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We settle in that plan, the next step in a perilous dance. My tension eases by the smallest fraction, replaced by a grim focus. I can’t dwell on the catacombs or the prophecy’s threat of death. We have a path, however fraught. That must be enough for now.

We spend the next hour patching ourselves up, devouring the last bits of dried meat Malphas scavenged from a half-burned caravan days ago.

It’s sour and tough, but my empty stomach doesn’t complain.

My ribs ache whenever I draw breath, so Malphas helps me secure fresh bandages.

His claws tremble slightly as he wraps the cloth around my torso—frustration or lingering pain, I can’t tell.

Neither of us speaks. The hush is loaded with everything we left unsaid in that catacomb.

When we’re done, I lean against a pine trunk, letting the bark dig into my shoulders.

Malphas stands with his arms crossed, scanning the trees for movement.

He’s restless, wings fluttering in small agitated twitches.

I wonder if he’s wrestling with guilt over my new plan.

He hates the idea of me risking my life, but we both know passivity equals doom.

At last, he hisses under his breath. “I sense something.” He strides to the clearing’s edge, sniffing the air. My pulse spikes, hand flying to my short sword. Then he relaxes, a rueful look crossing his features. “A lesser demon, maybe, or an animal. Hard to tell. No sign of elves.”

I let out a breath, tension draining. “Good. One crisis delayed.”

He nods, stepping back into the clearing.

The morning sunlight is stronger now, dappling across the scattered pine needles.

For a moment, I see him plainly—not just the monstrous demon who once towered over me in the ritual chamber, but a battered warrior with jagged horns and a haunted gaze.

The molten lines that crisscross his skin pulse faintly, slowed by fatigue.

He’s terrifying, yes, but also heartbreakingly vulnerable.

I recall the nights we clung to each other—rage, lust, sorrow fueling us in equal measure.

That bond, twisted as it is, anchors me.

He catches me staring and arches an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” I murmur, heat rising to my cheeks. “Just… thinking how different you look without illusions. I see the real you more than ever.”

A strange softness flickers in his expression. “That can be dangerous. The real me isn’t something you want to see too closely.”

I swallow the knot in my throat. “Don’t talk like that. I’ve seen your worst, remember? And still, I’m here.”

He exhales sharply, perhaps touched or annoyed—I can’t tell. “Then let’s go,” he says, pivoting to scoop up his battered pack. “The Runa Marshes are waiting.”

I nod, grabbing my gear. My heart thrums with a mix of dread and determination.

We are truly forging our own path now—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 found it, 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 sporting twisted 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.”