. "And you plan to contest him?"
I said nothing, letting the finality of my expression fill the silence. The Tapestry might have frayed beyond redemption, but I hadn’t.
The illusions around us intensified, drifting in ephemeral wisps through the tower’s cracks. One shape peeled away from the gloom, briefly resembling a robed cultist. I rose, sword in hand, and slashed in a swift, diagonal motion. The shape popped like a bubble, leaving no trace but the hair-raising whisper of static.
"They’re testing us," Asterion muttered, voice lowered. "Probably tracking our position with illusions."
"Let them track. I’ll carve through them when the time comes."
He gave me a long look, unsettled but resigned. He must have sensed the cold edge in my voice, the unwavering promise that I wouldn’t bend, illusions or not.
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My body needed rest, so I sank onto a portion of floor that didn’t look ready to cave in. Laying my sword within arm’s reach, I leaned back, listening to the hiss of the small fire. The hush settled again, broken only by the quiet crackle of embers. Outside, the sky still churned in that bruise-colored swirl, and I found no solace in it. In my head, the memory of the vision refused to fade: Kael’Thorne consumed, a figure harnessing the leyline, forcing illusions into deadly reality.
If we wasted any more time, that future wouldn’t just be a flicker in my mind. It would become the realm’s truth. I couldn’t allow that. No matter how battered I felt, no matter how persistent these illusions became, I had to press on. I would reach the leyline at Kael’Thorne’s core, reclaim the power that pulsed through it, and stop any who sought to harness it for Belisarius.
My eyes slid half-shut, though not in slumber. Every muscle ached, but I refused to let them give in fully. Asterion, likewise, sat upright, one knee raised, flicking his gaze around the tower’s interior. Every so often, he’d glance at me, maybe verifying that I hadn’t succumbed to illusions. I didn’t mind. Paranoia kept men alive in a realm gone mad.
Eventually, the fire sputtered, devouring the last dry bits of wood, leaving us in near darkness. Asterion shifted, the tension in his shoulders returning as illusions tried to seep through the cracks once more. Like roaches, I thought sourly, scuttling toward any source of fear or weakness. I refused to be that source.
We left before dawn. Or at least, before the sky shifted into its next unnatural hue. The small hours were almost meaningless now, with the Tapestry unraveling around us. Yet we moved on, descending from the tower into the contorted valley again, blades ready, minds braced for illusions. The horizon brightened to a dim gray, a mockery of real sunrise, revealing the looming shape of Kael’Thorne in stark detail.
Broken archways jutted from behind twisting streets, illusions flickering across doorways that might or might not exist. Strange lights drifted among the shadows—some flickering like will-o’-the-wisps, others more mechanical in their repetition. The city’s outskirts were a labyrinth of illusions so thick that entire roads vanished or doubled back.
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At the edge of it all, we spotted a lone traveler huddled behind a collapsed arch, ragged breath stirring the dust. Asterion tensed, ready for another cult ambush, but the figure’s frantic eyes told a different story: desperation, not zeal. He babbled incoherently at first, clutching at my sleeve when I crouched near him.
"The Harbinger," he kept whispering, voice cracking with every syllable. "He… sees… everything. The illusions… devour you if you step wrong. The roads shift under your feet."
I gently pulled his hand away, though I did not soften my tone. "Where is he?"
The traveler shook his head, tears cutting through the dirt on his cheeks. "Center… the city center. He… controls it all… illusions… the main avenues… twisted…" He trailed off, trembling as though the memory alone threatened to break him. "Don’t… don’t go there, please. Or if you do… end it."