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I nod, grabbing my gear. My heart thrums with a mix of dread and determination. We are truly forging our own pathnow—a direct confrontation on a battleground of our choosing, a plan to do the unbinding ritual on our terms. If that means risking more monstrous beasts or savage illusions from the Wildspont, so be it.

We travel west for hours, weaving through thick undergrowth and rocky outcrops. The forest gradually transitions into rolling hills dotted with scraggly brush, the soil turning soft as we approach the first hints of marshland. Each day that passes, we remain vigilant. The monarchy’s scouts might lurk behind any ridge. Malphas’s illusions are limited, flickering whenever the vow punishes him. My side throbs, but I push on, fueling each step with raw anger at the monarchy’s tyranny.

At dusk, we make camp in a sheltered hollow between two hills, letting the slope hide our fire. Malphas hunts a small deer-like creature, using stealth and a fraction of his illusions to corner it. We roast the meager meat, devouring it with a fervor that speaks of desperate hunger. My hands shake, still remembering the prophecy’s echo:A child of the Abyssborn shall unbind a demon’s chain through blood’s final tether.But I shove the memory away, focusing on the plan we’ve chosen.

Malphas is quiet, eyes scanning the night sky with a distant expression. When I offer him a portion of the cooked meat, he nods in thanks, though he eats mechanically, as if taste doesn’t matter. The vow’s pressure is likely intensifying again. I see it in the tight set of his jaw. He refuses to speak of that torment, but it shadows him constantly.

“Tomorrow,” I say around a mouthful, “we should reach the edges of the Runa Marshes, right? Then we find this rumored ruin built on a Wildspont.”

He grunts. “That’s the plan. The ruin is said to be an old shrine to one of the lesser-known demon gods, swallowed by the marsh centuries ago. If the monarchy’s watchers haven’t foundit, it might be our best chance. But watch out for twisted beasts. Wildsponts breed horrors.”

I nod, swallowing a thread of fear. “Horrors or not, we need that power.”

He glances at me, a flicker of worry behind his molten gaze. “Just be cautious. Wild magic can corrupt.”

His concern tugs at my chest, but I lock down the emotion. “We’ll handle it,” I say firmly. “We’ve come this far. A few mutated monsters won’t stop us now.”

He smiles faintly at my bravado, but doesn’t argue. We lapse into a weighted silence. The night is cold, wind rustling the sparse grass. I sense Malphas is on the verge of some emotional admission, but he never speaks it. Instead, he curls up with his wings half-draped, tail coiled at his side, illusions shimmering faintly in the gloom. I remain awake a little longer, staring at the flickering embers of our fire, heart pounding with a swirl of longing and terror.

The next day, the land steadily sinks into wet, mossy terrain. Towering reeds sprout from murky pools, and the stench of rot wafts in the humid air. Clouds of biting insects swirl around us, forcing Malphas to conjure small illusions of smoke to keep them at bay. I’m sweating through my coat, hair plastered to my forehead. My chest constricts, recalling how we once trudged through a swamp after his fortress fell. That memory stings.

By mid-afternoon, a broken spire juts from the water up ahead, half-submerged in green scum. My pulse spikes—the rumored ruin. The structure must have once been a tower or temple spire, carved with demon runes now worn beyond recognition. The faint hum of arcane energy permeates the air, prickling my skin with static. A Wildspont. We draw closer, picking our way over slick stones and half-buried beams.

A withered courtyard emerges as we push aside thick reeds. Collapsed columns lean at precarious angles, each sportingtwisted vines that pulse with faint light. The ground squelches underfoot, oozing sludge. Overhead, the sky churns with dark clouds, as if reacting to the Wildspont’s raw magic. My heart stutters, uncertain if the throbbing in my veins is fear or excitement.

“This is it,” Malphas murmurs. “Power saturates this place. Feel the air?”

I nod, skin tingling. The runic symbols carved into the spire’s base glow faintly, flickering between normal and monstrous shapes. My illusions spontaneously spark around my hands, unbidden. The swirl of chaotic possibility is dizzying.If we can harness it…

We climb onto a chunk of fallen masonry that serves as a vantage point. The half-submerged courtyard stretches before us, eerily silent. No birds, no typical swamp creatures. Only the pulse of arcane energy swirling in the water, forming glittering motes that vanish when we look directly at them. In the distance, I spot a half-collapsed archway leading into a deeper hall.

Malphas sets his jaw. “This is a perfect locus for a ritual. The monarchy will sense the disturbance if we stir it. They’ll come in force.”

I steel myself. “That’s what we want, right? To confront them head-on, enact the unbinding on our terms.”

He grunts, shifting his wings. “Yes. But we must fortify ourselves. If we just stand here chanting, they’ll cut us down before we can finish. This place might have hidden wards we can activate, illusions we can anchor to the Wildspont’s power. Enough to hold them at bay while we attempt the ritual.”

A cautious spark of hope flares in my chest. “Then let’s explore. The deeper halls might contain old runes or seals we can repurpose.”

He nods, tail flicking. “Watch for beasts. This place has mutated animals or arcane constructs. We can’t let them drain us before the real fight.”

A thrill shoots through me, half dread, half determination. No more running. We will face monstrous creatures or monarchy squads, but we’ll do it here, harnessing the swirling power. I won’t let the monarchy kill me or Malphas. If the prophecy demands blood, I’ll force it to accept something else—wild arcane energy, illusions, or the monarchy’s own lifeforce if I must.

We hop down from the broken masonry, slogging through knee-deep sludge around the spire. Malphas’s illusions flicker unpredictably, reacting to the Wildspont. One moment, his horns appear elongated, the next moment, they shrink to near invisibility. He bares his fangs in annoyance. “This is unwieldy,” he mutters. “But there’s power to be tapped if we can master it.”

I flash him a grin. “Good thing you’re a chaos-sorcerer type. This is basically your playground.”

He arches a brow, an amused grunt slipping out. “Don’t jinx it, mortal.”

We edge past the half-collapsed archway. Inside, a corridor with swirling water and drifting detritus stretches into darkness. The walls and ceiling are intact enough to form a dank tunnel, carved runes shimmering on the stone. My heart thuds. This close to the Wildspont’s core, the power pulses like a second heartbeat in my ears.

We wade forward, malodorous water sloshing around our calves. Malphas conjures a globe of black flame for light, though it gutters strangely, tinted with flecks of green from the ambient magic. Shadows leap along the corridor, revealing rotting tapestries and half-sunken pillars. My senses reel. I can almost hear faint whispers at the edge of hearing.Voices of the old demon priests?

I clamp my jaw tight, refusing to yield to illusions. Malphas glances at me, concern etched across his scarred features. “Hold steady,” he whispers. “The Wildspont might toy with your mind.”

I nod, pressing on. The corridor opens into a vast chamber with a partially caved-in roof. A circular dais rises from the water, carved with intricate demon script. At the center stands a stone altar ringed by spidery cracks, each glowing faintly with watery light. My breath catches.This looks exactly like a place designed for rites.

Malphas gestures for me to step carefully, edging around the dais. He climbs onto it, water sluicing off his boots. The black flame hovers overhead, illuminating the dais’s runes. A hush falls, thick with anticipation. We share a glance, hearts pounding with the same unspoken thought. This could be our ritual site.