Silas ran out of the store and onto the streets. He stretched his neck to look past the sea of people, but there was absolutely no trace of him. Frustrated, he ran down the lane until he came to a crossroad. Catching his breath, he realized that all the streets looked the same to him.

Hopelessness gnawed at his insides. He had no idea where Erie had led Lennox to. And the Spellweavers—he didn’t know what Lennox was capable of, but Spellweavers were no small threat. A sharp pain gripped his head again, so severe that it knocked him to his knees.

“Ahhh!” he groaned in pain, clutching his head. A piercing noise rang in his ears, and the world momentarily faded out of existence. When it passed, he felt a prickling near his neck—and then he finally remembered the key!

He had siphoned off the Cord’s spells from the key to his engravings at Erie’s initiation, which in hindsight, seemed painfully justified. He had tried to cross over to Nimit this morning but it strangely didn't work. But the Cord could at least guide him to the nearest door. Maybe that’s where he’d find Lennox. He had to at least try.

He clamped two fingers over the engraving gently, letting his innate strength stir the spell awake, praying it had replenished enough. Then, sheer white light blinded his vision, and Silas stepped through.

The morning had turned to a dark midnight in the battle field. Silas could not tell whether they stood in Nimit or Raia. The dark visceral clouds engulfed everything in sight. 

Silas stepped through and the mist parted - hesitant, reverent -  as if recognizing their own. 

Through the shifting veil, he saw them. It worked.

Clothed in flowing black, the edges of their cloaks talking with the wind, Four Spell Weavers hovered in the air. They formed a perfect diamond, their hands stretched outward, weaving spells in a silent, horrifying rhythm.

And in the middle of it all—Lennox.

Only not the Lennox he had met this morning.

No—this Lennox was something else entirely.

A force.

A reckoning.

Blue flames roared around him, licking the ground like serpents, rising and twisting into pillars that snapped like whips of pure fury. 

Above him, shimmering in the hue of fading sapphires - a dragon. 

The sight caused him to drop his jaw. Magnificent and ethereal, it coiled protectively above Lennox like a spirit summoned from the bones of myth.

He had seen him only once before. In a book. Dedicated to Gods Of Raia, with golden script whispering of Zenos, god of judgment and flame. Protector of kings.

Zenos?!

His gaze snapped back to the Spell Weavers, menacingly floating in the air, but Silas could see it—their spells. Threads of violet and obsidian coiling from their fingers like live snakes, burning with symbols he couldn’t read but instinctively feared. The magic didn’t shimmer like Raian flame—it hissed, sickly and hungry, as if pulled from the depths of something long buried and best forgotten.

They chanted in unison, a low hum of strange, twisted words that made his skin prickle. Silas had never seen Spellweaver in action and now that he did, the sight was surreal. With each note, the energy in the room changed, shifting into something darker. That’s when they moved.

A Spell shaped like the scythe of death slashed forward, so enormous that it seemed to split the battle-field in half. Made of pure shadow, the edges bled with angry red, like fresh wounds. 

Silas’s stomach dropped.

He stared at where Lennox was standing, completely unfazed. Silas expected him to duck or jump, anything to dodge the advancing death. He didn’t move. Why wasn’t he moving?

Silas’s heart raced, his breath caught. “Move,” he whispered, but it was lost to the roar. Lennox just stood there, his dragon swirling above, locked in a silent trance.

The scythe came down—fast, sharp, final.

Silas couldn’t watch. He closed his eyes, his lip caught between his teeth to stop a cry from escaping. But nothing came.

No screams. No sound. Just silence.

He opened his eyes.

And the dragon’s eyes were open too.

They were no burning embers however, but a fire so cold that it made the blood in his vein freeze. It stilled the world. The kind of cold that silences everything. That stops hearts.

The Spell Weavers hesitated.

Then the dragon opened its mouth - a promise of fury and vengeance.

Roaring blue flames rolled out of Lennox in waves, turning everything in their path to ashes. He flattened the whole battlefield, leaving no eaves and corners for the Weavers - quite crucial to the latter’s strategies.

The Spell Weavers ducked behind their shields, which could barely withstand the coming onslaught. They assembled behind their leader in an arrow formation, conjoining their shield into one. 

This only made Lennox angry. He slashed through the air with his hand and the dragon abided.  With a deafening growl, it slithered to the direction he pointed, closing in on the Weavers from behind. 

The Weavers responded immediately by changing their formation, their low chant again reverberating with the air. As it rose to an octave, a claw ripped out of the shadows, icy blue with dagger-shaped talons and long bony fingers. The Griever’s claw, born out of the burning witch’s curse. Flames would not harm it and nothing less than the blood of the curse could satiate it.

Silas ducked back in the swirling miasma as the Claw and the Dragon collided head-on. Streaks of lightning, followed by a roaring thunder brightened up the whole battle-field. The dragon opened its jaw and clamped down on the claw as it dragged it through the ground. The dagger-sharp talon of the claw curved to hook on to the dragon's snout, tearing at its scales. Silas watched with a dazed concern as the dragon steered clear of the dark mist that continued to cut them off from the rest of the world. 

The dragon occupied, another hum of strange words rose in scale as their Leader made a strange sign with his hands. They had again changed formation, Silas realized but their shield would not hold for long.

Spell Weavers were the most eccentric and disciplined lot of the Nimahs, trained from a young age to deliver in the art of spells and sorcery. Silas almost wanted to salute their mettle for standing up against a God. They had been dodging the flames and weaving the spells all at once, but Silas wondered how much longer they could hold out before the inferno swallowed them whole. The flames seemed to feed on their spells like fire would feed on wood. What could they possibly hope to achieve?

Just then a weaver stepped away from the group, murmuring something in Nimah tongue, his eyes glowing a cold white. The air bent. Silas saw the spell unfold in layers—petals of shadow blooming from his hands. It was beautiful, and horrifying.

The shadow petals burst open, sending razor-edged winds howling toward Lennox. He crossed his arms just in time, a shield of flame erupting around him. Sparks and ash showered the ruins as the magic collided. For a moment, the world was fire and shrieking wind.

And then Lennox burst through it, eyes blazing.

He didn’t use any spell.

He punched.

His flaming fist caught the Weaver full in the chest and sent him flying across the square, smoke trailing from his robes. One down.

Silas's gaze was darting around the battlefield when it snatched onto something suspicious - a strange string of glyphs and symbols snaking its way to ominous darkness above. He remembered them from somewhere. 

Was that a summoning spell? 

That didn’t make sense. Who could they be summoning now? The mark on his neck suddenly turned cold, giving him goosebumps all over. A sudden thought struck his conscious stream. 

Another door would open soon. 

A warning. 

Without dwelling on its origin, Silas ran toward Lennox. 

No, No, No, No!!

 A summoning spell. The Weavers biding their time. They knew they could not win against a God so they had called upon the Gods of Nimit.Gods - Plural.

The Black Sigil. This was all a trap!

Lennox was not ready for them. Damn! Raia wasn’t.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the dark clouds convulsed and howled overhead, parting with a sound like screeching metal grinding against the bones of the sky. A rift tore open above them—space splitting jagged and raw. Lennox stilled. The dragon raised its head, flames hissing low in its throat. Something was coming. And it wasn’t of either world.

The dragon chomped down hard on the claw, shattering the hideous thing to pieces. It glided back to Lennox, ferociously circling over him as a sheath. The Weavers so far had been oblivious to Silas’s presence but now he had run almost to the centre of the battle field, too prominent to ignore. 

Lennox’s gaze, maddened beyond recognition, finally caught the little figure that charged wildly at him. There was a flicker of surprise - that faint splash of warm ember. Then they widened in horror before dousing in the hues of cold fury again.  

Silas hand flew to his mark and lips moved in a silent prayer. The dragon let out a high pitched screech, a cry so drenched in anguish that it made his bones shiver. It descended upon him in a blur, attempting to throw him away but he charged ahead, driven by a single, unshakable thought. Everything else went unheard.

He crashed into a solid chest, flames curling around him like an embrace. There was the acrid smell of burning flesh and a distant scream. 

Then nothing.

Just a pair of beautiful green eyes luring him into a trance.